Old City Hall (27 page)

“Three blocks up, on Alexis. Half the usual spots are snowed in.”

“And the snowplows? Not one in sight, I bet.”

“Dad,” Greene said, helping his father on with his coat, “let me go get the car and drive around.”

It was an unspoken but faithfully observed Shabbat rule that no one drove right to the synagogue door. Somehow it was okay to drive, just as long as you pretended you didn’t. Greene’s father gave him a sideways look.

“Dad. Let’s just wait a few minutes until the rabbi’s gone. It’s minus twenty out.” The synagogue owned a house on the very same block, which they rented to the rabbi, making it simple for him to get home and back. As Greene’s father liked to say, “Easy for him to preach about not driving on Shabbat, when he can walk home to take a leak.”

A tall younger man came up and slapped Greene’s father on the back. “Good
shabbos
, Mr. Greene,” he said. The man spoke with a trace of an American accent, probably New Jersey or New York, Greene thought.

Greene’s father frowned toward his son. It was the new rabbi. He had been there for a year and was generally despised by the elder members of the congregation. This was not too surprising. It usually took them about five years to break in a new man.

“Good
shabbos
, Rabbi Climans,” he said.

“You’re blessed to have such a loyal son, Mr. Greene,” the rabbi said, then strolled over to another congregant.

His father rolled his eyes in Greene’s direction. “Rabbi Climans? Why is he called Rabbi Climans?” Greene’s father liked to say. “They should call him Rabbi Cliché. What does he think, he’s auditioning for
Fiddler on the Roof
?”

“Where do they find these boring rabbis?” Greene’s father asked as they trudged silently through the white streets, their boots crunching sharply on the cold snow. There was not a trace of wind.

“I don’t know, Dad,” Greene said as he opened the passenger door for his father. The inside of the car was the exact same temperature as outside. So much for preheating it, Greene thought as he put the key in and pushed the reluctant engine to turn over. It finally caught, and they sat, waiting for the engine to warm up. There was no point in trying the heater yet—it would just blast out cold air. He flicked on the wipers, and the cold, dry snow flew off the windshield, which was still covered by a layer of frost.

“How’s your case going?” Greene’s father asked.

Greene shook his head. “Here is what I haven’t worked out yet. I’ve arrested thirty, maybe forty people charged with murder. They all say something when we take them in. Maybe just ‘Fuck off, you cop,’ or ‘I’m not saying anything,’ but they say something. But Brace, not a word. Not one word. I put a guy in his cell, and it’s been almost two months. Not a bloody word.”

“Not a word?” Greene’s father turned his head away. He started to
scratch a small hole through the frost on the inside of his passenger-side window.

When his father grew silent, it was a sign that he was thinking deeply. They’d been discussing his cases like this for years. Greene would come to his father when he was at a crossroads or a dead end. His father’s insights, often so simple, were always useful.

“Brace had his son taken away,” Greene’s dad finally said.

“The boy was autistic,” Greene said. He bent down and flicked on the heater. Freezing-cold air flew out of the vent. He flicked it off. “Back then it was pretty brutal.”

Greene’s father swung his head and looked at his son. “In the camps, often men would not talk for months. Especially when they got bad news.”

Greene nodded. He switched the fan setting to the windshield and cranked it up. The inside of the glass gradually defrosted, slowly opening a round hole, like a fade-in scene in a silent movie.

“He has two girls?” his father asked. “What are their names?”

Greene shrugged. “Amanda and Beatrice,” he said.

His dad nodded. “Very British.” He whispered, “When my first family was murdered, it took me almost a month to say a word.”

Greene nodded. The times his father talked about his first, lost family were few and far between.

“Dad, the chief offered me tickets to the Washington game at the end of this month. Want to come? You’ve never been to the ACC.” The Air Canada Center was the fancy new home of the Toronto Maple Leafs.

“Maybe.”

Greene knew his father would never come. Years ago, before Greene made Homicide, Charlton had given him a pair of tickets to the old Maple Leaf Gardens. His dad had spent a lifetime in Canada watching the Leafs on TV, but he’d never seen a game live.

