“I know.” Lombardo glanced nervously across the atrium, where they saw Bill Marsh enter the Homicide Office. “We’re going catch it, aren’t we? Marsh isn’t going to like this manslaughter charge, especially when the Crown is pushing for first-degree.”
Gilbert frowned as he looked at Marsh. “I don’t care what Marsh likes,” he said. “I just care about what’s fair. Get the record. I guarantee it, she’s going to try something. She’s fumbled, and now she’s going to try to recover. Even if Wesley has to go to prison for twenty-five years.”
He went the back way out, onto Grenville Street.
Out on the street the wind struck him like a fist. He pulled his collar tightly around his neck. He tried to forget about Marsh. Bay Street was clogged with the tail end of morning rush hour. The wind was so fierce he turned around, protecting his face from the sub-zero blast.
He looked at the life-size statue outside the Grenville entrance: a boy pulling a wagon; in the wagon, a large stone obelisk; on the obelisk, four words: TO SERVE, TO PROTECT. A bizarre piece. Half the detectives didn’t understand it. A small boy struggling to pull a stone obelisk in his wagon. Gilbert had his own interpretation. The stone obelisk was murder; you solved murder only by the most strenuous efforts; solving murder was as hard as pulling this big stone obelisk around in a wagon.
Dr. Blackstein was in a meeting when Gilbert got to the Coroner’s Building; Blackstein’s assistant asked Gilbert to wait in the hall outside the morgue, told him the meeting would be over in fifteen minutes. So Gilbert went downstairs.
The hall was lit with fluorescent lights. A few snack machines stood by the fire exit.
He was just feeding some quarters into one of the machines when the elevator doors opened and out came Dr. Mervin Blackstein. He was perhaps a little older than Gilbert, but a lot shorter, with a bald pate, a black rim of hair around his head. He had a paunch and wore surgical greens and a lab-coat. Half-rim glasses sat on his prominent nose. His face was set in neither a smile nor a frown. He looked at Gilbert, his eyes even-keeled.
“Your face is red,” said Dr. Blackstein.
“Have you been outside lately?” asked Gilbert.
“I don’t go outside,” said Blackstein. “They won’t let me. I live here.”
Gilbert pressed the appropriate buttons and a ham and cheese sandwich slid down the chute.
“We might as well have a look at her,” said Blackstein.
The doctor took out his keys, opened the morgue door, and in they went.
Twenty-seven bodies lay on metal gurneys on either side of them, each one covered with a sheet, some with toe tags, others with scrap paper taped to gurneys: men, women, children, the latest crew of suspicious deaths.
“You’ve got an identification,” guessed Gilbert. “Right?”
They walked to the second last gurney to the left; Blackstein pulled back the sheet.
“Do you follow politics at all?” asked Blackstein. “Did you watch any of the Provincial election on television last fall?”
Gilbert stared at the woman; she didn’t look so good, now that she was starting to thaw.
“My daughters don’t give me much chance at the TV,” he said.
Blackstein nodded. “I think you have yourself an interesting case, Barry.”
Gilbert’s shoulders sank; he wished now that the woman just might remain a Jane Doe.
“Who is she?”
Blackstein gazed at the body and nodded. “Her name is Cheryl Latham. One of the attendants recognized her. She’s been on TV a few times. She was a high profile campaigner for the Tories last fall. That’s how the attendant recognized her.” Dr. Blackstein shrugged. “Actually, she’s Tom Webb’s stepdaughter.”
Tom Webb. Life was always full of little connections. Tom Webb, the Tory axeman, the man ultimately responsible for Homicide’s eighteen-percent cut. Cheryl. She had a name now. She had an identity.
“What do you make of that gunshot wound?” asked Gilbert.
Blackstein pulled the sheet a little further down. Her flesh looked bruised down there. “I won’t really know until I cut her open,” said Blackstein. “But there should have been more blood. I think we have a good chance of recovering a decent slug. We’ll let her thaw a bit. If I try to retrieve the slug while she’s frozen like this, I might damage it.” He pulled the sheet over Cheryl Latham’s face and looked up at Gilbert. “I guess you better make an appointment to see Tom Webb.”
The Ontario Legislative Building—the province’s seat of power—stood at the top of University Avenue in Queen’s Park. The nineteenth-century building with its multitude of wings was of some architectural interest, especially to Gilbert, who had taken two years of architectural school before going into police work.
