Amankwah was amazed this had all happened so fast. He looked over at Fernandez and Kormos. They already had their briefcases packed and were hurrying out the side door reserved for lawyers, as if they couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
“Looks like some of our boys in blue are having a bit of fun on the side,” Zach Stone said, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.
Was that all? What had just gone on here? Amankwah wondered. What were the cops trying to hide?
“WELCOME TO YOUR MONDAY AFTERNOON, DETECTIVE GREENE,” FRANCINE HUGHES, THE
veteran receptionist at the homicide bureau, said, greeting him in the same timely manner she welcomed everyone as he strolled up to her well-ordered desk, the elevator closing behind him.
Greene watched her record his name on the attendance sheet in the middle of her desk. “Always better when I see you,” he said, following the script of their daily exchange.
Hughes had a rich English accent, and an amazing ability to stay chipper no matter how horrific the news. But today, her perpetual smile was gone. “I imagine you’ve heard,” she said.
He stopped beside her desk. Greene had never been a very good liar, and he couldn’t imagine being an actor, yet here he was about to put on the performance of his life. Until it came out that he’d been having an affair with Raglan, if it ever did, he had to play the part of someone who’d just lost a friend, not a lover. He felt ill.
“It’s horrible,” he said. Well, that was true.
“You did a few cases with Jennifer, did you not?” Hughes asked.
He broadened his legs, steadying himself. “Two murder trials. She was a talented lawyer.”
“She was so lovely,” Hughes said. Her big blue eyes welled up with tears. He’d never seen her weep before.
Greene walked around the desk and put his arm over her shoulders. She grasped his hand. “What’s happening to this city?” she said. “When I came here it was such a peaceful place.”
It was a strange remark for someone who’d been the receptionist, and knower of all things, at the homicide bureau for the last twenty years. But Greene understood what she meant. Even though these days legal academics were touting how Toronto’s overall crime rates were going down, and in wealthier and more
middle-class neighbourhoods that was true, in the last decade there’d been an unprecedented rise in gun and gang violence. It seemed to erupt in random spots, and the fear of murder and mayhem had seeped into the very pores of the city.
“Kennicott is trying to find the husband,” she said. “He texted Jennifer this morning and said his business trip to Boston was cancelled. Turns out that was a big lie. He’d been fired from his job because a whole bunch of money went missing. No one knew. Apparently he gets dressed as if he’s going to work and rides the subway all day. We’ve sent his photo out to every officer we have on the street.”
Greene was glad he was beside Hughes so she couldn’t see the shock on his face. Raglan’s husband had been fired and was keeping it from her? He probably had been following her and found about their affair. Where had he gone? This was turning darker and darker.
“He’s a bright one, that Daniel.” She was still holding his hand firmly, like a lonely aunt hugging her favourite nephew. “You did a good job training him, Ari. He’s got Jennifer’s children safely covered at their schools. Me, I think the poor man must have done himself in. I’d look below every bridge in the whole bleeding city. Lord knows there are enough of them.”
Of course. The cell phone would be one of the first things Kennicott would look at, Greene thought. But if Howard were the killer, why didn’t he take her phone with him when he ran? He had to know his text would be on her cell. Guy had to be suicidal.
“Daniel told me he asked you to stay away from the investigation,” she said.
“It’s his case,” Greene said. “He’ll do fine.”
She swivelled her chair around and flicked her head, indicating the row of offices behind her desk. “You know how it works. He starts running to you for help, and no one here will think he’s up to the task. Then again, if no one finds out you two are talking –”
It was the practice that no one on homicide ever admitted to. Everyone needed a senior detective to talk to so they could see if they were missing something obvious, or just to relieve the pressure. They all did it. But no one talked about it.
He kissed her on the cheek. “See no evil, hear no evil,” he whispered in her ear before he took his hand from her grasp, squeezed her shoulder, and walked to his office. He closed the door behind him. Thank goodness for the door. He put his back into it and slid to the floor.
He looked over at his desk and focused on the sleek black lamp he’d bought at a design store on Davenport and a matching pen-and-pencil holder.
