“Alvin…” Gilbert didn’t know what to say.
Matchett whirled around. “If you think I had anything to do with the murder of Cheryl Latham, you’re crazy. Why would I murder Cheryl? There’s no reason at all.”
“Alvin…no one said any…I know you didn’t murder Cheryl…but we have to find the gun…do you have any idea…”
“Of course I don’t,” he said. “If I knew where it was, I’d give it to you.”
“So you think someone might have taken it?” asked Gilbert. “When was the last time you were up at the gun club?”
“A week ago Thursday,” he said. “I go every Thursday night.”
“But you weren’t there last Thursday night?”
“No,” he said. “I was too busy going over the security measures for the funeral.”
“So the last time you saw the gun in the case was that Thursday night up at the gun club?”
“Yes.”
Gilbert thought for a moment; so the Heckler and Koch was last seen six days before the murder.
“Any sign of a break-in?” suggested Gilbert. “You don’t think someone could have burgled your apartment for the gun.”
“We used to work break-ins, Barry,” he said. “I don’t think I’d miss it.”
“How many people know you own the gun?”
Matchett moved away from the window and sat on the end of the bed. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice now growing despondent. “Everyone at the club. Everyone at work. Otto.”
Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Otto Kovacs?”
Matchett nodded.
“I didn’t know he was still around.”
“He was out West for a while but he’s moved back.”
“I don’t know how long it’s been. Twenty-five years at least. I should look him up.”
“Still the same old Otto. He works for Hydro now.”
“So Otto knows you have the gun. Who else?”
Matchett shook his head absently, his eyes widening in bewilderment. “That’s it. That’s everybody. I don’t know who’s taken it, but obviously someone’s taken it.”
“Someone with a key? Who else has a key to this place?”
Matchett’s eyes narrowed; he hesitated. “Just my landlord,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Because if you’re not sure, I think you better let me know.”
“It doesn’t have to be someone with a key,” he said irritably. “I don’t live a hermit’s life here, Barry. I have people in and out all the time. I don’t think anyone I know would steal my gun, but you never know.”
“We’ve really got to find that gun, Alvin.”
“I’ll report it stolen. I’ve got the serial number.”
“And I’m going to have to know where you were on the night of Cheryl’s murder.”
Matchett sprang up. “This is starting to sound like Dennison, you know that? You’re turning me into a suspect. Do you have any idea what I went through with Dennison? Do you have any idea what it’s like to have your whole career ruined just because of one little mistake? And now it’s happening all over again. Circumstances are ganging up on me. I finally found a job I like and that I can live with, and the hallowed MTPF is going to rip it all apart again. I should have been reinstated after the Dennison enquiry. I shot him, I admit it, I shot him even though he was unarmed, but for Christ’s sake, Barry, he looked like he was reaching for something. And the car came up as stolen. How was I to know he was just a fifteen-year-old black kid going for a joy ride? There’s not one day that goes by I don’t think about that kid. Not one single day.”
“I know, Alvin,” said Gilbert. “But we still have to find the gun.”
“Shoot any one of those bastards on the enquiry in the chest the way Laraby did to me, and you would have seen a much different ruling,” said Matchett. “I would have been like you by now. I would have been in Homicide.”
“I know, Alvin,” said Gilbert. “You’re a damn good cop.”
“I was one of the best.”
“So you have to understand that I have to follow this procedure.”
“I didn’t kill Cheryl.”
“No one says you did.”
“Give me the case file, Barry. I’ll find her killer.”
“You know I can’t do that, Alvin.”
“Give me the file, I’ll drag the prick in. I’m not going to go through another Dennison.”
Gilbert clasped his old partner’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “We’re just going to straighten things out, that’s all.”
Matchett stared at the floor, not saying a word. He was breathing fast, huffing, and his face was blotchy; Gilbert knew just how deeply scarred his old partner had been by the whole Dennison affair. He glanced out the window, where he saw a diaper truck drive by. Matchett’s breathing grew a little easier.
“All right?” said Gilbert.
Matchett continued to stare at the floor but finally nodded. Gilbert took his hand off his shoulder.
“Good,” he said. “Now just tell me where you were on Tuesday night.”
