“Counting down, live in three, two, one.” The man in the headset pointed at Rolland and the red light on the top of the camera lit up.
“Good evening, Toronto. My name is Darren Rolland, and welcome to the first televised debate between the two main contenders for the job of mayor of Toronto, Mayor Peggy Forest and the chief of police, Hap Charlton.”
The man in the headset pointed at the camera on Rolland’s left. He moved his head toward it nonchalantly, as if he were turning to talk to an old friend.
“Joining me tonight to question the two candidates is one of the leading journalists at the Toronto Star.” He glanced down at his clipboard. “Awotwe Amankwah,” he said slowly. “I hope I pronounced your name correctly.”
“You got it just right,” Amankwah said.
“Practice makes perfect,” Rolland said. “Welcome to the show.”
“Thanks for having me on, Darren.” The show’s producer had told Amankwah at least five times in the last half hour to be sure to look right at the telegenic host, never at the cameras. And always call him by his first name.
“Awotwe,” Rolland said as if they were best friends, “you’ve been at the Star for a decade and a half, much of that as a court reporter. Crime, law, and order: They seem to be one of the major themes of this campaign so far. How do you see this shaping up?”
Before they went on air, Rolland had told Amankwah that he was going to ask this question. He was to make sure his answer was no more than fifteen seconds long.
“Ever since the so-called Timmie Murder, last year, when that little boy was felled by a stray bullet outside the Tim Hortons, crime has been on everyone’s mind,” he said.
Rolland splayed his hands out. “But you’ve been covering criminal trials for years,” he said. “Surely you see a change. And not for the better.”
“I’ve got an idea, Darren,” Amankwah said. “Come to court with me and we’ll watch a few trials together.”
Rolland’s eyes flickered for a moment with a this-is-my-show, don’t-try-to-upstage-me look. Then he grinned and pointed a finger at Amankwah. “Watch out, I might just take you up on that.” He circled his finger back toward the camera. “Time to get to the candidates and start this debate.”
The two candidates were already in place, each standing behind a wood podium. Forest had on her standard campaign uniform: a dark dress, which she wore with a different scarf each day, prompting the Toronto Sun reporter Zach Stone to quip to his colleagues that, since Charlton had a stranglehold on this election, she had to protect her neck.
Instead of the blue blazer and open-collar shirt that he usually wore, Charlton had on a blue pin-striped suit, a white dress shirt buttoned up around his ample neck, and a red tie.
Rolland was the moderator, and he kept to a tight agenda. The first set of questions were about taxes, then the state of city parks and the candidate’s stands on building more subways. Forest spoke in a nasal monotone that made everything she said sound excruciatingly boring.
In contrast, Charlton’s delivery was passionate, dynamic. The man was a natural, and the audience, although told before the show that they could not chant or cheer in any way, greeted each of his answers with rousing applause.
“And now let’s turn to the question that’s dominating this campaign,” Rolland said. “Crime. Awotwe, you’re the expert, why don’t you ask the first question on this topic?”
Without hesitating, Amankwah looked right at Charlton. “Chief Charlton, the Toronto Star has learned that tomorrow morning, eight distinguished defence lawyers will publicly release a letter outlining their concerns that in the last three years members of the Toronto Police Service were engaged in illegal activities with numerous prostitutes throughout this city. The allegations include sexual assault, extortion, and theft.”
Rolland stiffened.
Amankwah had expected Charlton to look surprised. But he didn’t.
“These allegations all pertain to the period when you were chief of police,” Amankwah said. “Were you aware of them?”
Forest looked at Charlton, a spark in her eyes. At last, she seemed to be thinking, here was a chink in her opponent’s armour.
Charlton undid his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his shirt. “There, that feels better.” He smiled and he shook his head, a sad look on his face.
