City of Ice

by John Farrow

  “What does it show?”

  “Police officers using Mr. Kaplonski’s garage for free repairs to their personal automobiles.”

  “No shit. You’re telling me this?” Boyle wrote furiously.

  “One of those officers was André LaPierre, who’s the IO into the murder of Hagop Artinian. The other is Gilles Beaubien, a high-ranking officer in this department.”

  “How high?”

  “Captain. He’s the operations leader with respect to this investigation.”

  “Whose guts you hate, right? I thought cops didn’t rat on cops?”

  “Who’s ratting? You’re not hearing any of this from me.”

  “You got that straight.”

  “Off the record?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. No problem. What?”

  “Off the record, I made sure that LaPierre came along on the raid of Kaplonski’s garage. You know, a cop may find out he can get repairs to his car at a garage for free. Of course, he shouldn’t do it. But am I going to be appalled by human nature to find out that some cops do? LaPierre’s a street cop. A womanizer, a night owl. He works the dark side of the alley. So, I’m not appalled, and I won’t hang him by the balls because he gets a free brake job. He told me he hadn’t been on the street where the garage is located in years. Okay, he wants to cover his ass. But, he made it look as though he had no clue that Hagop worked there. He interviewed Kaplonski. Never scratched him. Says his lawyer saved him, but you can work around lawyers. LaPierre’s done nothing but crap on this case, and I don’t protect other people’s crap—cops or no cops. I made sure that Beaubien got wind of the facts. He took over the case. Which could be seen as commendable or as contemptible, depending on how he handled it. I wanted to find out.”

  “How’d he handle it?”

  “He kept me away from Kaplonski. Then he tried to keep me away from the Russian freighter.”

  “But you went anyway,” Boyle noted.

  Cinq-Mars stretched. “Which puts me up Shit Creek. I want to go after Kaplonski without my hands being tied. There’s something else. LaPierre gets wind of a garage that makes deals—I understand. He has his nose in the dog poo on the sidewalk. But Beaubien? He doesn’t step in shit. He’s an ivory tower cop. He’s delicate. He never hangs out with cops. How does he find out about a convenient garage? How does he know where to go or what to say, how does he get in the door? He can’t ask around the department, who’d confess something like that to him? Since when is Beaubien connected? That’s a puzzle.”

  “In a nutshell, you need LaPierre and Beaubien out of your way. Beaubien might be dirty, LaPierre might have smelly feet, but otherwise you’re not sure about them. That’s where I come in.”

  “You’re a quick study, Okinder. Call me Émile, by the way.”

  “Émile, what can I say? I know you have your reasons, but thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome. You understand, it’s only the garage and police connection that should be printed. The matter of the Santa Claus suit is for future use.”

  That both their hands rose above the table, that they shook, seemed a simultaneous, mutual, and solemn agreement.

  “Shall we brave the cold again, Émile?”

  Cinq-Mars smiled, stood, and buttoned his coat. “Not together, Okinder. You and I shouldn’t be seen in public. Nor should you ever say anything important over the phone. Never leave a message with substance. In fact, you’ll need a code name.”

  “Cloak and dagger. I love it. So what’s my name? Deeper Throat?”

  A possibility popped to mind. “Steeplechase B,” Cinq-Mars told him.

  “Cool. So tell me, who’s Steeplechase A?”

  Cinq-Mars shot him a cutting glance. “I have to remember to watch myself around you, young man. B for Boyle,” he explained to him. “Don’t you worry about Mr. A.”

  Alone and grim, Émile Cinq-Mars headed into the blustery night. Time to return to the country and a warm, crackling fire, to snug down with a book, his wife, and a Glenmorangie and soothe his weary brow. Tonight he’d forget about villains and dead youths. Instead, he’d dwell upon the news that Okinder Boyle had brought him, that his source, Steeplechase Arch, for reasons beyond his ken, was connected to the CIA. The notion had validity. How else had he successfully camouflaged phone calls so they could not be traced? How else had he recruited others except through training, skill, and good connections? How else had Arch secured a catalog of information, the good stuff, except through the cunning of an international intelligence agency? But if true, why was the CIA in contact with him? Why had the CIA bolstered his career, with what ultimate purpose in mind? What, essentially, was going on?

