“Please, join me, Monsieur MacNeice.” The man smiled, stood up and offered his hand. He was wearing a dark grey-blue suit, a pale blue-green shirt and black suede shoes.
“You would be Joe Paradise.”
“Oui, c’est moi. Though personally I prefer the French—Joseph Paradis. Yes, I am Frédéric’s brother. Please sit down … your grappa is superb, by the way.” He nodded to his men, who turned and went back outside, closing the door behind them. “Please, monsieur, sit down.” He smiled, poured a grappa for MacNeice and another for himself, and sat down again.
“What do you want, Joseph?”
“Please—” He offered the grappa to MacNeice, who took it. “We have much to discuss, I think.”
MacNeice pointedly considered the distance from his hand to the weapon. Joseph noticed.
“Ah, oui, the weapon.” He put down his grappa and picked up the gun. “I am not here to harm you, monsieur. If I were, you would have been harmed already, yes?”
“I take your point.”
“Of course. Take the weapon. Go on—you hold it.” He handed the shiny piece to MacNeice. “I am here to discuss the situation we are both in, vous comprenez?”
“In that case, why don’t I put this down over here—” MacNeice put the weapon on the coffee table next to Birds of North America.
”As you wish. Now let’s enjoy the moment. Chin-chin, MacNeice.”
MacNeice sat down across from him and lifted the glass, toasted him back. He drank slowly, watching Joseph relish the taste of his very fine grappa.
“My brother died the way he lived—violently. You were there; I want you to tell me about it.”
“He was about to shoot an innocent young man, having already wounded a police officer. With him were three men. One, I believe, was the brother of your colleague outside.”
“Oui, it’s true.”
“One of the four survived and he’s in police custody. It appears that D2D and the Jokers have cut him loose. Why is that?”
“Not yet, monsieur … S’il vous plaît, tell me more about Frédéric’s death.” He put the small tumbler to his nose and inhaled.
“Frédéric was determined, I believe, to kill all of us. If it weren’t for an unknown assassin, he would have.”
“Ah, yes, the sniper—was he yours?”
“No. We don’t know who shot your brother. He was at least six hundred yards away, and by the time we found his position he was long gone.
“Not a police officer?”
“Most definitely not.”
“This is a beautiful home.” Joseph looked around the room. “I can tell that you love this place.”
“I do, very much.”
“Oui, it shows.” He finished the last of his grappa and put the glass down. “I’ve never liked grappa—’Italian screech,’ I called it—until now. Thank you for introducing me to something new.”
“Why are you here?”
“Frédéric and I were orphans. I took care of him since he was fourteen.”
“He was an extremely violent man, Joseph. Did you teach him that too?”
“Touché—mais non. As you can see, I am not violent. My world is, but I remain … calm within it.”
“But you supported him?”
“In this adventure, no. He wanted to make his own way, without me. I was happy to see him go.”
“You’re not aware of what happened in Cayuga because of Frédéric?”
“I had not spoken to my brother for some time. We were sending girls here by train—among many other interests, I run an escort service in Montréal—but he was buying and selling dope on his own. I gave that up long ago.”
“Was he competing with you?”
“Oui et non—I let him. I don’t care to do business here; I don’t need to. The Jokers in Montréal have a niche. We don’t ruffle the feathers of the police or the Angels, you understand? If you choose to be violent, you have to be more violent than anyone else, and even then you cannot win.”
“Yes, that must require a delicate balance.”
“We are close to being legitimate now, but Frédéric wanted a different life—to run everything from pot and ecstasy to cocaine. He called southern Ontario his Wild West. Within six months, however, we in Montréal will be as clean as McDonald’s.”
“A young man came to my home yesterday. After he left me, he was blown up on the bridge. Do you know anything about that?”
“Oui, of course; I saw the news. I believe you know who was responsible, non?”
“I suspect it was the remnants of D2D.”
“Oui, as I do.”
“If I asked you about a dark late-model Mustang, would you know anything about it?”
“Do I look like someone who drives a muscle car, monsieur?”
