It had been a long time since Kennicott had run any substantial distance and his old running shoes were worn down at the heel. A decade earlier, when he was in law school, he was so bored that he’d spent hours training for and running in marathons. But during his five years as a lawyer, and another five as a cop, he’d had neither the time nor the inclination to keep at it. If he started getting serious about running again, he’d need a new pair of shoes, he thought as he started up the hill, heading north.
It took him about ten minutes to jog up through the hilly, leafy residential neighbourhood. By the time he hit Kingston Road, he could feel the strain in his calf muscles and he was sweating. Heading east, everything gradually changed from upscale residential to tacky commercial strips and the four-lane street became a six-lane thoroughfare divided by a concrete barrier. The blocks grew longer. The traffic went faster. And a cold wind bore down on him, chilling his skin.
He was the only one running. There was no street life and no place he could see where on a Monday morning two weeks ago someone would likely have noticed a female jogger with a backpack.
By the time he got to the Coffee Time, where Raglan had been caught on video, he was getting a second wind. Inside, he saw the phone where she’d called Greene, and checked his watch. It was 9:39, ten minutes before she had arrived here. He bought a coffee and waited. At exactly 9:58:33 he walked out, just as she had done.
This part of the strip was even uglier with the sudden profusion of cheap
motels. The names were as colourful as the places were tacky: the Lido, the Grand, the Park, the Manor, the Americana.
He walked by the strip mall where Greene had parked his scooter. He saw the Money Mart, where young Sadura had seen the back of a tall man with a white man’s bum. Hap Charlton’s rugby-team poster was still up. Where someone had originally spray-painted
HAP IS A HAZARD
, the word “hazard” had been spray-painted over, except the
H
had been left, followed by the capital letters
ERO
.
He checked his watch when he got to the Maple Leaf Motel and it was 10:02:41. It had taken four minutes to walk here from the doughnut shop.
He stopped in front of the courtyard. There was no one around. He walked over to the office. It was closed, the same handwritten sign still up saying the owner wasn’t there from 9 to 11
A.M
.
Back at the entrance to the courtyard, he closed his eyes and tried to envision Raglan, dressed in her wig and sunglasses, happily swinging her backpack, walking through the entranceway to room 8. Why always room 8? Then Ari Greene drives up in his scooter. Parks in the strip mall and comes through here too.
“Psst. Hey, mister,” a throaty whisper called out from somewhere nearby.
He opened his eyes, looked around. He couldn’t see anyone.
“No. Here.” It was a female voice. “Look up, would you?”
A dirty sheer curtain hung in the room above the entranceway. Behind it he could just make out a woman with long hair and thick lips.
“You interested?” she asked.
Oh, Kennicott thought, this must be Hilda Reynolds. The prostitute in the window who had been uncooperative when she spoke to the police. No surprise there.
“How much?” he asked.
She looked around to check no one else was around before she answered. “Depends on what you want. Stairs are on your left.”
“Give me a range.” He pointed down the street. “There are lots of other motels.”
“Shit. Okay. Twenty for this.” She pumped her hand up and down quickly. “Fifty for a blow. More for the rest.”
“Thanks. I’ve got a better idea, Hilda. Come down and let me buy you breakfast.”
“Fuck,” she said.
“You don’t want me to pull out my badge.”
“Shit, I knew I shouldn’t have –”
“Relax. Let me buy you a meal. I’m here about a homicide. Talk to me for half an hour and then you can go back to work.”
A CADILLAC PULLED INTO GREENE’S FATHER’S DRIVEWAY AND BRIAN SILVER GOT OUT, A PAPER
bag in his arms. Greene had witnessed this scene hundreds of times when he was growing up: Brian coming over early in the morning to hang out and always bringing a ridiculous amount of food from the bakery.
“Dad, answer the door,” he called out.
His father put down the sports section he was reading. “Unbelievable. Every team in Toronto is getting worse. The Blue Jays never win. The Leafs still don’t have a goalie and the Raptors are a bunch of kids.”
“You’ll be pleasantly surprised when you see who is here.”
His father went to the front hall. “Oh, Brian,” he said, opening the door. “Good to see you.”
