“Has she asked to see her lawyer?”
“She says she has nothing to hide.”
“I think we should get her lawyer for her.”
“You let her make that decision, Barry.” Marsh looked at Gilbert in frustrated mystification. “Sometimes I wonder about you, detective. Whose side are you on anyway?”
“Right now, I’m on Jane’s. All I’m asking is for you to give us a chance with her. We’re the primaries on this case. We know more about it than anyone else.”
“I know just as much as you,” said Marsh.
“You brought her in at four,” said Lombardo. “She hasn’t told you a thing. Maybe it’s time for a change of pace. She’s not some pool-hall drug dealer, Bill. You can’t browbeat her that way.”
“She’s going down, Lombardo. You may think otherwise, but she’s going down. I don’t care. Talk to her. Talk to her all you want. But after that, it’s over. You’re back in rotation. I don’t want either of you looking at the case file until the Crown decides to indict her.”
“Do us a favor,” said Gilbert. “Hold off on the arraignment. Give us till Monday.”
Marsh looked at him incredulously. “Are you deaf, detective? I said that’s it. No more man-hours, no more resources. The thing is finished. Buried. Dead.”
Marsh looked first at Gilbert, then at Lombardo, a thin ribbon of sweat etching a shiny line down the side of his face.
“And if Matchett is the one who burgled the animal clinic?” said Gilbert.
“Then it’s Brett’s case, isn’t it?” he said. “You go in and talk to Jane all you like.” Marsh looked at his watch. “But you’re on your own time. And when you get here tomorrow try helping out Groves, Telford, and Halycz for a change.” He took one last belligerent glance at Jane. “I’m going for supper. Tell her I’ll be back in an hour.”
Gilbert and Lombardo entered the interrogation room quietly. Jane wasn’t angry anymore…she looked more amused by the whole thing. The interrogation room, first room on the left as you entered the Homicide Office, was sparsely furnished: a table, a few chairs on coasters, tube lights overhead, a video camera and microphone in the corner. Gilbert looked at her arms. Under the expensive weave of her red blazer, he saw muscle, well-defined biceps and bulging pecs above her breasts. She was immaculately made up, a woman who was in charge of her appearance, and in control of her life. She appraised Gilbert.
“Detective…” she said, fishing for his name.
“Gilbert,” he said. “We met when I first came to see Mr. Webb.” He nodded toward Lombardo. “This is my partner, Joe Lombardo.”
She looked at Joe with glassy eyes and a frozen smile. “How do you do,” she said.
“Fine,” he said.
“Can I get you anything?” asked Gilbert. “A sandwich? Coffee?”
“I’m careful with my diet,” she said. “I’ll have something when I get home.”
She was absolutely convinced she was going to leave headquarters tonight.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.
“Detective Marsh arrested me for the murder of Cheryl Latham,” she said.
“And he informed you of your rights?” said Lombardo.
“Yes, he did.”
“And you’ve decided against having a lawyer present,” said Gilbert.
“For the time being.”
The two detectives sat down. Gilbert leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and rubbed his hands together. He glanced at the video camera. The situation was delicate. He didn’t want to undercut Marsh’s authority or convey in any way to Jane Ireland that the MTPF moved on anything but a consolidated front.
“Did Staff Inspector Marsh outline any of the evidence against you?” he asked.
“He mentioned the bullet,” she said.
She ran her hand over her forehead, frowning, as if she had a headache.
“Are you all right?” asked Gilbert. “You’re sure I can’t get you anything.”
“No.”
“You look tired.”
“I’m not tired,” she said. “I’m never tired. I can’t afford to be tired.”
Gilbert decided he was going to save a lot of time. “You were set up by Matchett, weren’t you?”
She seemed to freeze. She looked at Gilbert, sat up straight, her neck extending. She reminded Gilbert of an exotic bird, a heron or flamingo looking up over the reeds, alerted to danger.
“I don’t even know how to work a gun,” she said. “I have no idea how that bullet got there.”
“We know Matchett took you up to his club,” said Gilbert.
“I went only because it was one of the few times in the week we got to go out together,” she said.
“And you never fired the weapon?” said Lombardo. “Not even out of curiosity.”
She turned to Lombardo. “I hate guns,” she said.
“So how do you explain the bullet behind your filing cabinet?” asked Gilbert.
