by John Farrow
“You killed that boy to go inside the gangs, to pass your initiation. You killed him prematurely, André. They’d already told you you were going to do it. You just jumped the gun, that’s all. You agreed, ahead of time, to kill that boy because you wanted to make bigger arrests than the usual, you wanted to be on the front page. But the reason you killed that boy on the spot with your hands was because you thought he was my informant. You thought I was in there ahead of you. That enraged you. That’s when your killer blood took over. That’s when you became manic enough to do it. That’s when you ceased to be a cop in any way, shape, or form, that’s when you became a jealous murdering asshole. You killed Hagop Artinian because you were envious of me! You could’ve saved him, you could’ve pulled your gun and started shooting, except you were too damn jealous to do it. Know how I know? You hung that sign around his neck to make the point. This was your big case and you were scared shitless I was going to beat you on it. Well, you know something? You were right. I am going to beat you on this case.”
The beeper went off once more, and Cinq-Mars again punched it quiet.
He pulled up a chair and sat across from LaPierre. “You became them, André. You became the enemy.”
“I was going inside them. I was doing my fucking job!”
“The thing is, André—” The beeper sounded again, and Cinq-Mars cursed, “Taberhuit!”—a sacrilege for him—aiming a furious glance at the mirror, punching off the device. “The thing is, I didn’t direct that boy. He gave me some stuff, but I didn’t run him inside the Angels. Until he died, I didn’t know his name. He gave me up because he was trained to give me up, in order to spare himself further pain.”
“What do you mean?” LaPierre asked, and his voice was vacant, parched, as though the last lick of his fury had been discharged. “Who?”
“I told you, didn’t I, that I’d reveal who else has been involved? I bet you were hoping to deliver the news back to the Angels. Raise your standing in the community. I’m afraid we can’t allow that. Hagop Artinian worked for the CIA. So you see, André, from the beginning, you were way, way, way over your head.”
The detective looked at Cinq-Mars and appeared to wobble in his chair.
“André LaPierre,” Cinq-Mars said, raising his voice, and the other man straightened as though to receive the news while erect, “you are under arrest for the murder of Hagop Artinian.”
The door to the room burst open then. Mathers was hanging on to the knob, seemingly out of breath.
“Yes?” Cinq-Mars asked calmly.
“Message for you, sir. Urgent.”
“Go ahead,” Cinq-Mars decreed. “Report. We’re all officers here.”
“Steeplechase Arch, sir. He says time is of the essence.”
“Déguire!” Cinq-Mars shouted, still staring at LaPierre.
In a moment the other detective showed. “Yes, sir?”
“He’s your former partner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you execute the arrest?”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
“Cinq-Mars,” LaPierre interrupted, speaking quietly, firmly, with a forced dignity. “I’m inside the Angels. Right inside. Use me, man. Let me walk this off. I’ll work inside the Angels for you, inside the Russian gang. This is too good an opportunity for you, Émile.”
Cinq-Mars looked across at his former colleague, who was playing his last chit, the final move in his game. LaPierre was at his most vulnerable, and consequently at his most malleable. He could be manipulated, moved, run. Questioned now, he would respond.
“Why was Artinian in a hutch with that hook in him?”
LaPierre shrugged. “The boy died early, because of what I did. I interfered with their torture. The Czar wanted more information. He wanted the boy’s apartment swept clean because we’d all been there and he didn’t want old socks lying around. He wanted the place checked for bugs, notes, whatever. At the same time, we had a problem, we had to get the dead boy up the stairs. So the Czar had all his stuff moved out, even the hutch, then we put the boy in the hutch in the moving van and tried to move him back upstairs. But he kept falling out of it before we could get him off the truck. His weight would shift and the musclemen, the guys from the ship, they’d lose their balance. The Russian did it. The hook was in the truck. He rammed the hook through his back and hung him from the bar in the cabinet. That kept him from falling out and they moved him back upstairs again. In all the commotion nobody who might’ve been watching noticed that one piece of furniture was going the wrong way. In, not out.”
Cinq-Mars nodded. “The table was too big to take down the narrow stairs?”
