City of Ice (13 page)

“Okay.”

Cinq-Mars and Mathers both noted that the young man they’d interviewed a few days earlier had acted
on their advice and relocated. He was not among those filing out into one of two paddy wagons.

A female officer approached Tremblay. “Sir?” She held one hand on her hip and carried a clipboard in the other, with her hat pinched under her arm.

“What’ve we got?” He was always happy to scan the paperwork. Crooks were not his bailiwick, but put reports, forms, or computer printouts in front of him and he came into his own.

“We’ve run down the VINs and plates, sir.” A smile flickered. She seemed excited by what she had to report. “They’re clean. None of these vehicles has been reported, sir.”

“
None?”

“One, sir, that Benz, a couple of unpaid parking tickets, but that’s all. I even checked the cars out back.”

Tremblay shot a glance at Cinq-Mars, then surveyed the garage. “Feel free to jump in at any time, Émile.”

“Odd.”

“Don’t tell me this place is legit.”

“Rémi, look at the cars. Plates removed, dashboard VINs. None of the expensive cars are under repair. Even money, they’re hot.”

While the evidence was plain to see, the mystery involving the vehicle identification numbers was difficult to fathom.

Mathers shouted out from the rear of the shop, “Émile! Sir!”

Cinq-Mars strode quickly over.

“Check this out.” A car prepped for bodywork had been defaced, the hood spray-painted. In smallish letters under the windshield, English graffiti read, “Welcome.” Under that, in large, bold, blood red script across the blue hood of the Honda Civic, shone the inscription “M5.”

Cinq-Mars stood silent and flabbergasted.

Coming up from behind, LaPierre volunteered an interpretation. “What do you think—English for March the Fifth? Explain this one to the masses, Émile.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Émile, buddy, come on, that’s what they all say. Who’re you talking to?”

Tremblay wandered over as well. “What’s up?”

“Only Émile knows up from down. Ask him.”

Cinq-Mars offered his superior a weak, worried shrug and watched as André LaPierre stomped away. “We might’ve overlapped André’s side.”

“Santa Claus? Good! I want something out of this. Émile, swear to me we didn’t bust a clean garage.”

“I’ll track the owners. Who’d bring a luxury car to this dump?”

“We’re holding a barn load. We need a crime in a hurry.”

“Give me help,” Cinq-Mars countered.

“Name it.” Cops were dumping the contents of trash containers. Bits of scrap metal and old auto parts noisily clattered on the concrete floor.

“André wants to gripe about his case, give me heat for treading on his turf. He’s pissing into the wind. I’ve got nothing for him. Let me put him off until I make headway here. Back at the station I’ll need additional personnel and telephones.”

“Get on it, Émile. So far we look like idiots.” Whenever he was displeased or distressed, Tremblay had a habit of standing with his arms crossed. He kept them folded over his chest now.

“Mathers!” Cinq-Mars shouted out. “Let’s go!”

In the office area, uniforms were packing files into boxes. Cinq-Mars stopped to request a copy of the numbers on the confiscated cars. He had to wait for the photocopy machine to warm up. “Get the device,” he whispered to Mathers.

“The tap?”

“On the double.”

The office was crowded. Choosing a moment when everyone appeared occupied, Mathers bent down on one knee, reached up under the appropriate desk, and pulled the transmitter from its location.

Cinq-Mars shouted out, “Where’s that list?”

“Coming, sir,” a uniform promised.

Privately, Cinq-Mars snapped at Mathers, “Where’d you put it?”

“In my pocket.”

“Why? Give it to someone. I want a report ASAP.” Cinq-Mars waited for him to leave the room. “Something else I want copied,” he commanded.

Advancing directly to a file cabinet riffled through on his first visit, he extracted a folder and pulled out a sheet that he walked back to the photocopier. A uniform ran the page through for him, and Cinq-Mars seized the copy as it emerged. He deposited it back in the file for all eyes to view, and replaced the folder in the well-stuffed cabinet, where it could not be readily located or identified. All files were being packed for shipment back to HQ.

Timidly, the uniform inquired, “Sir?” He could see the detective was on edge, and he didn’t want to upset him any further. “The original?” The constable held up the paper for his superior’s retrieval as though dealing with a forgetful professor.

