“Come on in, Double A,” he said, greeting Amankwah at the door of his new, well-appointed office suite.
“Nice digs, Double C.” Amankwah looked around the foyer at the polished marble floors and the oak wainscotting and let out a low whistle.
“Got to show the flash if you’re going to get the cash,” Carmichael said, a full-faced grin firmly in place as they walked down the corridor to his bright corner office.
“Looks like it’s working,” Amankwah said, taking a seat in one of the well-padded client chairs.
Carmichael sat behind his expansive glass-topped desk and dropped the grin. “I worked hard for this, man.”
“I know,” Amankwah said. “Nice win last week with the hockey player.”
“Wasn’t it? Thanks for the front-page coverage.”
“You knew that bringing up her website about the cops was going to blow the case out of the water, didn’t you?”
“Did I?”
For all his outward sophistication, Carmichael was at heart a survivor. Taken from his mother by Children’s Aid when he was three years old, he’d grown up in foster and group homes all over the city. His was a rare CAS success story and he was proud of it. But also extremely cautious.
“You blindsided Fernandez with it on purpose, didn’t you,” Amankwah said.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you know something else is going on. That Crowns have quietly been withdrawing all sorts of charges against hookers.”
“Really, and what else do I know?”
“You know that a number of defence lawyers are getting the same complaint from their hooker clients about the cops shaking them down.”
Carmichael curled his hands together and tapped his fingers, like a thoughtful judge teetering on the brink of a decision. He’s studying me, Amankwah thought, holding his gaze.
“Awotwe. Remember when the two of us started in this game?” Carmichael said. “I was so keen, running out to the jails every night, giving my business cards to every fool I could find. And you were hustling like there was no tomorrow to get some ink in the paper.”
“What else is going on with the cops, Canton?”
“I remember the first time you got a front-page story. That fool of an arts student who sent a fake bomb to City Hall to make a statement. I gave you the heads-up on that one.”
“And I got you a ton of press. Yesterday Nancy Parish told me to come see you. You going to talk to me or are am I wasting my time?”
Carmichael tapped away.
Amankwah stood up. He had to force the issue. “Yes or no?”
“There’s some heavy shit going on out there,” Carmichael said, not moving.
“And . . . ”
“Okay.” Carmichael bolted out of his seat. “What I’m going to show you doesn’t go anywhere until I give you the say-so. Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
“Let’s go.” He walked swiftly out of his office and over to a bank of elevators. One arrived seconds later.
“Where we going?” Amankwah asked when Carmichael pushed the button for B2.
“My storage locker. There is no record anywhere that this locker exists. A third party rents it for me. No key, combination lock.”
“You afraid of a search warrant?”
Carmichael gave a loud guffaw. “Sometimes you’re still that skinny little African kid, as innocent as baby’s milk. If the cops are going to search my place, you think they’re going to bother with a warrant?”
The elevator opened on B2. Carmichael let him through a maze of corridors. They both had to duck in places to make sure they didn’t hit their heads on the heating ducts.
“Locker forty-two. Combination is twenty-two, thirty-two, twelve. You got that? Twenty-two, thirty-two, twelve.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you never fucking know with the cops.” This was the street-fighter Canton. “Look man. This is heavy shit.”
Inside the locker there were stacks of banker’s boxes, all neatly labelled. Carmichael pulled out one named R. v. Whistle. “Whistle as in whistle-blower.” He laughed again.
He showed Amankwah letters from seven well-known Toronto defence lawyers. Attached to each was a statement by one of their clients. Amankwah took his time reading them. “All these women are telling essentially the same story,” he said when he was done.
“Yes, and none of them know each other. And did you notice they are all older.”
“With criminal records.”
Carmichael snapped his fingers loud. “Exactly. Typical prostitute stuff. False name. Fail to appear. The kind of witnesses a good defence lawyer could rip to shreds. No credibility.”
Unspoken, but clearly in his mind, Amankwah thought, was how Carmichael would treat these women in court if they ever testified against one of his clients.
“You think they were picked for that reason?”
Carmichael rolled his eyes. “Wake up, man. That’s the cops’ insurance policy. Everyone knows beat-up old hookers are useless witnesses. Half of them won’t even show up on the trial date.”
“How far up does this go?” Amankwah asked.
“That’s the million-dollar question now, isn’t it? In case you haven’t noticed, the guy who was chief of police when all this was going down is now running for mayor.”
“You think Charlton knew about this?”
“I think I told you this was heavy shit.”
“Do you have copies of all this?”
“One set at home. I figure if the cops grab it, they will think it’s the only one. There’s a second set here, and a third set somewhere else. I’m not even going to tell you where it is. I’m still getting my ducks in a row, but I’ll make my move soon. You’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks,” Amankwah said. “Have you done anything else with all this information?”
“Such as?”
“Analyzing it.”
“No, man. I’m just a friggin’ criminal lawyer. I can barely use a computer.”
“I want you to lend me this copy,” Amankwah said.
“What do you want it for? No way you can use this till I say so.”
“Agreed,” Amankwah said. “Let me put all this information on a spreadsheet and see if I can find a pattern.”
