City of Ice (17 page)

The Russian captain was unyielding, unflinching in his reaction. He seemed to be breathing normally, the smile remained taut, the eyes steady. Cinq-Mars left him and held the door for Mathers to pass through first. He nodded to the captain as he took his leave.

On deck, Mathers arched an eyebrow at his partner.

“You think I said too much, Bill?”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing your theories before you try them out on the bad guys, that’s all. Sometimes I wonder if you trust me at all, Émile.”

“More than you realize. Captain Ya—. How do you say it? You’re good with these foreign names.”

“Yakushev. Come on, it’s an easy one. It’s a common Russian name.”

“Ah, but is he a common Russian? That is what we must find out. Something tells me that our Captain Ya—. Yaku—.”

“Yakushev.” Mathers sighed.

“Something tells me that he’s quite uncommon among his fraternity.”

Mathers nodded and clapped his hands against his sides as a cold wind caught him head-on. “Are we through here?”

“We have some legwork left. I want the ship’s mani-fest. I want an itemized account of everything that has been loaded and unloaded while it’s been in port.”

“Anything else?”

“Where do you think the killers found Santa Claus suits on Christmas Eve? Did they steal them, buy them, rent them? I’ll run down the costume and novelty stores, see if anything turns up. If they killed the boy onboard this ship, and got him back through the gate dressed as Santa, they must have had that suit ready for him. They must have known they were going to need it.”

“They let Artinian sign himself in. He had to. He had to show ID. How could they have been so stupid? They let him write his name in the gatekeeper’s log! Then Kaplonski signed him out. That I can understand, they don’t care who signs out as long as the count is right. But with their names together in the logbook, it’s like announcing that Kaplonski did it. They gave us the time and place! I can see it if they hadn’t planned to torture and kill him, but if they had a plan, it wasn’t much of a plan.”

Cinq-Mars disagreed. “Who would look for Artinian here? They never expected us to show up on the docks.”

“Why did we?” Mathers wondered aloud. “We were told not to.”

“We were told not to. That’s interesting by itself. Drive me back to the station, Bill. Come back here after that.”

Okinder Boyle hung about the school yard during morning recess until he realized that that was perhaps not a smart idea. His lurking, sulky reporter act might carry leverage in certain crowds, but in the vicinity of children the look promoted him as dangerous. He retreated and chose to wait for noon within the foyer of a small apartment building kitty-corner from the Artinian house. After Vassil had come home for lunch, Boyle maintained a close watch, following him back to school the moment he reemerged.

“Vassil!” he called out. “Vassil!” Keeping up in the snow was difficult.

The boy stopped and eyed him warily and, before he got too close, issued a challenge, “You a cop?”

“I’m a friend of your uncle Garo’s,” Boyle told him. “He’s my boss. I write for
The Gazette.
”

The boy continued to eye him closely. “
The Gazoo
, my uncle calls it.”

“I’m one of the animals.”

“Uncle Garo says you’re pretty good.”

“Does he? I’ll remind him of that sometime. He never tells me.”

“No?” The boy seemed genuinely surprised.

“Your uncle Garo is a good man to emulate, if that’s what you’re doing, Vassil. But don’t tell him I said so, all right?”

They continued walking along the plowed, sanded sidewalks.

“I liked today’s story, the one about the Banker. Did you really go into that tunnel?”

“Guilty as charged.” It pleased him to be recognized.

“Cool.” They crossed a street. “Is this about Hagop?” Just saying the name caused his lip to quiver slightly.

“Garo asked me to check things out, maybe do a story. Some things are unexplained about Hagop. Why the Santa suit? Why did it happen at all? He was a
good kid, everybody agrees on that, what was he doing with the wrong people?” Boyle wanted to keep talking to let the kid pull himself together. He was obviously fragile when discussing his brother. “Maybe your uncle has more confidence in the press than the police, I don’t know, but he loved Hagop and wants to know what happened.”

The boy walked on beside the reporter in silence. At the corner nearest his school he stopped. He moved his feet around to warm them and gazed intently at his boots.

“As reporters, we have to blow off the smoke,” Boyle told him, “see what’s really going on. If there’s anything about your brother, any angle that might shed light, I hope you’ll tell me, Vassil. Let’s uncover the truth no matter what it is, but I have a feeling the truth will honor Hagop’s memory. Do you think that’s true?”

