Old City Hall (5 page)

For the last few months Marissa had been complaining. “Albert, you leave too early every morning,” she’d said. “And home so late.”

“It’s important,” he’d explained to her. “To get ahead in the Crown’s office, I need to work harder than everyone else.”

“But your wife needs you too,” she’d insisted.

She does need me, Fernandez thought as her lips parted and she took him in. Their bodies began to move in rhythm, her black hair waving on the white sheet. He could smell the sweetness of her. Close your eyes, he told himself, and enjoy the moment.

It was 6:39 when he zipped up his pants, too late for sure for the early parking. In the kitchen the preset coffee had been sitting for almost ten minutes. It would be stale by now, but there wasn’t time to make a fresh brew. He pulled out his old glass vacuum thermos and filled it. As bad as the coffee would taste, it would be miles better than the horrible stuff at the Crown’s office.

At the front door of their apartment he picked up the
Toronto Star.
He scanned the paper for the only news he really cared about: Had there been a murder last night? A picture of Toronto hockey players raising their sticks in victory dominated the front page, and a quick flip through confirmed the bad news. No one in the whole city had been killed. It had been four weeks without a murder. What a time for a dry spell, Fernandez thought as he slammed the newspaper down.

For the last five years he had worked his way up the ladder at the Crown’s office. His plan had been deliberate. Arrive first, leave last, every day. Always be perfectly prepared and well dressed. Get to know the judges—secreted in a bottom drawer of his desk was a set of index
cards with the peculiarities and preferences of each judge carefully noted in his fine handwriting.

And win cases.

His hard work had paid off. A month ago, the head Crown, Jennifer Raglan, called him into her corner office.

“Albert,” she said, shifting a large stack of files off her ever-crowded desk, “I know you’re itching to prosecute a homicide.”

“I’m happy to take whatever comes my way,” he said.

Raglan smiled. “You’ve earned a shot. Pretty impressive for someone just five years out. Next murder has your name on it.”

Now, down in the basement garage, as he waited for his old Toyota to warm up, he slid his black leather driving gloves out from their special compartment.

Just before he left the bed, Marissa had whispered to him in English, “That was second base. Tonight we will make home run.”

“We will
hit
a home run,” he’d whispered back.

“Hit home run. But make love?”

“That’s right.”

“Your English is so strange.”

It will be worth running home tonight, Fernandez thought as he pulled on the gloves and slammed the car into gear. Now all I need is an overnight murder, and except for that overbrewed coffee, this will be a perfect morning.

T
hey sure as fuck never taught this in law school, Nancy Parish thought as she struggled to pull on her second pair of panty hose of the morning, having ripped to shreds the first one just minutes before. Opening the door of the nearby closet, she couldn’t help but catch herself in the full-length mirror, the only one in her tiny semidetached home. Now, there’s a lovely sight first thing in the morning, she thought: a single woman pushing forty in nothing but panty hose.

Parish looked over at her ancient answering machine. Every night she had the calls from her office forwarded to her home number. When she was a keen young defense lawyer, she’d answered calls in the middle of the night, but a few years earlier she had started turning the volume off before she went to sleep.

The “message waiting” light flashed “7.” Seven bloody calls, and I haven’t even had a cup of coffee. You jerk, Henry, she thought, this is all your fault.

Last month her ex-husband, a show producer at
The Dawn Treader
, Kevin Brace’s popular morning radio program, had talked her into coming on as a guest on a panel called “Single Professional Women: Are They Happy?”

Only me, she thought. What an idiot. Let your ex get you to babble to the whole country about how you’re eating scrambled eggs alone for dinner on Saturday nights. Henry had warned her to watch
what she said. But did she listen? She completely forgot that more than a million people were out there, and Brace was so damn charming. Finally, after the scrambled eggs, she’d blurted out: “Men are afraid to have sex with a woman who earns more money than they do.”

That was it. For days her answering machine had been filled with calls from guys from all over Canada and the northern United States saying they were prepared to overcome their fears. Even a few women had called. Unbelievable.

