Stray Bullets (15 page)

He signed the receipt, then opened his wallet and showed her his badge. “Detective Greene from the homicide squad,” he said. “Suzanne, I need to talk to you.”

Her jaw froze. He could see the piece of gum resting on the tip of her tongue.

“I … I … can’t.”

“You don’t have much choice. We know you left work at Tim Hortons just minutes before the shooting. We know you grew up on Pelee Island with Dewey, and we have the records of each time you visited him in jail.”

He had his briefcase with him, and he took out the composite drawing of the baker who called himself Jose Sanchez, a handsome, youngish-looking man, with a glint in his eyes and a small birthmark by his left eye. “You recognize him?”

Suzanne stared at the drawing. Transfixed. “I’m … I’m at work now.”

“Like you said, your shift is almost over. We know it ends in twenty minutes, at four. We know your boyfriend Jet is going to come and pick you up. We know he does that every night whether you are working here or at the Tim Hortons. We know he picked you up on the night of the shooting. We know you live at 144 Easterbrook Avenue, apartment 204. We know your cell number and your e-mail address, and we’ve listened to all your calls and read all your texts and e-mails for the last three days.”

Her face flushed, turning her skin beet red. She flicked back her shoulder-length curly blond hair and pointed to the two customers behind him. The men who’d been outside a minute ago filling up their cars. “I need to serve them.”

“No you don’t,” he said. “They’re both undercover cops. With me. We’ve already talked to your boss. He knows you’re going to leave early today.”

“But … but Jet—”

“It will be much better for you if you’re not here when Jet shows up. He doesn’t have a job, does he?”

“Well. Not right now. But he’s looking for work as a stunt driver.”

Greene motioned for Daniel Kennicott, who’d also come inside, to stand by the door. He reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a long piece of paper.

“This is a warrant to search your apartment,” he said to her. “We have reason to believe you and Jet are in possession of substantial amounts of stolen property. Flat-screen TVs, iPhones and iPads. Espresso machines. We have video surveillance of Jet for the last two days doing deals all over the East End.”

She didn’t seem to know where to look.

“The apartment is in your name.” He pulled out a photocopy of the lease and pointed to her signature on the last page. “That’s you.
Suzanne Howett. Even if Jet’s the one bringing the stuff in and out, by law you’re in possession of all this stolen property.”

She started to cry. “I don’t have a record.”

“Jet does. Want to see it?” He reached back in his briefcase again.

“No. Jet hates being in jail.”

“You have two choices,” he said. “Come with me now, and I won’t execute this warrant. Or go home with Jet, and then you’ll both be arrested.”

She reached for a Kleenex and dabbed her eyes. The heavy black mascara she wore was starting to run. “There’s no one to bail me out,” she said. “My parents don’t give a shit.”

He pointed to the composite drawing back on the counter. “You recognize him, don’t you?”

She curled her lips inward and nodded.

“Jose’s not in trouble,” he said. “We just want to find him, talk to him.”

“But I don’t know him except at work.”

He slipped the drawing back into his briefcase. It had a noisy zipper and he began to close it. Out at the gas pumps new cars were driving up. “You have one minute to decide. Wait for Jet and get arrested or come with me and tell me what you know.”

She jerked her head up at him, her look of sorrow replaced by defiance and fear. “Where the fuck is Dewey? Why haven’t you arrested him?”

He wasn’t going to tell her about Armitage’s deal. “You’re afraid of him, aren’t you? That’s why Jet drives you to and from work.”

She started to shake.

“Dewey burned you, didn’t he?” He reached out, took her left hand, and uncurled the baby finger. She didn’t resist. The whole outside layer of skin was scarred and leathery.

“He hurts people, animals too,” she said.

“Come with us.” Greene said. “That’s the only way I can protect you.”

She punched another Nicorette out of the blister pack, popped it in her mouth, and let him guide her down from her stool.

Daniel Kennicott was freezing. After Detective Greene drove away with Suzanne Howett, he’d positioned himself outside the Petro-Canada station, waiting for James “Jet” Trapper to show up. He couldn’t stay inside and risk being seen.

