Stranglehold (18 page)

“You two did a lot of cases together.” Charlton took out a pack of mints and a small bottle of mouthwash and placed them on the rim of the sink. “And you thought she was the best prosecutor in the office, didn’t you?”

“She was,” Greene said.

Charlton sucked hard on the little cigar. “This thing is going to look bad on everyone.”

It’s not a thing. It’s a murder
, Greene wanted to say.

“If we’re not careful, it could really fuck up my campaign. How close are we to an arrest?”

Greene shrugged. “It’s Kennicott’s case, so I’m staying out of it. I don’t want to hover over his shoulder.”

Charlton blew a perfect line of smoke out the window. “Give me a fucking break. Don’t tell me you’re not talking to him on the side?”

Greene turned the water tap up so it was louder. “Officially or unofficially?” he said.

They both laughed.

“Thank God you are doing it. Don’t forget I was in homicide for eight years. Everyone needs advice. We practically invented ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’ I’d be pissed if he wasn’t using your brain.”

“Kennicott’s smart,” Greene said.

“And a rookie. Smart means dick without experience. He needs resources behind him.” Charlton took another drag. “Fuck, this cigar is just what I needed.”

This was Charlton’s way of asking without asking. Telling Greene what to do without telling him what to do. His message was clear.
I want to know what’s going on. Stay close to this case, and I’ll make sure Kennicott has all the backup he needs.

“Husband’s the prime, I assume,” Charlton said, as a conversation starter.

For the next ten minutes, as the water ran, Greene related everything Kennicott had told him about the investigation, including how Darnell had a bulletproof alibi and that they had nothing to show he’d hired a killer. “Kennicott’s parked outside his house tonight doing surveillance. He’s keen.”

Charlton puffed on his cigar while he listened. Nodded. “Husband might be innocent. No hired gun is going to strangle a woman to death,” he said at last.

“Raglan put a lot of people in jail,” Greene said.

Charlton shrugged. “I assume Kennicott’s running down all the names.”

“Most have the best alibi you can imagine. They were in custody.”

“What about her lover boy?” Charlton asked. “Assuming that it was a boy? Never know anymore. Do we know who she was bopping?”

Do we know who he was bopping?
How was Hap going to feel about me, his prize student, if he finds out I’m the one? Greene wondered.

“So far Kennicott’s drawn a blank,” he said, choosing his words carefully. At least it wasn’t a lie.

“Keep me in the loop,” Charlton said. “The sooner we get an arrest, the
better.” He took a final drag then stuck the end of the cigar under the running water. It hissed and sputtered until it went out. He tossed the butt out the window. “So much for taking back the litter from the streets.” He chuckled.

All the years I’ve known Charlton, Greene thought, the guy was still an enigma.

Charlton unscrewed the top of the mouthwash, gargled hard, and spat into the sink. He tossed the bottle in the wastebasket, cracked open the mints, and ate a handful. “You’ve got twenty-five years as a cop, I’ve got thirty-five,” he said. “There’s only one thing we both know: Who the hell really knows anyone?”

He patted Greene on the shoulder. “I’ve got to give the print guys some better quotes before their editors bite their heads off. Stay five minutes until the coast is clear.”

Greene heard the outside door open then close.

He slammed the top down on the toilet and thought about sitting on it. But instead, he gave the back wall a hard, swift kick.

“DO YOU SEE HIM?” KENNICOTT ASKED, SPEAKING THROUGH HIS HEADSET TO THE OFFICER
parked near Darnell’s house. He was certain Darnell would come back to the beach and he wanted to remain hidden. This was a good spot.

“He’s walking up the street,” the cop said.

“Where are you?” Kennicott asked.

“On foot. I’m across the street behind a big oak tree and my partner’s in the cruiser at the end of the block. Wait. I see him walking up to his house now. He’s going straight to the garage. He went in the side door.”

“He’ll probably be a minute or so.” Kennicott looked at the moonlight dancing on the water. So much of Toronto was built to ignore that it was on Lake Ontario. When he was at law school and did volunteer work at the legal clinic, he had clients in suburban high-rises who didn’t even know the city was on a lake.

