City of Ice (48 page)

“So I guess in your mind you associate that tape with Jim Coates, just like I do?” Cinq-Mars asked him.

The tall man swallowed hard. “What?” He knew that he’d been nailed.

“Where’d you make the tape, André?”

“Where?”

“We’ve been in this room before, me and you. You know how I hate to repeat myself.”

“Émile—” LaPierre tried to plead him off.

“Answer the fucking question!” Cinq-Mars raised his fist up and brought the side of it down hard on the tabletop. LaPierre flinched.

“Easy, Émile. What do you think I am, some punk you can scare?”

“Don’t tell me to take it easy, André! Do you want to know what I found out? Do you want to know what I know? Normand Lajeunesse was a hit man for the Mafia. He was hired to take me out except he had a belly flop, so a backup sniper took him down. He told the bad guys that he’d spotted my buddies, that’s why he didn’t shoot, but I’ll tell you something you don’t know—he never spotted my buddies. He suffered a serious belly flop and that’s that. Couldn’t pull the trigger. The only reason he’s alive today is because my buddies came in behind us. Bright boy, he turned them into his excuse. Otherwise, the Angels would’ve taken a hacksaw to his balls by now. I’m not in a good mood, André. Cops are killing cops and I seem to be a target. Now, tell me,
damn it
! Where did you make that tape?”

“In my house.”

“Bullshit! You don’t have the capability. You don’t have a remote receiver. Where did you make the tape, André? You’re losing ground fast with me.”

“You motherfucker,” LaPierre muttered.

“Answer the question.”

“So I drifted by, what’s the big deal?”

“You tell me. What’s the big deal, André?”

LaPierre’s body was bobbing now. He put his elbows on the table, then took them off, shifted from one side of the chair to the other, looked down, up at Cinq-Mars, away from him. He was fuming, but no incriminating word escaped his lips.

“You need time to think about that one?”

“It’s not something I want to admit, that’s all.”

“Worse things than admitting to a frailty,” Cinq-Mars coached him.

He sighed heavily, shook his head. “All right. I did a random drift. In my line of work it’s something I do. Unlike you, I don’t have it easy. I don’t pick up the phone and listen to a goddamn golden voice at the other end. I work for my busts.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I saw lights on at the garage.” He sheltered his face in his hands, then shook himself, as though forcing himself awake. “So I listened in. I heard what was going down. This was my break, you know?”

“Then what happened?”

“He left. The guy with the accent. I followed him. I have friends in the Wolverines. They’re looking for a guy they call the Czar. I figured this guy was him. Down the road I skidded into a snowbank. I lost him. I had him, I lost him. Like some rookie. A kid ended up dead. I didn’t want to admit I was on it before it went down. Then, you know how it is, I wanted this bust for myself. Is that such a fucking crime?”

Cinq-Mars shook his head with his evident disappointment and straightened himself up. “Did you see the guy? Get a description?”

LaPierre indicated not. “Too dark,” he said. “He was wearing this big, black, capelike coat with the collar up. He had on a hat, you know? Then I skidded out. It could’ve happened to anyone. I mean, I was off duty. I’d had a few. The road was slick. I missed the turn,
poof
, he’s gone.”

Cinq-Mars nodded. “What car was he driving?”

“I don’t know. Bimmer, I think.”

“And he was driving?”

“Yeah. Sure. Who else?”

“Hang on here, André. Sorry to put you through this, but you know how it goes.”

“No sweat.”

“Let me check on the kids’ perp. Give me a couple of minutes.”

“Take your time.” He nodded emphatically.

In the corridor outside, Mathers opened the door from the observation room. Cinq-Mars was heading into a meeting with Gitteridge and wanted to go alone. “Watch his ass,” he instructed. “If he moves, show yourself. Tell him to get back inside. If he needs to piss, bring him a cup.”

Cinq-Mars inserted the master key to Room 9 and went inside. He locked the door behind him. “Mr. Gitteridge,” he said.

“No food?” the lawyer asked, apprehension apparent in his voice.

“It’s crap here anyway. If those boys don’t show they’re doing you a favor.”

“I want to call my secretary. You have to let me.”

“What’re you going to tell her? That you’re incarcerated? That you’ve decided to sing to the police?”

Gitteridge uttered a dismissive little laugh, a contemptuous flutter of his lips. “In your dreams, Émile. I told you what I have to say. Consider yourself lucky getting that much.”