Parish looked at the floor, where she’d tossed her new leather boots last night before she crawled into bed. Damn it, she thought. A thin white line of road salt had formed a ring about two inches above the heel. She shook her head. Last September she had finally gone to the trouble of buying boots early in the season, and she’d paid full price because
this
winter she wanted a pair that looked good. The voice of the persnickety shoe salesman who’d sold her the darn things—and then sold her all the overpriced leather conditioners—rang in her ears.

“Spray them tonight when you get home, with this,” he’d said, lifting a small can that cost $19.99. “Wait twenty-four hours and do it again, then coat them with this.” He held up a bottle with some brown liquid gunk in it. That cost only $12.99. “Use this once a week.”

“Wait twenty-four hours, then once a week,” Parish said, pointing to the two jars while she added the tax in her head. Neat, she thought. This is my ritual initiation into a secret society of people who actually know how to take care of their winter boots: SLOBS—the Salt-free Leather Only Boots Sisterhood.

“And every night, wipe them down with a cloth dipped in plain vinegar,” the salesman said. “No water. Water just pushes the salt farther into the leather.”

“No water,” she promised.

“Shoe trees are vital. Put them in within five minutes of taking the boots off, while they’re still warm.”

“Five minutes,” she pledged. The shoe trees cost another $33.00. Not including tax.

What a waste of money, she’d thought a month later. The weather in October and November had been warm, and she forgot about them. Then there was a cold snap and sudden snowfall at the beginning of December. By that time she couldn’t remember where she’d put the stupid spray and leather conditioner, and when she finally found them, she couldn’t remember which one was the twenty-four-hour and which one was the weekly thing.

Looks like my membership in SLOBS has expired, Parish thought as she tossed the boots back on the floor, making yet another mental note to remember to buy plain vinegar next time she went shopping. The only vinegar she had in the house was balsamic.

That would make a good cartoon, she thought, wondering where she’d left her sketchbook. A well-dressed couple are searching through the cupboards of their modern kitchen. “Darn it, Gwyneth,” the man is saying to his wife, “the kids have got into the balsamic. Again.”

With her bare elbow she hit the Play button, and the first message came on.

Beep. “Hello, Ms. Parish, you don’t know me, but I’m looking for a lawyer for my son. We don’t have any money, but I heard you were good and that you take legal aid . . .”

She smacked the Skip button with her fist and stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was still wet from the shower, so she started to towel it dry while she wrote up a mental report card of her naked self.

Hair: One of her best features. Still thick and bouncy. Down to her shoulders. She could get away with the length, but for how much longer? Last winter a drunk guy at an après-ski party in Whistler told her she had great “Give me a blow job” hair. Right. That trip cost more than two thousand dollars, and she never even got kissed.

Next message:
Beep. “Hi, Nancy. It’s James again. You were right, I should have stayed away from Lucy, but well, you know. I’m at 55 Division. No more Form 10s. They’re holding me this time. I’ll be in 101 bail court this morning at the Hall . . .”
She hit the Skip button.

Face: She had always been “attractive” but rarely beautiful. Her skin was good, but it didn’t gleam the way it used to. Back when she
and Henry were living the young couple high life, one night at the Symphony Opening Night Ball an older man asked her to dance. “You have such wonderful skin,” he said. “You won’t need to wear makeup until you’re in your forties.” She was turning thirty-eight next month, and she rarely ventured out without at least some blush on.

Next message:
Beep. “Nancy Gail, your father and I are going to be downtown on Wednesday night for the ballet, and, well, I know it’s corny as heck, but we were wondering if you would like to come with us and look at the Christmas windows at the Bay . . .”
Skip.

Neck and shoulders: Her best feature. Guys are idiots, so obsessed with tits and asses. But think Audrey Hepburn, think Grace Kelly. Those long necks that go on forever, those shoulders that could cut glass.

Beep. “Ms. Parish, this is Brenda Crawford from the Law Society of Upper Canada. We’re still awaiting your response from our request for your updated accounting ledger. As you know, if you do not respond within . . .”

“Fuck,” she said, and smacked the Skip button with her fist.