“I’ll take that,” Cinq-Mars declared irritably. Crossing the room again, he snatched the original and headed for the door.

Outside, Mathers ran to catch up with his partner, whose rage was apparent with every step. The older detective bullied himself into the car and cranked the engine as Mathers struggled in. “Shit!”

“Easy, Émile.”

He slammed the side of his fist against the wheel. “Who, Bill? Tell me!”

“You’re no good like this.”

“Somebody’s working me. Some fucker’s mocking me. Who? Damn it all to hell. When you bent down to retrieve that tap, it hit me then. I know why it was in the outer office, not the inner.”

“So they can listen to their staff?”

“You saw their staff. They don’t know squat. Hagop Artinian didn’t plant the device, Bill. He was around the office night and day, he could have found a better location. The bug was planted by someone in there as a customer. Someone who had to do it quickly when no one was looking. Like you, someone waited for a back to be turned. Maybe he dropped his pen, or bent down to tie a shoelace, then positioned the tap lickety-split.”

“Which means—” Mathers pondered.

“Artinian would have done a better job. He had time and access. Eliminate him. Exclude Kaplonski spying on his own staff because he doesn’t have a staff worth spying on. Which leaves two choices. Us, or another gang. The fact that the car was there with my name on it—that tells me something.”

“Another gang,” Mathers assumed.

“A gang that wants to get at me. Or—” Cinq-Mars finally pulled the car out into the middle of the street.

“Or what?”

“Or”—Cinq-Mars considered, looking across to gauge how his partner would take the news—“it could have been planted by one of us. We could be the other gang. When they heard I was coming back they spray-painted the hood. Old news, Bill—inside the department I’ve got enemies.”

Mathers whistled.

They spun their tires on the snow getting onto rue Notre-Dame, and Cinq-Mars drove hard. The street was a tight two lanes here and prone to heavy business traffic. Discount clothing stores by the dozen, fast-food
restaurants, fruit stands, and crummy bars contributed to a street commerce that was both hectic and down-market. Cinq-Mars popped his revolving light onto the rooftop to force his way around delivery trucks. Past Atwater the road widened, and Mathers hung on as Cinq-Mars pushed his foot lower on the pedal. Here the shops looked run-down, an appearance that belied their dependence on upscale clientele for antiques and modern art. Another half mile and the street widened again. The extra lanes in both directions gave Cinq-Mars room to speed. As they approached Old Montreal, Cinq-Mars blared his horn at cars and horse-drawn carriages alike. Mathers breathed calmly again only when they turned down into Police Headquarters.

The square stone-and-brick building that served as Police Headquarters could easily pass as a more benign institution, such as a school or hospital. Cops were gathered on the grand stone stairs, chatting, but otherwise nothing gave the building away as a police station.

“What now?” Mathers asked. Their car was in a line to be admitted into the subterranean garage.

“I’ll contact the owners of those cars. You find—what’s the name of that boy, the one who worked there?”

“Geez, you’re lousy with names. It’s Jim Coates.”

“Find him. Make sure he’s alive and healthy. If he’s not, don’t bother coming back. Just shoot yourself, Bill. That’ll be better than what I do to you. Find him and talk to him. See if he has anything more to say.”

“Meet you back here?”

“Could be.” Cinq-Mars parked between squad cars close to the garage elevator.

Bill Mathers climbed out of the car, then back into it, this time on the driver’s side. He watched as Émile Cinq-Mars marched over and punched the elevator
button. The man was fuming, taking this personally. Which, Mathers intuited at that moment, was exactly how those working against him wanted him to react.

He checked his notebook for the address of Jim Coates. Mathers was anxious to prove himself and glad to be assigned a job to do on his own.

New Year’s resolutions had a habit of getting away from Julia Murdick, and this year’s were proving the rule. She had promised herself to turn Selwyn Norris down flat—whatever he wanted she would not deliver—and she was committed to showing up for a doctor’s appointment she’d been putting off forever. Julia had sworn a third and solemn oath to maintain the first two vows. All three were suddenly in jeopardy.

“I’ll say this again, Selwyn, because I don’t think it’s sunk into that Neanderthal skull of yours. I’m doing this one teensy little favor for you and that’s it. Nothing more. Nada. Never again.
Tout fini.
”

“You do get hyper when you’re excited, Snoop.”

