01 - Old City Hall Read online

  The up elevator opened with a loud ding, and the cleaner got in. Amankwah affected a look of utter disinterest. The moment the doors closed, he ran for the stairway against the glassed-in west wall. Watching the dark street, he flew down the concrete stairs two steps at a time, his footsteps echoing. Five floors down, he hit the ground and walked casually out the fire door. He waved to the man at the security desk and opened the front door onto Yonge Street. Then he raced north, bracing himself against the wind.

  He had to pass through a tunnel under the Gardiner Expressway, the ugly highway built in the 1950s that cut the city off from the lake. Clearly, back then planners forgot that people knew how to walk. As a meager concession to pedestrian traffic, on the side of the road there was a thin sidewalk hemmed in by a concrete railing. Every morning it was packed with people rushing to work, many of them residents of the islands south of the city who regularly commuted by ferry. A few hours later and he’d have been stuck.

  Running now at full speed, squeezing the camera in his hand like a sprinter with a baton, he rushed out of the north side of the tunnel, got to Front Street, and cut east. He was breathing hard. The cold wind ripped down the back of his shirt.

  Just one block to go. He could see the sign for the Market Place Tower.

  “I need this story, I need this story, I need this story,” he chanted to himself, like the old train in The Little Engine That Could, the book he used to love to read every night to the kids. “I need this story, I need this story, I need this story.”

  5

  The early-morning streets were empty, and Detective Ari Greene was making great time. It always amazed him how quickly he could zip through the city when there was no traffic, and he’d put his magnetic police flasher on the roof of his car, giving him carte blanche to run every red light. One more hour, and the roads would be clogged with commuters.

  He got to Front Street, turned east, and drove quickly past some of the city’s oldest redbrick buildings, four and five stories high, most lovingly restored. Storefronts with large, tasteful windows looked out onto unusually wide sidewalks on both sides of the street, giving Front a comfortable, almost European feel. The Market Place Tower stood tall at the end of a long, elegant block.

  Greene turned south at the corner and found a parking spot on the side street behind an old truck that still had snow on its back cab. Must be a supplier coming down to the St. Lawrence Market, across the street. On winter mornings when the snow had melted on the city streets, commuters from the colder outlying suburbs and towns carried the white stuff in with them.

  Greene got out of his car and headed quickly toward the condo. He passed a driveway on the side street, where a discreet sign read PARKING FOR EXCLUSIVE USE OF MARKET PLACE RESIDENTS. VISITORS PLEASE SIGN IN WITH THE CONCIERGE. He kept on walking very fast, not running. There were certain unwritten protocols about being a homicide detective. You dressed well. You didn’t carry a gun. And most of all, unless it was a true emergency, you never ran.

  The automatic double doors of the condo slid open. Behind a long rosewood desk, a Middle Eastern–looking man in a uniform was reading the Toronto Sun.

  “Detective Greene, Toronto Police Homicide,” he said.

  “Good morning, Detective.” RASHEED was sewn on his jacket above his left breast, and he spoke with a lilting accent. Probably had a Ph.D. in physics back home, Greene thought.

  Up ahead a uniformed female police officer stood perfectly positioned near a bank of two elevators and a doorway, which Greene assumed led to the stairs. Sensing his presence, she turned her head.

  Greene saw who it was and grinned.

  Officer Nora Bering nodded, gave the elevators one last look, and walked toward him, meeting him halfway.

  “Hello, Detective,” Bering said, shaking his hand. She was all business. “I’ve disabled the elevators except for police use. My partner took the stairs up to the twelfth floor. He radioed in from the apartment, and the scene is secure. Ambulance is on scene. Victim appears DOA. Two sets of officers from the division have already taken the suspect and the witness to headquarters. Detective Ho, the forensic officer, is on his way up. My partner’s on scene, maintaining continuity.”

  Greene nodded. Bering was one of the best street cops on the force. “Who’s your partner?” he asked. Anyone who worked with Bering would be well trained.

