Heart of the City
Page 23
“I couldn’t let them grow up the way I did. With nothing.”
“You realized that Livingston was getting suspicious of you. That’s why you . . .” Kennicott stopped to let her end the sentence.
“My baby was being a bad boy. I was the only one who could discipline him. Not that horrible Kate, and his father was useless. Don’t you see? I had to protect him from himself. That’s what a good parent has to do. I knew in his heart he still wanted to be with me, and now he can rest in peace.”
“What about Claudio Bassante?”
Her face turned red. She ground her teeth in frustration. “Claudio. I was the one who told Livingston to give him a job when no one in the business would have anything to do with him.”
Now it made sense.
“You knew he’d be anxious to succeed because of his past,” Kennicott said, “and that he’d approve the payments for the cranes.”
“Livingston didn’t care because Claudio always came in under budget. But why did he have to be so curious? I told him that Cassandra Amberlight was the killer. Still, he was having his doubts, thanks to that friend of yours, Detective Greene. Claudio told me Greene hired a real-estate lawyer to try to trace back the owners of the properties beside the building sites.”
“And you had him meet you at the shed yesterday—so you could eliminate him.”
“Claudio was going to ruin everything. You don’t understand. No one understands. It was all for the children.”
“There were only two water bottles in the shed,” Kennicott said. “But Livingston always carried three. You took one of them, didn’t you?”
“Waste not, want not.”
“Like your mother always said. And you poured out the whole bottle of water in the alleyway outside the gate. You’d added heavy sedatives to all the bottles to make Fox more and more tired as the day wore on.”
She had a faraway look in her eyes. “Blue. Orange. Yellow. It was our little secret code. BOY. Livingston was my little boy. He could be so forgetful, this way he knew which order to drink them in.”
And how much sedative to put in each one, Kennicott thought.
“I’ve given him a bottle since the day he was born,” she said. “We had such a beautiful afternoon together, just the two of us. He was tired out and he needed his nap. He lay down in my lap and I combed his hair with my fingers the way I always did. I sang him a lullaby. When he fell asleep he looked so peaceful. He didn’t even flinch when I put the concrete blocks on his hands. And then . . .” Her voice drifted off.
He could picture it. Maxine standing on the chair in the window in the second floor of the house on Augusta, spying on Amberlight and Fox in the work shed, seeing Amberlight leave the construction site and close the gate behind her. Then going into the shed, Fox falling asleep on her lap, then setting it up to make it appear that someone big and strong was the murderer before she killed him.
“Cassandra Amberlight was the perfect suspect for you, wasn’t she?”
“That terrible woman, trying to make a public housing deal with my boy. She was violent and strong. Why didn’t you arrest her? I gave you every reason.”
“But you forgot to close the back gate, and you even left the back door to your house unlocked.”
“I’m a Newfoundlander. We never close our doors. I told you that the first time we met. You weren’t listening.”
She held out the tube to Kennicott and he took it from her.
“Where is my baby girl, Gloria?” she asked him.
“We’re taking care of her.”
“I had to get her away from that witch.”
“Kate?”
“She was starving the poor girl to death. With Livingston gone, Gloria was all I had.”
He thought back to Maxine bursting into the room on Friday afternoon, running up to Gloria. How at the candlelight ceremony she’d been the one to comfort Livingston’s sister.
“I wanted her to see the water.”
She hoisted herself up, and gazed out across the harbour. Kennicott stood up beside her. The seagulls had returned and were screeching louder than ever. A ferryboat was churning toward Ward’s Island, and a pair of sea kayaks passed by close to the shore. She put her hands behind her back, clasping them in a pose of surrender.
“It’s time for you to take me, isn’t it?” Her voice was so soft that he had to bend forward to hear her.
“Yes, it is.” Gently, he put his free hand over her crossed wrists.
“The doors are going to be locked from now on, aren’t they?”
“I’m afraid they will be.”