The evening was a disaster. Greene’s mother was worried about the parking downtown, so they took the subway. At the Eglinton station they got on a crowded car, and as soon as the door closed,
Greene’s father began to sweat. People started to jostle them. His father began to shake.

At the next stop, Davisville, Greene pulled his dad off the car. It was a busy Saturday night, so it took twenty minutes standing in the brutal cold to hail a cab. By the time they got to the Gardens, the first period was almost over. They had to pass through a long tunnel to get to their seats, and halfway through, Greene’s father became panicked. When they emerged into the brightly lit open arena, his father seemed to shrink. At just that moment, the Leafs scored a goal and, in unison, seventeen thousand people stood and cheered. For the first time in his life, Greene saw fear on his father’s face.

Somehow Greene managed to get them to their seats. His father remained glued there for two periods. Even in the intermissions he refused to budge. Halfway through the third period he leaned over and whispered, “I’ve got to piss.”

By that time the Leafs were already losing by three goals. Greene scooped up their jackets and guided his father back through the tunnel and into the men’s room across from the popcorn stand.

The washroom was surprisingly large. The floor was cold tile and the walls were a stained, lackluster green. There were no individual urinals. Instead, the room was dominated by a long, two-sided porcelain trough, where a clutch of men stood on both sides urinating, generating a foaming yellow river of piss. The stench of urine hung heavy in the air.

His father froze. He clutched Greene’s hand like a child. Then he vomited all over himself.

The heater in the car was gradually beginning to warm up, and the frost on the front window was clearing. But the falling snow gathered on the windshield, blocking Greene’s vision again, wrapping them in a foamy white cocoon. The air was dry, and Greene’s skin felt scaly.

“A man doesn’t forget his children,” his father said. “Never.”

M
r. Singh found the lengthening days at the beginning of May to be most agreeable. Especially enjoyable was the early-morning sunlight, which meant that when he rose at 4:13 a.m., he knew the light would soon be upon him. Usually this made him feel very alert. By 5:02, when he was making his way down Front Street toward the Market Place Tower to commence the day’s deliveries, there was just a hint of brightness in the sky.

Still, he felt just the slightest fatigue. Last evening the grandchildren had been over for Sunday dinner. He’d stayed up rather late explaining to Ramesh, his eight-year-old grandson, the principle of liquid displacement. His wife, Bimal, had made a fuss because they’d spilled some water onto the kitchen table. Why such a bother? How else was the boy to learn the principles of physics?

Ramesh was an inquisitive child. “Mommy says you saw a dead person,” he said as Mr. Singh returned a large bowl to its place above the stove.

“Unfortunately, this is true,” Mr. Singh said.

“Do dead people have their eyes opened or closed?” the child inquired.

“It can be either way,” Mr. Singh said.

“What about the dead person you saw?”

As he walked along the south side of Front Street, Mr. Singh
shook his head at the memory of their little talk. The city was very hot for May, and already it was quite warm. Nevertheless, Bimal had insisted he bring his raincoat in case it rained. And because today he was to testify at Mr. Kevin’s preliminary inquiry.

“The air-conditioning might be very strong in the courthouse,” his wife had said.

“That is true,” he agreed. And he would feel uncomfortable going to court without a proper overcoat.

All weekend the newspapers had been filled with stories about Mr. Kevin. Even, it seemed, Mr. Singh’s small grandson was aware of it. But lately the biggest story in the newspaper had been about Toronto’s ice hockey team. Remarkably, they were still playing, even though it was almost summertime.

Many mornings, on the front pages of all four major newspapers were photographs of a helmeted player wearing a blue-and-white jersey, raising his hockey stick in the air, embracing other helmeted players in similar uniforms. And on many nights one could hear vehicles driving up and down the street honking their horns, with young men hanging out of car windows waving blue-and-white flags.

Mr. Singh knew that today Mr. Kevin’s story would be prominent. So he was not surprised when, as he approached the Market Place Tower, he saw a group of reporters at the front door. Mr. Rasheed had kept them out of the lobby. Thank goodness.

It would be best to walk around the crowd, Mr. Singh thought. He was about halfway past them when a man called out, “There’s the guy who found the body.” Suddenly a horde of microphones descended on him.

