Stranglehold (43 page)

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

“He smoked one of those cheap cigars, the ones with the white tip on it. Smelled gross.”

Kennicott glanced over at Greene. “Look at these two pictures.” He showed photos he’d picked up at the homicide bureau on his way down to the
Star
to meet Greene and Amankwah.

She pointed to the first one. “It’s a kid and a bicycle. Is this some kind of joke?”

“It’s no joke at all. Did you see him on this bike? We think he might be in serious danger.”

She yanked her cigarette out of her mouth and stomped on it. “Yeah. I saw the kid with the tag painted all over his T-shirt. He was on a bike.”

“What about the woman in this second photo?”

“I saw her too, the day she got strangled. Whistling away to herself. Acting like she was a movie star with her sunglasses and that red wig.”

Kennicott saw Greene stare at Reynolds, transfixed. He knew what Greene
was thinking. Except for her killer, this prostitute was the last person to see Jennifer alive.

“Who came to the motel first?” Kennicott asked.

“She did. Swinging her backpack like she was walking down Hollywood Boulevard. Kid came a few minutes later. I had no idea he was following her or anything. The parking lot inside is good concrete. A lot of them go in with their bikes and skateboards and do tricks. Drives Alistair, the owner, nuts.”

Kennicott showed her the photo of Newbridge again. “When did he show up?”

“About five minutes later, after the kid. Maybe less than five.”

“Then he comes up to your room.”

“Yep, then like I told you last time, when we’re done he gets into that white van and takes off.”

“Can you remember anything else about the van?”

She shrugged. “I could tell the driver was smoking a cigar too, by the big puff of smoke out his window.”

“Do you know approximately what time that was?” Greene asked, jumping in. Kennicott couldn’t blame him. This was going to put Hap at the scene of the crime.

“I know exactly when he left my room: 10:25.”

“Before your regular ten-thirty appointment,” Kennicott said.

She started to laugh. “It’s not a john at ten-thirty, stupid.”

“Who is it, then?” Kennicott asked.

“
Seinfeld
reruns. I watch them every day.” She was giggling now, almost like a child. “I never miss one. I finished off the fat bastard and had him out the door so I had time to make my microwave popcorn, light up a fresh smoke, and watch.”

Kennicott shook his head. “Did you look out the window again?” he asked her.

“Yeah, about ten minutes later.”

“Why?”

“I mute the sound during the commercials. Stupid me, I went to the window to see if there was anyone waiting for me.”

“Did you see anyone else go into the courtyard?” Greene asked.

She looked at him closely. “A few seconds later. Tall guy with broad shoulders, all dressed up in motorcycle gear, including the helmet.”

“Where was he coming from?” Greene asked.

“The strip mall next door, he parked near the Money Mart.”

“Where did he go?” Greene asked.

She flicked her thumb to the side, pointing toward the courtyard. Like a hitchhiker trying to get a ride.

“What about the kid on the bike?” Kennicott asked. “You see him again?”

“Yeah. I saw him on his bike riding away real fast. Then the guy in the helmet came running out. Then the ambulance and cop cars showed up.”

“You see anything else after that?” Kennicott asked.

“Yeah. I went back to watching TV. It was the soup Nazi episode. One of my favourites.”

“THE CEREMONY STARTS AT ELEVEN,” GREENE SAID AS HE RAN TO KENNICOTT’S CAR.

Kennicott swung the car around and roared out onto Kingston Road. He lifted his handset for his radio.

Greene grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?” he said.

“Calling it in. I want to get some backup.”

“Backup? I still don’t think you see what’s happening. They tried to frame me. Now they’ll try to put it on Aaron. If they don’t kill him first.”

Kennicott took his hand from the radio. “And Newbridge is going to be listening.” He put his hand back on the wheel.

“We have to get there,” Greene said.

“How can you be so sure Aaron will be there?”

“Why do you think he sprayed ‘Hap Is a Murderer’ graffiti all over the city? He’s calling Hap’s bluff.”

Kennicott was a good driver. He zipped through traffic. “Maybe I owe you an apology too,” he said after a few minutes.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Greene said. “I was proud of you, even if I was the one who got snared.”

“I should have thought of those candles and the Oscar Peterson tape. And the pillowcases.”