  Bering hesitated for a moment. “Officer Daniel Kennicott,” she said.

  Greene nodded his head slowly. He could feel Bering’s eyes on him. Kennicott’s brother was murdered four and a half years ago, and Greene was the detective on the case. His only unsolved file.

  A year after the murder, when Kennicott quit his law practice to become a cop, the story of a hotshot young lawyer who turned his back on the towers of Bay Street proved irresistible to the press. It didn’t hurt that Kennicott was handsome, single, and articulate. And clearly he didn’t want all the attention, which seemed to make the story all the more compelling.

  Greene had treated Kennicott like any other victim who’d had a family member murdered. After their initial flurry of meetings, things had fallen into a pattern. Every two months they got together for a case update. When Kennicott joined the force, the meetings always took place when he was off shift. Out of uniform.

  To his credit, Kennicott never asked for special consideration. But over the years, as the meetings grew shorter, Kennicott’s frustration became palpable. There’s an inevitable tension between a homicide detective and a victim’s family. Their expectations—wanting a quick arrest, a speedy trial, a conviction, and a harsh sentence—often had to be tempered by the realities of police procedure and the legal system. The Crown Attorneys intentionally stayed aloof, so as their primary contact the victims turned to the detective, at times for comfort, at times to vent their frustration.

  Professionally, Greene and Kennicott had avoided each other on duty. It was unspoken, but they both knew it was best. Perhaps it was time for that to change, Greene thought. Secretly, he’d followed Kennicott’s career, like a hands-off older brother. He’d been impressed by the young man’s progress. There was a saying on the force: To make it to Homicide, you needed a rabbi. Someone to watch over, and promote, your career.

  “Kennicott’s got everything under control,” Bering said.

  “Not surprised,” Greene said.

  He turned back to Rasheed, the concierge. “How many elevators are there to the twelfth floor?”

  “The two you see in front of you and a service elevator around back.”

  Greene leaned over the lobby desk and scanned a row of live television monitors.

  “Do these cover all the exits?”

  “Yes. Yes. Certainly, the main doors.”

  Something about the man’s answer bothered him. “Are there other doors?”

  Rasheed looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Just one in the basement parking lot. There’s no camera on that. But it is rarely used, and it closes from the inside.”

  Greene looked back at Bering.

  “I had all three elevators disabled, including the service,” she said. “I covered the stairs until backup arrived. There was no way to cover the basement.”

  “Right move,” Greene said. The calculation was easy. Bering was alone down here and had to watch for someone coming into or trying to leave the lobby. And, Greene knew, Bering was smart enough not to lose sight of Rasheed.

  “How do you know if the basement door is opened?” he asked the concierge.

  “I check it when I do my rounds.”

  “Did you check it this morning?”

  “Not yet. The door’s rarely used. This is a quiet building.”

  It won’t be quiet for much longer, Greene thought, with Kevin Brace’s wife lying dead in their bathtub. “What if someone puts a brick in the door?”

  Rasheed blushed. “It happens once in a while.”

  Greene nodded. That was the second time Rasheed had been less than forthcoming in his answers.
/>   He walked to the elevator bank and went through a mental checklist: Bering had covered the lobby. The suspect and the witness were already taken away, and the forensic officer was now on scene. As much as he wanted to get upstairs, first he had to check the basement. There was a stairway beside the elevator, and as he reached for the door, it swung open.

  A rather short older woman, her gray hair combed elegantly back up over her head, marched straight out. She wore a long black coat, and a blazing blue scarf was tied neatly around her neck. She strode toward the front door, her posture erect.

  “Morning, Rasheed,” she said to the concierge, moving quickly.

  Greene rushed up beside her just before she got to the outer door. A rolled-up mat was slung over her shoulder. She had two white towels under her arm and a big water bottle in her hand.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, flashing his badge. “Detective Ari Greene, Toronto Police. We’ve closed the building down for a few minutes.” He didn’t want to identify himself as a homicide detective.

