City of Ice

by John Farrow

  Cinq-Mars shook his head. “This feels murky. Like we won’t find bottom. I hate to think what’s down there, how deep it goes.”

  Mathers tried to kid him out of the blues. “This from the detective who doesn’t believe in conspiracies? You disappoint me, Émile. You sound like you’re ready to change horses.”

  He was surprised by the look Cinq-Mars gave him. The depth of the man’s weariness struck him. He seemed older, more frail in this light than he had previously noticed. “You’re a good detective, partner. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that one out by now.”

  “Maybe I have,” Mathers confessed.

  “Yes? What’s your thought?”

  Mathers breathed deeply before he began. He did feel nervous about this. “I think your public disdain for conspiracies is a deception, a strategy. I think you’re after conspirators, organized crime. I think you only pretend otherwise.”

  Cinq-Mars conveyed in his weary gaze a measure of respect. “That’s part of it, Bill. I’m impressed. Truth is, I’m terrified by the alliances being cobbled together these days.”

  Mathers gathered that he was being admitted more deeply into his partner’s thinking than had previously been allowed. “Émile, can I meet you downstairs? Give me a sec to change and speak to Donna.”

  “No need to explain. Take your time. I’ve been there.”

  After midnight, along the street known as the Main, Julia Murdick entered four bars, hunting around in each. The street was officially called Boulevard St. Laurent (St. Lawrence, in English, after the river) and was the demarcation zone for the east and west sides of the city. From here, addresses on the crossing streets started at number one, ascending in either direction. All streets that crossed the Main had to be designated as being either east or west. The eastern side of Montreal was predominantly French, the western side largely English, while the Main itself attracted a coalition of ethnic communities. Historically a crime center, rough and ready, the Main was a spawning ground for petty crooks, turf where criminal gangs had to cut their teeth before extending territories. It continued to attract prostitutes and deadbeats, addicts and artists, beggars and thieves, ambitious losers of every description, and the in crowd piled in behind them. At night its bars and eateries pulsed with the rhythms of a new generation.

  In the fourth bar she entered Julia caught Norris’s eye, took a turn around the space, and checked the bathrooms to confirm that she didn’t know anybody there. She joined Norris at his table. Although it was nearly one in the morning the place was packed. Montreal was a nightlife city, the Main a nightlife street.

  “Hey, Snoop, how’re you doing?”

  “It’s good to get out.”

  “Like old times.”

  “Old times, Sel? Old times ended ten days ago. That doesn’t constitute old times. Ten days ago is recent times.”

  He raised a bottle of wine to fill her glass. “Seems like a dog’s age to me.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Norris laughed. “I have a better idea. You tell me about it.”

  She ran her right hand through her hair. “Another working session? No time to relax? You invited me out under false pretenses, Sel.”

  “Give me a break, Jul. Doesn’t this beat E-mail?”

  “Oh, throw me a bone, Selwyn! Ask me to roll over, sit up, and beg.”

  He laughed at her consternation. “Talk to me. Go ahead. What interests you, Jul?”

  The bastard had a point. The world had changed. Smiling, she conceded. “You go first. How’s the state of the world, Selwyn? Are presidents calling for your advice?”

  “Just the one.” She didn’t know how to interpret that grin.

  “What’s your—” She hesitated, trying to frame a simple question in such a way that he might answer. He had resisted, gently at times, and categorically on other occasions, any attempt to prick his guise. “What do you do, Selwyn? Besides what you do. I mean, publicly. If somebody came to your door and said, ‘We’re the government, what do you do for a living, sir?’ How would you respond?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “But they’re insisting.”

  “I’d ask to see my lawyer.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously? I’d shut the door in the government’s face.”

  “Come on, you know what I’m trying to say. What do you tell the world you do? There must be times when you have to say something.”

  “Depends who’s asking. Hey, do you want a bite? Take a break from student fare.” The waitress had come by to take their food order. Julia did a quick scan and chose the Waldorf, Norris opted for a croque monsieur.

