“You’re right,” he said. “Something about all this stinks.”
A
ri Greene grabbed the police flasher from his glove compartment and slapped it on the roof of the Olds. He pulled a fast U-turn and bulled his way through the rush-hour logjam to the entrance to the highway. Once on the open road, he gunned it, tearing his eyes away from the dashboard clock. It was 8:20.
By the time he got to the King City turnoff, it was after nine o’clock. As he crested the hill and came down toward the small town center, he jammed on the brakes. A school bus was stopped in front of a small wood house, and two girls in shorts and T-shirts, wearing backpacks, were crossing the street. When they got halfway across, the shorter girl threw up her arms and ran back toward the sidewalk where she’d come from. She hadn’t looked back up the road. Greene had spotted her red-and-white lunch box on the curb and slowed down in anticipation of her doing just this.
He grinned as he watched her grab the box and scamper back toward the bus. Rule one, do no harm, Greene told himself as he watched her disappear into the bus.
Driving carefully to the main intersection, he swung north through the rolling hills until he found the Torn property. He kept the police siren off. A trailer was parked in the broad driveway, and as he drove up, Dr. Torn had a horse out of the barn and was leading it toward the trailer. He wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt.
Greene popped out of the car. Already the day was hot, and he began to sweat. “Dr. Torn,” he said, extending his hand, “sorry to barge in on you.”
Torn’s hard blue eyes were icy cold. “I hope you’re here to tell me this whole mess is over,” he said after he shook hands. He turned back to adjust the bridle. “Allie and I are on our way to West Virginia.”
“It’s not over yet,” Greene said. He could feel the tension in his system. “Sir, I need your help.”
“We’re not interested in playing the victim’s family.”
Greene focused his eyes on Torn. “Doctor, I know why you want to stay out of this.”
Torn let go of the bridle and looked at Greene, meeting his gaze.
“I need to talk to Mrs. Torn,” Greene said firmly.
Before Torn could say anything, the garage door opened. Mrs. Torn stood still as the two large dogs flew up the driveway, their big tails waving ecstatically. She wore shorts, sandals, and a blouse with a silk scarf tied around her neck.
“I want to talk to your wife, Doctor, but I know she can’t talk to me. She can’t talk to anyone, can she?”
Torn looked at his wife, who was walking toward them. Then back at Greene. His eyes were no longer defiant. But lost.
“You were right, Doctor,” Greene said. “Too many people have been injured already.” He looked over at Mrs. Torn, who’d come up beside her husband.
“Dr. Torn, I want to protect your wife, but I can only do that if you let me talk to her.”
“I-I . . . ca—” It was Mrs. Torn, trying to speak.
“Please, Doctor. Don’t make me force your wife to go to court,” Greene said. “She’ll have to take her scarf off and show the whole world how her daughter Kate crushed her vocal cords when she tried to strangle her to death.”
W
ait!” Daniel Kennicott yelled as he ran along the sidewalk at the edge of the lake, making a beeline toward the ferry dock. “Wait!” His legs were churning full speed, his quads straining under the tension, his black oxfords slapping on the wooden slats.
It was futile. He had at least two hundred yards to go to the ferry dock and he could see the steel door closing behind the last of the morning commuters. In desperation he stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth, and screamed, “Stop! Urgent police business.”
But just as he yelled, the ferry gave a loud blast, drowning out his voice and all hope he had of catching the boat across the harbor. He looked at his watch. It was 9:30. The ferry ride took just under fifteen minutes. Even if he’d made the boat, it was going to be touch and go to run up to Old City Hall and get to court by ten o’clock.
After Jo Summers told him about the conversation between Cutter and Gild, she’d insisted on making him some Mexican-style eggs. As he’d started eating, his cell phone had rung. That was just five minutes ago. It was Detective Greene.
“Kennicott,” Greene said, his voice sounding tense, “you’ve got to get to the Hall by ten. This is urgent.”
“What?” Kennicott said, gulping down his first mouthful of eggs. They were spicy and delicious.
“I’ve just left the Torn farm up here in King City,” Greene said.
“Katherine Torn had a thing for choking people. Two years ago she crushed her mother’s vocal cords. That’s why Mrs. Torn never said a word. Because she can’t talk.”
“Just like Brace,” Kennicott said as he wiped his face clean with a red napkin. The pieces were falling into place like the final entries in a crossword.
