Stray Bullets (39 page)

“Thanks. You need anything?”

He made sure there was no one in earshot. “I’m also a police officer. Working on a homicide case. I wonder if you would help me for a minute.”

Severino swiveled and surveyed the area around the table.

“Don’t worry,” Kennicott said, “no one here’s in trouble.”

“Thanks for being discreet.” Severino sat.

“Always. I’m going to show you a picture. Let me know if this person is familiar.”

Severino’s eyes darted around the restaurant again before he looked back at the table, where Kennicott had laid out the
Toronto Star
story from a few months ago about Ralph Armitage, with a big picture of him.

“The tall blond guy,” Severino said without a moment’s hesitation.

“You recognize him?”

“Yeah. He’s been here before.”

Kennicott could feel his heartbeat speed up. Keep calm, he told himself. “Do you know how often?”

“Three times.”

“Any reason you remember him.”

Severino laughed. “Tall, blond, white guy in a business suit. Not our usual clientele.”

“Who’d he come in with?”

“First time, a short, bald guy in a suit too. Guy had a real big head, like a bowling ball. Looked like they were arguing, so I kept an eye on their table.”

That would be Dewey Booth’s lawyer, Phil Cutter, Kennicott thought. “And after that?”

“Second time he met a skinny, short guy named Pedro. Pedro came to work for me after their first meeting.”

“He did?”

“Showed up a few days later. Kid spoke about ten languages. Said he’d wait on tables for free and live off his tips. I hired him on the spot.”

“How long did he work for you?’

“About ten days. The women loved him. Guy made a fortune.”

“Can you describe him to me?”

“Like I said. Short, thin. Skin color like me. He was from Brazil. Real thick accent.”

“Facial hair?”

“He had a twirly little mustache. Wore dark-framed glasses. Girls said he looked like Johnny Depp.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Oh yeah. He had this funny little birthmark on the side of his face.”

Kennicott pulled out the composite sketch of Ozera and showed it to Severino. “Recognize him?”

He didn’t hesitate. “That’s Pedro. No mustache and glasses, but it’s him. See the mark?”

Unbelievable, Kennicott thought. Here he and Greene were busting their asses to try to find Ozera, and Armitage had met with him before the trial started. And never disclosed this to anyone. Greene was going to have a fit when he found out.

Francesca the waitress arrived with the two bottles of beer. Severino plunked them off her tray. Kennicott reached into his pocket for some money, but the manager waved him off.

“You have an employment file on him?” Kennicott asked, once Francesca was out of earshot. “Address? Social security number?”

Severino pulled out a white towel that was looped around his belt and wiped down the chair by his side. “Come on, officer. What do you think? Look around—half the people in here are illegals. Working their balls off. Construction. Paving. Building the whole fucking city. You try running a business in this town. Bylaws for everything. I get charged twenty-five bucks for every stupid garbage bag we put out on the sidewalk.”

“So you’ve got nothing on this guy?”

“Nada. He worked for tips. And one day Mr. Blondie came back in. Looked like they fought again, and then Mr. Suit stormed out.”

“What did this Pedro say about it?”

Severino shrugged. His focus had shifted back to other tables, like a searchlight that had temporarily paused, then started up again. “He said the guy was a demanding customer and a lousy tipper. Pedro didn’t show up the next day and that was it.”

This Ozera was a slippery fish, Kennicott thought. He seemed to be able to talk himself into any kind of job. Especially when it had something to do with serving food. He’d tell Greene about this too as soon as he got home.

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

Severino stood. Anxious to get back to the work. “Guy could sell ice to the Eskimos. Talk his way into anything. I’d hire him again in a heartbeat. You still drink Moretti, eh?”

“Still?”

“I remember,” Severino said. “You and your model girlfriend drank it here Saturday afternoons.” He pointed to the food stand, where a small crowd had gathered around Andrea.” I see her picture now on the cover of all the fashion magazines the girls bring in.”

Kennicott put a five-dollar bill on the table.

Severino hovered for a moment. “Hope you don’t mind my asking, but they never found the guy who killed your brother, did they?”

Kennicott took a sip of his beer. It was cold and good. “Not yet,” he said.

