The Guilty Plea (3 page)

“This one’s my bestest.” He made driving noises—
vroom, vroom, vroom
—as he rolled it along the edge of the bed. “Police emergency, police emergency,” he called out in as deep a voice as he could.

“Guess what?” Greene said. “A police car’s going to take you to Arceli’s place.”

Simon turned back to Greene. A confused look on his face. “This is zoo day at day-care camp.”

“It’s so hot. The animals need to stay inside,” Greene said.

Simon thought about this for a moment. “Arceli’s apartment is hot too. She told me.”

“What do you want to take with you?”

Simon dove under his bed again and brought out a plastic bucket. A moment of rummaging and he found a police badge. “This,” he said, showing it to Greene. He grabbed a well-worn Sesame Street doll. “And Bert.” He looked at the dog, who was still on the bed. “And Billy. Are dogs allowed in police cars?”

“Sure. A policewoman bought you chocolate milk and doughnuts for breakfast. Arceli’s going to go get them and you can eat here in your room.”

Simon furrowed his brow. “My mom lets me eat in front of the TV, but Daddy says I have to eat in the kitchen or the dining room.”

“That’s a good rule. But today we can do something special.”

The nanny left and Greene glanced out the bay window. The squad cars he’d ordered had cut off the street on both sides of the house. Greene pulled out a basket of Brio trains and wooden track. “Do you want to work on this with me?”

“Sure.” Simon stretched out on the floor.

Within a few minutes they’d built a figure eight, with an extension looping off to an outer ring. A second spur line circled under a bridge and curled back to a painted wood station.

“You’re fun to play with,” Simon said.

Greene reached back for more rails and felt something soft touch his arm. It was the boy’s hand.

One Saturday afternoon when he was six years old, Greene’s father came home early from work and they took two buses to get to a store
called George’s Trains on Mount Pleasant Avenue. When Greene walked in he could hardly breathe, so overwhelming was the place. The walls were lined with hand-painted locomotives, and the salesmen, none of them young, wore gray-and-white-striped conductors’ hats. Best of all, a large train ran all the way around the store, high up on the walls, toot-tooting every minute or so.

Greene’s father could afford only one circular track, with a locomotive and a coal car. Greene spent countless hours in the basement, running the train around and around. There was a special liquid that came in a glass bottle, and three drops of it would produce steam once the engine warmed up.

The nanny opened Simon’s bedroom door, quickly shutting it behind her. “Here’s your doughnut,” she said. “And chocolate milk.”

Simon reached for the doughnut. “Sprinkles.” He smiled.

“Drink your milk first.” She put a straw in the milk carton and held it out to him. “Careful, no spilling.”

“This man likes trains, like my mom,” Simon said after he took a sip.

“Most people like trains,” Ocaya said.

“Arceli had to take a long airplane ride to get to Canada,” Simon explained. “Her family is far away but she doesn’t cry. My dad doesn’t cry, but my mom always cries when I have to say goodbye.”

Greene got up from the floor. “That’s because she loves you,” he said.

“She kisses me at night when she thinks I’m asleep, and I know she’s crying. Like she did—”

“Simon, take another sip,” Ocaya said. “Enough talking.”

“I’m saying that Mommy cries.” Simon put the straw back into his mouth.

“Yes. Here’s the doughnut.” She had it wrapped in a white napkin. “Be careful. No crumbs on the floor.”

“She cried last night,” Simon said.

Greene and Ocaya exchanged glances. “Silly Simon,” Ocaya said. “Last night you were not at your mother’s house, you slept here.”

“My mom came into my room here at my dad’s house. She kissed me and she was crying.” Simon took a bite out of the doughnut and swallowed it. “She said she wouldn’t see me for a long time. How come?”

Instead of looking at his nanny, Simon looked squarely at Greene—the man who’d appeared in his life, built trains with him on the floor, and told him he wasn’t going to day-care camp today.

He picked a red sprinkle off the doughnut. “How come?” Simon asked again.

“I’m looking for Wyler Foods.” Officer Daniel Kennicott jumped out of his patrol car and grabbed the arm of a muscle-bound man carrying a basket of fresh corn with both hands. Kennicott had just parked at the Ontario Food Terminal, a gigantic tract of land in the southwest part of the city.

