City of Ice (33 page)

The Lexus pulled up to the curb, and Julia Murdick climbed off her stool in the coffee shop, dropped coins across her bill, and stepped outside. She climbed into the plush front seat.

“Everything in shape?” Gitteridge wanted to know.

“Dad thinks so.”

“That cash get moved?”

“Child’s play. Dad’s grumpy. He wants a real challenge.”

Gitteridge stared at her.

“What?” Julia asked.

“Let’s make a withdrawal,” he commanded. “See if it works.”

“The money works,” she insisted. “It’ll buy things.”

“Let’s go see.”

“All right,” she agreed. “Let’s.”

The car peeled away from the curb.

With the meeting called for eleven sharp, Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars made it in the nick of time. Rémi Tremblay had cleared his desk, his secretary was holding calls, and the moment Cinq-Mars entered she shut the door behind him with a sense of finality, as though only one man would emerge from the room alive.

“Good morning, Émile.”

“What’s this I hear about Beaubien?” stormed Cinq-Mars. His chin was clenched and there was no mistaking the flame in his eyes.

“He’s been cleared.”

“That’s a crock.”

“Would you like to rephrase?”

“His name’s on that damn list!” In his mind, two officers, Gilles Beaubien and André LaPierre, were possible informants. He preferred both suspended. If one came back, it definitely should not be the superior officer, who carried the greater potential to do damage.

“Émile, the boss studied the case personally.” The only man whom Tremblay called boss was Police Director Gervais. “He’s accepted Beaubien’s explanation that a uniform was assigned to get his car repaired. The uniform was offering, he’s a brownnoser. He got it fixed, told him he did it himself. No charge. Beaubien’s had his wrists slapped. You don’t ask a uniform to do your personal business. But that’s it. That’s all.”

Cinq-Mars put a hand behind his neck and gently shook his head. Things never worked out the way they should. “You know I respect Gervais.”

“He has enormous respect for you, too, Émile. He’s in your corner. He takes personal pride in you. Unfortunately, even the boss is not a saint.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stiff and formal behind his desk, Tremblay lent his
tone an air of authority, an inflection of experience, as though initiating Cinq-Mars into the back-room politics of the department. “Director Gervais is a bit miffed to have a captain in trouble with the law. Is that a surprise? He wants the issue to vanish, so he’s helped the process along. The matter has been investigated, Beaubien has been chastised, the issue has gone away, like magic.”

“This is outrageous,” Cinq-Mars declared, his voice calm, deliberate.

“Really? What’re you planning to do about it, investigate the boss for collaboration with the Hell’s Angels?” Seldom inclined to sarcasm, Tremblay used it to good effect now. “Émile, can you not see your way clear to accept that his job is largely one of public relations, essentially one of image, that his primary objective here has to do with public confidence and department morale?”

“Funny, I thought his primary objective was to create an outstanding police force.”

“Émile,” Tremblay explained, “it is. When he fails to achieve your lofty standard—his own high standard—the compromise objective turns on public confidence. Nothing we do will work without public confidence.”

“A regular increase in the budget, you mean.”

Tremblay conceded the point with a gesture of his hands. “We live in a time of restraint. The Police Department must be spared cutbacks. Support for the force begins with public confidence. Surely you can understand that much.”

“So in order to keep the money flowing, an incompetent boob, an idiot, a corrupt administrator with known links to Kaplonski and possibly to others, an officer who is potentially a traitorous informant, is put back on the job. Tell me—is he still directing our case?”

“He’s not.”

“Why not? He’s been reconstituted. Who took him off our case?”

“Director Gervais,” Tremblay admitted.

“On what grounds?” Cinq-Mars pressed, curious now.

Tremblay hesitated, taking time to form his words in the most politic way possible and yet, as Cinq-Mars divined, convey the weight behind the official course of action. “Captain Gilles Beaubien has been relieved of responsibility with respect to any ongoing investigation that involves organized crime on the grounds that there may be potential for conflict of interest. He’s been delegated other assignments.”

“What assignments?”

“The duty roster, vacation rotation, statistical analysis.”

