City of Ice (42 page)

“How do you know she’ll come out?” he asked him.

“I went into his bedroom closet. Never mind why or how. The girl had no clothes in there. She keeps a robe at his place, probably a toothbrush, but she has to have a place of her own where she keeps her stuff.”

“You should think about becoming a detective when you grow up, Émile.”

Cinq-Mars left him the thermos. “There’s a lane at the top of the street. Duck in there if you need to take a leak.”

“The voice of experience,” Boyle mocked.

For a moment Cinq-Mars attached meaning to his words, and regretted that it had to be so.

Thursday, January 20, before dawn

Émile Cinq-Mars drove back downtown at a fair clip and along the way awakened his partner over the cell phone. “Up and at ‘em, Bill. Saddle your horse. We got stuff going down.”

“What time is it?” the sleepy voice asked. He must have looked across at his bedside table. “It’s not five yet.”

“Are you awake?”

“More or less.”

“Call Alain Déguire. Meet me at Ben’s, the two of you. Smoked meat for breakfast, Bill. It’ll put hair on your chest and sludge in your arteries.”

“When, exactly?”

“ASAP. Sooner. Time is of the essence.”

Cinq-Mars snapped off his cellular as though to emphasize the point and sped down streets that were relatively quiet, racing the cabbies answering radio calls. Ben’s was an all-night deli downtown. As always, the fifties-era venue was brightly lit, and Cinq-Mars chose the Poet’s Corner. All around the room, which was vast, hung the photographs of stars who had traveled through town. Lemmon and Matthau. Cole Porter and Sophia Loren. Movie stars, singers, comedians, from the vaudeville era to the present, a rogues’ gallery of the famous
with their signatures and pat messages to the owners of Ben’s. Frank Sinatra. Bob Hope. In one alcove, the poets of the city had been granted space, so among the Hollywood stars hung the mugs of local scribblers. From here Cinq-Mars had a good view of the street through a wall of windows. He ordered eggs and sausage, toast and orange juice. He’d been running on caffeine and pumpkin pie for too long.

Detective Mathers landed, looking as though he’d been roped with a cowboy’s lariat and dragged through the streets. He bumbled into the bright room, squinting, puzzled. Cinq-Mars feared that a waiter might escort the miscreant out when Alain Déguire bumped into his fellow officer from behind. He was unbuttoning his coat and doing up his shirt at the same time, and together the two dazed young men found Cinq-Mars and staggered over.

“Sit,” Cinq-Mars advised. “Eat. This could be an interesting day.”

Déguire seemed relieved that he could eat and drink before dashing off, while Mathers remained miffed about his interrupted sleep. They packed away a good breakfast, and Cinq-Mars plied himself with coffee and watched.

“Alain,” he began, “you were the IO on the Kaplonski blowup.”

“For a while. The Wolverines took it over.”

“Before they did, you were involved. Did you find out who Kaplonski was visiting that evening?”

“He was down at the University Club, near McGill.”

“Since when is Kaplonski an academic? Was the bomb planted inside or outside the car?”

“Inside. That seems to be the new biker style.”

“Both gangs?”

“Ah, no,” Déguire corrected himself. “The bomb inside the car makes it a Hell’s Angels’ blowup.”

Mathers roused himself enough to ask a question. “What’s going on, Émile?”

His senior ignored him. “Who was he visiting at the University Club? Or are you telling me Kaplonski had a degree?”

“He and his wife had dinner with his lawyer.”

“Gitteridge?”

“That’s right.”

“Who checked the club?”

“I went down myself,” Déguire said, “while I was still the investigating, before the Wolverines tossed me out.”

“Good man. Do you know what’s significant for us about the University Club?” Cinq-Mars asked.

“No. What?”

“No indoor parking. None for blocks. You have to park on the street or in a small lot that’s usually full. The bad guys would’ve known that. Did Gitteridge and Kaplonski leave together?”

“The staff said they didn’t. The doorman saw Gitteridge shake Kaplonski’s hand and kiss Mrs. Kaplonski on the cheek. He left later, five minutes or ten, nobody’s sure.”

“What’s this about, Émile?” Mathers asked.

Cinq-Mars raised both mighty eyebrows to remind his partner that he should know better than to ask direct questions when other people were present. “Alain,” Cinq-Mars decreed, “I’m going to give you an assignment. This is important, so I think you should take it as a sign that I like your face. Besides, you never would’ve told us about Christmas Eve if you’d known what was going down that night.”