After leaving the Coroner’s Building, he walked west along Grenville Street. This took him directly to the east side of the Parliament Buildings. As he waited for the cars to pass, he looked up at the impressive landmark. As an architectural buff, he knew a thing or two about the building. Built in the 1890s, it was a Romanesque revival extravaganza made from ruddy red stone cut from quarries in and around the Credit Valley. Arches, buttresses, and turrets proliferated. The Canadian and Ontario flags snapped briskly in the cold north wind out front.
The traffic cleared and Gilbert walked across the street into the grounds. Some health-care workers were gathered with pickets by the main portico to protest the latest round of cuts. He couldn’t help noticing the words on one of the pickets: STOP THE WEBB OF DECEIT. He shook his head. Webb might have been the Premier’s axeman, but he was also Willis’ lightning rod. He passed the statue of Queen Victoria, hurried up the steps, and entered the spacious main hall.
He checked his watch. Nearly one. The Legislative Assembly would be breaking for lunch soon; his appointment with Webb was at one-fifteen. He showed a uniformed legislative security officer his shield and asked where he might find Webb’s office.
“Second floor, west wing, near the end,” said the officer.
Gilbert climbed the stairs, his footsteps muffled on the thick red carpet. Paintings hung everywhere, old ones, portraits of politicians and generals from Ontario’s colonial past, and a particularly large one of Canada’s Fathers of Confederation above the large entrance to the Legislative Library. He glanced up at the panoply of foliage carved into the sycamore and mahogany trim. He hairpinned around the banister and climbed the next set of stairs. As he passed the doors of the Legislative Chamber, he heard the province’s parliamentarians pontificating within; a tattoo of bench slapping erupted; an honorable member was trying to shout over this bench slapping, pleading with the Speaker to bring the House to order. Gilbert shook his head and continued on.
He ventured into the west wing, past the white marbled colonnades, and soon came to the office of the chairman of the management board, the cabinet position Webb occupied, his name in gold lettering on frosted glass. He pushed the heavy mahogany door open and was greeted by a receptionist, a young woman with dark shoulder-length hair, pale green eyes, a complexion as fair as porcelain. Gilbert showed her his shield.
“I’m here to see Mr. Webb,” he said. “I have an appointment at one-fifteen.”
The woman glanced at his badge, lifted the phone, dialed an in-house extension, and paused.
“Jane?” said the woman. “Detective Gilbert is here. Should I send him in?”
Another pause. Gilbert looked around the office. Six or seven cubicles made up the central area; several doorways led to numerous separate offices, and through an open door in the corner he saw an empty meeting room, appointed in dark mahogany, with red carpeting, a large meeting table, and several chairs hobnailed with red leather. Various assistants and secretaries busied themselves at computer terminals.
“Thanks, Jane.” The woman put the phone down. “Jane will be out in a minute,” she said. “If you just want to take a seat.”
“Thanks.”
He took off his coat and scarf, hung them on an antique coat-tree, and sat down.
A minute later, a woman in her mid-forties emerged from one of the offices, a bright public-relations smile on her face.
“Detective Gilbert?” she said. “I’m Jane Ireland, Mr. Webb’s personal secretary. If you’d like to wait in his office.”
She was attractive, slim, wore a deep blue outfit with imposing shoulders and rigorous business-like lines, a suit that spoke of power and influence. Though her lips were rather small, and her chin and brow somewhat pronounced, she nonetheless had pleasing blue eyes. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown. He was surprised by how thick her wrists were, strong wrists, mannish wrists, as if she did a lot of heavy lifting.
“I’m a little early,” said Gilbert.
“That’s all right,” said Ms. Ireland, as if nothing could make her happier. “Just follow me.”
She turned and walked with prim steps, leading him to the office.
The Minister’s office consisted of two rooms; the outer reception room, where Jane Ireland had her desk and computer, and the inner office, Tom Webb’s office. As she closed the door, the smile slipped from Ms. Ireland’s face like leaves from a maple in fall.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
Gilbert’s face settled. He could appreciate Jane Ireland’s concern, how she wanted to protect her boss.
“I’m afraid I better talk to Mr. Webb,” he said.
She stared at him, her bright blue eyes unwavering. Gilbert was perplexed. Her eyes glistened; she lifted her chin, gave it a small involuntary shake, then took a deep breath. Did she know something?
