Stranglehold (14 page)

Greene pulled two twenty-dollar bills from his front pocket and turned to the closest man. “Coffee for all the guys.” He handed the money over and jerked his head across the street toward Popeye’s.

“Cool,” the man said, waving the two bills in the air. “Thanks, Detective.”

“Enjoy.” Greene looked at Dent’s cup. It was almost empty. “Come on, I’ll get you a refill and a doughnut.”

“No food,” Dent said. “And I’m caffeined up. Let’s walk.”

“Good idea.”

Greene guided him across Sherbourne, heading west in the direction of the office towers where Dent, who had taught himself Japanese in tenth grade, once routinely worked late to talk to the morning trading desk in Tokyo.

They walked in silence past the Moss Park Arena. A man in a suit and tie pulled his hockey bag out of the back of his Lexus SUV and rushed by another group of men from the shelters, who were lying on the overtrodden grass. A flock of pigeons scattered.

Greene had found Dent a few years ago, when he needed a smart, smalltime criminal to go into the Don Jail and be the cell mate of a man accused of killing his wife. Since then they’d formed a friendship that benefitted both of them.

Dent spotted two dark-haired men on the south side of Queen, huddled in the doorway of the Anishnawbe Aboriginal Health Centre. He crossed over the street, gave them both cigarettes, took one out for himself, pulled out a lighter, and they all started puffing.

“Pals of yours?” Greene asked when he returned and they started walking again.

“It’s my business to talk to people on the street.” Dent sucked hard on his cigarette. “I’m going to deduct this whole pack. Call it corporate expenses.”

“You look thin,” Greene said.

Dent’s main problem was alcohol. But every once in a while, he slipped into shooting up heroin. The previous year, Greene had found him half dead in a back alley two blocks from here and dragged him into rehab.

“I hit a bad patch for a while there,” Dent said. “I’ve been clean for a month.”

“Good,” Greene said.

“You’re one to talk, Detective,” Dent said. “You look like shit. You want a smoke?”

“I quit in grade seven.”

“You don’t drink coffee either,” Dent said. “Fuck, you’re a piece of work.”

They walked past the Dollarama discount store, a few pawnbrokers, an army-surplus shop, and a Persian and Oriental “rug gallery.” Outside was a big white sign festooned with balloons trumpeting a 50-percent-off sale.

“You ever hear of a Persian rug that wasn’t on sale?” Dent asked as they crossed Church Street and settled on the park bench where they always sat in front of the Metropolitan United Church. The downtown core was a few blocks away but this was Dent’s personal boundary. He would never go a step closer to his former life.

He passed a cigarette to Greene and took one for himself, and put the pack back in his coat pocket.

Greene put the cigarette in his lips and Dent lifted his lighter. He was shaking. Greene held his hand firm and lit the cigarette. He took a deep drag. After the harsh dope last night, the tobacco felt smooth. He let it seep into his lungs and on from there into his bloodstream.

“What do you need?” Dent asked.

Greene watched a well-dressed young couple rush by. They carried matching briefcases and were both talking on their cell phones.

“You’re probably right about the husband,” he said. “But so far we’ve got nothing else.”

“No leads on her boyfriend?”

Greene had expected this question. He knew how smart Dent was and that he preferred not to lie. “Might not be the boyfriend. One theory is that the killer got there first.”

Dent blew out a stream of smoke. He didn’t bother to turn his head away from Greene. “You want me to see if I can find anyone with an old grudge against her?”

“For a start.”

“What else?”

“Her oldest son. I heard he had some problems. He was dealing a lot. Hard to think someone would take out his mother in revenge. But these are violent times.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aaron. Aaron Darnell. He’s nineteen but I hear he looks much younger. Having a tough time getting through high school. Sounds like he’s doing a victory lap or two.”

“Yeah,” Dent said. “He’s the graffiti kid. Aaron 8, that’s his tag. Whips around the east end on his bike. That the one?”

Greene nodded. Aaron 8, he thought. Raglan had rented room 8 at every motel. “How deep is he into it?”

Dent rolled up his sleeve and showed Greene some red marks on his skin. “A month ago he was a very reliable supplier.”

Greene let out a low whistle. “That deep.”

