Old City Hall (33 page)

A jailhouse rat must have spilled the beans, she thought as she took a seat in Fernandez’s tiny office ten minutes later. Just what I need after a day like this.

Fernandez sat behind his desk. Detective Greene stood to one side, nattily dressed as ever, his pants perfectly creased. Why can’t I get my clothes to look like that? she wondered.

“A glass of water, a juice, anything else?” Fernandez asked.

“I’m fine, Albert,” she said, even though her throat was completely parched. “I could use a gag to stuff in Ho’s motormouth.”

They laughed. Making fun of witnesses who drove both sides crazy was part of the game.

No one spoke. Fernandez straightened papers on his desk that didn’t need straightening. Greene flattened out his tie. Beautiful, silk. Probably Armani.

“Albert,” she said finally, thinking, Okay, hit me with your best shot. “You called this meeting. What’s up?” She stared straight at Fernandez. His eyes, she noticed for the first time, were not quite as black as she’d thought. They had a hint of greeny brown.

Fernandez flicked a look at Greene. “What I’m going to tell you today is extremely vague. I apologize in advance. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve become aware of a possible development in this case that might affect the Crown’s position. I wish I could be more specific, but right now I can’t tell you anything else. I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

Parish nodded, expecting Fernandez to explain further. But he just looked at her and shrugged.

“That’s it?” she asked at last.

“That’s all I can tell you right now. Of course, the moment I get more information,
if
I get new information, I’ll give it to you immediately.”

Parish breathed a heavy sigh. “You guys the CIA or something, with all these secrets? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, whatever
this
is.”

“I knew I’d have Ho on the stand all day, so I thought it best to wait until after court,” Fernandez said. “I’m telling you now because if I get this information tomorrow morning, I’ll probably ask for an adjournment before you’re forced to cross-examine another witness.”

Fernandez looked at Greene again and nodded.

Parish’s first reaction was relief. At least he’s not telling me about a confession by Brace. Not yet.

“Come on, Albert. What’s going on?”

Fernandez shrugged. Parish looked at Greene for a moment. He didn’t give anything away.

She felt like an upset kid with no place to put her frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell Brace I might have to adjourn this sucker. He’s the one sitting in the bucket,” Fernandez said. “Summers will be pissed off at me. But so what.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, thinking, I’ll talk to him, but he won’t talk to me. Who knows how he’ll react to this news?

“Tell him I’ll agree to his bail,” Fernandez said.

Parish nodded. Fernandez must have been wondering why Brace had pulled the plug on his bail hearing back in December. They’d probably love to have Brace out of jail, since he was keeping his mouth shut on the inside. At home they could tap his phone, follow him around. So that was their angle. Fernandez’s offer of bail meant that their case was not as strong as they wanted it to be. They were hunting for more evidence. Stay cool, she told herself.

She shrugged. “Thanks. I’ll talk to him.”

After shaking hands with both of them, she grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door. Back to the Don I go, she thought. While the rest of the city is yelling and screaming at TV screens during the final game of the Stanley Cup, I get to spend another evening in the jail. With my silent client.

A
ri Greene had never seen the city explode like this. When Italy won the World Cup in 1982, Little Italy and all of St. Clair Avenue had turned into a magnificent all-day party. In 1992 and 1993, when the Blue Jays won the World Series, all the city’s main streets were packed with what was later estimated to be up to a million revelers. But this was pure madness everywhere. A gigantic collective euphoria, after more than forty years of waiting for the Leafs to win the Stanley Cup.

Greene had gone to his dad’s to watch the game. With five seconds left, the Leafs’ goaltender made a miraculous save, and when the final buzzer went and he threw his stick and gloves into the air in celebration, Greene clutched his father.

Except for the day of his mother’s funeral, it was the only time he’d seen a tear in his father’s eyes. Greene’s father pulled out a sealed bottle of Chivas Regal, and they toasted the great win. Then they heard it. The roar, from Bathurst Street, ten blocks away. Horns honking, people yelling, music blaring. One big sound wave of joy.