Vassil Artinian nodded. Boyle could not be certain, but he thought he detected anger on his face under-pinning his grief. The boy’s cheeks were flushed.

“Can you help me out here, Vassil?”

Again the boy nodded, only this time he raised his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I know a few things. But I promised Hagop not to tell anybody.” He had to wipe away a tear from the corner of one eye.

“I know,” Boyle told him in a soft voice. “Think about this. Maybe Hagop said a few things to you just in case. He probably knew he was in danger. Maybe he wanted you to know a few things in case something happened to him.”

A friend shouted and waved to Vassil and the boy idly waved back. “I gotta go,” he said.

“I can meet you after school.”

The boy consented with a nod, and it seemed to Boyle that he had grown eager. “A block up, there’s a hangout, corner of Jarry. If you want I could meet you there.”

“Thanks, Vassil. I’ll be waiting. You have a good afternoon now.”

Puffed and bothered, Sergeant-Detective André LaPierre led Émile Cinq-Mars into Interrogation Room 9 in the late afternoon. Bill Mathers slouched behind, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, followed shortly by Captain Gilles Beaubien in uniform and Lieutenant-Detective Rémi Tremblay. Cinq-Mars carried in a briefcase that had heft. With Mathers, he chose to seat himself on the side of the table normally reserved for felons. The trio of officers pulled up chairs on the other side.

“His Holiness is in the confession box,” LaPierre derided, his fury apparent.

“You contravened a direct order, Cinq-Mars,” Beaubien declared.

“What’s that, sir?” Cinq-Mars was wearing a look of sublime innocence.

“I gave you an order to stay away from the Russian ship!” Beaubien exclaimed.

“Why was that, sir?” For a moment it appeared that Beaubien would burst a gasket, if not a heart valve. Tremblay intervened on the side of diplomacy.

“The point is, Émile, you boarded the Russian vessel without permission from your op leader who had issued a contravention.”

“Ah,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged, as though this was all coming clear to him for the first time. Next to him, Mathers slid down another notch in his chair. He was hoping that his partner intended to take all the heat, and not merely the lion’s share, upon himself. “How is it that André reacts so quickly to that and yet so slowly to matters of importance?”

LaPierre raised both hands. “Hang on a second here. This is my interrogation. We agreed. You two are along to supervise and witness, remember?”

“They’re here to keep you from killing me, André.” Cinq-Mars chuckled.

“I ought to,” LaPierre told him plainly. “I should blow your brains out.”

“Gentlemen, this is not productive,” Tremblay warned. He carried a briefcase of his own and sifted through it for his tape recorder. He placed the device in the center of the table and punched the record button. “This meeting’s called to order. Present in the room, Mathers, Cinq-Mars, LaPierre, Beaubien, and Tremblay. Sergeant-Detective André LaPierre has issued a complaint against fellow officer Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars. For the sake of expediency, he has consented to an informal inquiry. LaPierre has requested that Captain Gilles Beaubien be present, and Cinq-Mars has asked that myself, Lieutenant-Detective Rémi Tremblay, moderate. In my capacity as moderator I have asked that Detective Mathers be present as an interested party. André, ask your questions and, if you wish, make your charge. Be advised that we are going to conduct this inquiry in a civil manner. Also, I remind everyone that what we say here stays within these walls.”

Nodding, LaPierre took a moment to gather his composure. “It’s simple,” he declared, his rage apparent. “This is my case. I cannot accept interference by another officer,
especially
by one who isn’t Homicide. On the night of the murder, Cinq-Mars had the body of the victim removed from the scene of the crime. He has interviewed the Artinian family, he’s interrogated the victim’s eleven-year-old brother, and revealed to that boy that the victim had been a police informant—
information
that he failed to disclose to the IO. As well, Detective Cinq-Mars visited the premises where the victim had been employed. I have yet to learn the results of that visit. Subsequent to these events—and
after
I had reminded Detective Cinq-Mars to stay the
hell away from my case—
against
the specific command of the op leader, Detective Cinq-Mars boarded the Russian freighter and came
this close
to accusing the captain of committing murder. The captain’s complained to us. I want this man reprimanded, and I want him to stay the hell away from my case and stop screwing it up!”

