City of Ice (27 page)

“But you don’t buy it?”

Cinq-Mars looked at Mathers. “I haven’t made up my mind. He could be keeping the tapes secret because they incriminate his friends. But why did he record them in that case? He could be revealing this tape now because the Angels are using him to give us Kaplonski. If he’s a dirty cop, he could be after Jim Coates to get rid of him for what he knows. If he’s just being a lousy self-interested cop, he could be after Jim Coates to find out what he knows and use that information to solve the case himself.”

Mathers stretched out on his side on the floor,
propped up on one elbow. “There’s two things in André’s favor. He made the tape. Maybe that’s an assumption, but it’s reasonable. I don’t see why he would do that if he was one of them. And the tape gives us the voice of the killer. It’s a changing voice, but we wouldn’t know he existed otherwise.”

“There could be a reason for the tape we don’t know about,” Cinq-Mars suggested. “Like the Angels were checking up on Kaplonski and LaPierre does their audio work.”

“A stretch,” Mathers said.

“Granted. The Czar, if he’s the killer, could be long gone by now. He might be back in Russia for all we know. They could be sending us on a helluva wild goose chase.”

“So where do we go from here?” Reaching behind himself, Mathers punched a button and rewound the tape entirely while Cinq-Mars paced the small room, stepping around children’s toys.

“With respect to LaPierre, we watch and wait. With respect to Jim Coates, we find him, we talk. With respect to Walter Kaplonski, we arrest him.”

“Now?”

“Something tells me the sooner the better. I’m not betting heavily on his life expectancy. Now I wish I hadn’t shaken him down.”

“How come?”

“If somebody hits him, I won’t know if it’s because Déguire thought we talked a deal in the car and he reported back to André, or because André gave him up to fit their scam. Maybe they’re giving him up just because I nearly brought him in. I won’t be a single step ahead.”

Mathers snapped the tape out of the deck and struggled to his feet. He handed it over to his partner, then helped him on with his overcoat. “Let’s hope the bad guys weren’t thinking that way, too. If letting us have
the tape was a way to give us different options, we’re up against some pretty smart cookies.”

Cinq-Mars shook his head. “This feels murky. Like we won’t find bottom. I hate to think what’s down there, how deep it goes.”

Mathers tried to kid him out of the blues. “This from the detective who doesn’t believe in conspiracies? You disappoint me, Émile. You sound like you’re ready to change horses.”

He was surprised by the look Cinq-Mars gave him. The depth of the man’s weariness struck him. He seemed older, more frail in this light than he had previously noticed. “You’re a good detective, partner. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that one out by now.”

“Maybe I have,” Mathers confessed.

“Yes? What’s your thought?”

Mathers breathed deeply before he began. He did feel nervous about this. “I think your public disdain for conspiracies is a deception, a strategy. I think you’re after conspirators, organized crime. I think you only pretend otherwise.”

Cinq-Mars conveyed in his weary gaze a measure of respect. “That’s part of it, Bill. I’m impressed. Truth is, I’m terrified by the alliances being cobbled together these days.”

Mathers gathered that he was being admitted more deeply into his partner’s thinking than had previously been allowed. “Émile, can I meet you downstairs? Give me a sec to change and speak to Donna.”

“No need to explain. Take your time. I’ve been there.”

After midnight, along the street known as the Main, Julia Murdick entered four bars, hunting around in each. The street was officially called Boulevard St. Laurent (St. Lawrence, in English, after the river) and
was the demarcation zone for the east and west sides of the city. From here, addresses on the crossing streets started at number one, ascending in either direction. All streets that crossed the Main had to be designated as being either east or west. The eastern side of Montreal was predominantly French, the western side largely English, while the Main itself attracted a coalition of ethnic communities. Historically a crime center, rough and ready, the Main was a spawning ground for petty crooks, turf where criminal gangs had to cut their teeth before extending territories. It continued to attract prostitutes and deadbeats, addicts and artists, beggars and thieves, ambitious losers of every description, and the in crowd piled in behind them. At night its bars and eateries pulsed with the rhythms of a new generation.