  Cinq-Mars returned to Headquarters, took the elevator down to the garage, climbed into his Taurus, and turned the car for home. He needed rest. He needed to relax. He needed a drink. He wanted to soothe his bones.

  Out of the city, across the highway, the wind was picking up.

  A blizzard was about to begin.

  TWO

  MALICIOUS MALALIGNMENT

  8

  Wednesday, January 12

  Conversation around the coffeemaker petered out whenever Émile Cinq-Mars came by, his colleagues drifting away. He retreated to his cubicle. His dismissal from the company of cops was connected to a column published in The Gazette the previous morning alluding to police graft. Cops didn’t read the English paper as a rule, but nobody missed this one. They didn’t cry over seeing Captain Gilles Beaubien slapped down a peg, but André LaPierre was one of their own. The word traveling around Headquarters was that Cinq-Mars had sold out one of their own.

  Fuming, preoccupied, busy with the paperwork on an old case that was coming to trial, Cinq-Mars failed to notice Rémi Tremblay step into his cubicle. The lieutenant put down a sports bag.

  “You’re deep in concentration, Émile.”

  “That look. Something’s on your mind I don’t want to hear.”

  Seated, his posture erect as usual, Tremblay did a quick, nervous scratch of his pointy chin, as though he dreaded this conversation. “We need to talk. A story’s circulating that you gave up LaPierre and Beaubien to the press.”

  Cinq-Mars rubbed the back of his neck. “Rémi, first off, ask yourself who’s doing the circulating.”

  “The thing has a life of its own. I’m thinking the same way myself.” This was one of his favorite moments, talking to a colleague about his conduct. He’d rather do that than sit on a perp any day. “Émile, you were down there. Busting the place was your idea. Files we took out of that garage contain a photocopy of cop names—only the copy. It wouldn’t surprise me if the original ended up on your desk. From your desk to the newspaper.”

  “You have nothing to go on here.” Cinq-Mars stabbed his desk with his left middle finger.

  Wearily, Tremblay sighed. He moistened his lips. “At the garage you photocopied a document and kept the original. I talked to the cops on duty. You were the only officer who helped himself. We went through that same file, and retrieved the only document that was a copy. It contains a list of seventeen names, Émile, including two mentioned in the article, who also happen to be the same two who reamed you out last Friday.”

  “The names mentioned were involved in the raid on the garage,” Cinq-Mars protested, gathering force. “That’s the writer’s point. Which brings up a few questions. Such as LaPierre’s conduct, and why Beaubien chose to muddle in.”

  “You’ve revealed yourself, Émile. You’re on the side of that English writer.”

  “He raised certain issues, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’m up against a different issue.”

  “What’s that?” Cinq-Mars asked quietly. He decided that no cop in the department paid as close attention to grooming as did Rémi Tremblay. His hair was carefully blown dry, and he probably made a trip to a stylist for a trim once a week. He shaved his jaw so closely that the skin was milky, waxy smooth.

  “Who’s next?”

  “What do
you mean?” Cinq-Mars asked him.

  “I wasn’t born at noon on Sunday. You wanted this project and Beaubien butted in. Now he’s under suspension. For him, paid leave. You’ve been sparring with André. Suddenly, he’s on the mat, down for a mandatory eight-count. He doesn’t have the same leverage as his boss—the union will have to petition for his pay.” Tremblay picked infinitesimal specks off the fine crease of his trousers. “Now what? If I become op leader, do I wash up onshore?”

  “Rémi—”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game. Wish I knew the rules of combat.”

  Cinq-Mars tried to laugh him off. “The law of the jungle, Rémi. Every man for himself.”

  “That’s about the size of it. I’m going to direct this operation.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” Cinq-Mars told him. “You have my support.”

