Cold City Streets (11 page)

It was a blanket statement of immunity, not actual help. “Would his secretary have some kind of record of what he’d planned to do that evening?”

“Unlikely,” said Kennedy. “Unless it was something he’d needed tickets for, or a reservation, something she could set up during the day. I’ll certainly ask, see if she has anything for you.”

“She’s here now?”

“I believe she has the day off.” He smiled warmly.

That’s his
Christmas card smile
, Cobi thought. “Had you known Mr. Featherstone a long time?”

“Thirty years, since college. We went way back.”

“Can you think of anyone who would have wished him harm, or who may have threatened him in the past?”

“Certainly not threatened, no. But the business has plenty of detractors.”

“Such as?”

“Well, the obvious ones would be various environmental radicals and socialists. Then there are land rights issues, particularly here in Alberta. Then there are employment issues, as any large company has a few disgruntled staff…”

“It’s not a short list.”

“No,” Kennedy agreed. “No, it isn’t. Having said that, Brian wasn’t the kind of man to make enemies easily. He knew how to be diplomatic at times and hard others. So if he was feuding with someone, he usually knew what he was doing. Brian was sharp.”

“And this time?”

But if Kennedy knew anything about the night of the murder, he wasn’t telling Cobi. “As I’ve said, the first we knew of it was the call from police. You’re an ex-player, aren’t you, Mr. Tate? I remember the name.”

“Yeah, four seasons. Parts of, anyhow.”

“I played for Calgary for a number of years.” He glanced briefly at the bookshelf behind him, toward his team photos and a handful of small trophies. “Before your time, of course, but I know how difficult it can be after the game is done. Some guys have a hard time becoming settled in the regular working world.”

“That can happen, sure.”

“I like to put in a good word for ex-players whenever I can,” Kennedy said. “Reminds me of my roots. How about you, Mr. Tate? How have things gone since you stopped playing?”

What was he getting at? “I do okay.”

“You know, the provincial government is always looking for the best people; I imagine a security position with Justice or the Premier’s office might pay far better than what you’re doing now. I could put in a word for you.”

Cobi’s father had told him when he was young that there’s always a price attached when someone offers something for free. He’d already had too many occasions when he’d found out it was true. He liked to think he continued learning. “That’s okay, Mr. Kennedy. I’m just fine where I am.”

“I’d heard Mr. Sidney was being defended by a local clinic. Would that be your employer, then?”

“That’s right.”

“Uh huh. That’s a long way from pro ball, now isn’t it?” he smiled.

“Sure. Isn’t everything?”

Kennedy liked that. He stood and walked around the desk. Cobi recognized the signs that the meeting was over. “I still had a few more questions…”

“And I’m sure you’ll find answers, Mr. Tate,” he offered encouragement. “However, I really have told you everything I can offer.” He gestured towards the door, even the demand seeming polite and graceful, as if he was just giving him the chance to go first.

Cobi rose to his feet. “Do you think it’s possible this might have something to do with Au-rex?”

There wasn’t a hint of surprise from the politician. “Absolutely not,” he said, with another warm smile. “As you’re no doubt aware, we were victims of Au-rex; in fact, we lost more than anyone. Now, I really do need to be somewhere…”

A familiar figure waited for the courthouse elevator when Jessie arrived for the afternoon session.

“Ray.”

“Ms. Harper.” Crown Attorney Ray Strong was twenty years her senior and had lectured her in college. Things had been downhill from there on.

“I’m not going to stoop to suggesting you might have leaked the story…”

“There had better not be a ‘but’ coming…”

“No, Ray. We’ve gone a few rounds; I don’t think this is in your wheelhouse.”

“Appreciated. In case you’re wondering, I already checked and he has no related juvie record other than the drug thing, which you already know about; it was just an arrest.”

“I take it you’re going to hammer the paper for this? How can he get a fair jury trial in this town after people read that piece?”

Ray looked awkward and unconvincing. “We’re four to six months from trial; precedent in recent years says the court isn’t going to consider it prejudicial, particularly as it’s not a criminal record but an adult’s psychiatric recollection of his childhood.”

“Are you telling me they can just print this?” Jess fumed, but kept a lid on what she actually wanted to say.

“Yeah, I’m afraid so. I mean, I’ll certainly make a motion to have the judge cite them, but they haven’t reported anything from the prelim, so they haven’t broken any publication ban. Without risk of prejudice, the best we could expect is a slap on the wrist.”

“Can’t you ask the judge to seal the psych record?”

“It’s a private health document. But under the law, it’s the person who leaked it who is liable. The paper can argue it acted in the public interest. And figuring that out isn’t going to be easy, given that we didn’t know about it either until now.”

