The three children were safe. Each of them had been brought to their principal’s office at the end of the day on a pretext. They hadn’t been told anything. Raglan and Darnell’s house was under constant surveillance by two sets of plainclothes policemen. Two police cruisers were waiting around the corner and he had two others driving the neighbourhood side streets, checking the parks. A third was checking out the beach, two blocks to the south. Two more were checking under each of the city’s many bridges – the most common spots for suicides in Toronto.
And now every cop in the city had a copy of Darnell’s photo and, theoretically at least, was on the lookout for him. But he knew from experience, for most officers on patrol, this would be one of many alerts they got each shift. It was all a long shot.
This morning, he and Detective Alpine had checked out Darnell’s house. They’d knocked on the front door, no answer. They’d walked around back, peered in the windows. The place looked empty. They’d looked in the windows of the garage. All around what looked like the family van were bicycles, hockey sticks, and a canoe. No one was there.
Kennicott had got an emergency search warrant, and inside the house he and Alpine found a typical, cramped, downtown Toronto home. Nothing unusual. No sign of Darnell. They’d set up hidden mini-microphones throughout the house, and in the van in the driveway, just in case.
With so much police activity going on, by about noon the media had got hold of the story. He’d personally called the editors of all four major newspapers and news directors of the city’s main TV and radio stations and convinced them to hold off for a few hours. He told them all that if the story went live in the middle of the day, even though Raglan’s three children were in school, with their cell phones and Internet access they’d be sure to find out. Everyone agreed to wait until four o’clock.
He watched a pair of mothers in yoga gear pushing fat baby strollers down the sidewalk. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do. Metropolitan Toronto had a population of more than two and a half million people and sprawled over 250 square miles. There was no point in driving around and around. Ari Greene had taught him that sometimes the hardest thing to do on a homicide investigation is to sit and think. To wait.
Patience. It had never been his virtue.
He had Detective Alpine stationed at the Remarkable Bean Café across the street half a block down. How, he wondered, did cops do surveillance before Toronto was littered with coffee shops?
Another streetcar pulled up outside the window. He kept thinking of how sad it was for a man to get dressed, pretend to go to work, and instead ride the subway all day. Then find out your wife had been unfaithful.
The doors of the streetcar opened and Kennicott’s back stiffened. There he was. Howard Darnell, wearing a business suit, a briefcase in one hand and cell phone in the other.
Kennicott didn’t need to look at the photo under his notebook to be sure. He grabbed the police radio he’d secreted on his seat and clicked it on.
Darnell walked casually straight toward the café, not stopping to look around at all. The buttons to his jacket were undone and it flapped in the wind.
“Alpine, I see him,” Kennicott said.
“Where?”
“He just got off the streetcar and is heading here.”
“My sight line’s blocked,” Alpine said.
Darnell was steps from the door. He tapped the screen of his cell phone and put it to his ear.
“Get some backup but stay outside,” Kennicott said. “Got to go.”
A moment later Darnell was in the cafe, talking on his phone and heading up to the counter. He was a thin, well-groomed man with a pair of thick glasses.
Kennicott got up and followed him in line. Darnell’s clothes looked clean. His hands did too. There were no obvious scratch marks on them.
“Barry, it’s Dad,” he heard Darnell say. “I’m back from Boston. I’ve been trying to reach Aaron, but your big brother’s not picking up. For a change.”
Darnell looked casually behind him. Kennicott reached for his wallet and kept his eyes down.
“Howard, how was Beantown?” a female voice said behind the counter.
Kennicott looked up. A fat woman wearing a T-shirt that said THE BEST BEAN IN THE BEACH was smiling at Darnell. Her name tag identified her as Tula.
“The usual nonsense,” Darnell said. “Demanding clients.”
Tula had pulled out four paper cups and a cup holder. “Two large hot chocolates for the young ones, an Americano for your oldest, and your dark Columbian.”
Darnell held up his phone. “I can’t seem to find the kids,” he said. “Just give me my coffee and I’ll walk down with them when they get home.”
