The wrong-way V had been placed on the far side of the man in the green suit. MacNeice stood over it as he took in the scene. He scanned the buildings along the lane and counted two security cameras, the closest almost twenty feet from the bodies.
“Wallets?” he said, turning to his detectives.
“Mister Slick here is Paolo DeSouza, thirty-four, from Grey’s Road in Secord, with six hundred bucks in his wallet.” Vertesi waved the second of three evidence bags. “This guy is Gary Grant — no joke — registered at the same address. He’s got fifty bucks and some change.” He showed MacNeice a set of car keys in the third bag. “Brand-new Range Rover. It’s parked in front of the convenience store on the other side of the block. It’s clean, except for a small teddy bear in the back seat.”
“Gary Grant.” MacNeice shook his head. Judging by the look of him, he would have guessed he was a buddy or a butch — the kind of guy who if he had a real name, only his mom knew it. He had stubborn short-cropped hair that looked ready-made for a motorcycle helmet.
“Who was carrying the keys?” MacNeice asked.
“Grant. We figure Paolo’s a pimp and Gary’s his muscle.”
Wrong again, MacNeice thought. Grant was driving a Range Rover. If he’d been a buddy, he’d be tooling around in a Mustang.
“We gave the names to Vice. Someone will be calling us back any minute,” said Williams.
“And these security cameras?” MacNeice squatted over the V.
“That far one isn’t working, but the closer one does.” Williams pointed to the camera above the rear entrance to a drugstore. “The control unit’s locked in a cabinet inside the pharmacy. The owner has the key and should be here soon.”
“What do you make of it, Mac?”
“I think he’s telling us that this isn’t like the others, but he also wants us to know it’s him. He doesn’t want us to waste precious resources trying to find another suspect. Which is very thoughtful, if I’m right.”
“We spend our lives hunting down killers and this guy leaves his calling card to tell us he did it?” Williams scratched his head. “Is he playing us?”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. Maybe he’s concerned about his legacy. And for whatever reason, he doesn’t want these two to be counted as part of that.” MacNeice knew he was reading a lot into a V. “Or he was just distracted and overlooked this detail.”
“No way. I like your first idea. This guy doesn’t make mistakes,” said Vertesi.
Williams’s cellphone rang; he glanced at the call display and moved farther down the lane. In two minutes he was back. “We nailed it.” Pointing at the bodies in turn, he said, “Pimp. Bodyguard. They’ve got a front called Exotic Escorts. Vice sergeant Meg Lundstrom says DeSouza’s small-time.” He closed his eyes to recall her exact words. “He runs four girls — quality product for hotel and home visits. Mostly deals with businessmen, academics, and women.” Williams raised his eyebrows. “Gary’s there for show.”
Vertesi looked down at Gary Grant’s twisted body. “Paolo shoulda paid for a bigger show.”
“Two men, two weapons.” MacNeice turned his attention to DeSouza. “This one’s nose — cartilage and bone — was driven into his brainpan with no additional trauma to his face. That was probably hand-delivered with force and speed by someone who knew it would be fatal. And the bodyguard Grant was crippled before that thick neck of his was broken. You don’t break a man’s neck before breaking his leg. Again, force and speed, and no rounds fired, even though we know our man favours well-placed chest shots.”
Farther up the lane, a door swung open and a middle-aged man stepped out. “Sirs, I am Aarush Patel, owner and pharmacist of Patel Chemists. I have opened the security cupboard and you are welcome to review the recording now.”
MacNeice’s cellphone rang. “Get it set up; I’ll be right there.” He waited for them to go inside before answering the call. It was Wallace.
“Did you watch the press conference?”
“No, but I saw a muted recap of it at St. Joe’s.”
“How is she?”
“She’ll be fine in time.”