  “Do I? Then tell me, what will it take to keep you happy? What do you need?”

  Émile Cinq-Mars leaned back in his swivel chair to observe his fellow officer. For years they’d held the same rank, moving up together, although from the outset Tremblay had been the more astute political insider. When the time came for only one to advance, Tremblay had been the logical choice.

  “How’s your internal investigation going?” Cinq-Mars inquired. “What do we know about the computer leaks?”

  The lieutenant lightly scratched his chin again, which tipped Cinq-Mars off that the man had again grown anxious. “The investigation is ongoing. A few signs are pointing to a clerk in data entry—she was one of André’s flirtations. I’m not saying the two things are connected.”

  “That’s why you’re not reaming me out about André, even though you think I gave him up.”

  “I’m not saying he’s dirty. Not yet. If he is, I don’t know if it goes under the skin.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe never.”

  “You asked what would make me happy.”

  “Will I regret it?”

  “I’ll do what you ask me to do. Just don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

  The two men looked hard at each other and neither broke off. “Just stay inside the legal bounds. What are you after, Émile?”

  “The bad guys,” Cinq-Mars divulged. “Just like always. Like in the old days.”

  Rémi Tremblay sighed heavily. He stood, turned, and twisted half around again. “You have a nose for the bad guys, Émile. I respect that. I hope you also know who your friends are.”

  Julia Murdick crossed Park Avenue to walk along the eastern slope of the mountain to McGill University. The avenue was wide here, eight lanes, and as usual in Montreal, if drivers were given any room they dispensed with speed limits. North of the mountain Park narrowed to four lanes that ran past miles of ethnic shops and restaurants. South of the mountain, Park narrowed again, with commuters veering west along the mountainside to choose a street for the steep descent into downtown, or they carried on into the student ghetto. The avenue took its name from this short trek across the mountain park.

  The ancient volcanic hill veered upward in a graceful white incline while the avenue she walked, near the base, rose as well, swelling to a modest rise before swerving downward to the city’s core. Julia loved Mount Royal Park, which, she discovered, had been designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who counted New York’s Central Park as another of his achievements. During the warm, late summer months, she had walked the old horse-riding trails and climbed the steeper rock pitches, idled through the cemeteries, checking out the names and dates on tombstones and crypts, looking for signs, for no particular reason, of plagues. As did so many others, she walked the mountain at night, cutting through the woods after an evening class, sensing safety in numbers. Part of the pleasure, though, had to do with the component of risk. Back then, the mountain had conveyed a different mood. Who else lurked among those shadows? She stayed fairly close to couples, keeping their pace for her own security although she was curious about them too, observant. Their kisses sometimes touched her, it seemed, as though they were moist upon the humid air. She realized at a point that she was lonely, achingly lonely, loving her new city but terrified of it, and on one of those nocturnal rambles she first encountered Selwyn Norris.

  He had been waiting for her, his long legs stretching out across the path from a park bench, and as she stepped over his shoes he had commented, in a throaty voice, on the soft fall of the evening light. Norris asked, louder now as she walked away, if she had detected the mournful sunset song of the hermit thrush, rare on the mountain. She walked on, amused, wanting him to continue in that vein. But he pulled a tired line, calling out, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” and so she spoke for the first time, crudely comparing him to an unsavory body part. He came back with, “Julia, isn’t it,” ending her retreat, “Murdick?”

  Right off the top with the intrigue. She’d become the mule who followed his mystery carrots, lugging behind her a cart weighted with psychological baggage. At the time she’d been astonished by her willingness to be picked up. His charm was thin, but if she was going to fall on a whim the guy had to be well dressed, older was better than some gloating college boy who’d spread the story around, and he’d have to hold up his end of the conversation to cover her nerves. Selwyn Norris held up his end. She hadn’t needed to speak at all. That first night she consented to entering his Infiniti, a sumptuous car, expecting a ride to his place, maybe to a downtown café if she was lucky. Instead he had driven to her apartment building, although she had never given him the address.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “My way of letting you know that I’ve had my eye on you.”

