City of Ice (19 page)

“Then I’ll print the facts as they’ve been construed.”

“I was afraid you might think that way,” Cinq-Mars admitted. “I’m advising against it.”

Their pastry and coffee arrived. Boyle observed Cinq-Mars stir in his Sweet’n Low. “Why’s that, Detective?”

“This is all part of an ongoing investigation. You could jeopardize the case, put other people in danger.”

“So you concede that Hagop Artinian worked for you?”

“How could he have worked for me? I never knew his name until the day he died. Did I ever direct him, or ask him for information, or give him money or favors in exchange for information? Categorically, no.”

“Detective, I’m a journalist.” He struggled to chew and swallow quickly. “I write about events that interest me. The death of a student a few doors down from where I live, while wearing a Santa Claus suit, that interests me. This is not a story I walk away from. That dead boy was wearing a sign,
Merry Xmas, M-Five
, which apparently refers to the city’s most famous policeman, the legendary Cinq-Mars—now that’s a story. I’m itching to break it. If you want to convince me otherwise, you’ll have to do a better job.”

Cinq-Mars took his point. He quickly gathered his
thoughts, for he was learning not to underestimate this man. “Sorry to have to put it this way, Mr. Boyle, but I may be obliged to speak to your editor.”

“Detective, before you go any further—”

“Allow me to finish—”

“No, allow me. My editor is Garo Boghossian. Do you know him?”

“I’m sure he’s a man of some influence—”

“He is. He’s also Hagop Artinian’s uncle. Do you really think he’ll ask me to back off?”

From the moment that Okinder Boyle had arrived, Émile Cinq-Mars had been losing one minor debate after another to him. What he had counted as insignificant setbacks were beginning to multiply.

“I think we can help each other out,” Boyle continued. “Provided that you’re willing to answer a few simple questions. Are you working on this case?”

“It’s not my case.” He was willing to play along with him for a bit.

“Cinq-Mars—”

“Have I taken an interest? Yes. After all, I found the boy’s body.”

“Did Hagop Artinian, at any time, work for you—or failing a definition of what that means, supply you with information?”

“It’s my understanding that, on rare occasion, Hagop Artinian lent a hand with law enforcement. Perhaps more often than rarely.”

“Do you know why he died?” Boyle asked bluntly.

“No. Do you?”

“No. Do you know why he was dressed in a Santa Claus outfit?”

Cinq-Mars hesitated longer than he would have liked. That alone required an explanation. “I have a theory. Perhaps—we shall see—perhaps I can offer it up as trade.”

“One more query first. How do you respond to the
theory that Hagop Artinian was working for the CIA?”

In an instant, Émile Cinq-Mars knew that there would be no camouflaging his surprise. “Who’s been floating that cockamamie tale?”

Boyle did not respond, regarding the detective with a steady gaze.

“Vassil said that? His brother told him that?”

Again, the young man did not respond.

“It makes no sense. If Hagop helped us, his work had to do with relatively minor crimes. Crimes within my jurisdiction. The CIA? What possible link could there be? Either Hagop was fabricating a story for his brother, or—”

“Or?”

“—or somebody strung him a line.”

“The theory doesn’t interest you?”

“I have to dismiss it. I consider myself an openminded person, Mr. Boyle, but until there’s a link—”

“But it does interest you, Detective. I can tell.” Boyle scratched the side of his throat where his scarf irritated the skin.

“Why are you telling me this?” Cinq-Mars asked.

“To gauge your reaction. I can’t print the story without verification. I can’t go on the word of an eleven-year-old even if I do think he’s credible. Like you, I’m not sure what motive Hagop would’ve had to tell his brother. A silly boast? An idle fantasy? It’s possible, but it doesn’t jibe with what we know about the guy. Was he speaking the truth? I can’t say that either.”

Cinq-Mars regarded the young journalist with intensity. “I still wonder why you told me.”

Boyle nodded, conceding that he had avoided the question. “I’m not entirely neutral in this tale. I told you on the chance that it was something you needed to know. I’m hoping that you might consider telling me a few things sometime. Maybe not now, but
someday you might choose to say something to me first. You were moving toward proposing a trade. That’s too mercenary, Detective. What I want is the real dope on Hagop. I’m interested in how he’ll be remembered. I’m interested in how he died. Not official versions, the real stuff. You might be the only person who finds that out. I’m not looking to establish an adversarial relationship. I’m hoping we can help each other out.”

“What will you publish, Mr. Boyle?”