“I can’t. He knew I detested guns. I wouldn’t let him bring it into the apartment.”
“So where did he keep it?” said Lombardo.
“He kept it at his place.”
“And what about the boots?” said Gilbert.
“You’ll find an identical pair of boots at his place. Which is exactly what I told Staff Inspector Marsh.”
“Why would he buy an identical pair of boots?” said Lombardo.
“I think that’s obvious,” said Jane.
“So you agree with us then,” said Gilbert. “You think Matchett was trying to stage you.”
“You stay with Alvin for a while, you get to know him, you live with him, and you begin to see that something’s not right about him. I finally told him to get out last June.”
“He told us he was the one who left you. That you took it hard,” said Gilbert.
“You see what I mean?” She sat back in her chair and glanced first at Lombardo then at Gilbert. “I asked him to give me my key back. He said he lost it. I’ve been after my landlord to get the locks changed since June. Alvin said he lost it but I know he didn’t. I’d come home and I’d find small things missing. Stupid things. Soap. Ketchup. My hairbrush. He thought I didn’t know.” She shook her head. “But I knew. I called the police but they said there was nothing they could do, that unless they caught him red-handed—”
“He took your hairbrush?” asked Gilbert.
She nodded.
“Because we found three strands of your hair on Cheryl’s body.”
She again grew still. She leaned forward and rubbed her hands together. Then her shoulders sank. “I guess you just answered your own question, detective. And as for taking it hard, I was overjoyed when it ended. I felt like I got my life back. You always get the sense with Alvin that he’s somehow positioning himself for advantage. Oh, he can be charming, but underneath that charm he cares for no one but himself.”
Gilbert felt Joe watching him; this was hard, listening to his old partner described this way. “So you think he planted the hair,” said Gilbert.
“I liked Cheryl,” she said. “Things were going on, I don’t know what. Funny things. Especially around election time. I was concerned about her. She got involved with Alvin and I knew it couldn’t be good. I saw a lot of unexplained cancelled checks. Sometimes the two of them stayed late at night. Often Tom was there with them. Alvin was acting really strange. He kept watching me. I knew something was up. The money kept going to the same place, just a number, a corporation, but there were never any particulars, no description of the services rendered. Campaign support, that’s all it ever said. And Alvin kept watching me. He wasn’t subtle. Obviously they were trying to hide something. Any fool could see that. And I wasn’t any fool. So all this—this hair, the boots, the bullet—it all makes sense. I can’t say why he killed Cheryl, if in fact he did. Pinning all this on me makes me think he did. The poor girl. Near the end, he was watching her the same way he was watching me. Like he was just waiting. And Cheryl was so nervous. I think she was glad when the election was finally over.”
Gilbert and Lombardo looked at each other. “So there’s no love wasted between you and Alvin?” said Gilbert.
“You’re kidding,” she said, dryly.
“He gave me the impression he still loved you.”
“He’s manipulating you, just like he manipulates everybody. Just like he manipulated Cheryl.”
“What was Cheryl like during the election?”
Jane paused to think. “She was like…” She gazed at the video camera. “She was like a small girl who had been asked to pilot a jumbo jet through a narrow mountain passage. Only she didn’t know the first thing about planes. Webb asked me a few questions once. I knew he was sounding me out. I hate to say this, but I think Tom…he’s a wonderful man, an asset to the party, and he…but I really think—”
“What about the car?”
She nodded. “That was Marsh’s trump card.”
Gilbert nodded. “Marsh is a good detective,” he said, conscious of the video camera.
“A message was left on my machine while I was on afternoon coffee,” she said. “I was to leave a car in the Mount Joseph parking lot.”
“Who left the message?”
“Tom did.”
Gilbert had to take a few seconds for this to sink in. Was Webb going to turn out to be an accomplice in his stepdaughter’s murder?
“Why the Mount Joseph parking lot?” he asked.
A few lines came to Jane’s brow. “That’s the strange part,” she said. “I looked in his engagement book and he wasn’t scheduled for Mount Joseph that night. His schedule was open. I couldn’t figure out what he would be doing down at Mount Joseph anyway. I thought it might have something to do with Dorothy.”
“Dorothy?”
“His wife,” she said. “Cheryl’s mother. She died there three years ago. I was constantly bringing cars down to the Mount Joseph parking lot for him. He stayed late, often until the small hours of the morning.”