Kennicott felt the presence of someone close at his side. A gangly, unkempt man cut in front of him in line. Before he could react, the man started to talk. His speech was forced, high-pitched, and he had a bad stutter.
“Mr. Darnell, w-w-why did you only, only, only have one drink, not f-f-f-four?” he asked.
Darnell grinned gently at the man. “Francis, my children are staying late at school,” he said.
“Yes, b-b-but what about, about, about their d-d-drinks –”
“Francis,” Tula said from behind the counter, “Mr. Darnell has already ordered for them. Hot chocolates for the younger two and an Americano for Aaron. Now sit down and finish your latte. Customers are waiting.”
Francis beamed at Darnell. “Van-vanilla latte with so-soya milk,” he said.
“I know,” Darnell said. “Your favourite.”
“Francis,” Tula barked.
“Okay. Ok-k-k-kay,” Francis said. He looked back at Kennicott. “Francis isn’t only a g-g-g-girl’s name. Francis Tarkenton was a quarterb-b-b-back in the National Football, Football League and he lost the S-S-S-S-Super Bowl three t-t-t-times.”
“Francis!” Tula yelled.
“Ok-k-kay,” he said, before retreating to a table piled high with unfolded newspapers.
Darnell put his phone in his pocket. Kennicott watched him pull out his wallet. His hands were steady.
“Watch it, dear, it’s hot,” Tula said, handing him his coffee.
“Thanks, Tula.” He gave her a dollar tip, took his coffee, and headed for the door.
“Mr. Darnell,” Kennicott said, before he got there.
Darnell turned and looked at Kennicott. He smiled. “Yes, do I know you?”
“I’m afraid not, sir, but I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” Kennicott pointed to his table by the window.
“Who are you?”
“Officer Daniel Kennicott,” he said. “Toronto Police.”
Darnell’s eyes widened. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’ve been trying to reach my kids, is something wrong?” The words tumbled out at rapid-fire speed.
“No, no,” Kennicott said, shaking his head. “They’re fine. It’s something else.”
Darnell’s shoulders sagged.
He knows, Kennicott thought.
“Okay.” Darnell looked resigned. He followed Kennicott to the table and set his coffee down without taking a sip. “I was expecting this,” he said.
“You were?” Kennicott asked. The hairs on the back of his hands stood on end.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Well . . . ”
“I know the firm found some irregularities in my books. They reported it all to the CIA, but I can account for every nickel.”
He thinks this is about his problem at work, Kennicott thought. “It’s not about your job,” he said.
“Oh. Then what?”
He seemed genuinely surprised. Or maybe this guy was a great actor. Impossible for Kennicott to tell. “Let me ask you this,” he said. “Where were you today?”
“Today?”
It was the first time since they’d started talking that Darnell hadn’t given an immediate answer. He was stalling for time.
“Yes. Sounds like you were in Boston, perhaps
?” Kennicott asked, hoping to lead him into a lie.
Darnell shook his head and chuckled, a nervous little laugh. “Not today. I didn’t want to bore Tula with the details, but no. The clients cancelled the meeting.”
He knows what this is all about, Kennicott thought. He knows I’ve seen the text he sent to his wife this morning and he’s smart enough not to lie about that.
“Where were you? Your office is farther up the street, isn’t it? But I just saw you get off the streetcar coming from downtown.”
Darnell chuckled, a little nervous laugh. “Yeah. Well. In fact I was meeting with another client.”
Good, Kennicott thought, now he knew what Darnell looked like when he lied.
“Ex-ex-excuse me,” a voice behind Kennicott said. It was Francis, holding a bundle of badly folded newspapers under one arm. “I-I-I hope your children get their h-h-h-hot chocolate,” he said. “A-A-A-Aron drinks Am-m-merican-no now.”
Darnell gave him a sincere smile. “I’ll make sure they do, Francis. You find some good articles today?”
