Cold Comfort (9 page)

Five o’clock that evening Gilbert and Lombardo met Sonia Bailey, Cheryl’s neighbor, at the Glenarden.

As the three of them walked down the hall together toward Cheryl’s apartment, Lombardo eyed the lovely mulatto woman surreptitiously. Sonia had about six inches on Joe, but that wasn’t going to stop Lombardo; it never did. Gilbert gave him a look, but Lombardo ignored the older detective.

A crime-scene notice had been pasted on Cheryl’s door and an X of yellow crime-scene tape had been tacked to the door frame. Gilbert untacked the tape, took out the key, and opened the door. The three of them entered the apartment. Gilbert turned on the light.

“The pictures have been taken down,” he said, “and you can see that someone’s looked through all those books over there. Just ignore that. Just tell us if you think anything’s been moved around.”

Sonia nodded and looked around the apartment. Her eyes were wide in mild distress; she could feel the ghosts in here, but she was doing her best to ignore them.

“Everything looks the same,” she said. “Nothing’s been changed.”

She scanned the room again and gave Gilbert a shrug. Today she wore bright red lipstick; her lips, in her coppery face, looked like a piece of tropical fruit, had the blush of an over-ripe mango.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” said Gilbert.

The three went into the kitchen. Sonia glanced around.

She shrugged. “Everything’s the same,” she said.

They went to the bedroom, then the bathroom. “Nothing’s been changed,” said Sonia.

So they went back to the living room.

“We’re sorry to inconvenience you like this, Ms. Bailey,” said Lombardo. “We just thought that on the off chance…before we turn the apartment over to Mr. Waxman…”

She turned to Lombardo; she smiled, the way all women smiled at Joe. “I wish I could have helped you…more…”

Gilbert watched the two younger people; their eyes held. Lombardo was good with his eyes. He could convey the most complicated emotions with his eyes, just as he could send the most overt signals with them. Before Gilbert could stop him, Lombardo handed his card to Sonia.

“Here’s my card,” he said. “You call me if you remember anything, or if you have any concerns.”

Her eyes widened. She glanced at Gilbert. She already had Gilbert’s card. Gilbert kept his mouth shut.

Lombardo gestured at the room, never for a second losing his charm. “Maybe you can take one last look for us,” he said.

So she scanned the living room again. Then she looked at the floor. And her eyes narrowed.

“Actually…” A pretty but puzzled frown came to her face. She looked first at Lombardo, then at Gilbert, then back to Lombardo. Then she looked at the floor again. The two detectives stared at Sonia. “The rug,” she said. The two detectives looked down at the rug. “She usually has that corner facing the window.” Rectangle room, a rectangle rug, but with the rug angled, an interior design tactic to create the illusion of space. “Now it’s pointing to the bookcase,” she said.

Gilbert knelt and had a closer look at the rug. “Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded. “She always had that corner pointing to the window.”

Gilbert clutched the corner of the rug and lifted; on the floor underneath he saw two paint chips, each pale green; none of the rooms in Cheryl’s apartment were pale green. Also, on the underweave, he saw a large grease smudge. He carefully lifted the paint chip and showed it to Cheryl.

“Do you have paint like this anywhere in the building?” he asked.

She peered at the paint. “That’s from the laundry room,” she said. “The laundry room is green.”

“Those come from the laundry room?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Where’s the laundry room?”

“It’s downstairs,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

They left Cheryl’s apartment and went downstairs to the laundry room. Nestled at the back in the building’s half-basement, the laundry room had large netted glass windows facing the rear drive and the tenant garages. Each of the windows opened on a center transom, so that as the bottom half was pulled in, the top half was levered out. The transom was well greased; he thought of the grease on the rug. The paint on the window frame, pale green, flaked, revealing an older beige underneath. Gilbert glanced around for security cameras but he saw none.

“There’s no key?” he said to Sonia. “You don’t need a key to get in?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said.

Lombardo opened one of the windows; it swung easily. And the gap was wide enough to shove a rolled up rug through; even a rug with a body in it. Lombardo took out a glassine bag, put paint chips inside, then used a cotton swab to wipe some of the grease up. He looked at Gilbert.

“Ten to one we get a match,” he said.

