Stranglehold

by Rotenberg, Robert

“The CIA?”

  Jai laughed. “Everyone has the same reaction. No spies here. It’s the Canadian Institute of Actuaries.”

  “Can I talk to the other partners?” Kennicott asked

  “Oh, it’s Monday,” Jai said. “They’re in Boston every Monday for a client meeting. Been doing it for years.”

  Kennicott still hadn’t told Jai he was investigating a murder. He didn’t want to tell him until he’d got as much information from him as he could.

  “Where’s Howard working now?”

  Jai fiddled with the edge of his glasses. “I don’t think he has a job. I saw him on the subway last week. He was dressed in a suit and tie, with a briefcase, so I went up to him and said, ‘Howard, how are you? Where you working?’ He blushed and said that he wasn’t. But he didn’t want to tell his wife and kids he’d been fired. So every morning he was pretending to go to work, and he just rode the subway all day. It was weird. I felt bad for him. He made me promise not to tell anyone. You’re the first one I’ve told. Not even B and B.”

  “So he could be anywhere right now,” Kennicott said.

  “I guess.” Jai sneaked a look at his watch. Probably worried about the billable time he was using up, Kennicott thought.

  “Did he ever talk to you about his relationship with his wife?”

  Jai fingered his pencil again. Kennicott noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. “We weren’t really friends. I mean, I’m single and he’s married and older.”

  Kennicott nodded. Waiting him out.

  “But about a year ago, he told me that she’d moved out.”

  Kennicott kept his face expressionless. “Did he tell you why?” he asked.

  Jai shook his head. “Not really. He said once they got married too young. I know they were high-school sweethearts from the same small town. And look, his wife’s a successful lawyer. Head Crown attorney. Runs a big office. Her picture is in the newspaper all the time. And Howard, well, you know.”

  Jai looked at his watch again, this time less discreetly. He reminded Kennicott of so many of the lawyers he’d worked with at his law firm. Smart, ambitious. Always on the clock. Not much interested in colleagues who didn’t pull their weight.

  “Have you met her?” Kennicott asked.

  Jai shrugged. “Just at the annual party when she showed up. She came this year because they got back together again. In July, they took a trip to Cooperstown with their oldest son. The boy had some problems and Howard is a real baseball nut. That’s all I know.”

  “So you have no idea where he is now?” Kennicott asked.

  “None,” Jai said. “Howard’s not in any trouble or anything, is he?”

  Kennicott didn’t answer the question, which for someone as smart as Jai was answer enough. “I need a recent photo of him. Do you have one?” The picture of Howard that Alpine had got from Raglan’s office was dated.

  “Um. Yeah.” Jai looked shaken. He stood up. “We all had our photos taken for last year’s company report. I’ll get it for you right away.”

  Kennicott stood too. “Final question. Does he have a bad temper? You ever seen him get angry?”

  Jai chuckled. “Howard? You kidding? It’s a cliché, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Kennicott thought of how Jennifer Raglan’s head had been carefully positioned on the pillow, her body tucked in under the comforter, the candle left burning by her bedside. He had a horrible feeling that these were true signs of remorse. And that in a few hours he’d have to tell Jennifer Raglan’s children that their father had killed their mother, then killed himself.

  11

  AMANKWAH SPENT THE REST OF HIS MORNING WRITING AND POSTING HIS STORY, “THE Hockey Player and the After Date” to the Star’s website, and filming himself for a short online video. He wolfed down a horrid roast beef sandwich from the courthouse cafeteria and at one o’clock rushed up to Norville’s court to see if Seaton Wainwright had shown up. There was no sign of him. Norville snarled at Wainwright’s lawyer, Phil Cutter, as she issued a bench warrant for the arrest of the so-called mini–movie mogul.

  Then he ran down to catch Carmichael’s continuing cross-examination of Acton, or After Date Deirdre – the name he’d given her in his article. Word about the trial had spread like wildfire and the courtroom was almost full. He’d tipped off his crime-reporter friends from the city’s three other newspapers, and they’d saved him a seat in the front row.