“Mr. Singh, Mr. Singh, we understand you’re the first witness. Correct?” This was a woman’s voice.

“How does it feel to testify against your former customer?” another female voice demanded.

“I will ask you to kindly excuse me,” Mr. Singh said. The sun was not yet fully up, but it was warm. The reporters were wearing inappropriate clothing for people of their profession. Many of the men wore
T-shirts, shorts, and sandals. And the women. A number had on shirts that revealed parts of their torsos.

Mr. Singh had learned that such a spell of warm weather in Toronto was labeled a heat “wave.” This was in contrast to chilly winter days, which were called cold “snaps.” Why heat should wave and cold should snap, Mr. Singh could not understand.

“I am already two minutes behind with my deliveries,” he said as he stepped around a woman with extremely short hair and colorful glasses who had jumped in front of him.

“But Mr. Singh—,” another reporter started to say.

“Did you not comprehend what I just said?” Mr. Singh asked. “Kindly allow me to pass.”

That seemed to quiet the rabble, and the reporters stood aside. Mr. Singh made his way into the lobby, took out his penknife, and cut the binding off his first stack of newspapers. The papers would be heavier again this week because it was Mother’s Day this weekend. What will these Canadians think of next for their holidays? Mr. Singh wondered.

The reporters were right. He would attend court this morning, and it was his understanding that he would be the very first witness.

Despite himself, he considered the other reporter’s question. How will it feel to testify with Mr. Kevin in the courtroom? He imagined that the whole proceeding would be extremely uncomfortable for Mr. Kevin. Although he was a well-known radio personality who spoke to millions of people each day, Mr. Singh knew that Mr. Kevin was a very private man.

Take for example that terrible morning in December, when Mr. Kevin told Mr. Singh he had killed his wife. He could barely speak. After that, he did not say another word. When Mr. Singh asked if he would like some tea, Mr. Kevin had simply nodded.

The police detective who interviewed him that afternoon and the Crown Attorney who met with him last week had both pressed him to try to remember any other words Mr. Kevin had said. But there was nothing to remember.

Mr. Singh couldn’t understand what was so complicated about this case. Mr. Kevin had said he’d killed Miss Katherine, and she was dead in the bathtub.

An unfortunate circumstance, no doubt. Poor Miss Katherine. So sad for Mr. Kevin. Yes, Mr. Singh thought, it will be most odd to see him again today and not be able to wish him good morning and ask about his beautiful wife.

B
oy Wonder finally delivered his toxicology report,” Jennifer Raglan said to Ari Greene as he walked into her cluttered corner office. She was holding a brown legal-size envelope in her hand, the words
OFFICE OF THE CORONER OF ONTARIO
clearly marked on it. He had a large latte in one hand, which he’d brought for her, and a chamomile tea for himself in the other.

They’d worked out this system on mornings when she’d stayed over at his place. He’d drop her off a few blocks away from the office, and she’d walk in alone. He’d show up sometime later.

“Just-in-time delivery,” Greene said as he put her coffee down on one of the few clear spaces he could find on her desk. “The Kiwi doctor is a busy man, but he always comes through.”

“Thanks,” she said, sipping the coffee. “Fernandez is down the hall, as always. The guy practically sleeps here.”

“Keen, isn’t he?” Greene said, standing across the desk from her.

Raglan exhaled loudly as she pulled a set of reports out of the envelope and began to read. “You have to watch it with young Crowns. They can get caught up. Want to win at all costs. Last thing I need is another Phil Cutter.”

She flipped through the document quickly, with a practiced eye. “Shit,” she said as her fingers traced a passage at the bottom of one of the pages. She tossed it across the desk to him.

Greene read the section marked “Toxicology.” He let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of alcohol in her system at five in the morning. Two point five. Howard Peel, her AA sponsor, said she was back on the juice.”

Raglan bit her lower lip. “This case isn’t the straight shot we thought it was when it came in.”

“They never are,” Greene said, flipping through the medical report. “Look at this,” he said, coming around the desk and standing beside her. “Hospital tests of Torn’s platelet level. Ridiculously low.”

Raglan leaned over to look, putting her hip against his. “Seventeen,” she said. “Isn’t that almost like being a hemophiliac?”