Old City Hall (7 page)

“What a bastard,” Gild said. “What a total hypocrite.”

Raglan peered up from her desk, tortoiseshell glasses perched on her aquiline nose. Her skin had the tattered look of too many late nights and cold cups of coffee, and her hair was mousy brown. But her eyes were a magical hazel and her mouth was wide. There was an appealing confidence about her.

“When did you hear about it?” Raglan asked Fernandez.

Fernandez shrugged. He couldn’t fake it anymore. “I hate to tell you, but I haven’t heard anything.”

All eyes in the room turned to him.

“You haven’t heard?” Raglan said.

“No.”

“Kevin Brace has been charged with first-degree murder,” Raglan said. “Early this morning his wife was found dead in the bathtub of their downtown penthouse condominium. One stab wound to the stomach. Albert, what an amazing draw for your first homicide.”

Fernandez just nodded.

“Unbelievable,” Gild said. “And people called Brace the first feminist man in Canada. Sure sucked me in good.”

“The press is going to have a fucking field day with this,” Cutter growled. “Albert, you lucky dog.”

Fernandez kept nodding. There was another cheap chair in the corner of the room. He pulled it over, raised his pad of paper, and clicked his pen. “Let’s get going,” he said, trying his best to sound up-beat. He had to make everyone think he was ready—which was close to the truth.

There was just one question he needed answered but didn’t dare to ask: Who the hell was Kevin Brace?

J
ust what was the Toronto police force coming to, Nancy Parish asked herself as she surveyed the bevy of food and beverage choices on offer at the spanking new police cafeteria: cappuccinos, lattes, mint teas, yogurt smoothies, fruit salads, granola bars, croissants, and mini-brioches. Mini-brioches. This was no cop shop, it was a café. Where was the weak coffee, the glazed doughnuts?

After some determined foraging, Parish managed to find a butter tart without any fancy pecans or walnuts in it and a cup of dark roast coffee that looked as if it had been brewed a few hours ago. It was a start.

Jet fuel, she told herself as she took a seat on a sleekly designed chair in the half-empty cafeteria. Sometimes you need some pure, unadulterated crap to power you through difficult situations, she thought, eagerly digging in.

The damn tart was so big, part of the filling squished out across her cheek. Just as she reached for a napkin, a tall man wearing a beautifully tailored suit, a well-pressed shirt, and gleaming black loafers approached her table. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way.

“Ms. Parish, Detective Greene,” he said, extending his hand.

“Hello, Detective,” she managed to mumble, grabbing for the napkin. It felt as though it took forever for her to wipe her face and reach for his outstretched hand.

“Mind if I have a seat?” Greene asked.

Parish gulped down a big slurp of coffee to try to clear her throat. “Please do,” she said. The coffee was burning hot, and it singed her tongue.

“Once you’re done with your breakfast, I’ll take you upstairs to see Mr. Brace,” Greene said.

“Hardly breakfast,” Parish said, wishing there was a hole in the table where she could ditch the rest of the butter tart. “Let’s go.”

Inside the elevator the floor numbers were written in English, French, Chinese, Arabic, and Braille. There were three other people in the car, and Greene didn’t say a word. As they rose through the plant-filled atrium, a mechanical voice said “Ground floor, floor number one, floor number two . . .” in about ten different languages. I’d go mad listening to this every day, Parish thought.

Looking down, she saw that the pants she’d put on didn’t quite cover the salt stains on her boots. Get your priorities straight, Nancy Gail, she thought, imitating her mother’s voice in her head. First white vinegar, then Kevin Brace.

When they got off the elevator, Greene led her down an empty hallway and plunged into his narrative. “We received notification of this incident by way of a 911 phone call from a Mr. Gurdial Singh at five thirty-one a.m. Our information at this moment is that Mr. Singh delivers newspapers at Mr. Brace’s condominium each morning at this time.
The Globe and Mail
. Mr. Singh reports that Mr. Brace came to the doorway in his bathrobe with blood on his hands and stated he’d murdered his wife. Mr. Singh found the body of the victim, Ms. Katherine Torn, the common-law wife of Mr. Brace, in the bathtub. There’s no known relationship between Mr. Singh and Brace or Torn, except for Mr. Singh’s delivering newspapers. Mr. Singh is seventy-three years old. He immigrated to Canada four years ago. Canadian citizen, married, with four children and eighteen grandchildren, no criminal record and no previous police contacts.”

