by John Farrow
“Vassil!” he called out. “Vassil!” Keeping up in the snow was difficult.
The boy stopped and eyed him warily and, before he got too close, issued a challenge, “You a cop?”
“I’m a friend of your uncle Garo’s,” Boyle told him. “He’s my boss. I write for The Gazette.”
The boy continued to eye him closely. “The Gazoo, my uncle calls it.”
“I’m one of the animals.”
“Uncle Garo says you’re pretty good.”
“Does he? I’ll remind him of that sometime. He never tells me.”
“No?” The boy seemed genuinely surprised.
“Your uncle Garo is a good man to emulate, if that’s what you’re doing, Vassil. But don’t tell him I said so, all right?”
They continued walking along the plowed, sanded sidewalks.
“I liked today’s story, the one about the Banker. Did you really go into that tunnel?”
“Guilty as charged.” It pleased him to be recognized.
“Cool.” They crossed a street. “Is this about Hagop?” Just saying the name caused his lip to quiver slightly.
“Garo asked me to check things out, maybe do a story. Some things are unexplained about Hagop. Why the Santa suit? Why did it happen at all? He was a good kid, everybody agrees on that, what was he doing with the wrong people?” Boyle wanted to keep talking to let the kid pull himself together. He was obviously fragile when discussing his brother. “Maybe your uncle has more confidence in the press than the police, I don’t know, but he loved Hagop and wants to know what happened.”
The boy walked on beside the reporter in silence. At the corner nearest his school he stopped. He moved his feet around to warm them and gazed intently at his boots.
“As reporters, we have to blow off the smoke,” Boyle told him, “see what’s really going on. If there’s anything about your brother, any angle that might shed light, I hope you’ll tell me, Vassil. Let’s uncover the truth no matter what it is, but I have a feeling the truth will honor Hagop’s memory. Do you think that’s true?”
Vassil Artinian nodded. Boyle could not be certain, but he thought he detected anger on his face under-pinning his grief. The boy’s cheeks were flushed.
“Can you help me out here, Vassil?”
Again the boy nodded, only this time he raised his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I know a few things. But I promised Hagop not to tell anybody.” He had to wipe away a tear from the corner of one eye.
“I know,” Boyle told him in a soft voice. “Think about this. Maybe Hagop said a few things to you just in case. He probably knew he was in danger. Maybe he wanted you to know a few things in case something happened to him.”
A friend shouted and waved to Vassil and the boy idly waved back. “I gotta go,” he said.
“I can meet you after school.”
The boy consented with a nod, and it seemed to Boyle that he had grown eager. “A block up, there’s a hangout, corner of Jarry. If you want I could meet you there.”
“Thanks, Vassil. I’ll be waiting. You have a good afternoon now.”
Puffed and bothered, Sergeant-Detective André LaPierre led Émile Cinq-Mars into Interrogation Room 9 in the late afternoon. Bill Mathers slouched behind, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, followed shortly by Captain Gilles Beaubien in uniform and Lieutenant-Detective Rémi Tremblay. Cinq-Mars carried in a briefcase that had heft. With Mathers, he chose to seat himself on the side of the table normally reserved for felons. The trio of officers pulled up chairs on the other side.
“His Holiness is in the confession box,” LaPierre derided, his fury apparent.
“You contravened a direct order, Cinq-Mars,” Beaubien declared.
“What’s that, sir?” Cinq-Mars was wearing a look of sublime innocence.
“I gave you an order to stay away from the Russian ship!” Beaubien exclaimed.
“Why was that, sir?” For a moment it appeared that Beaubien would burst a gasket, if not a heart valve. Tremblay intervened on the side of diplomacy.
“The point is, Émile, you boarded the Russian vessel without permission from your op leader who had issued a contravention.”
“Ah,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged, as though this was all coming clear to him for the first time. Next to him, Mathers slid down another notch in his chair. He was hoping that his partner intended to take all the heat, and not merely the lion’s share, upon himself. “How is it that André reacts so quickly to that and yet so slowly to matters of importance?”