“What’d I tell you?” the confused officer asked.

“You said LaPierre booked back on after booking off.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“The fact that you don’t know is in your favor,
Alain. You’re in the clear with me. I want you to understand that.”

Déguire nodded. “I appreciate it, sir.”

“On Mountain Street, up the hill, down from Penfield, a wild-haired man is sitting in the back of a blue Subaru wagon. He’s keeping his eyes peeled on an underground parking garage. He’ll show you which one. I want you to relieve him. He’s a civilian, Alain, so don’t go getting cop-chatty with him.”

With a grave earnestness, Déguire accepted his instructions. “What’re we looking for?”

Cinq-Mars looked first at Mathers, to convey the warning that he had better keep his mouth shut this time if he knew what was good for him. “We’re waiting on a green Infiniti Q Forty-five. We don’t know if it’s in the garage and will be coming out, or if it’s already out and will be going back in. Either way, I want to know when it’s spotted. The guy in the Subaru will give you the plate number. If you see the car, call me on the cellular. No police communications. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. If he leaves?”

“Follow him. He’s smart, he’s accustomed to slipping a tail. When you follow, call me immediately, then keep me apprised. I’ll be driving to find you.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Just this. Don’t be lax. You’re up against a professional. Everything you do, do smart. I’ll understand if this guy beats you, but don’t beat yourself, all right?”

“Okay. Sir? What do we want him for?”

“I’m not saying. I’m trusting you, Alain. I expect that trust to be reciprocal.”

“No problem, sir.”

Alain Déguire was off. Through the windows, Cinq-Mars and Mathers saw him cross to his personal vehicle, a Jimmy.

“You’ve found your source?” Mathers asked, marveling.

“Looks like. Bill, until now you’ve been the only one who deals with Jim Coates. That just changed. Take me to him.”

“My car or yours?”

“I’m driving an issue. Let’s burn city gas.”

On the drive, Bill Mathers was briefed on his partner’s meeting with Garo Boghossian and the news about the Q45. He was not brought up to speed on what Cinq-Mars intended to cover in the meeting with Jim Coates. “Play it by ear” was the best the senior detective would allow. A false dawn illuminated the east in the rearview mirror, shepherding a cold front that crossed the island and transformed water-covered roadways into skating rinks.

“You been to bed at all?” Mathers asked Cinq-Mars.

“Not lately.”

“Things not going so well at home?”

“Things are fine at home, not that it’s any concern of yours. Some cops just do what it takes to get the job done, and I happen to be one of them.”

“Some cops take a whole day off to contemplate the breeze” was Mathers’s riposte, thinking of yesterday and trying to get his partner to crack a smile. He guided him through the tough municipality of Verdun, and they followed a canal out to Lachine. The city was named for the rapids nearby, for an early explorer believed that if he shot them successfully he would land in
la Chine,
French for China. “Next corner, left, then park.”

Stepping out of the car, both men were astounded by how swiftly the temperature had dropped. They had to watch their footing as they crossed the glare ice to Jim Coates’s new apartment building.

“Good location, Bill,” Cinq-Mars praised him. “A boy like Jim fits into a neighborhood like this.”

Mathers rang the buzzer according to a code the
two of them had worked out. They were getting Coates up and had to wait for his response. He was on the fifth floor this time, and they went up in the elevator and found the boy standing in his doorway in his underwear wondering if his world was about to end.

“Put your pants on, son,” Cinq-Mars told him as he barged into the apartment, thinking that he should have told LaPierre the same thing. “We want to talk to you.”

While the boy dressed, Cinq-Mars went around the apartment turning on lights. He grabbed a straightback chair, plunked it down in the center of the bare living room, and indicated for Coates to sit in it when he emerged. In a twinkling, he had transformed the apartment into an interrogation chamber.

Having no idea what was going on, Mathers made himself comfortable on the sofa at the boy’s back while Cinq-Mars paced in front of him. He seemed to be fuming, building up steam. Finally, he put his hands on his knees and leaned down into the boy’s face.

“Are you telling me it was jealousy?”

“What?”

“Don’t say
what
, Jimmy. Say,
pardon me
? Or let me know that you don’t understand the question.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you telling me, Jimmy boy, that you were jealous of Hagop Artinian and that’s why you turned him over to Kaplonski? Now you think about how you answer me, son, because I’m going to think about your reply.”

