Stray Bullets (12 page)

“I don’t imagine you ever saw where he lived?”

They shook their heads.

“Meet any of his family members? Wife, girlfriend, children?”

“No,” Mrs. Yuen said.

“Do you have any photos of him? Maybe from a company party?”

“Tim Horton regulation. Only one celebration each year. Must be in December.”

Greene stood. “I’m going to send a composite artist over here later today. Nothing to be afraid of. He’ll talk with you and the staff for a while and draw up a sketch of what this man looks like.” He reached back inside his briefcase and pulled out a sealed plastic bag. Inside was the black hairnet that he’d found in the bushes outside last night.

“Do you recognize this?” he asked.

“Hairnet,” Mrs. Yuen said. “Kitchen staff must wear. Is regulation. Ten-dollar deposit. We return when they leave company.”

“We need to keep this for evidence.” He reached into his wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

“No. Okay,” Mr. Yuen said, speaking for the first time. He had his hands up, anxious to reject the money.

Mrs. Yuen flashed her husband another look.

“Please,” Greene said. “Take it.”

She reached for the bill and folded it squarely into her hand. “Have given away four hundred and twenty-four dollar of doughnut today.”

Greene stood up. “I’ll be back in touch.”

“We will be here,” Mrs. Yuen said.

Greene shook both their hands. He had no doubt the Yuens would be hard at work at their franchise no matter what day he showed up. And that the man who called himself Jose Sanchez wasn’t coming back.

“My client Dewey Booth can lead you to the gun,” Phil Cutter said, staring straight at Ralph Armitage. He was a short, high-strung man with an oversized, shiny bald head and almost no neck. “I assume that’s what you want.”

Half an hour before, just as Armitage was about to leave his office for lunch, Cutter, a former prosecutor turned defense lawyer, had called and insisted they meet at the Plaza Flamingo, a huge Latin restaurant and nightclub on College Street. The two men were sitting at a round table. Four televisions were blaring different soccer games, and all around them people were cheering.

He could see why Cutter wanted to meet here. No one in this place would recognize them. He’d also insisted that Armitage come alone.

“Of course I want the gun.” He met Cutter’s dark eyes. What prosecutor wouldn’t want to recover the murder weapon? he thought.

“Good.” Cutter kept staring. “Here’s the deal. Dewey takes you to the gun in a place where only Larkin St. Clair could have put it. In return, you drop all charges against him.”

Even though Armitage was much taller than Cutter, the man had always intimidated him. In part, this was because of Cutter’s unparalleled track record in court as a Crown. He’d prosecuted forty-three murders, and thirty-nine had ended in convictions. In part, it was Cutter’s take-no-prisoners attitude toward everything he touched. But most of all, Armitage knew that Cutter was one of the few people in his life he couldn’t charm.

“That’s ridiculous.” Armitage chuckled. He could hear how hollow his laugh sounded.

“No.” Cutter’s eyes didn’t move. They bored into Armitage like black nails hammered into concrete. He didn’t blink. “What evidence have you got? That grainy video is a load of crap. Larkin St. Clair stuffing something down his pants. Could be a doughnut for all you know. Even if you put Dewey with him at the scene, how do you know which one pulled the trigger? Witnesses told the newspapers there were all kinds of shots. How about that guy in the old Caddy
who took off? Maybe he fired first and killed the kid, and then picked up his own shells and disappeared. Face it, Armitage, you need the gun that fired the bullet so you can match it with the one in that boy’s brain.”

Despite himself, Armitage nodded. Cutter was right. Unless he could prove St. Clair had the actual gun, the case had a huge hole in it. Especially with some witnesses saying they’d heard as many as nine gunshots, which would be too many rounds for one handgun. They were almost certainly wrong. Only four bullets could be accounted for, and probably the sound echoing off the buildings on both sides was the reason for the higher number. But words such as “almost” and “probably” were the building blocks for defense lawyers to raise a reasonable doubt.

“What if I told you Dewey can tell you the type of gun that was used?” Cutter asked.

“That certainly would bolster his credibility.”

“Desert Eagle semi-automatic revolver,” Cutter said.

