City of Ice

by John Farrow

  “It’s not something I want to admit, that’s all.”

  “Worse things than admitting to a frailty,” Cinq-Mars coached him.

  He sighed heavily, shook his head. “All right. I did a random drift. In my line of work it’s something I do. Unlike you, I don’t have it easy. I don’t pick up the phone and listen to a goddamn golden voice at the other end. I work for my busts.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I saw lights on at the garage.” He sheltered his face in his hands, then shook himself, as though forcing himself awake. “So I listened in. I heard what was going down. This was my break, you know?”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He left. The guy with the accent. I followed him. I have friends in the Wolverines. They’re looking for a guy they call the Czar. I figured this guy was him. Down the road I skidded into a snowbank. I lost him. I had him, I lost him. Like some rookie. A kid ended up dead. I didn’t want to admit I was on it before it went down. Then, you know how it is, I wanted this bust for myself. Is that such a fucking crime?”

  Cinq-Mars shook his head with his evident disappointment and straightened himself up. “Did you see the guy? Get a description?”

  LaPierre indicated not. “Too dark,” he said. “He was wearing this big, black, capelike coat with the collar up. He had on a hat, you know? Then I skidded out. It could’ve happened to anyone. I mean, I was off duty. I’d had a few. The road was slick. I missed the turn, poof, he’s gone.”

  Cinq-Mars nodded. “What car was he driving?”

  “I don’t know. Bimmer, I think.”

  “And he was driving?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Who else?”

  “Hang on here, André. Sorry to put you through this, but you know how it goes.”

  “No sweat.”

  “Let me check on the kids’ perp. Give me a couple of minutes.”

  “Take your time.” He nodded emphatically.

  In the corridor outside, Mathers opened the door from the observation room. Cinq-Mars was heading into a meeting with Gitteridge and wanted to go alone. “Watch his ass,” he instructed. “If he moves, show yourself. Tell him to get back inside. If he needs to piss, bring him a cup.”

  Cinq-Mars inserted the master key to Room 9 and went inside. He locked the door behind him. “Mr. Gitteridge,” he said.

  “No food?” the lawyer asked, apprehension apparent in his voice.

  “It’s crap here anyway. If those boys don’t show they’re doing you a favor.”

  “I want to call my secretary. You have to let me.”

  “What’re you going to tell her? That you’re incarcerated? That you’ve decided to sing to the police?”

  Gitteridge uttered a dismissive little laugh, a contemptuous flutter of his lips. “In your dreams, Émile. I told you what I have to say. Consider yourself lucky getting that much.”

  “Should I get down on my knees and kiss your shoes for that? Maybe you’d like to bend over so I can plant a wet one on your ass?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “If that’s your inclination, Cinq-Mars, suit yourself.”

  “Mind who you’re talking to, Counselor.”

  “You, too.”

  Cinq-Mars began to pace, making several passes on his side of the table before gripping the back of a chair with both hands and staring down the escarpment of his nose upon the diminutive Gitteridge. “I visited the University Club this morning. You’re a member?”

  The lawyer scratched his upper teeth across his lower lip before answering. “I presume you know that or you wouldn’t be asking.”

  “Kaplonski ate his last meal with you. It’s a shame about the wife, isn’t it? She was an innocent party.”

  “I don’t have all day, Émile,” Gitteridge pointed out.

  “During dinner you went down to the cloakroom. Don’t bother with denial, it’s been confirmed. From the cloakroom you went out to your car, to your Lexus.”

  “I wanted to make a call in private.”

  “Since when is a cell phone private?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Cinq-Mars was shaking his head aggressively. “You never made that call, did you, Counselor? That’ll be confirmed by your phone records. Instead you opened your Lexus and removed a bomb. You took the bomb across the street to Kaplonski’s Lincoln Town Car. You had his keys, which you’d taken out of his coat in the cloakroom, where every member and guest has a private stall, and you put the bomb under the front seat as you’d been instructed and trained to do.” Cinq-Mars took a moment to view how his captive was taking the news. He looked catatonic, motionless, transfixed. “You set the bomb. You returned to the club, put Kaplonski’s keys back in his pocket, went back upstairs for dessert and coffee and a nightcap. How’m I doing so far?”