Jessie took a deep, cleansing breath. “Ray, do you figure maybe there’s something wrong with my phone, and today is actually a Monday? That story reminded me a hell of a lot of a city snow plow.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Look, I’ll see you back inside. I have to go talk to my client. You have any more nasty surprises for me?”

He shrugged. “If I did, telling you would ruin the surprise.” And then he saw her less-than-amused look. “But… no, I don’t. You’ve got our outline. You know where we’re headed. For the most part.”

Jessie smiled a little at that. She had to admit that “for the most part” kept things interesting.

At street level, Cobi phoned in and left a message with Rhonda. “If she’s looking for me, tell her I’m going to check out Featherstone’s apartment downtown. Maybe that’s where he was staying the night he was killed.”

“She’s out of court in a half-hour, so I should see her soon,” Rhonda said.

“I’m just going to door knock, see if anyone remembers seeing him that night. If we’re going to figure out how the man ended up where he did, it can’t hurt to know where he started.”

The condominium building overlooked the river valley on a quiet dead-end street, the end of the road a drop-off down the hill, into thickets of trees. Like most of the buildings in the trendy neighborhood, it seemed almost brand new, fourteen stories of modern red-and-tan-and-black brick, each balcony fronted by tinted glass, with a large oval hotel-style turnaround in front of the main doors. It only took ten minutes to get there, even with the busy late afternoon traffic. Cobi pulled the car up to the curb across the road and shut off the engine.

He looked up at the building. Maybe if the gig worked out and Sarah remarried, he’d have enough each month to buy a condo on a similar street.

He crossed the street and covered the distance to the doors. The first set opened to a lobby with a typical buzzer board. None of the apartments had names next to them, but the court file said Featherstone owned 801. Cobi started with the eighth floor, ringing each bell in turn.

He got through all eight without a response.
Figures. End of the day, when most people are home, and nobody’s here.
He tried the seventh floor, methodically ringing each in turn. He was through three when a short man with a crown of brown hair and pitted cheeks walked out of an office just past the security doors and over towards him.

The man hit a button on the wall near the doors and the intercom speaker crackled. “Sir, there’s no soliciting allowed. If you aren’t visiting someone, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m not soliciting,” Cobi said through the glass.

The man walked over to the doors. He opened them cautiously. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m working for a local defense lawyer on a murder case and one of the units here may be relevant.”

“This would be the death of Mr. Featherstone?”

“It would.”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told the guy from the newspaper: he does not have an apartment here.”

“This address was listed in police evidence as being his official residence.”

That surprised the man. “That is incorrect, sir, I can say that. Perhaps the error is in that Mrs. Featherstone owns an apartment here.”

“Yes, she told me her father left it to her.”

“Yes, sir. But Mr. Featherstone did not use the apartment, therefore there is no need to bother the other guests.”

That doesn’t fit. She said … “
So he wasn’t here the night he was killed?”

“
He wasn’t here ever, sir.”

“Then why do they keep the apartment?”

“Sir, I think I’ve helped all I can. I can give you a card, and if you have any more questions, I think you need to direct them to the company that owns the building. I’m just the manager.”

Why do they keep the apartment? If he never used it, then maybe…
Cobi played a hunch.

“Can I leave a message for Mrs. Featherstone? I assume she’s here a few times a week.”

“Sure, I can take that,” he offered.

Cobi scribbled his cell phone number onto the business card and handed it back to the man. “If you just tell her I want her to call. She’ll know what it’s about. Do you know when you’re expecting her next?”

“I couldn’t say. Is that everything, sir?”

The preliminary inquiry had gone poorly; the judge came across as a hard-case, making it clear he wanted any challenges dealt with in the three days allotted. He hadn’t actually prejudiced himself by using the phrase “open and shut” to describe the Crown’s case, but Jessie got the distinct impression it was the direction in which he was leaning. He almost seemed annoyed to be there.

She’d proposed four key issues for the Crown to argue: one, that the search of Paul Sidney’s home was illegal without a warrant; two, that the police biased the proceedings by ignoring other potential suspects, given that Sidney had not left his home that night; three, that Sidney’s prior juvenile dealing record should be struck as prejudicial, which was almost guaranteed; four, that the exculpatory evidence suggesting the body had been moved―and that Sidney’s car had not―should have led to a more thorough scene examination, biasing the charges.

She’d also provided multiple previous cases – authorities, as the court referred to them – demonstrating intent was a key consideration when approaching a search and seizure. Now it was down to the detective taking the stand, and whether she could shake him into reinforcing how weak the investigation had been.

Jessie stood behind the defense table, her notes in front of her. The officer had just been sworn in and appeared stoic. Given how much time local officers spent testifying in court, it was probably old hat for him.

“Det. Carver, you described the arrest in some detail in your report. Did you ever feel threatened by Mr. Sidney?”

