Stray Bullets (38 page)

“That’s right,” Amankwah said.

“And you understand Mr. Wilkinson will not discuss any of his testimony in the case.”

“I understand. But we need a photo of Mr. Wilkinson holding a picture of Kyle. I hate to ask for it, but my editors insist.”

“We did not agree to that,” Granwell said.

“I know,” Amankwah replied. “I’ve only had a few hours to set this up. I don’t like it, but it’s a deal breaker. Mr. Wilkinson won’t talk about his evidence, that weakens the story. We need the picture.”

Kennicott watched Granwell furrow his otherwise perfectly smooth brow. He tilted sideways and whispered in Wilkinson’s ear.

Wilkinson listened intently. Nodded. “It’s okay,” he said a few seconds later. “We want to make sure this story gets maximum coverage. I understand why they need the photo.”

Amankwah clicked on his recorder. The sound seemed loud in the large room. “I’m recording everything,” he said.

The air-conditioning was on very high, and the room felt unnaturally cold.

Kennicott concentrated on standing perfectly still.

“Mr. Wilkinson, how do you feel about the mistrial?” Amankwah asked.

“My wife and I are very disappointed,” he said, still looking out the window. “We’ve decided to leave Toronto and don’t plan to return. Detective Greene has told us that my evidence from the first trial, as much as it is relevant, can simply be read to the next jury.”

Kennicott watched Amankwah’s eyebrows rise. That the Wilkinsons were leaving Toronto and wouldn’t be at the retrial, was big news. The reporter could smell a good story.

“I was at the first trial. I understand you didn’t see what happened—”

Granwell put his hand in front of Wilkinson and leaned over to speak to him again. “We agreed no questions about my client’s testimony.”

“It’s okay,” Wilkinson said immediately, before Granwell had a chance to say anything to him. “I want to clarify something.”

Granwell frowned and pulled his arm back.

Kennicott smiled to himself. Half an hour ago in Granwell’s office, he’d watched the two of them rehearse this little act they’d just performed.

“We want to make the reporter believe that you are speaking spontaneously,” Granwell had said, “not following your lawyer’s instructions. It will impress him.”

“As I said under oath in court,” Wilkinson said to Amankwah, “I didn’t see anything. But if I had, I would stay here for the new trial, no matter how stressful this would be for my family.”

Amankwah had his notebook out and was writing furiously. “Thank you.”

Wilkinson swiveled his head and caught Ari Greene’s eye. “That’s not all,” he said. “I believe there is an eyewitness out there who saw exactly what happened. Who could answer all the unanswered questions.”

“You think so?” Amankwah, already on high alert, looked as if he’d just gotten an extra bolt of energy. Wilkinson had given his story a banner headline, and everyone knew it: F
ATHER OF
T
IM
H
ORTONS
S
HOOTING
V
ICTIM
C
ONVINCED
T
HERE
W
AS AN
E
YEWITNESS
.

“Yes. I’m convinced.”

“Have the police been in touch with him?”

“No. I fear he’s afraid to come forward to the police.”

“What makes you think that?” Amankwah asked.

“Information I have learned from the detectives.” Wilkinson was very calm.

Amankwah turned to Greene. “Do you know who this individual is?”

“We’re very close to a positive identification of him,” Greene said.

Kennicott had agreed with Greene that it was better to not give out Ozera’s name.

There followed a series of standard questions and answers.

“How’s your wife doing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“How’s the new baby?”

“Wonderful.”

“Are you going for counseling?”

“No.”

“Has your company been supportive?”

“Remarkably.”

“What do you think of the Canadian judicial system?”

“Off the record?”

“Okay.”

“No comment.”

With that last answer, the tension in the room broke, and everyone chuckled.

“If this potential witness did want to contact you,” Amankwah said, “how would he get in touch?”

“He could call Detective Greene, who has promised to pass along any message to me without question,” Wilkinson said.

“How much longer are you staying in Toronto?”

“I’m leaving on Tuesday morning, before the trial begins. Monday night, I plan to attend the Armitage family celebration. I’ve heard a lot
about it, and it would be a way for me to thank Ralph Armitage for all his hard work on this case.”