“McGill’s story holds up. Her testimony will completely exonerate Brace,” Greene said. “And Brace is going to walk into court this morning and plead guilty to protect his wife and son.”
“There’s something else you need to know,” Kennicott said. He quickly told Greene everything Jo Summers had overheard Cutter say.
“Shit,” Greene said.
It was the first time in all the years he’d known him that Kennicott had heard the detective swear.
“Kennicott, you’ve got to get there.”
“I’m over here on the Toronto Island.”
“Just get there somehow. And keep your tie on. Summers won’t let you speak in his court if you’re there as a cop. Maybe he’ll listen to you as a lawyer.”
He won’t listen to me at all unless I get into his court somehow, Kennicott thought as he watched helplessly while the ferry chugged away into the harbor. Looking around in desperation at the boats moored along the shore, he remembered what Jo Summers had said on Valentine’s Day about what she did if she missed the ferry: “You’re stuck for half an hour, unless you steal a boat or find Walter, the water-taxi guy who’s been there for a hundred years.”
Steal one on police business, Kennicott thought as he looked over the boats moored there. Or find Walter. Just then he heard a honking sound coming from the end of the pier where the ferryboat had been.
It was the water taxi. Walter must do a good business picking up the stragglers who miss the ferry, Kennicott thought as he ran toward the end of the pier, waving his arms crazily.
“Thank goodness,” Kennicott said as he lowered himself into the narrow skiff. “I’ve got to get across fast.”
The driver swivelled around in his seat. He wore a battered blue sailor’s cap with the words
WALTER’S WATER TAXI
sewn on in faded red thread. A big handlebar mustache and long muttonchop sideburns dominated his narrow face. He was easily in his sixties. The wooden seat he was nestled in looked as if its contours had molded to the shape of his body over many years, like a groove carved into a rock in a river. He looked at Kennicott with the languid ease of a man who’d spent a lifetime dealing with people in a hurry.
“I wait five minutes for the other latecomers,” he said, then turned slowly back and picked up a newspaper from a large stack beside his chair.
Kennicott was breathing hard. “Officer Daniel Kennicott,” he said, pulling out his badge. “This is urgent police business, sir.”
Walter turned back reluctantly and looked at Kennicott’s badge. He seemed to be totally unimpressed. “Is Hap Charlton going to pay me for the four fares I’d probably get if I waited?”
“Even better, I’ll pay you for eight right now,” Kennicott said. He took out his wallet. “But we have to go.”
Walter took his time. “I don’t
have
to do anything,” he said, turning back to the front of the boat.
Kennicott clenched his fists. He was considering his options. Raise his voice. Pull his gun. Then he heard the engine rev.
“But you might want to sit,” Walter said. The boat took off, slamming Kennicott into a hard wooden seat. He looked at his watch. It was 9:35.
Walter’s Water Taxi rolled through the harbor at full throttle. As it bumped across the waves, Kennicott reached into his pocket and pulled out his tie. Walter took a look at him in his rearview mirror.
“You dress well for a cop,” he said.
Kennicott nodded at him, but didn’t say a word.
“Daniel Kennicott,” Walter said, pondering the name. “How come you look familiar?”
Kennicott looked across at the approaching city as he began to do up his tie. He knew what was coming. It happened about once a month.
“I got it. You’re the lawyer turned cop. Right?”
Kennicott pulled hard on the knot of his tie. “Yeah,” he said with no enthusiasm. “How’d you know?”
Walter kicked his nearby stack of newspapers. “I’m a news junkie,” he said. “Never forget a face.”
Kennicott nodded. “I didn’t want any of that publicity,” he said.
Walter gave his usual sluggish nod. “I lost a brother too,” he said. For the first time since Kennicott had gotten into the boat, Walter turned to meet his eyes. “Twenty years ago,” he said. “Still hurts.”
Kennicott nodded. “How much longer?” he asked after a long moment of silence, pointing toward the approaching towers of downtown. They’d just cruised past the ferryboat.
“Bit more than five minutes.”
They landed just before a quarter to ten. The moment the boat touched the quay, Kennicott jumped out. “Thanks, Walter,” he said as he began to run. He’d tried to give him a hundred bucks, but Walter had refused any payment.