“Please, may I have one more minute to look at the water?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve always loved being next to the sea,” she said. Her voice had turned childlike. “It’s calm today. The tide is in, and I hope we’ll see some whales. Mother said Father will be returning soon. I wish I could wait for him. I wish I could.”
She turned to Kennicott. Her eyes were misty, distant.
“Uncle Horace, nice of you to come be with me.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“I was hoping Daddy’s boat would come back this morning. Do you think it will come tomorrow?”
He nodded. “I think so.”
“I’ve been waiting such a very long time. We must go now, Mother is tired. I have to take care of the children.”
“Yes,” Kennicott said. “The children.”
He looked over her shoulder back along the wharf. A line of squad cars was there, their flashers whirling, uniformed cops standing in front of them at the ready. TV trucks had arrived, their antennas raised in the air. In the distance, he saw the TO-TV helicopter heading toward them. Officer Sheppard was cradling Gloria, whom she’d wrapped in a heat blanket. Darvesh was waving one arm in the air as he talked fervently on his phone.
And Ari Greene, walking his slow, homicide-detective walk, was coming toward him. A set of handcuffs was dangling from one hand and his other arm was extended, reaching out to shake Kennicott’s hand.
NOVEMBER
66
Alison bit her lip. “Was that good?” she asked.
“It was perfect,” Sheena Persad said.
“Can I try it one more time?”
“No, there’s not enough time. We’re going live in fifteen seconds.”
“Okay, I think I’m ready,” Alison said.
“Move the mic a little lower. Remember to breathe.”
Alison hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.
“In five, four, three, two, one.” Persad counted the numbers down with her fingers, then pointed to Alison.
“Good afternoon, this is Alison Gilroy-Greene reporting live for TO-TV News. I’m standing on Spadina Avenue in front of one of Toronto’s landmark buildings, the Waverly Hotel.”
As they’d rehearsed it, the camera shifted to Alison’s left.
“With me now is well-known lawyer and activist Cassandra Amberlight. Ms. Amberlight, I understand that two months ago you actually moved into the hotel.”
Amberlight stepped forward, taking up most of the space in front of the camera. This had not been planned.
“Yes, I took a room on the ground floor. When I formed the Save Southern Spadina Coalition, I believed it was vital to show my personal commitment to the cause.”
“And the goal of the coalition is?”
“To save historic buildings.” As she spoke, Amberlight cast her hand behind her. The camera followed. “The Waverly is one of the oldest hotels in Toronto, opened in 1900. Next door we have the storied Silver Dollar bar, home of the blues in Toronto since 1958.”
“Thank you, Ms. Amberlight.” Alison pivoted to her other side. The camera followed her and zoomed in for a headshot. “Also with me now is Ms. Anita Nakamura, the president of Fox Cityscape Foundation, and Odessa Breaker, president of the newly formed Toronto Public Housing Forum.”
Nakamura was wearing a loose coat. She was clearly very preg
nant and had asked that her extended belly not be displayed on TV.
“Ms. Nakamura,” Alison said, “I understand that your company has worked very closely with the Spadina Coalition and the Housing Forum.”
“Yes, we have,” Nakamura said. “I’m pleased to announce today that an historic agreement between these wonderful stakeholders and our great company has been signed. We are putting up a modern rental building with affordable housing and student residences, and we’re going to restore the Silver Dollar and preserve its iconic facade.”
“Ms. Breaker, your thoughts?” Alison asked. Keep the mic down, she told herself. Don’t talk too quickly. Breathe.
“This is a crucial step toward ending the ghettoization of communities in our city,” she said.
Alison turned back to Nakamura. “What can we expect in terms of the look of this new building?” she asked.
“Spadina Gate will feature a world-class design the whole city can be proud of,” Nakamura said. She pulled the cover off a drawing that was resting on a tripod stand. “We are paying homage to the late Livingston Fox. He loved fine architecture. Innovative, mixed-use, integrated, quality housing was his vision for the city.”
“He was a fan of Bauhaus design, was he not?” Alison asked.
