Stranglehold (20 page)

The blond man opened the door. Aaron stepped out. He was wearing the T-shirt he’d worn to his mother’s visitation, the one with
AARON 8
painted across the front. The two men grabbed both his arms.

Aaron looked back at his father.

“Why are you doing this?” he yelled, loud enough that Kennicott could hear.

Darnell put his hands in the air in a gesture of hopelessness.

“This was Mom’s idea, wasn’t it?” he screamed.

Kennicott saw Darnell say something else and nod.

“I’ll escape,” Aaron screamed. “You’ll see.”

The two men manhandled him into the SUV.

“The way these things work is that they take the kid far out in the desert somewhere in the Southwest. He’ll live in a tent for at least a year. Sometimes longer. He’s going to learn to make fire with a flint. Tough, basic stuff. Then they’ll slowly reintegrate him back into urban life.”

“Sounds intense,” Kennicott said.

“One counsellor for every two kids. These programs cost a fortune. Mostly it’s kids sent by their super-rich parents.”

The SUV with Aaron in it turned to leave. The other one followed right behind. In a few seconds both vehicles were gone. Darnell was left alone at the remote end of the near-empty lot. His defeated body slumped over the hood of his car.

“He’s trying to save his son,” Greene said.

Kennicott felt his throat constrict. “We have to find out,” he said at last, “who killed that boy’s mother.”

“QUIET ON THE SET. QUIET ON THE SET,” THE MAN IN THE HEADSET SAID, LOOKING OUT AT
the audience in the TV studio.

Awotwe Amankwah reached for a glass of water on the table in front of him and took a silent sip of water. With all the front-page stories he was getting in the newspaper in the last few days, he was now being invited to do lots of TV appearances like this. To his left, the host of the show, Darren Rolland, stared into the camera, the pancake makeup thick on his broad forehead.

“Counting down, live in three, two, one.” The man in the headset pointed at Rolland and the red light on the top of the camera lit up.

“Good evening, Toronto. My name is Darren Rolland, and welcome to the first televised debate between the two main contenders for the job of mayor of Toronto, Mayor Peggy Forest and the chief of police, Hap Charlton.”

The man in the headset pointed at the camera on Rolland’s left. He moved his head toward it nonchalantly, as if he were turning to talk to an old friend.

“Joining me tonight to question the two candidates is one of the leading journalists at the
Toronto Star
.” He glanced down at his clipboard. “Awotwe Amankwah,” he said slowly. “I hope I pronounced your name correctly.”

“You got it just right,” Amankwah said.

“Practice makes perfect,” Rolland said. “Welcome to the show.”

“Thanks for having me on, Darren.” The show’s producer had told Amankwah at least five times in the last half hour to be sure to look right at the telegenic host, never at the cameras. And always call him by his first name.

“Awotwe,” Rolland said as if they were best friends, “you’ve been at the
Star
for a decade and a half, much of that as a court reporter. Crime, law, and order: They seem to be one of the major themes of this campaign so far. How do you see this shaping up?”

Before they went on air, Rolland had told Amankwah that he was going
to ask this question. He was to make sure his answer was no more than fifteen seconds long.

“Ever since the so-called Timmie Murder, last year, when that little boy was felled by a stray bullet outside the Tim Hortons, crime has been on everyone’s mind,” he said.

Rolland splayed his hands out. “But you’ve been covering criminal trials for years,” he said. “Surely you see a change. And not for the better.”

“I’ve got an idea, Darren,” Amankwah said. “Come to court with me and we’ll watch a few trials together.”

Rolland’s eyes flickered for a moment with a this-is-my-show, don’t-try-to-upstage-me look. Then he grinned and pointed a finger at Amankwah. “Watch out, I might just take you up on that.” He circled his finger back toward the camera. “Time to get to the candidates and start this debate.”

The two candidates were already in place, each standing behind a wood podium. Forest had on her standard campaign uniform: a dark dress, which she wore with a different scarf each day, prompting the
Toronto Sun
reporter Zach Stone to quip to his colleagues that, since Charlton had a stranglehold on this election, she had to protect her neck.

