Stranglehold

Praise for
Stray Bullets

“A cracking good story.”

—
Toronto Star

“Rotenberg really knows how to build legal suspense.”

—
The Globe and Mail

“The added frisson of a city craving justice combined with evidence that can’t quite add up the way law enforcement and prosecutors want them to gives Rotenberg the extra storytelling juice he needs to propel
Stray Bullets
to its inevitable but riveting conclusion.”

—
National Post

“Rotenberg makes it his own with propulsive plotting, crisp, vivid, no-wasted-words writing, and, most importantly, distinct characters virtually all of whom make individual claims on a reader’s interest and empathy. . . . In fact, the entire unfolding and resolution of a tragic, sadly semi-familiar, crime-and-punishment tale shows a real pro of a writer, just getting better and better.”

—The London Free Press

Praise for
The Guilty Plea

“A compulsive page-turner . . . His humanizing of seemingly obvious killers raises doubts in the reader at the same pace as it does for the jury.”

—Maclean’s

“This book’s page-turning twists and relatable, personable characters are sure to thrill mystery loves and lit elitists alike.”

—Precedent

“Rotenberg’s . . . courtroom drama is terrific.”

—Ian Rankin

“Not since
Anatomy of a Murder
has a novel so vividly captured the real life of criminal lawyers in the midst of a high-stakes trial.”

—Edward L. Greenspan, QC

“Rotenberg juggles the many plot elements with aplomb, unveiling each new surprise with care and patience.”

—Quill & Quire

“A great book for summer.”

—The Globe and Mail

“Rotenberg has crafted an idealistic but gripping—and distinctly Canadian—portrait of how justice does and does not get done.”

—The London Free Press

“It’s a solid whodunit.”

—Winnipeg Free Press

“A dock-chair novel . . . the book has local buzz galore.”

—National Post

Praise for
Old City Hall

“Loved it! Rotenberg’s
Old City Hall
is a terrific look at contemporary Toronto.”

—Ian Rankin

“Breathtaking . . . a tightly woven spiderweb of plot and a rich cast of characters make this a truly gripping read . . . Robert Rotenberg does for Toronto what Ian Rankin does for Edinburgh.”

—Jeffery Deaver

“Robert Rotenberg knows his Toronto courts and jails, he knows his law, and he knows his way around a legal thriller.
Old City Hall
is a splendid entertainment.”

—Andrew Pyper, author of
The Killing Circle

“Clever, complex, and filled with an engaging cast of characters,
Old City Hall
captures the vibrancy and soul of Toronto.”

—Kathy Reichs

“It’s clear that
Old City Hall
has enough hidden motives and gumshoeing to make it a hard-boiled classic.”

—The Globe and Mail

“The book has wowed pretty much everyone who’s read it . . . A finely paced, intricately written plot is matched by a kaleidoscope of the multicultural city’s locales and characters.”

—Maclean’s

“Twenty-first-century Toronto is a complicated place, rife with the kind of paradox and contradiction that lends a city depth and complexity. It’s a good setting for sinuous legal machinations to unfold, steeped in that elusively desirable literary quality we call character.”

—Toronto Star

“Rotenberg is Canada’s John Grisham.”

—Telegraph-Journal

For my brothers

Lawrence, David, and Matthew,

my best friends

I have done these things,

That now give evidence against my soul.

– William Shakespeare,
Richard III, 1.4

THIS WAS NOT THE WAY ARI GREENE HAD EXPECTED TO BE SPENDING HIS MONDAY MORNING
. No self-respecting homicide detective would be caught dead driving a motor scooter. And yet, here he was putt-putting along Kingston Road, home to a string of low-rent strip malls, tax refund specialists, tired-looking furniture stores, and cheapo motels that rented out rooms by the week, by the day, and by the half day. The type of places cops called “have-a-naps.” Today’s predetermined destination was the Maple Leaf Motel. Maybe it would be a step up from the inappropriately named Luxury Motel, the tacky place where they’d met last week. Of course, this get-together was not about the decor, but about the one thing in his life that never seemed to change:
cherchez la femme.

The silly scooter was the best way he could think of to get across town during the day, not an easy thing to do because he was one of the best-known policemen in Toronto, and his car was a distinctive ’88 Oldsmobile that every cop on patrol would recognize. Buying a second car, or renting one, was out of the question. Left a paper trail. A bicycle was possible, but it was too far to ride. Plus, he didn’t want to arrive all hot and sweaty for what had become over the previous five weeks their regular Monday-morning “romantic rendezvous.”