Greene spoke with the precision of a veteran actor performing the same part for the hundredth time. He walked at a rapid, sure pace. Yet
there was nothing mechanical about him—in fact, he was quite warm amid all the highly professional polish. As constant as a metronome, Parish thought, a fine wood metronome.

“Mr. Singh informs us that he’s a former engineer with Indian Railways. We’ve been able to confirm this independently. He has extensive first-aid experience. Before he called 911, he checked the body for vital signs, and they were absent. It was cold to the touch. Mr. Brace was arrested without incident by P.C. Daniel Kennicott at five fifty-three a.m. He’s been informed of his right to remain silent and his right to counsel. He’s made no statement to the police at this time. We have charged him with first-degree murder.”

Greene stopped. They’d arrived at a nondescript white door.

“Any questions so far?” he asked.

Parish wanted to ask, “How about another cup of coffee? How do you get your shoes to be so shiny? At what precise moment did Ms. Katherine Torn, common-law wife to Mr. Kevin Brace, cease to be a ‘she’ and become an ‘it’?”

Instead she just asked, “Is he handcuffed?”

“Absolutely not. Mr. Brace was cuffed at the time of his arrest and throughout transport. We removed the cuffs as soon as he was secure in this building.”

Parish nodded. Keep it simple, she told herself.

“The apartment is on the twelfth floor. No balcony. It looks south over the lake,” Greene said, the metronome staying on beat. “There’s only one front door. At this stage of the investigation there’s no evidence of forced entry, and all exterior windows appear to be intact. There are no signs of a robbery having taken place. There are only two units on the twelfth floor—12A and 12B. Suite 12B is occupied by an eighty-three-year-old widow. I trust that’s clear.”

Greene was deliberately showing her how strong his case was right from the get-go. Don’t react to this barrage of bad news, she told herself. Just listen. Think. How many times have you seen this? The police always present the evidence as if it’s an open-and-shut case. They want you to think your case is hopeless. Remember, it’s not what they say that matters, but what they don’t say.

What’s Greene not telling you? Parish thought, rubbing her burnt tongue along the top of her mouth. What’s missing?

“I’m afraid we’ll have to lock you in the room, Ms. Parish,” Greene said. “I’ll post a police constable at the door, stationed across the hallway to ensure that your conversation is entirely confidential. If you need anything, simply knock, and she’ll assist you. Please take all the time you need. We’re still scrambling for transport, so he’ll be here for a while. I hope that’s sufficient.”

Parish nodded again. It was seductive to be treated in such a courteous, professional manner. Most of her twelve-year career had been spent clawing for every ounce of cooperation she could get from the authorities. This was her first murder case. Just an hour or so in, and she could see why defense lawyers liked homicides. Sure, the stakes were impossibly high and the hours brutal, but at least you were treated with respect.

“That’s fine,” she said. Brace has the right to counsel, she told herself. You have the right to be here. Greene’s not doing you any favors.

Where’s the hole? Come on, Nancy, quit being distracted by this nice-guy detective in the fancy suit. Think.

Then it came to her. Don’t overplay it, she told herself. She waited until Greene turned back toward the elevator. “One quick question, Detective.”

“Of course, Ms. Parish.” Greene pivoted precisely, like a skater doing a tight turn, the smile still on his face.

“A murder weapon. Did you find one?”

For just an instant Greene’s smile slipped.

“Not yet, Ms. Parish,” he said. “A few hours from now, when the forensic officers are ready to release the scene, I’ll head back to the condominium for my final walk-through. Tell you what. I’ll keep my eyes open for it.”

That smile again. The detective was nothing if not charming. He turned around and waved with his back to her.

Parish looked at the closed door. She took a deep breath and opened it.

Kevin Brace, perhaps the best-known broadcaster in the country,
who often joked that he was the most famous face on radio, sat in the far corner of an empty, large white-walled room. The only furniture was two wooden chairs. Brace sat on the far chair, huddled up, turned into himself, an old man returning to the fetal position.

Parish closed the door quickly. “Mr. Brace,” she said, putting her hands out straight in front of her, “listen and do not say a word.”

