The Ambitious City (41 page)

“First-stage crescent moon tonight, sir,” Ryan said.

All three detectives stared at him. “How the hell do you know that, Ry?” Vertesi asked.

“Dirt bikes, computer technology, the cycles of the moon—they’re all my things. I’ve been studying the sky since I was a kid looking through a telescope with my granddad. Nerdy, I know.”

“Not nerdy at all,” MacNeice said.

“Well, maybe a bit …” Vertesi said.

“Weather’s overcast, threatening rain, sixty percent chance of thunderstorms overnight,” Aziz said, staring at her screen.

“Perfect,” MacNeice said.

“Here you go—two more images.” Ryan nodded towards the Falcon’s large monitor. Two more cars had arrived in the driveway. “First one’s a ten-year-old Lincoln Town Car, the second a beefed-up Jeep Cherokee. She’s riding too low for hauling firewood, so I’d say she’s been chopped into a low-rider. Next shot is the family reunion.” He clicked the keyboard and the photo appeared.

Four men and one woman had emerged from the house to greet the six men who’d emerged from the cars. Everyone, including the woman, appeared to be wearing black.

“That would be the hairdresser. It’s her name on the deed to the property …”

“Fiza, call the surveillance team and tell them to stay low. No more photos unless the status changes. Otherwise, strictly cellphone eyeball reports—I don’t want the glow from that laptop being seen.”

“Will do.” She swung around and slid her chair back to the desk. “Do I tell them what the plan is?”

“One more in, sir. Here it comes.” Ryan slid away from the screen.

Two children were bolting out the front door. The camera had caught them in mid-air, jumping off the porch—two boys, one perhaps four, the other five or six.

“Not good,” Vertesi said.

“Not at all,” Aziz added, reaching for her phone.

“At the moment, just tell them to stay low and keep reporting,” MacNeice said.

MacNeice was taping the last of the Aldershot photographs to the whiteboard when Swetsky came around the corner of the cubicle.

“Whaddya got here, Mac?” Swetsky put his massive arm over the top of the whiteboard.

“Where’s Palmer?” MacNeice asked.

“He said he had to see someone first. If we need him, I’ll have his ass back here in ten minutes.”

MacNeice nodded. “These are photos of D2D’s Aldershot crib. Do you recognize any of the people in this one? Ryan enlarged and sharpened the image.”

Swetsky leaned in for a better look. “Uh-huh, yeah, oh yeah. These three were out west—nice to see they’ve come home. I don’t know those two. The girl is Randy Ross’s girlfriend, Melanie Butter.”

“Butter, like …?” Vertesi said.

“Yeah—spreads real easy.” Swetsky regretted the pathetic joke immediately. “Aw, Jesus, sorry, Aziz.”

“No problem, Detective,” Aziz said sharply as she picked up the phone.

“Sorry, Mac, I keep thinkin’ she’s one of the guys,” Swetsky said quietly.

“Yes, you do, and she’s not.” His voice was sterner than he’d intended. “Ms. Butter has two kids out there.”

“They’re hers, not Ross’s. Their father was T-boned on his Harley by a freight train at a rail crossing in Tweed a few years ago.”

“I remember that. He tried to beat it to the crossing,” Vertesi said.

“Darwinian, ain’t it,” Swetsky said. “What’s the plan?”

“We have SWAT backup, and once Montile gets here we’ll have the six of us plus the two in the forest. We’ve just found out that Randall Ross and Perry Mitchell, the guy who owns that Mustang”—MacNeice tapped the photo—“likely killed Pat Mancini.”

“Yup, that makes sense. Bigboy earned his chops planting explosives in a granite quarry up north.”

“The house is sitting on a concession road with visibility in every direction. There’s a stand of trees across the road—where our men
are—but coming at them in daylight would be a disaster. Ten men, the woman and two kids … we don’t want a bloodbath. Those kids and their mother, at least, have got to come out of this walking and talking.” MacNeice studied the boys jumping off the porch, as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

“How we gonna guarantee that?” Swetsky said, looking over at him.

“I’m not sure yet. But they’ve gathered together for a reason, and I don’t want to miss this opportunity.”

The Jokers, with three dead and one in custody, had to be finished in Dundurn. If there were any others, they’d likely headed back to Quebec. “We can set up roadblocks out of sight of the farmhouse in both directions. If any of them leave, we can pick them up. The problem is, the moment they see us they’ll alert the farmhouse, and then we’re into a gun battle, or worse.”

