The Ambitious City (36 page)

F
OLLOWING THE ANNOUNCEMENT
of Pat Mancini’s death in a fiery unexplained explosion on the bridge, television news reran the Cayuga press conference from the day before. Behind the Deputy Chief on the screen were two coroner’s vehicles and a SWAT van; in the distance several figures dressed in black were walking between a farmhouse and a barn. For the cameras the Deputy Chief gave a recap of the history of violence at the farm and mentioned that the Dundurn Police investigation, under the leadership of MacNeice and Swetsky, was straining the resources of both teams of homicide detectives. Then he announced that the investigation had taken “a new turn with the death of gang leader Frédéric Paradis and two fellow members of the Jokers Motorcycle Club from Montreal.”

“This seems like the perfect time to do her, Billie.”

“You mean, because she and everyone else is distracted by the biker dudes?” Dance said, turning off the television.

“Exactamundo! We could take her at the hotel after a hard day of biker-bashing.”

“Hmm … I’ve thought about it. There is a balconey right above hers. We could get into that room and rappel down to her floor.”

“Fuckin’ A! She’d be our first bed job. Probably doesn’t sleep naked, but we’ll check out her ya-yas anyway.”

“Have to be fast, quiet—not wake up that cop sleeping outside her door. Hotel security’s useless. It could be done …”

“Let’s do it. They’ll talk about this one forever.”

“They would. On the other hand, we wouldn’t get to shove their noses in the shit, would we?”

“I don’t follow you, Billie. They’ve got a cop outside the door; she’ll be sleeping. We can leave her opened up and naked on the bed. How sexy cool is that!”

“Very sexy … but think about it. They’ll blame the cop outside, they’ll blame MacNeice for not securing that upper level … I want the blame to go much further—I want it to cover this whole fucking trash can of a country. And I want her profile to be bigger. They cancelled that psycho series interview last night—that would have put her on televisions all across Canada. I want her to be a star … We can wait till she is.”

“So what? We do Narinder Dass?”

“We go underground for a while. Break the schedule and we’ll break their certainty there’s a schedule we’re following.”

“The best screw-up for demographics is a broken pattern.”

“Precisely. When I unzip her, she’ll be our
star
—our name and hers will be linked together forever. Even her parents won’t be able to think about her without thinking about us.”

“Man, you are the Templar Wizard of Oz.”

“I am—and that’s spelled A-W-E-S.”

M
AC
N
EICE RECOGNIZED THE
black limo parked illegally in the handicapped spot outside Division. He told Vertesi he’d meet him upstairs, then walked over to the mayor’s car. The driver got out, smiled briefly and opened the back door.

“Is this a social call, Bob?” he said, climbing in beside him.

The mayor pushed the button to close the tinted glass screen between them and the driver, then said, “I was on my way to a lunch meeting when I took a call from Alberto Mancini—you had just left. What the fuck are you up to?”

“My job, Bob. And you may get a call from ABC and McNamara before the day’s out.”

“Christ almighty, we’re drowning in bodies and fuckin’ intrigue when we should be celebrating the boldest initiative in the city’s history! When I called you—”

“When you called me, you asked me to keep this quiet. I told you you can’t keep homicide quiet, and now—”

“But what the fuck is happening, Mac? Pat Mancini was a local hero, for chrissakes. Who’d wanna blow up that kid?”

“I should be able to answer that question very soon. Tell me the specific problem you want me to solve.”

“Mancini’s a friend of mine. He’s offended by the search and seizure of the company books. Apparently two cruisers showed up right after you left with their lights flashing, blocking the entrance to the yard like it was
Crime Busters
or something.”

“I believe someone in Mancini’s operation placed the call that resulted in Pat’s execution on the bridge. But, if it’s any consolation, we’re also hitting ABC-Grimsby and McNamara, and hopefully the state police are doing the same at ABC–New York.”

“Mac, is all this really necessary?”

MacNeice reached for the door handle. “I’ll see you later, Bob.”

“Wait, wait. Before you go, as friends, I wanna make something clear—I don’t give a rat’s ass about McNamara and ABC. D’you know why?”

“They’re out of voting range?”

“Exactly. But Mancini has just lost a son and he carries a lot of influence locally. You get my point, Mac?”