In the fourth bar she entered Julia caught Norris’s eye, took a turn around the space, and checked the bathrooms to confirm that she didn’t know anybody there. She joined Norris at his table. Although it was nearly one in the morning the place was packed. Montreal was a nightlife city, the Main a nightlife street.

“Hey, Snoop, how’re you doing?”

“It’s good to get out.”

“Like old times.”

“Old times, Sel? Old times ended ten days ago. That doesn’t constitute
old
times. Ten days ago is
recent
times.”

He raised a bottle of wine to fill her glass. “Seems like a dog’s age to me.”

“Tell me about it.”

Norris laughed. “I have a better idea.
You
tell
me
about it.”

She ran her right hand through her hair. “Another working session? No time to relax? You invited me out under false pretenses, Sel.”

“Give me a break, Jul. Doesn’t this beat E-mail?”

“Oh, throw me a bone, Selwyn! Ask me to roll over, sit up, and beg.”

He laughed at her consternation. “Talk to me. Go ahead. What interests you, Jul?”

The bastard had a point. The world had changed. Smiling, she conceded. “You go first. How’s the state of the world, Selwyn? Are presidents calling for your advice?”

“Just the one.” She didn’t know how to interpret that grin.

“What’s your—” She hesitated, trying to frame a simple question in such a way that he might answer. He had resisted, gently at times, and categorically on other occasions, any attempt to prick his guise. “What do you do, Selwyn? Besides what you do. I mean, publicly. If somebody came to your door and said, ‘We’re the government, what do you do for a living, sir?’ How would you respond?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“But they’re insisting.”

“I’d ask to see my lawyer.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously? I’d shut the door in the government’s face.”

“Come on, you know what I’m trying to say. What do you tell the world you do? There must be times when you have to say something.”

“Depends who’s asking. Hey, do you want a bite? Take a break from student fare.” The waitress had come by to take their food order. Julia did a quick scan and chose the Waldorf, Norris opted for a
croque monsieur.

“Selwyn?” she asked after the waitress departed.

“Different people receive various responses. Which can be problematic, of course. Officially, I’m affiliated with the Public Affairs Section of the Consulate-General here in Montreal.”

“The consulate-general?”

“That’s right.”

“Of what country?”

“Good, Snoop. Never let anyone answer in a vague way. Stay on him until he owns up.”

“Bugger off, Selwyn. Answer the question.”

“The United States of America.”

“Ah.”

Norris laughed more heartedly than he had intended, enjoying the exchange. He relished the company of this attractive, cerebral young woman. “What do you mean by that?”

“By what?”

“By your
ah.
”

“I’m not telling.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m the inquisitor here and you, Mr. Norris, the inquisitee.”

“Is there such a word? Tell you what, I’ll make a sportsman’s bet with you. By the end of the night, I’ll get more information out of you about yourself than you’ll worm out of me about myself, even though you’re asking the questions.”

“You’re on! You’re getting nothing out of me! Nothing!” she taunted brightly. She was already hooked on the release of tension, the joy of being out, the pleasure of food that came from sitting down with a companion to enjoy it, the sensation that for tonight, at least, she was part of a crowd. “So. Selwyn Norris, Public Affairs. Where’s that at? Sounds like a crock to me. Sounds like a handy cover-up for covert operations. Bells are going off, Mister Buddy.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
What do you really do in public affairs?”

His eyes teared as he laughed and Julia was pleased. She could not say a word, it seemed, that did not delight him. “Julia, you ask the right questions. As soon as we’ve concluded our current enterprise, once
you’ve finished your education, let’s think long and hard about the best prospects for your career.”

“In what?”

“What would you prefer?”

“No dice, Selwyn. Answer my question and quit trying to change the subject. Who do you think you’re playing with here, some amateur?”

“Salut!”
Norris said, raising his glass to her. He sipped, gazed at her, turned away to study the room a moment, noticed a problem, and told Julia, “Don’t look now, you’ve been spotted.
Don’t—look.
”

All her discipline was necessary not to spin her head around.

“Who? A Hell’s Angel? Is this a diversion? It won’t work, pal. Not on me.”

“He’s coming over. Be cool, Julia. We can slide through this.”

