Stray Bullets (37 page)

Greene could picture how it had all unfolded. Wilkinson and his son walking up through the parking lot, holding hands. It starts to snow. Wilkinson’s cell phone rings. He lets go of Kyle’s hand for a moment to answer it and gives the boy a pretend phone. “Here, take this,” he says. Now they both had cell phones. Like father, like son. Kyle turns to look at the snowflakes. In that magic moment, the bullet strikes.

“It was a stupid call about rescheduling a meeting,” Wilkinson said. “Then I heard the bang. I’ve never been involved with guns before. I had no idea they were so loud. The bullet just missed me. Every night I think, If only I’d been beside him. I would have died and not my son. Kyle was having a hard time with his mom being in the hospital, a new baby on the way …”

His voice seemed to catch and his whole body shook.

“Whether you stay in Canada or not,” Greene said, “I have to disclose this evidence to the Crown. They in turn have to disclose it to the defense.”

“I understand,” Wilkinson said. “And I know it means that St. Clair will almost certainly get off this time.”

Greene rolled the glass in his hand, took another sip, and poured the rest of the water over the rail. “Yes,” he said. “It does.”

The smell was the first thing Daniel Kennicott noticed as he climbed the stairs to his second-floor flat. It wasn’t really a smell, it was a perfume scent. One that he’d lived with, on and off, for years. Until Andrea, his fashion model ex-girlfriend finally, thankfully, moved to Paris to live with a photographer.

At the top of the stairs he saw a pair of tall leather boots tossed carelessly on the bare floor, erasing all hope that he’d been wrong about the damn perfume smell. Scent.

He had a two-bedroom flat and the door to the second room was shut. A note, written in red lipstick, was pinned to it with a sharp earring.

“D. Sorry to barge in. Photog was a jerk. Just need three days until I’m over the lag. Promise … A.”

He could just imagine how she’d gotten in. Mr. and Mrs. Federico, his Portuguese landlords who lived downstairs, loved Andrea, who was half-Portuguese herself and perfectly fluent. It would have taken her less than a minute to talk them into opening his door.

This was the last thing he needed. Especially right now. The retrial of Larkin St. Clair was starting next week and he had a ton of work to do. As well, Detective Greene had asked him to set up a meeting at his old law firm later today, and he’d been there all morning getting things ready.

Coming home, he’d bought some vegetables on nearby College Street, and Mrs. Federico had left a shopping bag on the handle of his side-door entrance. It was filled with fragrant cuttings from the purple lilac tree in back. He made his way to the kitchen to unload everything. A very Parisian-looking blue Pastis 51 water pitcher was in the middle of the table. Typical Andrea. She always brought a gift.

He unclipped his cell phone and tossed it on the counter. The fridge was filled with French goat cheese and a wheel of Brie. More gifts. One thing about Andrea, he thought, was she knew the kind of food he liked.

“I mean it, Daniel, just three days,” a familiar voice said behind him.

He turned and saw her. She was wearing one of his good dress shirts, half buttoned up, and was barefoot. The thing about a woman as beautiful as Andrea was that she looked stunning in almost anything.

He grabbed the Brie and flicked the fridge door shut a little too hard. It almost sounded like a slam. “I hope you didn’t tell the Federicos that we are getting back together yet again.”

She sat down and yawned. “No, actually I told them the truth.”

He unwrapped the cheese and laughed. “Which is?”

She stared at him. It was her eyes that had made her a star. A stunning kind of green, blue with a strange and intriguing hint of yellow. She shook her head. “They say you’re a very good cop. Working on murder trials now.”

He broke off eye contact. “Thanks for the cheese, and the water pitcher is a nice touch.”

She spotted the lilac cuttings in the bag and pulled them out. “God I miss that smell,” she said, inhaling deeply.

“I don’t have a vase,” he said.

She pushed the Pastis 51 pitcher toward him. “Use this.”

He filled it with water and sat back down across the table from her. She passed him half the cuttings and they both trimmed the lower twigs off with their hands before plunking them in the water.

“Photographer turned out to be an asshole,” she said, as she worked. “Never told me he was married, and I caught him in bed with a young boy.”

“Shit happens.”

“Thanks for being so sympathetic.”