Jim Coates squirmed on the hard chair. He was still half asleep. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. You know, Hagop had everything. He got time off, the easy assignments, he went to lunch with the boss. On top of that, I mean, he was a university guy. He was getting an education. Always I had to do the shitwork and get
yelled at, and what did I have to look forward to? Hagop had it all.”

“So you were jealous of him?”

“I guess so. Sort of.”

“Did you know he had plenty of girlfriends? Girls loved him, Jimmy, what do you think about that?”

“Nothing. I’m not surprised.”

“Does it make you jealous?”

Coates didn’t know if he should say. “Hagop’s dead,” he whispered.

“You can’t be jealous of a dead man, is that it?”

He nodded to indicate that that was true.

“Tell me something, Jimmy. How did it feel to be jealous of Hagop Artinian? Did it rot your socks? Did you think about him half your waking hours? Was it like being in love, Jimmy, like you didn’t have a brain of your own, all you could do was think about the other person? I really want to know.”

The boy had to consider his response, and Cinq-Mars gave him time. “I used to think about him. Not all the time. Not so much. Once in a while.”

“During these moments, Jimmy, would you get into a rage? Think evil things? Would you dream about punching him out, something like that?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. Nothing serious,” the boy said.

“You ever dream about killing him?”

“I didn’t kill Hagop!” Coates objected.
“Jesus!”

Cinq-Mars stared at him intently, motionless. “We’ll take it one question at a time, son. Did you ever dream about killing him?”

Coates squirmed and uttered stressful sighs and twisted his body around to shake things loose. Mathers was equally focused on Cinq-Mars himself. He could not clearly discern whether his partner was possessed or whether the ferocity of his determination was an act, put on for the boy’s sake. He could not figure out
where this line of inquiry might lead, why he was tilling soil that had been plowed before.

“Yeah, okay, so I used to wish maybe something bad would happen to him. Not all the time. Just once in a while if I was pissed off or something like that. What’s the big deal? He’d be working under a car and I’d wish maybe the car would fall on him. Okay? So what?”

“Jimmy, so what? The boy’s dead! You wished him dead and now he’s dead. Now, Jimmy, you can’t live your life unless you confess. You know that’s true. You can’t live with this thing on your shoulders. You knew, when you squealed to Kaplonski, that something bad would happen to Hagop. You knew you weren’t dealing with Boy Scouts. Talk had gone around the garage. Your own eyes were open. Nobody’s ever called you blind. Jimmy, you knew that Kaplonski and his pals were people nobody crossed. You had that on your mind. Talking to Kaplonski was no different than having a car fall on Hagop’s head, isn’t that right? You knew that.”

The boy’s chest cracked. “I didn’t—think—they’d
kill
him.”

“Maybe not so clearly. But, Jimmy, you knew you were running the risk, didn’t you?” Cinq-Mars was speaking softly now, coaxing the confession out of him. “You imagined they’d beat him to a pulp. Maybe he’d survive that, maybe not. You were willing to take the risk. In your imagination you knew it was possible that somebody might get teed off enough to shoot him. These were people like that. You knew who you were working for, didn’t you, Jimmy? Be brave. You have to be brave here. Look at me.”

The boy sat with his body shaking and his head slung low, and Mathers, behind him, knew those eyes would be flooded with tears, that the boy was veering close to his core.

“You knew, didn’t you? After you got the information from Hagop, all you could think about was being a snitch. You didn’t want to do it because you’re a good kid, but it was on your mind, gnawing at you, eating you up inside. You were so damn jealous you didn’t care what it meant to poor Hagop. You didn’t think about that. You just thought from your rage, from your savage envy, from your conviction it wasn’t fair that someone should have so much when everything was so hard for you. Isn’t that right?”

From his back, Mathers could see the boy nodding, giving in. “I guess so,” he whispered.

“You don’t want to be jealous anymore, do you, Jimmy? You want to put it behind you. You want to get on with your life, be a proper man, someone people respect. That’s the kind of man you want to be, isn’t it, Jimmy? To do that you have to get rid of the jealousy part, and then the guilt for what you did. That’s your enemy. Take what life gives you and earn the rest. Right, Jimmy? There’s no point being envious of someone else, it’ll only destroy you. You know that now.”