Stray Bullets (5 page)

“What else can we do?”

Wilkinson shook his head. “What can
I
do?”

Greene looked down at his hands. “I need to take a statement from you as soon as you’re ready.”

Wilkinson wiped a tear off his big cheek. “Okay.”

“There’s a lounge down the hallway. It should be empty this early in the morning,” Greene said.

The two men walked shoulder to shoulder through the hospital corridor, neither saying a word.

Greene heard a ringing sound.

“Damn cell phone.” Wilkinson jammed his hand into his pocket. He turned it off without even pulling it out to look at it.

They continued on in silence. “Do you have any brothers or sisters or relatives who live in Toronto?” Greene asked as they neared the end of the hall.

Wilkinson shook his head. “Head office moved us up here three months ago and we’re still getting settled. Both of our families are back in California. Why?”

“We’ll worry about it later,” Greene said.

“I heard you identified the shooter.”

“We’ve got a suspect,” Greene said.

“Someone said there were two guys.”

“It’s early yet.”

Tempting as it was for the police, and frustrating as it was for the victims, telling the family too much at this early stage was a huge mistake. Wilkinson seemed to sense this and changed the topic. “Kyle lived for almost fourteen hours. The doctor said he was a real fighter.”

“I heard that.”

The lounge was empty. The big man stopped just inside the door and turned to Greene. “You need someone to identify the body. That’s why you asked if we had other family here.”

“It has to be done,” Greene said. “Is there anyone. A neighbor? A nanny? A friend?”

Wilkinson’s jaw clamped tight like a vise. “You don’t have capital punishment in Canada, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“What do these bastards get? A few months at a hobby farm?”

“Twenty-five years for first-degree murder.”

Wilkinson slumped down into the chair nearest the door. “My wife is crushed. If you don’t catch these guys …” He slammed his big fist into his open palm so hard that it sounded like a slap.

Driving her nine-year-old Honda along the north side of Danforth Avenue, Nancy Parish slowed to a crawl at the traffic light, which was turning red. The snow from last night still covered the sidewalks. Pappas Grill, the restaurant where she was supposed to pick up Larkin St. Clair, was on the next corner, but there was no sign of him.

She scanned the street.

At this early hour the wide avenue was stirring to life and the round red traffic signal glowed against the brightening sky. The sun cut low on the horizon, speeding through its limited late-autumn trajectory. To her right, a man dressed in a white uniform was shoveling off the space in front of his bakery. To her left, a merchant came out of his all-night fruit market and turned the spotlights off a table of outdoor produce. A group of women joggers dressed in sleek running-wear crossed in front of her car, determined looks on their reddened faces.

I’m pathetic, Parish thought. She’d been so busy trying to get everything tied up at the office so she could get away that she hadn’t done any exercise for a week.

But where was St. Clair?

The light turned green, and she accelerated slowly. Fortunately hers was the only car on the road. She was almost at the restaurant and still nothing.

Then she saw a flash of color. St. Clair rushed out from a recessed doorway. She threw the car in park, reached behind her, and cracked open the back door. He ran around the rear of the car and in a second was inside, slamming the rusty door shut behind him.

“Keep your fat head down,” she hissed, hitting the gas.

“I’m down,” he said. “I’m down.”

She’d seen him toss a cigarette butt on the road before he jumped in the car, and he reeked of tobacco. His long hair, which he always wore far down his back, had been hacked off to shoulder length.

“Get under this.” She threw a blanket that she’d grabbed on her way out of her house at him.

“I’m covered.”

“What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

“I’m on the run, man,” he said.

She laughed. “Larkin, you’re really lousy at this. You wanted to change your appearance, why didn’t you shave it all off?”

“You crazy? Chicks love my hair.”

“Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight.” She checked her rearview mirror. Still no traffic on the road. “We’re going to police headquarters.”

“Why not fifty-five?”

Fifty-five was the local police division that had been a second home for St. Clair since he’d been twelve.

“The division will just transport you downtown to the homicide bureau. Congratulations. You’ve made it to the big leagues.”

