He texted her as he walked. “Hi. Sorry for delay. Busy afternoon. If you heard the news about Kensington Gate, no worries. I’m fine. I’ll be home in a few hours. You?”
Alison replied within seconds. “Just heard the news. Someone murdered at K. Gate?? So relieved u r okay!!”
He stared at Alison’s message. So relieved u r okay!!
He had to keep reminding himself that it had been less than a year since they’d discovered each other, and the two of them were still feeling each other out. He’d made a point of holding back, of not putting any expectations on her. They were strangers from different worlds, and yet here they were, together adrift on the same life raft.
“Sad day. Talk later,” he texted.
“K,” she replied. “Shopping for a desk with Grandpa Y. Will c u at home.”
Grandpa Y. That was the nickname she’d come up with for his father. Home. That’s what he’d wanted to create for her ever since they’d met in the solicitor’s office in London.
That moment. The first time they touched. When she’d come closer to him and taken his hand. It was the most awkward and most wonderful moment. All the hate he had for Hap Charlton for murdering Jennifer, all the emptiness in his life without her, all his anger at himself melted away. He had a daughter. He had something to live for again.
Greene’s father had been there at the airport back in December when he’d brought Alison to Toronto. He’d had tears of joy in his eyes. The two were comfortable with each other from the get-go, and within days she was calling him Grandpa Y. Perhaps, it had occurred to Greene, it was because they had both experienced tragedy at a young age. Alison had just lost her mother, and as a teenager, his father had lost his whole family.
Three squad cars screamed past Greene, heading toward the protest. People stopped to watch them fly by. Greene kept walking. Alison loved going to Kensington Market, and he was glad she was in school this afternoon and not at the march. Tension would be high, and things could turn ugly.
Police headquarters, where the homicide squad was located, was a few more blocks away. Greene put his phone back in his pocket and kept his eye on the stunning blue sky as he walked. He wanted to enjoy these last few minutes outside before he entered the place where he’d worked for so many years, the place he’d hoped he’d never set foot in again.
11
Alison stood still in the dark room. Ari was safe. He’d been good to her, and she was grateful. Very grateful. And what had she done? She had lied to him about going to school, and now here she was in a stranger’s house she’d snuck into. She had to get out of here, fast. The police could be on her any minute.
She headed down the stairs, walked through the deserted first floor and kitchen. She cracked the back door open, and as she stepped outside, she heard heavy footsteps coming up the steps to the front porch. The police. She was trapped. She tiptoed back inside and closed the door behind her. It had an old Yale lock. She flicked the catch and heard it click into place. She sat on the dusty kitchen floor, put her back to the sink under the window and waited.
Out on the front porch, she heard muted voices talking, then a loud knocking.
“Toronto Police. Is anyone home?”
Alison held her breath. They wouldn’t be able to see her from the front door. But what if she hadn’t closed the curtain of the upstairs window soon enough? Had she been seen? She put her head between her knees and rolled herself up into a tight ball. In a few seconds they’d be in the backyard and looking in the kitchen window.
She heard the cops go down the front steps and moments later she heard them on the patio behind her. One of them tried the back door.
“It’s locked,” a man’s voice said.
“We don’t have a warrant. Detective Kennicott said we should check all the windows,” a female voice said. “Here, help me move this table.”
Alison looked up. She remembered the metal table in front of the window. Once it was out of the way they’d be able to look inside, but they wouldn’t be able to see her.
Then she spotted the yellow backpack she’d tossed on the counter. It was in clear view of the window. How could she have been so careless? It was too risky to grab it now. The police were going to find her.
She heard the scraping sound of the table being shoved across the patio. Oh no. She was trapped. What could she do?
Then it came to her. It was a crazy idea but it might work. She had to be fast. Grabbing her phone, she pulled up the photo of Fox’s body, put a tag on it that said “Taken from a selfie stick,” and uploaded it to her blog. She knew that many of the protesters were following her posts, and maybe, just maybe . . .
She heard the table hitting the stones.
“Jesus. This thing is heavy,” a male voice said.
“That should be far enough,” a female one said. “I think I can slip in.”
Alison buried her head between her knees again, deeper this time, trying to make herself as small as she could.
“No, too tight,” the female cop said. “We have to push it farther from the wall.”
Alison closed her eyes and held her breath. Come on, come on, she prayed. Someone had to notice the incredible photo she’d just posted. She heard the cops grunt as they moved the table again.
There was a huge roar from the street and the sound of breaking glass.
One of the cop’s police radio crackled. “All officers back to Augusta Avenue immediately! Red alert!”
“Roger,” the male officer said.
She heard their footsteps rush away.
Alison exhaled. She stood up and peered out the window. The coast was clear. She looked at her backpack. What a fool she’d been to buy a yellow one that would stand out in the crowd. What if someone had seen her walk down the pathway, or she’d been captured on TV? She’d better not risk wearing it now. Same with the hat and sunglasses.