“No, ma’am, not particularly.” Carver was older, a veteran at the give-and-take of being a witness. He wasn’t sure what to make of this one yet, this lawyer. She hadn’t started where he thought she would. She wasn’t predictable.

“But he had a gun on him, you say, one later identified as the murder weapon in the death of Mr. Sidney.”

“He didn’t draw the firearm. The suspect fled when we entered his home and did not appear to be interested in engaging with us.”

“Is that normal, detective, for someone you’re chasing to leave a weapon in the waistband of their trousers and run away, instead of using it?”

“I wouldn’t say there is any ‘normal’ situation involving a drug dealer and a gun. We have to assume at all times that he could be armed and dangerous.”

“But you didn’t know when you approached the house that he was armed?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then why did you approach the house?”

“We were tipped that the occupant of the home might be involved in the narcotics trade.”

“That he was a drug dealer?”

“Yes.”

“So you went to the Sidney’s house to catch a dealer?”

“A neighbor pointed out the illegal trade going on inside the suspect’s home, and we proceeded to the front door and knocked, to ascertain whether he was correct.”

“I see. And they just opened the door because… it was a night like any other? Was there any discussion, detective, of the dead body that was sitting in the middle of the road? Or did the neighbor only talk about how much he disliked drug dealers?”

She toned it facetiously. But the detective had been on the stand many times and remained stoic. “The occupant suggested the suspect routinely socialized with a criminal element and that if anyone were responsible or tied to the homicide victim, it would be him.”

“So when you approached the house, you weren’t really looking for drugs. You were trying to catch a murderer. Isn’t that right, detective?”

Carver was slow and cautious with his response. “We were very much looking for signs of drug use, ma’am. That the suspect was carrying the murder weapon and a large sum of cash was a lucky coincidence.”

“But not that lucky; after all, you did discuss the possibility that he’d done it with a local resident, correct?”

“That’s true, yes.”

Jessie glanced over at the Crown, who was taking notes and looking uncomfortable. Then she turned back to the detective. “Did your forensics people find any fibers from the suspect on the victim’s body, or vice-versa?”

“No, ma’am, not to my knowledge.”

“But they did look?”

“I believe they followed the basic protocols.”

“And yet they didn’t search Mr. Sidney’s car…”

He frowned at that, unsure of where she was going. “We discovered Mr. Sidney with the murder weapon inside his house.”

“Your tipster on the street told my investigator that at the scene, you were discussing the possibility that Mr. Featherstone’s body had been moved, is that correct?”

The detective eyed her stonily. “It came up as a possibility, but not one that we needed to pursue. It wasn’t anything anyone took seriously.”

Jess gave her own look of surprise, a practiced turn and raise of the eyebrows in one move. She wanted the judge reaching the same conclusions she tried to infer. “So you knew it was a possible avenue of investigation based on forensics experts at the scene, but you didn’t pursue it at all? That seems odd.”

The Crown attorney rose. “Your Worship, Ms. Harper is drawing conclusions and leading the witness.”

The judge looked bored, leaning on one elbow. “He has a point, Ms. Harper. Rein it in, please.”

“Let me rephrase that, Your Worship,” she said. “Detective Carver, would it be normal procedure to ignore an avenue of investigation?”

“No ma’am, but…”

“Thank you, detective, that’s all I need for now.” She sat back down while the judge dismissed Carver from the stand.
If he can’t see that that search was poisoned
, she thought,
this is going to be a long week
.

The Wolves Mixed Martial Arts Club was about as unimpressive as a gym could get, a corrugated-tin shack in an industrial park just south of Argyll Road, which bisected south central Edmonton, about five miles south of the glitzy, glass skyscrapers downtown. It was in a part of the city where people got dirt under their fingernails for a living.

The barn-sized building looked like it could have been an auto body or glass shop, and at one point perhaps it had been. Inside, two training octagons dominated the left side of the floor, while the right side consisted of a mix of mats, workout machines, heavy bags and other training equipment. A few men put themselves through the paces, working the bench press or practicing grappling moves on the mats.

Cobi recognized Leon Gross immediately; he stood outside the second training octagon, barking instructions to one of the men sparring.

Leon was a slightly stooped man in his late sixties, almost bald, a famous beak of a nose. “That’s it, baby, get in there! Get in there and shoot the knee, shoot the knee! Barreiro hates to go to ground early, you know that. So get him down there!”

The fighters pirouetted slightly and Cobi realized the manager was talking to his star, Darren “Deathtouch” Reed. A former college wrestler turned kick boxer, Reed had only been involved in mixed martial arts for a couple of years but was already challenging for a heavyweight title. He was a bull of a man, the size of a lineman but with just about no body fat, a flat-top crew cut adding to the effect.

“That’s it, baby, take him downtown. Wrap the leg! Wrap the leg!”