“Should I get down on my knees and kiss your shoes for that? Maybe you’d like to bend over so I can plant a wet one on your ass?”

He cocked his head to one side. “If that’s your inclination, Cinq-Mars, suit yourself.”

“Mind who you’re talking to, Counselor.”

“You, too.”

Cinq-Mars began to pace, making several passes on his side of the table before gripping the back of a chair with both hands and staring down the escarpment of his nose upon the diminutive Gitteridge. “I visited the University Club this morning. You’re a member?”

The lawyer scratched his upper teeth across his lower lip before answering. “I presume you know that or you wouldn’t be asking.”

“Kaplonski ate his last meal with you. It’s a shame about the wife, isn’t it? She was an innocent party.”

“I don’t have all day, Émile,” Gitteridge pointed out.

“During dinner you went down to the cloakroom. Don’t bother with denial, it’s been confirmed. From the cloakroom you went out to your car, to your Lexus.”

“I wanted to make a call in private.”

“Since when is a cell phone private?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Cinq-Mars was shaking his head aggressively. “You never made that call, did you, Counselor? That’ll be confirmed by your phone records. Instead you opened your Lexus and removed a bomb. You took the bomb across the street to Kaplonski’s Lincoln Town Car. You had his keys, which you’d taken out of his coat in the cloakroom, where every member and guest has a private stall, and you put the bomb under the front seat as you’d been instructed and trained to do.” Cinq-Mars took a moment to view how his captive was taking the news. He looked catatonic, motionless, transfixed. “You set the bomb. You returned to the club, put Kaplonski’s keys back in his pocket, went back upstairs for dessert and coffee and a nightcap. How’m I doing so far?”

He stirred, squiggling in his chair. “You’re exhibiting a spectacular imagination, Detective. You actually earn your living at this?”

“There’re no bills at your club that pass across the table, just a monthly tally. Which means you picked up the tab, so we can safely say that you bought him his last meal. Nice touch. Your idea? You think that eating with him in public gets you off? You stayed behind when Kaplonski and his wife went home, but not for long. You followed him home. You waited for an opportune moment, Max, but you were running out of time. Push the button, Counselor. Come on, just push the button and Kaplonski goes boom. Just push the damn button! Couldn’t do it, could you, you yellow-bellied sap-sucking shyster?”

His lips fluttered. “What’s that supposed to do? Get my dander up? I’m supposed to confess now to prove my manhood? How’d you get your reputation?”

“You creep. You couldn’t do it even when you knew you’d be next otherwise. So you followed him all the way home. Because of your yellow-bellied cowardice you waited until the last second, just when he was backing up. You finally pushed the damn button. Because of your yellow belly you had to blow up Kaplonski and his wife in front of the house where their children were sleeping. Those kids probably can’t sleep there anymore—or anywhere. You couldn’t spare them that? You had to wait until the last damn second? You had to wake them up to their sound of their mother and father being blown apart?”

“I’m a lawyer, Detective. If you want to charge me with something, go ahead. Otherwise, spring me.”

“You came in on your own reconnaissance, Counselor.”

“Right.”

“Your fingerprints were on the bomb. Is this what you mean by the new culture? Even lawyers have to get their hands dirty—really dirty?”

“When did you get a sample of my prints?” Gitteridge asked quietly.

“For starters, they’re all over this table. I haven’t run them yet, Gitt, but you know what I’ll find. We already know the bomb casing is covered in prints, and I mean covered. I guess they were watching when you toted that bomb from one car to the other. No gloves allowed. You couldn’t rub your prints off. I guess you were watched as you followed Kaplonski home. It was him or you. Not such a tough choice, really, huh?”

“Don’t you”—Gitteridge was exhibiting signs of defiance—“mock me.”

“Question—why were prints left on the bomb? Answer—to implicate the bomber. You’re traveling with a tough bunch these days, Counselor. Not only do you have to kill people, but you have to be traceable, you have to be cornered. If ever you become a Crown witness, you’re easily discredited. They’ve got the goods on you. That’s why they insisted that you dine with Kaplonski in a public place. That’s why they forced you to handle the bomb without gloves. You blew up your own client, Counselor, then sat your shyster ass down and sent his estate a bill for your services.”

Gitteridge was not admitting to anything. “Are you charging me, Sergeant-Detective?”