Armitage tried to keep his face blank. But forensics had already established that the bullet recovered from the autopsy of the boy had come from a six-shot pistol, such as the Desert Eagle. He turned away and reached for his cell phone. “I need to make a call.”

Cutter’s arm flashed out at lightning speed, stopping him. “No way,” he said. “We both know how the Crown’s office works. You start consulting and this whole thing takes days. Dewey’s not going to wait. It’s a one-time offer: you get the gun, my kid walks.”

Armitage needed time to think. This deal could blow up in his face. But if he didn’t make it? He looked around the room. I must be a head taller than all the Mediterranean men here, he thought. And the only blond guy here. He faced Cutter. “I need a statement under oath. On video. Dewey tells us exactly what happened, that he wasn’t the shooter, that Larkin St. Clair pulled the trigger, and you’ve got a deal.”

Cutter turned away. He looked at one of the televisions that was playing a highlight reel of spectacular soccer goals.

Armitage waited for him to respond. Cutter kept staring at the screen, one minute, then two. What’s he up to? Armitage wondered. Four minutes, five minutes. Cutter didn’t say a word. The final goal was scored and a Coke ad in Portuguese came on. Without even a glance back, Cutter grabbed his briefcase and jacket, and stood up.

“Well?” Armitage asked.

“Euro Cup finals start in June,” Cutter said, slipping into his coat.
“Wanted to watch a few goals from the qualifying rounds. This meeting was a complete waste of time.” He turned to leave.

“What did you expect?” Armitage wasn’t sure if he should stand or not. He decided to stay seated.

Cutter spun around and glared down at him, like a tiger about to manhandle his prey. “Listen, this case has this city in a total uproar. I’ve lived in Toronto my whole life and never seen people so angry. I just handed you a first-degree murder conviction on a silver fucking platter and you don’t want it. News flash, Ralphie boy, this isn’t summer camp. You might be good at playing office politics, working out plea bargains on cases with dump-truck defense lawyers when no one gives a shit. Face it, you’re a desk jockey, not a trial lawyer. The whole country is watching this case and you better be prepared. This is hardball right from the get-go. After today, I’m throwing straight at your head.”

Armitage felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn’t used to looking up at people. He thought again about standing, but Cutter was too close. “I need to hear from your client, or no deal,” he said.

“He’s not saying a word unless we have a deal. And good luck finding the gun.” Cutter moved in inches from Armitage’s face. The overhead lights glistened off his hairless head. “I was a prosecutor for twenty years. You don’t make this deal now, Larkin and Dewey will keep their mouths shut tighter than a pair of old whores too tired to give another blow job.”

Armitage tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. “We have witnesses who put them together inside moments before the shooting. Then they both flee. They’re both parties to this offense.”

“Hah!” Cutter’s face was red with anger. “No way. There’s not one stick of evidence of two guys working with a common purpose. Unless you can prove who pulled the trigger, both of them are going to walk.” He straightened up, buttoned his jacket, and extended his hand. “See you in court, counsel. I’m sure you’ll do the Armitage name proud. Your daddy will be most pleased.”

Armitage grasped Cutter’s hand and held it tight. “Phil, you know I need to get approval for something like this. Give me two hours.”

“Approval? You? The new head Crown, Ralph Armitage, superstar prosecutor, needs to get approval?” Cutter yanked his arm back as if Armitage’s hand was infected. “I thought you were the big cheese now.”

Cutter had spent his whole professional life in the Crown’s office
and until about two years ago he had been next in line for the top job. Then he pulled some dirty tricks on another murder trial and made the mistake of bragging about it to his fellow Crown Attorney Albert Fernandez while they were talking in a quiet restaurant. Fernandez was Mr. Goody Two Shoes and reported Cutter. Ratted him out, as the criminals called it. It occurred to Armitage that this was why Cutter had wanted to meet in this noisy place. To prevent himself from being taped again.

“Don’t get personal,” Armitage said.

“Oh no, I’m going to get very personal. I bet you remember how it felt when you prosecuted Larkin and Dewey for that home invasion in Rosedale and these two clowns walked right out of kiddie court, don’t you?” Cutter had switched into full cross-examination mode.

“The witness went back home to the islands.” Armitage felt sick.

“I heard you lost your cool out in the hallway.”