  “Selwyn?” she asked after the waitress departed.

  “Different people receive various responses. Which can be problematic, of course. Officially, I’m affiliated with the Public Affairs Section of the Consulate-General here in Montreal.”

  “The consulate-general?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Of what country?”

  “Good, Snoop. Never let anyone answer in a vague way. Stay on him until he owns up.”

  “Bugger off, Selwyn. Answer the question.”

  “The United States of America.”

  “Ah.”

  Norris laughed more heartedly than he had intended, enjoying the exchange. He relished the company of this attractive, cerebral young woman. “What do you mean by that?”

  “By what?”

  “By your ah.”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m the inquisitor here and you, Mr. Norris, the inquisitee.”

  “Is there such a word? Tell you what, I’ll make a sportsman’s bet with you. By the end of the night, I’ll get more information out of you about yourself than you’ll worm out of me about myself, even though you’re asking the questions.”

  “You’re on! You’re getting nothing out of me! Nothing!” she taunted brightly. She was already hooked on the release of tension, the joy of being out, the pleasure of food that came from sitting down with a companion to enjoy it, the sensation that for tonight, at least, she was part of a crowd. “So. Selwyn Norris, Public Affairs. Where’s that at? Sounds like a crock to me. Sounds like a handy cover-up for covert operations. Bells are going off, Mister Buddy. Ding! Ding! Ding! What do you really do in public affairs?”

  His eyes teared as he laughed and Julia was pleased. She could not say a word, it seemed, that did not delight him. “Julia, you ask the right questions. As soon as we’ve concluded our current enterprise, once you’ve finished your education, let’s think long and hard about the best prospects for your career.”

  “In what?”

  “What would you prefer?”

  “No dice, Selwyn. Answer my question and quit trying to change the subject. Who do you think you’re playing with here, some amateur?”

  “Salut!” Norris said, raising his glass to her. He sipped, gazed at her, turned away to study the room a moment, noticed a problem, and told Julia, “Don’t look now, you’ve been spotted. Don’t—look.”

  All her discipline was necessary not to spin her head around.

  “Who? A Hell’s Angel? Is this a diversion? It won’t work, pal. Not on me.”

  “He’s coming over. Be cool, Julia. We can slide through this.”

  “Hello there,” said a voice, not one she recognized. Julia raised her head slowly and identified the newspaper reporter, Okinder Boyle. “Heather, isn’t it? Heather Bantry?”

  “Yes! Mr. Boyle. Ah, hi!”

  “Hi.” He waved a hand in a nervous gesture, taking quick glances at both Julia and her tablemate. “I was just, you know, out, and saw you, I thought I recognized you—back then I was so sick I wasn’t sure—and yeah, so, here you are. I was surprised you never called back. How’s your father doing?”

  “Dad! Great. Thanks. We got him out of the tunnel.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He’s in a much better situation now.�
��

  Selwyn Norris returned Boyle’s glances with a slight smile but made no effort to introduce himself. If his student handled this properly she’d tolerate the mild awkwardness and leave the social graces up to him.

  “That’s good to hear. Maybe I should do a follow-up. That story aroused a lot of interest. Tell you what, give me your number, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Julia was aware that she was under scrutiny, that this was the first time Norris had seen her in the line of fire. “Sure. That would be great. Oh!” She ground her forehead into the heel of her palm. “What’s my new number again? I never call myself.” She looked at Norris. At that moment he could deny knowledge of her phone number, make one up, or deliver the correct number to the reporter. His call. She had cleverly moved the responsibility along to the more experienced partner, and her mentor was duly impressed.

  “Do you have a pen?” Norris asked.

  “Right here.” The columnist took out a small pad and pen and waited, poised, for Norris to speak again. Seated, Norris looked across at Julia, then reached over and took her hand in his, affectionately, possessively, grinning at her consternation. He told Boyle her number and Julia noted that it was accurate.

