Stray Bullets (11 page)

The island was big, more than sixteen square miles, and remarkably flat. Farmers’ fields were interspersed with stands of brush and trees, most of which were bare.

“Is this the only police cruiser on the island?” he asked.

“This is it. I like to say on the island there are two cops, one cruiser,
and no secrets. I can hardly sneeze here without someone offering me a Kleenex.”

“It’s pretty.”

“You should come back here in the spring.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said.

After a few minutes they slowed to a gentle stop.

“Around this bend, it’s the fourth place on your right.” Gelante raised her cell phone. “I’ll wait for your call.” They’d traded numbers on the short drive over.

“Thanks.” He got out and walked along the narrow paved road. There were traces of smoke in the air. He passed a few houses on his right before he saw the Hawk Haven Inn Bed-and-Breakfast. A beat-up F
OR
S
ALE
sign was staked on the lawn. At the top of the driveway, a man with his back to the road was tending a fire of leaves and branches with a metal pitchfork.

“Good morning, sir,” Kennicott said, walking uninvited up the stone path. The man turned his head around in alarm. There was a small gold earring in his left ear.

“I’m afraid the inn is closed,” the man said.

Kennicott stopped at the edge of the fire. Along with the foliage, a shirt, a pair of pants, a coat, and a long blue-and-white striped piece of cloth were smoldering.

The man tried to scoop some leaves over the clothes. “I said we’re closed.”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Booth,” Kennicott said.

The man twisted the pitchfork and it fell from his hand. Up close, although Richard Booth was well-groomed, his age showed. Kennicott estimated he was in his late sixties or early seventies.

“My name is Officer Daniel Kennicott. I’m from the Metropolitan Toronto homicide squad.” He pointed down at the fire. “I’m looking for your son.”

He had thought long and hard about how to phrase this. Saying “I’m looking for Dewey Booth” sounded too official, but just saying “I’m looking for Dewey” was too informal. “Son” seemed to carry with it the weight of responsibility he wanted to convey.

Booth’s shoulders slumped. He made no effort to retrieve the pitchfork. “I’ve been looking for Dewey for so many years.” He had the fatigued look that builds up over a lifetime.

“We know he’s on the island,” Kennicott said, deliberately switching
to the plural “we” to emphasize that he wasn’t alone. “If I have to call out the emergency task force, it’ll be very messy.”

Booth refused to meet Kennicott’s eyes.

“Dewey was last seen leaving the scene of a shooting, wearing a long blue-and-white English soccer league scarf.” Kennicott kicked at the fire and exposed the striped cloth. “Gunshot residue doesn’t usually last more than twenty-four hours because of the lead in it. It’s so heavy it falls off. But there can be traces. The only way to be sure to eliminate it is to burn your clothes.”

Booth bent down for the pitchfork.

“Don’t touch that.” Kennicott moved in his way. “I have to warn you, Mr. Booth, the charge of accessory after the fact for a first-degree murder charge could get you five years in jail. Easy.”

“Aubrey and I tried so hard with the boy. We were getting somewhere, we really were. Then he got swept away in the undertow.” Booth covered his face. Kennicott could hear him crying. “The last seven years have been a nightmare.”

“I need to find Dewey,” Kennicott said.

Booth flicked his head to his left.

Kennicott wasn’t sure what he was doing.

“He loves to climb,” Booth said. “Can get up on anything.”

Kennicott was confused, then it hit him. “The lighthouse. That’s the only place to climb here, isn’t it?”

“Dewey’s favorite spot on earth. Where he could be alone with the sand and the waves and the big lake.”

“How far is it?”

“Hundred yards down the road, then you hit the path.”

Kennicott took off. He sped past a historic plaque at the end of the road on his way down a wooden walkway, the sky almost invisible now under the overgrown hanging vines and trees. A plague of small airborne bugs hit him in the face. One went down his throat, and he gagged on it as he ran. It was sunset. Bug hour. Just like when he and his brother were kids at the family cottage.

The path turned and in few seconds he was on the beach. An old sign that warned swimmers of the danger of the undertow was attached to a lifesaving station with a long pole and a buoy. The sand was littered with broken shells. To his left the tower came into view, surrounded by rocks and boulders. Dewey Booth, his red hair tossed by the wind, was leaning over the metal railing that ringed the top of
the lighthouse. A thick climbing rope hung down, threaded through three round spikes on the way up.