LaPierre raised both hands. “Hang on a second here. This is my interrogation. We agreed. You two are along to supervise and witness, remember?”
“They’re here to keep you from killing me, André.” Cinq-Mars chuckled.
“I ought to,” LaPierre told him plainly. “I should blow your brains out.”
“Gentlemen, this is not productive,” Tremblay warned. He carried a briefcase of his own and sifted through it for his tape recorder. He placed the device in the center of the table and punched the record button. “This meeting’s called to order. Present in the room, Mathers, Cinq-Mars, LaPierre, Beaubien, and Tremblay. Sergeant-Detective André LaPierre has issued a complaint against fellow officer Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars. For the sake of expediency, he has consented to an informal inquiry. LaPierre has requested that Captain Gilles Beaubien be present, and Cinq-Mars has asked that myself, Lieutenant-Detective Rémi Tremblay, moderate. In my capacity as moderator I have asked that Detective Mathers be present as an interested party. André, ask your questions and, if you wish, make your charge. Be advised that we are going to conduct this inquiry in a civil manner. Also, I remind everyone that what we say here stays within these walls.”
Nodding, LaPierre took a moment to gather his composure. “It’s simple,” he declared, his rage apparent. “This is my case. I cannot accept interference by another officer, especially by one who isn’t Homicide. On the night of the murder, Cinq-Mars had the body of the victim removed from the scene of the crime. He has interviewed the Artinian family, he’s interrogated the victim’s eleven-year-old brother, and revealed to that boy that the victim had been a police informant—information that he failed to disclose to the IO. As well, Detective Cinq-Mars visited the premises where the victim had been employed. I have yet to learn the results of that visit. Subsequent to these events—and after I had reminded Detective Cinq-Mars to stay the hell away from my case—against the specific command of the op leader, Detective Cinq-Mars boarded the Russian freighter and came this close to accusing the captain of committing murder. The captain’s complained to us. I want this man reprimanded, and I want him to stay the hell away from my case and stop screwing it up!”
Tremblay allowed the dust to settle. When the two combatants locked eyes again, the lieutenant indicated that it was time for Cinq-Mars to respond.
“You forgot to mention, André,” Cinq-Mars began, opening his briefcase and removing the gatekeeper’s log, “that I also checked with security down at the docks. I confiscated an entry and exit record that puts Hagop Artinian on the docks at the time of his death—”
LaPierre was on his feet. “Damn you, Émile! This is my case!”
“—and in the company of Walter Kaplonski. This is your case?” Cinq-Mars asked over LaPierre’s bluster.
“Yes, it’s mine, tabernac!” Whether he was speaking English or French, LaPierre had a tendency to mix in swear words from both languages.
At that rebuke, Cinq-Mars jumped to his feet and slammed the logbook hard upon the desk. “Why aren’t you on it, then? Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Taberhuit! You’ve been withholding and interfering!”
On his feet as well, Tremblay held an arm across LaPierre’s chest. “Both of you, sit down and shut the fuck up!”
Reluctantly, both combatants sat, struggling to breathe calmly.
“It’s still my turn to speak,” Cinq-Mars pointed out.
“So speak.”
“
On the night of the murder, Sergeant-Detective LaPierre was in the john puking and shitting his guts out. It was always one or the other. During the entire time that forensics was there, LaPierre was nowhere to be seen. We heard him, but we never saw him. I did not remove the corpse, it was not done on my order. Forensics did that. Now, my partner and I were the first to discover the body, consequently it was only fitting that we pay our respects to the family. I had a chat with the boy because he appeared troubled. He had just lost a brother, after all. As far as Hagop being an informant of mine, that’s not something I talk about to other officers. My informants are my informants. I don’t say who is, I don’t say who isn’t. To the family, however, I let them know that their son was a good boy, someone who worked on the side of justice. I was being nice.
“Now, I visited Garage Sampson because I was looking to break a stolen car ring, which happens to be within my jurisdiction. If André has a problem with that, he should look to his own performance. If he never visited the victim’s place of work, that’s not my fault.”