  He got there just as the jurors were taking their seats. Acton was standing in the witness box, biting her nails.

  Zach Stone from the Toronto Sun leaned over and whispered, “This is great shit. Good work, Mr. Double A.”

  Stone had called Amankwah “Mr. Double A” since they’d first met fifteen years earlier, claiming there was no way he could remember or pronounce such a long, African name. He had had nicknames for everyone. Carmichael he called “Charm Michael,” which fit to a tee. Fernandez was “Frozen Mayonnaise,” because the Crown attorney was always so proper. Judge Rothbart, who’d been a well-known child actor, he tagged “Romeo Rothbart.”

  Carmichael rose to his feet. “Good afternoon, Ms. Acton, I hope you had a nice lunch.” Right off the bat he was in full charm mode.

  “It was okay,” she said. Her attitude seemed different from this morning. More relaxed. Her words slightly slurred. “I had to eat by myself.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Carmichael said. He picked up the remote and projected another website page on the screen. It was headed Copper Topper and featured a close-up of a woman’s mouth, and her tongue licking a police officer’s badge. “Ms. Acton,” he asked in his calm, confident voice, “do you recognize this website?”

  “Well, kind of.” She teetered slightly on her feet.

  “ ‘Well, kind of’? Yes, kind of you do recognize this website, or, no, kind of you don’t recognize it?”

  She shrugged, flicked her hair back, and looked at Fernandez again. He was turned away, in deep whispered conversation with Detective Kormos, seated next to him.

  “It’s your website, isn’t it? Ms. Acton,” Carmichael said, stating what was obvious to everyone in the courtroom.

  “One of them.” She gave Carmichael a big grin. “Yep, it is.”

  “And, not to put too fine a point on it, but the tongue we see in the photo?”

  She giggled. “Yes, sir, it’s mine.” Her words were really slurred now.

  Amankwah realized she was drunk or stoned, or maybe both.

  Judge Rothbart turned his head and gave Acton a harsh look.

  “And who is this website set up for?” Carmichael asked. Playing along with her now.

  “Well.” She was still looking at the Crown’s desk. Still grinning. “You know, like police officers. The fuzz. Cops.”

  “Objection.” Fernandez was on his feet.

  Rothbart looked down at him. “On what basis, Mr. Crown?” he demanded.

  “Well, Your Honour,” Fernandez said, flipping through his notebook.

  “Yes?”

  Amankwah had seen Fernandez in court many times. He was always well prepared and completely organized. Unflappably cool. But now he was scrambling. He had a drunk witness on the stand and his case was falling apart.

  “I didn’t object to the earlier line of questioning,” Fernandez said. “That involved the website for hockey players. Given that the accused is a hockey player, I let it go in.”

  “And?” Rothbart drawled. Not impressed.

  “But any activities that this witness may have had with other members of the public –”

  “You mean police officers, Mr. Fernandez?”

  “Well, yes, but –”

  Rothbart had a theatrical, baritone voice that boomed out, “In a sexual assault trial, when she is the complainant, the prime witness, I wonder how this could not be relevant.”

  Amankwah could see that he was royally pissed at Acton for showing up in his court drunk, and there was no way he was going to let Fernandez protect her.

&nb
sp; “I do see your point, Your Honour.” Fernandez was knocked off his usual game. Kormos tugged the sleeve of his court gown, and he bent down to listen.

  “Anything more, Mr. Fernandez?” Rothbart demanded.

  “Yes.” He nodded at Kormos and stood back up. “Could we have a ten-minute recess please, Your Honour?”

  Rothbart smirked. Shook his head. “On what grounds? This is the Crown’s key witness, and the defence is in the midst of its cross-examination.”

  Kormos tugged Fernandez’s robe again, harder this time. He jabbed his pen into his notebook as they spoke. Fernandez listened intently then straightened up.

  “Perhaps I could have a word with my friend.” Without asking the judge’s permission, he walked over to Carmichael and began to whisper to him.