The journalist shook his head. “I’m probably as far from publishing as you are from solving the case.”

Cinq-Mars drank his coffee. “I take it that I won’t be reading in
The Gazette
tomorrow that Hagop Artinian worked for me.”

“You got it. Now. May I test our new friendship? Is there any possibility—however remote, no matter how unlikely or illogical or far-fetched—is there any possibility that Hagop Artinian was working for the CIA? Can you, with what you know, imagine such a thing?”

Émile Cinq-Mars sipped his coffee. “Let’s put it this way,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Now that you have raised the issue, I’ll keep it in mind. That’s all I’ll say.”

“That’s all you need to say, Detective. But if anything breaks along those lines, remember who you owe.”

Cinq-Mars tapped behind his ear. “I’m not sure about that. On the other hand, if there comes a time when I can make a contribution to the memory of Hagop Artinian, for the sake of his family, I shall do so.”

“Fair enough. Now. What about the Santa Claus suit?”

Cinq-Mars smiled, quite warmly for him. “We are beginning a friendship, Mr. Boyle. Nevertheless, we work in competitive fields. We both gather information.
If we trade, it should be equitable. You’ve given me a thread. A loose thread that may have no significant value. In exchange, you’re expecting a considered and plausible theory from me. Is that a fair exchange?”

“Then give me a thread, if that’s all you’re up for,” Boyle pressed him.

“I have a better idea. I’ll give you a story. You print it. Every tangent cannot be confirmed, but the facts can be verified. I have the documentation. You don’t have to diverge from the facts. I was going to give this to my friends in the francophone media, maybe to
Allô Police!
But since you’re here, I’ll tell you a story if you’ll print it.”

Boyle tried to laugh him off. “Come on. If I came to you and asked that you make an arrest in exchange for information, what would you say?”

Cinq-Mars preferred not to answer. “Show me the evidence first.”

“Same here.”

The detective thought a moment. “You have an odd name. Odd for me anyway. What did you say your first name was?”

“Okinder.”

“Yes.” Excited by a connection, Cinq-Mars shook his right forefinger in the air a moment. “My partner—he’s English—reads your paper. It’s part of his job, in a way, to tell me what’s in the English media. It helps pass the time, and I don’t like to be blind to what’s going on in half the city. He mentioned your name, Okinder. I remember because it sounded strange to me.”

“You should talk. Your name’s a date. I’ve never heard of Johnny the Fourth of July. Or Wanda August Ninth.”

“I’m from either corrupt or sturdy stock.” Cinq-Mars shrugged. “My surname could be a corruption of Saint Marc, or else the name derives from the fifth
son of a family out of a village called Mars. The legacy of the first four sons didn’t survive.” A memory dawned and Cinq-Mars waved a finger. “Okinder—so you’re the one who walked into the Mount Royal tunnel on Christmas Eve and talked to the banker who had lost his mind. Okay, I’ve got you pegged now. All right, you can have the story. I’ll tell you why Hagop Artinian was dressed as Santa Claus. Get out your notepad.”

“May I use my tape recorder?”

“Absolutely not. Nor can you attribute anything I say to me.”

Okinder Boyle complied, and sat waiting with pad and pencil poised.

Cinq-Mars told him about the Russian freighter, and about the gatekeeper’s log that put Hagop Artinian on the premises, and probably on the ship, at the same time as his estimated moment of death. He told him why he thought the Santa Claus uniforms were deployed, that that was how the killers had smuggled a dead body off the premises in full view. He told about his discovery that afternoon, that Walter Kaplonski had rented two Santa uniforms a day before the murder, and had not returned them, but had gone back to the store and reimbursed the merchant for the loss, explaining that the suits had accidentally been damaged beyond repair. Clearly, he had not wanted the store to call the cops about missing costumes. He told Okinder Boyle what Bill Mathers had uncovered through a study of the ship’s activity in port, that luxury cars had been loaded onto the vessel, and that luxury cars had been off-loaded, and that an inspection by the Mounties that very day had shown no vehicles onboard.

“I don’t get it.”

“A Mercedes, let’s say, is loaded onto the vessel for shipment to Russia. Days later it’s off-loaded with
European registration for use in this country as a legitimately imported vehicle. Who’s buying we don’t know, but I have my guesses.”

“Such as?”

“The process is organized. The usual suspects.”

Boyle could not believe this golden platter of information. “Somehow Hagop Artinian got involved in this. Was he doing undercover work?”