“Good, good. Glad to hear it.” Wallace was distracted. “Look, Mac, this thing isn’t going away.” The media questions had been quite detailed. Why was Palmer being transferred back to First Division? What disciplinary actions were taken against him? Did they know of any more “illicit affairs”? When was Palmer’s absence flagged and who was delegated to deal with that? Was lethal force necessary, and if so, why wasn’t the Tactical Unit called in? How was Palmer killed? What did the police know about the Galanis family? They also inquired about Aziz’s condition and asked if the case had anything to do with the other homicides.
“They’ve been busy.” MacNeice was wading through the flood of words, searching for the point of the call.
“They’ve only just begun. Here’s the thing: I’m going to be absolutely honest but I’m not going to lay it down in front of them. So far I’ve answered all those questions truthfully. I’ve said that Palmer was disciplined once for his police work, but what he did with another consenting adult on his own time was his business alone, not the DPD’s. I know the union is with me on that point.”
“Sir, I’ve got two men dead in a laneway. What would you like me to do?” His impatience was showing.
“Shit. Right. Police work — that’s what I want you to do. Just know that you’ll be contacted and I trust you to do the right thing.”
“I will.” MacNeice tried to make that comment appear less than obvious.
“Oh, and the two men found in the truck were Galanis’s cousins. According to the wife, both were shady. Her husband didn’t own a gun. They might have put up Kyros to upholstering Palmer.” Wallace paused, then added, “You’re a good man, Mac. . . . That’s all for now.”
MacNeice called over one of the uniforms. “Get Forensics and the coroner in here. Make sure all these shopkeepers know not to open their laneway doors until we’ve cleared the crime scene. Station two men here to ensure that happens.”
* * *
The security closet was in a small storeroom that contained products from shampoo to toothpaste, sunblock to tampons. With four men crowded around a small video monitor, the room seemed even smaller.
Williams hit a key and the images began flickering backwards in their comical way. Cops ran back and forth to their cars, stood around the bodies, spoke into shoulder mikes, and squatted over DeSouza. A seagull landed on a garbage bin and pecked at a plastic bag. Two pigeons arrived to inspect the bodies and, after deciding there was nothing to eat, walked like Charlie Chaplin down the lane. Williams allowed the footage to rewind to the point where the men first appeared. Then he pressed Play and sat back.
Three men entered from the street, an unknown man in front wearing a hoodie. The distance from the camera and the backlight from the sunlit street made it difficult to see any details. The third man walked casually, as if all three were close friends, and DeSouza and Grant followed closely behind.
“Our man’s at least an inch or two taller than Grant.”
“Pause it there,” MacNeice said. “Look at Gary Grant’s right hand.”
Williams leaned closer to the screen. “He’s drawn his weapon.” Rewinding the footage back to the moment they entered the lane, he added, “Even though it’s hard to pick out details against the glare, his right hand is inside his jacket.” Williams let it play. “Now he produces the piece.” The three men kept walking, and DeSouza checked to see if anyone was behind them. Seeing no one, he reached inside his suit jacket. “There, look. That shiny shooter just caught the light.”
“What interests me is our guy,” said Vertesi. “Cool as iced tea. He’s about to get pistol-whipped or whacked and he still looks relaxed.”
“I wish he’d lift his head,” said Williams.
“He
won’t do that. He’s already spotted the security cameras.” MacNeice was impressed.
Williams pointed to the screen. “Now DeSouza’s going in front. They’re doing monkey in the middle.”
“With the wrong monkey.”
“DeSouza’s reading the riot act, getting all agitated, waving that chrome piece in the air. And look, Grant’s moving in behind our man.”
What happened next was an elegant but lethal ballet that was over in seconds. They watched it several times before MacNeice asked, “Can you run it in slow motion?”
“No, but Ryan can.”
“Then take it back to the beginning of the attack and do a stutter stop-and-start over and over.”
DeSouza waved his weapon; he appeared to be yelling (he was a lousy actor). The hoodie man’s head was down, as if he wasn’t paying attention. A split second later, in one teeter-totter motion, he drove the pimp’s nose up with the heel of his right hand and kicked back, separating Grant’s lower right leg from the knee. The sight was sickening even with the low resolution of the security camera. DeSouza fell stiffly, like a tree. The bodyguard crumbled, his lower leg flopping independently, weirdly, as he screamed in pain.
