Tumblin' Dice (18 page)

McKeon was in the living room, her cell phone to her ear, and Price waited until she ended the call and then said, “Okay, she said he told her he was going to do it,” and McKeon said, “Well, ‘it's' now officially murder. Amaal died five minutes ago.”

“All right,” Price said, “we'll bring the mom and go charge him. Looks like the most clear-cut case of first degree we'll ever have.” McKeon said, yeah, “There's no way anything will screw this up.”

Price looked at her and didn't say anything, knowing it was far from over, and McKeon would be on it to the very end. Whatever that was.

• • •

Detective Sandra Bolduc laid five pictures on the desk and said, “Was one of these guys in the car?” and Angie didn't even look at them, she just kept staring at the cop, this red-haired woman looking a little bored, and she said, “I told you, I didn't see anyone.”

“They were driving in as you were driving out. You passed right by them.”

Angie kept staring and now she was thinking that the bored look was an act, or maybe a habit she'd used so many times she didn't even notice it herself anymore, years of waiting out dumb criminals until they talked. But Angie wasn't a dumb criminal and she sure didn't want to get any more in the middle of this so she said, again, “I didn't see anyone.”

Detective Bolduc said, “You haven't really looked at the pictures,” so Angie did, finally, looked at the five pictures and before she could say she didn't recognize any of them, Detective Bolduc said, “See, you do know one of them.”

Angie said, “Maybe I've seen him around the casino — we have a lot of people through here, you know.”

“Sure, maybe he even caused some trouble. Your security team has an awful lot of files on people, don't they?”

“You'd have to talk to them.”

Detective Bolduc said, “But you have seen this guy at the casino,” tapping one of the pictures, and Angie looked at it again and said, “I don't know, maybe.”

Bolduc picked up the picture and looked at it, still with that slightly bored expression, Angie thinking, trying to make it look like she did this every day, like she investigated murders, shootings, every day.

Then Bolduc said, “Okay, now, tell me, Angie, was he driving the car or in the passenger seat?”

Angie said, “Passenger seat,” and right away knew she shouldn't have.

They were in Angie's office, just the two of them. Bolduc had called her and asked if they could have a chat, and Angie said sure, thinking she'd just keep putting it off, never work it into her schedule, but Bolduc had been right outside the door on her cell. She came right in and started their chat by saying how she knew Angie had been pulling out of the parking lot when the shooter had pulled in and she just wanted to show her some pictures, and Angie had said okay, thinking she just wouldn't admit to recognizing any of them, but now that she'd done that she didn't want to go any further.

Bolduc was saying, “And the driver, he wasn't any of these other guys,” and Angie looked at the pictures again and said, “They all kind of look the same, don't they?” and Bolduc laughed a little — the first time she didn't look bored — and said, yeah, “I guess they do, kind of like Basic Biker: long hair, beards, t-shirts, leather jackets,” and Angie said yeah.

Then Bolduc said, “You have many of them at the casino?” and Angie said, “Lately, yeah,” and right away felt like she shouldn't have said that, either.

Bolduc didn't say anything right away, she kind of nodded and then said, “Things are changing around here, aren't they?” and Angie said, “Things are always changing.”

“Sure,” Bolduc said, “but now things are changing fast.”

Angie said, yeah, I guess, trying to make it sound like no big deal, happens all the time, that kind of thing, and Bolduc nodded along and then said, “Okay, well, I appreciate you talking to me. This is going to help.”

Then she was picking up the photos, the five bikers, and Angie started to wonder how this cop had known she'd been leaving the parking lot when this guy was driving in.

Bolduc said, “I'm going to have to take a statement from you, type it up, and you can sign it. Do you want to come in to the station, or should I bring it here?”

Angie said, “I have to sign it?”

“Yeah, look, we know this guy is the shooter — we have a lot of circumstantial evidence that puts him at the scene around the time — but your testimony will really help.”

“My testimony,” Angie said, “I don't know, you mean in court?”

Bolduc was all packed up, the photos back in her pocket, and she was already walking towards the door saying, “I doubt this'll go to court — lawyers will probably make a deal. I'll keep you posted if you like?”