“Just a thought—surely ten men can’t all stay in that house overnight. Some of them are going to leave at some point this evening,” Aziz said.

“Good point.”

“So, sooner than later’s what you’re saying?” Swetsky said, sitting down.

“I’m with Mac—I don’t want an exchange of gunfire. But I can’t think of a way to prevent it,” Aziz said.

“Tell me more about Melanie Butter,” MacNeice said. “Is she steeped in the biker culture or is she a hairdresser whose fatal flaw is her choice of men?”

“I only met her once, at her salon in Burlington. She had photos of her kids clipped onto the mirror. No tattoos, at least that I could see. She looks like someone who cuts hair. She most definitely didn’t have a hate-on for cops.”

“It’s a long shot, but do you think we could get Melanie on her cellphone, tell her what’s about to happen at the farmhouse?

Suggest that she take the kids out to get some snacks so they’ll be out of the way when we sweep in?”

“A Hail Mary pass,” Vertesi said, miming throwing a long ball.

“Yes, with the clock ticking down. If she outs us they’ll be gone in a flash, and we’ll have to stop them on the road.”

“It ain’t hard to get her number; I know the woman who owns the salon.” Swetsky pulled out his cellphone.

MacNeice looked at his watch. “It’s 8:38 now. Montile will be here soon. Assuming Palmer’s as good as his word, he’ll be here too …” MacNeice looked at Swetsky for confirmation.

“He’ll be here, and if he isn’t, I’ll put him on report.” The big man’s jaw tightened.

“Right. Aziz, let the SWAT team know we’ll meet in the parking lot of LaSalle Park, which is roughly five minutes from the farmhouse. From there we’ll use cruisers to set up roadblocks on both ends of Concession Road 2. Have the firefighters and EMS arrive in the park at 9:45 so we don’t overlap. I’ll call Ms. Butter at 9:35 and, depending on her reaction, give her some time to get out. Either way, we arrive at the farmhouse at precisely 9:45 p.m. Questions?”

“Who goes in first?” Vertesi asked.

“The SWAT team will cover the terrain from the house to the barn and the garage. We’ll position ourselves on the lawn. I’ll try and talk them out peacefully. We’ll be wearing armour and stay behind our vehicles.”

“Keep an eye on Ross—he really does know how to blow things up.” Swetsky walked over to the whiteboard, where he tapped the image of the farmhouse. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have that driveway peppered with IEDs.”

“Right, so we’ll put the SWAT van on the grass. Ryan, make sure we have prints of these images with the names of the actors Swets gives you.”

“IEDs in Aldershot … what’s next?” Vertesi said, shaking his head.

“Aziz, find out the status of the department helicopter.”

“For what?” Vertesi asked.

“Your boss wants light on that farm.” Swetsky smiled.

“Minimum, we’ll hit the house with our headlights and the SWAT van floodlights.”

Aziz dialled the number.

“How do you rate our chances of pulling them out of there without a fight?” MacNeice asked, looking at Swetsky.

“Zero to ten percent, though the new guys may have some influence. D2D has been almost destroyed. They gave over leadership to a psychopath and a bunch of them died. If they’re trying to rebuild and stay out of the limelight, smoking Pat Mancini was a mistake. Maybe the meeting’s a gut check for the new guys … Mac, while Aziz is checkin’ that chopper, take a walk with me.”

Swetsky shambled down the exit stairs and MacNeice followed; Swets was so large it was difficult to imagine that anyone coming up could negotiate around him. At the bottom he swung the door open for MacNeice. “Over to my car.”

“What are you up to, Swets?”

“Good Samaritan. Ever read that story?”

“Probably.”

“It was about a relationship, not charity. He didn’t feel sorry for the fucker by the road. He wanted to get to know him, to know he was going to be okay, and he was willing to put himself out to ensure that he would be.”

“You brought me out here to talk religion?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I haven’t been to church since I was sixteen. I got laid and didn’t confess my sin.”

“The clock’s ticking, Swets …”

“Relax—I know. This is important.” He popped the trunk. Inside
was a large gym bag. “You remember what Langlois told you about why Freddy went back to the farm?”

“The money.”

“We tore that place apart so thoroughly they might as well flatten it at this point.”

“And?”