He finished the last twig, went back to the kitchen, and pulled out a paring knife and small cutting board. Back at the table, he carved out a quarter of the wheel of Brie, then slicing back and forth from the tip, trimmed off a few thin pieces and passed one to her, attached to the end of the knife.

“I know,” he said. “I should let the cheese come to room temperature.”

She slid the piece onto her tongue. The ritual of food was one of the things that worked well between them. “Daniel, you’ve always been impatient.”

He passed her another slice. “Three days. Promise.”

Instead of taking the cheese, she took his hand. “You can put down the knife.” She rubbed the inside edge of his palm. She was leaning over the counter and he could see she had nothing on under his shirt.

There was a buzzing sound in the room. She looked at him confused.

He smiled. “It’s my phone,” he said, letting go of her hand.

“Saved by the bell,” she said.

Back at the counter he answered his phone without bothering to look at the call display. “Kennicott.”

“Daniel?” It was a woman’s voice he recognized instantly.

“Oh, hi, Jo,” he said.

“I know it’s been long time since we talked,” Jo Summers said.

He thought back to the time in January when he’d visited his friend Jeremy Pulver at the Crown’s office and discovered she was back from Central America. That was four months ago, and she had never called. He’d pretty much resigned himself to not hearing from her again.

“We’re both busy.” He forced a chuckle.

“I heard the St. Clair case starts again on Tuesday.”

He looked back at Andrea. She was slicing up another piece of cheese. Smiling at him.

“Right after the Victoria Day fireworks.”

“I didn’t want to bug you during the first trial. But I wanted to say good luck.”

“Well, thanks.”

He looked out the back window. The Federicos were outside working in their garden. The lilac tree in full bloom.

“We should try to grab a coffee, sometime,” she said. “I mean, after the case is done.”

“Sure.” Really he wanted to say something like “Yes, I’d like that.” But he could feel Andrea’s eyes on him.

“I’ll call you when it’s over,” Summers said.

He said good-bye and put the phone back on the counter.

“Jo?” Andrea asked.

“Jo,” he said.

“As in Joseph or as in Joanne?”

“As in, you’re staying three days, no more,” he said.

She took the last slice of cheese and sucked it slowly into her mouth. “Daniel, I only have one request. And I know you won’t be able to resist.”

He crossed his arms. “We both know where that leads.” Sex and food. The two things that they did best.

She laughed. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I want to go with you to the Plaza Flamingo tomorrow to watch some soccer matches. The Euro Cup starts in a few weeks.”

He laughed too. It had probably been the best part of their relationship. Spending their Saturday afternoons at the Flamingo, watching games from all over Europe, screaming and yelling with the crowd, eating lamb stew and beans, drinking Italian beer. Before going home. To bed.

“Do you have any idea what the divorce statistics are for couples after one of their children is killed?” Cedric Wilkinson asked Ari Greene. He was balancing his mug on the balcony railing.

“I think about eighty percent fail,” Greene said.

“Closer to ninety.” Wilkinson was focusing on steadying his cup as if that were the most important thing in the world.

“So, if you’d told your wife the whole story, she would have found out you let go of Kyle’s hand to answer your cell phone,” Greene said.

“When your family’s attacked, you have to protect them first.”

Greene tapped the metal barrier with his glass. It made a high-pitched pinging sound. “The Nazis killed my father’s first family,” he said. “Wife, children, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Everyone.”

They were both silent for a long time.

“My dad,” Greene said at last, “still made a life for himself.”

Wilkinson took his cup off the railing. “It happened just like you said. My cell rang, and I let go of Kyle’s hand and gave him that toy cell phone. I said it. ‘Here, take this.’ Those were the last words I ever spoke to him.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No. It was dark where those two were standing. I wasn’t looking there anyway.”

“Hear anything?”

“I was on the phone. Then there was the bang. I couldn’t tell you about giving Kyle the cell phone when we met that first time at the hospital.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know. You were kind.”

“You were vague about it when you first gave me a statement,” Greene said. He had gone back and looked again at the transcript of that initial interview.”

Officer Greene: Just before the shooting, one witness heard someone say “Take this,” or “Here, take this,” something like that. Did you hear those words spoken?”