Angie said she would like that, and Bolduc said, okay then, and walked out of the office.

Angie felt sick to her stomach. Here she was so worried about Frank getting himself in the middle of this . . . whatever the hell it was, and now she's the one talking to cops identifying murderers.

And then she realized the only person who knew when she left the parking lot was Ritchie.

Shit.

• • •

Felice was in the shower, a glass box big enough for two or three people, shaving her puss when she heard what she thought was the hotel room door open. She finished shaving, thinking it was the maid, this weird hotel in the middle of the woods the only one she'd ever been in where the maids were white girls, country chicks who grew up nearby, and so many of her customers were Chinese and Pakis, this whole place upside down.

She turned off the shower and wrapped up in a big white towel and looked out the bathroom door into the room but she didn't see the maid's cart so she figured she hadn't really heard anything. She dropped the towel and wrapped a smaller one around her hair and stepped out into the room and saw the guy standing by the bed.

He said, “You not supposed to work this hotel,” and Felice said, “You're not supposed to come up to the room; you're supposed to talk to somebody in the bar first,” and the guy stepped up to her fast and punched her in the face, knocking her on her ass, and she grabbed her mouth, blood pouring out, and said, “What the fuck?” and he lifted a leg like he was going to kick her and she pulled up into a ball and said, “No!”

The guy said, “You not supposed to work this hotel,” and Felice said, “I am, they brought me up here,” and the guy said, “No, they can't do that.”

Then he said, “Stand up,” and Felice looked at him and didn't move, and he said it again, “Stand up,” so she did, slowly getting to her feet and standing naked in front of the guy and then she could see he was older than she thought, as old as that guy Frank who brought her up to this fucking casino.

The guy said, “I'm supposed to bang up your face, make you ugly so you can't work.”

Felice said, “Don't, I'll suck your cock, I suck good,” but the guy waved her off and said, “No.”

She closed her eyes and waited but the guy didn't hit her again. He said, “It's not your fault, you just do what they say,” and she said, yeah, that's right, and the guy said, I know, and then he said, “You call your people, tell them you don't work this hotel,” and he turned and walked out.

When the door closed Felice realized she was shaking, she was so scared but she was also pissed off. She felt her lip with her tongue, blood still coming out, and she horked up as much as she could, spit the blood on the painting hanging on the wall beside the bed, the Indian-looking thing that was a real painting and not just a print, now a real painting with a big gob of blood dripping off it.

Then she picked up her phone and called Stancie, saying as soon as she answered, “These fucking idiots don't know what they're doing,” and when Stancie told her to calm down she said, “I will not fucking calm down — some fucking asshole walks right into my room, punches me in the face, tells me I can't work this hotel,” and Stancie said, that's crazy, and Felice said, “Fuck you.”

Then Stancie said she'd look into it, it was a misunderstanding, and Felice said, “A misunderstanding with my blood pouring out of it,” and Stancie said, “Okay, just stay where you are,” and Felice said, “Fuck that, I'm going home,” and Stancie said, “No, you stay there,” and Felice said, “Fuck that, you send a fucking driver,” and she flipped her phone shut and realized she was still standing there naked, so she grabbed some clothes and put them on.

Two days in this fucking hotel and the best customer she had was the old guy in the rock band, and then she thought maybe she'd find him in the bar, their concert wasn't for hours and he seemed like a cool guy, knew what he was doing, could handle himself.

Nobody else had a clue what was going on.

• • •

They sat down in the interrogation room and Price said, okay, “A nice lady, Detective Bolduc, is coming down from Huron Woods to talk to you,” and Boner said, “What?” and Price said, “About that guy you shot in the parking lot of the casino,” and Boner said, “Fuck.”

McKeon said, yeah, “Fuck.”

Price said, “The thing is, Boner, that one happened on an Indian reservation so it's going to be federal.”

“So?”

“So,” Price said, “it was also a casino so it's bad for tourism, bad for business.”