“How are you, Mr. Greene? Long time. I brought you guys a few things.”
“Wonderful. How’s your father?”
“Pretending to be retired, but still coming in all the time to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Good. That’s his job.”
Greene came into the hallway, nodded at Silver, and took the bag from him.
“I’ll unpack it,” Greene’s father said.
“Dad, I got it,” Greene said.
Silver patted the bottom of the bag. “Mr. Greene, let Ari do some work. Let’s go down to your basement to watch the highlights of last night’s game, like old times. The Leafs won.”
“So what? It was only an exhibition game. They don’t even have a goalie, and for sure they’re going to stink this year. Now all these players have concussions. I get a headache just watching them.”
Silver laughed, put his long arm around his shoulders, and guided him out of the kitchen.
Greene waited until he heard them walk down the stairs before he pulled a
loaf of challah, one of rye, and a half-dozen bagels wrapped in a plastic out of the paper bag. He peered into the bottom and found what he was looking for.
Jennifer’s letter.
He had mailed it to Silver from Anthony Carpenter’s office, before he was arrested.
He went into his bedroom, shut the door behind him, sat on his bed, and read Jennifer’s letter again.
Ari, I’m writing to you tonight before I see you for our final motel rendezvous tomorrow. (I can’t wait to see you, and I can’t wait till we don’t have to sneak around like this anymore!)
By the time you read this, I will have already held my press conference and told the world my terrible secret. The fallout will be devastating.
What terrible secret? Who had killed her to prevent her from going public with it?
Don’t be angry that I didn’t confide in you. I couldn’t. You had nothing to do with any of this, and this scandal is going to be so big that anyone close to it will be damaged. Give me points, at least, for keeping you out of it.
I always thought you’d wonder why I insisted on going to such extreme lengths to keep things between us secret. Well, after Thursday you will know.
After Thursday you will know, he thought. Know what?
The price of love is so very high. I had to save my son.
Her son. That had to be Aaron. Howard Darnell had taken him to Buffalo on Thursday. They had arranged this well in advance. Jennifer’s plan was to wait until her husband got Aaron across the border that morning before revealing her secret.
The more he learned about her the less he understood.
He pulled the thick world atlas off his bookshelf. He’d been given it for his bar mitzvah and soon afterward had cut out a rectangle where, as a teenager, he’d hidden his
Playboy
magazines. It was not the world’s most original hiding place, but it would do.
He put the letter inside, closed the book, and put it back on the shelf. Then he headed downstairs to be with his father and his best friend and watch the highlights of a hockey game that didn’t count for a thing.
IT WAS ALMOST 9
A.M.
AND ANGELA KREITINGER WAS NOT SURPRISED THAT JO SUMMERS
wasn’t in yet. Summers was the daughter of a judge and must have grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth. She was probably slumming it in the Crown’s office for a few years before moving on to a special appointment on some board or commission. Why do anything more than work civil-servant hours?
Looks like I’ll have to give her my usual lecture, Kreitinger thought:
You’re my junior, and this is a murder trial, not a shoplifting case. Be prepared to work.
There was a confident rap on her door.
“Come in,” Kreitinger said.
“Hi.” Summers pulled the door open and strode in. Like she owns the place, Kreitinger thought. Why not? She was tall, gorgeous, and rich.
“I didn’t want to bug you until nine,” Summers said. “I figured early mornings are your private time.”
Give me a fucking break, Kreitinger thought. “I get in at seven every morning. The first thing we need to do is steal an empty office, where we can lay everything out and shut the door.”
“I already found one,” Summer said.
“You did?”
“I called Albert Fernandez on Sunday and talked him into letting us use his now that he’s camping out in the head Crown’s office.”
“Good work.” Well, at least Summers has some initiative, Kreitinger thought. She pointed to a stack of banker’s boxes against the wall. What had began as two cardboard boxes before the bail hearing had ballooned to four as more witnesses were interviewed, case law was prepared, forensic reports arrived, and officers’ notes were copied and collated. “Let’s haul these over there.”
“Great,” Summers said.
Little Miss Enthusiasm. Wonder how she’ll feel after I really put her to work?
