“Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Greene swung into Fieldstone Forest, the development where Nathan Wyler lived. It was a warren of winding streets. Wyler’s mini-mansion was on a circular cul-de-sac between two other equally huge homes. Greene pulled his Oldsmobile into the driveway, where four sparkling clean cars were parked. A large Cadillac had the license plate name WFRESH 1, a black Lexus was WFRESH 2, a sleek Mercedes with a disabled notice in the front window was WFRESH 3, and a panel van painted in the corporate colors was WFRESH 4. Only the van had a transponder, a gadget that slipped on the windshield for use by frequent commuters on the 407 toll highway that led from the city to suburbia.
The front lawn was manicured, the trimmed flower beds filled with annuals in dull primary colors. A note on a plastic stake read “Early-Bird Lawn—Weekly Maintenance— Monday, August 17, 5:00 a.m.” It listed about twenty categories of work that had been done the day before.
Greene bent down for a closer look. Wonder what I miss with my hand-push lawn mower, he thought, reading through the list of chores. Beside an illustration of a robin pulling a worm out of the ground a note read, “Next Early-Bird Visit, Monday, August 24, 5:00 a.m.”
He suspected that not one member of the Wyler family planted a seed, mowed a lawn, pulled a weed, or raked a leaf. The chatter of crickets in the early-morning air was the only hint of real nature.
“Detective Ari Greene, Toronto Homicide.” He extended a hand to the big man who opened the front door.
Greene recognized Nathan Wyler from a long time before. They’d spent a few months in the same class during Greene’s final year of
high school, after Wyler was kicked out of his fancy private school. He’d been a real jerk back then, used to getting his way and throwing his weight around.
“Nathan Wyler,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Wyler turned to Kennicott and shook his hand. “I’m sorry I exploded at you yesterday when you told me the news.”
“No need to apologize,” Kennicott said. “Losing a brother is a terrible thing.”
“I appreciate both of you coming. It means everything to my parents.”
Interesting how the mind works, Greene thought as they followed Wyler into the house. He could still remember Nathan’s distinctive, lumbering gait, those massive shoulders hunched over, the way his large head jutted out. And the fight they’d had in the high school cafeteria.
It had been a few weeks after Wyler showed up at the school. “Who spells green with an
e
on the end?” Wyler asked one day to a crowd of hangers-on around him. His voice was loud. Greene, who was skinny back then, sat across the long table, a few seats down.
He looked up at Wyler and waited. More people looked on. “Someone Hitler couldn’t kill,” Greene said, keeping his voice level. “What did your daddy do during the war? Get rich selling lettuce and tomatoes while everyone else was off fighting?”
Wyler glared back at Greene. “I get it,” Wyler said. “It’s
e
for greeny.”
“Greeny” was slang for a new immigrant.
The words were barely out of Wyler’s mouth when Greene grabbed a pitcher of fruit punch and threw it at him. Without waiting, Greene jumped on the table. Despite the fact that Wyler was so much bigger, Greene came down on him hard, hitting with all his might. It was the only time he’d ever punched someone.
After all these years, Greene would have recognized Wyler by simply walking behind him. He was sure Wyler wouldn’t remember him.
“Everyone’s in the living room.” Wyler led them across a bleached white wood floor into a large rotunda with a spiral staircase heading up through the two-story space, twirling around a massive chandelier. The living room was off to the side. Three enormous couches were packed with people around a square coffee table.
“This is Detective Greene and Officer Kennicott,” Wyler said. The chatter in the room died down instantly. He pointed to the couch on his left. “My cousins.” Then to the second couch. “My wife, Harriet, and some of her friends.” Finally he looked to his right. “My parents and my brother Jason.”
Greene walked directly over to the parents.
Mrs. Wyler stood as he approached and Greene grasped her hand. She was a surprisingly tall woman, with dark hair accented by a white stripe to the left of center. Her palm and fingers were cold. “We’ll do everything we can,” he said.
“It’s unthinkable.” Her eyes, the same enchanting green as her oldest son’s, were hooded in sadness.
