“Nancy, I feel terrible calling you like this.”
“As you probably guessed, I’m not exactly at home.”
“Someone’s been spray-painting ‘Hap Is a Murderer’ all over the city.”
“What?”
“The tag is Aaron 8. It’s Aaron Darnell.”
“Wow. I thought he was in the States.”
“You didn’t hear this from me,” he said. “But the kid escaped from his southwestern boot camp a few days ago and is back in the city.”
“I’ve got to call Ted. Thanks, Awotwe.”
Next he called Howard Darnell.
“Aaron has emerged,” he said.
“I know. My daughter told me already. It’s all over the social media. What should I do?”
“Sit tight, and keep your kids home.”
“That’s what I planned to do. Call me the minute you have news.”
“Of course.”
Just as Amankwah hung up, his cell phone rang. He took one look at the display and answered it immediately.
“Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you, Detective Greene?”
GREENE HAD BEEN IN THE
TORONTO STAR
OFFICES A FEW TIMES YEARS AGO, WHEN HE WAS
dating a sports reporter who eventually moved to San Diego. The building was located at 1 Yonge Street, at the base of the longest road in the world, as a sign on the outside of the building proclaimed. Amankwah was waiting for them just inside the front door. This early on a Saturday morning, the sidewalks were empty.
“Thanks for coming down on such short notice,” Greene said. He’d called Amankwah and told him about what he’d seen at the end of the Coffee Time video. “We really appreciate it.”
Amankwah shook hands with Greene and Daniel Kennicott, who stood beside him.
“Not a problem.”
“I doubt you expected to see the two of us together when you woke up this morning,” Greene said.
Amankwah grinned. “Nor did I expect to see that Aaron Darnell had spray-painted ‘Hap’s a Murderer’ across half the city.”
“He must have ridden his bike all through the night. When you think about it, probably the best way for him to get in and out of places fast.”
“We have to be fast. I need to get up to Charlton’s event at the Scarborough Civic Centre. This story is going viral.”
Amankwah signed Greene and Kennicott in at the front desk and in a few minutes they were in the archives room in the basement.
“What was the date you wanted?” Amankwah asked as he went into the stacks of old newspapers.
“September second, 1985,” Greene said.
“Here it is,” Amankwah said a few minutes later. “It’s a front-page story written by Zach Stone. Guy’s been around forever.”
Greene held his breath as he looked at the headline:
JUDGE CHARGED WITH INDECENCIES, COMMITS SUICIDE
.
“Indecencies,” Amankwah said, chuckling. “The
Star
wouldn’t be so discreet today.”
Greene’s eyes were fixed on the story.
Disgraced provincial court judge Jack Nakamura, recently charged with propositioning a police officer in his chambers whom he mistook as a prostitute, has jumped to his death off the Bloor Street Viaduct.
Amankwah and Kennicott read it over his shoulder.
The story described how Jennie Raglan, an attractive young police officer on the morality squad, had been the police officer involved. Her partner had stayed outside the door in case something happened, and had entered on a prearranged signal and arrested the judge. Her partner’s name was Clyde Newbridge. The officer in charge of the case was Hap Charlton.
“Jumping Hap,” Amankwah said.
“What?” Greene asked.
“That’s Zach Stone’s nickname for Charlton. I always thought it was because Hap’s such a restless guy. Now I know better.”
“Jumping Hap, Jumping Jack,” Greene said. “It was his idea.”
“And Newbridge was in on it too,” Kennicott said. “To think I had him help me arrest you.”
Greene kept reading.
“ ‘This was all a police setup,’ Nakamura’s son Oscar told reporters from the steps of the family home. ‘My father wasn’t afraid to stand up to the police, and that’s why they targeted him. It’s a disgrace.’
“ ‘It is understandable that the family would be upset,’ Detective Hap Charlton said, when asked about the family allegations. ‘But nothing could be further from the truth.’ ”
Greene put the newspaper down. “Charlton targeted Nakamura because he was the only judge at Old City Hall who had the guts to call the cops liars. This was back when the holdup squad was regularly beating confessions out of prisoners. Whacking them with phone books so they wouldn’t leave any marks.”
“And Raglan was the bait?” Kennicott said. “But why is this all coming back now, after so long?”