He remembered throwing St. Clair up against the wall. The punk’s long hair all over the place. His voice, mocking him.
Innocent until proven guilty, man
. “That was a long time ago,” he told Cutter.

“Keeps you up at night, doesn’t it?”

Armitage’s mind was spinning. “It wasn’t the highlight of my career.”

“Now, imagine these two clowns strolling out of court free as birds. Everyone’s going to see you fall flat on your face. How’s that going to feel?”

Armitage was pinned down by Cutter’s laser stare, like a kidnap victim tied to his chair.

“What are you going to say to the parents?” Cutter asked.

He’s never going to let up, Armitage thought.

“‘Sorry your son was shot and I lost the case’?” Cutter demanded. “Maybe you’ll invite them to your annual family party next spring. Watch some fireworks. I’m sure that will make them feel better.”

Cutter was right. No way he was going to let St. Clair walk away scot-free again. “I need a statement.” He tried not to come across as being desperate but knew he probably did.

Cutter flicked open his briefcase. “Here’s an affidavit signed by my client, Mr. Dewey Booth, dated this morning, sworn by my partner, Ms. Barbara Gild, barrister and solicitor. Booth says he didn’t fire the gun. That Larkin did. That he knows where Larkin hid it and is willing to take the police there in return for the charges against him being dropped. All on one neat page.” He shoved the paper in front of Armitage.

“I want this on video,” Armitage said.

“Forget it. My client swore this under oath to a member in good standing of the Law Society of Upper Canada. If that isn’t good enough for you, I’m out of here.”

Armitage scanned the page. “Booth is going to say all this on the stand under oath?” he asked.

“Every word.”

“That St. Clair fired the shot that hit the boy.”

“Yes. And he’ll lead you to the gun.”

Armitage stood at last. He looked down at Cutter. “If this is a lie, if he’s perjured himself, then all bets are off.”

Cutter reached out and shook Armitage’s hand. “We have a deal on pain of perjury. Right?”

“Yes,” Armitage said. “We have a deal.”

For the first time since they’d met, Cutter smiled. He reached back into his briefcase and laid a typed document under Armitage’s nose. It was entitled: “Agreement Re: Mr. Dewey Booth.” With a flourish he produced a gold pen with his initials on it. “I knew you’d agree,” he said. “Now sign on the dotted line.”

Daniel Kennicott’s second-floor flat was hot. His landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Federico, who lived downstairs in their house on Clinton Street, treated their only tenant like he was the son they never had. It was the middle of November, and they’d turned the heat on, which was a good thing, considering the unusually early cold weather this month. Right now the rain, which had been beating down all day, was turning to snow. It looked as if another big storm was on the way.

But the radiators in his place were old and noisy. Unless he was there to open a window it got stuffy real fast, and despite his running a humidifier full-time, the air was always too dry.

He opened the window in the kitchen in the back and the one in his bedroom at the front to create a cross-breeze, tore off his clothes, and stepped into a warm shower. He let it run over him for a long time. Hard to believe it was almost forty-eight hours since he’d got the hot shot and taken off at a run. He started to replay those first crucial moments: slipping on the ice on the way to the Tim Hortons, the father’s ashen face in the doughnut shop light, the tiny hole in the back of his son’s head, the pulsing red ambulance light. The echoing sound of its siren pounded in his brain.

Greene had sent him home with a treasure trove of intercepted communication between Suzanne Howett and her boyfriend Jet. He’d gone through it all at the station, and now he had to put it in chronological order and highlight the key points.

Out of the shower, he got dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and unpacked his briefcase on the kitchen table, where he preferred to work. In the four years since he’d joined the force, new technology had radically changed policing. Now it was impossible to imagine a major criminal investigation without gleaning evidence from texts, tweets, Facebook entries, and cell phone calls. Especially when it came to young people, who had an almost pathological addiction to all things virtual.

Suzanne Howett fit the profile of a prolific user. And she’d created a torrent of text messages, which started about an hour after the shooting. Kennicott had everything transcribed. He made himself a latte in
the little Italian espresso machine he’d bought down on College Street and sat down to sift through it all. It took him a few hours to pick out the handful of intercepts that mattered the most. All those years as a lawyer had taught him how to get down to the nub of things.