McKeon said, “What they're going to do is rush you through a quick trial, throw you in the can, probably in Saskatchewan, and let you rot for the rest of your life if the Indian Posse doesn't get you.”

Boner smirked and Price said, “But we know you were just doing your job, same as you were here when you got the wrong car and those two people died.”

Boner was leaning back in his chair, looking from Price to McKeon and shaking his head, not about to say a word.

Price said, “And what we really want to know is who's giving these orders, who's making these calls. We know you're just doing your job, this shouldn't all fall on you,” and Boner was still smirking, looking smug, and he said, “Yeah, you're all so worried about me. Give me a fucking break.”

McKeon said, “Somebody has to be worried about you, Brent. None of your friends are.”

Then Boner folded his arms across his chest and shook his head slowly from side to side.

Price said, “We can make you a deal: you tell us who's giving the orders and we can charge you with manslaughter here in Toronto. Be a good boy and you could do your time right around here and be out in ten years.

“Ten?”

McKeon said, “Depends how co-operative you are, how much you help us.”

And again Boner just shook his head no.

Price said, “It's all going to come out, Boner, the whole thing and then your boys will just let you rot, best thing for you to do is get out in front of this,” and Boner said, “Where's my lawyer?”

McKeon said, “I don't know, you called him. Maybe your boss who's paying him told him not to come.”

“We can get you a lawyer,” Price said, “one that works for you.”

Boner shook his head again, said, “I'll wait,” and Price said, that's okay, “But we're allowed to ask you as many questions as we want,” and Boner said, yeah, “And these are the best you can come up with?”

Then there was a knock at the door and Price opened it and then motioned for McKeon to step out into the hall with him.

A young uniformed cop said, “Detective Bolduc is upstairs,” and Price said, okay, “Wait here, watch Boner — we'll be right back,” and he and McKeon went upstairs to the homicide office and there was Detective Sandra Bolduc standing by McKeon's desk, saying, “I figured this was yours,” and McKeon said, “Because it isn't a mess?” and Bolduc pointed under the desk to a couple pairs of high-heeled shoes, and McKeon said, “Been a while since I wore those.”

Bolduc said, “How old is the baby?” and McKeon said, “Three.”

“You'll be back in heels soon.”

McKeon said sure, but didn't look convinced, and Bolduc smiled and said, okay, “Thanks for picking up Boner.”

Price said, “I have to be honest, we're still trying to get him to turn for the double from last year,” and Bolduc said, “Sure, first come, first served. How's it going?”

Price shrugged and Bolduc nodded, understanding, and she pulled a file from her shoulder bag and spread it out on McKeon's clean desk saying, “Turns out our boy was all over the casino.”

“You didn't even need a warrant,” McKeon said, “to get access to the security cameras?”

“Burroughs doing his civic duty.”

Price said, sure he is.

Bolduc pointed to the photos and said, “Here's Boner with a guy they call J.T., I think it's Justin Tremblay, but we're still looking into that. And here's J.T. with a woman named Gayle MacDonald who happens to be married to Danny MacDonald, national vice president of the Saints of Hell Motorcycle Club.”

“And,” McKeon said, “here's Gayle MacDonald with a couple of players in expensive suits.”

Bolduc said, “The older one is Frank Kloss, runs the entertainment at the casino. Used to be at Niagara Falls, used to manage bands.”

“You got a lot of intel,” Price said, “in a short period of time.”

Bolduc was still looking at the photos, spreading out some more, and she said, “Not really so short. We've been looking at this place for a while.”

“Because of these bikers moving in.”

Bolduc tapped the photo of Gayle with the two guys in the suits, tapped the younger guy and said, “Felix Alfano from Philadelphia. Works for the Philadelphia Gaming and Accomodation Company Inc., which our provincial govermnment, in its wisdom, gave the management contract to run the casino.”

McKeon said, “Philadelphia,” and Bolduc said, “They needed another place to operate when they got kicked out of Atlantic City because of their ties to organized crime,” and McKeon said, “Holy shit, too dirty for Atlantic City so we hand them a casino in Ontario?”