“They didn’t have the tools to take it apart. Everything else fit okay. So we just wiped the table clean of prints.”
“Tell me something, André,” Cinq-Mars pressed. He had him now. He had him believing that there might be a way out for him. As long as that thread dangled LaPierre was going to talk, he was going to sing the blues. “Why did you spend so much time in the crapper on the night of the investigation? It wasn’t just flu.”
LaPierre rolled his head around, trying to think that one through. “It’d been a day, Émile. My nerves were shot. I had to get myself together. I knew you were out there. I didn’t want to face you, all right? I was scared you’d buzz through me. I needed time to myself, Émile.”
“That’s touching,” Cinq-Mars told him. “The murderous heart goes gummy. You should’ve been in the room, André. Hanging that sign on him was a big mistake. You could’ve cleared me right off this case. Maybe you were looking to get picked.”
LaPierre needed a moment to digest the news. “How about it, Émile? Let me walk this off. Run me inside the Angels. You can’t say no to that.”
“There’s a problem with that scenario,” Cinq-Mars informed him. At his back, Mathers and Déguire waited quietly, respectful, in awe.
“What’s that?”
“Hagop Artinian is dead. Does his killer go unpunished? Not in my book.”
“Goddamn, Saint Émile,” LaPierre seethed.
“Want a lawyer, André? You’re going to need a good one.”
“You bastard.”
“You got any suggestions?”
The man knit his fingers together and stretched his lengthy neck. “I’m not impressed with the lawyers for the Policeman’s Brotherhood,” he determined.
“Who then?”
This was crucial. Choices were being made. LaPierre looked up. “Get me Gitteridge,” he said.
Cinq-Mars nodded. “That’s the side you’re on.”
“Once you’re in, you can’t be out,” LaPierre explained.
“Mathers!” Cinq-Mars shouted, as though the man was not five feet away.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did he leave a number?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then come with me. Déguire, what do you think of your partner now?”
“Not much,” the young man stated.
“Do the arrest. That’ll keep your head above it around the department.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cinq-Mars strode away at a rapid clip and stopped first at Room 9, and went in alone. “This is the deal,” he told Gitteridge.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m the only one who knows you did Kaplonski. I just arrested LaPierre for the Artinian murder. I’m running a DNA test. He doesn’t have a prayer.”
Gitteridge patted the tabletop, taking the information in, computing what it meant to him, and wondering what was coming next.
“I’m going to forget about Kaplonski for now. LaPierre has asked for you to be his lawyer.” The man looked up. “I guess he wants everybody to know what side he’s on. He’s also going to tell you that the CIA’s been involved in bombing bikers. He’ll want to use that information to bargain for support inside the Angels. I don’t care what you tell him, but you’re not passing that information along to anybody. What he says stays strictly confidential between law
yer and client. Got that?”
Gitteridge was staring at him intently now. “Is that it?” he asked quietly.
“Are you kidding? That is definitely not it. That’s just it for now.”
Gitteridge nodded, knowing that he could have expected no less, and no better.
“Déguire’s booking him. You can see him in a few minutes.”
In the corridor, Émile Cinq-Mars grabbed his partner’s elbow and steered him toward the elevators. “Let’s roll.”
19
Thursday, January 20, afternoon
Émile Cinq-Mars and Bill Mathers merged into traffic on the Villa Maria Expressway and headed for the west side of downtown. “I overheard a touch of gossip, Bill,” the senior detective intimated.
The young man’s head was still busily churning the repercussions of LaPierre’s arrest. He hadn’t felt much of a kick collaring Hagop Artinian’s killer when he wasn’t anyone he wanted him to be. He knew that the consequences would be dire. Once again cops would have their noses rubbed in doo. “So give it up.”
“You had a talk with my former partner.”
Mathers immediately felt uncomfortable. “You suggested it.”
“At the time I didn’t know he was a hit man for the Mafia.”
Mathers shot him a look to confirm that he wasn’t kidding. “Lajeunesse is dirty?” he asked. Immediately, he was fearful. If that was true, he may have compromised their situation by having had Lajeunesse run down the Infiniti.