“Okay,” Carmichael said. “But don’t make any copies. “
Carmichael put the box back in the stack under several others, walked Amankwah out of the storage room, and twirled the number dial on the lock, then walked him back through the maze to the elevator. “What’s the locker number?” he asked as they waited for it to arrive.
“Forty-two.”
“Combination.”
“Twenty-two, thirty-two, twelve.”
“Good,” Carmichael said as the elevator dinged. “Don’t forget it.”
34
KENNICOTT WAS BLASTING DOWN THE HIGHWAY, TALKING ON HIS HEADSET TO ARI GREENE. An hour earlier, he had been forty-five kilometres behind. Fortunately, Howard Darnell drove at the speed limit, so he hadn’t needed the siren. Just some aggressive bobbing and weaving and at last Greene’s sturdy old car came into view.
“I see you,” he said. “Where’s the van?”
“About ten car lengths up,” Greene said. “I knew you were close, so I slipped back. It’s thirty K to the next exit.”
“Where do you want me to go?” Even though this was Kennicott’s case, he couldn’t help but defer to Greene.
“Cut ahead of him. I’ll stay behind.”
Kennicott got into the passing lane, pulled his baseball cap down low, and accelerated past Greene. “Where do you think he’s going?”
“I thought he was heading back home to Welland,” Greene said. “But he drove by the turnoff fifteen minutes ago, then I thought Niagara Falls.”
“But we’ve just passed that exit too,” Kennicott said.
“I know. Looks like he’s on his way to Buffalo.”
“Jesus.”<
br />
“Don’t worry,” Greene said. “When Darnell hit the highway, I called someone I know at the border.”
Greene has contacts everywhere, Kennicott thought. He spotted Darnell’s van driving steadily in the right lane. “I see him,” he said.
“Good.”
Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he passed the van and cut in front. In his rearview mirror he could see Darnell in the driver’s seat and Aaron in the passenger seat, looking out the window, white earbud wires sprouting from his ears. “Now he’s behind me.”
“Perfect. Stay there for a few minutes. I’m going to pass you. Wait another few kilometres then fall back behind him. When you get to customs, pick the lane farthest away from the van. The guards know what’s going on. They’ll hold up Darnell and time it so you get through right after he does.”
“What about you?” Kennicott asked. In his side mirror he saw Greene’s car coming up fast.
“I’m going to switch cars,” Greene said. “I’ll be in a brown SUV with Virginia plates. It’s got an American flag on the back, so you can spot it easily. I’ll get right behind him. You stay a few cars back. That way we’ll have lots of flexibility.”
In a few more minutes they hit the border. There were seven booths, with five or six cars lined up in front of each. Greene’s car was in the lane on the far left. Darnell pulled his van into a middle lane. Kennicott went to the far right. The line moved quickly. He rolled his window down when it was his turn.
“Good morning, Detective Kennicott,” the young female guard in the booth said before he could say a word. She had long brown hair and pretty freckles. She wore a headset.
“Thanks for your help.” Kennicott opened his wallet and showed her his badge and passport.
She nodded, looking down at the screen in front of her. “Don’t worry. Give me your passport so this looks like a normal check.”
Kennicott passed it across.
She took it, but didn’t look at it. “Roger,” she said into her headset, nodding her head again. Her eyes were fixed on the monitor in front of her. “I’m to tell you Detective Greene has switched cars,” she said.
“Good.”
Her eyes were still on the monitor. “The subject vehicle has just entered booth number four.”
“We really appreciate your cooperation,” he said.
She finally looked at him. “It was easy. We held up his line until you were ready. Toronto’s a beautiful city.”
“It’s got some good parts,” he said.
“I like the clubs,” she said. “We work shifts, so I get a lot of time off.”
“Sounds like the life of a cop.”
“On Saturday night I’m going with some friends to Riva Supper Lounge on College Street. They have a great DJ. You ever been there?”
“No, I don’t think I have,” he said. “I live around the corner.”
“It’s a lot of fun . . . ”
She held up a finger. Someone was talking to her on her headset. “Roger,” she said into her microphone, then looked back at the monitor.
“When questioned about the reason for his visit to America, the driver states he’s taking his son across to buy him a new iPhone that’s not available yet in Canada,” she said, her voice returning to a bureaucratic tone.
“Right.” What an idiot I am, he thought. On the wiretap in Darnell’s home he’d heard Aaron argue with his father about staying in school, and the promise of a new iPhone if he didn’t drop out.
He called Greene on his cell. “Darnell told customs he was taking his son shopping for a new iPhone.”
“I heard that a minute ago,” Greene said. “You told me the other night that he’d been bugging his dad about this.”
Kennicott felt the adrenaline drain out of him. He wasn’t pursuing a fleeing murder suspect in a homicide, but a grieving father taking his son shopping for electronics in Buffalo. Something that thousands of people in Toronto did all the time. “Should we bail?” he asked.
“No,” came Greene’s curt answer.
“The subject vehicle has been released,” the border guard said. He saw her writing something before she handed him back his passport. Her teeth were a brilliant white.