After leaving the Glenarden they drove back to College Street in silence. Gilbert kept glancing at Lombardo. Finally, it became too much for Lombardo.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Gilbert. “Why do you keep looking at me like that? You should keep your eyes on the road.”

Gilbert didn’t reply, continued to drive, sticking to the right of the road at a stodgy sixty kilometers per hour. How could he put this to Joe so he didn’t take it the wrong way?

“So you liked Sonia,” he said at last.

“Is that what this is about?” Lombardo sighed.

“Joe, I think you have to be careful.”

“I gave her my card. Is that a crime?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Lombardo looked out the window, where the snow fell in thick and steady flakes.

“She’s pretty,” he said.

“I know she’s pretty,” said Gilbert. They bumped over the streetcar tracks at St. Clair Avenue. “But you’ve got to be careful. Marsh is watching you. You can’t be trying to pick up every witness you see. Marsh is just looking for an excuse. And I’d hate to see you give him one.”

Lombardo grew solemn, stared pensively at the glove compartment. The snow didn’t look as if it were going to quit any time soon and Gilbert decreased his speed to forty kilometers per hour as he eased the Lumina down the Avenue Road hill toward Davenport.

“Did you see the way she looked at me?” said Lombardo.

Gilbert nodded, checked his rearview mirror. “I saw,” he said.

Lombardo gave his head a slow melancholy shake. “I don’t know, Barry. I have a feeling about her.”

“You always have a feeling, Joe.”

“No, this time I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious, Joe.”

They parked on Mount Pleasant Road the next day, just south of Eglinton Avenue, across from the Hennessey-Newbigging Funeral Home. The streets were clogged with snow and it was still coming down. Gilbert sipped his coffee and looked at Lombardo. The funeral service for Cheryl Latham was still going on inside and wouldn’t be over for another few minutes. They had two detectives inside, and another two at the burial plot. They had both video and camera surveillance. Lombardo was having a hard time concentrating. Lombardo had spent an hour with Marsh this morning.

“Did you remind him of the Sharon Brierley collar?” asked Gilbert.

“I gave him everything,” said Lombardo. “I pulled out every star case I’d ever had. You know what he said about the Brierley case?”

“What?”

“He said I took too long. What’s he expect with arson? His idea of a perp is a guy who’s still holding a gun and has blood all over his pants. I had to build that case. I had to go back. I had to search. I don’t bluster my way through interrogations the way he does. I go armed to the teeth with evidence. Does he think evidence grows on trees in an arson-murder case?”

Gilbert saw movement at the side entrance of the funeral home. Six pallbearers carried out Cheryl’s coffin at hip level. They slid it into the back of the hearse. Mourners emerged from the front door, walked around to the small parking lot, and started getting into the cars for the drive to Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

“Look,” said Gilbert, pointing. “There’s Webb.”

But Lombardo seemed oblivious.

“I told him you can’t rush these things,” he said. “You saw what was left of that apartment. Nothing. The only thing we had was some accelerant patterns and a corpse charred beyond recognition.”

Gilbert shrugged, determined to make Lombardo feel better.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Marsh doesn’t like it when anybody has to leave rotation for more than a week. It offends his sense of order.”

“We had the whole city clamoring about that kid. If I hadn’t left rotation, she’d still be open, and Ling would be breathing down Marsh’s back.”

“What about the Byrnes case?”

“Same thing. He didn’t like how extensive it was. He thinks we should all get our collars within two days of the crime, a week at the most. He thinks he’s still in patrol.”

“That’s Latham over there,” said Gilbert. “The tall man with the glasses?” He pointed.

Latham had tears in his eyes. Lombardo was actually able to get his mind off Marsh long enough so he could look at Latham.

“He needs a better tailor,” was all Lombardo had to say about Latham.

Sally, the Filipino housekeeper, led Latham down the freshly salted steps, holding his elbow, directing him the way she might direct an old man. Gilbert’s eyes strayed to the parking lot. Danny waited by the Mercedes. The theory so far was that Cheryl knew her killer. He took out his notebook and scribbled an entry. Cheryl knew Sally and Danny. And it hadn’t been a particularly amicable relationship.

“He’s got a two-minute memory,” said Lombardo, going back to Marsh. “He doesn’t remember the DeMarco collar or the Bush collar. Those were tough cases. Has he ever done an exhumation?”