“Real, real, real g-g-g-good ones. I’m going to c-c-c-cut them all out.” Francis hugged the papers to his chest and sauntered out.
Darnell looked back at Kennicott. “He’ll be up all night cutting and sorting.”
Kennicott opened his notebook and brought out a pen. “Can you tell me your client’s name?”
Darnell sighed. “What’s this about, Officer?” he asked.
“I think you know.” He knows I know he’s lying, Kennicott thought.
Darnell hung his head. “I guess you found out I don’t have a job. Why would the police care about that?”
“Does your wife know you were fired?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
Darnell looked at his watch. “It’s four o’clock. She’s starting a big trial next week. I know she’s busy, so I haven’t talked to her all day.”
“How about this morning?”
“She’s training for a marathon, so on Mondays for the last few weeks she’s been doing long runs in the morning then working later in the day. Why?”
Kennicott felt a gigantic lump in his throat. He looked straight at Darnell. “I’m afraid I’ve got terrible news for you.”
“What?” Darnell’s eyes seemed to stare right through Kennicott. His hands started to shake.
“Your wife. She’s dead.”
Darnell’s mouth gaped open. He seemed to stop breathing. Then his body collapsed onto the table, his arms flailing out in front of him, splattering scalding coffee across Kennicott’s chest.
14
ARI GREENE HAD BEEN IN THE OFFICES OF DIPAULO, PARISH, BARRISTERS & SOLICITORS, CERTIFIED Specialists in Criminal Law, many times during his investigations of various homicides. But never as he was now: a potential client.
He took a seat in Ted DiPaulo’s office in the Thomson Building, across from both old and new city halls. DiPaulo closed the door behind him and sat beside Greene in the other client chair facing his desk.
Twenty-five years earlier, when Greene joined the police force, DiPaulo was an up-and-coming prosecutor in the Crown’s office. They worked together on a number of files, and as their careers progressed, so too did the seriousness of their cases. DiPaulo’s wife had died when his kids were teenagers and he’d become a defence lawyer so he could spend more time with them. Since then he and Greene had tangled from opposite sides of the fence. Always professionally.
DiPaulo was a big man with powerful energy. His body always seemed to be in motion. Turning in his seat, he arched his thick eyebrows. “Ari, what’s going on? You said this was personal, not professional. You’re always one of the best-dressed men I know. But you look terrible.”
Greene pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his coat pocket and handed it over. “I’m retaining you as counsel,” he said.
“Don’t be silly.” DiPaulo raised his hands, palms out, refusing to touch the money.
“Please, Ted,” Greene said.
“Ari, I’d never charge you.”
“That’s not the point. I need to retain you. Officially.”
DiPaulo nodded. He took the bill, put it on the corner of his desk, and placed a Skier of the Year, 2005, paperweight over it. “It’s going into trust and I won’t touch it. But now I’m your lawyer, meaning my lips are sealed forever.”
He pointed to a framed quote on the wall beside his desk. “Whenever anyone retains me, the first thing I do is read this out loud.” He cleared his throat: “ ‘Despite all the rules and objections and soft illusions of decorum, a trial was after all a savage and primitive battle for survival itself.’ This comes from the novel Anatomy of a Murder. It’s my way of warning my new clients that there is always a rough road ahead, and that I’ll do whatever it takes, within the rules, to win.”
“Smart,” Greene said.
“Reality.”
DiPaulo meshed his fingers and rubbed his thumbs together. He smiled. “What’s up?”
“This is bad.” Greene knew DiPaulo had mentored Raglan for many years and that they’d been good friends. This would be devastating news for him.
“What?” DiPaulo squeezed his thumbs.
“Jennifer Raglan.” Greene was having a hard time getting the words out. He could see the concern mount in DiPaulo’s eyes. “She’s been murdered.”
“Jennifer?”
Greene nodded.
DiPaulo exhaled a huge gust of air. “How? When?”
“She was in a cheap motel out on Kingston Road. Someone strangled her to death.”