“I’ve sent a page to the Chamber,” she said. “He knows you’re here.” Her voice was no longer bright. She opened the door to the inner office. “You might as well wait in there.”
Now she wouldn’t look at him. He couldn’t decide. Did she look guilty? Or was she just anxious?
“Thanks,” he said.
He entered the office and she closed the door partway behind him.
The office was large, as befitted a preeminent member of the Conservative Cabinet, with sixteen-foot ceilings, a desk as big as a king-size bed, sofas, chairs, a table, a private bar, a private washroom, and a stunning view of University Avenue, where the financial spires rose into the brittle February sunshine. A fireplace stood against the north wall, intricately carved with Victorian scrollwork. Several paintings hung on the wall, all of them landscapes—silver birch, pine, rock, and lake—pictures of northern Ontario. Five photographs stood on the mantelpiece. One showed Tom Webb, a silver-haired man, six-feet-five, in a blue pin-striped business suit, wearing a Remembrance Day poppy, taking the oath of office last November. The others were just portraits. Three he didn’t recognize, probably family members, but the fourth was none other than Cheryl Latham. He took a closer look.
She was younger in this photograph, maybe by a year or two. She wore a wedding gown and her hair was fixed in an arrangement of lace and lilies-of-the-valley. A wedding photograph. But where was the husband? Certainly not on this mantlepiece. He was again struck by the innocence of her face, her delicate pixie-like features, the earnestness of her blue eyes, the genuine honesty of her smile, the golden lustre of her hair. Her freckles gave her a girlish look. Yet now that he looked closer, he sensed a darker quality to those eyes, as if beneath her honesty she was trying to hide something. Who was her husband? Who was Mr. Latham? And if Tom Webb was Cheryl Latham’s stepfather, where and who was her real father?
“Detective Gilbert?”
He turned around. Tom Webb stood in the doorway. Here was the man responsible for Homicide’s eighteen-percent cut. Yet Gilbert felt no antipathy toward the man. Webb looked older than he did in the newspapers and on television. His presence was imposing. His silver hair was thick, his face narrow, handsome, and after a week of sailing his catamaran in the Caribbean, deeply tanned. Gilbert showed him his shield. Webb didn’t look at it.
“Sit down, detective.” An order, not an invitation.
“Mr. Webb, I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The expression on Webb’s face did not change; he looked mystified; his eyes seemed both dull and unaware. “Maybe you should be the one to sit down.”
But Webb remained standing. Was the man on drugs? Why such an oblivious look in his eyes? Webb shoved the door closed.
“Detective, I’m a busy man.”
Gilbert shrugged. If that’s the way he wanted it.
“We found your stepdaughter murdered this morning down at Dominion Malting,” he said.
Webb’s eyes shifted, glanced downward at the Persian carpet, a gift from the emir of Kuwait, and his shoulders sagged; his lips parted, exposing long upper teeth, and he nodded a few times, an infinitesimally small jerking of his head as he absently slid his hands into pockets. He turned his head suddenly to one side and took a sharp breath, as if he had just been punched in the solar plexus. He stepped toward his desk, two steps in all, stopped, stared at the green blotter, then slowly turned back to Gilbert, peering at Gilbert from under his sleek silver brow.
“We got the call at seven o’clock this morning,” said Gilbert, feeling he had to add something. “The security guard down there found her.”
“Are you sure it’s her?”
The obliviousness left Webb’s eyes and he no longer looked like a politician; he looked nearly human. This was what they all asked. Gilbert nodded.
“It’s her,” he said. “We’ll need you to come to the Coroner’s Office to make an official identification.”
He looked momentarily annoyed. “I’m in committee all afternoon.”
Maybe not so human after all.
“Perhaps your wife can—”
“My wife’s been dead for three years.”
“What about Cheryl’s husband?”
“Charles and Cheryl have been separated for over a year.”
“Are there any siblings?”
“No. Cheryl’s the only…” Webb looked at his watch. “I can come at three. Can we do it at three?”
“I’ll make sure somebody’s there,” said Gilbert.
They stood there in silence. Webb no longer looked annoyed. Outside, Gilbert heard the health-care workers chanting: “Hey-hey, ho-ho, Thomas Webb has got to go.” Webb looked at the large arched windows and a faint grin came to his face.