Up ahead, a truck had pulled up outside a Greek butcher, and a man wearing a white apron was hauling out a sheep carcass on his shoulder. She felt thankful that, despite the invasion of high-end coffee shops, designer cookware stores, and white-walled hair salons, Danforth Avenue still had its share of tacky bridal shops, dry cleaners who actually did repairs, and places like this butcher’s, with a row of carcasses across its broad front window.

“You’ll be fresh meat for the press,” she said.

“See that picture of me in the
Sun
? Whole fucking front page.”

“Don’t sound so proud of yourself.” She handed him an envelope. “Take this. The letter inside says you’ve been informed of your right to remain silent and that you don’t wish to make any statements at this time.”

“Me talk to the cops?” St. Clair chuckled. He had a deep, engaging laugh. “Not this time, not any fucking time. ‘We don’t rat, we don’t crack,’ that’s our motto, man.”

“Just show it if you need it.”

“I’m zipped,” he said.

“Ha.” She knew St. Clair had a near-pathological need to talk. Befriend everyone. Showcase his larger-than-life personality.

In a few blocks she crossed the bridge across the Don Valley and the city burst into view, the downtown office towers a forest of gleaming glass. The sunshine glistened off a gold-plated building and spangled across her windshield.

“And watch out for the phone. No blabbing to one of your girlfriends the minute you’re in jail,” she said. “They’re going to have you wired for sound. And don’t yak to your cell mates.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “How’s your knee?”

This was classic St. Clair. Just when you wanted to punch him in the face, he turned charming. Knew the right button to push.

“I was back on the ice this week for the first time.” Parish was a hockey player and had won a full scholarship in the States for university. She loved to play. Last winter she’d had a major injury, and, Larkin being Larkin, he had caught her at a weak moment and she’d told him about it. Now, whenever the temperature was rising between them, he asked about it just to show how damn much he cared. “Knock it off, Mr. Master Manipulator. I’m not kidding about keeping off the phone.”

“Hey, don’t tell me how to handle my women.”

She was over the bridge now. She slammed on the brakes. Hard. He smashed up against the front seat.

“What the fuck,” he yelled.

“Get out of my car.” The street was deserted. She clambered out of the driver’s seat and yanked open the back door. “Now.”

“No one tells me what to do.” He threw off the blanket and sat up, his eyes blazing.

“Wrong. I’m telling you. Out. You want to be the Man? Face on the front page? Brag to your girls? Be my guest. I’m not losing a murder trial because my client wants to showboat.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” She checked the street. Still no one was around. The wind was whipping up through the valley. She pulled the top of her coat tight around her neck. “I’m going to Mexico. You can talk yourself into a first-degree murder conviction all by yourself. Call me in twenty-five years.”

He bent his head between his legs and stomped his feet like a child. “Fuck. Fucking fuck, fuck.”

“Larkin, out.”

“I’ll keep my trap shut. I promise.”

“Larkin.”

“You can’t dump me now. I’m your original client.”

This was his trump card, and he played it when he really needed her.

On a Monday morning ten years before, St. Clair was in custody for the first time. Parish had just been called to the bar and it was her first day at work at Grill & Partners, a criminal law sweatshop filled to the rafters with young, underpaid, overworked juniors. Alvin Grill,
the senior partner, walked into the bull pit—the huge room where six defense lawyers were hemmed in like cattle.

“Who’s free to run down to Jarvis Street and interview a kid?”

The other five lawyers were grinding away, with a fistful of trials set for that day.

“I am,” she said.

“Lucky you. His name’s Larkin St. Clair,” Grill said. “I’ve represented his father for decades. Kid’s going to be some lawyer’s legal aid ticket for life. Every shark out there will want to get their hooks into him.”

That first meeting, St. Clair had sensed right away how green she was. “I’ve already had three lawyers try to sign me up,” he said, looking right at home in jail. “You look like a rookie. How many trials you done?”

She met his eyes. “None. Believe it or not, this is my first day. You’re my first client ever.”

He was taken aback by her honesty. She could tell he liked it.

“Why should I choose you?” he asked.