Greene got into his car and spent almost two hours picking his way through the side streets to get back downtown to the Market Place Tower. Quite a contrast to that first morning when he’d zipped through the empty streets in no time.

It was a warm night, and he kept his windows open. The air was moist, comfortable. He found a parking spot just north of Front Street. There was a small park across the street, and a broad lilac tree was in
full bloom. Greene smelled its soft fragrance from the sidewalk. He slipped behind the black metal gate and twisted off two twigs from a low-hanging branch. The only light was the faint glow of a streetlamp well up the street, but still the rich purple color stood out. Up close, the smell was almost overpowering. As he made his way down to Front Street, the city lights grew brighter. Front was packed with people—tourists spilled out from clusters of restaurants on the north side, groups of young women, dressed to the nines, walked in close formation searching for a bar, guys in open shirts leaned on their expensive cars, strategically and illegally parked in prime locations. Up and down the street, car after car, their horns blaring, drove by, with hordes of young men and women waving blue-and-white flags out the windows and screaming “Go, Leafs, go!” “Leaf Nation rules!”

Greene crossed to the south side, unnoticed.

As he walked down Market Lane, the side street to the east of the condominium, the lights and the noise began to fade. A row of broad forsythias stood guard at the entrance to the private driveway, and even in the diminished light Greene could see that their yellow leaves of spring had mostly turned to summer green. He took one last look around to be sure that no one saw him, and then he slipped behind the shrubbery and along the walkway leading to the white metal door beside the garage entrance. At first the door appeared to be closed, but up close he saw a red brick sitting on end, holding it just open.

Greene nodded to himself. It was just as the concierge, Rasheed, had promised it would be when Greene called him a few hours ago.

“Leave the brick in the door,” Greene had told him, “and I’ll lose your immigration file forever.”

He pulled the door open, slipped inside, and gently nestled it back into position. There was a tiny tick sound as the steel settled on the brick.

The artificial lighting inside the parking garage gave off a cold white glow. The air was musty. The only sounds were the low rumble of a large fan at the far end of the garage and Greene’s shoes on the hard concrete.

He walked carefully along the south wall, keeping outside of the line of the security cameras, just as Rasheed had instructed, until he
found his hiding spot behind a supporting wall near the stairwell. He put the two lilac twigs at his feet. Purple sentries, he thought as he checked his watch. Ten minutes after midnight. Greene’s best guess was that he’d have to wait about two hours.

Not quite. After nearly an hour and a half of standing in silence, he had grown attuned to the slightest nuance of sound. He could hear the occasional car horns and plastic trumpets from passing cars traveling along the side street on their way to the big party on Front. And then, just after 1:30, he heard light steps slowly approach the outside door. A moment later its hinges groaned gently and there was the tick of steel touching brick. The footsteps followed his path—along the wall, out of sight of the cameras. Unlike Greene’s slow, cautious movement, this person was walking quickly. Confidently. Like someone who knew the way very well. He heard the steps pass his hiding spot and go over to the stairway door.

Greene yearned to lean over and catch a glimpse, but he didn’t dare. Instead he waited. Listening. He heard the stairway door close, and then waited again, listening hard. He could hear the fading footfalls climbing the concrete stairs, the pace slowing as they ascended.

He emerged from his hiding spot, lilacs in hand, and walked to the elevator. He pushed the Up button, and the white light came on. At this time of night he expected the elevators to run quickly. But after thirty seconds, one hadn’t yet come. He resisted the temptation to push the button again.

A few seconds later the door slid open. Just before he stepped in, Greene took out his cell phone, pushed a preset number, and said just one word: “Go.”

Inside the elevator he pushed the number 12 and the Close button. When it opened on the twelfth floor, he pushed two buttons—Basement and Close—before he stepped out. He walked to his right, to the point in the hall where it turned toward 12B, and took a quick look around the corner to confirm that the hallway was still empty. Then he waited.

It didn’t take much longer. In a few seconds he heard the approach of footsteps in the far stairwell. The metal door at the end of the hall
opened, and a moment later he heard another door open, closer to where he was standing. That would be the door of 12B, Greene thought. Perfect.