Along the left wall, a handful of large men in sweats and jeans watched, most leaning lazily. They looked more like an entourage than fighters. One of the men, a lumpy chunk of a guy, noticed him. He uncrossed his arms from their resting spot on his expansive stomach and made his way over.

“You supposed to be here, man? ‘cause this is a closed training session.”

Cobi gestured ahead. “I need to speak to Mr. Reed.”

“That’s not going to happen,” the man reached out, fingers spread wide, blocking Cobi’s passage like a crossing guard. “Mr. Reed is in training for a major fight and he can’t be disturbed.”

“You want to move your hand, please?” Cobi requested firmly.

The man moved dangerously close to being right in his face. Cobi pushed the hand aside. Another hand snaked out and grabbed him by the collar and he reacted, twisting into the man’s direction, making it hard for him to hold his grip. His father’s instructions kicked in as he dug an elbow into the man’s gut. As the man groaned from the impact, Cobi grabbed his lead wrist and twisted it hard, locking the man’s arm up behind him, needing just one hand to immobilize him.

The guard grimaced in pain.

“That’s enough, I think,” a voice from behind them bellowed.

“Hello, Mr. Gross,” Cobi said. He let the man go to stumble a few feet forward then turn to face Cobi again, looking hurt.

“I said enough, Gerald,” Gross ordered the hanger-on. He wandered over to join them. “It’s been a while, Mr. Tate.”

In the octagon, the fighters stopped for a moment while their manager talked to the new arrival. “You two keep going without me for a few minutes, okay? I’m just going to chat with our friend here.”

Gross looked unimpressed. , “I don’t suppose you’ve decided to change your mind about my offer.”

Leon had jumped on Cobi’s release at the time, trying to take a marketable name into his ranks with an offer to train him to fight. “Can’t say I have.”

“Good, because it’s rescinded. A recent ex-player I can market; but it’s been four years, Cobi.”

“That’s not why I’m here. It’s about your star attraction.”

Gross glanced over his shoulder quickly. “Yeah, best day of my life when that guy showed up at my door. It’s like he shits lightning and eats souls for breakfast.” He looked Cobi over again from head to foot. “You could have been a hell of a fighter, too, you know. Nothing like him, but good enough to make some bread.”

“Not my style.”

“So what do you want to know about Deathtouch? You need him for a charity event or something? Because he’s booked pretty solid these days, I hate to tell you. Still, knocks ‘em dead when he goes down to the kiddy hospital and lets the little tykes hang from his biceps.” He used a tone of glib satisfaction, like Cobi turning him down still genuinely irked him.

“That part of his community service?”

“Very funny. What do you want, anyway? I’m sure you’re not here to invite me out for a bagel and a schmear. You’re not that sociable a fellow.”

Cobi knew he had to broach the issue carefully. “I’m working as a legal investigator for a clinic downtown. My boss is representing the guy they say killed Brian Featherstone.”

Gross’s face changed immediately. “Yeah? So what’s that got to do with me?”

“Well, not you specifically…”

“You got a point with this?”

“Your boy lost a lot of money by listening to this dude.” Cobi didn’t like the way Gross quickly overreacted. He could see Leon’s face flushing, the tension rising.

“So you’re here looking for a scapegoat, trying to make trouble for a guy I just told you is the most important fighter I ever had? You’re disappointing a career season-ticket holder. I hope you know that. You used to have more respect. Then again, I heard you were working for Buddy Gaines, so maybe times have been tougher for you than I thought.”

“I’m not here to cause you problems, Leon. I just want to talk to him about Au-rex, see if he can shake something loose. Maybe there was someone he can think of angry enough at Featherstone…”

“Yeah, right. So I leave you with him and the next thing you know you’re trying to get him to cop to whatever your guy did. Is that pretty much it, Cobi? Because I’m thinking that, my love for your former team notwithstanding, I might take a little offense to that.”

“Leon…”

“You know I’m not so old and out of shape that I won’t defend what’s mine. So my suggestion to you is to get the hell out of here.”

“Give me five minutes with him….”

Leon crossed over from irritated to angry. “You don’t mess with another man’s livelihood.” He thrust a finger at the exit. “Go on, get out!” He moved to shove Cobi but just bounced off.

“Man… Leon, don’t do that, okay? I don’t want to fight you…”

Gross looked embarrassed. But behind him, his hangers-on noticed the failed shove and quickly moved to back him up. None were lightweights, and they looked like they were spoiling for a fight. “You still want to make a point of this?” he asked.

Cobi wasn’t stupid; five-to-one odds against a bunch of guys who had training? That was just asking for an ass-kicking. He held up both hands in mock surrender. “We’re cool,” he said, backing towards the door. “Leon, you cool off some and want to give me a call, I’ll leave my number on this card, by the front door.”

The look on Gross’s face said to not expect it anytime soon.