“What’s the good of that? You’d never make it to trial date.”

He looked at him then.

Cinq-Mars returned his gaze.

Gitteridge needed a moment to think. “What do you want?” he asked quietly.

“A name. Who killed Hagop Artinian?”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t around.”

“Am I looking at a pattern?”

He looked him in the eye again. “Could be,” he said.

“Give me the name. You know I’ve got you. We
can check your phone records, you didn’t make a call. You know you didn’t go into the cloakroom to get a cell phone because you’ve got one in the car anyway. All of which is academic, because if we charge you, if you’re out on bail, you’ll be blown sky-high. Know what occurs to me? You won’t give me the name because you’re under the false impression that the person you name will turn around and name you. As a lawyer, you can defend against circumstantial evidence, but it’s a tough slog against a witness. But I’m saying, it’s a matter of priority. Who do I want more, Kaplonski’s killer or Hagop Artinian’s? If it’s the Russian, just give me the Russian. If it’s not the Russian, not technically, give me who it is technically. Don’t think of him as a witness, because you won’t make it to trial. Think of it is as your only chance to escape this.”

Gitteridge fidgeted. “You don’t want to know,” he said.

“Don’t patronize me. You’re in no position.”

Gitteridge thought about it, but he shook his head. “Cops look after each other,” he said. “Give me something else I can do for you.”

“Wait here. Not that you have a choice. I’m locking you in again.”

Émile Cinq-Mars marched the few steps down the corridor to where André LaPierre sat waiting. He barged into the room and slammed the door behind him.

“André!” he shouted. “The reason you cut the tape off is because your name is on it. You get mentioned. The Russian, Kaplonski, both, they said your name. They mentioned you as you drove up to give the Czar a lift back to his ship. Am I right or am I right?”

LaPierre put his hands apart and uttered fragmentary, quick breaths. “What’re you saying?”

“You want to know what bothered me, André? You
want to know what made me take a look at you?”

“Émile, what’re you saying?” This attack, after Cinq-Mars had departed on cordial terms, had him searching for composure.

“That day we drove to Garage Sampson, the day of the bust, remember?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“You still had the flu, you had symptoms. You blew your nose, André.”

“So?”

“Folded phlegm neatly into your handkerchief. I said to myself, why’s he doing that? What’s he up to? André has always been an oaf. It’s more like you to ball up your Kleenex and toss it on the floor. Or on the street. Or you’d blow your nose on your sleeve. Since when do you fold your snot into neat little sections?”

LaPierre fought for words by gesturing with his hands. “What’s with you? Who cares how I fold my handkerchief?”

“You know how I am, André. I don’t solve crimes, I figure out crooks. I figure out people. Now I’ve got this oaf in my car who’s folding his handkerchief. You’ve had colds before, you’ve never done that. So I file it away, partner. I put it to one side, where I can see it, you know? Why is André LaPierre behaving as though he has discovered the merits of sophistication, of courtesy, of hygiene? Is there a new woman in his life, what?”

“I’m leaving. You’ve fallen out of your tree, Cinq-Mars.”

“Then I meet you in that restaurant, and you’ve got these little shaving cuts. Remember? You always have shaving cuts. I don’t know why you never went electric. Too modern for you. You’d rather hack yourself to death when you’re down with a hangover. This time, you have cute little Band-Aids covering the cuts.
Now why is that? You always came to work rough, specks of blood on your skin, like you’re a real man. The brass could make you wear a suit, make you cut your hair, shave and shine your shoes, they could write all that down in the regulations, but they couldn’t make you wear your clothes properly, or cut your hair properly, or shave properly, eh, André? You’d look too much like a cop then.”

“Do you have a point?”

“André, you read the pathologist’s report. Is that when you found out about the skin and blood under Hagop Artinian’s fingernails? What happened, André? In the fury of the moment, you didn’t realize Artinian had scratched you? Or did the people you work for now insist that the blood under his fingernails stay put, just in case you ever got weak in the knees. You’re a homicide detective. Suddenly you’re cautious about your bodily fluids. I asked Wynett if DNA could be taken from a phlegm sample. Were you wondering about that yourself? It can’t be, not usually, unless there’s blood in it, which happens, but I bet that worried you enough. Blood though, and blood around me—now you were anxious to protect yourself. Would you like to donate a sample of your blood, André, so that we can do a DNA test? What better way to prove your innocence?”