Cedric Wilkinson: I might have. It’s all a blur
.

“I know. I was going to tell you when you came over after Christmas,” Wilkinson said. “But when you told me the bullet that killed Kyle matched the gun and then I saw that picture of Armitage on the front page of the newspaper, I thought, What’s the point? Bad enough one of the culprits was going to go free, why should I make it any easier for the other one?”

“And during the trial?” he asked.

Wilkinson shrugged. “No one ever asked me.”

Greene thought about the time Wilkinson testified. He was never asked in court, “Mr. Wilkinson, did you say, ‘Here, take this?’” Greene bent down and put his glass on the ground. “Don’t you want to know what happened?” he asked.

“Does it matter? My son’s dead.”

“As frustrating as it is, there’s one good thing about this mistrial.”

Wilkinson stared at him. “What could possibly be good about it?”

“There was no preliminary inquiry before. But now we have Dewey Booth pinned down to all of his evidence under oath. Not just that half-baked affidavit Cutter hoisted on Armitage.”

“So what? He’ll just lie again like they all did.”

“Yes, but if we can prove he lied at the first trial, we’ve got him for perjury. Then the deal’s off. We can try him for murder.”

Wilkinson’s eyes looked exhausted. “I told you, I’m leaving Friday night. And I’m not going to court again, no matter what. What do you want me to do?”

“Stay until Tuesday morning.”

“Why?”

“Your wife told me a long time ago that I’m the only person you can trust,” Greene said. “From day one, we’ve been trying to find the baker from the Tim Hortons. I’m convinced he’s the only eyewitness who saw what really happened.”

“You said he’d gone underground. Who knows if he’s still in Canada?”

“He’s in Canada. We know his name. I alerted immigration right away. Passport records show he came in six years ago and hasn’t left. He’s an illegal immigrant who had a few minor charges and never went to court. My gut tells me he’s smart. Afraid of Dewey and Larkin. Afraid of the police. Immigration. But maybe, just maybe, he’d talk to you.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“How?”

“I want you to give an interview to the
Toronto Star
.”

“You told me to never talk to the press.”

“Just one time. It might just smoke him out.”

Wilkinson’s breathing became very heavy.

“I’m not trying to trick you, and this is a real long shot. But it means you have to stay until Tuesday morning. You can leave first thing, before the trial even starts.”

Wilkinson shook his head. Squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m sure Madeleine would forgive you if she ever found out about the cell phone,” Greene said. “But I don’t think you’d ever forgive yourself if you didn’t take this last chance to find out the truth.”

Wilkinson steadied himself on the railing, still shaking his head. Greene didn’t move. Just watched, until Wilkinson’s head stopped going back and forth, and began to nod up and down.

Daniel Kennicott had spent countless hours in this fancy boardroom of Miller, Ford, his old law firm, where for five years he’d been a rising star in the litigation department. Nothing had changed. On the wall, prints of high-gloss modern photography. On the banquette, coffee, tea, sparkling water, fruit juices, cookies, sliced fruit, and a vase bursting with fresh-cut flowers. And out the south-facing windows the ubiquitous view of the blue harbor.

Detective Greene seemed totally unimpressed by this rarefied setting. He sat patiently in a chair in the middle of the table. Cedric Wilkinson was beside him, and beside Wilkinson was Lloyd Granwell wearing his usual perfectly tailored gray suit. He’d cleared his calendar immediately for this emergency meeting and insisted on acting for Wilkinson pro bono.

“How can I charge a man whose son was killed in the middle of our city?” he’d asked Kennicott.

“It’s good of you.”

“No. It’s why I do this.”

Granwell distributed business cards with the ease of an experienced croupier to Greene, Wilkinson, and Awotwe Amankwah, the
Toronto Star
reporter who sat alone across from them. Amankwah had a notebook in hand and a mini-recorder placed squarely in front of him.

Kennicott was the only one standing. Technically, he was here as a witness to the proceedings, and it was best that he stay far back.

“The ground rules for this interview must be clear,” Granwell said to Amankwah. “You are the only reporter to whom my client, Mr. Wilkinson, will speak. In return for this exclusive interview, the
Toronto Star
agrees to run this as a front-page story tomorrow morning in the Saturday edition. Above the fold.”