“Thanks . . . ”
“Rachel,” she said.
“Thanks, Rachel.”
“I put my cell number on a sticky note in your passport. Saturday night at the Riva.”
In front of him, Darnell drove his van onto the adjoining expressway. Greene’s SUV followed. He tipped his passport at Rachel and smiled, then, after a few cars had passed, he fell into line.
All three vehicles sped along the elevated highway that bisected the rusty hull of downtown Buffalo. Darnell was driving faster now.
In a few minutes Greene came back on the phone. “He’s signalling to get off at the next exit. Look over to your right. Sorry if I took you on a wild-goose chase.”
Kennicott peered out the passenger-side window and saw a massive electronics superstore down below, behind an enormous parking lot. A smattering of vehicles were parked near the store entrance, leaving a huge expanse of vacant pavement in front. “Perhaps you could get yourself an iPod, Detective,” he said. “Do you have one?”
Greene laughed. “No. But my father’s Russian girlfriend just bought the two of them a matching pair to celebrate their two-month anniversary.”
“What should we do?” Kennicott asked as he followed Greene down the exit ramp. Ahead, Darnell’s van was turning into the parking lot.
“Stay in our vehicles,” Greene said. “Last thing we want is for him to spot us.”
Darnell drove over to an open parking spot near the store.
“Let him go inside first,” Greene said, turning into the lot.
“Sure,” Kennicott said. He was right on Greene’s tail.
Without warning, just before he pulled into the parking spot, Darnell swung sharply to the right and sped back across the lot. Two huge black SUVs, which had been parked in the second row, backed up, swerved, and took off after the van.
Greene slammed on his brakes.
Kennicott braked hard, almost ramming into him. “What’s going on?” he yelled.
“Wait,” Greene said.
Darnell headed for the exit, then veered to his right again and stopped at the edge of the lot. The two SUVs rushed up right behind and parked on either side, inches away. The van was sandwiched in.
“It’s a carjacking,” Kennicott said, rolling down his window. He reached for his gun. “Let’s go.”
“No,” Greene said. “Wait.”
“What else could it be?”
“Stay in your car,” Greene said.
A tall blond man got out of the SUV on the passenger side of the van. He walked casually to the front of his vehicle and motioned for it to reverse. The car inched backward, just far enough to allow him to get closer to the van, but still blocking its passenger-side door. He looked at Aaron and gestured for him to wind down the window.
“Shouldn’t we move in?” Kennicott asked.
“Absolutely not,” Greene said.
“What’s going on?”
“Wait.”
The window on the passenger side of the van rolled down and Kennicott saw Aaron stick his head out. The blond man started talking to him.
The SUV on the driver’s side backed up and Darnell got out. He moved out of the way and the SUV drove back into position, blocking the door again. A burly man exited the SUV, walked over to Darnell, and shook his hand.
“What’s going on?” Kennicott asked. “Is Darnell part of this?”
“I’ve had a few cases where this has happened, but this is the first time I’ve seen it live. This is an intervention,” Greene said. “They’re taking Aaron away. Probably to a rehab program in some remote place. That’s why the other kids aren’t with him. Darnell used the iPhone to trick his son into crossing the border.”
Kennicott saw the blond man signal for the big man to join him. When the
y were together, the blond man motioned for the SUV on his side to move back until there was enough room for the front passenger door to open.
The blond man opened the door. Aaron stepped out. He was wearing the T-shirt he’d worn to his mother’s visitation, the one with AARON 8 painted across the front. The two men grabbed both his arms.
Aaron looked back at his father.
“Why are you doing this?” he yelled, loud enough that Kennicott could hear.
Darnell put his hands in the air in a gesture of hopelessness.
“This was Mom’s idea, wasn’t it?” he screamed.
Kennicott saw Darnell say something else and nod.
“I’ll escape,” Aaron screamed. “You’ll see.”
The two men manhandled him into the SUV.
“The way these things work is that they take the kid far out in the desert somewhere in the Southwest. He’ll live in a tent for at least a year. Sometimes longer. He’s going to learn to make fire with a flint. Tough, basic stuff. Then they’ll slowly reintegrate him back into urban life.”
“Sounds intense,” Kennicott said.
“One counsellor for every two kids. These programs cost a fortune. Mostly it’s kids sent by their super-rich parents.”
The SUV with Aaron in it turned to leave. The other one followed right behind. In a few seconds both vehicles were gone. Darnell was left alone at the remote end of the near-empty lot. His defeated body slumped over the hood of his car.
“He’s trying to save his son,” Greene said.
Kennicott felt his throat constrict. “We have to find out,” he said at last, “who killed that boy’s mother.”
35
“QUIET ON THE SET. QUIET ON THE SET,” THE MAN IN THE HEADSET SAID, LOOKING OUT AT the audience in the TV studio.
Awotwe Amankwah reached for a glass of water on the table in front of him and took a silent sip of water. With all the front-page stories he was getting in the newspaper in the last few days, he was now being invited to do lots of TV appearances like this. To his left, the host of the show, Darren Rolland, stared into the camera, the pancake makeup thick on his broad forehead.
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