The Guilty Plea (10 page)

Raglan had spent the afternoon with Dana. Taken her home, given her an enormous lunch, put her in the bath, and made her go to her room and read. Gordon had cut out of work early. He’d never done that before. Raglan threw in two loads of laundry before rushing downtown.

Jo Summers sat at their usual table, slumped down in a wicker chair. She was a tall, high-cheekboned woman. Her most striking feature was the wild tumble of blond hair she always wore tied up above her head, held in place by an exotic wooden hair clip. Today she looked thin and drawn, her hair still up, but askew.

Raglan sat down across from her. The small restaurant was steamy. There were deep bags under Summers’s blue eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Raglan asked.

Summers knotted her fingers together in front of her mouth. “Terrance Wyler—I knew him.” A solitary tear slid from her left eye. “Since I was a kid.”

Raglan’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Jo.” She sprang up from her chair and rushed over to hug Summers. “I’m so sorry.” She remembered that Terrance Wyler was forty years old. Summers was in her mid-thirties.

“I think I’m still in shock,” Summers said when Raglan sat down across from her again.

“How did you work today?”

“Our families sail together at the club.” Summers took a paper napkin from under her fork and blew her nose. “I hate people looking at me.”

Summers had always been guarded about herself. Her father, Johnathan Summers, the head judge at Old City Hall court, was a bully who took pleasure in terrifying defense and Crown counsel in equal measure. Jo kept a low profile. Raglan knew she lived alone in a converted cottage over on the Toronto Islands, a small community across the water from downtown. “Were you close?” Raglan asked.

“He left Toronto. I did too, but we kept in touch.”

Summers hadn’t really answered the question. Raglan felt herself slipping into what her husband referred to as her cross-examination mode. “Did you see him after he moved back?”

“I’d see him at the club. We sailed sometimes. And …” Summers looked away. She shook her head so hard that strands of hair slipped out from the clip and dangled across her face, like tails from a kite.

“Jo? What?”

“It’s going to sound so bad.” She bit down hard on her lower lip. “We had lunch every Friday if I wasn’t stuck in court.” Her voice sounded hollow. “Once a year we’d go to a restaurant together for a Christmas dinner. Our friendship was …” Summers sighed. “It was private.”

You’re not the only one with secrets, Jennifer, Raglan said to herself, thinking of Ari Greene.

Summers squeezed her hands around a ceramic tea mug. She had long, lovely fingers. Raglan always wished hers were slender like that.

“I assume his wife didn’t know about this,” Raglan said.

Summers jerked her head up. “No. But not for that reason. We were only just friends.”

“Okay.”

“See, it sounds stupid.”

“Why didn’t the wife know?” Further cross-examination, Raglan thought.

“Samantha was so possessive of Terry. That’s what everyone called him. Before he met her, Terry was close with his brothers, had tons of friends. She cut him off from everyone.”

Raglan saw Summers’s wide mouth twist in anger. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“We had lunch on Friday. And he came over to my place on the island on Sunday.”

“Oh.” Raglan felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. This was going to make her a suspect.

Summers blanched. “In the afternoon. He brought Simon and April Goodling. I assume you’ve heard of her.”

“The whole world’s heard of her.”

“She’s not as superficial as people think.”

“How long did they stay?”

“The afternoon. They avoided the ferry. Walter, the water-taxi guy, picked them up.”

“You’ll have to be interviewed by the police,” Raglan said.

“I know. They’ll want to know if I have an alibi.”

On a Sunday night, Summers was probably home alone. Like most people her alibi would be “I was asleep.” When a murder took place in the middle of the night not many people had an absolutely foolproof
alibi. I’m going to stop cross-examining you, Raglan thought. “Leave it to the police.”

“Don’t worry.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I was with someone, and he’s a solid witness.”

Summers had worked as a corporate lawyer at one of the larger firms in town before becoming a Crown. Raglan could imagine all sorts of corporate types who’d want to be with her. “Listen, Jo, I don’t want to pry into your personal life—”

“He’s a cop. So damn cliché, isn’t it,” Summers said. “Female Crowns and male cops.”

Raglan gulped. Cops and Crowns. It was a cliché—something she’d kidded Greene about.

