Stranglehold (17 page)

“Take back all those extra taxes that have been piled on the citizens and the businesses of Toronto. I want
you
to take home more of
your
hard-earned money.”

Greene knew why Charlton wanted to talk to him in the washroom. The chief loved to know every detail of any major crime investigation. What had happened with the wiretaps on the husband? Any other suspects? Who was Jennifer’s secret lover?

But there was no way Charlton could have found out about his affair with Raglan. Was there?

“Best of all,” Charlton said, his voice rising in a crescendo, “when I’m mayor, Toronto, the largest city in Canada, the most multicultural city in the world, will be ours once again. We are going to take it back and make it shine!”

This sent the crowd into rapturous applause. Charlton, who knew how to keep an audience panting for more, and how to make sure the press had enough time to file their stories, raised his hands again in triumph and headed off the stage.

SURVEILLANCE WORK WAS ONE OF THE MORE THANKLESS TASKS FOR ANY POLICE OFFICER. IT
was like being a navigator in a long car race, Kennicott thought. There were lengthy stretches of boring nothing-to-do time, punctuated by urgent action. No one noticed if you did your job right, but if you made a mistake it left egg all over your face.

As the lead homicide detective, he didn’t have to be sitting in this unmarked car, parked across from Howard Darnell’s home, at ten minutes after midnight. But if he was going to be in charge of this investigation, he knew it was important for the other cops to see him putting in the hours. Besides, he wanted to do it.

Right now the moon was out, giving a soft light to the quiet street. The wind had died down to a breeze. There were no lights on in the Darnell home. Nor was there any noise inside. It was sad and uncomfortable listening in on Raglan’s family and disconcerting to hear the children cry and their father try to console them. There was clearly friction between Darnell and Aaron. Earlier, as they were getting ready to drive to the funeral home in Welland, they’d had a huge fight when Aaron insisted on wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He was complaining about his new school, where he was already in trouble because he’d been late every morning except for the first day of classes. He said he hated the place and was threatening not to go back unless his father got him the new iPhone to replace his BlackBerry, which he claimed was “a piece of shit.”

The judge who had issued the warrant, aware of this extreme invasion of privacy, insisted it had to be renewed every four days. Kennicott knew that if they didn’t get something incriminating on tape soon, it would expire. Part of him hoped that would happen.

He lowered himself deeper in the driver’s seat.

“Drago, you hear anything?” he asked, speaking quietly into the microphone that dangled from his right ear.

“Not a peep,” said the sound technician in the delivery van parked at the
top of the block. He was a Serbian guy named Slavko Dragic, who insisted that everyone call him Drago.

“I’ll check with you in fifteen.” Kennicott had set up a system of quick calls every quarter hour to make sure they were on top of things. It would also keep him alert. He was tired. The dull fatigue that comes from days and nights of getting short snatches of sleep, eating strange food at strange hours, and feeling the constant alertness of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Last night, after Jo had fallen asleep on his chest, he had shut his eyes too and eventually drifted into a light sleep. Because he’d signed up for this shift, he’d set the alarm on his cell phone for eleven o’clock. He’d managed to grab it and turn it off before it woke her up. But he’d had to hurry.

In the kitchen he took the blue Pastis water pitcher that Andrea had brought him from Paris, and put it into a top cupboard out of sight, then he started writing Jo a note.

Very late

Jo

Had to get back to work on the case. Glad you stayed.

He stopped. What to write next?
You’re welcome at any time
? That sounded ridiculous. How about
Anytime you miss the last ferry there’s a spare room
? That was worse. And
very late
? That seemed self-congratulatory.

He balled the paper up and stuffed it in his back pocket and tried again.

Jo

Had to get back to work. Door is always open.

Horrible. Clichéd. He ripped the page in half, then into quarters, and stuck them into the same back pocket.

He looked at the clock above the stove. Shit. It was 11:18. He had to be out the door in twelve minutes. And he needed to grab a shower.

Jo

I put some fresh grounds in the espresso machine, help yourself.

D.