“Who the fuck are you?” he yelled when he spotted Kennicott.

“Toronto police, Homicide,” Kennicott said, not wanting to get too close in case Booth had the gun.

“Who ratted me out?” he said. “My fucking father?”

“Actually it was your pal Larkin. He told us you’d be down here.”

“Bullshit. We don’t rat, man.”

“How do you think I knew how to get down here this fast?”

Booth shook his head in the wind and looked south across the lake.

“Just now I caught your dad trying to burn your scarf,” Kennicott said. “I’m going to arrest him for accessory after the fact to first-degree murder.”

“Leave the old goat alone.”

“It’s worth five years in jail,” Kennicott said.

“Fuck you, cop.”

“You don’t want me to arrest him? Throw the gun over the edge and climb down nice and slow.”

“I don’t have the gun.”

“That’s what Larkin said too.” In fact, St. Clair hadn’t told them a thing about the gun.

“Ha!”

Even from this distance, he could see that Booth was glaring at him. He reached for his phone. “You’ve got ten seconds, then I call in backup.”

“If I come down, will you leave the old fag alone?”

“One hundred percent.”

“And I get my call to my lawyer as soon as I hit the ground.”

“No problem.”

“Okay, here take this.” He reached both hands to his belt.

Kennicott ducked. A moment later something came flying off the top of the lighthouse. It was his shirt. Next came Booth’s shoes, socks, and pants. When all he had left was a pair of underwear, he hopped out over the edge, grabbing the rope monkeylike, and effortlessly walked himself down.

Kennicott ran over with his gun out and arrived just as Booth got down.

“See, copper, totally unarmed.” He had his bare arms stretched out in front of him. “Here, cuff me in front, give me that cell, and back off. I need to call Phil Cutter, my friggin’ lawyer.”

Not one snowflake was left on the ground this morning, but a damp cold rain was falling hard, and dark clouds hung low over the city. Ari Greene put his hands into his overcoat pockets, lowered his head, and walked toward the Tim Hortons.

It was a quarter to nine. Despite the chill in the air, a line of customers spilled out the front door and snaked around the corner. There was a new pile of cards and flowers three times the size of the one he’d had PC Bambridge pack up for the Wilkinsons yesterday. The bright colors of hope were muted by the clouds and rain, but none of the caffeine-craving customers seemed to even notice. Greene was always amazed how quickly life went back to normal at a crime scene once the police had packed up their gear, taken down their yellow tape, and departed. Even after a horrible murder such as this one, which had made the whole city stop and mourn, the relentless flow of commerce shoved everything aside with uncanny speed.

The TV cameras were back in full force. The reporters were interviewing the customers for comments, asking a series of inane questions: “How do you feel about the shooting?” “Are you afraid to come back here?” “What words do you have for the family?”

Greene pulled his scarf tight around his neck. He took his place in line and ten minutes later was inside. Behind the counter, the harried staff worked at breakneck speed. Are they this busy every morning? Greene wondered, until he saw a handwritten sign that hung crookedly from one of the cash registers. It read:

WE THANK YOU MOST LOYAL CUSTOMER

THEREFORE TODAY MAKE SPECIAL OFFER

FREE DONUT WITH COFFEE PURCHASE

PROPRIETORS MR. AND MRS. YUEN

A middle-aged Asian man was behind one of the tills, and a middle-aged Asian woman was behind the other one. All the other employees’ uniforms were dark brown, but theirs were light beige.

Greene’s turn came and he approached the woman. “What you like, sir?” she asked with her head down.

“Mrs. Yuen,” he said.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were ringed with fatigue. “Yes?”

“I’m Detective Greene, the officer in charge of this case. I’m glad to see you’re back in business.”

“You do not wear uniform?” Yuen was an unusually large Chinese woman.

“No. I didn’t want to alarm anyone.”

She smiled, as if it were a real effort. Her good manners were battling with her evident exhaustion.

“I need to meet with you and your husband,” he said.

“Fifteen more minute please.” She looked at her watch. “At nine o’clock, line be shorter.”