Tremblay allowed the dust to settle. When the two combatants locked eyes again, the lieutenant indicated that it was time for Cinq-Mars to respond.

“You forgot to mention, André,” Cinq-Mars began, opening his briefcase and removing the gatekeeper’s log, “that I also checked with security down at the docks. I confiscated an entry and exit record that puts Hagop Artinian on the docks at the time of his death—”

LaPierre was on his feet. “Damn you, Émile! This is
my case!
”

“—and in the company of Walter Kaplonski. This is your case?” Cinq-Mars asked over LaPierre’s bluster.

“Yes, it’s mine,
tabernac!
” Whether he was speaking English or French, LaPierre had a tendency to mix in swear words from both languages.

At that rebuke, Cinq-Mars jumped to his feet and slammed the logbook hard upon the desk. “Why aren’t you on it, then? Where the hell’ve you been?”

“
Taberhuit!
You’ve been withholding and interfering!”

On his feet as well, Tremblay held an arm across LaPierre’s chest. “Both of you, sit down and shut the fuck up!”

Reluctantly, both combatants sat, struggling to breathe calmly.

“It’s still my turn to speak,” Cinq-Mars pointed out.

“So speak.”

“On the night of the murder, Sergeant-Detective LaPierre was in the john puking and shitting his guts out. It was always one or the other. During the entire
time that forensics was there, LaPierre was nowhere to be seen. We heard him, but we never saw him. I did not remove the corpse, it was not done on my order. Forensics did that. Now, my partner and I were the first to discover the body, consequently it was only fitting that we pay our respects to the family. I had a chat with the boy because he appeared troubled. He had just lost a brother, after all. As far as Hagop being an informant of mine, that’s not something I talk about to other officers. My informants are my informants. I don’t say who is, I don’t say who isn’t. To the family, however, I let them know that their son was a good boy, someone who worked on the side of justice. I was being
nice.

“Now, I visited Garage Sampson because I was looking to break a stolen car ring, which happens to be within my jurisdiction. If André has a problem with that, he should look to his own performance. If he never visited the victim’s place of work, that’s not my fault.”

“What about the ship?” Beaubien interrupted. The edge to his voice indicated that he cared about little else. He stabbed the table with a forefinger, knotting his brow in combat. “Tell me about the ship. I gave that order myself.”

“I respect your orders, sir,” Cinq-Mars obliged him. “But I wasn’t actually visiting the ship, sir. I was visiting the gatekeeper’s cubicle. That’s where I recovered the logbook which puts Artinian on the docks, with Kaplonski, at the time of his death. Once I had that information, it was only fitting that I confront the ship’s captain—”

“How’s that fitting?” LaPierre wanted to know.

“A direct violation of my order,” Beaubien insisted.

“Sir, your order, with respect to the ship, had to do with the investigation of stolen cars. I wasn’t investigating stolen cars onboard that ship. I merely inquired
how long the ship had been in port and how long the captain expected to remain, so that when I passed the information about the logbook along to André he would know the situation. I couldn’t just walk away with the book in one hand if the ship was about to set sail, now could I?”

“You’ve been raising horses too long, Émile. All you do is shovel shit.”

Tremblay held up his hand. “Do you have anything more to add? Either of you?”

The litigants chose to keep their peace.

“All right then. This is my decision, and there will be no further discussion and no bitching. Cinq-Mars, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. No reprimand. However, I am issuing fair warning. The homicide is André’s case—”

“Then why doesn’t he do something with it?”

“Shut up. André is the IO on the Artinian murder. Period. End of sentence. You, Cinq-Mars, will not withhold a stitch of evidence. You will not interfere with his investigation. Nor will you conduct your own sideline. You will stay one hell of a distance away from this case. Is that perfectly clear?”

Cinq-Mars nodded.

“André, you will not be bothered by Émile again. But get cracking. I want to see some results.”

LaPierre extended his hand across the table.

Cinq-Mars studied the proffered palm. “You try to get a reprimand against a fellow officer and now you want to shake on it?”

“Heat of the battle, Émile. No hard feelings.”