Stray Bullets (25 page)

Something about Lindsmore’s name rang a distant bell for Kennicott, but he couldn’t place it. For the last three days, he’d left messages for the constable saying that he needed to speak to him right away about an urgent matter. Lindsmore, who was on holiday, hadn’t bothered to respond.

Now it was five to eight in the morning, and Kennicott had made a point of getting to 52 Division in time to catch Lindsmore coming in to work. The staff sergeant, a nice fellow named Finch, had cleared it so he could wait inside the cops’ private entrance in back.

“Morning, Officer Lindsmore,” he said at exactly eight o’clock, when Lindsmore ambled in. The man had to have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Probably more. “PC Daniel Kennicott.” He held out his arm to shake hands.

“Hi,” Lindsmore said, a little wary.

“I know you’re just getting on shift, but I’ve got something fairly urgent to talk to you about.”

“Oh.” Lindsmore was doing his best to be unimpressed. “Kennicott. You’re the guy who’s been leaving me those messages, aren’t you?” He gave a weak handshake back.

“Yes.”

“The lawyer who joined up after your brother was shot, right?”

Kennicott had left the law to become a cop almost four years before, but unfortunately all that unwanted publicity still lingered in the minds of some of his fellow officers. Stuck in their craw like some old wound that refused to heal.

“That’s me,” Kennicott answered in a flat voice.

“I’ve got to get in uniform, do parade. Meet me in half an hour.” Lindsmore cranked his head toward the window. “How about a large double-double from Timmy’s and a maple glazed.”

An hour later, Lindsmore meandered into the small back room where Kennicott was waiting for him. He carried a large blank envelope under his arm and put it on the table without comment. The large coffee, which Kennicott had double-cupped in an effort to keep it hot, was now lukewarm.

Lindsmore slurped a big sip and scowled.

Kennicott looked him straight in the eye. “It was steaming hot half an hour ago.”

Lindsmore bit a large chunk out of the doughnut and gulped it down. “Finch says this is about a shoplifting arrest I made five years ago. He figures no way I’d remember it.”

Kennicott took out his business card and handed it over. “I don’t expect you would. But if you can get some free time maybe later in your shift, I’m wondering if you can go back to the property bureau and find your old notebook. I already gave Finch the details.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here they are again.”

Lindsmore took a lazy look at the paper. “I’ve got to tell you, Kennicott,” he said, reaching into his own breast pocket, “the one thing I can’t stand is an arrogant asshole.”

Kennicott blanched. He knew that some veteran cops resented him, not only for the high-profile way he’d joined the force, but also because he had already worked on a few well-publicized homicides. He sat back in his chair. “Well, I’m—”

“And this kid Ozera was one of the most arrogant jerks I ever arrested.” Lindsmore pulled out his narrow, police-issued notebook from the envelope on the table.

Kennicott could see he had an elastic band at a page halfway in.

Lindsmore slapped it open at that spot. “Let’s see.” He held the book at arm’s length so he could read his own writing better. “This was five years ago next week. January fifteenth. I’ve got Dragomir Ozera,
age twenty-five, five foot seven, one hundred and forty pounds dripping wet, black hair, mustache and long sideburns, birthmark by his left eye. I did a drawing of his face, take a look.”

Lindsmore showed Kennicott a page in his book. His fingers were as fat at the rest of him, but, remarkably, the sketch was very good. Close to the composite drawing.

“You’re a talented artist,” Kennicott said.

“A fucking Michelangelo,” Lindsmore said. “My ex was always trying to get me to take art classes.”

“Here’s the composite.” Kennicott pulled it out and put it on the table.

“That’s him,” Lindsmore said. “Caught stealing pâté and fancy French cheese from the Pusateri’s on Bay Street, the one just north of Bloor.”

“You get an address, phone number?”

Lindsmore gave him a slow look that seemed to say, “What, you think I’m an idiot?” and kept reading.

“Gave address as room twelve at Jilly’s hotel on Broadview and Queen.”

“The strip bar?”

“They rent rooms out by the week. No phone number. He had no driver’s license. No social security or health card.”

“How’d you identify him?”

“Library card. I wanted to hold him for bail, but the staff sergeant told me to Form Ten him. No time for all the paperwork, and besides, who gives a shit about some pâté? I knew the little fucker would never show up in court.”