“Awotwe, I’m so glad you asked me that question. Of course I’ve known about this for some time. In my forty years of policing, it’s by far the most distressing thing I’ve encountered. But as the chief, sometimes you have to keep quiet about things until everything is in place. Your timing with this question is perfect. This evening, just before I walked into the studio, I issued a press release telling the citizens of Toronto that I’ve authorized a full and complete, no-holds-barred, departmental investigation into these allegations. More than five thousand four hundred brave men and women serve and protect the citizens of our city, put their lives on the line each and every day. And there’s no way I’m going to let a handful of rotten apples destroy the best police force in this country.”
Rolland put his hand over his mike, tilted his head toward Amankwah, and whispered, “Great stuff.”
Forest’s shoulders slumped. She looked like she’d sprung a leak in back. Thunderous applause broke out in the audience. Charlton beamed a self-satisfied grin.
But all Amankwah could think was that someone had tipped off the chief. He had seen this train was about to leave the station and had run hard to get out in front of it.
36
HOWARD DARNELL LOOKED LIKE A MAN WHO WAS BARELY HANGING ON, KENNICOTT thought. It was like watching someone slip into a pit in a slow and horrible descent.
At Darnell’s suggestion, they’d arranged to get together early this evening at the local coffee shop in the Beach where they’d first met, instead of at police headquarters. It was a good idea, Kennicott thought, to go to a place where Darnell would feel comfortable, and at night the atmosphere in the café was relaxed. But from the pained look on his face as he walked in, Kennicott knew there was nothing he could do or say to give him much comfort.
“Good evening, Mr. Darnell,” Kennicott said, standing up to greet him. He’d taken a seat in the back this time. More private.
“Evening, Detective.” Darnell’s skin was sallow. “I appreciate you coming down here tonight.”
“Happy to be here,” Kennicott said as they both sat. “How are the kids?” He wondered if Darnell would tell him about taking Aaron to Buffalo this morning.
Darnell put his face in his hands, and shook his head.
Kennicott willed himself to sit still. Watch. Listen. Wait. Don’t move.
At last Darnell lifted his head. His eyes were red. “I probably should have told you this before.” He spoke softly. “Aaron, my oldest son. He’s been a mess for a long time. He was the main reason Jennifer came back after we split.”
“What kind of a mess?”
“Drugs,” Darnell said, louder. “It started with graffiti when he was thirteen. Then he got into dope and he started dealing. He was in way in over his head. Nothing we tried worked. Private schools. Counselling. Rehab programs. A few days ago I told him I was taking him to Buffalo to buy him the new iPhone. I had to get him across the border. Jennie set this up two months ago, and if we missed this date, it would have taken at least another two months, maybe more. This morning I drove him down and he was seized in the parking lot of an electronics store and whisked away. It was horrible, but we had to do it. He’s now somewhere in the desert in northern New Mexico, and he’ll be there for at least a year.”
We had to do it. Jennifer was still alive in Darnell’s mind, Kennicott thought. He shook his head, feigning surprise. “A year?”
“Maybe longer. I know parents always say their kids are bright, but you have to understand that by the time Aaron was ten, he was building his own computers. He’s off-the-chart gifted. But he’s so unbelievably manipulative. He was destro
ying the whole family.”
“What about your other two children?”
“I hated to do this at such a bad time, but I had no choice. They say they’re upset he’s gone, but I know they’re also relieved.”
“Did Jennifer know about this?”
Darnell squared his hands in front of him and put his chin on top. “This was all her doing. She found the program. Insisted we had to do it. We couldn’t get funding, and it’s incredibly expensive. He’s our son. Secrecy was absolutely crucial. I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind?” Could anyone be more polite than Darnell? Kennicott wondered.
“There’s another thing I didn’t tell you.”
“What?”
“Last night I got all of Aaron’s drug stuff out of the house.”
“What did you do?”
“I took all his dope, his scales, his water pipes. Everything. Put it all in a big green garbage bag. I was convinced you guys were going to get a warrant and search the house and then he would get arrested again. That would have been the worst. I know this sounds crazy, but I took my canoe out of the garage and portaged it down to the lake. I paddled way out and tossed the bag overboard.”