“Yes, but it pales next to Pat Mancini’s being splattered all over the bridge and feeding carp in the bay while we sit in your limo worrying about votes. So if there’s nothing else to say, Bob, let me do my job.” He looked over at Maybank, who was still fuming but could only manage to wave MacNeice away, the way one would a wasp at a picnic.

MacNeice stepped away from the limo and watched it loop around the parking lot and onto the street. As he was walking to the door, his cellphone rang. He looked down at the display and saw Harvey Whitman’s name.

“You’re in luck,” Whitman announced. “Highways called back. The summer student who was supposed to shut down the video
equipment on the bridge—he forgot. I asked them to isolate the footage leading up to and after 1:30 a.m. It will arrive electronically in the next hour or so.”

“Good news. Anything else?”

“Yeah, well … The divers went down over an hour ago. The first ones to come up found pieces of the car—only because they were red. So far, no pieces of Pat. Oh yeah, I sent Forensics over to his penthouse, and except for the weed we found, the place was clean. You having any luck?”

“Well, I’m pissing people off.”

Whitman laughed. “Always a good sign, Mac.”

Williams was fuming about a call he’d received from his Buffalo Homicide contact: the state troopers had been forced to release the Old Soldiers and lift the lockdown on the roadhouse. The judge basically told the district attorney to come back when he had evidence that crimes had been committed in the state of New York, and to let other jurisidictions—meaning Dundurn, Canada—know they should do the same.

“I’m not surprised, Montile,” MacNeice said as he took off his jacket and sat down to look at the whiteboard. “We’ve got to produce the evidence and present Wenzel as a witness. But sitting in jail here for a while should at least cool out the club. They know we’re watching.”

More positive was the second interview with Langlois. When he wouldn’t say anything more about his colleagues, Aziz finally told him about the death of Pat Mancini. Langlois dropped his arms, moved his chair in closer and put both hands on the table as if playing a major chord. It turned out that Langlois knew about Pat’s appetite for Ukrainian girls, and he seemed surprised that the detectives didn’t know the girls weren’t just for Pat. He was the one who shepherded the girls from Montreal to Dundurn. On four occasions
when he arrived with them at the penthouse from the train station, it wasn’t Pat who opened the door but another man, whom Pat introduced as his Uncle Roberto. The girls would stay the night or—twice—the whole weekend. Langlois would show up early in the morning on Monday to take them back to the station.

“Right. Williams, pick up Roberto Mancini for questioning. If he isn’t at Mancini Concrete, you’ll likely find him at the family home.”

MacNeice turned to Vertesi. “Can you organize an interview and a lunchtime raid for the books at McNamara?”

“The officers are ready to go when we are, so I’m on my way.” He swung around to call the Waterdown detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police, who would supervise the operation.

Taking the business card out of his pocket, MacNeice turned to Aziz. “I want the forensic accounting team to retrieve the financial records for Mancini Concrete, on file at Mancini Group Financial, 1 James Street South, Suite 1200.”

“I can do that,” Aziz said, picking up the phone.

As Williams stood up to leave, the tinny refrain of Ravel’s
Bolero
broke the tension in the cubicle. “Shit! Sorry, boss, I haven’t had time to change it …” He stepped out into the corridor to take the call.

“Ryan, there’s some footage from the bridge coming in to my computer. Can you open it up for me, please.”

“Yessir.” Ryan rolled his chair over to MacNeice’s desk. Within a minute he said, “Yup, here it is. I’ll send it to the Falcon and have it up in no time.”

Williams came back smiling—it had been his new best friend Demetrius Johnson on the phone. Johnson had met with Vanucci’s landlord. When the big man vanished, the landlord had waited three months before emptying the house for a new tenant. Since the place was rented furnished, that meant clothing, personal effects,
his computer and office files. They were all in a Sekurit container and the landlord was more than happy to hand over the contents, as it was costing him money every month to keep them. Williams had arranged to meet Johnson on the American side of the border, at Martin’s Real Italian Restaurant, to be briefed and get copies of any paperwork that might prove useful to them.

“When does he want you there?”

“Tonight at six.”

MacNeice gave the okay and said he’d square it with Wallace. Then he added
Roberto Mancini
and
Gianni Moretti
to the whiteboard lists.