“Jesus, what the hell was that?” Vertesi exclaimed.
“That’s called ‘I ain’t lettin’ this motherfucker get within ten feet of me.’” Williams wasn’t joking.
DeSouza was probably brain-dead before he hit the ground. The man in the hoodie stood over him and patted the pimp’s pockets. He wasn’t interested in the wallet but took something from the inside jacket pocket and put it in the pouch of his hoodie.
“Cellphone?” Williams was guessing.
He stepped across the pimp to the bodyguard and said something. It seemed to calm down the injured man. In a tender gesture, he knelt on one knee and cradled Grant’s head. Then, with electric-shock speed, there was a snap — and Gary Grant was dead.
“This is seriously sick.” Vertesi turned away in disgust.
“But efficient.”
“Look, here comes his signature move.” Williams pointed at the screen.
The man reached into the pocket of his jeans, turned to the camera, and made a moment out of turning the small object upside down before placing it on the pavement. He then turned, walked casually out to the street, and disappeared.
“You’re right, sir. V’s telling us this isn’t like the others.” Williams looked up at MacNeice, who was already at the door.
“Take the tape, or whatever that is, back to Ryan. I want the whole thing larger and sharper.” He paused in the doorway. “Before you go, measure the heights of Grant and DeSouza.”
“Will you be in first thing tomorrow, boss?” asked Vertesi.
“No, I’m over to meet Mrs. Galanis.”
[35]
Walking up the steps of the modest apartment building, MacNeice turned his thoughts to the woman he was about to meet. By now she’d been told how her husband died and that her sons were safe. She knew better than anyone what had led to his death. MacNeice had never imagined he’d be meeting someone who’d had an affair with Palmer. Nor could he believe that the man’s shallowness wouldn’t be obvious to any woman. And yet . . . and yet he’d seduced at least two women away from their husbands and families, leaving them to pick up the pieces of their lives.
MacNeice took a deep breath and stepped inside the dark lobby, where he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low light and listening for sounds of life. It was very quiet. He climbed the stairs and knocked twice at 2A. A slim woman in her late forties answered the door. She was wearing a black cardigan over a black dress, and a small silver cross hung from her neck. Another woman stood in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing him with suspicion.
“Mrs. Galanis?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective —”
“I know who you are.”
He’d no reason to expect a warm welcome when he offered his hand. “Detective Superintendent MacNeice.” She looked at his hand but didn’t take it.
“May I come in?”
She hesitated before opening the door to him. To the left, a pale grey sofa was positioned in front of the window. Facing it were two high-back chairs clad in blue leather. In the space between was a large coffee table covered in embroidered linen. She motioned for him to sit down.
“Thank you. I won’t take up much of your time.” He made his way to the sofa.
Elene Galanis sat across from him in one of the chairs and poured two glasses of water from a pitcher sitting on the table. She handed one to MacNeice. “What can I do for you, Detective MacNeice?”
“Thanks. I thought that would be my question, Mrs. Galanis.”
She sat with her knees together and her hands folded in her lap. Though she was petite, it seemed as if she were towering above him. Light from the windows lit her face, emphasizing her cheekbones. She had large, dark eyes that sheltered under thick black eyebrows, a long nose, and full lips. Her jaw was relaxed and there was no sign of tension in her face or neck. She carried her beating well; there was no indication of any attempt to cover the bruises with makeup.
She picked up her glass but didn’t drink, holding it on her lap with both hands. Her eyes left him and scanned the windows. She wasn’t looking at something; it was just the light she craved. He thought for a moment there might be a bird landing on the balcony outside, but realized that was just his fantasy.
The moments passed painfully. MacNeice put down his glass and started to get up. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Galanis. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Did you have to kill him?”