There was a crowd of people at the ferry docks. “Excuse me, excuse me,” Kennicott called out as he pushed his way through. He ran up to Queen’s Quay, the wide street that bordered the lake. Without waiting for the light to change, he barreled onto the road, dancing through the east–west drivers, their horns blaring. Ahead lay the tunnel below the Gardiner Expressway. The narrow sidewalk on the right side, which had a protective concrete barrier running between it and the road, was plugged solid with pedestrians funneled into it.
Kennicott couldn’t risk getting stuck. He crossed over to the other side of the road and ran head-on toward the traffic. It was safer if he could see the cars coming. Most drivers were so surprised to see a man in a suit running toward them in the low-lit tunnel that they jammed on their brakes.
Emerging from the darkness at the north end, he squinted into the sunlight as he rushed up the hill to Front Street. To his left was Union Station, the city’s enormous central train station. On the broad sidewalk in front he spotted an ornate standing clock. It read 9:48. There
was a group of Somali cabdrivers huddled near one of their cars. A particularly tall man noticed Kennicott running up the street.
“Taxi, sir? Taxi?”
Kennicott looked up Bay Street. It was wall-to-wall cars. And people. Madly waving blue-and-white Maple Leafs flags.
“Thanks,” he said. He was huffing. “No time.”
He pressed on across Front Street. Looking up Bay Street, he could see in the distance the big Old City Hall clock tower hovering over the middle of the road. The minute hand was approaching the number 10.
The Leafs’ victory parade had begun. People were screaming. A few strategically positioned television trucks had their satellite dishes reaching up into the air, like the heads of giraffes raised above a stampeding herd.
But this crowd wasn’t stampeding. Just the opposite. Kennicott could hardly move through the crush of people. Dodging and weaving and pushing, he finally made his way north. But two blocks south of Queen, he was stuck. The big clock, closer, yet still too far away, showed that it was 9:55.
To his right there was a big construction site. Donald Trump’s new building was finally going up. He shimmied his way over to the chain-link fence, then hoisted himself up, digging his oxfords into the diamond-shaped spaces. He landed on the other side with a hard thump.
“Sorry, sir,” a burly off-duty policeman said, rushing up to him. “This site is closed.”
Kennicott gasped for breath as he reached inside his coat pocket. He pulled out his badge holder and flicked it open.
“Oh, I thought you were a lawyer,” the cop said.
Lawyer, cop. Cop, lawyer, Kennicott thought. “I got to get to the Hall,” he said, finally catching his breath.
“Follow me,” the officer said.
They rushed north to the other end of the site. The cop swung open a metal gate.
“Thanks,” Kennicott said as he rushed across the street. The side
door of the Bay was right in front of him, and an employee was going in. Kennicott grabbed the door just as it was swinging shut.
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed,” a security guard said to Kennicott as he rushed up an old set of marble stairs.
“Police business,” Kennicott said, flashing his badge. He didn’t stop.
The ground floor of the Bay was filled with cosmetics counters and huge posters of gorgeous models advertising the world’s most famous cosmetics. Kennicott whiffed the smell of perfume as he ran past perfectly made-up women getting ready for the day. High above him a poster caught his eye. It was Andrea, his old girlfriend, wearing a remarkably skimpy negligee.
I think I can put you in the former girlfriend category permanently, Kennicott told himself as he crashed through the north fire door onto Queen Street. The street and sidewalk were packed with pedestrians. This time he was totally stuck. He looked at the big clock tower and heard the sound he most dreaded. The clock began to chime. The clock would play its four-part tune, and then he’d have ten dongs to get into Summers’s court.
N
ancy Parish knew exactly what was going to happen next. In about ten minutes Kevin Brace, the Voice of Canada, Captain Canada, the Radio Guy, the Bathtub Guy, Mr. Dawn Treader—take your pick of names—would be led into court. She’d stand up and tell Judge Summers that she had new instructions from her client. Brace would then plead guilty to first-degree murder, and Summers would automatically sentence him to twenty-five years in jail. It would all be over by 10:30, tops.
Great result for my first murder trial, she thought as she opened her binder for the last time. The fact that Brace refused to speak to her, and that she’d discovered he was pleading guilty to protect someone else, was something she’d never be able to tell anyone. Solicitor-client privilege was a one-way street. She was gagged forever. Brace’s secrets were safe with her.