“Main building.” The man indicated the direction with his chin. “Turn right and right again. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” Kennicott took off at a run. The food terminal was one of the biggest fresh food depots in North America, and the lot was filled to capacity with farmers’ pickup trucks and vehicles belonging to buyers from every corner of the province. One caught his eye: a paneled van painted in gaudy orange and green colors, the words
IT’S WYLER FRESH
standing out in old-fashioned block letters.

He was fighting the clock. “You’re going to notify the oldest brother, Nathan Wyler, the one you see on all those billboard ads,” Detective Greene had told Kennicott half an hour before when he had gotten to Terrance Wyler’s house. “The parents and the middle brother, Jason, who’s disabled by some rare disease, live northwest of the city. Too far a drive. Better to let Nathan tell the family. Throw on your siren and get there fast. I don’t want him to hear about this from the press.”

Kennicott had looked at the other patrol cars that cut off the street. Greene could have grabbed any of those cops and given them this assignment. “No problem,” he’d said.

The food terminal was a large warehouse with a huge open courtyard in the middle. Storefronts rimmed the perimeter on all four sides, with colorful names like Rosie’s Bananas, So Green Organics, Romano Pasta Company, Upper Canadian Cheese.

A network of concrete paths ran around the complex, and a constant stream of electric trolleys, laden with all manner of produce, zipped in and out of stores. Their drivers beeped their high-pitched horns as they whirled around, like hepped-up go-cart drivers on a familiar track.

It was easy to find Wyler Foods. The garish façade featured the store’s orange and green colors, with the words
IT’S WYLER FRESH
on a banner high across the entrance. Inside was a beehive of activity. A lineup of farmers brought in cartons of food to show Wyler employees, all dressed in orange-and-green aprons. Nathan Wyler was right in the middle of it all, pacing back and forth behind a long, rectangular table, his striped bow tie slightly askew. He barked out orders as he pawed through the trays of fresh food his minions brought up for inspection.

Kennicott recognized the man immediately. Wyler Foods was a well-known high-end food store in midtown Toronto. It had recently launched a billboard ad campaign across the city that featured a photo of Nathan with his sleeves rolled up, arms filled with fresh produce, wearing the distinctive bow tie. Behind him were old photos of two other men wearing the same tie and handling produce. Obviously these were his father and grandfather. The tagline read “I’m Nathan Wyler. For three generations it’s always been Wyler Fresh.”

“Fucking heat wave,” Wyler said. He was a big man, with broad, hunched-over shoulders. He grabbed a tray of blueberries from one of his employees. “This stuff’s all shriveled to shit.”

Kennicott strode up to the table. Despite the fact that he was in full uniform, no one seemed to notice him.

“Look at this scrawny stuff they’re trying to hide.” Wyler dug through a carton of romaine and yanked a thin head of lettuce from the bottom row. It was brown around the edges.

“Excuse me, Mr. Wyler,” Kennicott said.

Wyler fixed him with a pair of eyes that were a remarkable translucent green. He wasn’t an attractive man. Up close, his brownish hair had the plastic look of cheap color. He had a deep double chin. But the eyes made the rest of his face irrelevant.

“Yeah?” Wyler didn’t seem at all surprised to see a police officer in his store. Squeezing the ends of a cantaloupe, he heaved it back into its box and turned to another employee. “These are good. Ask if he’s got any honeydew.”

“Could I speak to you for a moment, sir?” Kennicott asked.

Wyler held an oversize avocado out to him. “Organic, from Florida. Amazing stuff. What is it, Officer?”

“I’d rather speak to you in private.” Kennicott took the avocado. It had a thick, scaly skin.

Someone shoved a cluster of fresh basil at Wyler. He tore off a bottom leaf and popped it into his mouth. “This is the best. Americans have this quick cooling method. Stuff stays fresh for ten days.” He took back the avocado from Kennicott and offered him a leaf. “Try it.”

“No thanks, I really must—”

“Look.” Wyler spread his arms out at the train of food being brought up to him. “Monday morning. Peak buying hour. With this heat, no one has enough supply.”

“Sir, this is urgent.”

Wyler’s fingers danced over a basket of green zucchini. “They’re not great, but we better grab them. See if they have any yellows,” he said to yet another employee before he turned back to Kennicott. “Officer, you must be new at the division. Go help yourself to what ever you want. Not a problem.”