“You thought he was illegal?”

Lindsmore shook his head. “No, I thought he was going to be the next prime minister of Canada.”

Kennicott started to laugh at himself. “Sorry I’m being such an idiot. Can I get a copy of your notes?”

Lindsmore reached into the envelope on the table and pulled out a sheaf of neatly stapled-together papers. “Made a copy for you.” He handed it over. “The kid was a charmer. Had half the women who worked at Pusateri’s eating out of the palm of his hand by the time I arrived. Telling them recipes. Suggesting novels for them to read. Spoke a few languages, I remember.”

“This all helps a great deal,” Kennicott said.

“This might help more.” Lindsmore reached back into his envelope and extracted a plastic evidence bag with a cigarette butt inside. “Like I told you,” he said in the same monotone drawl, “I knew he’d never
show up for court. So I gave him a smoke. Never know when we might need a DNA sample.”

“That’s great.” Kennicott held the plastic bag with care, as if it were a crown jewel. “You got anything else for me?”

“About
this
case?”

The way Lindsmore said “this” made Kennicott stop. “What other case could there be?” he asked.

But the moment the words were out, he knew the answer. Lindsmore. The constable for life. He’d been one of the first cops on the scene the night Kennicott’s brother was shot. He remembered now that Lindsmore had led the street canvass and gone straight through for twelve hours without a break. It had impressed him the first time he’d read the file. “I owe you a thanks for the work you did after my brother was shot.”

“Frustrated the hell out of me. We knocked on doors all night for a twenty-block radius. By the book we’re supposed to do ten.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t believe nobody saw anything. Right in the middle of Yorkville like that. Fuck. I can only imagine how you feel.”

Kennicott didn’t know what to say.

“Look. I’ve known Ari Greene for twenty-five years. We were in the same rookie class. He won’t ever say it, but I can tell you it’s eating him alive that he can’t solve this case. It’s his only outstanding homicide.”

“I know,” Kennicott said again.

“Don’t you ever get pissed off at him?”

“Who?”

“Greene.”

“Greene? Why?”

“Come on. You’re no Boy Scout. Four years and where’s he gotten?”

Kennicott felt himself nod involuntarily. Lindsmore had touched a secret sore spot, like a nerve that just got pinched. One that he hadn’t even realized was there.

“Just because I’m a fat fart and a CFL doesn’t mean I don’t do my job,” Lindsmore said. “You’re going to make Homicide one day. Don’t underestimate the cops on the beat.”

Ralph Armitage knew that most of the Crown Attorneys in his office doubted his skill as a trial lawyer, but even his harshest critics down the hall had to admit that when it came to judicial pretrials, Ralphie boy had no peers.

A pretrial was a private, unrecorded meeting in a judge’s office, or their chambers as they loved to call them, at which time both the defense lawyers and Crown Attorneys informally discussed the upcoming case. Often this was the turning point. Make a deal or prepare for trial.

And although Armitage, the consummate negotiator, rarely walked away without resolving even the toughest cases, this morning was going to be an exception. With the city ablaze with anger about the Wilkinson shooting, his secret marching orders from the political higher-ups were to go all the way with this case. No deals. No way.

Which meant this pretrial would be a formality. But it would be entertaining. Most of the jurists on the high court bench were a staid bunch, but not the assigned judge, His Honor Justice Oliver Rothbart. As a kid, Rothbart had been a famous child actor. When he was five years old, he’d won a tap-dancing competition on the local TV show
Tiny Talent Time
, and he was the Wonder Bread boy in a series of print and billboard advertisements at age eight. In 1964, when he was fourteen, he landed a role in the production of
Camelot
, which debuted in Toronto before the show went to Broadway.

“Come in, come in,” Rothbart said to Armitage and Nancy Parish as the court constable escorted them to his office. His childhood falsetto voice had morphed into a booming baritone, which he was never afraid to use to effect in court. Most judges made a point of staying seated at their desks and waited for lawyers to arrive in their offices, but Rothbart was always at his door, big smile, hand extended.

Armitage had learned that despite his dramatic personality, Rothbart resented lawyers who thought he was a lightweight. So, although nothing would get resolved today, Armitage and Fernandez had put in the hours to get ready for this pretrial, and on Thursday morning they’d delivered an extensive brief.