He looked up. She got to the empty chair fast and pulled it close. “Mr. Brace, this room is not monitored for sound, but there’s a camera keeping constant video surveillance on you.” She turned and pointed to the camera mounted conspicuously on the far wall. “I’d prefer you say nothing right now in case someone decides to lip-read the tape one day. Or—well, you never know.”

Brace looked slowly up at the video camera, then back at her.

“Can you just shake or nod your head?”

Brace nodded his head.

“Do you need anything? Water? The washroom?”

He shook his head.

“You know you’ve been charged with first-degree murder?”

He looked her straight in the eye. For a moment she thought he was going to say something. But he stiffened his back and nodded again.

“This is very awkward,” she said. “I’ll see you tonight in the jail, and we can talk.”

Again he nodded.

“The police will try to get you to talk. I prefer that my clients say absolutely nothing. That way no words can get put into your mouth. You okay with that?”

He let his eyes rest on her for quite a while. She remembered those deep, comfortable brown eyes from the time he’d interviewed her on the radio. Eyes that just made you trust him. Made you want to cuddle up and be his best friend.

Then Brace broke into a smile.

“Good,” she said, reaching for her binder. She turned to a fresh piece of paper and narrated as she wrote.

My name is Mr. Kevin Brace. I understand that I have been charged with first-degree murder. I also understand that I have the right to remain silent. I wish to assert that right and do not wish to say anything at this time. Dated at Toronto this Monday, the 17th day of December.

She drew a line below the text. Under the line she wrote his name in capital letters.

“Here,” she said, turning the binder toward him. “Sign this and keep it with you at all times. Just show it to the police when anyone tries to ask you anything. Good idea to do the same thing at the jail until I get there to see you tonight.”

Brace reached out and examined her pen. It was a cheap Bic. Thankfully, it was only slightly chewed. She’d long ago given up on buying pricey pens with her name engraved on the side, which, like leather winter gloves, prescription sunglasses, and expensive lipstick, she inevitably lost within a week.

He signed his name with a flowing, neat script. Then, without waiting, he opened the rings of the binder and removed the piece of paper. He took it out and folded it neatly in half, then half again.

He gave her a sly grin.

Parish was impressed. Despite all that had happened to him in the last few hours, he seemed unfazed. Perhaps it was all those years of living on deadline, but clearly Kevin Brace was cool under pressure.

I
t took Daniel Kennicott a long time to drive back downtown, battling traffic. There was nowhere to park on Front Street, but he got lucky and found a spot on the side street where Greene’s car had been parked originally. He stifled a yawn as he walked down the hallway to 12A. This will be it for me on this case, he thought. They called it the “first cop in, first cop out,” rule, and he’d learned it last year.

In December, he and his partner, Nora Bering, had received a domestic call from a big house in Rosedale. They were the first officers on scene. In a fit of pre-Christmas rage, Mrs. Frances Boudreau, soon to be labeled by the press as “the not-so-sober socialite,” had flung a laptop at her wayward husband. It clipped him on the temple, and he bled to death under the family Christmas tree. Kennicott and Bering were forced to arrest her right in front of her twin boys and the Filipino nanny.

Once backup arrived and the scene was under control, everything changed. Two lordly homicide detectives—perfectly dressed, with their hand-stitched suits, initialed French-cuffed shirts, and highly buffed shoes—ambled in, writing in their special-issue notebooks with their expensive handcrafted pens. On their way out the door they had a terse interview with Kennicott and Bering and dismissed them from the investigation—first cop in, first cop out—without so much as a word of thanks.

Now, inside apartment 12A, the daylight was streaming in the big windows, and Kennicott put his hand over his eyes for a moment as he walked carefully across the tiled kitchen floor. Detective Greene was huddled over the kitchen counter with a tall man. Kennicott recognized him from behind. As always, an old briefcase and a tattered canvas backpack were at the man’s feet.

“Hey, Officer Kennicott, I’d say you made pretty good time,” Detective Wayne Ho said as he turned toward Kennicott, his big hand outstretched in an enthusiastic greeting. Ho, the forensic identification officer responsible for securing the scene and collecting evidence, was an unusually tall Chinese man, at least six feet five. Though probably in his late fifties, Ho was as fit as a new recruit, with energy to spare. His high-pitched voice was a jarring counterpoint to his massive presence.