They were approaching the civic centre. Media trucks were all over the place.

“Don’t eat yourself up over it. I didn’t see it for the longest time,” Greene said. “Throw the car up on the grass and let’s run.”

Kennicott hopped the curb and in seconds they were parked. “Jennifer was brave, wasn’t she?” he said just before they got out of the car.

Those were the words, Greene realized, he was longing to hear. “She was very brave,” he said.

THIS HAD TURNED INTO A PERFECT MEDIA STORM, AMANKWAH THOUGHT AS HE LOOKED UP
from the crowded main-floor atrium of the Scarborough Civic Centre. Five stories of circular balconies were packed with spectators looking down on the stage that had been set up for Hap Charlton to make his first appearance as mayor.

On what would normally be a quiet Saturday morning for news, the dramatic story of a graffiti artist spray-painting up Toronto, accusing the city’s newly elected mayor of murder, was everywhere. As if that weren’t enough, to highlight Charlton’s antigraffiti campaign, a garage door covered with ugly spray-painted designs had been brought in and placed at the back of the stage. Two members of his rugby team were holding it up, and behind them four others were hoisting a gigantic sheet of plastic. Another sheet protected the floor. A power washer was in front of it, and soon Charlton was going to come out and use the gunlike nozzle to clean it off.

Put it all together, and you had a news tsunami.

Amankwah had rushed up here after his meeting at the
Star
with Greene and Kennicott and snagged a spot near the front. TV cameras and reporters were everywhere. Two raised platforms had been put up near the back of the main floor with microphones for citizens to ask questions.

Charlton’s support people had already warned the press that the new mayor wasn’t going to talk to them about the incendiary “Hap Is a Murderer” tags that had been discovered overnight. Instead he planned to have a “direct dialogue with the people of Toronto.”

The rest of Hap’s rugby team was in the front row, leading the crowd in a new chant: “Hap is our mayor. Hap is our mayor.” Everywhere he looked in the audience, Amankwah could see police officers walking through the crowd, their progress impeded by the crush of people.

The back door behind the stage opened and Charlton strode in, his arms
raised above his head in his now-familiar Rocky-style entrance. He wore a sweatshirt, jeans, and gloves. A pair of work goggles were perched on his head.

He went right up to the microphone at the front of the stage.

For a moment he was silent. Amankwah could see he was scanning the crowd. Looking for someone.

“Welcome, Toronto,” he said. “Today in my first public appearance since my election on Monday. By now you’ve all heard about the latest graffiti garbage that has littered our city this morning. That’s exactly why you elected me. This has got to stop, starting right now.”

There was a roar of approval from the crowd.

“Hap is our mayor. Hap is our mayor,” the rugby players bleated, like a chorus of sheep, and everyone soon joined in.

Charlton moved over to the power washer and picked up the long hose. He swung it back and forth, quieting the crowd. His eyes still alert, looking.

“It’s time to clean up our city.” He pulled the goggles over his eyes. An aide rushed up behind him and started up the pressure washer. It made a loud rattling sound.

“Give me some juice,” Charlton yelled as he aimed the water spray at the offending paint.

The rugby players started yelling “Hap, Hap, Hap” above the noise and soon the whole hall was chanting along.

Charlton sprayed off a few letters from the door, a rather token effort, Amankwah thought, before he signalled for his aide to turn the machine off. The water stopped. So did the noise. He strode back to the microphone, holding the nozzle in his hand like a gunslinger who’d just won a shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.

“Don’t let anyone tell you that’s art,” he said. “It’s garbage.”

The audience cheered even louder.

“And we’re going to get rid of all if it. Brick by brick.”

Amankwah could see he was scanning the crowd again.

“We all hear too much from the media,” he said, “so today I want to talk to you, the real people of Toronto. I see folks are already lined up at the two wireless microphones we have set up. Fire away your questions.”

“The fence at the dog park in our neighbourhood has been broken for six months,” a woman with a cane said. “Who do I call to get it fixed?”

Charlton pointed to himself. “Call me.”

The hall erupted in applause.

“I’m not kidding. Give one of my aides your number and we’ll take care of it Monday morning.”

For twenty minutes he answered questions about cracked sidewalks, front pad parking, noise bylaws. But Amankwah could see he looked uneasy, constantly scanning the room.