  “What, you’re some sort of stalker?”

  “Who will never take advantage. Sleep tight, Snoop. Don’t let the bugs bite. From now on, accept no rides from stray men.”

  Yeah, right, she thought these months later. Unless they happen to be Hell’s Angels. In that case, jump right in.

  She hadn’t had to give him her phone number. He already had that too.

  Why did he call me Snoop? And—why did I like it when he called me Snoop? As though, she thought, Selwyn Norris had renamed her on their first meeting, and subsequently re-created her to suit the christening.

  Near the crest of the rise an underground pedestrian walkway traversed eight lanes of traffic. Proper lighting and mirrors to peer around the corners failed to assure Julia that the tunnel was safe for women, and she avoided the route always. A female student emerged on her side, another skipped down into the tunnel as she approached, and she was idly questioning their judgment when a car skidded to a stop along Park Avenue. Two burly men in winter coats struggled out on the same side. The doors were slammed hard and the vehicle carried on, earning blares from drivers. Julia cast the men a look. They qualified. Large, beer-bellied, bearded, scruffy, long-haired. If not for the season she could picture them astride Harleys. If someday bikers really did come for her, would she get the spruced up bunch that Norris kept telling her about, or warmed-over scruff like these? Picking up her pace she passed them before they ascended the grade to the sidewalk.

  Immediately she was aware that they were bearing down on her, or was this nonsensical panic, nerves? Julia breathed deeply and stopped short, turned to face them, to stare down her fright. Pedestrians were afoot, automobile traffic was steady, she was out in the open, logic decreed that she was safe. Neither man looked at her, and they walked at a fast clip as if they had a destination in mind. She turned to carry on again and took four strides before the men were closer and she panicked again and turned again and this time the man in the beaver coat opened it as though to expose himself and she caught her breath and looked, expecting a penis stiff in the chill and there, tucked in the belt of his jeans slung low under his belly, hung a limp pistol. She looked up at him and the man was ugly and splotchy-skinned and his teary eyes were small and he said, without moving his lips, “Be cool, bitch, or I’ll shoot your ass.” Confident that she had seen his weapon, that
she had studied it a second time, that she was scared half numb, he closed his beaver coat. “Come on,” he commanded.

  “Get off me.”

  Each man had clutched an elbow. They had timed their intercept with the entrance to the tunnel and led her and partially lifted her in that direction.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice faint, unconvincing. Her feet scarcely touched the steps down into the tunnel, and the moment they were inside one man held her against a wall and covered her mouth and he was saying quietly, “Bitch, don’t move. Don’t say nothin’.” She was terrified then, frightened that this might be random, that they had not come for her, that this had nothing to do with the Hell’s Angels. She was in danger of hyperventilating and the man holding her continued to talk and he spoke slowly and this wasn’t a rape she began to believe and calmed down enough that the man removed his hand from her mouth. She shot a glance through the tunnel. No one was coming, but the young woman who had preceded them remained inside, walking away. She had that option. To yell for help. To hope that help might arrive before real damage could be inflicted.

  The man with the beaver coat took out his gun and Julia panicked again and the other man covered her mouth again and the man with the gun spoke with a softness and a calm that scared her. “We won’t hurt you, nothin’ like that. Don’t get scared. Some buddies of mine wanna meet up with you, we’re providin’ your limo service, that’s all, like you’re some kind of movie star.” His English was firm and the accent faint, but he was French, which improved her odds that he was from the Angels.

  She nodded that she understood. She could not speak.

  “You gonna do what I say, bitch. Be on the safe side. We’re takin’ care of you. You gotta understand that.”

  She nodded to indicate that she was listening.

  “I’m gonna point my pistol at your eyeball. You look up the barrel. Look right up it. The whole time you’re looking up it, you listen to me, bitch. You don’t interrupt. You don’t miss a word I’m sayin’ because I won’t repeat myself.”