“What about the ship?” Beaubien interrupted. The edge to his voice indicated that he cared about little else. He stabbed the table with a forefinger, knotting his brow in combat. “Tell me about the ship. I gave that order myself.”
“I respect your orders, sir,” Cinq-Mars obliged him. “But I wasn’t actually visiting the ship, sir. I was visiting the gatekeeper’s cubicle. That’s where I recovered the logbook which puts Artinian on the docks, with Kaplonski, at the time of his death. Once I had that information, it was only fitting that I confront the ship’s captain—”
“How’s that fitting?” LaPierre wanted to know.
“A direct violation of my order,” Beaubien insisted.
“Sir, your order, with respect to the ship, had to do with the investigation of stolen cars. I wasn’t investigating stolen cars onboard that ship. I merely inquired how long the ship had been in port and how long the captain expected to remain, so that when I passed the information about the logbook along to André he would know the situation. I couldn’t just walk away with the book in one hand if the ship was about to set sail, now could I?”
“You’ve been raising horses too long, Émile. All you do is shovel shit.”
Tremblay held up his hand. “Do you have anything more to add? Either of you?”
The litigants chose to keep their peace.
“All right then. This is my decision, and there will be no further discussion and no bitching. Cinq-Mars, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. No reprimand. However, I am issuing fair warning. The homicide is André’s case—”
“Then why doesn’t he do something with it?”
“Shut up. André is the IO on the Artinian murder. Period. End of sentence. You, Cinq-Mars, will not withhold a stitch of evidence. You will not interfere with his investigation. Nor will you conduct your own sideline. You will stay one hell of a distance away from this case. Is that perfectly clear?”
Cinq-Mars nodded.
“André, you will not be bothered by Émile again. But get cracking. I want to see some results.”
LaPierre extended his hand across the table.
Cinq-Mars studied the proffered palm. “You try to get a reprimand against a fellow officer and now you want to shake on it?”
“Heat of the battle, Émile. No hard feelings.”
Cinq-Mars reluctantly accepted his hand.
“One more thing,” Captain Beaubien announced. The four other men in the room settled back into their chairs, expecting something less than pertinent. “Detective Mathers.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re junior to Cinq-Mars, and you will report any discrepancies or you will be demoted to foot patrol quicker than you can say Jackie Robinson.”
Cinq-Mars wanted to ask him what he knew about Jackie Robinson, who had begun his professional base-ball career, as a black man in the white man’s leagues, in Montreal, but he checked himself in time.
Mathers said only “Understood.”
“Another thing,” Beaubien continued. “As op leader, I’m removing both of you from any further involvement with the operation. Your contribution so far is appreciated. But both of you need to be reminded what it means to have a chain of command. Cinq-Mars, you’re gone.”
The two men glared at each other.
Tremblay clicked off the tape recorder. “We’re done. Remember, within these walls.”
Satisfied, LaPierre scooped up the logbook.
“You’ll want to check who else was onboard that day.”
“It’s my case, Émile.” He led the brigade out. Cinq-Mars remained seated, and Mathers dutifully stayed behind as well. They listened to the silence.
Finally, Mathers stated the obvious, because he wasn’t sure if it was true or not. “I guess we’re off this case.”
“Are we?” Cinq-Mars asked.
“Émile.” He wanted to protest further but didn’t dare.
On his feet, Cinq-Mars came around behind him. He bent low to whisper in his partner’s ear. “Within these walls.”
He straightened sharply, reverted to restless pacing, then leaned close to Mathers a second time. Rage made him pant.
“We had weight in this room, Bill, but don’t be intimidated. I have a line open to weight heavier than what you saw here. That’s why they consented to make this informal. That’s why they insisted on doing it within these walls. Because an official tribunal would expose them to the real power in this department. They know it, and I know it. It’s only fair that you know it also.”
He paced again. Mathers could feel his partner’s ire.