“Hello there,” said a voice, not one she recognized. Julia raised her head slowly and identified the newspaper reporter, Okinder Boyle. “Heather, isn’t it? Heather Bantry?”

“Yes! Mr. Boyle. Ah, hi!”

“Hi.” He waved a hand in a nervous gesture, taking quick glances at both Julia and her tablemate. “I was just, you know, out, and saw you, I thought I recognized you—back then I was so sick I wasn’t sure—and yeah, so, here you are. I was surprised you never called back. How’s your father doing?”

“Dad! Great. Thanks. We got him out of the tunnel.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He’s in a much better situation now.”

Selwyn Norris returned Boyle’s glances with a slight smile but made no effort to introduce himself. If his student handled this properly she’d tolerate the mild awkwardness and leave the social graces up to him.

“That’s good to hear. Maybe I should do a follow-up. That story aroused a lot of interest. Tell you what, give me your number, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Julia was aware that she was under scrutiny, that this was the first time Norris had seen her in the line of fire. “Sure. That would be great. Oh!” She ground her forehead into the heel of her palm. “What’s my new number again? I never call myself.” She looked at Norris. At that moment he could deny knowledge of her phone number, make one up, or deliver the correct number to the reporter. His call. She had cleverly moved the responsibility along to the more experienced partner, and her mentor was duly impressed.

“Do you have a pen?” Norris asked.

“Right here.” The columnist took out a small pad and pen and waited, poised, for Norris to speak again. Seated, Norris looked across at Julia, then reached over and took her hand in his, affectionately, possessively, grinning at her consternation. He told Boyle her number and Julia noted that it was accurate.

“Okay. Thanks. Listen, I’ll leave you two alone. It was great seeing you again, Heather. I’ll give you a call.”

“Please do. Thanks for the piece on my dad. It was great.”

“Thanks. So long.”

He melded into the crowd. “Interesting,” Norris assayed.

“How’d I do?”

“Terrific. No wonder this operation is going well. But I knew that—you can think on your feet. Jul, you went through other bars before coming in here?”

“Yup. I did five deceptions before reaching the street. Good ones.”

“He spotted you in one of the bars. Then followed you. He can’t afford this place.”

“It’s not
that
expensive. He could have been here already.”

“Boyle gets by on a frugal budget. You’ve seen his room.”

“What do I do when he calls? Why did you give him my real number?”

Their food arrived, and Julia suddenly realized she was famished. She’d eaten at seven, but six hours had passed since then. Eating late was part of the Montreal style.

“He’s up to something,” Norris mused. “He wanted your phone number, that’s why he came over. The thought didn’t occur to him on the fly, as he tried to make out. What does he want? You? A date? A story? Something else? If he’s going to nose around Carl Bantry, it’s better if we control things.”

“All wise and good, Selwyn, but I still want to know what you do in public affairs.”

Norris laughed. “Nothing dramatic. I’m a political analyst. I’m here to study the possibilities of Quebec’s secession from Canada, what the repercussions would be for the United States.”

“Okay,” she said quietly. “That’s very convincing. Now tell me, is that what you really do and this thing with me is a sideline? Or is what we do together your main concern, and the political analysis thing your cover?”

Norris bobbed his head from side to side. “Is there a third option?”

“Is there?”

Norris leaned in closer across the table. “Listen, Jul. There’s something you need to know. Commit this name to memory. Émile Cinq-Mars.”

“Émile Cinq-Mars,” Julia repeated aloud.

“Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars.”

She said the name back to him again.

“If anyone is onto you, for whatever reason, and
they want to know your contact, and you have no choice, give them that name.”

“Why him?”

“He’s a famous detective. They’ll believe you. He’s safe because he’s such an important person. The Angels can’t afford to go after a cop with his profile. Already the Wolverines have been set loose, after that poor kid was blown up. Imagine what would happen if they killed a cop. Step over that line and the gloves really come off. Give up the name—Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars—and watch your enemies leave you alone. They won’t go after him.”

“Or you,” Julia added.

“Mentioning his name will give you instant leverage. Giving them mine won’t do a thing.”