“Major league. High-stakes shit.”

“Did anyone know his mother was a Crown?”

Dent, who rarely made eye contact, looked right at Greene. He had remarkably light blue eyes, and it was easy to imagine him as a fair-skinned, blond boy, the apple of his mother’s eye until that Christmas morning in the Wellesley subway station when she stepped out in front of a southbound train.

“I figured it out. But you know me. I keep my mouth shut. Can’t speak for anyone else.”

“You heard anything about Raglan?”

“Back-in-the-day stuff,” Dent said. “I already started asking around. Did you know she started out on the morality squad?”

“I heard.”

“Sounds like she was a star performer. And a real looker. And some other shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“One day she just quit. Bye-bye birdie. Five years later she’s back as a Crown attorney. Go figure.” Dent stubbed out his cigarette and patted his jacket and found his pack. Greene took it from him, pulled out two more cigarettes. He lit one and passed it to Dent.

“Thanks, man,” Dent said.

“Anything else about Jennifer?” Greene asked, her first name slipping out.

Dent gave him a long look. Nodded. “How many cases did you two do together?”

Greene turned away. Now he was the one not making eye contact. “A couple of murder trials,” he said.

“A couple,” Dent said.

Greene tried to picture it. Jennifer. Young, pretty, a small-town girl who wanted to make good in the Big Smoke. Eager to be a team player. What made her quit and become a prosecutor?

Greene used his first cigarette in four decades to light his second. “See what else you can find out, okay?”

“Will do, boss,” Dent said, a big smile on his face. “I’ve got some ideas.”

Greene pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and passed it to him. “I’d give you more, but I don’t want it to go up your arm.”

Dent held his hands up. Refusing the money, just as Ted DiPaulo had resisted taking his hundred-dollar bill. “No. Don’t give me any cash. Now you can buy me a coffee.”

Greene pointed at the Starbucks across the street. “You think you can handle a grande latte?”

“No, no.” Dent shuddered. “We got to head east, back to Popeye’s.”

They walked again in silence.

Greene’s mind was whirling. Jennifer. Every step of the way he was finding out new things about her. Why had she been so secretive about her past? He knew he had to keep going.

“Meet me here Saturday afternoon,” Dent said. “I need a few days to see what ant colonies I can find under some rocks. I used to do that all summer long at my parents’ cottage when I was a kid.”

They were already back at Sherbourne Street. Greene didn’t even remember crossing Church and Jarvis streets to get there.

“With your boss, Hap, about to run for mayor, you guys are going to want this cleaned up fast,” Dent said.

“For sure.” That wasn’t the only reason, Greene thought.

Dent waved at a group of men on the other side of the street. “I only saw her once in court,” he said. “But I remember her.”

“You do?”

“It’s hard to forget a beautiful woman like her, isn’t it, Detective?”

THERE WERE FOUR ELEVATORS IN THE LOBBY OF THE APARTMENT BUILDING THAT WAS HOME
to Annabel Sawney and her daughter, Sadura, who had both been at the Money Mart the morning of the murder. Three of them had faded “out of order” signs on them. Sawney lived on the ninth floor.

Daniel Kennicott hit the up button on the one elevator that was supposed to be working. There was no backlight to indicate that the signal had been received.

“Scarberia never disappoints,” Alpine said. “We might as well walk up.”

“Shit,” Kennicott said.

“Sixty-eight percent of the people out here live in rental housing,” Alpine said. “Most of it built in the sixties. You wonder why there’s so much crime?”

Kennicott hammered the button again. “You sure we shouldn’t have phoned first?” he asked Alpine.

“I’m telling you. People just won’t talk to the cops. We were lucky to find them still at that strip mall. Your best chance is to try them at the door.”

Kennicott hit the button again. “You’re right, let’s walk,” he said. “Oh, wait.”

He’d heard a rumbling sound and a few seconds later the old elevator door rattled open. Inside were at least ten people, half of them toting laundry baskets. There wasn’t an inch of room, and no one was getting out.

The door clattered closed. He and Alpine headed for the stairwell. Graffiti riddled most of the walls on their way up, accompanied by dull scent of urine. Apartment 906 was halfway down the hall.