“Really?” Kennicott said. “People do things like this when they’re in grief. I love canoeing too. But I’ve never done it in the middle of the night.”
Darnell laughed for the first time since Kennicott had met him. “You should try portaging a canoe through the city. I had to wait for the all-night streetcar to pass before I crossed Queen. I wonder what the driver thought.”
Kennicott smiled. Was Darnell really so naive that he wouldn’t think the police had been following him? Or was he a master manipulator who knew exactly what was going on and was offering up an explanation to throw him off track?
Darnell grew somber again. “I’m assuming you still have no news for me on the case,” he said.
“Afraid not. I know it’s frustrating,” Kennicott said.
Darnell shook his head. “You still don’t know who Jennie was with in that motel?”
“No.”
Kennicott had breached this sensitive topic earlier. He’d asked Darnell if he could think of anyone his wife would be meeting like this. He made a point of not using the term “having an affair.”
“I keep racking my brains,” Darnell said. “I guess being a Crown, and seeing so many people mess up their lives, she’d got very good at keeping secrets from me.”
They sat in silence. Darnell rubbed his eyes. “My old firm has offered me my job back,” he said.
“That’s good news.”
“They’re just trying to be charitable. I’m not going to take it. The kids need me around right now.”
“Understandable. Maybe in a few months.”
“It’s time for me to do something else with my life. I’m thinking of opening up a fruit-and-vegetable shop down at this end of the Beach, if you can believe it. I hadn’t turned on a computer since Jennie was murdered. But I took this afternoon to do some research and I couldn’t help looking up the news on this case. One of the articles talked about you.”
Kennicott had been wondering if Darnell would ever find out his background. Hap Charlton, who was the chief of police at the time he quit his law firm and became a cop, knew how to get publicity. The press had eaten up the story of the lawyer who turned cop after his brother was murdered, and it followed him around like a bad shadow.
“So you know what it’s like to talk to a homicide detective who’s investigating a murder in your family.”
“Yes, and now I’m that detective.”
“But you’re also a victim. Your brother’s murder is still not solved.”
“That’s right.” Kennicott looked straight at Darnell. “Like you, I have to wait.”
“The detective on your case was Ari Greene, wasn’t it?” Darnell asked.
“He still is.”
“I met him for the first time at the funeral home. He seems like a shy man.”
“Greene’s quiet.”
“I remember his name because Jennie did a few murder trials with him.”
“I was involved in some of those.”
“Jennie talked about him a lot. I could tell she liked working with him.”
Kennicott felt his heart rate speed up. His mind went back to the funeral home. Greene had looked so ill at ease. He was usually so calm but he’d been awkward when he met the kids. Then he’d left abruptly. And before that, the first time they’d met at the bakery he’d seemed upset. Totally out of character.
From the corner of his eye, he saw someone approach the table. It was Francis, the café regular, with a newspaper in both hands. “E-e-e-excuse me, Mr. Darnell,” he said. “I found an article a-a-a-about the Vikings.”
“Great, Francis,” Darnell said. Endlessly patient.
Francis looked at Kennicott. “My name’s Francis like Francis Tarkenton who played for the Minnesota V-V-V-Vikings and lost three S-S-S-Super Bowls.”
“Nice to meet you.” Kennicott shook his hand. But his mind was elsewhere. Something had tweaked in the back of his brain. He was a white man. He was tall with big shoulders. His pants were made of a nice material.
“I-I-I’ve got to clip the-e-e-ese articles,” Francis said, before wandering off.
“Francis has been here every day since the café opened three years ago,” Darnell said.
“It’s nice the way people treat him,” Kennicott said, distracted. This idea that had just come to him was so improbable. But . . .
“Everyone pitches in,” Darnell said. “The Beach really is a community.”
