The Guilty Plea (7 page)

“We’re here to see Phil Cutter,” Daniel Kennicott said.

He and Detective Greene were standing at the ultramodern reception desk of the law firm of Cutter & Gild, Specialists in Criminal Law. The thin blond receptionist reached for a sleek phone.

“Gents, it’s been too long,” a voice called from down the hallway before the receptionist could say a word.

Kennicott looked over to see Cutter barreling toward them, his voice booming out ahead of him. As he approached, Kennicott was taken aback by his appearance. For years Phil Cutter and his partner Barb Gild were Crown Attorneys at the Downtown Toronto office, and Cutter was renowned for his cheap suits and squeaky soft-soled shoes. Now he wore a crisp blue Armani suit, matching tie and pocket handkerchief, wingtip loafers.

Cutter grabbed his hand and did the same with Detective Greene. “Recession’s a great time to start a law practice. We tied this place up for five years, option for another five. Landlords were begging for us to come in. And best of all, crime’s way up.”

“Lucky for you,” Greene said. Kennicott saw Greene’s mouth turn in a subtle smirk.

A female voice from down the hall caught Kennicott’s attention. “Ari, Daniel. How are you?”

It was Barb Gild. If Cutter had changed his look from high school vice principal to downtown lawyer, Gild had gone from mousy librarian to high-end fashionista. Gone were her flat shoes, bulky sweaters, greasy hair tied behind her head, and the what-me-wear-makeup look. Now she wore high heels, and a pearl necklace swished across her
patterned silk dress. Her cheeks were dabbed with rouge, and her red hair was a new shade of auburn, expertly coifed.

Gild approached and shook hands.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Cutter had been a hard-nosed prosecutor famous for his take-no-prisoners attitude, his nonstop nervous energy, and his outrageously loud voice. Gild was the office research guru. Last May they were pushed out because of their overzealous efforts to gain a conviction in a murder trial. It had been Greene and Kennicott’s case.

Cutter clapped his hands together and rocked back and forth. The man never could stay still. “I have to show you guys around.”

Gild turned to him and put up both hands, like a hall monitor calming down an overexcited student. “Let’s do it after,” she said. “April’s ready.”

“Mustn’t keep our celebrity client waiting.” Cutter made an effort to lower his voice but wasn’t very successful. “We have this fantastic new espresso machine. I’ll get the receptionist to make you a latte.”

“What happened to your famous coffee thermos?” Greene asked.

Cutter put his head back and let out a guffaw. As a Crown, he loved to brag about raising four kids on his civil servant’s salary, and how he did it with bagged lunches and coffee from home in his battered old thermos.

“I’m in the marketing business now. Follow me to our beautiful boardroom.” He led them down the hall.

Kennicott noticed Cutter’s fancy Armani pants were belted up too high, exposing a pair of cheap beige socks. He caught Greene’s eye. The detective always dressed impeccably, and he could tell Greene had seen them too. He winked at Kennicott.

Goodling sat at the far end of a black-lacquered rectangular table. A heavyset man with almost no neck was seated beside her. The actress stood the moment they came in, making direct eye contact first with Kennicott, then Greene. Her hair, a reddish brown shade that matched her tan complexion, swept back from her forehead and was gathered in a confident ponytail over her left shoulder. She wore a glistening white shirt, with the collar up, under a green cashmere sweater. In her hands was a sheaf of legal papers that she held in front of her body like a
shield. Her face was perfectly proportioned, high cheekbones, stunning eyes, slender nose. It was hard not to stare at her.

For the last decade Kennicott had had an on-again, off-again relationship with a fashion model named Andrea. A year earlier, things had finally ended for good when she moved to Milan to live with a photographer. In all those years, he’d learned what it was like for people who were born with natural beauty. How they developed the instinct to retreat, build their own walls of protection, crave privacy.

“Hello, officers.” Goodling extended her right hand across the table, keeping her paper shield in place with her left. “Barbara and Philip speak highly of both of you.”

“Thanks.” Kennicott let go of Goodling’s hand. Barb and Phil were now Barbara and Philip. He exchanged bemused looks with Greene.

Greene took the seat at the end of the table next to Goodling, and Kennicott sat beside him. Cutter and Gild walked to the other side. Cutter jerked his head, and the bodyguard got up and stood behind Goodling.