“Don’t be a stranger. You’re welcome here anytime. With or without your model girlfriend.”

Ari Greene’s most vivid memory of Victoria Day had to be when he was in grade seven. He and some friends rode their bikes through the city as dusk settled in, the spring trees in bloom everywhere around them. They took over a patch of ground on the steep hill at Earl Bales Park among the crowd filing in for the fireworks display. A few kids had brought blankets, which they spread out on the tilted lawn. Somehow in the jumble of people Karen O’Hara ended up sitting beside him. Very close.

Although there had been some debate among the grade-seven boys as to whether O’Hara or Lane Wilson was the prettiest girl in class, there’d been no question at all that she had the best body. It was a remarkable thing, and Greene had spent a good deal of the school year sneaking looks at her from many different angles.

She was smart and friendly, one of those people who touched you on the shoulder when she talked. He always felt comfortable around her, but he’d never been this close. Especially on a blanket, with the late-spring darkness falling all around them.

“Ooooh.” “Ahhh.” “Wow.” The crowd reacted as one to every burst of color in the blackened sky when the fireworks display began.

“They’re so beautiful,” O’Hara said after a particularly spectacular one.

Tongue-tied, Greene could only nod. He felt her hand slide into his. Perspiration erupted across his skin and all he could think of was how sticky his fingers must have felt. She’d angled her body and rubbed against him. The only light was the sporadic flashes of color in the sky. She moved his palm over to her flat stomach, then upward. Rising.

There was a dryness in his mouth that he’d never felt before as she brought his hand to her breast.

“Detective Greene, Mr. Wilkinson, great of you both to come,” Ralph Armitage said, extending his large hand, a huge grin pasted in place. They’d just stepped onto the backyard stone patio.

Greene shook his hand. He’d read about the Armitage estate, which was always described in various articles as “vast” or “sprawling,” but
looking down into the valley, the sheer scale of it took him by surprise. There was nothing but trees for as far as the eye could see. Below, a gigantic gazebo had been set up, as well as tents, a playground, and even a set of bleachers. More than a dozen buses were parked over to the side. Piles of children poured out of them, amazed that they’d been transported to this wonderland.

“I wanted to thank you personally for all the work you did on the case,” Wilkinson said to Armitage.

Right on script, Greene thought. Just as they’d practiced on the drive up here.

“I’m sure Albert Fernandez will do a great job on the retrial,” Armitage said. “Don’t you think so, detective?”

“Absolutely.” Greene pointed to the cascade of children running into the backyard. “Every Canadian kid has great memories of Victoria Day.”

“We’ve brought in more than a thousand children this year,” Armitage said. “I’d love you to meet my wife, Penny. She’s down below, the woman with the clipboard. You wouldn’t believe how much work goes into all of this. A million details. And something always goes wrong.”

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Two minutes ago she called me all in a panic because some new waiter had shown up. I told her relax, we can use all the help we can get.”

A waiter, Greene thought, recalling a conversation he’d had with Daniel Kennicott yesterday. “We’ll keep an eye out for your wife,” he said.

“Great. Grab your seats in the bleachers. I’ve reserved spots for you in the first row.”

“Thanks,” Greene said.

“Penny’s got me working up here as the official greeter. Awotwe Amankwah from the
Star
told me he’s coming and I want say hello, but I’ll be there before the fireworks start.

Greene had worked closely with Armitage for months. It was hard to tell if the man was nervous. He was always so smooth, but something about him seemed off. Even more forced than usual. Maybe he had a hunch that there might be another kind of fireworks tonight.

The air was warmer in the valley, and there was only a thumbnail of a moon on the horizon. Wilkinson walked beside him. Greene could see his eyes were fixed on the children at play.

Dusk came slowly near the end of May, adding a touch of magic to late-spring Canadian nights. They took their seats on the bottom
row of the bleachers. Penny Armitage was impossible to miss. Tall and willowy, she flitted about chatting with everyone, ticking notes off on her clipboard. The bleachers behind them filled up with guests, the grass on both sides with children. Greene scanned the crowd. He saw Awotwe Amankwah walking in with his two kids and waved.