Ryan swivelled about. “Okay, sir, black-and-white overhead footage from the Sky-High.”

“You know what we’re looking for. I want to know about any cars behind Mancini’s Corvette. Make it as clear as possible.”

“It makes my job easier that they’ve got a time code on the bottom. Give me five.” Ryan pushed the joystick forward, watching the numbers tumble through time.

Aziz pressed the hold button and turned around. “When do you want to hit their offices?”

“Within the next two hours, or sooner.”

She turned and relayed the message. When she hung up, she said, “Check this out. While I was waiting on the phone I googled Roberto Mancini.” MacNeice rolled his chair next to hers. On the screen were several photos of Roberto and his wife, Angela, as well as their two kids. “One big happy family.”

“Not for long,” MacNeice said. “It’s going to get ugly. Roberto was sharing the women, and he probably provided the lion’s share of the tips. Pat didn’t know enough about the business ever to fake it—I think he was just the messenger. Roberto knew Pat wouldn’t betray him, and he didn’t. Even when Pat was telling me everything, he was still protecting his favourite uncle.”

“Still, it’s hard to believe he’d be that foolish. Look at his wife—she’s beautiful, and the kids are adorable. He’s close with his brother by the sounds of it. Do you think he knew they would kill Pat?”

“Can I be brutally unsentimental?”

Aziz nodded at him.

“With Pat out of the way, Roberto becomes the logical heir when Alberto retires; he already owns one-third of the business. And with Pat gone, he doesn’t have to worry about his nephew eventually taking over a business he has no talent for or interest in, putting Roberto’s one-third share in jeopardy.”

Before Aziz could respond, Ryan swung around. “This is seriously nasty stuff. Brace yourselves.” He waited for them to slide in beside him. “Okay, check the time on the bottom of the screen. I’m paused at 1:28:24 and the image takes in about two hundred yards, judging by the stripes on the road. The Corvette will appear in the speed lane here”—he pointed to the left side of the large monitor—“in about one-tenth of a second. I’ve slowed everything down so you can make sense of it. In real time, it’s just a blur—that car was off-the-charts fast. Ready?”

“Ready.” MacNeice watched as the Corvette entered the frame. Even in slow motion the front end of the car was blurred, as if it was pushing the speed of light. At mid-frame an elliptical flash grew until it filled the whole screen. “My God,” MacNeice said.

“It’s not over, sir.”

The strong prevailing wind blew ragged holes through the cloud of smoke and fire as another car appeared at the top right of the frame. “I’ll pause it here for a second. Judging by its speed as that second car enters the frame, it was locked on to the Corvette, maybe a hundred yards behind.” The car was three lanes away from the Corvette. “But watch.” Ryan released the image and the second car slid down towards the bottom of the frame, where he paused it again. “It maintains speed. He doesn’t even slow down to see the
damage. If the Corvette is red, then this car—it’s a 2011 Mustang—was dark grey, blue or black.” He released the image, the smoke cleared and the fire scattered into several sites of burning debris.

“Is there any way you can enhance that second car?” MacNeice asked, pushing his chair away.

“They’re using great technology, and the lights on the bridge don’t over-illuminate the objects … I’ll give it a shot.”

Sergeant Ray Ryu of the Commercial Investigations Branch met Vertesi at the door of the OPP detachment in Waterdown. Three white SUVs sat idling in front, five cops in each.

Vertesi and Ryu shook hands and Ryu said, “You’ll come in my car. You can tell me what you know on the way over. It’s an eight-minute drive.”

“You work out of Waterdown?”

“Toronto, but my wife and I live here. She’s a teacher at one of the local high schools.”

Vertesi looked out the back window of the unmarked car and wondered what impact the parade of white SUVs, cruising quietly through town with cherry lights on their hoods and headlights flashing, would have on the quiet streets of Waterdown. “Not exactly discreet,” he said.

“Taxpayers gotta have their show, Detective.”

Vertesi was just wrapping up an abbreviated overview of the case as Ryu pulled over at the gate to McNamara’s yard. The SUVs filed through one by one, parking like horses in front of a saloon. He liked the style but wondered how effective it was when several men came out of the concrete-block structure and stood with their hands on their hips, laughing at the whole affair.