The two men, old friends, colleagues who had been through the wars together, who had entered the combat of the streets as young men, survived and flourished and progressed, locked eyes. Tremblay’s gaze conveyed to Cinq-Mars that he should ask no further question, cause no further trouble in this regard. His look disclosed that any further query would be met by stony silence, or by official rebuke. Cinq-Mars did not speak, while in his own eyes he indicated thanks to a friend from whom he’d been distant for too long. As if answering a covert cue, the men stood together. In shaking hands they confirmed their intention to enlist in the battle ahead, without words, trusting no one, but together, engaged.

Beaubien had been restored but not vindicated.

Permission, Cinq-Mars knew as he stepped out of his colleague’s office, for him to proceed, without sanction, but more important, without impediment, had been granted.

Julia Murdick had been a passenger in fine cars in recent weeks—Norris’s Infiniti, once in a Cadillac that belonged to the biker in the beige suit, now the Lexus Gitteridge leased. “Only fools buy,” he said.

She closed her eyes and rested her head on the warm leather. Her tush had been toasted on so many car seats during the winter she wondered if she could accept being driven in a lesser vehicle again. They drove on, and the traffic was light. Reaching their destination, Gitteridge took his time finding a worthy parking spot, one with ample room for other vehicles to maneuver. They finally clambered out two blocks from the bank’s front door, and twice Gitteridge stopped to gaze back at his car, as though he expected to see hubcaps being heisted.

“You’re a walking advertisement. You should go on TV.”

“You don’t understand.” She had to agree, she didn’t. He shot another glance over his shoulder, but they had turned a corner. “Today’s going to be all right for us, isn’t it, Heather?”

“Something’s got you spooked,” she told him.

“You’re a college girl. What do you know about the real world?”

“I’m a quick study.”

“I’m counting on that. Know something? You walk funny.”

She was bounding along beside him, her head bobbing up and down. Quickly she reined herself in, realizing that her walk was particularly exaggerated due to anxiety, fear. She thought things with Gitteridge were going fairly well, but the goof over the weekend was still nagging her. The real Heather Bantry had showed up, and she had had to go to Okinder Boyle’s house and bail them out of that jam. She was mad at Norris for the oversight, but when he explained that the real Heather lived in Seattle now, she could see
how her showing up had been a surprise. Nobody had guessed that McGill would put on a national debating festival, or that that would matter, that Heather Bantry would be on a team. Still. Mistakes were so damned dangerous. “There’s a term for it,” she told him. “Not my walk exactly, what causes my walk.”

“What’s the term?”

She stopped to explain herself, bending over and looking down at her legs. “See, my shinbones don’t appear to travel straight, they swerve, or so it looks, but they’re not the problem. The problem starts with my feet, what’s called the pronation, they roll inward toward each other, which causes the knees to point inward also. I’m knock-kneed, if you must know. I have emu kneecaps. The patella sit in a recess, but because of the pronation and the attendant problems, the outer quad muscles of my thighs get overworked compared to the inner muscles, consequently they develop more, and because of that they have a tendency to pull the kneecap out of alignment. That puts the whole knee apparatus out of wonk and ligaments overcompensate and the knee tries to rearrange the whole works and so I develop, subconsciously, this whole other work-sharing ethic thing to help my leg bones and joints and muscles get along. Nothing cooperates. Overall I’m a pathetic mess. A chiropractor’s wet dream.”

Gitteridge could not confirm anything Julia said because she was wearing pants. She looked up, suddenly aware that she’d been babbling, aware also that at that moment she was frightened half to death. “What’s the name for it, the term?” Gitteridge probed, his voice cold, and he was watching her with a skeptical gaze.

“Never mind. Is something wrong? Is everything okay, Mr. Gitteridge? You looked scared. You look like somebody just stole your Lexus.”

“It’s in our best interest that everything works as planned.”

“Then come on,” Julia urged. “Let’s get on with it.”

Gitteridge talked as he walked. “It’s been a tough year. Turf wars. One biker blows up another. Nobody knows who gets hit next. In September, the bikers’ banker was blown into pudding. Since then the boys haven’t had much luck with their financial management. Until your dad. They have to show some people they can handle money, move it around, demonstrate they’re on top of things. Your dad’s in the right place at the right time. Funny how that worked out. You should understand, Heather. Don’t rub these guys the wrong way, but you have a certain limited leverage. They have to answer to a higher authority. As long as they’re cozying up to their new partners, you’ll be safe. Your dad’ll be taken care of, too.”