There was a constant breeze, and the rhythmic lapping of the waves was soothing. A scent of guano hung in the air.

“He’s been inside the garage for almost five minutes now,” the officer outside Darnell’s home said into Kennicott’s earpiece.

“Hang on.” Kennicott switched channels. “Do you hear anything in the house?” he asked Drago, the sound engineer.

“Squat.”

It wasn’t surprising that Darnell was taking his time. It was impossible for Kennicott to imagine what it must feel like to leave your home and your children, thinking you’d never see them again.

Thank God he’d been diligent about this surveillance. He switched back to the cop near the house. “Can you slip up beside the garage and peer in the window?”

“Too risky to walk up there. No trees or bushes for cover,” the officer said. “Wait!”

“What?”

“The front garage door’s opening. He’s outside now. Carrying a green garbage bag.”

“Does he have a paddle?”

“Yep, in his other hand. He’s closing the door. Now he’s walking back your way. And one more thing.”

“What?”

“He’s wearing a life jacket.”

“A life jacket?”

“Looks like he’s going for a paddle.”

Kennicott had to think fast. He had no legal grounds to stop Darnell. If the man wasn’t suicidal, there was no point. If he tried to talk to him, Darnell would know he was under surveillance and that would make him more cautious. And why would a man bent on killing himself wear a life jacket?

Soon he heard footsteps on the deserted street behind him. Seconds later Darnell walked past him, flicking on and off a little flashlight in his hand.

Move now, or wait? Kennicott had to decide.

Darnell went to the side of the canoe and placed the bag in the front. He secured the flashlight on top of it, a beacon facing out.

He’s coming back to shore, Kennicott told himself. He didn’t move from his hiding place.

Darnell was fast. He put his paddle across the gunnels and hopped into the canoe as he slid it into the water.

Kennicott was always amazed by how few people knew how to paddle a canoe. They’d sit too high up and hack away at the water on one side of the boat then the other.

Not Darnell. He knelt in the bow, facing the stern, and did the Indian J-stroke, the silent way of paddling used by advanced canoers. A few strong pulls and he was soundlessly out onto the water, the moon tracking him like a spotlight.

Kennicott walked out into the open and took his time approaching the shore. The sand beneath his feet was loose. He watched Darnell paddle in a perfect, straight line until he disappeared into the night.

He found a new hiding spot, at the side of a concession stand, and waited. It wasn’t until almost two o’clock that he heard the subtle lapping of water against
boat. Darnell jumped nimbly out onto the shore, pulled his canoe up, weaved the paddle in under the gunnels, and flipped it onto his shoulders.

Whatever had been in the garbage bag was now deep at the bottom of the lake. Far out.

There was one good thing about all this, Kennicott thought. Clearly Darnell had something to hide. Most likely he had just destroyed evidence of some kind, and his odd behaviour would be enough for Kennicott to get the judge to extend the search warrant.

Darnell portaged his canoe back up into the city, and Kennicott walked back down to the water’s edge. The cop on the street reported that Darnell put the canoe back in the garage, entered the house, and turned the lights out, first on the ground floor, then on the second floor. Drago heard footsteps go up the stairs, then the click of a light switch.

The house was dark. Quiet.

A cloud drifted across the moon, darkening the already black water. Kennicott stood still. The wind blew lightly on his cheek, where Jo had touched him. He listened to the pebbles on the shore as the waves drew them back and flung them up the beach on their return.

GREENE STARED AT THE HOUSE WHERE JENNIFER RAGLAN HAD LIVED UNTIL JUST THREE DAYS
ago. He was sitting in his Oldsmobile across the street and a few doors down. Daniel Kennicott had told him about Darnell’s strange behaviour the previous night, canoeing out into the lake to dispose of something in a green garbage bag, and Greene had offered to take a shift on surveillance.

Every part of his body ached. Last night he had finally got to sleep, only to wake up, blinking in the darkness, bathed in sweat. He couldn’t believe that Jennifer was gone. He was angry. Enraged that he had no idea who killed her. Or why.

He had somehow managed to get back to sleep, and had woken again in the dark, more lost than ever. This morning he’d gone to a coffee shop down the street from his house, ordered a double espresso, and downed it. Then had a second.