  Carmichael put his arm on Fernandez’s shoulder like a sympathetic coach consoling a star player who had made a bad play. He listened attentively and shook his head. Fernandez kept talking.

  At last Carmichael smiled and nodded. He took his arm back and stepped in front of Fernandez. “Your Honour. I believe my friend wishes to address this court, and I’m pleased to allow him to do so.”

  He flapped up his robes and sat down. His client looked at him, bewildered. He put his hand over the hockey player’s wrist and lifted a finger, indicating he should just wait a minute.

  On the witness stand, Acton looked at Kormos, confused. She mouthed the words What the fuck?

  “Your Honour,” Fernandez said, clearing his throat. “In all of the circumstances, the Crown has decided to withdraw the charges.” Without saying another word, he sat down.

  “Well, I’m not totally surprised by that.” Rothbart edged his chair away from the witness box and didn’t even look at Acton. “The defendant will rise,” he said.

  Carmichael practically heaved the hockey player to his feet.

  “Sir,” Rothbart said. “You are free to go.”

  “Hey, what about me?” Acton asked, weaving from side to side in the witness box.

  Rothbart scowled at her. “Ma’am, your business here is finished.”

  “Oh, good.” Acton stumbled, and almost fell getting down.

  Amankwah was amazed this had all happened so fast. He looked over at Fernandez and Kormos. They already had their briefcases packed and were hurrying out the side door reserved for lawyers, as if they couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  “Looks like some of our boys in blue are having a bit of fun on the side,” Zach Stone said, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.

  Was that all? What had just gone on here? Amankwah wondered. What were the cops trying to hide?

  12

  “WELCOME TO YOUR MONDAY AFTERNOON, DETECTIVE GREENE,” FRANCINE HUGHES, THE veteran receptionist at the homicide bureau, said, greeting him in the same timely manner she welcomed everyone as he strolled up to her well-ordered desk, the elevator closing behind him.

  Greene watched her record his name on the attendance sheet in the middle of her desk. “Always better when I see you,” he said, following the script of their daily exchange.

  Hughes had a rich English accent, and an amazing ability to stay chipper no matter how horrific the news. But today, her perpetual smile was gone. “I imagine you’ve heard,” she said.

  He stopped beside her desk. Greene had never been a very good liar, and he couldn’t imagine being an actor, yet here he was about to put on the performance of his life. Until it came out that he’d been having an affair with Raglan, if it ever did, he had to play the part of someone who’d just lost a friend, not a lover. He felt ill.

  “It’s horrible,” he said. Well, that was true.

  “You did a few cases with Jennifer, did you not?” Hughes asked.

  He broadened his legs, steadying himself. “Two murder trials. She was a talented lawyer.”

  “She was so lovely,” Hughes said. Her big blue eyes welled up with tears. He’d never seen her weep before.

  Greene walked around the desk and put his arm over her shoulders. She grasped his hand. “What’s happening to this city?” she said. “When I came here it was such a peaceful place.”

  It was a strange remark for someone who’d been the receptionist, and knower of all things, at the homicide bureau for the last twenty years. But Greene understood what she meant. Even though these days legal academics were touting how Toronto’s overall crime rates were going down, and in wealthier and more middle-class neighbourhoods that was true, in the last decade there’d been an unprecedented rise in gun and gang violence. It seemed to erupt in random spots, and the fear of murder and mayhem had seeped into the very pores of the city.

  “Kennicott is trying to find the husband,” she said. “He texted Jennifer this morning and said his business trip to Boston was cancelled. Turns out that was a big lie. He’d been fired from his job because a whole bunch of money went missing. No one knew. Apparently he gets dressed as if he’s going to work and rides the subway all day. We’ve sent his photo out to every officer we have on the street.”

  Greene was glad he was beside Hughes so she couldn’t see the shock on his face. Raglan’s husband had been fired and was keeping it from her? He probably had been following her and found about their affair. Where had he gone? This was turning darker and darker.