Instead of the blue blazer and open-collar shirt that he usually wore, Charlton had on a blue pin-striped suit, a white dress shirt buttoned up around his ample neck, and a red tie.

Rolland was the moderator, and he kept to a tight agenda. The first set of questions were about taxes, then the state of city parks and the candidate’s stands on building more subways. Forest spoke in a nasal monotone that made everything she said sound excruciatingly boring.

In contrast, Charlton’s delivery was passionate, dynamic. The man was a natural, and the audience, although told before the show that they could not chant or cheer in any way, greeted each of his answers with rousing applause.

“And now let’s turn to the question that’s dominating this campaign,” Rolland said. “Crime. Awotwe, you’re the expert, why don’t you ask the first question on this topic?”

Without hesitating, Amankwah looked right at Charlton. “Chief Charlton, the
Toronto Star
has learned that tomorrow morning, eight distinguished defence lawyers will publicly release a letter outlining their concerns that in the last three years members of the Toronto Police Service were engaged in illegal
activities with numerous prostitutes throughout this city. The allegations include sexual assault, extortion, and theft.”

Rolland stiffened.

Amankwah had expected Charlton to look surprised. But he didn’t.

“These allegations all pertain to the period when you were chief of police,” Amankwah said. “Were you aware of them?”

Forest looked at Charlton, a spark in her eyes. At last, she seemed to be thinking, here was a chink in her opponent’s armour.

Charlton undid his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his shirt. “There, that feels better.” He smiled and he shook his head, a sad look on his face.

“Awotwe, I’m so glad you asked me that question. Of course I’ve known about this for some time. In my forty years of policing, it’s by far the most distressing thing I’ve encountered. But as the chief, sometimes you have to keep quiet about things until everything is in place. Your timing with this question is perfect. This evening, just before I walked into the studio, I issued a press release telling the citizens of Toronto that I’ve authorized a full and complete, no-holds-barred, departmental investigation into these allegations. More than five thousand four hundred brave men and women serve and protect the citizens of our city, put their lives on the line each and every day. And there’s no way I’m going to let a handful of rotten apples destroy the best police force in this country.”

Rolland put his hand over his mike, tilted his head toward Amankwah, and whispered, “Great stuff.”

Forest’s shoulders slumped. She looked like she’d sprung a leak in back. Thunderous applause broke out in the audience. Charlton beamed a self-satisfied grin.

But all Amankwah could think was that someone had tipped off the chief. He had seen this train was about to leave the station and had run hard to get out in front of it.

HOWARD DARNELL LOOKED LIKE A MAN WHO WAS BARELY HANGING ON, KENNICOTT
thought. It was like watching someone slip into a pit in a slow and horrible descent.

At Darnell’s suggestion, they’d arranged to get together early this evening at the local coffee shop in the Beach where they’d first met, instead of at police headquarters. It was a good idea, Kennicott thought, to go to a place where Darnell would feel comfortable, and at night the atmosphere in the café was relaxed. But from the pained look on his face as he walked in, Kennicott knew there was nothing he could do or say to give him much comfort.

“Good evening, Mr. Darnell,” Kennicott said, standing up to greet him. He’d taken a seat in the back this time. More private.

“Evening, Detective.” Darnell’s skin was sallow. “I appreciate you coming down here tonight.”

“Happy to be here,” Kennicott said as they both sat. “How are the kids?” He wondered if Darnell would tell him about taking Aaron to Buffalo this morning.

Darnell put his face in his hands, and shook his head.

Kennicott willed himself to sit still. Watch. Listen. Wait. Don’t move.

At last Darnell lifted his head. His eyes were red. “I probably should have told you this before.” He spoke softly. “Aaron, my oldest son. He’s been a mess for a long time. He was the main reason Jennifer came back after we split.”

“What kind of a mess?”