“Welcome, everyone, welcome,” Ralph Armitage said, stepping onto the pieces of plywood flooring that had been placed on the ground as a temporary stage. A few spotlights had been set up, and he had a microphone in hand.

“I am thrilled to welcome everyone to the twenty-fifth annual Armitage Family Victoria Day Celebration.”

An enthusiastic roar went up from the crowd of children.

“Fireworks start in about five minutes,” he said. “But first I want to say a special word of thanks to my amazing wife, Penny, who’s spent countless hours putting this all together.”

Penny walked tentatively into the light and took the microphone. The clipboard was still in her other hand. “Thanks, Ralph,” she said, her voice quavering. “I’m not a public speaker like my husband, but I just want to thank the whole Armitage family so, so, so, much. My wonderful sisters-in-law, I couldn’t have done this without you. Ralph’s parents, Bill and Sandra. You’re the greatest.”

Another cheer went up from the crowd.

Penny passed the microphone back to her husband and looked relieved to go to the back of the stage.

Greene touched Wilkinson on the shoulder. “I think you should go up and introduce yourself to Penny Armitage.”

“Okay,” he said.

Greene watched him walk up to the side of the stage. Even though Wilkinson had lost so much weight, he still lumbered along like a big man.

Armitage took the mike back from Penny. “Are you kids ready?” he shouted in full camp counselor mode.

“Yes!” a chorus of children screamed back.

“No?” he asked theatrically.

“Yes!” the kids yelled louder.

Greene had heard “Ralphie” had spent years being a camp counselor, and you could see why he’d been good at it. He looked genuinely happy.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes!” The voices were almost hysterical.

“Okay. Without any further ado,” he said, “let the show begin.”

Wilkinson came into the light by the back of the stage. Armitage saw him and rushed over, extending his hand in his usual greeting. Greene watched him tap Penny on the shoulder and direct her attention to Wilkinson.

Penny’s vibrant smile turned sad. She touched Wilkinson on the shoulder with compassion. It was easy to read her lips. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry for your loss,” she said.

Wilkinson nodded with the fatigue of a longtime mourner.

A small man in a black and white waiter’s uniform popped onto the back of the lit stage. He had a tray in one hand with a few glasses of water on it. No one noticed him.

Greene stood up.

The waiter came up behind the three of them. He said something to Ralph Armitage, but Greene couldn’t see his lips.

It didn’t matter.

Because he saw Ralph Armitage’s face fall when he turned to look at the short man.

And Greene knew.

Every night for the last month, Ralph Armitage had had nightmares about this moment. Two days before, when he read that front-page article in the Saturday
Toronto Star
, his sense of impending doom had heightened to the point where he couldn’t sleep at all. He’d told Penny it was because of his excitement about the big party, combined with the St. Clair trial starting up. How could he say to her, “I can’t sleep because at any moment I could be arrested?”

And now it was happening. He was watching Detective Greene’s mouth move; the words seemed unreal. But he could feel Greene’s hand on his arm, couldn’t he?

“You have the right to remain silent,” the homicide detective was saying.

Armitage felt himself nod. But it seemed like someone else. Penny was clutching him. Digging her fingers into his arm.

“You have the right to retain a lawyer.” Greene kept talking. Blah, blah, blah. Like I don’t know my legal rights, Armitage thought.

Greene had waited until the lights were turned off on the stage to arrest him. The fireworks were exploding above them. The whole thing had happened so fast. But slowly, in a weird way.

“I’m the baker. The witness you’ve been looking for,” Ozera had told Greene moments before. “You arrested the wrong man.”

“Why’s that?” Greene asked.

Ozera looked right at Wilkinson. “I saw everything. Dewey was the shooter. When Larkin saw he was about to fire at Jet and Suzanne, he knocked Dewey’s hand away. He probably saved Jet’s life. Suzanne’s too. But Dewey slipped, and that’s why the bullet hit your son.”

“And the other shots?” Greene asked.

“Dewey kept firing as he fell. One shot went into the ground. He rolled over and the next one went in the other direction, into the building across the lot.”

“What about the bullet behind where you were standing?” Greene asked.