  “Closed? What do you mean, closed?” The woman had a mild British accent, the kind that sounded as if it had been modified by many years in Canada. Up close she had high cheekbones that were accentuated by her age. She wore no makeup. Her skin was still remarkably smooth. Something about the dignified way in which she carried herself made Greene smile.

  “We’re investigating an incident in the building,” Greene said.

  “What does that have to do with me?” the woman asked. “My class starts in eleven minutes.”

  Greene moved all the way in front of her, blocking her exit. “This is a serious matter, I’m afraid.”

  She nodded toward the front desk. “Rasheed can give you any information you need, I’m sure.”

  Greene opened a leather-bound maroon notebook and pulled out his initialed Cross pen, the one that Chief Hap Charlton had given him when he made Homicide. The woman moved slightly closer to him. Greene could smell a hint of perfume. That made him smile again.

  “Could I have your name, please?” he asked.

  “Edna Wingate. Will this take long? I hate to be tardy. My yoga instructor does not tolerate late arrivals.”

  “You live in this building, Ms. Wingate?”

  “Suite 12B. It’s hot yoga, Detective,” she said, giving him a coquettish grin. “I always bring two towels.”

  “And how long have you lived here?”

  “Twenty years. You should try hot yoga. Men like it.”

  “We’ve disabled the elevators,” Greene said. “I apologize for forcing you to walk down the stairs.”

  Wingate laughed. A light, engaging chuckle. “I never take the elevator. Twelve floors up and down. My yoga instructor says I have the strongest quads he’s ever seen in an eighty-three-year-old.”

  On his drive down, Greene had called the dispatcher. He knew there were only two suites on the top floor. “Notice anything unusual on the twelfth floor last night or this morning?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said without missing a beat.

  “And what was—”

  “My newspaper. I’m concerned about Mr. Singh. Never known him to miss a day.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Please, I really must go.”

  “Can we make a deal?” he asked. “I’ll unseal the building for you now so you can make your class if you’ll let me drop by and ask some questions tomorrow morning.”

  She took a quick look at her watch. It was a Swatch, quite stylish.

  “You’ll have to try some of my Christmas shortbread,” she said, flashing him a charming smile. And that laugh again.

  “Shall I come by before six?”

  “Come at eight. Monday’s my only early class. Ta,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder as she waltzed past him, her posture still picture-perfect.

  He watched Wingate move swiftly to the sidewalk, cross the empty street, and disappear into the morning darkness. Greene paused for a moment, taking in the last hint of her perfume before he went upstairs to see the body of the dead woman in the bathtub.

  6

  Six o’clock. Perfect, Albert Fernandez thought as he toweled his face dry and combed back his deep black hair. Ten minutes to shave, clip his nails, brush his teeth, and dry off. Another fifteen to get dressed, ten if he hurried. By 6:30 the coffee machine would click on, and he’d be out the door by 6:50. Drive downtown in thirty minutes, and he’d beat the 7:30 deadline for early-bird parking by at least ten minutes.

  He wrapped a lush green towel around his waist and quietly made his way out of the en suite bathroom. Marissa was asleep in their bed. He stopped. Her black hair was tousled on the white sheets, and he could see the curve of her back and shoulders.

  Two years into their marriage, and it still amazed Fernandez that he got to sleep with this beautiful naked woman, night after night. It had been worth it to bring a young bride back from Chile, he thought, despite his parents’ objections. They’d wanted him to marry a Canadian from a good socialist background, like the people who’d taken them in as political refugees back in the 1970s. Instead, much to their consternation, he’d gone home and found a woman from one of the country’s wealthiest families. His mother and father hadn’t spoken to him since.

  Fernandez tossed the damp towel on a chair and entered his favorite room in the apartment—the clothes closet. He loved looking at his rack of finely tailored suits. My passports to success, he thought, fingering the gabardine sleeve of his dark blue jacket. He ran his hands over the row of shirts on hangers and picked out one of his best, off-white Egyptian cotton with French cuffs.