She quickly changed back into the clothes she’d worn this morning, tossed everything she’d bought into the backpack, opened the cupboard under the sink and threw it in.
Wait.
What had she done? Now the whole world was going to see that picture of Livingston she’d just posted. Including his family, his fiancée.
This was a nightmare. She had to get out of here.
She opened the back door. Should she lock it behind her or was it better to leave it unlocked, the way she’d found it?
She left it unlocked and walked through the little yard, past the garage and into the back alley. Luckily, no one was around. Making herself appear as calm as she could, she ran her fingers through her hair and strolled south, away from Kensington Gate. At the end of the alley, she followed a narrow path that took her to Oxford Street, cut over to Spadina Avenue, and got lost in the crowd of Friday afternoon shoppers.
12
Kennicott returned to the shed. The door was open now. Forensic Officer Ho was crouched beside the body, illuminated by the sunshine pouring in through the window opposite the door. He was wearing plastic booties over his running shoes, latex gloves on his hands, and a net over his hair.
“How the mighty have fallen,” Ho said.
“You just get here?”
“A minute ago while you were out for your stroll in the alley. Cover up, cowboy, and come take a look.”
Kennicott put on the protective gear and approached the body. It was a grotesque scene. Fox’s hands and feet were held down by concrete blocks and a long steel bar pierced his heart. He was wearing a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and sandals, like a hundred other young people in the city. His casual summer clothes made his murder seem even worse. He should have been out on a patio like everyone else his age, talking, laughing, living.
“First impressions?” he asked Ho.
Ho lifted his big shoulders. “The first cut is the deepest.”
Kennicott had worked with Ho on a number of homicides. The man was smart and he wanted you to know it. He loved to hear himself talk—except for the time an innocent young bo
y had been killed by a stray bullet. That had shut him up.
“How heavy do you think that steel bar is?” Kennicott asked.
“Heavy enough. I worked construction in university and I carried stacks of rebar all over the place. We’ll weigh it at the autopsy as well as those concrete blocks,” he said, nodding at them. “Nasty, nasty.”
“What else do you see?”
“The blood on the floor hasn’t begun to dry, even in this heat.”
Kennicott took a few steps closer. Blood had spilled out onto the floor from Fox’s body and pooled into a small puddle.
“Don’t jump to any conclusions about timing,” Ho said. “There are many factors. Viscosity of his blood, quantity of the spatter, temperature, humidity, airflow. What surface is the blood on. This is a wood floor, and blood dries faster on concrete. My team is on the way. We’ll take a sample of the blood and cut out a piece of the floor and replicate the temperature and humidity in the lab. See how long it would take to reach the exact same viscosity. But that will only be a best-guess estimate.”
Kennicott looked squarely at Fox’s body. “I don’t see any other marks on him.”
“No obvious defensive wounds. Looks like one and done.”
“What about the back of his head?”
Ho took a closer look. Kennicott bent down beside him. “I don’t see anything.”
They both stood.
“Next steps?” Kennicott asked.
“The usual. We’ll go through every inch of this room. Check for prints. If we find any hairs we’ll DNA test them and those glasses and water bottles.” He pointed to a pair of drinking glasses and two different-coloured water bottles on a long wooden table. “We’ll heat scan the floor for footprints and spatter. Photograph and videotape everything. Do the same outside, especially that fence and gate in back. Killers always make a mistake and leave something behind. I can tell you one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“Whoever it was, they were not very happy with the Condo King.”
“You think?” Kennicott looked around the room. The walls were covered with architectural drawings and work schedules. On the table were labelled cans of pens, pencils, rulers, calculators, and stacks of graph paper. Everything in perfect order.
He walked gingerly over to the window and almost stepped on an errant pencil on the floor. There wasn’t much to see outside except the back of the hoarding around the building site and the second floor of the house across the alley.
He heard glass breaking on the street, and the protesters’ voices spiking. The police radio on Ho’s hip squawked. “All officers back to Augusta Avenue immediately! Red alert!”
13
“How lovely to see you, Detective Greene,” Francine Hughes said. A fixture in the Homicide office for years, she sat at her desk in the reception area in the same position she’d been in the last time he was here. The same position she’d been when he first came to Homicide. She rarely left her post to come back into the offices and was always cheerful, no matter what bad news walked in the door. Except for the day she’d learned that Jennifer was murdered.
“Lovely to see you as well,” Greene said, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m only dropping in. How are those two dogs of yours?”
“Poor Fifi. Lost her last winter. Gigi really misses her.” She eyed Greene’s workboots, dirty jeans, and sweatshirt. “I heard you had a new job.”
Kennicott must have called her already. Hughes never missed a trick.
“I’m swinging a hammer instead of chasing bad guys. It’s a nice change.”
“You deserve a break from all of this. Detective Darvesh said to send you right in. He’s in the video room.”