Kennicott was watching Amankwah’s pen. He hadn’t bothered to write this down. He clicked off the recorder. “Thank you very much, sir. Our photographer is in reception.”

Wilkinson glanced at Greene again, then back at Amankwah. “That last fact must be in the story,” he said to Amankwah.

Amankwah looked surprised. “The Armitage May Two-Four celebration? Well, I don’t think it’s—”

“Turn that recorder back on,” Wilkinson said. All traces of his passive civility throughout the interview vanished, replaced by a startling streak of anger and determination. This was a man whose son had been murdered.

Amankwah clicked on the recorder.

Lloyd Granwell, who had hardly moved during the whole interview, put up his hand and pointed his finger right at Amankwah’s face. “Let me be very clear,” he said in his patient, confident voice. “If you do not agree to put in your newspaper article the fact that Mr. Wilkinson will be attending the annual Armitage Victoria Day festivities this Monday evening, then he will not pose for a photograph. If you run the story without this fact being mentioned, please expect to face a crushing lawsuit aimed at both your newspaper and yourself. Is that clear?”

Amankwah shook his head sagely. “Perfectly clear.”

“State for the record that you will include Mr. Wilkinson’s attendance at these festivities in your newspaper article,” Granwell said. It wasn’t a statement but a command.

Kennicott smiled. Granwell had taught him, never go into a meeting where the answer will be no. And wait. Wait for the right moment and then pounce. Make sure you get your yes.

“For the record, I agree to include in my story the fact that Mr. Wilkinson will go to the Armitage party on Monday night.”

“Excellent,” Granwell said, retracting his finger.

“It would mean a great deal to my wife and me if I could meet with this missing witness,” Wilkinson said. “For us, not knowing what really happened to Kyle has made this tragedy much worse. I just pray this man finds it in his heart to make contact with us.”

Amankwah wrote in his notebook and no one said a word. Now it was obvious to the reporter why he’d been granted this exclusive interview. They were using him to try to reach out to the missing witness.
Ozera. Greene had thought up the idea and it was the best chance they had.

Amankwah clicked off his recorder. “Well,” he said, “let’s hope this smokes him out.”

“Thanks for doing this,” Greene said. It was the first time he’d spoken and he had everyone’s attention. “I’m glad we chose you to write this story.”

Amankwah said to Wilkinson: “I hate how trite this sounds, but I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through. I have two children. I’m divorced and don’t get to see them as much as I’d like.”

Wilkinson reached across the table and shook his hand.

“Awotwe, what are you doing Monday night?” Greene asked.

Amankwah smiled. “Fortunately, I have the kids this weekend. I was thinking of taking them to a fireworks display.”

“I think,” Greene said, standing to leave, reaching across to shake hands with him, “that the Armitage party could be the best fireworks around.”

Albie Fernandez to the rescue, Ralph Armitage thought.

After the hung jury, he had suggested to Fernandez that the young lawyer take over the case and do the retrial. He said he had to get back to running the office. That it was better to have someone with a new approach. Blah, blah, blah.

Fortunately Albie readily agreed. Armitage was just happy to be done with the file. The trial had been such a roller coaster; thank goodness he was off it. The worst moment was that first time the jury came back. He’d been sure they had a not-guilty verdict. Boy, was he relieved when he found out they just wanted to ask the judge a question. Five days later, when Rothbart finally declared a mistrial, he knew he’d dodged a bullet. Well, that wasn’t really a good way to put it. But if he had lost the case that would have been a disaster. And now he’d palmed it off on Fernandez.

But he wasn’t entirely in the clear. Ozera. Who knew where the guy was? He might show up at any time and demand to know if the warrant was still outstanding. A few days ago, Armitage was so nervous about it he signed back into the warrant office to have a look.

He’d made a point of going through a number of the boxes, sprinkling his fingerprints everywhere. But when he came to the one that should have had the Ozera warrant, it was missing. He felt sick. Someone had the warrant. Someone was looking. For what? A connection back to him?

As if this weren’t bad enough, Penny was going crazy with all her party preparations. Every night she was up on the computer, working on lists and lists of things she had to do. He could hardly remember the last time they’d had sex.