“I don’t have anything to say to make it easier. I wish I did.” Greene never used the trite phrases they recommended at the police seminars, things like “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mr. Wyler got up stiffly beside his wife. “Damn knees are a mess. Too many years hauling around vegetable crates.” Like his oldest son, he was a big, hulking man. He wore heavy rubber-soled shoes, presumably to cushion his weak legs. His eyes were dark and cold. “Call me Bill.” He gave Greene an unenthusiastic handshake. “This was always my wife’s greatest fear. To bury one of her sons.”
“My father lost children too,” Greene said. At the seminars they said you should never personalize what you say to victims’ families. Advice he steadfastly ignored. The best thing he could do in this situation was be himself.
The third person in this grim receiving line was the middle brother, Jason. Unlike the other members of the family, he was short. He pulled himself to his feet with difficulty, grasping two well-worn metal canes to steady himself. Kennicott had told Greene that Jason lived on the ground floor of Nathan’s house. Suffered from a rare degenerative nerve disease called spinal muscular atrophy, or SMA.
“This is our son Jason.” Mrs. Wyler was watching him.
“Hello, Detective.” His voice was deep, but it was an effort for him to talk. He slipped one cane under his arm and gave a surprisingly firm handshake. Although his legs were weak and withered, his shoulders and arms were strong. “We were all at Terry’s for Sunday-night dinner.”
“I understand you’re a close family,” Greene said.
“Very.” It was Nathan Wyler talking. He was still standing beside Greene.
“We put together a great meal,” Jason said.
“My boys all like to cook,” Mrs. Wyler said.
“I made a vichyssoise,” Jason said. “Nathan brought these amazing organic peppers.”
“We do everything together, even argue,” Nathan said. He turned to his brother, who was teetering on his canes. “Jason, sit down.” He looked at Greene. “What can you tell us?”
They all sat down. The worst part of these initial meetings was how little you could say at a time when the families were desperate for information. Greene always spoke directly. No cop lingo. He knelt down so he was at eye level with Mrs. Wyler. “We’ve worked around the clock since your son’s murder.” Greene didn’t sugarcoat anything. People always respected that. “Let me tell you everything I can.”
For the next ten minutes he laid out some of the details: that Terrance had been found by the nanny on the kitchen floor, stabbed many times—he didn’t say how many—that an autopsy had been performed and the cause of death was loss of blood. He made no mention of the Sunday-night e-mails between Samantha and Terrance, or Samantha’s being in Simon’s room, or of the bloody knife.
“Simon was asleep when Arceli arrived,” Greene said. “We got your grandson out of the house before the press showed up.”
“Thank you for that,” Mrs. Wyler said. “He’s in the basement with the nanny. Nathan told him the news last night and all he wants to do is play with his trains.” She looked at her disabled son. “Jason drove to Terrance’s house, and one of your young officers brought out the train set for him.”
Nathan cast his arms in a wide circle. He was still standing beside Greene. “What about Samantha? We all know she was threatening him.”
“When are you going to arrest her?” It was Mr. Wyler. His lips were upturned into an angry snarl.
“I don’t want that woman anywhere near my grandson,” Mrs. Wyler said. “Ever.”
Greene had expected an outburst like this. The key was to stay calm. He was determined to interview everyone he could before making an arrest.
“The hardest part right now is that you’re going to have to be patient,” he said.
“We’re not a patient family,” Mr. Wyler said, those cold eyes of his challenging.
“That’s why Officer Kennicott and I are here. To move things along as fast as we can. We need to speak to everyone individually. It’ll probably take all day.”
Greene met the man’s angry eyes and stared at him until William Wyler looked away.
“You awake?”
Daniel Kennicott’s eyes were half closed. He always slept with the window and the blinds open, and it was still dark outside. When the cell phone woke him up, he’d hoped it was Jo Summers. He’d left her a message on her voice mail the day before, but she hadn’t called back. The ring tone told him it was Detective Greene.
“Getting there,” he said. “What do you need?”
“The timeline. You update it last night?” Greene asked.
Kennicott snapped on the night-light by his bed. It was a quarter to five. Didn’t Greene ever sleep? The timeline was the chronology the police assembled as an investigation moved forward. After each witness was interviewed, the information was added to the list, which Kennicott kept in a separate notebook.
“Yeah.” Kennicott rubbed a hand over his face. In his days as a young lawyer, when he was on an important case, Lloyd Granwell, the senior partner who’d recruited him to the firm, was like Greene. Pushing him day and night. “You have the spark, Daniel,” Granwell once told him. “You see things most people don’t even think about.”