“Not exactly,” Cinq-Mars said.
Mathers waited for him to cut between two trucks before prompting him once more. “Are you planning to explain that or do I have to shoot you in the hip?”
“Lajeunesse is a hit man for the Mafia. A Hell’s Angel without the tattoos. He’s not a dirty cop because he never was a cop. He was always Mafia-Angel shit. They sneaked him onto the force, promoted him inside the department. Then they found him something to do.”
“Which was?”
“Bump me off. Too bad for him, he’d hung around cops too long. Softened up. Gotten friendly. The boy lost his nerve.”
“So now he shuffles papers.”
“You don’t think he’s useful at that? No wonder they move hot cars around so well.”
Mathers pushed a hand through his hair. Bringing it down, he punched the dash. “Taberhuit,” he swore.
“What’s wrong?”
“I had him run down the Q Forty-five for us.”
In anger, Cinq-Mars sped ahead to their exit, jamming his car into the ramp’s single file. “Can’t you get this, Bill? The bad guys live inside us. We cannot be trusted.”
“I’ve got it now, Émile. Once and for all.”
Cinq-Mars cut up Guy Street and stopped on a red.
“Knowing we’re looking for a car, what does that do?” Mathers asked apologetically. “Does it break us?”
“Hard to tell. The Angels don’t know what we want with the Infiniti. If it was just them, I wouldn’t worry. They wouldn’t know what to do with the information. But this KGB thing bugs me.” Cinq-Mars rapped a knuckle on the wheel. “If they know too much, if they know we’re looking for the CIA, then Selwyn Norris is in danger, and his mole’s been marked.”
He made an illegal left on Sherbrooke, where they spotted the Infiniti Q45 fifty yards west of St. Mathieu outside the gates of an old, imposing, dreary seminary. Cinq-Mars parked behind it and struggled out. “You better drive,” he shouted to Mathers, “before I get mad and hit somebody.” The younger man stepped out as well to switch sides. Cinq-Mars opened the passenger door to the Infiniti and plunked his derriere onto the leather seat. He banged his boots together to knock salt off before swinging them around onto the plush pile carpet. He pulled the door shut.
“I’m glad you called, Mr. Norris. Fill me in.” The luxury of the automobile had the detective feeling unkempt after his sleepless night and the day’s rank diet.
“You understand my situation,” Norris stated.
“And you, mine. I want the young woman out.”
“As I told you earlier, I can’t save one agent and wreck the entire operation. This is too important. You’re the horse trader, Émile, what do you suggest?”
Cinq-Mars had anticipated that it would come down to this and wondered if the woman knew that her mentor would barter for her life, sparing her only if the payoff was worth the price. “Let’s deal.”
“You want the woman out. I want a contact working inside the Hell’s Angels and the Russian gangs.”
“Mmmm,” Cinq-Mars demurred. “You want more than that, I’d say. You want the top guy in North America for the Russian crime federation, his head on a platter. And I suspect you wouldn’t mind being relieved of criminal charges that pertain to the murder of the original Angels’ banker.”
Norris’s right hand squeezed the car’s gearshift with each of the policeman’s points. “So I’m greedy.” He smiled. “You are too, I bet. You want the Russian headman yourself, for the murder of Hagop Artinian.”
“Nope, don’t,” Cinq-Mars interrupted. “I’ve got Artinian’s killer in lockup.”
The agent looked at him more intently then, the smirk suddenly gone from his lips. “Not the Russian?”
“You don’t know as much as you’d like about the Angels.”
Norris chewed on his lips then, a mild concession. This was not a trade that he necessarily had to win, but he had to come away with particular benefits. Cinq-Mars had not mentioned his rival’s most critical need, choosing to wait for a more advantageous moment. Similarly, Norris had not mentioned the policeman’s most critical need. A horse trade, they were both saving what really counted to the end.
“I’m impressed, Émile. You’ve worked a link inside the Angels. I could make good use of that resource. Perhaps we ought to consider an exchange suitable to both sides.”