  He stirred, squiggling in his chair. “You’re exhibiting a spectacular imagination, Detective. You actually earn your living at this?”

  “There’re no bills at your club that pass across the table, just a monthly tally. Which means you picked up the tab, so we can safely say that you bought him his last meal. Nice touch. Your idea? You think that eating with him in public gets you off? You stayed behind when Kaplonski and his wife went home, but not for long. You followed him home. You waited for an opportune moment, Max, but you were running out of time. Push the button, Counselor. Come on, just push the button and Kaplonski goes boom. Just push the damn button! Couldn’t do it, could you, you yellow-bellied sap-sucking shyster?”

  His lips fluttered. “What’s that supposed to do? Get my dander up? I’m supposed to confess now to prove my manhood? How’d you get your reputation?”

  “You creep. You couldn’t do it even when you knew you’d be next otherwise. So you followed him all the way home. Because of your yellow-bellied cowardice you waited until the last second, just when he was backing up. You finally pushed the damn button. Because of your yellow belly you had to blow up Kaplonski and his wife in front of the house where their children were sleeping. Those kids probably can’t sleep there anymore—or anywhere. You couldn’t spare them that? You had to wait until the last damn second? You had to wake them up to their sound of their mother and father being blown apart?”

  “I’m a lawyer, Detective. If you want to charge me with something, go ahead. Otherwise, spring me.”

  “You came in on your own reconnaissance, Counselor.”

  “Right.”

  “Your fingerprints were on the bomb. Is this what you mean by the new culture? Even lawyers have to get their hands dirty—really dirty?”

  “When did you get a sample of my prints?” Gitteridge asked quietly.

  “For starters, they’re all over this table. I haven’t run them yet, Gitt, but you know what I’ll find. We already know the bomb casing is covered in prints, and I mean covered. I guess they were watching when you toted that bomb from one car to the other. No gloves allowed. You couldn’t rub your prints off. I guess you were watched as you followed Kaplonski home. It was him or you. Not such a tough choice, really, huh?”

  “Don’t you”—Gitteridge was exhibiting signs of defiance—“mock me.”

  “Question—why were prints left on the bomb? Answer—to implicate the bomber. You’re traveling with a tough bunch these days, Counselor. Not only do you have to kill people, but you have to be traceable, you have to be cornered. If ever you become a Crown witness, you’re easily discredited. They’ve got the goods on you. That’s why they insisted that you dine with Kaplonski in a public place. That’s why they forced you to handle the bomb without gloves. You blew up your own client, Counselor, then sat your shyster ass down and sent his estate a bill for your services.”

  Gitteridge was not admitting to anything. “Are you charging me, Sergeant-Detective?”

  “What’s the good of that? You’d never make it to trial date.”

  He looked at him then.

  Cinq-Mars returned his gaze.

  Gitteridge needed a moment to think. “What do yo
u want?” he asked quietly.

  “A name. Who killed Hagop Artinian?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t around.”

  “Am I looking at a pattern?”

  He looked him in the eye again. “Could be,” he said.

  “Give me the name. You know I’ve got you. We can check your phone records, you didn’t make a call. You know you didn’t go into the cloakroom to get a cell phone because you’ve got one in the car anyway. All of which is academic, because if we charge you, if you’re out on bail, you’ll be blown sky-high. Know what occurs to me? You won’t give me the name because you’re under the false impression that the person you name will turn around and name you. As a lawyer, you can defend against circumstantial evidence, but it’s a tough slog against a witness. But I’m saying, it’s a matter of priority. Who do I want more, Kaplonski’s killer or Hagop Artinian’s? If it’s the Russian, just give me the Russian. If it’s not the Russian, not technically, give me who it is technically. Don’t think of him as a witness, because you won’t make it to trial. Think of it is as your only chance to escape this.”