“I get information, Bill. The good stuff. Prime stuff. I get arrests. Flesh traders shipping young girls to foreign countries. Asian connections importing girls. Hot car rings, drug pushers, jewelry thieves, I get the busts. Why? Because my phone rings. I pick up the phone, and I act on the information I receive. I don’t pay for it, in cash or in favors. All I do is receive it, and arrest the bad guys. I never had to pay until Christmas Eve.”
Again he broke off. Mathers waited.
“My information cost the life of that boy. Hagop paid with his life for doing our job. That’s a higher price than I ever agreed to. That’s a bargain with the devil I want to rescind. Nobody can tell me that I’m not on this case. I am on this case because I am implicated in this case.”
Cinq-Mars pulled away again, and Mathers did his best to console him. He spoke quietly as well. “It’s not your fault, Émile. Who wouldn’t accept that information? It’s prime. What choice did you have? You can’t ignore solid leads.”
“I took the information and that boy died. Okay, I’ve made my peace with that. But somebody ran that boy. Somebody guided him. Who that was, I don’t know. I call him my source. His code name, between us, is Steeplechase Arch. He’s not the one who killed him, but he is responsible for involving him, and therefore he’s responsible for that boy losing his life. He’s the one I’m after, Bill. I am involved in this case, and nobody, nobody, can tell me otherwise. If you don’t want to be my partner, say so now.”
“I’m your partner,” Mathers stated simply. “I bust my gut to get the chance to line up with you. I’m not bailing out now, Émile. This is my chance to prove myself. I hate being treated like some English kid who’s lucky he’s not been assigned to traffic patrol. I’m a good cop. But I’m English, and I’m young, and I look like I should be coaching the swim team. I’m in. I’m in because this is my one chance to make something of my career. People think I’m the dogooder, that I won’t bend the rules. Well, give me a reason, give me a good reason, then see what happens.”
Cinq-Mars sat down beside him and exhaled down to his toes. “I don’t know where to start,” he confessed. “I don’t know who he is, I have no links to him.”
“Sure you do,” Mathers chirped.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the link to him. Do you think he chose you out of the phone book? Hardly. Your s
ource knows you. He must’ve known who he was choosing to be his conduit. Either he knows you or he knows people close to you.”
Cinq-Mars looked sternly down his impressive nose at his colleague. “You’ve given this some thought,” he noted.
“Have you heard from him lately, since the murder?” Mathers asked.
“Early this morning,” Cinq-Mars conceded.
“And?”
“A cryptic message. The Russian freighter is the key.”
Mathers nodded. “That’s why we raided.”
“Raided!” Cinq-Mars ridiculed. “It was a promenade.”
“Whatever. You were lured there, in any case.”
“Bill,” Cinq-Mars said, leaning forward and placing his index finger gently upon the other man’s wrist, “listen to me. This is my fear. Steeplechase Arch, whoever he is, whatever he’s up to, was trying to run an agent inside the Hell’s Angels. That agent was Hagop Artinian. That agent is dead. Whoever he is, whomever he represents, I have no reason to believe that he will quit now. I believe he will try to run somebody else. And if that doesn’t work, somebody else. The life expectancy of an informant inside the Angels is brief, the method of death, brutal. Hagop Artinian was tortured and murdered. Whoever his replacement is, that’s whom I want to protect. I don’t want another young life on my conscience. Whoever is next must not die. This is our job. Now you understand why we’re involved in this case? This isn’t some personal thing. This is urgent. This is necessary.”
Mathers met his gaze. He granted his consent with an imperceptible bob of his head. “Understood. But let me ask you something. I have a wife and kid to support. What about Beaubien and LaPierre?”
“Leave them to me. I’ll deal with those two. Their days are numbered.” Cinq-Mars smiled slightly. “Within these walls, Bill. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir,” Mathers answered quietly.
Julia Murdick skipped through the snow to La Magique, a nightclub, hurrying to escape the cold. Inside, down a long entry corridor, she was met by a bouncer, a graduate of the weight room, who gave her a long look but admitted her without charge. “What is this,” she asked, “Ladies’ Night?”