“Don’t tease me if you know what’s good for you. I can still back out.
Christ!
How did I let you talk me into this? It’s like some weird sorority initiation.”

Talking Julia into this tidbit of an operation had not been difficult, although Norris guessed he’d be better off keeping the opinion to himself. She was right. In the twinkle of light on a snowflake she could change her mind—something he was keen to prevent.

He made the turn off Sherbrooke Street, the busy thoroughfare that cut through the heart of downtown Montreal, onto University Avenue, which ran alongside the congested campus of McGill University. Catching sight of a van pulling out from the shadow of the engineering building, Norris slowed to claim the spot. Beside him, Julia was growing more fearful.

“Piece of cake, Jul. There’s nothing menacing or scary or dangerous about today’s operation.”

“The more you repeat yourself the less I believe you, Selwyn.”

“I won’t mention it again. I’ll expect you back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“You better be around, Mister Buddy. I will not give up my doctor’s appointment. Six weeks I had to wait.”

“I’ll drive you over.”

One hand on the door handle, Julia looked across at him. “You’re something else,” she summed up. “I don’t know what, but you’re altogether strange.”

After an overnight blizzard, the day had turned sunny and frigid. Julia tucked her collar up around her neck and trudged into the wind. This was such madness. She located the address that Norris had provided and tramped straight inside to elude the cold. In the small foyer she knocked snow off her boots and shook the cuffs of her jeans dry. Julia removed her mittens and hat, unfastened her coat, and blew warm air across the tips of her fingers before giving them a brisk rub. She had made it inside. Now all that she had to do was walk up the stairs and knock on the appropriate door.

She hesitated. Butterflies swarmed and her knees felt knocky. She wanted to protest against this predicament. The harder she tried to pin the blame on Selwyn Norris the more she inwardly protested. She was a grown-up woman. Perfectly capable of making her own decisions. She’d consented to going through with this charade, and since she’d done so the only option was to proceed. Julia found that she couldn’t be angry with Norris without becoming more virulent against herself. If only one giant part of her wasn’t so
excited.
If only one part of her wasn’t so damn
interested
in what she was about to do.

She climbed the stairs of the rooming house.

The quarters were dark, poorly lit, dank. Doors filtered the familiar sounds of student life. Rock’n’roll,
laughter, a soap on the tube. She had read that Santa Claus had perished with a meat hook in his heart and wondered if it had happened in this very house or one of the identical ones nearby.

She climbed a third set of stairs, her heart hammering. The excitement felt akin to sex. If she wasn’t having the other at least she had this.

Julia knocked on the door marked twenty-six. Inside a chair scraped against the floor followed by the soft pad of steps. Bedroom slippers, she bet. The latch was undone. She half-expected a pistol to poke out at her as the pale face of her target moved from the shadows into view. Dressed in a robe loosely gathered over a black undershirt, the young man before her had a mop of wild and stringy dark brown hair. His nose was Rudolph red with a drip, and his eyes looked glazed.

“Hey,” Julia Murdick said.

“Yes?” the young man replied, then coughed, covering his mouth with a fist.

“Are you Okinder Boyle?”

“Guilty as charged. Who are you?” He turned his head away to cough.

“You talked to my father, Carl Bantry. In his present circumstances, I guess you know him as the Banker.” She sucked a breath, breathed out, and told him, “My name is Heather Bantry.”

The jaw went slightly slack, the head-cold eyes agog. The door had opened a tad wider, which Julia accepted as her invitation to enter. She stepped into the drafty, shadowy room, confident, in command, a walking tower of secrets, and scared half to death.

A bit of a mumbler, this Boyle, not that the flu helped. He had to repeat himself twice before she understood that he was offering a chair. Julia sat down.

The young journalist gave her a searching look then, one that assessed her attitude and body language and not merely her healthy good looks. She could see him
swimming upstream, battling the currents and rising—
come on little fish, come on
—to the bait.

“Your name again—” He scratched his unkempt head and tried to think.

“Heather,” she told him. “Bantry. I just transferred to McGill for the new semester. I’m hoping I can help Dad.”