“I’d appreciate it, Okinder, if you never raise that possibility. Hagop worked for Walter Kaplonski, as a part-time mechanic in his garage.”

“Garage Sampson, yes. That’s Kaplonski’s place?”

“We raided the garage.”

“And?”

“A document was found. I can fax you a copy sometime.”

“What does it show?”

“Police officers using Mr. Kaplonski’s garage for free repairs to their personal automobiles.”

“No shit. You’re telling me this?” Boyle wrote furiously.

“One of those officers was André LaPierre, who’s the IO into the murder of Hagop Artinian. The other is Gilles Beaubien, a high-ranking officer in this department.”

“How high?”

“Captain. He’s the operations leader with respect to this investigation.”

“Whose guts you hate, right? I thought cops didn’t rat on cops?”

“Who’s ratting? You’re not hearing any of this from me.”

“You got that straight.”

“Off the record?”

“Sure. Absolutely. No problem. What?”

“Off the record, I made sure that LaPierre came along on the raid of Kaplonski’s garage. You know, a
cop may find out he can get repairs to his car at a garage for free. Of course, he shouldn’t do it. But am I going to be appalled by human nature to find out that some cops do? LaPierre’s a street cop. A womanizer, a night owl. He works the dark side of the alley. So, I’m not appalled, and I won’t hang him by the balls because he gets a free brake job. He told me he hadn’t been on the street where the garage is located in years. Okay, he wants to cover his ass. But, he made it look as though he had no clue that Hagop worked there. He interviewed Kaplonski. Never scratched him. Says his lawyer saved him, but you can work around lawyers. LaPierre’s done nothing but crap on this case, and I don’t protect other people’s crap—cops or no cops. I made sure that Beaubien got wind of the facts. He took over the case. Which could be seen as commendable or as contemptible, depending on how he handled it. I wanted to find out.”

“How’d he handle it?”

“He kept me away from Kaplonski. Then he tried to keep me away from the Russian freighter.”

“But you went anyway,” Boyle noted.

Cinq-Mars stretched. “Which puts me up Shit Creek. I want to go after Kaplonski without my hands being tied. There’s something else. LaPierre gets wind of a garage that makes deals—I understand. He has his nose in the dog poo on the sidewalk. But Beaubien? He doesn’t step in shit. He’s an ivory tower cop. He’s delicate. He never hangs out with cops. How does he find out about a convenient garage? How does he know where to go or what to say, how does he get in the door? He can’t ask around the department, who’d confess something like that to him? Since when is Beaubien connected? That’s a puzzle.”

“In a nutshell, you need LaPierre and Beaubien out of your way. Beaubien might be dirty, LaPierre might
have smelly feet, but otherwise you’re not sure about them. That’s where I come in.”

“You’re a quick study, Okinder. Call me Émile, by the way.”

“Émile, what can I say? I know you have your reasons, but thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome. You understand, it’s only the garage and police connection that should be printed. The matter of the Santa Claus suit is for future use.”

That both their hands rose above the table, that they shook, seemed a simultaneous, mutual, and solemn agreement.

“Shall we brave the cold again, Émile?”

Cinq-Mars smiled, stood, and buttoned his coat. “Not together, Okinder. You and I shouldn’t be seen in public. Nor should you ever say anything important over the phone. Never leave a message with substance. In fact, you’ll need a code name.”

“Cloak and dagger. I love it. So what’s my name? Deeper Throat?”

A possibility popped to mind. “Steeplechase B,” Cinq-Mars told him.

“Cool. So tell me, who’s Steeplechase A?”

Cinq-Mars shot him a cutting glance. “I have to remember to watch myself around you, young man. B for Boyle,” he explained to him. “Don’t you worry about Mr. A.”

Alone and grim, Émile Cinq-Mars headed into the blustery night. Time to return to the country and a warm, crackling fire, to snug down with a book, his wife, and a Glenmorangie and soothe his weary brow. Tonight he’d forget about villains and dead youths. Instead, he’d dwell upon the news that Okinder Boyle had brought him, that his source, Steeplechase Arch, for reasons beyond his ken, was connected to the CIA. The notion had validity. How else had he successfully camouflaged phone calls so they could not
be traced? How else had he recruited others except through training, skill, and good connections? How else had Arch secured a catalog of information, the good stuff, except through the cunning of an international intelligence agency? But if true, why was the CIA in contact with him? Why had the CIA bolstered his career, with what ultimate purpose in mind? What, essentially, was going on?