City of Ice (24 page)

“What?”

“People are on the street. I bet your neighbors assume you’re respectable. Probably young girls babysit your children. Now we can lead you down those stairs in cuffs, Mr. Kaplonski, wreck their illusions about you, or we can protect your public image.”

Kaplonski looked at Cinq-Mars. “Like how?”

“Déguire,” Cinq-Mars directed. “Take your uniform and drive the car away. Straight down. Two blocks. No siren, no flash. Wait for us there.”

Déguire hesitated, his bulky forehead knotted in a frown, then he left with the uniform.

“We’ll give that crowd time to clear,” Cinq-Mars explained. “I’ll take the cuffs off before we leave. I’m guessing you’re too fat to run.”

“What do you want from me?” Walter Kaplonski asked, his anxiety apparent.

“Peace and quiet. I have a headache. Don’t give me a hard time.”

The prisoner still could not believe his good fortune and remained stiff at attention, his cuffed hands in front of him. Mathers checked the window after a few minutes and nodded to indicate that the bystanders had dispersed. Cinq-Mars unsnapped the cuffs, and Kaplonski rubbed his wrists.

“We’re going out now,” Cinq-Mars prepped him. “Put your coat on. Check the pockets, Bill.”

Mathers went out first, looking in both directions. After giving the all clear he walked on ahead, and Cinq-Mars opened the door for his captive. They strode down the steps and along the sidewalk in tandem toward his car.

“How come you do this for me?”

“That’s my business, Mr. K. I’ll tell you something. I don’t think you have a clue what I’m really doing for you.”

They kept walking.

“What you mean by that?” Kaplonski asked.

“I have a job to do. Today it’s my job to arrest you. But when your friends find out the charge, I wouldn’t take a bet on your chances.”

They reached the car and Kaplonski crawled into the rear. Cinq-Mars went around and surprised the other two by climbing into the back as well. Mathers, flummoxed, wedged himself behind the wheel and turned the engine over. “Straight down?” he asked. “Pick up Déguire?” Enough oddities had accompanied the arrest that he was not about to assume anything, least of all the obvious.

“Call him on the radio first. Tell him to fall in behind when we pass by. Don’t let any cars between us. Tell him to keep an eye out. Tell Déguire to write
down everything he sees. If Kaplonski gets his head bashed in, tell him to write down the details.”

“What?” Kaplonski asked.

“If he gets bumped, tell Déguire to write everything he sees. It’s for your own protection,” Cinq-Mars assured his passenger. “I’m not betting on your chances to live a long life. If you go down, I don’t want anybody saying I had something to do with it. That’s why you’re not cuffed. In case you have to run.”

The detective did as instructed, then started driving.

“I don’t got to talk to you,” the man declared.

“After I do you a big favor?”

“We didn’t make no deal.”

“Hey, you got me there, Kaplonski. At least you’re not calling me Bacon Breath to my face or any of those ugly names. I guess if I’m civil to you, you’ll be civil to me. Is that how it goes, sir?”

“Sure,” the man said. “Why not?”

Cinq-Mars smiled in such a way that his prisoner was curious.

“What’re you grinning at?”

Cinq-Mars continued to smile. Déguire’s car tagged in behind them, and they stopped at a red light. This was the start of the commercial district for the area, with a bank and a pharmacy on two of the corners, and competing small grocers on the others. “Go west, Bill. Take the expressway. I was just wondering,” Cinq-Mars said.

“About what?”

“About what you know.”

Kaplonski smiled himself. “I don’t know nothing.”

“Maybe you’d like to rephrase that, sir. Think about it.”

Kaplonski qualified his statement. “I don’t know nothing special, is all.”

“How come you rate a Mafia lawyer?”

He rocked his head from side to side. His breathing
was raspy, as though anxiety aggravated his windpipe. “He’s my lawyer, is all.”

“You’re a big shot?”

Kaplonski shook his head. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Course not,” Cinq-Mars agreed. “Nobody says you are. Hey, Bill, do you hear Kaplonski talking to me?”

“Sorry.” Mathers tapped one ear. “I’m stone deaf.”

“You see? You’re not talking to me and I believe you. Let’s hope your friends believe you. That’s another matter, but I’m here and I believe you.”

Kaplonski maintained silence, but he was looking at Cinq-Mars, hoping the policeman would continue.

“What do you say me and you reach an agreement?”