The snow was pelting down even harder now and the wind had churned up a notch. He checked his watch. Five after four, and there was no sign of the Cadillac. He stomped his feet and dug his hands in under his armpits.

Jet was late. Had he figured out something was up? Or was it just the bad weather and the terrible traffic? The street they were on, O’Connor Drive, had two lanes going both ways and the cars were piled up, barely moving.

At a quarter after four, the Cadillac finally pulled into the lot. Kennicott took a step back, keeping himself out of sight. Jet drove slowly. The only legitimate work record he’d been able to find about Jet was some jobs he’d gotten as a stunt driver for a few of the film companies in the city. He handled the big car well. Crawled up to the front door of the station but, instead of stopping, went through and made a wide circle around the pumps. Kennicott saw him pick up his cell phone.

Not good. Suzanne wasn’t there and now that she was with Greene, she wasn’t going to answer his call. Kennicott had tucked his cruiser in back of the building, about thirty feet away. Should he run and get in it?

Jet did another loop and parked at the edge of the lot, the nose of his car pointed toward the street. He got out of the car, put the phone in his pocket, and walked through the snowstorm, looking around. He stopped at the front door and peered in through the glass.

Come on, come on, Kennicott thought. Go inside, then I’ve got you.

Jet pulled his phone back out and tried another call.

The snow was so thick that Kennicott could hardly see. He got on his police radio. “Move onto the street,” he whispered to the officer whose unmarked police car was at one of the pumps, pretending to gas up.

“Ten-four,” the cop in the car said.

“Drive out of his line of sight. But stay close.”

Jet turned and watched the unmarked drive away. He waited until he couldn’t see it anymore. He still hadn’t gone inside.

He knows something’s up, Kennicott thought.

Suddenly, Jet jammed the phone back in his pocket and started running to his vehicle.

Shit. Kennicott grabbed his radio again. “He’s going to the Caddy. Cut him off! Cut him off!”

Jet jumped in and threw his car in gear.

Kennicott ran across the snowy ground. But it was slippery. Treacherous.

The Cadillac lurched forward and was almost out of the lot when the unmarked reversed at it on the road and slammed into its side, sending the big car skittering. It spun sideways and smashed into a minivan. The two officers in the unmarked were both flung back in their seats by the impact. They looked stunned.

Kennicott was charging ahead as fast as he could get traction, just a few feet away.

Horns started blaring. Above the din, he heard the cracking sound of a car door opening. In a flash, Jet was out in the snow and racing through traffic, crossing the crowded street.

“Stop! Police!” Kennicott yelled.

Jet glanced over his shoulder, then kept going.

Kennicott danced his way through the cars on the road.

Jet got to the other side of the street and ran into a driveway beside a house, heading toward the backyard gate. He flung it open and dashed out of sight.

Kennicott plowed after him. Behind the house fresh footprints in the snow led to the fence at the end of the yard. He scaled it and came down in a forest of trees. The house backed onto the Don Valley, a large ravine that ran through the city’s East End.

He stopped to catch his breath. “Jet, you’re only making this worse for yourself. Talk to us and I don’t have to arrest you.”

Listening hard, he heard the crash of branches. A distant voice yelled back at him: “Fuck you, cop.”

That’s an original line, Kennicott thought as he took off after the tracks. The woods were unexpectedly thick, considering they were in the middle of the city, and the snow surprisingly deep. All those years of marathon running meant he had a great store of strength in his legs.
And he was angry, which helped fuel his drive. He crashed through the branches, releasing the smell of fresh pine. Jet’s footsteps were getting shorter. Means he’s getting tired.

At the bottom of the hill, the land flattened out and there were only a few trees. The snow was coming down hard and the wind was fierce. He caught a glimpse of Jet, gaining speed on the easier terrain as he reached the river and crossed a little footbridge. A smaller hill rose on the other side, and on top were houses and streets. If Jet made it to there, he could go in any direction. There’d be car tracks he could follow without leaving a trail in the snow.

Kennicott grabbed his radio and called dispatch. “I’ve followed the suspect down into the valley,” he shouted. “He’s headed for the other side. The north part of Rosedale. Get some cars over there.”

“We’re trying,” the dispatcher said. “But with this storm, everyone’s tied up on the main streets. Traffic’s a horror show.”