Kreitinger thought. She loaded up her old pull cart with two boxes. “We’ll come back for the other two,” she said.
“I’ll take them.” Summers lifted both boxes easily and marched down the hall.
The confidence of youth, Kreitinger thought.
Fernandez’s office had been transformed. His desk had been shoved against the back wall. Two long tables had been brought in and lined up against the sidewalls. There was a large flip chart on an easel with what looked like a new set of coloured markers. Neatly positioned at the end of one of the tables was a stapler, a three-hole punch, a labelling machine, a stack of sticky notes in different sizes and colours, a fresh box of pens, a fresh roll of tape in a tape dispenser. Lined up beside all this were two large black binders with the words
Summers Trial Binder
and
Kreitinger Trial Binder
on printed labels running down the spine.
“Who did all this?” Kreitinger asked.
“I was here yesterday scrounging this stuff up,” Summers said. “This morning I got Calvin, the custodian, to lend me his moving cart. I figured with these tables we could spread out, get everything organized. Then we still have our own offices to go back to when we need to work. Anything else you can think of?”
Fuck me, what an asshole I am, Kreitinger thought. “No, this is a good start,” she said.
Two new file folders were on the desk to her right, one red, one blue. Summers put her box down and handed Kreitinger the red one.
“I made these up for both of us. You’re red. Hope you don’t mind. I like blue.”
“Red is fine.” Kreitinger opened the folder. “What’s here?”
“First is a preliminary to-do list with civilian witness interviews I think you’ll want me to set up and legal issues for me to research. Then there’s a chart of all the police witnesses and what we can expect them to say. I’ve also included a summary of all the forensic evidence.”
Kreitinger took a few minutes to go through everything. She tossed the file back on the table, uncapped a black marker, and wrote in capital letters on the flip chart:
DAY ONE: OUR THREE BIGGEST PROBLEMS.
She turned back to Summers. “What you’ve done is great, and I appreciate
the effort. Every day we’re going to come in here and each of us will write our top three problems on a new page. We’ll compare notes, then prioritize.”
“Good idea. I think mine would be –”
“No, stop.” Kreitinger put her hand up. “You need to learn to really think. Work on this tonight and come in tomorrow morning with your three choices. We’ve got a lot to do for this murder trial. I’m going to teach you how to win.”
“I’VE GOT ONE GOOD PIECE OF NEWS FOR YOU,” TED DIPAULO SAID TO ARI GREENE.
They were sitting in DiPaulo’s boardroom, eating Silverstein bagels that Greene had brought for their lunch. DiPaulo’s partner, Nancy Parish, had joined them and was pinning up a chart on the far wall.
“What’s that?”
“We’ve got you an extremely early trial date. Monday, December third,” DiPaulo said.
“You’re kidding,” Greene said.
“Pays to buy the trial coordinator a nice bottle of red wine every Christmas. Bunch of cases collapsed and I grabbed it.”
“Is it enough time?”
“You don’t want to live under house arrest for a year, do you?”
“Absolutely not. Just ask my dad.”
“Time’s our enemy, Ari,” DiPaulo said. “Who knows what evidence they might find, what witnesses might come forward.”
“The O. J. Simpson defence,” Greene said.
“That’s right. Get the trial done before they discover your seven-hundred-dollar Bruno Magli shoes.”
“In your dreams. A shoemaker’s son always goes barefoot.”
Everyone laughed.
“How do you feel about testifying at the trial?” DiPaulo asked, turning serious.
“Torn,” Greene said.
“That’s a typical reaction.”
“I’m not afraid of being cross-examined, and, believe me, a big part of me wants to get up there and talk.”
“But?”
“But,” Greene said.
He hadn’t told DiPaulo about Jennifer’s letter. Or their plan to be together. He knew it would sound foolish to tell his lawyer he was hesitant to testify because he didn’t want to hurt Howard Darnell any more by saying publicly that his dead wife was about to leave him. There was still time.
“I’ve seen enough people cross-examined to know that there’s always a big risk in testifying. Even if you’re innocent,” Greene said. “On the other hand, how can we possibly win unless I take the stand and explain what happened?”