He yanked the handle off his machine, quickly rinsed out the old grounds, dried off the basket, and poured in fresh ones from the airtight jar he kept on
the kitchen counter. He pulled out a drawer. Where was the tamper? Damn. Just use a spoon, he told himself. He grabbed a soup spoon and pushed down hard on the grounds, making a concave dent and spilling bits over the side. This is crazy, he thought as dug back into the drawer, trying not to be too loud. There it is. He grabbed the tamper, poured in more grounds, made sure he pushed them down firm and flat, flicked some specks off the rim, and shoved the handle back into position. He rushed to the shower, wishing he’d written a note that didn’t sound so cold.

Too late now, Kennicott thought as he kept watch on Darnell’s house. It was still dark. The street was quiet. He tried not to yawn.

A light came on in the front room on the second floor. The master bedroom.

“A light’s on,” he said into the microphone, sitting up. “Drago, what do you hear?”

Drago was parked too far away to see the house, so Kennicott was the eyes, Drago the ears.

“Feet on the floor,” he said. “Wait. I hear footsteps. Someone’s in the bathroom.”

Kennicott watched the lighted curtain in front. Darnell probably had to pee. Most likely he’d be back in bed in a few seconds, and the light would go out again.

“Person is back in the original bedroom. Sounds like someone is getting dressed,” Drago said.

“How can you tell?” Kennicott asked.

“I’ve been doing this a long time. Now someone’s going downstairs. One set of footsteps. Pretty heavy-sounding. Wouldn’t be a child.”

“Light just came on on the ground floor,” Kennicott said. “He’s probably going to the kitchen to get something to eat or drink.”

“I heard the light switch. Wait. What’s that? Fridge opening. Closing. He’s pouring something into a glass. Sitting down. Now nothing.”

“Okay,” Kennicott said. The mike wouldn’t pick up the subtle sound of someone drinking.

“A faint sound. Something clicked. Scratching.”

“What do you think it is?”

Drago was silent for a few seconds. Then he chuckled. “He’s writing something at the kitchen table. I heard him tear a sheet of paper, like he was ripping it off a pad.”

“You’re good at this,” Kennicott said.

“Thanks. Wait. A door opened and shut. Wait. Wait. Damn, now there’s nothing.”

“How could there be nothing?” Kennicott asked. In a few seconds he had his answer. Darnell was walking toward his garage and a light came on through the side window. They hadn’t miked the garage, so there was no feed from inside. I won’t make that mistake again, he told himself.

What was Darnell doing in there? Kennicott thought about how he’d got up in the middle of the night. Wrote something on the kitchen table. Was it a suicide note to the kids? It wouldn’t take long for him asphyxiate himself sitting in the van with the windows open and the garage door closed.

Before Kennicott could get out of his car, he heard a loud rumble. The garage door opened. He could see Darnell silhouetted by the inside light bending down and lifting something very heavy then bringing it out to the driveway. It took Kennicott a few seconds to realize it was a canoe.

Darnell punched some numbers into the keypad by the garage door and it unfolded back into place. He went to the side of the canoe, bent deep down, slipped one hand under the near side, and reached for the far gunnel with the other. Using a confident rocking motion, he one-two-three hoisted it onto his shoulders in a swift move and started walking down the street. Kennicott sank lower in his seat as he passed, which was probably unnecessary since Darnell had a canoe over his head. As a boy, Kennicott and his older brother, Michael, had spent every summer at his parents’ cottage. He knew a lot about canoes, and he could tell Darnell did too.

He waited until Darnell got well down the moonlit street before getting out of his car. It was almost comical to watch Darnell look left and right, and let the all-night Queen streetcar pass, before he portaged across the road. Kennicott started walking and called the officer in the unmarked squad car parked near the lake. He told him to come back to keep an eye on the house.

It was easy to follow the canoe, keeping to the shadows. Two blocks south of Queen, Darnell entered the bucolic park by the lake. Kennicott hid in a stand of tall bushes. The moonlight danced on the dark water.

Darnell crossed the boardwalk, lifted the canoe from his shoulders, and deposited it smoothly in the sand, the stern resting in the water. He stretched, looked up and down the empty beach, and then retraced his steps, walking past Kennicott’s hiding place.