“So last night we’re finishing our pizzas. I’m eating a pepperoni slice and I look at the circle of sausage in this sea of mozzarella—it was like
shazam!
There was this oil drum sitting near the back of the barn; I saw the guys rolling it around and Palmer said, ‘Oil,’ and left it at that. If we hadn’t done such a great job trashing the place I might not have thought about it any more. But I go back to the barn on my own and I open up the strapping on that barrel.” Swetsky looked like a very big cat with a canary in his cheek.

“And?” MacNeice prompted.

“It’s definitely oil, but there’s this thin wire going down either side. You can’t really see it but you can feel it, hooked into the lip that runs around the waist of the barrel—invisible almost. I reach in and pull both wires and up comes this shrink-wrapped bundle. I pull it out, get a carpet knife from the workbench. This was inside.” He pointed to the bag.

“The clock, Swets.”

“Open it up.”

MacNeice leaned into the trunk and unzipped the bag. It was full of thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills, multiples of Sir Robert Borden looking off to his left, each bundle held together with an elastic band. MacNeice shot back as if the bag were full of snakes.

“Each bundle’s ten thousand, and there’s over eighty of ’em in there.”

“And what—you needed help bringing it in?”

“The guys that knew how much was there are both dead.”

“I’m going to forget we had this conversation.” MacNeice turned to walk away.

“Not for me, you righteous fucker—for the Hughes woman! Nobody knows I got this. We take out two hundred thousand and give it to her. The rest goes in as evidence and we make her life a little easier.”

“I see …”

“Somebody takes it to a money-changer I know in Niagara. He’ll wire it right into her bank account, assuming she has one.”

“It’s a crazy idea, Swets … Let’s just get through the next couple of hours and we’ll talk about it again. I’m sorry for thinking—”

“Hey, fuck, man! If the role was reversed I’da pulled my piece on you already.” He zipped the bag shut and slammed the trunk.

They started walking back to Division, MacNeice’s head spinning.

“Yeah, the oil drum’s sealed up like it was before … though there’s less oil in it.” Swetsky laughed and slapped MacNeice on the back, so hard it made him stumble.

“T
HE HELICOPTER ISN’T
available because the Jesus nut is suspect. They’ve ordered a new part but it’s not in yet,” Aziz said.

When Vertesi asked what a Jesus nut was, Aziz admitted she’d asked the same question. “It’s the big nut that keeps the rotor blades on. Sounds like a good reason not to fly tonight.”

When Williams got back, they loaded up Kevlar vests, shotguns, ammunition and two bullhorns. They were getting into their cars when Palmer came loping over. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Your call, Mac,” Swetsky said and climbed into the front seat of MacNeice’s Chevy.

“You are a liability, Detective. You’ll sit this one out.”

MacNeice opened the door to the Chevy and Palmer grabbed it from him. “What the fuck? What’d I do?”

“Take your hand off the car.” MacNeice turned to face him and Palmer released the door.

“But—what’s going on?”

“You’ll read about it in the
Standard
tomorrow, like everyone else in Dundurn. You’ve put your personal life ahead of the men and women who count on you, Palmer, perhaps for the last time.” He climbed in, started the engine and pulled away.

Palmer stood there with his hands out in a classic
What the fuck?
gesture as the two cars rolled out of the driveway. “That was probably what he looked like when the firefighter whose wife he was banging torched his motorcycle. I’ll write him up tomorrow morning. With any luck he’ll be on a desk by Monday,” Swetsky said.

Aziz said, “Of course, now we’re down one man.”

“We were down one man even if he had made it. Would you want him covering your back?” MacNeice said, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

As they approached the Sky-High Bridge, the conversation in the car died away. The spot where Pat Mancini exploded had been transformed from an elongated elliptical scar to a neat dark rectangle of new pavement. MacNeice glanced quickly back at the city. The rust-red towers of the steel company had lights along their edges, but the massive buildings that housed the blast furnaces, pickling lines, coiler pits and God-knows-what seemed like black holes against the lights of the city. So too the bay, that featureless dark grey slab where pieces of Pat Mancini nestled deep in the bellies of fat, happy carp.

They were roughly two miles from LaSalle Park before he spoke again. “Get the spotters on the line, Fiza. I want to know if anything has changed. From now on, reports every five minutes, more if the status changes.”

“Will do.”

“Did you check the batteries on the bullhorn?”

“I didn’t check them; I changed them.”

“Perfect.”