“No,” said Gilbert.

“Then how would he know?” he said. “He has no idea how hard I worked on the Bush case, how I had to go back ten years and find that forged signature. He’s not interested. He said learn your ABCs, Joe: arrest, book, convict. Like it’s really that simple. I’m telling you, Barry, he’s got his sights set on me. When the cuts come, I’m going to be one of the first to go.”

Lombardo smacked the dashboard with the palm of his hand.

Tom Webb got into the lead limousine while Sally helped Latham into the back seat of his Mercedes.

“Just forget it, Joe,” said Gilbert. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I’m going to fight it if he picks me,” he said. “I’m not going back to patrol.”

“I liked patrol,” said Gilbert.

“Oh, Christ, you’re not going to tell me another Alvin Matchett story are you?”

“He was a good cop, Joe.”

“I’m serious, Barry, I was meant for this work. I’ll take it right to Ling if I have to.”

“Relax, Joe,” said Gilbert. “You’re not going back to patrol. Once we find Cheryl’s killer, they’ll keep you in Homicide forever. You’ll have cobwebs all over you by the time they let you out.”

“So I guess we find him.”

“If it means your job,” said Gilbert.

“Which I think it does,” said Lombardo.

They followed the funeral procession down the slope toward Davisville, crossed Davisville, then climbed the short incline, where the asphalt in the road had been worn bare to reveal fifty-year-old paving bricks and long forgotten street-car tracks. Hundreds of gravestones, each heaped with a thick layer of snow, stood rank upon rank on either side of the road beyond the wrought iron fence. The Mount Pleasant Cemetery was the biggest, oldest, and most prestigious cemetery in the city. Not that the dead cared much about prestige.

Up ahead, the escort cop, with his Harley-and-sidecar, his white helmet and jodhpurs, his reflective sunglasses and motorcycle boots, sat casually at the gate, watching the cars file in. Gilbert followed the procession into the cemetery.

The cemetery roadway curved and twisted through hummocks and dales; trees of every variety sprang up from the desolate snowscape: dogwoods, cedars, aspens, poplars, ash, beech, spruce, pine, oak, and a half dozen species of maple. The cars up ahead slowed and Gilbert saw the grave site. He veered away from the procession, down a side road, and drove up a small incline. At the top, a mausoleum, made out of red granite, sat like a miniature castle among a grove of birch trees. Snow fell gently from the grey sky.

They got out and trudged through the snow until they stood in front of the mausoleum, In the dale below, people left their cars and gathered around the grave site. The minister held the order of service before him, waiting. Once everyone was gathered, the minister began with a prayer, but the words were too faint for Gilbert to hear. The twenty-five mourners kept their heads bowed.

Gilbert lifted his binoculars and looked at Webb; one of his people held a black umbrella above his head. Webb’s face was expressionless. Gilbert moved on to Latham. Latham looked grey. Then on to Sally. Nothing untoward or disrespectful in her face. Then on to some of the other mourners. There was Shirley Chan, the Chinese girl Sonia had spoken of; they would get to her soon. And there was Bev Campbell, Cheryl’s exercise instructor. There were three blind people in the crowd, people from the Canadian National Institute for the Blind, where Cheryl worked as a senior coordinator. And then a tall man…did he recognize this man?…standing at the back…something so familiar about this man…by the sycamore tree…could it be? Gilbert adjusted the focus of his binoculars. It had to be. The man was obviously here in an official capacity, was wired for communications with an earphone in his left ear…security for Thomas Webb? The man scanned the crowd cautiously, looking through dark sunglasses. He had close-cropped sandy hair…good God, it couldn’t be…Gilbert felt himself smiling…because now he knew it had to be…it could be no other.

Alvin Matchett, still as trim as ever after all these years, after all that trouble, as cool as ice, scanning the crowd, the surrounding tombstones, looking for trouble, always on top of it…

“Barry?” said Lombardo.

“Speak of the devil,” said Gilbert. He took the binoculars from his eyes. “See that tall man over there?” he asked. “The security guy?”

Lombardo lifted his own binoculars. “Yeah?” he said.

“That’s my old partner,” said Gilbert, his smile now feeling stitched in place. “From patrol. That’s Alvin Matchett.”