It had been easy to find a scooter for sale in the newspaper – no traceable computer searches on his laptop – and buy it and a helmet for cash, no names given. He hadn’t registered the ownership or gotten a motorcycle licence. If he were ever stopped he’d just show his badge and that would take care of that. He’d found a paved lot behind an abandoned garage a ten-minute walk from his home where he could park and lock it. Even the gas was simple. He’d go to a different independent station when they were busy at rush hour, buy five bucks’ worth, and hand over the cash with his gloves and helmet still on. No credit cards. No trace. Invisible.

In a strange way he enjoyed the challenge of covering his tracks. He’d always thought that the many criminals he’d chased and arrested over the years had
been motivated by the game, not the crime. The feeling of beating the system. Fooling everyone. Being on the outside, looking in.

Now he was playing. Not that having an affair with a married woman was a crime. Well, at least it wasn’t illegal. And, thankfully, this was the last Monday he’d be doing this. Next week she was going to split with her husband, and everything was going to change.

Being on a scooter made Greene much more aware of the weather. He’d driven a patrol car along Kingston Road hundreds of times, but had never before realized how windy the street could be, thanks to its proximity to the lake, and the long, uninterrupted line it followed near the shore. Today was sunny and warm, the sky was a startling blue although the wind was strong. But the traffic was unusually slow and now it had ground to a halt.

He shot his left hand from the sleeve of his leather jacket to check his watch. Damn. He was going to be late. It was already ten-thirty. He was supposed to be there by now.

Ten-thirty on the first Monday in September after Labour Day. A time when the rest of the world was hard at work. Kids in school. People at their desks. Criminal trials in their opening stages.

As a homicide detective, Greene’s time was his own, and it was easy for him to slip away for a few hours, once a week. But for Jennifer Raglan, it was more complicated. She was the head Crown attorney in Toronto. It was a job she’d had for years, had given up, then had returned to at the end of July when Ralph Armitage, the lawyer who’d taken over from her, was arrested for obstructing justice.

Her first week back, she’d got in touch with Greene and invited him out for lunch.

“I told them I’d do the job until Christmas, not a day longer,” she had said. They were in a booth in the corner of the City Hall cafeteria, a place where cops and Crowns regularly ate. Underneath the table, unseen, she’d slipped off one of her shoes and was caressing his calf.

“Very loyal of you,” he said.

“On one condition. That I get my Mondays off until I’m in a trial.”

“Sounds fair.”

She smiled at him. There was a little dimple in her cheek that showed when she was very happy. She rubbed his leg harder. “Howard has a client in Boston, and he flies down there every Monday.”

Howard was her husband. A year earlier she had left him and their children and soon after that started seeing Greene. They had worked very hard to keep their relationship secret. But after a few months, the ordeal of splitting up her family had become too much for her, and she had returned home.

“You want the day off to be with the kids,” he said.

“No.” She tucked her toes up inside his pant leg and stroked his skin. “I want Monday mornings with you.”

Then she told him how she had begun long-distance running again. How it was a brisk, half-hour jog from her house to the strip of cheap motels on Kingston Road. How they all took cash and didn’t ask for ID. And that she’d already paid for a room at the Dominion Motel for the following Monday. Sixty bucks. No tax. Room 8.

He offered to pay half and that made her laugh. “Money’s tight but I think I can handle it,” she said. “And besides, this is all my idea.”

He shrugged. “I’m not exactly unwilling.”

“And you’re not exactly comfortable with it either.”

She stared at him with her bold brown eyes. There was no point in denying it.

Last winter, when her mother was dying and he was in a tough trial that involved the murder of a child, they’d spent a night in an out-of-town hotel. It was the only time they’d slept together while she was still living with her husband.

He had thought that was the end of it. Stress of the moment.

Over the next few months, they’d occasionally run into each other in court, say hello. He’d ask about her kids. She’d ask about his father. Her message was clear: It’s over.

She pulled her foot away.

“If you don’t show up,” she said, getting back up to leave, “I can watch
Law and Order
reruns for two hours.”

She insisted he take every possible precaution to hide his identity. He’d come up with this idea of the scooter and for the last five Mondays had walked into whatever motel room she’d booked, always number eight, at exactly 10:30. Their two hours together always went quickly. And now, thanks to the damn traffic, it was 10:39 when he finally pulled into a strip mall that had a payday loan shop, a nail salon, an out-of-business adult video store, a convenience store, and a place that sold discount goods from almost every country of the world. The motel was less than a block away.