“The woman comes out,” Cinq-Mars reiterated, “with her so-called father. I don’t want any more bright-eyed civilians in there.”
“All right,” Norris considered, “let’s say we take this person out. Keeping her safe on the outside won’t be easy, but let’s pretend it can be arranged. The father has to come out with her, of course. But I need something back. This isn’t tiddlywinks. The social fabric of my country is affected. Lives are on the line. This coalition of gangs can’t be allowed to gain the foothold they’re after. What do I receive in return, Émile?”
Cinq-Mars rubbed his chin, as if mulling the decision for the first time. He reminded himself of his own rules. Never allow the competing party to believe that what is placed on the table was easily relinquished. “Mr. Norris, I’m willing to introduce you to someone currently inside the organization.”
Norris rocked his head from side to side to indicate that the proposal was of moderate interest. “I checked, Émile. My protégé spoke about malicious malalignment to one person, one person only. That gives me the name of your contact. I’m impressed. The Hell’s Angels-Mafia lawyer, now that’s good work. Maybe you should be on my side of the fence. Trouble is, now that I know him, I don’t need you to give him to me, do I?”
Cinq-Mars raised his right hand, gently shook his forefinger in the air, a gesture intended to demonstrate that Norris’s posture came as no surprise. He had anticipated the response, deliberately led Norris down this road. Cinq-Mars had not counted on Gitteridge being enough—the man had flaws. “You need me to work the introduction, Mr. Norris. You’re not dealing with a concerned citizen. He’s halfway as sociopathic as the rest of them, except that, for him, fear’s a motivation. He’s rabbit-hearted. I have leverage, you don’t. I’ve got him dead-to-rights for the murder of Walter Kaplonski, so if you work around me I’ll reel him in for Kaplonski, leaving you with nothing. You need me here, Mr. Norris, you need my hands-on contact.”
Seated in the car, Norris had little room to maneuver, few places to look where he could guard his eyes. He gazed momentarily out his side window until he noticed that Cinq-Mars had leaned forward
to observe his reflection. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he caught the eyes of Bill Mathers in the car behind.
“Problem is, Émile, Gitteridge brought my agent into the Angels. Sponsored her, so to speak. When Hagop was found out, when he was killed, Kaplonski was next on the list for being the guy who brought him in. I hate to say it, but Gitteridge may become a target. I might be trading live bait for dead.”
Cinq-Mars started to rock in his seat with the rhythm of his words. He spoke with force. “They wiped out Kaplonski because he’d become a risk, a weak link. We had his garage, we connected his business to the Russian freighter—he was of no further use. Worse than that, he’d become a liability. We had his nuts in a vise. They took Kaplonski out because they couldn’t trust him. Did he screw up, bringing in Artinian, or did he bring him in knowing he was undercover? The Angels couldn’t be sure. They also didn’t know how he’d hold up if we booked him a bunk in prison. Kaplonski lived too well to appreciate the benefits of hard time. They could make an example of him, he wasn’t much more use than that. Now Gitteridge—he’s passed his initiation, he’s done a bump off, it’s categorical that he’s not in my pocket. Besides, a lawyer at that level is not so easy to replace as a dumb car thief.”
Norris shifted around to observe Cinq-Mars squarely. “Let’s say I accept Gitteridge. If you’re letting him off for blowing up Kaplonski, then you’re obliged to let me off on the banker. You can’t pin it on me, we both know that, but I don’t relish being hassled by the eminent Cinq-Mars.”
“That one I can let go,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged, although he was not about to make the offer without receiving something further in return. “But you will keep me informed of your addresses at all times that you’re in this country. Never mind city—country. If you’re not under my nose, I’ll be looking you up to see what’s cooking. If you’re found here without having reported in, you will fall under my scrutiny.”
“That brings up another issue.” The man checked his watch for the fourth time since they’d been in the car together. Cinq-Mars was counting.
“What’s that?”
“This operation remains covert. No rumors. No press. No suggestion around the station house of Company involvement.” What Norris required most—dead air, raw silence—had been broached as if it was trivial.