“Because I’ll work harder than anyone you’ll ever meet,” she said. “And I’ll always tell you the truth.”

He hired her, she beat the charges on a technicality, and they’d never looked back through a decade of trials. In every case, they’d either made the best possible plea bargain or won outright. Never lost an actual trial.

Parish looked at him, hunched over in her car. He’d grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to his neck. Her hands were freezing. She couldn’t believe it was this cold already, and only the middle of November. Last winter she’d splurged and bought a real nice pair of leather gloves that, inevitably, she promptly lost.

A taxi passed, and more traffic was on the way. She closed the back car door halfway. “Larkin, you’ve never kept your mouth shut.”

“I will, you’ll see. So will Dewey.”

“Dewey?” St. Clair had met Dewey Booth years before when they were in juvie, the name all the kids had for the young offenders’ detention center. St. Clair was sixteen and already about six foot four. Booth was a fifteen-year-old pipsqueak. Hardly five feet. He’d been in jail for a week when St. Clair arrived and hadn’t eaten a thing. Everyone was stealing his food. Larkin was enraged. He beat up three or four guys on the range, made sure Dewey got double portions, and their lifelong bond was formed.

“What was Dewey doing there?” she demanded.

“He’s like my little brother. One hundred percent rock-solid,” he said.

“This just keeps getting worse.”

“Anyhow, the cops’ll never find him.”

“Spare me,” she said.

“If they do, he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Yeah, right.”

Parish couldn’t stand Booth. At least with St. Clair, despite all his bluster, all his lying and half-truths, he had a code. She had never known him to fire a gun or wield a knife. He hated bigots in jail and guys who hit women. Just before his eighteenth birthday, the two of them broke into some rich people’s house one weekend when they thought the family was skiing up north. They were surprised to find the nanny’s teenage daughter in the basement, studying for her exams. They tied her up and Booth wanted to rape her. The girl’s statement to the police made it clear that St. Clair, who loved to brag that he’d never lost a fight, kept his young partner in crime off her.

Over the years, Parish read the statement many times to remind her of why, despite all the trouble he caused her, she remained so loyal to Larkin St. Clair. She knew it by heart:

“I was studying chemistry and they came in and tied me up with a rope. The tall one with long hair went out to get some duct tape for my mouth. The short one was real scary. He just went crazy. Panting like a dog. He grabbed my breast and started ripping off my skirt, but the tall one ran back in and pulled him off me. Threw him against the wall. ‘You just go nuts, don’t you, every fucking time,’ he said. ‘Don’t lay a hand on her again.’ He was very angry at his short friend but he smiled at me real nice. Said he was sorry they had to tie me up and told me not to come to court. Said no one would hurt me. I knew he was telling the truth. They left the room and I heard them breaking things all through the house but I never saw them again.”

Parish’s coat wasn’t heavy enough and her body wasn’t accustomed yet to the cold weather. The wind seemed to cut right through her.

St. Clair rubbed the blanket under his chin. His eyes were bloodshot. His badly cut hair was ragged. “How old was the kid who took the bullet?” he asked.

“Four years old,” she said.

“My aunt’s son Justin is five.”

St. Clair had been living with his aunt, Arlene Redmond—the only person in his family without a criminal record—since he’d got out of jail. Did some cooking and gardening for her, babysat her son.

She got into the backseat and shut the car door. It felt good to get out of the cold. He put his head on her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he said.

She stared at him.

“Nancy,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re not going to believe me.”

“You lie to me all the time, especially at the beginning of a case.”

His always-hyper body didn’t move. “For once in my life,” he said, “I’m not guilty.”

In her head, she didn’t want to believe a word St. Clair said. But in her gut—that intangible thing that Parish knew made her a good lawyer—she could feel it was true.

Morning was finally coming, and Daniel Kennicott hadn’t stopped working for a moment. Yesterday afternoon, when Detective Greene arrived at the Tim Hortons, he had quickly taken charge of the scene. With so many witnesses to deal with, he’d told Kennicott to bring Tim Hortons employees back to police headquarters to interview them.