Julia walked and she was screaming to herself,
New partners! New partners! He must mean Russians! Like Selwyn said!
“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Gitteridge. I can use it. Some days I don’t know what I got myself into.”

“Handle this, Heather. Don’t bail out. That’s important, to you, to your old man, to me. You don’t want to know what happens if you bail out.”

Julia was fittingly subdued. “I’m not bailing,” she vowed.

“Tell me something,” he asked.

“What?”

“What’s the term for what’s wrong with your legs?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m curious.”

“I’m not saying. It’s too humiliating. I don’t tell anybody that.” They wound up on Peel Street in a snarl of traffic, waiting for the light to change. After crossing, they walked into a branch of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.

“What do you want to get done?” she asked him.

“Verify the account balance and make a test withdrawal. I don’t want to be the one who lands in jail. I’ll stand behind you and watch.”

“This is one of seven accounts.”

“Do you have something better to do today? Did you have other plans?”

She shook her head. She wished he’d lighten up. “Do I get lunch out of this, at least?”

“McDonald’s.”

“No way. We’re eating upscale or I’m not participating.”

Gitteridge gripped her wrist and squeezed hard. “When do you get to understand that you never tell me what to do?”

“Fine.” She shook him off, and he let her, not wanting a scene in the bank. “Go back to the Angels or whoever,” she whispered hotly, “and tell them you couldn’t get the money back because you’d rather rough me up in a bank than do their bidding.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you think they’ll be understanding?”

“Very funny. What do we have to do here?” he demanded.

“We can ask for a printout of our company statement. See if any transfers have come in from Eastern Europe. We show our ID. Make a withdrawal. This one’s in both our names.”

The teller, a pleasant, brightly attired woman in her fifties, heavily made up, easily accommodated their requests and counted out two thousand dollars to cash the check Julia wrote against the account. They returned to the street.

“Are you telling me that that’s not enough for lunch?”

Finally, Gitteridge grinned. “It’s not our money. Don’t forget that.”

“I ain’t that dumb.”

His cellular phone warbled. “Hang on.” He found a nook in the building out of the wind and chatted for a while. He waved her over when he was finished. Gitteridge clutched her wrist as he had done before and this time twisted.

“You’re hurting!” She looked around, frantic. Pedestrians paid her no mind.

He tightened his grip.

She believed her wrist might snap, the skin tear. “Please. Stop!”

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“What? What? Please! Mr. Gitteridge!”

“Tell me the term for your legs. Now. Tell me or I won’t let go. I’ll hurt you.”

She was in the grip of a crazy man, her own fear rampant now. She had not anticipated Gitteridge freaking out. “What is this obsession with you? It’s called malicious malalignment, all right? Please, don’t repeat it.”

“Malicious malalignment.”

He let go.

Julia rubbed her scorched wrist.

“You’re in luck,” he informed her calmly. “We’ve been invited to lunch, and it’s not McDonald’s.”

“Where?”

“The harbor. We’re lunching aboard ship. Smile, sweetheart. You’re the guest of honor.”

They walked back to the Lexus. She could hardly see for the tears in her eyes as he held the door for her. She crawled in. Her wrist was hurting. Gitteridge got in behind the wheel and started up. “You’re very good, Heather,” he told her. “You and your father have passed our tests with flying colors.”

“Why’d you squeeze my wrist so hard?”

Gitteridge chuckled lightly. “There was something you weren’t telling me.” He was checking his side mirror for a break in traffic. “There must never be
anything you don’t tell me. Nothing is private. Do you understand that now?”

“Yes, sir,” she said in a wisp of a voice.

He was looking across at her again, shaking his head.

“What?”

“You’re very convincing.”

Convincing?

He moved the car into traffic, and they drove down to the waterfront.

The leader of the Hell’s Angels, on a rare visit to the city, ordered another beer and cut a patch from his steak. When he talked he waved his fork in front of him. When he wasn’t talking he was eating or drinking. Wee Willie had a jag on for food, and his companions kept clear.