Matchett shrugged but it was a hopeless shrug. “I got off work late. We were expecting a protest over the announced cuts but I guess because it was so cold that day it never materialized. I didn’t go straight home. I went to Lanyon’s for supper. That’s just down here on Parliament, south of Gerrard. Talk to Cindy, she was my waitress. Then I came home for a while and watched TV.”
“Did anybody hear or see you come in?”
“I don’t know. I have a private entrance.”
Gilbert considered. “So you got home from Lanyon’s about eight.”
“About that.”
“And you watched TV.”
“Until about ten. Then I went to the Winchester and had a few drinks.”
“So no one can confirm where you were between nine and ten.”
Matchett shrugged, as if it were a matter of no great concern to him. “I thought you said Cheryl got back from fitness class just after nine. What difference does it make whether someone knows where I was between nine and ten?”
“And people can confirm you were at the Winchester at ten.”
“All of the regulars know me. You can ask any of them.”
“And what time did you leave the Winchester?”
“About eleven,” said Matchett.
“And you went straight home?”
Matchett nodded, now growing impatient. “I went straight home. And I’m sorry, no one saw me come in. Maybe someone downstairs heard me. You can check with them. They’re nice people. Quiet types. Early risers. They might have been in bed by that time.”
“You didn’t phone anybody?”
“No.”
Gilbert scratched his forehead. “Okay, okay,” he finally said. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. You give me a list of everybody who knows you have that gun.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit, look at the time. I better get you back to work.”
“You’re going to look for the gun?” asked Matchett.
“What choice do I have?”
“Barry, I didn’t do it.”
“I know you didn’t. But I’ve got to have the paperwork, Alvin.”
“So I’ll give you this list and you’ll go around accusing all my friends of theft?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be diplomatic.”
When they were in the car driving back, they again caught the light at Church and Wellesley. A cross-dresser walked by, beautiful, attractive, slim, with ruby red lipstick and false eye-lashes, but with the obvious big hands of a man.
“And you’re sure no one else has a key to your apartment?” said Gilbert.
Matchett’s face settled. “No,” he said. “No one at all.”
At three o’clock that afternoon, Joe Lombardo dropped the evening edition of the
Toronto Star
on his desk.
“That asshole Roffey is at it again,” he said.
The story occupied five inches of column on the third page, no longer first-page material the way it had been last week. Gilbert read the lead:
POLICE SAY NO SUSPECTS IN CHERYL LATHAM SLAYING
He read no further.
“Where did he get that?” he asked. “Did he not read our statement?”
“I guess he wants names.”
“Fuck him,” said Gilbert. “He’s not getting names. He’s trying to force our hand. Like he always does.”
“Carol says Ling was by,” said Lombardo. “I wasn’t here at the time. But he talked to Marsh for at least thirty minutes. And now Marsh wants to see us.”
“Right now?”
Lombardo nodded. “That’s why I’m here. Carol’s already brought him the file.”
Gilbert glanced at his computer, where dozens of little Windows logos floated out from the screen. “Shit,” he said. “I told her if she wants a file she has to ask me first. I’m going to start keeping things on disk. To hell with this hardcopy shit.”
“She had no choice,” said Lombardo. “Marsh wanted it. She had to get it. I’m afraid you’re number-two tyrant around here, Barry.”
Gilbert made a face. “Very funny.”
“Not if you’re Carol.”
Marsh flipped impatiently through the case file, examining photographs, double-checking measurements, reading only the external-marks-of-violence and cause-of-death sections in the autopsy report. He had his own copy of the
Toronto Star
at his elbow, folded neatly to page three. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray next to a smoke-eater—officially there was no smoking in the new building. He had the Donna Varley file on his desk as well, open to the ballistics section. But what seemed to interest him the most was the Cheryl Latham crime-scene report. He took one last look at the crime-scene report then shoved everything aside.
“You’ve read this shit Roffey wrote?” he said.
Both detectives nodded. “We have suspects, Bill,” said Gilbert. “We just don’t want to name them yet. We don’t have enough information to conduct a useful interrogation yet.”
“You guys should have been at the interrogation stage a week ago,” said Marsh.
Both detectives looked at each other. Lombardo said, “Bill, this is a little more complicated than a domestic.” He gestured toward the crime-scene report. “The complexity of the crime scene should tell you that.”
“What’s so complex about it? You’ve got an outdoor crime scene, everyone knows that’s hell on wheels, but so what? Deal with it.”