“Because Aaron was in trouble and Hap knew it,” Greene said. “Hap had a problem with Newbridge. His and his two buddies were out of control, beating up pimps, extorting prostitutes for sex. No way Hap could win the election if that became public or if the old story came out of how he drove a judge to suicide. Especially a former war hero.”
Kennicott nodded. “And Newbridge was coming unglued, because Carmichael and his gang of defence lawyers kept collecting more and more incriminating evidence from their clients. It looks like Raglan was in on this too.”
Amankwah looked at Greene. “I’m sorry, Ari, but she was. I’m working on a story about her that’s going to come out at the end of the trial and there’s some shocking news in it.”
“What?” Greene asked.
“Raglan was the one who withdrew all of the charges against Newbridge and his Trio gang.”
I know you will be shocked by what I was forced to do
. It felt to Greene as if someone had at last pulled a curtain away from a window, letting light into a dark room.
“You sure Jennifer was doing that?”
“I put all the allegations into a chart, and there it was, clear as day. Raglan pulled eighty-three charges for the three Trio cops.”
The price of love is so very high.
“Why did she do it?” Kennicott asked.
“We don’t know,” Amankwah said. “That’s going to be my headline: ‘The Mystery Died with Her.’ ”
“No, it didn’t,” Greene said.
“What to you mean?” Amankwah asked.
Greene pulled Jennifer’s letter from his coat pocket and showed it to them. As they read it, he explained to Kennicott how the lawyer on the Danforth, Anthony Carpenter, gave it to him the day he was arrested.
“We searched you,” Kennicott said. “Where did you hide it?”
“I didn’t. I saw you and Lindsmore and Newbridge on the street, so I had Carpenter mail it to a friend.”
“Good thing you did,” Amankwah said. “Otherwise Newbridge would have seen this, and told Hap.”
“Raglan was planning to go public on the Thursday,” Kennicott said when he finished the letter. “That was the day we followed Darnell when he drove Aaron to Buffalo. He told me the next day that the date had been arranged two months in advance.”
“Jennifer was waiting for Aaron to be safely away before she told the world that Charlton was using her son to blackmail her into withdrawing the charges against Newbridge and the two other cops.” Greene looked Kennicott right in
the eyes. “For Hap, killing Jennifer was the only way to keep the lid on it. He found out about our affair, and I was easy to frame.”
“Even if he knew about you and Jennifer, how would Hap have known she was about to go public?” Amankwah asked.
Greene and Kennicott looked at each other knowingly.
“Hap has his finger in every pie,” Greene said. “Maybe he found out about Aaron going to the States. Maybe some reporter got wind of Jennifer wanting to call a press conference. Maybe he bugged her phone or her house or both. One night I snuck out on my bail to investigate something, and who shows up out of nowhere? Hap.”
Kennicott nodded. “I was coming home from work last night, and Hap was waiting for me in front of my house. And now that I think about it, he was shaking me down for information about Aaron.”
“That’s Hap,” Greene said. “We’ll probably never find out how he knew, but I’m sure he did.”
“Amazing,” Amankwah said. “What a story.”
“So Aaron is spray-painting ‘Hap Is a Murderer’ all over town,” Kennicott said to Greene, “because he was the witness you caught a glimpse of running out of the courtyard. He took off on his bike before you could find him.
“Aaron must have figured out about Jennifer and me and was following his mother. But Charlton got there first and Aaron saw her being murdered.”
“Do you actually plan to arrest the mayor?” Amankwah asked.
Kennicott looked at Greene. “We need to talk to one more witness.”
What was he thinking? Greene wondered.
Kennicott turned to Amankwah. “Can you get me recent photos of Charlton and Newbridge. We need to hurry if we’re going to make it to the Scarborough Town Centre by eleven.”
Smart Daniel, Greene thought, realizing what he had in mind. Very smart indeed.
KENNICOTT SLOWED HIS CAR AS THE TRAFFIC UP AHEAD CAME TO A STOP. HE LOOKED OVER
at Greene. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them, he thought. Here they were, at 10:20 in the morning heading east on Kingston Road, stuck in a traffic jam.