“Good.” Greene sounded wide awake. Granwell was like this too. Indefatigable. “Meet me in half an hour at the Caldense Bakery in Little Portugal, on Dundas West. Opens at five.”
“I know the place.” Kennicott resisted the urge to ask, “Why not meet at police headquarters?” Greene always met with him in some restaurant or café, never the same place twice. And he always knew the owner, even had a few words to say in what ever language they spoke.
At first Kennicott couldn’t figure this out. But now, four years in as
a cop, he saw how Greene had his own personal map of Toronto, to which he was always adding details, filling in gaps.
Half an hour later Kennicott walked into the Caldense, a place that was much more than just a bakery. There were a dozen square tables on a blue, yellow, and white floor, and a TV in the corner, the volume up too high, broadcasting a Portuguese station—right now a couple wearing black were doing the tango. A long glass counter displayed fresh baked goods, sweet pastries, desserts, meat and cheese for slicing into sandwiches, and aged sausages. A separate glassed-in cabinet featured birthday and wedding cakes.
Greene was seated by the window, laughing with a bald man whose jet-black mustache matched the black vest he wore over an equally black shirt. A lineup of men in sweatshirts with
LABOURERS—LOCAL
183 logos on the back were ordering coffee at the front counter. They wore work boots, the top laces undone. Everyone spoke Portuguese. A crooked clock on the wall said it was exactly 5:15.
“Officer Daniel Kennicott, meet Miguel Oliviera, proprietor extraordinaire,” Greene said.
“My pleasure,” Oliviera said to Kennicott. He had a firm handshake and a musical accent.
“Have some of my croissant.” Greene pointed to a round white plate where a flat croissant was cut in half. “It’s fresh.”
“Cappuccino?” Oliviera asked.
Kennicott sat down. “Please,” he said.
“Tea for the detective, of course,” Oliviera said. “I buy one box for him, lasts me a year.”
“
Obrigado,
” Greene said. He waited until the proprietor moved out of earshot before he said to Kennicott, “Here’s my question on the time-line. When does the family leave Terrance’s house on the Sunday night?”
“Dinner lasted until about eleven o’clock—”
“After they’d used the knives to chop up all those fresh Wyler vegetables for the vichyssoise,” Greene said.
Kennicott looked at the TV. A musical group was playing the song “I Gotta Feeling” in Portuguese. Despite himself, Kennicott started humming “tonight’s gonna be a good night, tonight’s gonna be a good, good night” in his mind.
“What happens next?” Greene asked.
“When the family leaves, Terrance e-mails his lawyer. Confirms he’s not taking Samantha’s deal. Then at twelve thirty-five he sends Samantha an e-mail saying he’s going to accept her offer after all and invites her over. She e-mails back that she’ll be there in half an hour. I walked from her apartment to Terrance’s house. Took fifteen minutes.”
“Good.” Greene ate part of his croissant. “Here, share some more of this with me. They’re way too heavy and sweet.”
Kennicott took a bite. Greene was right. The croissant tasted like sugary dough.
Greene put up his hand to caution Kennicott as Oliviera approached the table with a tray in hand. “Here you go, gentlemen,” he said. “One herbal tea.” He squinted his nose up in mock horror as he put a thin metal teapot in front of Greene. “One lovely cappuccino.” Kennicott’s drink had a white, foamy top, liberally sprinkled with chocolate bits that spilled over onto the white saucer.
Kennicott took a sip. It was sweet and watery. When they were alone, he continued. “At twelve thirty-seven Terrance e-mails Starr and tells her he’s taking the deal and that Samantha’s coming over to his house. That’s the final e-mail. Starr didn’t see it until the morning.”
“Didn’t the nanny say the family had a fight on Sunday night?” Greene asked.
Kennicott flipped back a few pages. “Nathan said their billboard ad campaign, which was Terrance’s idea, was expensive. Terrance wanted them to sponsor a reception at the upcoming film festival. They did it last year and that’s where he met April Goodling. Everyone else was against it.”
Greene poured some tea into a white cup. “These damn things always leak,” he said at the moment when the teapot did just that. He mopped up the mess with a napkin and braved another bite of the croissant. Kennicott had a funny thought: Maybe Greene got me down here just to help him with the Portuguese pastry.