“In Welland, at the visitation, did you speak to him for very long?” he asked.
“To who?”
“Detective Greene.”
“We chatted for a minute or two. He seemed uncomfortable being there. Then an old high-school friend came up to talk to me. I guess it’s tough for you guys, losing someone you work so closely with and still having to deal with victim’s families as professionals.”
“Sometimes I think it’s the most important thing we do,” Kennicott said, thinking, I remember his name because Jennie did a few murder trials with him. Talked about him a lot.
He thought back to the last two murder trials he’d done with Greene. Raglan had prosecuted both of them. And both were during the time she had left Darnell.
It was unbelievable. It couldn’t possibly be. And yet.
His mind went to something he had seen in Sadura’s drawings of the man on the scooter. He had copies on his desk. Even though it was late, he had to get back to the office and take a closer look.
37
GREENE KNEW ALL THE VEHICLES THAT REGULARLY PARKED NEAR HIS HOUSE. THAT’S WHY the nondescript Toyota down the street from his front door caught his eye when he drove home at the end of a long day. He could see someone was in the driver’s seat but not much more. He’d been wondering whether Kennicott suspected him and had put him under surveillance. But surely if he had, it would have been a hell of a lot less obvious.
He went inside, making a point of not staring at the car, and ate some Mexican food he’d picked up at a local restaurant while catching the end of Hap Charlton’s debate with the mayor on TV. When he was done, he peeked out the front window. The car was still there.
To hell with it, he thought. He grabbed his car keys, walked quickly out the door, got into his Oldsmobile, and gunned it out of the driveway.
He tore past the Toyota and swung around the block, fast. But not so fast that the car couldn’t follow him. It did. He cut through three or four streets, turning quickly. The car stayed close behind. At a T-intersection, he signaled left, then swung right and turned again at the next street, sure that whoever was following him wouldn’t be able to keep up.
When he came back to the bottom of his block, he slammed his car into park, jumped out, and hid behind a big willow tree.
A few seconds late
r the Toyota drove up and parked behind his Olds, right under a streetlight. The driver’s door opened and an elderly man wearing a suit and bow tie got out, an aged briefcase in one hand.
Without looking around, he walked to the front of the Olds and opened his case on the hood. Greene heard the click of a pen. The man wrote something on a small piece of paper and slipped it under the windshield. Then he walked straight back to his Toyota, started the car, and drove away.
Greene waited for about five minutes before checking his car. He found a business card, printed on simple white stock, tucked in under one of the windshield wipers. It read: ANTHONY CARPENTER, QC, LLB, AND CERTIFIED SPECIALIST IN ESTATES LAW, 500 DANFORTH AVENUE, TORONTO, ONTARIO, M4K 1P6.
He flipped it over. On the back a yellow sticky note was attached with a message in neat handwriting:
Mr. Greene, please come to my office at twelve noon tomorrow regarding my client, Ms. Jennifer Raglan, deceased. She suggested we should not communicate by means of telephone or electronic media. Please bring a one-hundred-dollar ($100.00) bill for the purpose of my retainer.
38
“WELCOME TO YOUR EARLY FRIDAY MORNING, DETECTIVE KENNICOTT,” FRANCINE HUGHES said, giving him her usual greeting. The veteran receptionist at Homicide was the keeper of all administrative details for the squad, including the officers’ schedules.
“And to yours,” Kennicott replied. “Plans for the weekend?”
“Not really. Clean my apartment. Watch the telly.”
Hughes was an older woman who, he’d long ago learned, was keen on knowing everyone else’s private business but evasive about her own. He suspected she had few friends, and that was why in part she was so enthusiastic about her job.
“Hard to believe it’s only been four days since the murder, isn’t it?” he said, hovering near the edge of her desk while she opened the logbook and marked him as “in.”
She looked up, her face sad. “Jennifer. I mean who would have thought such a terrible thing. And those poor children.”
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