  “Okay. Thanks. Listen, I’ll leave you two alone. It was great seeing you again, Heather. I’ll give you a call.”

  “Please do. Thanks for the piece on my dad. It was great.”

  “Thanks. So long.”

  He melded into the crowd. “Interesting,” Norris assayed.

  “How’d I do?”

  “Terrific. No wonder this operation is going well. But I knew that—you can think on your feet. Jul, you went through other bars before coming in here?”

  “Yup. I did five deceptions before reaching the street. Good ones.”

  “He spotted you in one of the bars. Then followed you. He can’t afford this place.”

  “It’s not that expensive. He could have been here already.”

  “Boyle gets by on a frugal budget. You’ve seen his room.”

  “What do I do when he calls? Why did you give him my real number?”

  Their food arrived, and Julia suddenly realized she was famished. She’d eaten at seven, but six hours had passed since then. Eating late was part of the Montreal style.

  “He’s up to something,” Norris mused. “He wanted your phone number, that’s why he came over. The thought didn’t occur to him on the fly, as he tried to make out. What does he want? You? A date? A story? Something else? If he’s going to nose around Carl Bantry, it’s better if we control things.”

  “All wise and good, Selwyn, but I still want to know what you do in public affairs.”

  Norris laughed. “Nothing dramatic. I’m a political analyst. I’m here to study the possibilities of Quebec’s secession from Canada, what the repercussions would be for the United States.”

  “Okay,” she said quietly. “That’s very convincing. Now tell me, is that what you really do and this thing with me is a sideline? Or is what we do together your main concern, and the political analysis thing your cover?”

  Norris bobbed his head from side to side. “Is there a third option?”

  “Is there?”

  Norris leaned in closer across the table. “Listen, Jul. There’s something you need to know. Commit this name to memory. Émile Cinq-Mars.”

  “Émile Cinq-Mars,” Julia repeated aloud.

  “Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars.”

  She said the name back to him again.

  “If anyone is onto you, for whatever reason, and they want to know your contact, and you have no choice, give them that name.”

  “Why him?”

  “He’s a famous detective. They’ll believe you. He’s safe because he’s such an important person. The Angels can’t afford to go after a cop with his profile. Already the Wolverines have been set loose, after that poor kid was blown up. Imagine what would happen if they killed a cop. Step over that line and the gloves really come off. Give up the name—Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars—and watch your enemies leave you alone. They won’t go after him.”

  “Or you,” Julia added.

  “Mentioning his name will give you instant leverage. Giving them mine won’t do a thing.”

  “Don’t be a martyr in other words.”

  “Don’t,” Norris agreed, raising the stakes of their work together, because he had never before acknowledged this level of danger, “be a martyr.”

  Can I trust you, Selwyn? Julia wondered as she poked a fork through her salad. Who’re you looking out for here? Me or you? Can I trust you?

  “Something’s been on my mind,” Norris began.

  “Shoot.”

  “I didn’t want to suggest it before. I never want to compromise your decisions. It’s important that everything you do be voluntary.”

  “Allez vite, Sel.” Like most Montrealers, she’d fallen into the habit of using phrases from one language to create an emphasis in the other. “What’s up?”

  “Your place is bugged, probably you’re tired of always being on guard.”

  Julia laughed in her chaotic fashion. “Makes masturbation difficult! No way will I give those goons a performance. And, no! Don’t you dare tell me that my propriety is suspicious! I will not masturbate for their listening devices. When I’m really horny I run the tub.”

  “Stop, stop, Julia, you’re ranting. I can’t talk about these things with the ease of your generation.”

  “You’re squirming!”

  “I was wondering, would you consider coming home with me tonight?”

  She had picked up a chunk of walnut between her fingers. “Ah—and sleep on the sofa?”

  “Not what I had in mind.”