Summers took a long sip of her tea. “I like my privacy.” Her hands were shaking. “He’s someone I’ve known for a long time. Nothing had ever happened between us. But last week he’d gotten back from a tough trip and Sunday night he wanted to talk …” She shook her head.

“Scorched earth,” Raglan said. “It’s always like this with a murder investigation. Everyone close to it gets burned. Privacy’s the first casualty.”

“You know him, Jennifer. It’s Daniel Kennicott.”

Raglan froze. Her mind scrambling. “He’s on the case,” she said.

“What?”

“Kennicott. I haven’t had time to tell you. Ralph Armitage begged me to come in this morning to help get things started. I met with the detective who’s handling the case. A guy named Greene. He told me Kennicott’s working with him on this case.”

“Oh my God.”

Raglan was thinking fast. This always happened at the start of a murder investigation. Facts and connections flying at you from all directions. “You understand what this means? You’ve been seeing a married man who’s been murdered. Kennicott’s your alibi. That can’t be compromised, no matter what.”

“I wasn’t
seeing
Terry like that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Raglan said.

Summers dabbed her eyes with the napkin, which now was rolled into a flaky ball. “So I can’t talk to Daniel?”

“Not a word.”

The color drained from Summers’s already white skin. “Jennifer, there’s something about me and Terry that I need to keep secret. A lot of people could be hurt if this comes out. It has nothing to do with the case.”

“I can’t promise—”

“He was my brother.”

“Who?”

“Terry. My half brother.”

“What?” Raglan felt her throat start to constrict. For a moment she couldn’t speak. “You mean—”

“My father. His mother. They told us when I was fourteen years old. Terry was nineteen. We were close, sailing together all the time. They were afraid we might get involved. Terry was so angry, he moved away for years.” Summers had grown calm.

“Who knows about this?”

“His two older brothers. They’re sworn to secrecy. My mother doesn’t know. It would destroy her. Nor does Mr. Wyler. He’s incredibly possessive. If he found out, it would be bad news for Mrs. Wyler. Samantha doesn’t know anything.”

“I see why you want this kept secret,” Raglan said.

They sat in silence. There was a clatter of dishes back in the kitchen.

Summers glanced up at her. “What’s this cop Greene like?”

Was that a knowing look? Despite everything she’d done to keep her relationship with Greene secret, Raglan always worried.

“He’s smart and honest.” You’re being stupid, to say nothing of self-absorbed and narcissistic, Raglan told herself. Jo Summers doesn’t know anything about your affair with Greene. Nor would she care right now. Her brother was murdered yesterday. “I won’t tell him about this unless I feel I have to. That’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks.” Summers let go of the mug, put her elbows on the table, and buried her face in her hands. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“Which Crown’s going to prosecute this case?” Summers spoke between clasped fingers, her voice muffled.

Raglan looked at her young colleague. “I am.” She stared at Summers. Dumbfounded. The words had escaped from her mouth like air from a balloon. And now it was impossible to put them back.

The heat had finally broken late in the day. Cool wind blew into the city from across the lake, sweeping away the sticky sweat of the past week and breathing new life into the night air.

In Toronto, languorous summer evenings like this were the reward for the long winter months of cold and darkness, and Danforth Avenue, affectionately known as the Danforth, or the Danny by the older locals, was the perfect place for an outdoor meal. The heart of so-called Greektown, it was a wide thoroughfare chockablock with open-windowed restaurants, the smell of roasting lamb wafting across packed patios. On the crowded sidewalks, gaggles of girls tilting over their high heels, groups of guys out of their muscle cars, and well-dressed older European-born couples all promenaded while a traffic jam tailed on late into the night.

As a young patrolman, Ari Greene had enjoyed working the Danny. The shopkeepers, perhaps sensing his working-class roots, felt comfortable with him. One night he was in Pappas Grill, one of his favorite restaurants. He told Nick, the owner, that his father was a survivor of Treblinka—one of a handful of people who escaped in the only revolt at the death camp.

To Greene’s surprise, Nick rolled up his pants on his right leg. He pointed to an ancient, deep scar. “Damn Nazis,” he said. “I was nine years old, and I snuck a few pieces of bread out of the German garbage. This blond one, he caught me. Kicked me so hard I still limp today.”