“Frankly, no, but you may know someone who does. Let’s put it another way … do you know who rigged Pat Mancini’s car with explosives?”
“Two people.” He sat up and leaned forward. “Shortly I will leave here, MacNeice. We’ll go back to Montréal, and I want this escapade of my brother’s to slide into the past.”
“I’m not sure I follow you …”
“This meeting never took place.”
“I think I understand.”
“You are looking for Randall ‘Bigboy’ Ross. He has some expertise with C4. He doesn’t drive a Mustang but his associate, Perry Mitchell, does. They followed Mancini here. When you went for a drive, they—how do you say?—modified the Corvette.”
“And they are D2D?”
“Oui.”
“Did you know about it?”
“No, I started asking questions today. You’ve had a busy day, and so have we.”
“Where can I find them?”
“Langlois gave you the address in Aldershot. Be careful—explosives plastiques are in a crawl space in the basement.”
“How do I know you’re not setting them up—or me?”
“You don’t. Do you think I am?”
MacNeice finished his grappa. “No, I think you’re telling the truth—but I’d like to know why.”
Joseph smiled, stood up and looked out at the forest. “I loved my brother, but I knew it would end this way—so did he. As he and Bruni grew more violent, we grew more civilized.” He turned back to MacNeice. “I don’t own a motorcycle and neither does Pascal—that’s Bruni’s brother. And I loathe leather pants.”
“And Pascal … any thoughts of revenge for the killing of his brother?”
“No. Frédéric and Bruni were deux gouttes d’eau—in English, ah … two peas in a pod—though Bruni took up most of the room. He was addicted to cocaine and steroids. The last time Pascal saw him, Bruni tried to kill him.”
“Did you come for the money that was hidden out at Cayuga?”
“I don’t need Frédéric’s money.”
“Do you know anything about the killings there?”
“I didn’t know, and he wouldn’t have told me. I am out some money, yes—for the girls—but I can live with that; we will be selling the escort service soon. I will leave you now, and I trust you won’t make a call to stop me when I do.”
“Other than the weapons and the break-and-enter, do I have a reason to?”
Joseph smiled and picked up the shiny handgun. “The weapons are registered, though it’s true that Pascal’s is modified—for travel. Nothing was stolen or broken in your home, monsieur, and it wasn’t difficult to enter.”
“I’ll have to do something about that.”
“There is no need—we won’t be back.” He tucked the gun under his belt and held out his hand. Shaking it, MacNeice caught a glimpse of a heavy Rolex on his wrist.
Walking towards the door, Joseph paused. “If I was going to steal anything, Monsieur MacNeice, I’d take that photograph—très, très jolie.” For a long moment he looked closely at the nude girl on the stone beach.
They stepped out of the cottage together; his men were already sitting in the Porsche with the
engine idling. Joseph walked around to the passenger side. “Bonsoir, MacNeice, and thank you for the grappa—and also, bonne chance.” Climbing into the front seat, he said, “Allons-y! Revenons à civilisation.” The door shut with a solid thunk, and the shiny black Cayenne swung out of the driveway and rumbled off slowly down the lane.
MacNeice retrieved his handgun from the Chevy and went back inside. He placed the palm of his hand on the bum of the girl and said, “Thank you.” After putting the glasses in the sink and the grappa back in the cabinet, he checked the kitchen door and every window—all locked. He stood on the threshold of his bedroom and considered changing into his workout gear, then, his heart still racing, he walked out of the cottage, locking the door behind him. He punched in the division number before descending the hill to the highway.
“MacNeice,” he said when he heard Ryan’s voice on the hands-free. “Is Aziz still there?”
“Yessir, and Vertesi.”
“Thanks, Ryan. Put Aziz on.”
“How’s the workout going?”
“I’m coming back. Call and get Swetsky and Palmer together—we’re going to Aldershot.”
“Do you want the SWAT team?”
“Yes, but hopefully we can avoid a gunfight. Anything from Montile?”