Taking his time, Greene opened his notebook, took out a micro-recorder, and placed it on the table. “You don’t mind if I record this?” he asked Cutter.

“Not at all,” Cutter said.

Greene checked his watch. “It’s five minutes after eleven, Monday, August sixteenth. This is Homicide Detective Ari Greene. I’m here with Officer Daniel Kennicott at the offices of defense counsels Ms. Barbara Gild and Mr. Philip Cutter. They are here with their client Ms. April Goodling and …” He nodded toward the no-neck bodyguard. “Sir, your name?”

“Bluin. Pete Bluin.”

“Thank you,” Greene said. “We’re investigating the murder of Terrance Wyler.”

Kennicott was watching Goodling. As Wyler’s name was spoken, he saw her shoulders twitch.

“I want it clear from the top,” Cutter said, his usually loud voice restrained and sober, “that earlier this morning, acting on our client’s instructions, I contacted Detective Greene and arranged this meeting.”

“That’s correct,” Greene said. “Question number one,” Cutter asked. “Is my client a suspect?”

“Not at this time. We’re at the early stages,” Greene said. “That’s why we want to speak to her.”

“April won’t make any statements at this meeting.” Cutter’s usually nervous body was calm, focused on Greene. Kennicott had seen Cutter like this in court, where his intensity could intimidate even the most confident witness.

Greene didn’t look fazed.

“Barbara, pass out copies of our prepared statements,” Cutter said. “April already has hers.” He didn’t take his eyes off Greene.

Gild had a small stack of bound papers in front of her. She gave copies to Greene and Kennicott and Cutter and kept one for herself. Goodling fingered the copy in front of her.

“These sworn affidavits demonstrate Ms. Goodling’s complete cooperation with this investigation.” Cutter leafed through the papers. “They’re from the night desk manager at the Gladstone Hotel, from the head of security operations there, and from Mr. Peter Bluin.” He pointed at the muscle-bound man standing behind Goodling. “Mr. Bluin is Ms. Goodling’s personal security guard. Between the hours of ten p.m. on Sunday evening, August sixteenth, and eight a.m. on Monday morning, August seventeen, Ms. Goodling was at the hotel and never left. She has a complete alibi.”

Greene read through the legal papers slowly. “Ms. Goodling,” he said, putting the pages down, “where were you earlier in the day yesterday? Before you got back to the hotel.”

Kennicott thought she was about to speak when Cutter sliced his arm down in front of her, as if he were lowering a barrier.

“My client insisted on being here today. Against our advice, I might add. She was supposed to leave early this morning, but stayed. She’s going back to the States tonight. We both know she’s not legally required to answer any questions. I repeat, she’ll make no statements.”

“I’ve every right to question her.” Greene was calm. “Whether she wants to answer me or not, that’s her decision.”

“This meeting’s over,” Cutter said.

Ignoring Cutter, Greene turned to Goodling. “We solve crimes because citizens help. Here’s my card. Call me.” He clicked his pen and wrote down a number. “That’s my personal cell. It’s always on.”

Greene held out the card and she took it. He took out another card
and turned it over. “Now write your cell number for me. I’ll never show it to anyone, but I’ll put it in my contacts. When you call me your name will pop up and I’ll know it’s you.”

When
you call me, Kennicott thought. His murdered brother, Michael, had been a master salesman. “I always use the word ‘when,’” he once told Kennicott. “That way a customer is already past the ‘if’ stage.”

No one spoke. Greene clicked his pen twice. Goodling took it and wrote out her number.

“Thanks.” Greene reached for his tape recorder.

Cutter covered his hand with a meaty paw. “I assume you’re satisfied with the affidavit material,” he said.

Greene jerked his arm back and clicked off the recorder. “Assume nothing. I expected more from you, Phil.”

The conference-room door opened, and the blond receptionist walked in with a tray. Five frothy-looking cappuccinos jiggled on top. She put them gently on the table.

“We don’t need them.” Greene turned to Goodling. “I thought that after you’d been with Terrance for a year, perhaps you cared about him.”

“Of course I did,” she said.

Cutter jumped to his feet. “No statements.” This was the real Phil Cutter now, Kennicott thought. Tough and hard. So much for putting on a smooth show for his big-name client.