Where’s he going? Kennicott wondered. Then he realized Darnell didn’t have a paddle. He was going home to get one. Then what? Paddle out into the lake and jump in?

He called the second backup car that was around the corner. “Stand by out of sight.” Then he called the one now stationed near the house. “Darnell’s walking back home, I think he’s going to get a paddle. Let him go. I’ll grab him when he comes back here.”

This was such a tragedy. Kennicott had no doubt now that in a few minutes, when he intercepted Darnell before he got in the canoe, the distraught husband and father would crumble and confess that he’d arranged to have his wife killed. And that now he was trying to end it all.

Kennicott would get Children’s Aid to take care of the younger kids. Back at headquarters, he’d get kudos for solving his first homicide.

This meant he’d never find out who Raglan was having her affair with. Just as well. He didn’t really care. All that mattered was that he was about to save Howard Darnell, the father of three children, from a watery grave.

GREENE PUSHED HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWD OF ENTHUSIASTIC HAP SUPPORTERS AND
went into the back room. A young woman in a silk suit was sitting on a beat-up old couch. She had a plastic Loblaws shopping bag on her lap.

“Hi,” she said, standing. “I’m Dinah Renfrew, one of Mr. Charlton’s campaign assistants.”

In all the years he’d known the chief, Greene had never heard anyone refer to him as Mr. Charlton.

“You must be Mr. Greene,” she said.

“Call me Ari.”

“I was told you’d come in after the speech.” She smiled. “I got this intern job yesterday. Mr. Charlton’s ski chalet is next door to my parents’. I graduated from Queen’s last spring and it’s so hard to find anything.”

The door flew open and Charlton burst in. He was followed closely by Clyde Newbridge, a short, fat cop whom Greene disliked intensely. The feeling was mutual.

Newbridge had joined the force a few years before Greene, and for many years their careers followed similar paths as they both worked their way through the ranks. But Newbridge was more of a careerist. He got involved in the police union and seemed to know everybody. Especially people in power. He showed up whenever there was a big event, hobnobbing with the top brass. Especially Hap Charlton.

Newbridge whipped the door shut. He glanced at Greene but didn’t say anything. Neither did Greene.

“Hi, Dinah,” Charlton said, giving Renfrew a friendly hug.

She gave him a shy embrace, stood back, and handed over the shopping bag. “I got what you asked for.”

“Good work.” He turned to Newbridge. “Clyde, Dinah’s dad is waiting for her outside. Make sure you take her to him right now.”

“I’ll try to find him,” Newbridge said.

Charlton’s face flushed red with anger. “I said be sure you get Dinah to her father now. Understood. No fuckups this time.”

“Okay, okay,” Newbridge said, cowed into submission.

Although he’d never been a victim of it, Greene had seen Charlton’s hair-trigger temper before. He could flare up at any moment. It was an effective way of keeping his troops off balance, and in line.

“And close that damn door and make sure it stays closed,” Charlton said.

“I’ll stay right in front of it,” Newbridge said. He smirked at Greene and escorted Renfrew out.

Without saying another word, Charlton led Greene into a tiny washroom and closed the door behind them.
Shithole
was a pretty accurate description, Greene thought.

Charlton turned on the water. This was standard procedure for the chief, who forever feared being caught on a wiretap when he was skating close to the line. If not slipping over it.

The room had a small window to the outside. Charlton pushed it open and a rush of cold air flooded in. From the shopping bag he pulled out a package of small, plastic-tipped cigars, unwrapped it, jammed one between his teeth, reached back into the bag, took out some matches, lit up, and sucked hard.

Greene sniffed the sweet tobacco smell. He was tempted to ask Charlton for one. That would shock him, which was probably not a great idea,

“We got new poll this afternoon,” Charlton said. “Now I’m ten points ahead of Forest. I’m going to kill her in the suburbs. If I can split the downtown vote, this is going to be a cakewalk.”

“Still a long ways to go,” Greene said.

“So long as nothing fucks up, I’m in like Flynn.” He blew a narrow line of smoke out the window. “Look, Ari, I know how you felt about Raglan.”

Greene held his breath.