“I don’t think that’s what Joe means, Bill.”
Marsh gave Gilbert a withering look. “Well maybe you better tell me what he means, Barry. I guess I’m just stupid or something. I guess I didn’t have two years of architectural school. Why don’t you spell it out for me?”
“Come on, Bill,” said Gilbert. “Don’t be like that.”
“I get Ling, comes in here ready to shove bamboo shoots up my fingernails, and you tell me don’t be like that? I’m facing eighteen percent in cuts, my clearance rate has hit rock-bottom, and maybe Ling’s starting to think I’m the problem, that I’m the one who has to go. And now you’re telling me this is a complex crime scene. So why don’t you explain it to me, Einstein. I guess I went to stupid school. I just don’t get it.” Marsh stood up and walked to the window. His face was red and his shoulders were hunched as he gazed across the street at the trendy College Park shopping complex. He had a brittle and overwhelmed look to his hard blue eyes. “Look…guys…” He turned around, seeming to deflate. “I’m sorry.” He glanced at Lombardo, but didn’t really see him, as if to Marsh, Lombardo really wasn’t in the room. “I realize the scene is a little strange. I’m sorry I blew up like that. But Ling can be such a prick.” He tapped the crime-scene report. “I think what you have to answer here,” he said, now looking at Gilbert, “is why your perp moved the body from Cherry Beach to Dominion Malting. If she was already dead, why bother to move her? Why not just leave her on the beach?”
Gilbert and Lombardo glanced at each other. “Bill, I don’t know whether that’s so important,” said Gilbert. “He could have moved her for any number of reasons. Maybe a car came along. A car came along and because he was still in the vicinity he thought he better hide the body. And the best place to hide the body was the trunk. He drove away from Cherry Beach and when the coast was clear he dumped her at the first available spot, which happened to be the pier at Dominion Malting. Did you get my memo about Sudbury, by the way? I E-mailed it after lunch.”
“E-mailed it?” said Marsh, as if he had never heard of E-mail, and looking proud of the fact. “You expect me to read anything that comes to me by E-mail? I hardly know my password. You want me to read something, bring it to me direct.”
Gilbert told Marsh about Larry and Dean Varley and why he thought it would be a good idea to go to Sudbury.
“You can’t do this by phone?” asked Marsh.
“You never know what leads I might uncover up there,” said Gilbert. “Leads I’ll have to follow. And I can tell a lot better if someone’s lying face to face than I can over the phone. I’ve already phoned ahead to the SRPD. They don’t mind. They’ll even give me backup if I need it.”
“What about Latham?” said Marsh, still unsure about Gilbert’s plans. “I thought you were closing in. What about this Danny guy who works for him?”
Gilbert looked at Lombardo. “Joe’s working that side of the case.”
Marsh peered at Lombardo skeptically. “Mr. Librarian’s actually been hitting the street?”
Lombardo tried to keep a straight face but a frown got through just the same. “Two things,” he said. “Danny’s Crown Victoria was supposedly in the garage on the night of the murder getting a tune-up. I asked myself, who gets a tune-up in the middle of winter? Second thing, I got the test back on the paint from Barry’s pants. Midnight blue, exclusive to Crown Victoria. Danny’s car is midnight blue. I say to myself, this is too much. So I go to the garage and I talk to the mechanic, another Filipino guy, and he says, sure, Danny’s car was in on the eighteenth. I ask to see the receipts, he says he hasn’t got them. I ask, where are they? He says he doesn’t know. So I ask to talk to the owner. The owner’s not there right now. So I do some checking, and this garage is owned by a numbered corporation. And who should own this numbered corporation but Charles Latham. Turns out he has several small concerns around town, all under this umbrella corporation: a restaurant in Chinatown, an art gallery up in Hazelton Lanes, a barber-supply place in Mississauga. He’s got his hands in everywhere.” Lombardo shrugged. “So what does this say to me? Okay, maybe Danny’s car was in the garage the night of the murder. I’ll ask some of the other guys who work in the garage. But maybe Latham has access to this garage. Maybe he needs a car, one we can’t trace; so he goes to this garage the night of the murder, and takes Danny’s car. There’s a low-rise across the street. I’ve canvassed some of the neighbors, asking if they saw late-night activity at the garage, but so far no witnesses.”