  She nibbled on the nut. “You mean—But. You mean it? You know about my steeplechase arch thingee and—Do you want to?”

  “I want to. Very much. Forget about the arch. There’s plenty of other ways for two people to enjoy each other.”

  “Teach them to me,” she blurted out.

  They were quiet a moment, looking at each other.

  “Finish your salad, Jul,” Norris suggested. “And your wine.”

  “Do I have to? Can’t we just go now?”

  Squad cars, fire trucks, and ambulances had preceded the detectives to Walter Kaplonski’s door, lights flashing off the brick and glass of sedate neighborhood homes. A police barricade had cordoned off Kaplonski’s block, and Bill Mathers displayed his badge to be admitted, although they could not travel far through the battalion of emergency vehicles. Émile Cinq-Mars parked, and the two men strolled down the rest of the way.

  What they expected to find they found.

  The roof of a Lincoln Town Car had been peeled back by the explosion, both the trunk and hood had lifted and crumpled, the driver’s side door blown off. The remains of the car were charred and had been doused with water. Ice coated the vehicle now. From his vantage point Cinq-Mars noticed that the steering wheel was absent, either sheared off in the blast or sawed away to extricate the driver. The only question about fatalities would be the number.

  “They take no prisoners” was all that Cinq-Mars said.

  Mathers considered his partner’s words. “Émile, they sent you a message, slung it around Hagop’s neck. Doesn’t that bother you?” He wrung his gloved hands, his breath billowing in the cold air. “I know it takes guts to be a cop, but sometimes, at night, when I’m looking at my kid asleep? I think about how much I want to see her grow up. I want her to have a father. These guys, like you said—man, they don’t mess around.”

  Cinq-Mars had been watching his partner as he spoke, traveling with the words back to their origin. He recognized that bravado was a necessary component in a police officer’s personality, but he had never admired the trait. He appreciated more this reasoned response to danger. To be a policeman and also a father or a mother were never compatible duties. “Personally,” Cinq-Mars remarked, “if they’re going to blow me up, I’d rather they o
verdo it than not do it enough.”

  Mathers managed a tight smile in the cold. “How sanguine of you, Émile.”

  “We’re practically immune, Bill, don’t you know that?”

  “Come again?”

  They were making their way over spaghetti coils of fire hose and around clumps of neighbors who either lived nearby and had been jolted out of their beds or had penetrated the police perimeter by scaling back-yard fences. Cinq-Mars appeared to be in no particular hurry to investigate the crime, and perhaps, Mathers surmised, he wished not be to seen by more than a few of his colleagues.

  “The gangs only go so far. Step over a line and the wrath of the Wolverines falls upon them. Somebody killed that young boy, Daniel. A biker gang, obviously. Since then the Wolverines have been smoking them out. They’ve got the manpower now, they’ve got the budget, they’re getting legislation through which will allow them to seize assets, including bunkers and clubhouses. They keep on the bikers’ case day and night, they hassle their friends. But, it’s all remained civilized. Pretty much. Now. Add a campaign of cop killing, or kill a celebrity cop like me, and the rules will change. The Wolverines, and us, too, we’ll all become wild men for a while. Some cases will be lost in court because the evidence was wrongfully acquired, but some cases will be won, and more important, gang operations will be disrupted, sympathizers exposed. Some of the bad guys will be dead. Maybe some of us, too, but that’s not the point. Before the Wolverines can get really tough like that, the bikers have to cross that line. Let the Wolverines go on a rampage for six months or so, they’ll raise havoc with biker operations. Cop killing, now that’s a big line crosser. But you know, if they really want to make life miserable for themselves, they’d kill a cop like me, a celebrity cop, a local hero. I have immunity, Bill. So do you, now that you’re my partner. I’m not saying don’t be careful. Your name is on your mailbox. I think you should take it off as soon as you get home. Start doing more of the little things to protect yourself. But this won’t happen to us. You should know that.”