“He tried to reach you five minutes ago. I told him to call your cell.”
“I’ll be there in eight minutes.”
MacNeice was walking across the parking lot when his phone rang.
“It’s me. Turns out Luigi documented everything. We’ve got emails and hard copies going back and forth to ABC. Demetrius read one of them to me where this ABC executive is giving Vanucci fifty grand and the authority to secure Grimsby against any threat from McNamara or his thugs. Apparently Luigi wanted everything spelled out, so he asked this guy why not give the job to the local authorities in Canada—”
“Good question.”
“Exactly. Demetrius read that letter too, something about comparing our local government to theirs, and that if they were the same, ABC would be trashed before they showed up … I’ve got three boxes of documents, mostly photocopies of the originals, as well as two CDs of what was on the computer.”
“Is that all of it?”
“That’s it. There’s enough here for them to take down the Old Soldiers. One thing’s for sure, though—Wenzel won’t have a life in Tonawanda anymore.”
“When this is over, I think the safest place for him is back in West Virginia. Well done, Montile. Get back here as soon as you can.”
“Thanks, boss. I should be there in under an hour.”
MacNeice felt so buoyed by the news he jogged to the back door and sprinted up the stairs.
Vertesi’s head appeared above the office landscaping. “He’s here.”
“Swetsky and Palmer are on their way back,” Aziz said. “They should be here in ten or fifteen minutes. We’ve got SWAT backup. Two men who have just arrived are in position among the trees, about two hundred yards in front of the house.”
“They’ve got a camera equipped with a 300-millimetre lens that they can hook up to a laptop, so Ryan will be getting images pretty soon,” Vertesi said.
Ryan was clicking away at his keyboard. “They’ve locked on to me, sir. Give me a few seconds and we’ll see.”
“Swets also wanted you to know he has something for you,” Aziz said.
MacNeice said, “It’s all coming together. Montile will be coming home with the Vanucci Rosetta Stone—all the paperwork and emails confirming that the Old Soldiers were hired on behalf of ABC.” MacNeice picked up a marker and started adding the new information to the board.
“Fantastic,” Vertesi said.
“And there’s more—I met Joseph Paradis.”
“What! Where?” Aziz was so startled she stood up.
“In my living room. He was waiting for me and drinking my grappa. He offered me one.”
Vertesi couldn’t take it in. “Jesus Christ!”
“Yes, exactly.”
“What’d he want?” Vertesi asked.
MacNeice explained, down to writing on the whiteboard the names of the two men Paradis said had planted the bomb.
Aziz wasn’t focused on the info. “How’d they get into the cottage?”
“I have no idea. There’s no damage to anything, and with the exception of the front door, everything that was locked remained locked. They appear to have simply walked in.”
“Time for new locks,” Vertesi said.
“Okay,” Ryan interjected, “here are some images of the place. First one’s a long shot.” He clicked the keyboard and a two-storey white frame house appeared through a screen of trees. There was a single-car garage off to the right. Behind the house to the left was a rundown barn and a grain tower missing its conical roof. The driveway led straight off the concession road to the side of the house, where a black trailer was parked.
“Is that a horse trailer?” Vertesi asked.
“More likely a motorcycle trailer,” Ryan offered. “You could get a half-dozen hogs in that thing.”
“Looks like corn behind the house,” Aziz said.
“A lotta corn.”
“Next,” MacNeice said.
“Same shot but much closer. He’s moved off to the right of the forest for a clear shot—low, like he’s on the ground in the weeds.” The house had a small covered porch with two chairs on it, and several more—they looked like kitchen chairs—were on the front lawn near a small fruit tree. All the windows had the blinds pulled down.
“Next.”
“Close-up of the barn.” While some of its vertical boards were missing, the structure looked sound, especially the lower level, a stone base that rose eight to ten feet above the ground—likely an old stable.
“That could be a problem,” Vertesi said. “If we hit the house, we might take fire from the barn.”
“A tactic these men like to use,” Aziz said. “Next.”