First cigarettes, now coffee, he thought, laughing at himself, better not let Kennicott see this suspicious behaviour.

He stared at the front door and imagined Jennifer coming through it every morning dressed for work. Except on their Mondays, when she’d be in her jogging outfit, the pack on her back, and a smile on her face.

Then, almost as if he’d willed it to happen, the door opened. Howard Darnell and his three kids walked out of the house. The younger two had on backpacks. Darnell kissed them both, and they walked off down the street. But Aaron stayed back and got into the van with his father.

Greene put his car in gear and followed them while he hit a preset number on his cell phone. Kennicott answered on the second ring.

“The two youngest kids just went off to school, but Darnell and Aaron are going for a drive. I’m going to follow them at a distance.”

“I suspect he’s still having a hard time getting Aaron to go to school. Maybe they’re going shopping for that iPhone,” Kennicott said.

“Where are you?” Greene asked.

“Home, for a change.”

“Well, stand by,” Greene said.

Darnell’s van got to Queen Street and turned west, toward the city. After a few blocks he turned left toward Lakeshore Boulevard, the wide street that would take him downtown. But then he went up onto the Gardner Expressway, the highway that cut across the bottom of the city.

Greene called Kennicott. “He’s not shopping, at least not downtown,” he said.

“Where is he?”

“On the Gardner. We’re passing the CN Tower right now.”

“You want some backup?”

“I might. It’s too tough to follow him alone on a highway. I’d be too easy to spot. How long will it take you to get on the road?” Greene asked.

“I’ll be out the door in a minute. It’ll take me about twenty to get down to the Gardner.”

“Where’s Alpine?” Greene asked.

“Up north, closing down his cottage. I told him to take the day off.”

“Darnell’s in the left lane. Looks like he’s going for a drive,” Greene said.

“What do you want me to do?” Kennicott asked.

“Bring sunglasses and a baseball cap so he won’t recognize you if you get too close on the road.”

“Good idea.”

“Bring your portable siren so you can blast it if you need to catch up.”

“It’s in my glove compartment.”

“And, Kennicott,” Greene said.

“Yes.”

“Just a hunch, but grab your passport.”

FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER, WHEN AMANKWAH JOINED THE STAR, HE WAS ONE OF A HANDFUL OF
black reporters in a newsroom of more than a hundred journalists. And when he went to court to cover cases, the proportion of black lawyers to white was about the same as it was back at the office. But in the years since, all that had changed. Now it was an everyday thing to see black prosecutors, black police officers, black judges, and most of all black lawyers.

At first, the young black lawyers had acted like any other rookie advocates, running from court to court, grabbing every legal-aid case they could find, scratching out a living. But soon some top legal talent had emerged, and Canton Carmichael was exhibit number one.

Always elegantly dressed, armed with a fine leather briefcase, the latest cell phone, and his initialed Cross pen, Carmichael had a brilliant legal mind and commanding presence in court. And, like a blues singer who had broken onto the mainstream charts, he’d busted out of the black-client, immigrant-client, legal-aid ghetto, and now represented some of the wealthiest white people in the city.

“Come on in, Double A,” he said, greeting Amankwah at the door of his new, well-appointed office suite.

“Nice digs, Double C.” Amankwah looked around the foyer at the polished marble floors and the oak wainscotting and let out a low whistle.

“Got to show the flash if you’re going to get the cash,” Carmichael said, a full-faced grin firmly in place as they walked down the corridor to his bright corner office.

“Looks like it’s working,” Amankwah said, taking a seat in one of the well-padded client chairs.

Carmichael sat behind his expansive glass-topped desk and dropped the grin. “I worked hard for this, man.”

“I know,” Amankwah said. “Nice win last week with the hockey player.”

“Wasn’t it? Thanks for the front-page coverage.”

“You knew that bringing up her website about the cops was going to blow the case out of the water, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

For all his outward sophistication, Carmichael was at heart a survivor. Taken from his mother by Children’s Aid when he was three years old, he’d grown up in foster and group homes all over the city. His was a rare CAS success story and he was proud of it. But also extremely cautious.