They were on the part of the street where it opened up to six lanes, three in each direction, with very few exits. Almost exactly at the point, half a kilometre west of Scarborough Golf Club Road, that Ted DiPaulo had pointed out to the jury.
Kennicott looked over at Greene. “This look familiar?”
Greene met his eyes, then surveyed the traffic in front of them more closely. “Get into the left lane. That red light up there is Markham Road. It’s your last chance to get off before you get totally stuck. Turn left and keep going north to Lawrence, then go east again.”
Kennicott put on his blinker and nudged his way into the left-turn lane. “If you weren’t caught in traffic the way DiPaulo suggested to the jury yesterday, what were you going to say on the stand on Monday?” he asked.
“Are you asking me if I would have perjured myself about a minor point, such as where I happened to be on this road when traffic jammed up, in order to ensure I was acquitted of a murder I didn’t commit?”
“I think it’s a valid question.” Kennicott made the turn.
“Theoretically, if I was only slowed down by the traffic but not stuck, and managed to find an alternative route,” Greene said, “how would I account for being ten minutes late?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.” Kennicott accelerated up the side road.
“Of course, if I’d parked my scooter away from my house. Say a ten-minute walk or so.”
Damn, Kennicott thought. Charlton had been right. He should have done a larger perimeter search right from the start.
“I wish you’d told me this on September tenth,” Kennicott said.
“I don’t have any excuse,” Greene replied. “She was dead when I got there, Daniel. What DiPaulo said in his opening to the jury was true. It was the worst moment of my life.”
They drove in silence. Greene hadn’t answered his original question about what he would have said in court. Perhaps he didn’t know himself.
“Did you know Charlton had Lindsmore wired when he was at my dad’s house,” Greene said when they were close to the motel.
Kennicott nodded. “He showed up at my house the other night and told me. He kept asking about whether we’d found a witness.”
“He was getting nervous. One night a few weeks ago I snuck out on my bail to talk to a source. He followed me, and now that I think of it, he was trying to shake me down for information too.”
The Maple Leaf Motel came into view.
“Let’s hope she’s here,” Greene said when the car came to a stop.
“She should be. She has a john who has a regular ten-thirty appointment.”
Kennicott had the photos they’d copied at the
Star
with him in a large envelope. A few cars were parked in front of the motel. Business must pick up on the weekends, he thought. He walked to the archway and looked up at the apartment over it. The same dirty sheer curtains covered the window, which was open. The wind off the lake was cold.
“Hilda,” he called out.
No one came to the window.
“Hilda,” he said again. “It’s Officer Kennicott. This is important.”
“Shit,” a female voice said from inside.
“Hilda, we’re going to come up there.”
“Ten minutes, okay.”
“Hilda, tell your client to go sit in the hall. Lock the door behind you and come down. This will only take a few minutes, I promise.”
He heard a scuffling noise, then the sound of a door slamming. Moments later there were footsteps on the stairwell to their side. The door opened and a short, bald man rushed out, avoiding eye contact. He ran to the edge of the lot and jumped in his car.
The door opened again, and Hilda Reynolds stood holding it open. She wore sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt and was smoking a cigarette.
“You’ve got great timing,” she said. “At least I make them give me the money first.”
“This is Ari Greene,” Kennicott said. “He’s a homicide detective too.”
“I saw the news,” she said, making no move to come outside. “He’s the one charged with this murder.”
“I am,” Greene said. “We can come inside or we can talk here if you like.”
“I don’t like anything, but there’s no way I’m going to be seen with you two in public. And hurry up, it’s almost ten-thirty.”
She shoved the door open and they both went into the stairwell. The concrete floor was littered with empty potato-chip bags and pop bottles. There was a strong smell of antiseptic.
“I’ve got a photo,” Kennicott said without waiting. He pulled out a recent picture of Clyde Newbridge. “Do you recognize this man?”
She looked at it, turned her head, and blew smoke away from them.
“I told you I was on my knees most of the time.”
“Hilda, this is serious.”
“I’m not going to be no witness,” she said.
“We got the licence plate of that john who just took off,” Kennicott said. “You really don’t want me to go there and neither do I.”
“Okay.” She stabbed at the photo. “That was him. He’s even fatter than Newman.”