Back in July, Raglan had been in the homicide squad’s offices, meeting with another officer. Greene had run into her in the hallway as he emerged from his office. At that point he hadn’t seen her in months and he’d assumed whatever they’d had was over.
“So this is where the great detective works,” she’d said, peeking inside.
“Want to take a look?”
She had glanced behind her. The hallway was empty. Without saying a word, she went inside. He followed her in and closed the door.
She inspected his space. The room was sparse. A wood desk, a standard-issue chair, a grey filing cabinet in the corner, and his black lamp. Beside it, pens and pencils were jammed into a chipped white mug, the words
Toronto Police
stencilled on the side above a cheesy-looking logo.
She walked over to the desk, picked the mug up, and laughed. “Ari, for a guy who is always so well put together, you can do better than this.”
“Doesn’t win me any style points.”
“You must have watched too many episodes of
Hill Street Blues
.”
They stared at each other.
“Do you think it was a coincidence that I bumped into you in the hallway?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Were you stalking me?”
“You could say that.”
“I thought stalking is illegal.”
“Depends how the person being stalked feels about it.” She put the mug down, came over, and kissed him hard. “Meet me for lunch tomorrow at our usual place, I have a proposal for you.”
At lunch the next day in the cafeteria, as she rubbed his calf under the table, she had given him the matching black pen-and-pencil holder as a present. The note inside said simply,
Get rid of that mug and keep this where you can see it. Always.
Now the only thing in the room he could see was the black pen-and-pencil holder. He couldn’t get past the feeling that he hadn’t appreciated the gift enough. Or Jennifer.
KENNICOTT SAT IN THE FRONT WINDOW SEAT OF THE BEST COFFEE HOUSE, A COZY, INDEPENDENT
coffee shop on Queen East, half a block down from Raglan and Darnell’s house. His eyes were glued to the street, watching the eastbound streetcars from downtown pick up and dispense travellers right outside. He had the actuarial firm’s photo of Howard Darnell on the table in front of him, tucked under his notebook. Every few seconds he lifted the book and stared at the picture, like a nervous poker player who kept checking to see if he really did have an ace in the hole. Then he looked back out the window.
Where are you, Darnell, where are you?
He looked at his watch yet again. It was 3:45. Another streetcar came to a stop and one passenger got out, a young mother with an expensive-looking stroller. He turned to the side window and looked at the iconic Garden Gate Chinese restaurant, known as “The Goof.” For years the
D
in their 1950s-style
GOOD FOOD
neon sign was out, and because the two words met at a right angle, the sign had read
GOO F
. The place had been trendified since the last time he was in the area, and the sign had been fixed, but he was sure the old nickname had stuck.
He looked back at Queen Street and kept running through his mental checklist, trying to figure out what else he could do to find this guy.
The three children were safe. Each of them had been brought to their principal’s office at the end of the day on a pretext. They hadn’t been told anything. Raglan and Darnell’s house was under constant surveillance by two sets of plainclothes policemen. Two police cruisers were waiting around the corner and he had two others driving the neighbourhood side streets, checking the parks. A third was checking out the beach, two blocks to the south. Two more were checking under each of the city’s many bridges – the most common spots for suicides in Toronto.
And now every cop in the city had a copy of Darnell’s photo and, theoretically
at least, was on the lookout for him. But he knew from experience, for most officers on patrol, this would be one of many alerts they got each shift. It was all a long shot.
This morning, he and Detective Alpine had checked out Darnell’s house. They’d knocked on the front door, no answer. They’d walked around back, peered in the windows. The place looked empty. They’d looked in the windows of the garage. All around what looked like the family van were bicycles, hockey sticks, and a canoe. No one was there.
Kennicott had got an emergency search warrant, and inside the house he and Alpine found a typical, cramped, downtown Toronto home. Nothing unusual. No sign of Darnell. They’d set up hidden mini-microphones throughout the house, and in the van in the driveway, just in case.