He walked around the corner, moving quickly. He took half a dozen long strides before the two people in the hallway realized he was there. Approaching them. They both turned simultaneously. Surprised.

Greene put on his best smile, lilacs in hand.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said when he got to the doorway of 12B. Edna Wingate was a few steps out into the hall. She wore a simple white T-shirt and a pair of gray slacks. On her feet were plain white sandals. Not exactly sleepwear, he thought. More like something you’d wear late at night when you were waiting for a visitor.

Wingate turned toward him, her usual calm rattled. Greene turned toward the other woman, who’d just come up the stairs. She was harder to read. No shock there. What was it? Anger, defiance, resignation?

She paused only for an instant and then strode right up to him.

“Good morning, Detective Greene,” Sarah McGill said.

“I come bearing flowers,” he said, holding out one of the lilac twigs.

“If I’d known, I’d have brought you some of my homemade bread.”

“Looks like I’ll have to make another trip up to the café,” he said.

“You’re welcome anytime,” McGill said, taking the flowers. Her hands, he noticed, shook ever so slightly.

Keeping his eyes fixed on McGill, he tilted his head toward Wingate, who still seemed to be reeling from his sudden appearance in the hallway. He lifted the remaining lilac twig in his hand.

“It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday,” he said to McGill. Then he turned to Wingate and handed her the second twig. “So I brought one for your mother.”

He looked back at McGill.

She held his eyes for a long moment. “You don’t miss much, do you, Detective Greene?” she said at last.

T
his is not a dream this time, Nancy Parish told herself as she wheeled her unsteady cart stacked with evidence boxes onto the creaky elevator at Old City Hall. Even if it’s almost ten in the morning and for some reason the whole damn courthouse is empty, and there’s not one person around, this is
not
a dream.

With so much stuff to carry, she’d decided to take the elevator instead of the broad stone staircase. She really had no choice—even though the old elevator was notoriously slow—because she was hauling around three boxes of evidence. Where was everyone? She checked her watch. Yep. Ten to ten. She was cutting it close for Summers’s court, but she’d make it. Just.

It took forever for the old metal elevator doors to rattle open. She looked at her watch. It was 9:55. She’d better hurry. She wheeled her cart carefully over the bumpy metal grating onto the filthy carpet and hammered at button number 2. The doors closed halfway, then stopped.

I can’t believe this, Parish thought as she banged away at the Close button. The doors wouldn’t move. She tried the Open button. No luck. “Come on, come on,” she said, smacking the Open button, then the Close button. Nothing. She was stuck.

There was only one thing to do. She turned her body sideways and squeezed into the narrow space between the doors. She looked down the hallway. Strange. There was still no one around to help. Grimacing,
she leaned against the door with all her might. The sweat began to accumulate on the back of her neck. At last she felt a gear engage, and the doors rumbled open.

She wheeled her cart back over the bumpy grating to the bottom of the stairs and unhooked the bungee cord keeping the boxes in place. Then, like a one-person fireman’s brigade, she walked each box first to the landing, then up to the second floor, stacking them outside the door of courtroom 121.

There was still no one around. Not even Horace and his bell. She checked her watch. It was just after ten. This couldn’t be a dream. This was real, and she was late. There was no time to go back downstairs to get her cart. Everyone else was already in court. She turned the door handle. It was locked. She could hear the murmurs of people inside. She knocked on the door, but no one came. She knocked louder. Nothing.

She started to scream. “This is my case! Let me in. It’s not my fault!”

“It
is
your fault, Nancy Gail,” a voice down the hall said. She looked up. It was one of the small, sculpted faces on top of a round granite pillar. Its stone mouth had turned as flexible as a child’s hand puppet. “It’s
all
your fault, Nancy,” the stone mouth said.

Parish felt her body give a jerk. She grabbed again for the door handle of 121 and realized she was holding on to the edge of her bed-sheets. Her eyes flew open. She clutched her clock radio and turned the lighted dial toward her. The red digital display read WED 1:40 am.