The prisoner shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

“You don’t know what it is yet. It’s simple. I’ll talk, you’ll listen. How’s that? You don’t want to talk to me? Fine. Don’t. All I ask is that you pay attention all the way down to HQ. Do you have a problem with that?”

He shook his head and put his fist to his mouth to cough.

“Good. This is how it looks to me. You’re running a stolen car ring. No, wait. It’s not my intention to offend you, sir. Stolen cars were discovered on your property. How’s that? That’s fair. I haven’t accused you of anything, just restated the facts as they’re known. Okay, so, in the blink of an eye, you bring in a Hell’s Angels slash Mafia lawyer to plead your case. Now, why’s that? I have to ask myself. How come the Mafia cares about you? You’re not Italian. You’re not one of the Angels, are you? I don’t see any tattoos. You don’t ride a Harley. Maybe you contribute to their enterprises, you’re a cog in their machine, who knows? What I do know is that the company you’re keeping interests me more than you do.”

Kaplonski turned back to face him, but Cinq-Mars had looked away.

“Now, they’ll defend you on grand theft, auto,
charges. They might even back you up on the murder rap. The question sticks, though—how come? You must know something. They’re not protecting your ass because they find it cute. They don’t give a royal fart if you go down for murder one. Better your ass than one of their own. What is it you know, sir? Why are you so important?”

Kaplonski had returned his attention to life on the street.

“I just hope you don’t know too much,” Cinq-Mars added.

Kaplonski did not respond, so Mathers asked the question on his behalf. “What do you mean, Émile?”

“It’s like this, Bill. If he knows too much they’ll blow him away. That’s what they do to anybody who gets too close to their business. If I were you, Kaplonski, I’d be worried they’re defending you to make sure you stay dumb. Show any inclination to strike a deal—
kaboom!
If I were you, I’d get somebody else to start your car in the morning.”

“What you’re saying is,” Mathers interjected, “the Mafia and the Angels will look like they’re on his side, they’ll put up their lawyer for show, to keep them informed, but they won’t really stick their necks out for him. In fact, they might be happy to see Mr. Kaplonski’s chopped off.”

“You might have something there, Bill. You might be on the right track. All along he’ll mind his manners, talk to no one, thinking he’s got this power lawyer, then—
whoosh!
—the rug’s pulled out. In a wink he’s down on all fours doing serious time with a bat sticking out his rump.”

“You guys,” Kaplonski said.

“What?”

“You think you break me? Don’t make me laughing. You’re Boy Scouts to me. You’re Girl Guides. You should be wearing the dresses.”

“Now, that’s what I don’t understand, Mr. Kaplonski. That’s what I don’t get. What’s with the cracks? Here we are, enjoying a pleasant conversation, going over the facts as we see them, and you start with the cute remarks. Sir, I think you have a serious problem. I think you’re incorrigible. You know,” the detective ruminated, “it’s too bad about cops going down to your garage and getting their cars fixed for free.”

“That’s how it goes. I don’t see nothing wrong with it. Me, I like to help out public servants.”

Cinq-Mars chuckled along. “Hear that, Bill? The man’s a philanthropist. He’s a generous soul. I was surprised LaPierre had his name on that list, weren’t you, Bill? That disappointed me. I always thought he was a good cop. I guess when he interrogated you, sir, he remembered favors you’d done him in the past. I guess your lawyer was counting on that.”

Kaplonski stared straight ahead.

Cinq-Mars jerked his head toward the rear. “Guy in the car behind us was his partner. Do you think he’s dirty too?”

Kaplonski wasn’t interested.

“Yeah, I don’t know either. I’m pretty sure he talks to LaPierre on a regular basis. Who knows what he tells him? Does that bother you?”

“No skin off my nose.”

“Mine neither. Be interesting to find out, though, don’t you think? If he told the wrong people that you and me had a conversation in the backseat of a car, that we looked friendly, what do you think the wrong sort of people would think about that?”

The prisoner looked back at the squad car and then at Cinq-Mars. “What you talking? You arresting me. That’s all. I didn’t talk to you. I never said nothing.”

“That would be true except for a couple of things there, Walter. You don’t mind if I call you Walter, do you? You can call me Émile. You’ve been talking a lot
to me this morning, that’s pretty obvious to the guy behind us. On top of that, I’ve decided that you’re not worth arresting.”