Greene took his time going down the hallway. It felt odd to be here as a civilian, not a cop. As he passed their offices, some detectives nodded but no one came out to greet him. Word travelled fast: Ari Greene was back in the city but hadn’t come back to Homicide. No one knew quite how to react to him, this man they had once wrongly accused of murder—their colleague and erstwhile friend.
The video room was at the end of the hall. He opened the door. Darvesh was seated at a large table, reading some notes in a blue folder with “LIVINGSTON FOX” written on the cover in block letters. He put it down when he saw Greene.
“Good afternoon, Detective Greene,” he said, standing up.
“Ari,” Greene said, shaking hands. “You’re a detective now, I hear.”
“Thanks to you.”
“You did the work to get the job.”
Darvesh looked away to hide his reaction, but Greene could see he was happy to be complimented.
“The camera’s set up and ready to go. I’ll get the commissioner of oaths to come swear you in.”
Greene took a seat in front of the camera. The commissioner came in, had him swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, then left. Darvesh was fiddling with the edges of the folder. Greene could see he was uneasy having to question his former boss.
“Just treat me as you would any witness to a crime scene,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Old habits die hard, Greene thought. Darvesh couldn’t call him by his first name.
“Can you please identify yourself for the camera?” he asked.
“My name is Ari Greene. That’s Greene with three e’s. I’m a former homicide detective and now I work as a construction worker.”
Greene answered Darvesh’s questions succinctly, describing his movements throughout the day until he’d come upon Fox’s body.
“What did you do next?” Darvesh asked.
“I could see that he was dead,” Greene said. “Comes from all my years on the homicide squad. I didn’t want to interfere with the crime scene, so I didn’t go inside the shed. I immediately called 911 on my phone. My boss, Claudio Bassante, had gone out front, expecting to meet Fox. I yelled to him, then ran up and told him what had happened.”
“What was his reaction?”
“Shock.”
Darvesh was nodding. “Anything else?”
Greene hesitated. He didn’t want anyone to know that he’d peeked out into the alley. He had nothing to hide, but once a detective always a detective. His instinct never to reveal anything about an investigation until he had to ran deep.
So he didn’t.
14
“The name of the deceased will not be made public pending notification of the next of kin.”
It was standard language for the press release the Toronto Police Service put out whenever there was a homicide. Kennicott made sure the media department published it as quickly as possible. The time stamp on it was 4:38 p.m.
And already it was out of date. The protesters yelling “Fox is dead!” had seen a photo of Fox’s slain body that someone had posted online. Damn social media. He hadn’t had time yet to call the family.
Darvesh had sent him the details of Fox’s next of kin and he reviewed them now. Fox’s parents, Karl and Kate Fox, lived north of the city, near the small town of Kleinberg, where they ran a wellness centre with their daughter, Fox’s older sister, Gloria.
Kennicott walked as far away from the noisy protesters as he could get, parked himself behind a wide concrete pillar, and called the number Darvesh had given him. He made a notation in his notebook that it was 4:42 pm.
“Foxhole Wellness Centre,” an older woman said, answering the phone on the first ring. “How can we assist you to improve your life and create a healthier planet?”
“May I please speak to Ms. Kate Fox?” Kennicott said.
“Who is this?” The woman was immediately suspicious.
“My name is Daniel Kennicott. I’m a detective with the Toronto Police Service.” Greene had taught Kennicott to never identify himself as a homicide detective when he made his first contact with a victim’s family.
There was a long pause.
“May I please speak with Ms. Fox?” he repeated.
> “It’s true then? Gloria told me she saw a grotesque photo of Livingston on her Facebook page a few minutes ago. I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Is this Ms. Kate Fox?”
“It is. The press has been calling already. Have they no shame?”
“I suggest you not talk to anyone else until we arrive. My partner and I are driving up to see you now and we can talk in person.” He was careful not to confirm her suspicions.
“Who would have done this terrible thing? I mean, do you have any idea why?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know that yet, Ms. Fox.”
“We can’t believe it. Livingston could be a handful, but . . . I have to tell Karl.”
“Karl, your husband? Where is he now?”
“I have no idea.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“This morning.”
“What time was that?”
“He left about eight.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Of course I know where he went. We’ve been married for thirty-three years.”
Kennicott took a deep breath. When people were in shock they were often scattered and aggressive like this.
“Where did your husband go?”
“It’s Friday. He went to Toronto to have lunch with Livingston.”
At last he was getting some useful information.
“Do you know where they ate?”
“They always eat at the same place. That’s how Livingston is. Everything scheduled.”
“Where and when was that?”
“Fresh, on Spadina, south of Queen.”
Kennicott knew the place. It wasn’t that far from Kensington Market.
“At what time?”
“From twelve-thirty to two. Always.”
“Do you know where Karl is now?”
Kennicott intentionally repeated the husband’s name to make her feel he was understanding.
Heart of the City Page 5