Kennicott knocked on the door and then both of them stood well back so Sawney could see them clearly through her keyhole. No one answered.

Alpine shrugged. “Scarborough. Twenty to one she’s in there but won’t answer the door.”

Kennicott stepped forward and knocked harder. “Ms. Sawney,” he said, raising
his voice. “It’s Daniel Kennicott from the Toronto Police. I was hoping we could speak to you for a few minutes.”

After a few seconds, he heard the sound of footsteps, then of a chain lock being pulled back. The door opened slowly. A thin black woman with wild grey hair came out. She took a pair of reading glasses from her nose and smiled.

“I was going to call you folks today. I thought you might want talk to my daughter some more.” She held out her hand. “Annabel Sawney.”

Kennicott and Alpine introduced themselves.

“Why didn’t you call first?” she asked.

Kennicott resisted the urge to glance at Alpine. “Ugh, we don’t usually call,” he said.

She laughed, a loud, infectious guffaw. “Especially in Scarborough. Figure no black woman will talk to the cops, don’t you? Come on in.”

“There’s an exception to every rule,” Alpine muttered to Kennicott.

A short hallway opened into a wide living room. In one corner a very old woman sat at a sewing machine, working away on a length of colourful cloth. In the other, a woman about Sawney’s age was cutting out a pattern on a folding table. In the middle was an architect desk covered with designs and drawings. A girl was sitting on the floor, knitting what looked like a sweater. Racks of clothes were everywhere.

The girl looked up and immediately jumped to her feet. “Hi,” she said, holding out her hand.

Kennicott smiled. Shook her hand. “You must be Sadura,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m Daniel Kennicott and this is Detective Alpine. We’re police officers.”

He looked at her mother and pointed to the galley kitchen behind the girl. “Can we go in there?”

“Why not?” Sawney said. “What can I get you to eat?”

“Thanks, we’re fine,” Kennicott said.

The space was small, and the four of them barely fit in. Sawney closed a set of white louvred doors behind them. There were two seats at the narrow table. Kennicott took one and motioned to the child to take the other.

“Sadura, do you know why we’re here?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. Because of the day I was at the bank with Mommy.”

“That’s right. What school do you go to?”

“Maplewood. We took a community involvement course and this policewoman named Ms. Bailey told us how important it is to talk to the police.”

“It is important,” he said.

“I like to draw so my mommy said I should draw some pictures of the man I saw in the parking lot that day.”

Kennicott looked up at Alpine. “That was very smart of your mom,” he said.

“Back home Mommy was a doctor but then we had to leave because of the government.”

“Are you going to be a doctor too?”

She shook her head hard. Her hair was braided in tight cornrows with different-coloured clips on the ends. They flapped back and forth across her smiling face, like a set of friendly flags. “No,” she said. “I want to be the mayor so people in Scarborough can have parks and subways like downtown.”

From the mouths of babes, Kennicott thought. “Where did you put the drawing?”

“In my room.” She slid off the chair and scampered out of the kitchen.

“I think she’ll make a good mayor,” Kennicott said to Sawney when her daughter had left.

“I think she’d be a better prime minister. Or she might be an architect. Wait till you see how well she can draw.”

“I got them,” Sadura said, prancing back in. She put a beige folder on the table. On the outside she’d drawn her name with flowers and vines sprouting in all directions.

She opened it. “This is what he looked like when I first saw him. Just from behind.”

It was a remarkably well-drawn picture of the back of a tall man with broad shoulders. He wore a leather jacket and gloves and a helmet.

Kennicott said to Sawney, “She’s talented.” He looked back at Sadura. “How old are you?”

“Nine and a half. Here’s the next one.”

This time the man, drawn from the back again, was holding his helmet in one hand and a cell phone in the other. In the background, she’d drawn an ambulance with its lights flashing.

“Did you see the ambulance?”

“Yep, then police car right behind it too. They went past really fast.”

“Did the man use his phone?”

“No. I saw him take it out but then the ambulance and police cars went past and he shook his head and put it back in his pocket. Then he put on his helmet and drove away like he was in a hurry. I never saw his face.”

Kennicott could see she had one more drawing.

“Did he ever turn around?” he asked. “Did you see his face?”

“No.” She shook her head, cornrows flapping again.