“I’d never heard of Terrance Wyler until this morning,” Greene said to Goodling. “I didn’t know much about you either until Officer Kennicott put together some articles for me to read.”

“Tabloid trash,” she said.

“No more questions,” Cutter said, his voice half a growl.

Goodling was staring straight at Greene. “Our anniversary was in two weeks.” She pulled on her perfect ponytail.

“April, don’t answer him.” It was Barb Gild. She was on her feet now too. Her thin lips were tight.

“Why were you leaving the morning of his divorce trial?”

“I didn’t want to be a distraction,” Goodling said.

“April, we discussed this,” Gild said in a stern voice.

Something must have connected, because Goodling turned to her lawyers. “Okay,” she said.

“Now there’s no divorce trial, there’s nothing for you to distract,” Greene persisted. “Weren’t you friendly with his son, Simon?”

Goodling flushed. “I love Simon.”

“April,” Gild said.

“A few hours from now I’m taking that little boy into a studio at police headquarters so he can tell me on tape what happened last night,” Greene said. “Then his family gets to tell him that his daddy is dead. If you care about the boy, why aren’t you staying to support him?”

Goodling’s mouth gaped open. “Who are you to question me like this?”

Greene grabbed his notebook from the table. “I’m a homicide detective. A child has lost his father and it means nothing to you.” He pushed his chair back and started toward the door.

Kennicott got up to follow.

“How can you say that?” For the first time Goodling looked angry. “You don’t understand what—”

“April,” Gild shouted. “No.”

Greene stormed back to the table. “A poor kid gets shot in one of the tough parts of the city, Jane and Finch or Rexdale. When no one talks to the police, all we hear is how awful ‘these’ people are who won’t cooperate with the authorities. You tell me how you’re any damn different?”

Goodling was shaking her head.

“What’s your excuse? There’s no gang member lying in wait for you because you ratted out his friend. Silence kills,” Greene said. “Believe me, I know.”

“That’s enough,” Cutter bellowed at Greene.

“No, it isn’t. I’m just getting started.” Greene grew calm. He glared at Cutter. “There’s a fine line between advising your client and obstructing police.”

“You threatening me?” Cutter said.

“I’m watching you two like a hawk.” He nodded at Gild before he turned to the actress. “You’re going to talk to me, Ms. Goodling. You know it and I know it. Because it’s the right thing to do. Your high-priced legal help can advise you all they want. You have my number now. I expect to hear from you.”

He spun back around, strode out, and slammed the door behind
him so hard that the frothy cappuccinos shuddered. Bits of white foam flew across the table.

“Quick, get a cloth,” Cutter shouted at the receptionist.

Kennicott made for the door after Greene. He grabbed the handle and stole one last glance at Goodling. She was sliding Greene’s business card into her purse, like a child hiding a candy from her parents.

For Jennifer Raglan, this was an odd moment. Walking back into her old office for the first time in two months. Until June, she’d been the head Crown for five stress-filled years. She’d loved it and hated it. Mostly loved it.

“Jennie, thanks so much for coming,” Ralph Armitage said with a nervous laugh, sitting up in her old chair. Armitage had been a camp counselor and had the annoying habit of giving everyone nicknames that ended in the
ee
sound. “Feels odd to be sitting behind
your
desk.”

“Feels good to me,” Raglan said.

Armitage was a tall man, and even seated he dominated the room. Her old desk was spotless, in stark contrast to the usual clutter of files that always topped it when she worked there. The framed photo of Raglan’s three kids, which used to adorn the credenza on the back wall, had been replaced by an array of pictures of Armitage and his very blond and equally tall wife on various athletic vacations—skiing in Switzerland, horseback riding in New Mexico, scuba diving in Belize. All the things couples without children could afford.

It was hot in the room. The office faced east, and the morning sun slanted in. An old air-conditioning unit that rattled away in the corner window was better at making noise than delivering cool air. Despite the heat, Armitage wore a full suit, tie done right up.

Ari Greene, in a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, stood calmly a few steps off to the right. His usual spot, slightly removed, everything in clear view. He carried his ever-present thin leather briefcase in his hand. Their eyes met for a moment and she flashed him a quick smile. Raglan hadn’t seen him since June, and Greene’s skin had a deep, tempting tan. Despite herself, she thought about his shoulders.
Their first kiss had been in this office, right about where he was standing now.