With so much police activity going on, by about noon the media had got hold of the story. He’d personally called the editors of all four major newspapers and news directors of the city’s main TV and radio stations and convinced them to hold off for a few hours. He told them all that if the story went live in the middle of the day, even though Raglan’s three children were in school, with their cell phones and Internet access they’d be sure to find out. Everyone agreed to wait until four o’clock.
He watched a pair of mothers in yoga gear pushing fat baby strollers down the sidewalk. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do. Metropolitan Toronto had a population of more than two and a half million people and sprawled over 250 square miles. There was no point in driving around and around. Ari Greene had taught him that sometimes the hardest thing to do on a homicide investigation is to sit and think. To wait.
Patience. It had never been his virtue.
He had Detective Alpine stationed at the Remarkable Bean Café across the street half a block down. How, he wondered, did cops do surveillance before Toronto was littered with coffee shops?
Another streetcar pulled up outside the window. He kept thinking of how sad it was for a man to get dressed, pretend to go to work, and instead ride the subway all day. Then find out your wife had been unfaithful.
The doors of the streetcar opened and Kennicott’s back stiffened. There he was. Howard Darnell, wearing a business suit, a briefcase in one hand and cell phone in the other.
Kennicott didn’t need to look at the photo under his notebook to be sure. He grabbed the police radio he’d secreted on his seat and clicked it on.
Darnell walked casually straight toward the café, not stopping to look around at all. The buttons to his jacket were undone and it flapped in the wind.
“Alpine, I see him,” Kennicott said.
“Where?”
“He just got off the streetcar and is heading here.”
“My sight line’s blocked,” Alpine said.
Darnell was steps from the door. He tapped the screen of his cell phone and put it to his ear.
“Get some backup but stay outside,” Kennicott said. “Got to go.”
A moment later Darnell was in the cafe, talking on his phone and heading up to the counter. He was a thin, well-groomed man with a pair of thick glasses.
Kennicott got up and followed him in line. Darnell’s clothes looked clean. His hands did too. There were no obvious scratch marks on them.
“Barry, it’s Dad,” he heard Darnell say. “I’m back from Boston. I’ve been trying to reach Aaron, but your big brother’s not picking up. For a change.”
Darnell looked casually behind him. Kennicott reached for his wallet and kept his eyes down.
“Howard, how was Beantown?” a female voice said behind the counter.
Kennicott looked up. A fat woman wearing a T-shirt that said
THE BEST BEAN IN THE BEACH
was smiling at Darnell. Her name tag identified her as Tula.
“The usual nonsense,” Darnell said. “Demanding clients.”
Tula had pulled out four paper cups and a cup holder. “Two large hot chocolates for the young ones, an Americano for your oldest, and your dark Columbian.”
Darnell held up his phone. “I can’t seem to find the kids,” he said. “Just give me my coffee and I’ll walk down with them when they get home.”
Kennicott felt the presence of someone close at his side. A gangly, unkempt man cut in front of him in line. Before he could react, the man started to talk. His speech was forced, high-pitched, and he had a bad stutter.
“Mr. Darnell, w-w-why did you only, only, only have one drink, not f-f-f-four?” he asked.
Darnell grinned gently at the man. “Francis, my children are staying late at school,” he said.
“Yes, b-b-but what about, about, about their d-d-drinks –”
“Francis,” Tula said from behind the counter, “Mr. Darnell has already ordered for them. Hot chocolates for the younger two and an Americano for Aaron. Now sit down and finish your latte. Customers are waiting.”
Francis beamed at Darnell. “Van-vanilla latte with so-soya milk,” he said.
“I know,” Darnell said. “Your favourite.”
“Francis,” Tula barked.
“Okay. Ok-k-k-kay,” Francis said. He looked back at Kennicott. “Francis isn’t only a g-g-g-girl’s name. Francis Tarkenton was a quarterb-b-b-back in the National Football, Football League and he lost the S-S-S-S-Super Bowl three t-t-t-times.”
“Francis!” Tula yelled.
“Ok-k-kay,” he said, before retreating to a table piled high with unfolded newspapers.
Darnell put his phone in his pocket. Kennicott watched him pull out his wallet. His hands were steady.