Breasts: Not bad still, she thought, raising her arms in the air. Especially if you squint your eyes a bit. Nose: She hated noses. Take any woman in the world. Say, Julia Roberts. Beautiful, right? Now look at her nose. Stare at it. In a few seconds her whole face turns ugly.

Beep. “Hi, it’s me. What about the Dominican?”

“Zelda,” Parish muttered to herself, shaking her head. Zelda Evinrude, her best friend, was on a mission to improve Parish’s sex life.

“Expedia’s got a special deal if we leave before Christmas. Beats going home and being bored at your parents’ place. Those Dominican boy toys look awful cute.” Beep.

Parish took a step closer to the mirror. From there you could see her nose had a small bump right in the middle.

Beep. “You don’t know me, but I heard you on the radio the other . . .”

“No more,” she screamed.

There was just one call left.

Beep. “Ms. Parish, it’s Detective Ari Greene, homicide squad. The
time now is seven fourteen a.m., December 17. Could you please meet me at police headquarters at your earliest possible convenience? It’s in regards to your client, Mr. Kevin Brace. He’s given us your card.”

Homicide squad.

Kevin Brace.

Shit.

Parish took one last look in the mirror, grabbed her salt-stained boots, and dashed to her clothes closet.

D
aniel Kennicott didn’t own a car. He didn’t need one, as he lived and worked downtown. And after his parents’ accident, he tried to avoid driving whenever he could.

It was almost eight years ago. His mother and father were doing their regular Friday-night drive up north. Like clockwork, they left the city every week at eight p.m. They were five miles away from the family cottage when a drunk driver swerved across the two-lane highway and hit them head-on. The guy was barely hurt. Kennicott’s parents died on impact.

Hard to tell what was more frustrating. A brother murdered, the case unsolved, or his parents killed by an irresponsible jerk. The guy was tossed into jail for a few years. Did it really matter? The end result was the same. His family wiped out.

Kennicott was driving Detective Greene’s car, which maneuvered easily through the light early-morning Toronto traffic. It was an aging Oldsmobile, not quite in keeping with the buttoned-down image of a homicide detective. A few years back, when Greene first started working on his brother’s case, Kennicott had asked the detective about his old car.

“Safest vehicle on the road,” Greene had said. “Made of real steel. Wide carriage. You couldn’t flip it with a bulldozer.”

And the thing has a lot of power, Kennicott thought as he gunned it past a streetcar. He was in a race against time. Twenty minutes earlier
Greene had come into Brace’s apartment and, after a cursory look around, handed Kennicott the keys to the Olds.

“I need you to get up to King City fast,” he’d said. “That’s where the victim’s parents live. She was an only child. Try to get there before this thing hits the news.”

Telling a family that their loved one is dead was one of the hardest things about being a cop. At police college they trained you: Make eye contact to establish trust; speak with confidence, hesitation will only heighten anxiety; use simple language because people respond negatively to jargon. Don’t talk too much.

Kennicott remembered when Greene gave him the news about his brother, Michael. He was in the office of Lloyd Granwell, the senior lawyer who’d recruited him to the firm. They were in a big tower on Bay Street that overlooked Old City Hall. Granwell, who knew absolutely everyone, had called Hap Charlton, the chief of police. Then they’d waited. It was excruciating. The Old City Hall clock had just finished striking nine when Granwell’s secretary walked in.

“There’s someone to see you in the lobby, Mr. Kennicott.” From her downcast look, Kennicott knew it wasn’t good. He walked out and saw a tall, well-dressed man with a maroon notebook in his hand. His heart sank.

“Hi, Mr. Kennicott, I’m Detective Greene from the Toronto Police,” the man said. “Is there a quiet place where we can talk?”

Looking back now, Kennicott could see how Greene had been very professional. He’d made direct eye contact; kept his voice soft, steady; used simple, straightforward language. Never looked away. And said he was from the Toronto Police, not Toronto Homicide.

Kennicott got past the streetcar and slid over the tracks. The Olds had a comfortable solidity about it. He turned on the old-fashioned radio to see if the story was out yet. A news announcer came on, speaking in French. He changed the channel. Another French station.