  “He’s a bright one, that Daniel.” She was still holding his hand firmly, like a lonely aunt hugging her favourite nephew. “You did a good job training him, Ari. He’s got Jennifer’s children safely covered at their schools. Me, I think the poor man must have done himself in. I’d look below every bridge in the whole bleeding city. Lord knows there are enough of them.”

  Of course. The cell phone would be one of the first things Kennicott would look at, Greene thought. But if Howard were the killer, why didn’t he take her phone with him when he ran? He had to know his text would be on her cell. Guy had to be suicidal.

  “Daniel told me he asked you to stay away from the investigation,” she said.

  “It’s his case,” Greene said. “He’ll do fine.”

  She swivelled her chair around and flicked her head, indicating the row of offices behind her desk. “You know how it works. He starts running to you for help, and no one here will think he’s up to the task. Then again, if no one finds out you two are talking –”

  It was the practice that no one on homicide ever admitted to. Everyone needed a senior detective to talk to so they could see if they were missing something obvious, or just to relieve the pressure. They all did it. But no one talked about it.

  He kissed her on the cheek. “See no evil, hear no evil,” he whispered in her ear before he took his hand from her grasp, squeezed her shoulder, and walked to his office. He closed the door behind him. Thank goodness for the door. He put his back into it and slid to the floor.

  He looked over at his desk and focused on the sleek black lamp he’d bought at a design store on Davenport and a matching pen-and-pencil holder.

  Back in July, Raglan had been in the homicide squad’s offices, meeting with another officer. Greene had run into her in the hallway as he emerged from his office. At that point he hadn’t seen her in months and he’d assumed whatever they’d had was over.

  “So this is where the great detective works,” she’d said, peeking inside.

  “Want to take a look?”

  She had glanced behind her. The hallway was empty. Without saying a word, she went inside. He followed her in and closed the door.

  She inspected his space. The room was sparse. A wood desk, a standard-issue chair, a grey filing cabinet in the corner, and his black lamp. Beside it, pens and pencils were jammed into a chipped white mug, the words Toronto Police stencilled on the side above a cheesy-looking logo.

  She walked over to the desk, picked the mug up, and laughed. “Ari, for a guy who is always so well put together, you can do better than this.”

  “Doesn’t win me any style points.”

  “You must have watched too many episodes of Hill St
reet Blues.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Do you think it was a coincidence that I bumped into you in the hallway?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Were you stalking me?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I thought stalking is illegal.”

  “Depends how the person being stalked feels about it.” She put the mug down, came over, and kissed him hard. “Meet me for lunch tomorrow at our usual place, I have a proposal for you.”

  At lunch the next day in the cafeteria, as she rubbed his calf under the table, she had given him the matching black pen-and-pencil holder as a present. The note inside said simply, Get rid of that mug and keep this where you can see it. Always.

  Now the only thing in the room he could see was the black pen-and-pencil holder. He couldn’t get past the feeling that he hadn’t appreciated the gift enough. Or Jennifer.

  13

  KENNICOTT SAT IN THE FRONT WINDOW SEAT OF THE BEST COFFEE HOUSE, A COZY, INDEPENDENT coffee shop on Queen East, half a block down from Raglan and Darnell’s house. His eyes were glued to the street, watching the eastbound streetcars from downtown pick up and dispense travellers right outside. He had the actuarial firm’s photo of Howard Darnell on the table in front of him, tucked under his notebook. Every few seconds he lifted the book and stared at the picture, like a nervous poker player who kept checking to see if he really did have an ace in the hole. Then he looked back out the window.

  Where are you, Darnell, where are you?

  He looked at his watch yet again. It was 3:45. Another streetcar came to a stop and one passenger got out, a young mother with an expensive-looking stroller. He turned to the side window and looked at the iconic Garden Gate Chinese restaurant, known as “The Goof.” For years the D in their 1950s-style GOOD FOOD neon sign was out, and because the two words met at a right angle, the sign had read GOO F. The place had been trendified since the last time he was in the area, and the sign had been fixed, but he was sure the old nickname had stuck.

  He looked back at Queen Street and kept running through his mental checklist, trying to figure out what else he could do to find this guy.