Word soon spread among the Danforth merchants about the Jewish cop who was a good guy, and it opened doors for Greene. A year later there was a shooting at a backroom poker game down the street from
Nick’s place, leaving one man dead. There were seven witnesses and no one was talking. After a few weeks had gone by, Greene dropped in to have a chat with Nick.

“The tax people from Ottawa are going to hit the Danny. Do some audits,” Greene said over a glass of ouzo. “They think there’s lots of cash floating around the restaurants.”

“The Danny, we’re always taking it in the neck,” Nick said. “Cops for everything. Parking. Garbage. We can’t even throw out a bag anymore.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Greene agreed. “I know you’ve got nothing to hide, Nick—”

“Of course not—”

“I told them you were clean to save you the hassle. They’re not going to bug you.”

Nick poured them both another glass, and the next day Greene had a name to give Hap Charlton, who back then was the homicide detective on the case.

“Detective, such a long time. Who’s the beautiful young lady?” Nick said, walking with his usual limp to greet Greene in the doorway, taking Margaret Kwon’s hand in his own and bowing to kiss it. He wore a black-and-white uniform, his thinning hair slicked back over his narrow skull.

“Nick, meet Margaret Kwon, a reporter from New York.”

“My pleasure.” He let her hand go but didn’t take his eyes off her.

“My pleasure,” Kwon said. “Keep calling me a beautiful young lady, I’ll come here every night.”

Nick grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. “I have cousins who live in Queens.”

“Nick has a cousin in every state in the union that a customer comes from,” Greene said.

They all laughed.

Kwon went to the washroom and Nick seated Greene at a small table tucked away at the end of the patio. The sound and smell of garlic sizzling in olive oil followed them through the big French doors.

“Detective, I have a question for you,” Nick whispered, slipping into the seat across from Greene. “Most cops your age, I see them. Divorced. Always with the young ones. But you like more than a pretty face. And not so young.”

It was almost eight-thirty, and the sky was still bright in the west. The last rays of sun lit up the clouds. Greene lifted the long menu. “Brains. I like brains. You serve them?”

Nick smacked the table. He spotted Kwon coming onto the patio and waved her over. “Here comes your special dish.”

Kwon smiled when she arrived at the table.

Nick stood and bowed again. Unlike the tables inside, which were made of dark wood, those outside were covered in gaudy plastic tablecloths. He took it off in three efficient folds.

“Why are you doing that?” Kwon asked.

Nick looked at Greene and grinned. “The detective never eats in a restaurant with tablecloths.” He kissed her hand again and slipped away.

“I love the street life out here,” Kwon said.

“See that restaurant?” Greene pointed to the south side of the street. “That’s where they filmed the movie
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
.”

They ordered the house Greek salad for two and shared a plate of hummus and another of tzatziki, with olives on the side. Kwon told Greene that her two younger sisters were both doctors. “I’m a failure in the eyes of my father,” she said, “no matter how many cover stories I get.”

Greene laughed. “The fate of all children of immigrants,” he said.

She slid an olive into her mouth. “I’ve got something to show you.” She dove into the oversize bag she’d slung over the back of her chair and pulled out a small digital camera. “April Goodling in her hotel room at the moment she heard Terrance Wyler was dead.”

Greene looked away. He watched the stream of people walking on the Danforth. Not a care in the world.

“Don’t you want to see it?” Kwon asked. “I’m thinking of the headline: ‘April Rains.’”

“Not my style,” he said. “Invading people’s privacy like that.”

Kwon dropped the camera on the table. “Get over it,” she said. “I’ve heard this same line for twenty years, and guess what, sales of celebrity magazines keep going up and up. Don’t feel bad for these Hollywood types. They’re the most superficial people in the whole world and they love the attention.”

“I met her today at her lawyer’s,” Greene said.

“Piece of work, isn’t she?”

“Not terribly cooperative.”

Kwon stood and came to his side. She lowered the back screen of the camera to his eye level and moved her thumb into position. “Tell you what. I’ll play it. You don’t have to look.”

Greene put his fingers over his eyes, then opened them up a crack to peek.