He clicked off the radio and tore ahead. When he hit the bridge he felt himself getting a second wind. Jet was starting up the other side, his pace slackening.

Keep steady, he told himself. Knees high. Breathe.

Halfway up the hill the trees grew thicker again. He was only about twenty feet back.

“Jet, last chance to stop.”

“No … way …” Jet was huffing.

The hill was steeper as they neared the summit. Jet reached for a branch to hoist himself up, and it broke in his hand with a loud snap. His feet slipped. “Shit.”

Kennicott was steps away now. Sweating despite the cold.

Jet scrambled to his feet. He was climbing again with speed. Almost at the top, kicking snow into Kennicott’s face.

Kennicott planted a foot on an exposed root and jumped, reaching blindly for Jet’s leg. I missed it, he thought. But then he felt his hand brush against the side of a shoe.

It was just enough to break Jet’s stride. He landed on his back, puffing up a cloud of snow underneath him.

Kennicott grabbed his ankle.

Above him he saw Jet was sitting up with a rock in his hand. “Here, cop, take this,” he said and flung it.

Kennicott tried to duck, but it hit him square in the forehead. Blood spurted out into his eyes. He wiped it away with his free hand just in
time to see Jet hurl another rock down at him. He ducked again and took the impact on his shoulders, still holding on to Jet’s foot.

Jet started to kick at his fingers, smashing them against a tree trunk. Pound, pound, pound.

He couldn’t hold on much longer. If he let go, he’d tumble backward down the hill.

In desperation he braced his foot on a tree root, and when the next kick came, he grabbed Jet’s other ankle and yanked it down with all his might.

It worked. They both tumbled back down the hill. Jet landed on his face.

Kennicott was almost on top of him. He went to his belt, grabbed his handcuffs, and slapped them on Jet before he could move.

“I told you,” he said, gasping for air. The cuffs made a grinding sound as he tightened them. “I didn’t need to arrest you.”

“I’m not saying shit!” Jet screamed.

He must be reading from the same script as Dewey, Kennicott thought. “Just give me a statement and I won’t have to arrest you.” He lifted him to his feet. “Dewey and Larkin were shooting at you and Suzanne,” Kennicott said. “Why won’t you help us?”

Jet shook his head. “Help the cops?”

“Okay, help yourself.”

“Well where’s Dewey? I don’t see in the papers that he’s been arrested. Has he?”

“No, he hasn’t been,” Kennicott said.

“Where’s Suzanne?”

“In a safe place.”

“Yeah? For how long?”

“We’ll take care of her,” Kennicott said.

“Go ahead and put me in jail. Just make sure I’m in protective custody. With Dewey on the loose, I’m not saying squat. He’s a fucking psycho.”

In the fading light their eyes met. Kennicott could see this was not false bravado. Jet looked scared.

“We caught your pal Jet,” Ari Greene said to Suzanne Howett. “He took off from the gas station and we had to chase him down into the valley. Now he’s facing additional charges of escaping from police and assaulting police to resist arrest.”

“Great,” she said with an exaggerated frown. “I know Jet. He’ll never say a word to you guys.”

Greene was sitting alone with Howett at an old wood table he’d had put into the same bare room in the homicide bureau where he’d interviewed Larkin St. Clair two days before. In the corner, the ubiquitous video camera was turned on, and a few minutes ago, it had recorded her being cautioned that the statement she was about to make was being taped, that it would be transcribed and she’d be asked to sign it, and that it was a criminal offense to give the police false information. He’d spread out three file folders on the table. Each had a large typed label, big enough for Howett to read.

He picked up the one that said
SUZANNE HOWETT—EARLY YEARS
.

She clasped her hands in front of her mouth and scratched between her front teeth with a fingernail. Watching him intently.

“You and Jet were in kindergarten together,” he said, looking in the file, although he didn’t have to. “Same class until grade eight, then both of you went to the mainland for high school.”

She pulled her hands away from her mouth. “There’s one school on the island. Twenty-four students in the whole place. Stupid.”

“Dewey showed up in grade four.”

“I remember. Both his dads brought him the first day.”

“All three of you were in high school together too.”