  He held the shirt up to the light. “Tsk, tsk,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head. Marissa had grown up with a houseful of servants. Now she was learning to do the ironing. He would have to talk to her about the collars. He caressed his overburdened tie rack and settled on a deep red Armani tie.

  His fine clothes were an important part of Fernandez’s personal business plan. He pinched pennies in every other part of his life so he could buy them. Most of the other prosecutors at the downtown Crown law office dressed like schoolteachers or salesmen, with their crepe-soled shoes, brown suits, and muted ties. Not Albert. He always dressed impeccably, the way a real lawyer should.

  He selected his dark brown loafers and examined their shine. They needed buffing. That would cost him two or three minutes.

  Putting on his shirt, he did up his tie, then slipped on his pants and selected one of his favorite belts. Burnished brown leather with a simple brushed-metal buckle. When Fernandez was called to the bar, he had purchased a men’s fashion encyclopedia, and it counseled that a belt should be done up to the third notch. He pulled his belt on and tried to get it to the well-worn line after the third hole. But this morning it felt tight. It took him a moment to realize he had to suck in his stomach to do the belt up.

  Alarmed, he lifted his shirt and examined himself in the full-length mirror. Sure enough, his thin waistline had expanded. This was unbelievable. He’d always looked askance at the other male lawyers in his office, fat bellies overhanging their leatherette belts. That was it, he swore to himself, no more cheap sandwiches, no more eating doughnuts from the inevitable pack that got passed around the Crown’s office at the end of the day.

  Finally dressed, he emerged into the half-light of the bedroom. The illuminated clock radio beside the bed read 6:18. Two minutes ahead of schedule. Marissa had stirred in her sleep and rolled over. The sheet slid down, exposing the top part of her right breast.

  Fernandez tiptoed to the edge of the bed and bent to kiss her hair. His eyes drifted down toward the rise in the sheets. Even though he saw his wife naked all the time, he still found himself sneaking looks at her body at just about every opportunity.

  A warm hand touched his thigh. “You are not happy in my ironing,” Marissa said, her voice hoarse with sleep.

  His tsk-tsking must have been overheard. “With my ironing,” he corrected her. “Yes
, it needs work.”

  Marissa’s hand fell away from his leg.

  Damn it, he thought. He kept making the same mistake. Hidden in his closet between two folded sweaters was a book he read on Tuesday nights when Marissa went to her English as a second language classes. It was called Marriage Survival Guide: How to Get Past the First Years. One of the key things it said, over and over again, was don’t be too critical, support your spouse.

  “But I’m sure you will get better,” he said, reaching for her arm.

  “I need to get the iron more hot, no?” she asked. Her hand came back up again and lightly caressed his pant leg.

  “Yes, hotter,” he said. “It’s difficult.”

  Marissa’s warm lips parted in a tentative smile.

  “And to press more hard,” she said. As she spoke she began to rub her hand up, then down, his leg.

  “Harder. See how fast you are learning.”

  “Hotter and harder,” she said as she pulled her other hand out from under the covers and began to rub his thigh.

  Despite himself, Fernandez lifted his eyes to the digital clock radio on the far side of the bed. The time was 6:26. Now he was a minute behind schedule. Without the early-bird parking, it was another four dollars.

  Marissa wet her lips with her tongue. She rolled over toward him and put her hands on his belt buckle. I wonder if she noticed the extra notch, he thought as she undid it.

  He took his eyes off the clock. You deserve this, Albert, he told himself. He was always the first lawyer in the office. So what if, for one day, he was the second or third.

  Marissa tugged at his pants.

  After all, he could skip lunch to make up the four dollars. And that way he’d lose a bit of weight. She reached for his hand and lay back, bringing it to the top of her chest. Her hardening nipple rose to the soft skin of his palm. She kept moving his hand lower as she elevated her hips to meet his fingers.

  His belt undone, his pants and then his boxer shorts brought down below his knees, she reached around his back.