  Gitteridge fidgeted. “You don’t want to know,” he said.

  “Don’t patronize me. You’re in no position.”

  Gitteridge thought about it, but he shook his head. “Cops look after each other,” he said. “Give me something else I can do for you.”

  “Wait here. Not that you have a choice. I’m locking you in again.”

  Émile Cinq-Mars marched the few steps down the corridor to where André LaPierre sat waiting. He barged into the room and slammed the door behind him.

  “André!” he shouted. “The reason you cut the tape off is because your name is on it. You get mentioned. The Russian, Kaplonski, both, they said your name. They mentioned you as you drove up to give the Czar a lift back to his ship. Am I right or am I right?”

  LaPierre put his hands apart and uttered fragmentary, quick breaths. “What’re you saying?”

  “You want to know what bothered me, André? You want to know what made me take a look at you?”

  “Émile, what’re you saying?” This attack, after Cinq-Mars had departed on cordial terms, had him searching for composure.

  “That day we drove to Garage Sampson, the day of the bust, remember?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “You still had the flu, you had symptoms. You blew your nose, André.”

  “So?”

  “Folded phlegm neatly into your handkerchief. I said to myself, why’s he doing that? What’s he up to? André has always been an oaf. It’s more like you to ball up your Kleenex and toss it on the floor. Or on the street. Or you’d blow your nose on your sleeve. Since when do you fold your snot into neat little sections?”

  LaPierre fought for words by gesturing with his hands. “What’s with you? Who cares how I fold my handkerchief?”

  “You know how I am, André. I don’t solve crimes, I figure out crooks. I figure out people. Now I’ve got this oaf in my car who’s folding his handkerchief. You’ve had colds before, you’ve never done that. So I file it away, partner. I put it to one side, where I can see it, you know? Why is André LaPierre behaving as though he has discovered the merits of sophistication, of courtesy, of hygiene? Is there a new woman in his life, what?”

  “I’m leaving. You’ve fallen out of your tree, Cinq-Mars.”

  “Then I meet you in that restaurant, and you’ve got these little shaving cuts. Remember? You always have shaving cuts. I don’t know why you never went electric. Too modern for you. You’d rather hack yourself to death when you’re down with a hangover. This time, you have cute little Band-Aids covering the cuts. Now why is that? You always came to work rough, specks of blood on your skin, like you’re a real man. The brass could make you wear a suit, make you cut your hair, shave and shine your shoes, they could write all that down in the regulations, but they couldn’t make you wear your clothes properly, or cut your hair properly, or shave properly, eh, André? You’d look too much like a cop then.”

  “Do you have a point?”

  “André, you read the pathologist’s report. Is that when you found out about the skin and blood under Hagop Artinian’s fingernails? What happened, André? In the fury of the moment, you didn’t realize Artinian had scratched you? Or did the people you work for now insist that the blood under his fingernails stay put, just in case you ever got weak in the knees. You’re a homicide detective. Suddenly you’re cautious about your bodily fluids. I asked Wynett if DNA could be taken from a phlegm sample. Were you wondering about that yourself? It can’t be, not usually, unless there’s blood in it, which happens, but I bet that worried you enough. Blood though, and blood around me—now you were anxious to protect yourself. Would you like to donate a sample of your blood, André, so that we can do a DNA test? What better way to prove your innocence?”

  LaPierre tried to stand but stumbled over his chair and finally kicked it out of his way, sending it careening across the room. “Wiseass. Tests can be shifted. You’re not getting any damn sample out of me.” He pointed at the one-way mirror. “Whoever’s behind that glass, I’m not saying I can’t pass the test, I’m saying I don’t trust the department not to frame me up.”

  “You can lead us through what precautions should be taken. You’re a pro.”

  LaPierre leaned over the table. He sneered. “Shove your test ass-backwards up your dick. I will not submit to the humiliation.”

  “Gee. We’ve heard that a few times in our day, haven’t we, André?”

  “Up yours, you damn priest.”