“My God.” DiPaulo bolted to his feet and put his hands to his forehead.
“Ted,” Greene said. “She was having an affair.”
DiPaulo shook his head. “Oh. I know she and Howard had some problems and she moved out for a while, but . . . ” He stopped.
Greene could see DiPaulo’s brain clicking into gear. The initial shock wearing off. He looked down at the hundred-dollar bill under the paperweight on his desk. “Ari. You said this was personal.” He balled his hands in front of his chest. “How do you know she was having an affair?”
Greene looked up at his old friend. DiPaulo’s chair was deep and comfortable. This was probably the first time he’d sat down all day. A wave of fatigue hit him.
“Tell me, Ari,” DiPaulo said.
“Mondays. Six weeks ago Jennifer started taking them off. She wanted to run a marathon, and she told everyone she was using the mornings for long training runs.”
“But she wasn’t running, was she?” DiPaulo asked. His large, energetic body was as still as a statue.
Greene’s gaze drifted out the window, across the street to the plaza in front of City Hall. Normal people were going about their normal workday. For them this was just another Monday in September. They had no idea how lucky they were.
He turned back, determined to meet DiPaulo’s stare.
“When I got there today she was dead. Someone strangled her.”
DiPaulo’s whole body rocked forward and back, like a religious man in prayer. He frowned. “What did you do?”
“I was about to call 911, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But then I heard someone outside the room. I ran into the courtyard and down the street to this cheap little strip mall. I’d driven there on a scooter and had parked it there. Whoever it was got away. I took out my cell again and was going to call it in and . . . ”
Again he couldn’t speak.
“What?” DiPaulo demanded. The old prosecutor in him coming to the fore.
“A squad car and an ambulance came screaming past me. They turned right into the motel. I jumped on the scooter and raced around the side streets in back. I was sure the killer was Jennifer’s husband and that he’d be suicidal. I wanted to find him.”
He told DiPaulo how he hadn’t found anyone, about how he was about to call in when Kennicott called him and insisted he not come to the scene and how they d
idn’t have a chance to talk. “He’s going to meet me later tonight.”
“Okay,” DiPaulo said. “Who did you tell about this back at Homicide?”
“No one.”
“No one? Are you crazy? No one knows you were having this affair?
“No.”
“That you were in the motel room and saw Jennifer’s dead body?”
“No.”
“And that you left?”
“That’s right.”
“Christ almighty.”
“I was about to call when everything happened,” Greene said.
“Instead you took off from the scene of the crime.”
“I didn’t take off. I chased a suspect.” Greene could hear how defensive his voice had become. How bad it sounded.
“Don’t split hairs,” DiPaulo said. He was in full cross-examination mode now. Very effective. “Are you telling me that right at this moment” – he checked his watch – “at 4:10 P.M. on September tenth, no one knows that you were there.”
“No one but you.” Greene pointed at the hundred-dollar bill.
“Yes, and you shut me up by hiring me.” DiPaulo shook his head. “Ari, what were you thinking?”
“I wanted to find her husband. I thought he was suicidal.”
“But no one knows where he is?” DiPaulo asked.
“Not as of half an hour ago.”
Greene lowered his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. The timing. What I saw in the room. You’ll think I’m crazy, but it all felt wrong. Like someone was trying to set me up.”
Greene told him about where he’d parked his scooter and how he’d gotten rid of his helmet and gloves.
“In other words, you disguised yourself before you went to the motel. Took off after she’d been killed, hid your clothes and vehicle, and then went to a lawyer.” DiPaulo put a hand over his eyes. “This could not be any worse.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
DiPaulo moved slowly behind his desk and slumped into his leather chair. “Classic defence lawyer’s nightmare,” he said. “Horrible facts and an innocent client.”
Neither man spoke.
Greene looked back out the window. His eyes fixed on the clock tower atop Old City Hall. He’d never noticed before that there were no numbers on the clock face, but long dashes. “You’re going to want to know how long this has been going on with Jennifer and me.”
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