“Drugs,” Darnell said, louder. “It started with graffiti when he was thirteen. Then he got into dope and he started dealing. He was in way in over his head. Nothing we tried worked. Private schools. Counselling. Rehab programs. A few days ago I told him I was taking him to Buffalo to buy him the new iPhone. I had to get him across the border. Jennie set this up two months ago, and if we missed this date, it would have taken at least another two months, maybe more.
This morning I drove him down and he was seized in the parking lot of an electronics store and whisked away. It was horrible, but we had to do it. He’s now somewhere in the desert in northern New Mexico, and he’ll be there for at least a year.”

We had to do it.
Jennifer was still alive in Darnell’s mind, Kennicott thought. He shook his head, feigning surprise. “A year?”

“Maybe longer. I know parents always say their kids are bright, but you have to understand that by the time Aaron was ten, he was building his own computers. He’s off-the-chart gifted. But he’s so unbelievably manipulative. He was destroying the whole family.”

“What about your other two children?”

“I hated to do this at such a bad time, but I had no choice. They say they’re upset he’s gone, but I know they’re also relieved.”

“Did Jennifer know about this?”

Darnell squared his hands in front of him and put his chin on top. “This was all her doing. She found the program. Insisted we had to do it. We couldn’t get funding, and it’s incredibly expensive. He’s our son. Secrecy was absolutely crucial. I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why should I mind?” Could anyone be more polite than Darnell? Kennicott wondered.

“There’s another thing I didn’t tell you.”

“What?”

“Last night I got all of Aaron’s drug stuff out of the house.”

“What did you do?”

“I took all his dope, his scales, his water pipes. Everything. Put it all in a big green garbage bag. I was convinced you guys were going to get a warrant and search the house and then he would get arrested again. That would have been the worst. I know this sounds crazy, but I took my canoe out of the garage and portaged it down to the lake. I paddled way out and tossed the bag overboard.”

“Really?” Kennicott said. “People do things like this when they’re in grief. I love canoeing too. But I’ve never done it in the middle of the night.”

Darnell laughed for the first time since Kennicott had met him. “You should try portaging a canoe through the city. I had to wait for the all-night streetcar to pass before I crossed Queen. I wonder what the driver thought.”

Kennicott smiled. Was Darnell really so naive that he wouldn’t think the police
had been following him? Or was he a master manipulator who knew exactly what was going on and was offering up an explanation to throw him off track?

Darnell grew somber again. “I’m assuming you still have no news for me on the case,” he said.

“Afraid not. I know it’s frustrating,” Kennicott said.

Darnell shook his head. “You still don’t know who Jennie was with in that motel?”

“No.”

Kennicott had breached this sensitive topic earlier. He’d asked Darnell if he could think of anyone his wife would be meeting like this. He made a point of not using the term “having an affair.”

“I keep racking my brains,” Darnell said. “I guess being a Crown, and seeing so many people mess up their lives, she’d got very good at keeping secrets from me.”

They sat in silence. Darnell rubbed his eyes. “My old firm has offered me my job back,” he said.

“That’s good news.”

“They’re just trying to be charitable. I’m not going to take it. The kids need me around right now.”

“Understandable. Maybe in a few months.”

“It’s time for me to do something else with my life. I’m thinking of opening up a fruit-and-vegetable shop down at this end of the Beach, if you can believe it. I hadn’t turned on a computer since Jennie was murdered. But I took this afternoon to do some research and I couldn’t help looking up the news on this case. One of the articles talked about you.”

Kennicott had been wondering if Darnell would ever find out his background. Hap Charlton, who was the chief of police at the time he quit his law firm and became a cop, knew how to get publicity. The press had eaten up the story of the lawyer who turned cop after his brother was murdered, and it followed him around like a bad shadow.

“So you know what it’s like to talk to a homicide detective who’s investigating a murder in your family.”

“Yes, and now I’m that detective.”

“But you’re also a victim. Your brother’s murder is still not solved.”

“That’s right.” Kennicott looked straight at Darnell. “Like you, I have to wait.”

“The detective on your case was Ari Greene, wasn’t it?” Darnell asked.

“He still is.”

“I met him for the first time at the funeral home. He seems like a shy man.”

“Greene’s quiet.”

“I remember his name because Jennie did a few murder trials with him.”

“I was involved in some of those.”

“Jennie talked about him a lot. I could tell she liked working with him.”