“Two vehicles arriving. One’s a Dodge Ram pickup with a trailer hitch, and the other—ta-dah!—a late-model dark blue Mustang.” Ryan lifted his feet and did a three-sixty spin in his desk chair. “I need a couple of minutes to upload the last two images.”
“Good one, Ry.”
“There’s no way to surprise them—they’ll see us coming,” Aziz said.
“In daylight, yes, but the night’s on our side. No street lights or much ambient light out there—let’s check the weather reports and the phase of the moon.”
“First-stage crescent moon tonight, sir,” Ryan said.
All three detectives stared at him. “How the hell do you know that, Ry?” Vertesi asked.
“Dirt bikes, computer technology, the cycles of the moon—they’re all my things. I’ve been studying the sky since I was a kid looking through a telescope with my granddad. Nerdy, I know.”
“Not nerdy at all,” MacNeice said.
“Well, maybe a bit …” Vertesi said.
“Weather’s overcast, threatening rain, sixty percent chance of thunderstorms overnight,” Aziz said, staring at her screen.
“Perfect,” MacNeice said.
“Here you go—two more images.” Ryan nodded towards the Falcon’s large monitor. Two more cars had arrived in the driveway. “First one’s a ten-year-old Lincoln Town Car, the second a beefed-up Jeep Cherokee. She’s riding too low for hauling firewood, so I’d say she’s been chopped into a low-rider. Next shot is the family reunion.” He clicked the keyboard and the photo appeared.
Four men and one woman had emerged from the house to greet the six men who’d emerged from the cars. Everyone, including the woman, appeared to be wearing black.
“That would be the hairdresser. It’s her name on the deed to the property …”
“Fiza, call the surveillance team and tell them to stay low. No more photos unless the status changes. Otherwise, strictly cellphone eyeball reports—I don’t want the glow from that laptop being seen.”
“Will do.” She swung
around and slid her chair back to the desk. “Do I tell them what the plan is?”
“One more in, sir. Here it comes.” Ryan slid away from the screen.
Two children were bolting out the front door. The camera had caught them in mid-air, jumping off the porch—two boys, one perhaps four, the other five or six.
“Not good,” Vertesi said.
“Not at all,” Aziz added, reaching for her phone.
“At the moment, just tell them to stay low and keep reporting,” MacNeice said.
MacNeice was taping the last of the Aldershot photographs to the whiteboard when Swetsky came around the corner of the cubicle.
“Whaddya got here, Mac?” Swetsky put his massive arm over the top of the whiteboard.
“Where’s Palmer?” MacNeice asked.
“He said he had to see someone first. If we need him, I’ll have his ass back here in ten minutes.”
MacNeice nodded. “These are photos of D2D’s Aldershot crib. Do you recognize any of the people in this one? Ryan enlarged and sharpened the image.”
Swetsky leaned in for a better look. “Uh-huh, yeah, oh yeah. These three were out west—nice to see they’ve come home. I don’t know those two. The girl is Randy Ross’s girlfriend, Melanie Butter.”
“Butter, like …?” Vertesi said.
“Yeah—spreads real easy.” Swetsky regretted the pathetic joke immediately. “Aw, Jesus, sorry, Aziz.”
“No problem, Detective,” Aziz said sharply as she picked up the phone.
“Sorry, Mac, I keep thinkin’ she’s one of the guys,” Swetsky said quietly.
“Yes, you do, and she’s not.” His voice was sterner than he’d intended. “Ms. Butter has two kids out there.”
“They’re hers, not Ross’s. Their father was T-boned on his Harley by a freight train at a rail crossing in Tweed a few years ago.”
“I remember that. He tried to beat it to the crossing,” Vertesi said.
“Darwinian, ain’t it,” Swetsky said. “What’s the plan?”
“We have SWAT backup, and once Montile gets here we’ll have the six of us plus the two in the forest. We’ve just found out that Randall Ross and Perry Mitchell, the guy who owns that Mustang”—MacNeice tapped the photo—“likely killed Pat Mancini.”
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