“It’s about your brother,” Kennicott said.

Wyler’s eyes widened and his shoulders slumped. His hands tightened around a celery stalk. “Jason? He in the hospital again?”

“Please, sir,” Kennicott said. “Where can we talk alone?”

“Back in my office.” Wyler tossed the celery at another employee. “They’re fine,” he said. “Try to get some carrots.” He turned to the front of the store. “Paulette, I’ll be in back for five,” he yelled.

A young redhead who was working the cash register looked up. She had a beautiful smile.

The office was a small cubbyhole tucked away in the corner. An old steel desk stacked high with order books sat against the back wall. A pinboard behind it had heaps of paper stuck on every inch. Two round black ashtrays were filled with butts, many of them half smoked.

“We’re not fancy.” Wyler closed the door behind them. The room had a rancid smell of moldy fruit. “My father and my grandfather worked out of here too. Where’s Jason?”

Kennicott realized that Wyler had naturally assumed this was about his disabled brother. “It’s not Jason. I’m afraid it’s Terrance.”

Relief washed over Wyler’s face, his concern immediately replaced
by frustration and anger. “What bullshit charge did Samantha cook up this time?”

“She didn’t charge him with anything.”

“What’d she do?” He looked genuinely confused.

“I have terrible news.” Kennicott spoke quickly. He’d done this once before, informed a family about a murder. It was best to be direct. “Your brother Terrance was found dead in his house this morning.”

“Dead?” Wyler’s jaw gaped open.

“He was killed.”

Wyler flinched. His green eyes bulged, then receded. The first shock wave of understanding hit and he stumbled back, as if he’d been smacked in the solar plexus with a two-by-four. “Killed?” He struggled to get the word out.

“I can’t tell you much more right now, but clearly it was murder.”

“Murdered?” Wyler’s breathing was forced. “Terry?”

“The nanny found him.”

“Arceli?” His hands went to his face. “She was at Terry’s house last night. We were all there for dinner. Jason drove her home.”

“This morning when she came to work.”

“Where’s Simon? It’s Terry’s week with the boy.”

“He’s okay. We’ve taken him to the nanny’s apartment.”

“Who did this?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Wyler was nodding. Dazed. “That explains it,” he said. Almost a whisper.

“Explains what, sir?”

Wyler reached down to his belt. Kennicott heard a hard plastic click sound, and a second later Wyler tossed a battered BlackBerry at him.

“Terry and I talk and e-mail about twenty times a day, and I haven’t been able to get him all morning. I figured he was distracted because of the trial starting today.”

Wyler’s eyes were right on Kennicott. Piercing. Looking for answers. “What about Samantha?” he said, anger shoving the shock aside. “Where the hell is the bitch?”

Ted DiPaulo swung his Lexus sedan into the gravel driveway behind Winston Feindel’s Mercedes. The family lawyer’s license plate read
ALIM$
. The front door was open, and Feindel’s ground-floor office was at the front of the house. Samantha Wyler sat on a quilted couch. She wore a short black skirt, a loose-fitting cotton blouse, and a pair of sporty-looking sandals. Her arms were crossed, and she was rocking back and forth. Feindel was at his desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows behind him.

Wyler gazed up at DiPaulo. Her dark hair hung down limp and dirty. She flicked her head to get it out of her face, a nervous tic that he’d noticed the first time they’d met. Her eyes looked tired, her face haggard and exhausted.

Even in her bedraggled state, Samantha was attractive. She had a long neck, broad shoulders, and a full face centered by warm brown eyes. He had learned over the last few weeks that for her, her natural good looks were more of a burden than a blessing.

“Ms. Wyler hasn’t said a word since she came in.” Feindel’s voice was unusually restrained.

“We need to speak alone,” DiPaulo said.

“I anticipated that.” Feindel vaulted from behind his desk. He was a gawky man, all arms and legs. “I’m off to the local Starbucks.” He made the
a
in the coffee shop’s name almost sound like an
o
.

DiPaulo listened to Feindel’s footsteps recede down the hall. When he heard the front door close, he pulled the nearest chair closer to the sofa. Wyler was looking at the floor, rocking harder now. There was a teapot on a side table, and the room had a gentle smell of some exotic tea.

“Sam,” DiPaulo whispered. “We need to talk right away. The police are going to find you in a few minutes.”