“What did he say?” asked Gilbert.
“Who, Tom?”
“Did you mention it to him the next morning?”
“We had an argument about it. An hour or so before you got there.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he never asked for a car.”
“Did you play him the tape?”
“I’d erased the tape by that time. I do it every evening before I go.”
“But you’re sure it was his voice.”
“Positive. I’ve worked for the man for the last ten years.”
“And he denied it?” said Lombardo.
“He denied it.”
“And you erased the tape and now it’s your word against his,” said Gilbert. “Maybe Tom was getting nervous about you too. This money thing, we’re digging into it, and it doesn’t look good. He was nervous about you so he arranged for you to get the car.”
She shook her head. “It still doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Why Mount Joseph? And why would he leave his own voice on my voice mail when he knew perfectly well he would be incriminated by it?”
“Did anyone see you drop the car?”
“No. They have an automated attendant now.”
“Did you leave it any particular place?” asked Gilbert.
“Up on level 3, near the back.”
Gilbert looked at Lombardo. “I’ll check it out,” said the younger detective.
“But you’re right,” said Gilbert. “Why Mount Joseph? Why not closer to Cheryl’s place? Why a spot where any number of hospital employees might see it? There’s a gap here. And I don’t know what it is.”
They left College Street just after nine that evening and went for a drink at the Duke of York, an English pub on Prince Arthur not far from Varsity Arena. A place of heavy green Victorian-style wallpaper and dark mahogany furniture, the Duke served primarily imported beer from England, Newcastle Brown Ale, Guinness, Double Diamond, and was frequented mainly by Toronto’s small but close-knit English and Scottish communities. Both detectives liked the place because of its cozy atmosphere and lack of pretense. They went to the downstairs pub and found a table at the back. Gilbert made a quick call to Regina, then ordered a pint of Toby.
The two detectives watched the pub crowd for a while. Gilbert tried not to brood, but he couldn’t help it. He tried to put it in perspective, how such a good cop could do something so bad, but the change seemed too great. He had to fight to reconcile the discrepancy and was barely able to make the crossover. The waitresses here were young, pretty, British, and bosomy. Joe seemed entirely distracted by them. But then his young partner said,
“So what are we going to do?”
He contemplated Lombardo as if from a long distance. His memories kept getting in the way of everything tonight. He and Matchett, in uniform, in the radio car, the best cops 52 Division ever saw. How could Matchett have turned inside out like that?
“Are you being rhetorical?” said Gilbert.
Lombardo looked away, put off. Gilbert didn’t mean to be cruel to Joe, he just felt rotten tonight. Lombardo sensed this.
“I’m sorry about Matchett,” said Lombardo.
Gilbert stared at the foam in his beer. “The moment I found the bank statements in the birdcage I knew it had to be him,” he said. “He’s terrified of birds. She must have let the bird out of the cage the night he came to get her. She tried to spook him. He caught the bird and killed it. If you had to hide documents from a man who was terrified of birds, where would you hide them?”
“He should have checked the cage,” said Lombardo. “The bird was dead.”
“Aversions work in strange ways,” said Gilbert. “They create blind spots. The birdcage was a blind spot for Alvin.”
Lombardo shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “I’m just sorry it had to be…we might be wrong. Maybe Jane’s the one.”
“She’s agreed to a polygraph,” said Gilbert. “If she’s lying, she wouldn’t have gone for the polygraph. And it’s not only that.” He took a sip of beer, but he couldn’t enjoy it. “The whole manner of the crime points to Alvin. The care he took with the search. The lack of fingerprints. Even the bullet to her chest.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was already dead,” said Gilbert. “Blackstein has cause of death as hypothermia. Why shoot her? I’ll tell you why. Because Alvin shot Laraby three times at close range, we thought the guy was dead, but he turned out to be alive, and he grabbed my revolver from my holster and shot me twice. So Alvin emptied another four rounds into him. The guy wouldn’t die. That’s why he was thorough with Dennison, and that’s why he was thorough with Cheryl. He could have dumped her without the overkill, but Laraby was still in the back of his mind and he wasn’t going to take any chances. Over and above all that, we have Larry Varley’s story. We have to face facts, Joe. Alvin did it. I hate it, it really leaves me sour, it takes the glow away from my patrol days, I hate what I’m going to have to do to him, but that’s my job, and I’m going to nail him.”