  Cinq-Mars smiled, looking away. His beeper went off just then, and he fumbled to find the button to punch. “Fortunately, André, we won’t be needing a sample from you. We already received a donation on your behalf.”

  LaPierre gazed at him. “What’re you talking about? You can’t take a sample off me without my authorization, and I’m not giving it.”

  “Not everything is up to you. You have a little friend. Lise. Seventeen years old. This morning you had anal sex with her, do you recall? You gave her your spermatozoa for safekeeping, a gift. What was yours became hers. Of her own free will she has donated your sperm to our study. You know these things take time, André. You also know the match will be made.”

  Sergeant-Detective LaPierre rocked as though absorbing a couple of direct shots to the gullet. When he spoke, his words broke forth as an incantation, as though his grievances had evolved into a chant, as though he had rehearsed this litany frequently. “You worm, Cinq-Mars. I’m a real cop. I work in the real world.”

  “Were you coerced, André, or did you volunteer?”

  “I get down with the slime and the dipshits, I hang out with the fuckups and the slugs, I don’t sit around on my farm brushing horses.”

  They stared each other down now. “I bet you volunteered. You knew it was coming anyway. The Russian hot-wired his testicles—”

  “He did, and that boy screamed.”

  “When he hollered out my name, you couldn’t stand it anymore. Once again I was in there ahead of you.”

  “Sending little boys to do a man’s job.”

  “You went to his throat, you wanted to rip his head off, you tried.”

  “You think I’m a dirty cop? I got inside. I got inside the Hell’s Angels. I got inside the Russian gangs. I was moving closer. More time and I could have busted the assholes from here to Moscow, from New York to Minsk—”

  “Except you found out that I already had a plant in there ahead of you.”

  “You’re damn right I choked the little fucker.” LaPierre turned to face the mirror. “I choked the little fucker’s neck.”

  “Just because you were jealous of me. We were supposed to be on the same side.”

  LaPierre raised his palm high and slapped it down hard on the tabletop. “I choked the little fucker’s neck to put him out of his misery! That’s why I killed him, you shit! High and mighty Cinq-Mars! Never gets his hands dirty!
Well some of us have to do things.”

  “Kill?”

  “Some of us have to get down in the sewer and muck shit. They had that boy wired up. They were torturing him. He was screaming his head off. He was pleading for death.”

  “So you did him a favor?”

  “He was crying for his mummy. He gave you up, Cinq-Mars. That was enough. He didn’t deserve no more. They were going to keep it up, these are not humans, Cinq-Mars. They were enjoying themselves. I stepped up and put my hands on his throat and I took the life right out of him. I saved him more pain. I helped that boy the only way I could.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not that you know about these things. You don’t know how bad it gets. You don’t get dirty like real cops do.”

  “Think not? I get dirty enough to scrap a young girl’s behind to preserve your DNA sample. I get dirty enough, André. But if a boy is screaming under some kind of inhuman torture, I don’t wring his neck.”

  “Yeah, tough guy, what would you do?”

  “I’d take out my badge and my gun and I’d start making arrests!” Cinq-Mars roared. “And if some sonofabitch didn’t like it, I’d shoot the bastard!”

  The blood pulsing in his neck, his breath rapid, LaPierre hesitated before responding.

  “But no,” Cinq-Mars pressed him from the other side of the table, “you couldn’t do that, could you, André? Why not? Why not? Because you were getting inside the Hell’s Angels. You were getting close to the Russian gangs. You were going to bust them wide open one day. You just had to get through your initiation. You had to prove to them that you were a bad guy, a mean killer, there was nothing you wouldn’t do for them—”

  “You got to go the distance. They don’t mess around. You got to show you will do what you have to do and—listen to me, Cinq-Mars! They’re strong and getting stronger. There’s no room anymore for candyassed cops! You got to be just as tough, just as vicious, as bad as them or they’ll win, damn it! They’ll win!”

  Cinq-Mars shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” he asked softly.

  The man was breathing heavily now, the pressure of his life pumping his chest. “Get what?”