MacNeice allowed himself to sink back into the sofa. When he was settled again, he spoke. “Yes, I did. Your husband had seriously wounded my partner. He refused to put down his weapon and he fired several rounds before DI Maracle and I returned fire.”
“Did you know David Palmer?”
“I did.”
“Did you . . . like him?”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“To be honest, I didn’t trust him.”
She turned her eyes to the window again. “Did he suffer?”
“He was brutally tortured, so yes, he did.”
Her eyes filled with tears. They fell through the sunlight like crystals. He wasn’t sure whether they were for Palmer or her husband. They sat in silence for another minute or so. She used the heel of her thumb to wipe away the tears and turned back to him. “My sons want to stay here, I hope with me. Kyros felt like he was losing his family. He was a proud man.”
“And was he losing you?”
Her eyes sharpened and her mouth hardened. “I am a strong woman, Detective. My people come from the mountains of Crete. We have been goat herders and farmers for centuries. Both my grandfathers died fighting the Nazis. Kyros and his family were fishermen; his grandfathers fed seafood to the Nazis. I’m not afraid of hardship. Losing me? Yes and no. That all depended on him.”
“Are you saying that your affair with DI Palmer was a message to your husband?”
“You are direct, Detective.” She paused before continuing. “David flirted with several women, but he seemed most determined with me. He was like the boy who sees his own reflection in the pool. He wasn’t serious about women . . . not really.” She sighed. “Kyros was a strong man, but I never thought he could be violent. A smack in the face on occasion, yes, but I hit him too.” She saw the surprise on MacNeice’s face. “Oh yes. You don’t believe me, but I also have a temper.”
He reached for his water. “Did Palmer seduce you at work?”
She stifled a laugh. “Seduced? My god, such a word.” She sighed again and returned his gaze. “He did his best, yes. I was angry with Kyros, and so I finally agreed. Perhaps that was the message. I wanted my husband to know that I w
ould have my own life. I wouldn’t go back to Greece, no matter what he did.”
“What happened then?”
She nodded slowly, as if the image of what had happened was just coming into focus. “His cousins — they’re dead now too — came here from Fort Erie. They were bad men. Either Kyros asked them to come or they came because they heard what I had done to betray and dishonour my husband.”
“Did you know what they were planning?”
“No, of course not. I didn’t know they were still here.” Her eyes filled with tears that didn’t fall. “I told David to watch out for them. He didn’t take me seriously. He said, ‘I’m a cop. What can they do to me?’”
MacNeice had known the man was a fool, and now he realized he was also delusional.
“Who sent the boys to Greece?”
“I did. But not because I thought this would happen — I truly didn’t. I sent them away because they saw Kyros beat me. Sons should never see that.”
MacNeice realized that what he was seeing in her eyes were tears of rage.
“I should have tried harder to talk sense into Kyros. But I would have killed him if he ever beat me again. I’m serious.”
“I’ve no doubt you are.” The bruise on her cheek seemed brighter, and when she averted her gaze, he noticed a red stain on the white of her blackened left eye. “Why did you agree to meet with me?”
She sat back nodding, as if to say, You’ve asked the right question. She moved her water glass away. “First, to tell you things I haven’t told the other officers. I wanted to tell the man who killed my husband.”
“Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Galanis —”
“Elene, please.”
“Elene, who is it you mourn?”
She studied his face before speaking. “Honestly? I grieve for my sons. I mourn the loss of their father . . . for their sake. But I mourn even more the loss of their trust. And David Palmer is dead because of me. I also mourn the senselessness and brutality of his death.” She raised her hands and let them fall to her lap. “I know I caused this. I was seduced by loneliness and the chance for something new.” Aware that MacNeice was watching her hands, she clasped them loosely together. “It was a mistake. I told my husband about David because I wanted us to try again; that too was a mistake.” Her eyes caught the light streaming through the windows. They were as shiny as ink. “My sons will never forgive me. I know them.”
Vantage Point Page 14