Suddenly he pointed the hose at a young man wearing a hoodie, who was near one of the microphones.

“There he is,” Charlton shouted.

Amankwah saw Clyde Newbridge, Charlton’s fat partner in crime, push his way through the crowd to get to the young man. The man jumped to the front of the other people in line and grabbed the wireless microphone. He flung back his hood.

“Hap Charlton killed my mother, Jennifer Raglan,” Aaron Darnell shouted. His voice rang out, silencing the huge hall. “I was there. I saw it. I have the proof.”

“Get him, stop him,” Charlton yelled.

Amankwah saw Newbridge tossing people aside, like a bowing ball scattering pins.

Darnell jumped off the edge of the platform and disappeared into the crowd, clutching the mike.

“She was in room 8 of the Maple Leaf Motel. I was there. I saw him strangle her,” his voice soaring to the upper levels.

Newbridge was stomping his way toward him.

Charlton’s face turned crimson. His eyes flashed in anger. He barrelled down from the stage, dragging the pressure washer behind him.

“Form a block,” he shouted at his rugby players in the front row. They turned toward the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, and started advancing like infantry.

“Out of my way,” Charlton yelled at the people in front of him. He pulled the trigger and sprayed them, opening a gap for his gang.

“I saw Hap Charlton drive away in a white van. Detective Greene came after. He’s innocent,” Darnell’s voice said. “I was scared and I ran.”

People were rushing to get out of the way. Amankwah saw the top of Darnell’s hoodie, burrowing through bodies like a frightened animal. Newbridge was gaining on him.

“I didn’t know who the man in the room was when he killed her,” Aaron
said, his voice soaring. “I was away during the election. But I just got back and saw Hap’s face all over the city. It was him. He’s a murderer.”

Another police officer, even larger than Newbridge, jumped in the fat cop’s way. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Daniel Kennicott and Ari Greene appeared, and stood in front of Aaron.

Amankwah looked back at Charlton. He’d got to the end of the power-washer cord and had dropped the nozzle. His rugby players had scattered. He tried to push his way through the crowd but a group of men grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground.

TV cameramen and photographers shoved their way through to capture the moment. Amankwah recognized the man with a camera who got there first. It was Barclay Church, beaming from ear to ear.

IT WAS HARD FOR ANGELA KREITINGER TO BELIEVE THAT SHE’D BEEN BACK IN TORONTO FOR
only eight weeks. It felt like a year since she’d spotted the CN Tower on her early-morning drive into the city. Today was a very different Monday morning. After the wild events of the weekend her case against Ari Greene had gone south. Where does that leave me? she wondered. It was a good thing that she was on a weekly lease at her hotel apartment.

“All rise,” the friendly court registrar said, walking into court before Judge Norville, who rushed up to her raised seat with what seemed like an extra spring in her step.

The courtroom was packed with reporters. Even some of the American networks had picked up on the story of the chief-of-police-turned-mayor who had been charged with first-degree murder.

Last night Kreitinger had called Ted DiPaulo and told him what she was going to do today.

“You are a formidable opponent,” he’d said. “Don’t hang your head, Angie, you did a very good job. No one should blame you that in the end it was the wrong guy.”

“Thanks, Ted,” she’d replied. “Means a lot coming from you.”

Then she’d called Howard Darnell.

“I understand,” he’d said.

“How is Aaron?” she’d asked.

“He’s pretty shaken up. But we’re all glad he’s safe and that he’s home.”

Norville took her glasses off and peered down at Kreitinger. “Madam Crown, given recent events, is there any need for me to bring in the jury?”

Kreitinger took her time rising from her seat. My fucking back, she thought, resisting the urge to reach behind her and rub it.

Her day had started at seven in the head Crown’s office, where she had met with Albert Fernandez, Jo Summers, and Daniel Kennicott. Kennicott, to his
credit, hadn’t gloated and made no mention of his doubt about Greene’s guilt. Summers looked stunned. Her emotions had been whipsawed, from her grief at the murder, to her anger at Greene and her absolute belief in his guilt, to shock at this sudden turn of events. Fernandez was his usual, cool professional self. Together they had worked out the exact wording of what Kreitinger would say in court.