It was Saturday morning, and he’d told her he needed to go to the office to help out Fernandez, who was in his final weekend of trial preparation. This was true, but what he really wanted was to be alone. To think. Figure out what else he could do to keep a lid on everything.

At exactly eleven, Fernandez came in. Mr. Right on Time, Armitage
thought. He had a copy of the Saturday
Star
in his hand. “Have you seen this?” he asked, tossing the paper on Armitage’s desk.

Of course Armitage had seen it. That was why he was so worked up. But he pretended he hadn’t. “No.” He felt his stomach lurch, just as it had done when he read the story this morning. A front-page exclusive interview with Cedric Wilkinson.

“Mr. Wilkinson is putting out a personal plea to find that missing witness,” Fernandez said.

“Let’s hope it works.” Armitage felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. The Saturday
Star
was the widest-circulation paper in Canada. No way Ozera wouldn’t see this.

“Sounds like Greene planted this story,” Fernandez said. “Smart move.”

“That’s Greene for you,” Armitage said. The walls were closing in on him. He could feel it.

“If he finds this guy, it could be a game changer,” Fernandez said.

“You said it,” Armitage said. “A fucking game changer.”

The Plaza Flamingo hadn’t changed. Sure, the actual faces were all different, but the people were the same. Mostly guys, dark, big chested, friendly, loud. A sprinkling of women, long hair, lots of makeup, nails done to the nines. The occasional blonde.

He wasn’t only here to bring Andrea back. He had another motive. A few months before, Greene had tracked down the Ozera file and discovered that Ralph Armitage had withdrawn the charges against him. Sounded suspicious until it turned out Armitage had been on a binge, cleaning up old files and that the previous Head Crown Jennifer Raglan had agreed. Still.

Greene had told him to hold on to the original arrest warrant for Ozera. Kennicott pulled in a favor with the forensic officer Harry Ho, who printed the warrant and found a match to a fingerprint of Armitage’s, which they’d lifted from a legal brief Greene had provided. Kennicott had gotten excited about this until Greene suggested they print the other warrants in the same box. Sure enough, most of them had also been handled by Armitage. Logic dictated that this was a dead end. Even Greene thought there was probably nothing to it.

But Kennicott kept racking his brain. And he kept hold of the warrant. There was a book you needed to sign to get into the warrant room, and he’d check it every few days and yesterday Ralph Armitage had signed in. What was he looking for and why? That’s when this idea had come to him. Armitage had told Greene that he’d made the original deal with Dewey’s lawyer at the Plaza Flamingo. Detective 101: go back to the beginning and follow the trail.

Outside a pink banner said “Lunch Buffet only $8.95. Dinner, Show, and Dance lessons package available!”

Lunch had cost $5.95 when they used to come here, he thought.

“Table for two?” the dark-haired hostess inside the door asked when she saw Kennicott and Andrea.

“Yeah, please,” he said.

“Lunch special?”

“Always,” Andrea said.

The food setup was exactly as he remembered it. Short, heavyset women toiled behind a row of steam trays and piled chicken, sliced sausage, shrimp, rice, vegetables, and bread onto large Styrofoam plates. One of them recognized Andrea and rushed around to give her a big hug.

He’d told her that he would need to speak to the manager alone. She chatted away with the older lady as he took a seat by the wall. It gave him a good view of the place. Chelsea was playing Birmingham. Their fans were all wearing blue-and-white striped scarves. Just like Dewey Booth, he thought.

A young female in a sleeveless dress showed up. A long cobra tattoo ran down her right arm. “What can I get you?” she asked.

“I used to come here a lot. Do you still serve Moretti?’

“Sure.”

“Get me two. And who’s the manager on shift today?”

She looked at him. “Something wrong?”

“No.” He laughed. “Just the opposite. I want to compliment whoever’s in charge.”

“That’s sweet.” She touched his shoulder.

Seconds later a tall brute of a man showed up. He bent down to talk without taking a seat. “Hi, sir,” he said in a voice that was as deep as a mine shaft. “I’m Severino. Francesca said you want to chat with me.”

Kennicott gave him a big smile. “I’m an old customer, and wanted to tell you how nice it is to be back here.”