Nancy Parish was a hard worker, well prepared and good on her feet. She’d also filed a large brief yesterday.

It was clear the moment they sat down that the judge had done his homework, because both briefs were stuffed with yellow sticky tabs poking out the sides. Armitage glanced around Rothbart’s chambers, which looked more like the office of a musical theater producer than a place where serious legal matters were discussed. The walls were covered with signed publicity photos of movie stars, most made out to “Ollie.” There were big framed stills from his various roles as a kid on TV. Most prominent of all was a blown-up photo taken backstage on the
Camelot
set of young Ollie standing in between Richard Burton and his then-new wife, Elizabeth Taylor. Rothbart’s role in the show was something he somehow managed to insinuate into almost every conversation, no matter how obscure the topic.

“Okay, I just wanted to double-check something,” Rothbart said, opening the Crown brief at a set page with an extralarge sticky attached to it. He had the nervous habit of strumming the fingers of his right hand in his left palm when he was anxious or bored. Like he was playing a tune to himself on his own piano.

Armitage and Parish sat patiently across the desk from him.

“This Dewey character.” Rothbart turned to Armitage.

“Mr. Booth,” Armitage said.

“‘Mr. Booth’ my ass. Save it for the jury. I looked at his record. Kid’s a menace. But you’ve made this deal with him. He’s your prime witness.”

“One of them,” Armitage said.

Rothbart stabbed at the open page. “His only statement is this affidavit. You don’t have him on video, sworn under oath. Have I’ve got that right?”

“Correct.”

“And if he changes his story, then you’ll cross him on this?” His finger seemed almost stuck on the paper.

“Exactly.” Armitage had expected this line of questioning, and he was doing his best to radiate calm and confidence. “It’s no secret. We made full disclosure to the defense.” Well, he thought, if you exclude the baker from Tim Hortons, my secret little friend. “If Booth doesn’t commit perjury, he’s never going to be charged.”

“Mind my asking why you’d pull a first-degree murder case against a punk with a record like this and not get him tied down on video?”

Fuck you, judge, he thought, flashing his biggest grin. “I don’t mind the question, sir. But I have no intention of answering.”

Everyone chuckled. Then they all fell silent.

“I can tell you why.” Nancy Parish spoke for the first time since they’d said their introductions. “The Crown needed to match the bullet with the gun that killed the boy.”

Rothbart nodded.

He’s starting to see how complicated this trial might become, Armitage thought.

Rothbart stared at Parish. “I see the bullet matches with the gun that was found at your client’s aunt’s house, where he’d been living on probation. Not great evidence for the defense.”

Just like Rothbart, Armitage thought. He loved to grill both lawyers, show off how much work he’d done on the case.

“Could be better,” she said. Everyone laughed again.

“Something else jumps out at me.” Rothbart turned back to Armitage. “These witnesses are all over the map with the number of shots they heard. Three, six, one even says she thought there were eight or nine.” He flipped back to another tab in the brief. “This gun was a Desert Eagle. The clip in the forty-four Magnum version only takes six bullets, and there’s one in the chamber. That’s seven. Where’s the second gun?”

Rothbart was such a showoff. Couldn’t wait to demonstrate his extensive knowledge of handguns and how smart he was. How I’d love to break his precious little fingers one by one, Armitage thought.

“Only one witness counts more than six shots, and we all know how unreliable civilians can be about such things,” Armitage said. “There were buildings on both sides of the Timmy’s. It’s a natural echo chamber.”

“Hmmm,” Rothbart said. He started strumming his stupid fingers. “I don’t see a direct eyewitness. Lots of people see little bits, hear a few things, but no one actually saw what happened. Do I have that right?”

He had been a very successful defense lawyer before being called to the bench, and he still loved trying to pick apart the case for the Crown. And he was right. The only one who saw it all was Armitage’s unseen pal, who everyone else thought was named Jose. “All I can tell you,” he said, “is that the investigation is ongoing.”

“What about that kid in the Cadillac? I don’t see a statement from him,” Rothbart said. “I note he had a gun in his apartment, has a possession-of-handgun on his record. His nickname’s easy to remember. Jet, like in
West Side Story
.”