“What?”

“It’s like my partner told me earlier, I don’t have enough to make a murder charge stick. Even though it was you dressed up in a Santa Claus suit—”

Kaplonski turned quickly to face him.

“—ah, you didn’t know I knew that? Now you do. Even though I know for a fact that you were involved, that you rented the Santa suits, that you paid for them when you couldn’t bring them back, that you went into that rooming house ahead of me, even though I know all that, I’m going to let you go.”

“What’s he talking?” Kaplonski asked Mathers.

“I think I’ve got it figured out,” the detective answered.

“Sir, it’s simple,” Cinq-Mars explained. “Pay attention. This is important. You have to hope for three things. You have to hope that neither of the two cops behind us is dirty. What are the odds on that? And if they’re clean, you have to hope they don’t go blabbing around the station about what happened today, because a dirty cop would pick up the news that way. And third, whatever it is you know about the Angels, you better hope it isn’t all
that
important. If it is, and they find out we had this friendly talk, well, good luck to you, Walter, because you’re going to need it. Now, sir, you’re free to go. Pull over, Bill.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Sorry, Walter. I’ve got places to go and people to see. Get out of my car. And, sir, let me give you fair warning. Don’t call my partner Pig Puke again. I am the only one authorized to call him that. By the way, why do you think the tough guys put you on the scene in that Santa suit? Why do you think they had you rent the Santa costumes under your own name? That’s
all so dumb. Unbelievably dumb. Makes me think they were setting you up all along. Have you thought about that? I would if I were you. Did you think things through, Kaplonski? Or are you just a man of action? Why do you think they had you sign in with Hagop Artinian down at the docks, putting the two of you together at the time of death? You didn’t know I knew that? Tell you what, give me a buzz if you come up with something interesting to say, or, who knows, if you suddenly get the feeling that you might be worth arresting. In the meantime, Walter, get the hell out.”

His cutting words were uttered with a smile, and Cinq-Mars climbed out of the car with Kaplonski, arched his lower back, and yawned. He patted the freed prisoner on the shoulder and clambered into the front seat. “Go,” he told Mathers in French. “Quickly.”

The younger detective peeled away from the curb. Before those in the trailing squad car could comprehend that the prisoner had been granted his freedom, they followed, and dispersed only after Cinq-Mars called them on the two-way and told them to do so.

“Amazing,” Mathers said.

“God bless Walter Kaplonski.”

“So you think Déguire’s dirty?”

“Haven’t a clue,” the senior detective admitted. “We’ll wait and see on that.”

Arriving late for the evening rendezvous, Cinq-Mars was perplexed. The restaurant was nondescript, a notch above a dive, glaringly bright and, at eleven o’clock, sparsely populated. Bottles sparkled on the mirrored bar. Domes displayed tall cheesecakes topped with a strawberry glaze, tasteless concoctions for which he had a profound weakness. As the waitress came over he ordered coffee only, patting his belly while LaPierre knowingly chuckled.

“So, André,” Cinq-Mars began, although the other man had called the meeting, “how’s your vacation going?”

“You’re hilarious.” Two thin Band-Aids covered shaving cuts over his Adam’s apple, which was startlingly protuberant. He looked wan, as though his height was a liability when he was under duress and his heart had trouble pumping blood to his extremities. Cinq-Mars hated to think what would happen to LaPierre if he ever really got sick. He was no longer so thin around the middle, but his bones appeared to push through his skin. If he lost any weight he’d look skeletal.

“You should’ve paid for your repairs, André.”

“Émile, you’re such a saint. When you die we’ll build a shrine in your honor as big as the Oratory. Penitents will crawl up the stairs on their knees for a glimpse of your heart.” He lit a smoke.

“That’s right. During pledge week students will steal it and hide it in their dorms. What else is new? You can’t get away from crime, André. That’s why I pay for my repairs. To give myself a break from the bad guys.”

“That’s not how it is,” LaPierre said quietly. He had a distant gaze in his eyes, and Cinq-Mars noticed a slight quiver to his right lower eyelid, something he hadn’t noticed before. They were all aging. He wondered if he developed tics of his own whenever the nights were long and his bones were exhausted.

“That’s how it looks. How is it, André?”

“Émile, you sit in your chair all day. Stoolies phone you. You make arrests. The rest of us, we have to work for a living.” He took a long, deep drag on his cigarette.