“That’s fine. I’ll take a tea with milk, no sugar.”

“Which free doughnut?”

Greene shook his head. “Give the next customer two.”

She handed him the tea. “No charge.”

“Yes.” Greene gave her a two-dollar coin and tossed another one in the charity box for a kids’ summer camp.

Just as Mrs. Yuen predicted, at nine o’clock the place emptied out like a schoolyard after the bell had rung. She signaled for one of the employees to take her place at the till, went over to her husband, and tapped him on the shoulder. He was about half a foot shorter than she was. She pointed discreetly at Greene.

The man smiled and motioned to a gap on the far side of the counter.

“Hello, hello,” he said as Greene approached. Mr. Yuen pumped his hand with real enthusiasm. His smile broadened, but he said nothing else.

“My husband English very bad, but he understand everything,” Mrs. Yuen said. “Please come to office in back.”

The office was a cubbyhole, with a small desk jammed into one corner and a steel chair in front of it. A mop and bucket were in the other corner.

“This is most terrible tragedy,” Mrs. Yuen said the moment she’d closed the door behind him. “Poor family.”

Above the desk Greene saw a formal photograph of a much younger-looking Mr. and Mrs. Yuen, with two daughters by their side. They were flanked by two older sets of parents. Also on the wall were
four cheaply framed “Certificates of Excellence” from Tim Hortons headquarters, congratulating the Yuens on their work as “Top Franchisees.”

“We put life saving into business,” Mrs. Yuen said. “Have won many award. Follow every rule in franchise agreement. This very clean store. We work every day. Seven days every week. We are Hong Kong Chinese. Parents care for children. What happen now?”

The words spurted out from the woman like water bursting through a hole in a dam.

“In my experience, people tend to forget this kind of tragedy very quickly,” Greene said. “Your business might suffer for a few days, but I hope not long after that.”

Husband and wife traded looks.

“The best thing you can do is help us with our investigation,” Greene continued.

“Yes,” Yuen said. “My husband and I both pass citizenship exam with perfect mark. He no speak English much but he read very well. No problem with police ever.”

Greene smiled and pulled out a sheaf of papers from the thin briefcase that he usually carried with him. “These are the initial statements taken by the police two nights ago. We interviewed every employee and customer we could find. The manager on duty said neither of you were here.”

The couple looked at each other again. “My husband insist we both leave for two daughter ballet recital. First time in three year we not here during day.”

“My father came to this country with nothing,” Greene said. Young cops were taught at Police College to never reveal personal information about themselves to the public. They were supposed to remain cool and aloof. Greene broke the rule all the time. “He made many sacrifices, but he never sacrificed his family. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mr. Yuen looked at Greene and smiled.

“One of your employees, Jose Sanchez, we can’t find him. I understand he was the baker.”

“Donuts not baked at this location,” Mrs. Yuen said. “Dough made at factory. Delivered five thirty in morning and we reheat. Everything preset so real chef not required. We pay minimum wage. Not look very carefully at qualification.”

Or their immigration status, Greene thought. Everyone had their
own fears when the police showed up, and he could see Mrs. Yuen break into a sweat. The air in the small room felt close.

“I’m not from the Labour Department. Or the Immigration Department. My only concern is this murder investigation. Did Mr. Sanchez show up to work today?”

“No. And no call. Tried to reach through cellular telephone many time. No answer.”

He reached back in his case and pulled out a file. “I’ve looked at his employment records you gave Officer Kennicott.”

“Yes,” she said.

Greene sat in the chair and opened the file. It had almost nothing in it. Jose Sanchez, or whoever he was, claimed to be twenty-eight years old and born in Lisbon, Portugal; had a high school education; had experience as a chef and a baker working in restaurants; spoke English, Portuguese, French, Italian, and Spanish; and came to Canada six years ago. He was hired seven months before, passed his three-month probation period, and was now a full-time employee. The only piece of identification he’d given was a photocopy of a social security card with his name on it. No picture. Greene was sure it would be a fake. They were ridiculously easy to get.

“He said that he spoke five languages.”

“Talk to many customer,” Mrs. Yuen said. “We speak only English and Cantonese. He very good worker.”