“It was his favourite, and you can see its influence in this design, which is based on some of his own architectural drawings.”
The camera moved back to Alison.
“And so, yet another new building, preserving the old and celebrating the new, is going up right in the heart of the city. For TO-TV News, this is Alison Gilroy-Greene reporting live from Spadina Avenue in downtown Toronto.”
She remembered to lower the mic and smiled for what seemed to be the longest few seconds of her life until the red light on top of the camera went off.
She exhaled loudly. “Phew!”
Persad ran up and hugged her. “That was perfect.”
“Thanks to you.” Alison turned to Breaker, and Nakamura. “Thanks. You were both terrific.”
“Good luck in your new career,” Breaker said. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run.” She shook Alison’s hand and rushed off.
“All the best,” Nakamura said.
“I want you to know that Livingston was a great help to me in my career,” Alison said. “He always made me feel special.”
“Only the people who knew him understood what a generous man he could be,” Nakamura said, clasping Alison’s hands.
“Good luck with the baby.”
“It’s a girl. I’m going to call her Liv. Means ‘life.’ ”
Alison watched Nakamura walk away and saw her put her arm around a thin woman who had been waiting on the sidelines. It was Fox’s sister, Gloria, holding an urn in her hand.
“So you really are going to be a journalist,” Amberlight said behind her.
Alison turned. “Well, that’s the plan for now,” she said.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Amberlight said. “They never did find out who the Kensington Blogger was, did they?”
Alison stole a quick glance at Persad, who winked at her.
“No, I guess they didn’t,” Alison said.
“Whoever it was, she was a good reporter.” Amberlight took a few steps and then turned back and pointed down Spadina. “By the way, did you see that the Huibing Gardens closed down?”
“I did,” Alison said. “It’s too bad.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Alison realized the mistake she’d made.
Amberlight grinned. “I thought so,” she said.
Alison looked at Persad, then back at Amberlight, and shrugged.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” Amberlight said. “Maybe one day people will learn how you and me and Breaker changed the city because of our meetings with Fox in the little backroom of that restaurant. Maybe they’ll put up a plaque.”
“Livingston deserves it.”
“Hold your head up high, young lady,” Amberlight said. “You had nothing but good intentions. I’ll see you at the next demonstration.”
Before Alison could respond, Amberlight turned and walked toward her latest home, in the historic Waverly Hotel.
Acknowledgments
It is a joy to write contemporary novels about Toronto. The city is so rich and complex and I work hard to get all the little details right. But there’s a downside to writing about a real, not a fictional, place. Once in a while I take literary licence and change things around, and it seems my readers always catch me out.
In my first novel, Old City Hall, I went to Vesta Lunch, a classic downtown Toronto diner, to find a location for an important scene. It was perfect, except there were no booths for customers—or my characters—to sit in, which was key. So, I added them. Soon after the book came out I got an email from a reader telling me: “I often eat at the Vesta Lunch, and have never seen the booths that you describe there.”
In The Guilty Plea, my third book, I had the name of the conductor on the Ontario Northlands train, “Hamish,” embroidered on his shirt with red thread. I took the long train ride north twice while doing my research and, I confess, I knew there were no stitched name tags. But it felt like such a nice touch. Inevitably, I received an email from a retired conductor who had worked the same rail line. He informed me that employees’ names “are not embroidered on their shirts.”
Perhaps my most egregious bit of literary liberty taking occurred in my second book, Stray Bullets. I had the nerve to put the famous Tim Hortons Roll Up the Rim to Win contest in September, even though I knew it was the wrong month. I just couldn’t resist—the phrase is too great not to makes its way into one of my novels. I got the following email: “Roll Up the Rim to Win is mentioned in the book. The contest is in April not September, other than that a great book. Thanks.”
I am most grateful that so many people write to me and take the stories and the characters to heart. After my fourth novel, Stranglehold, came out, I received this email from an anxious reader: “My mother and I would like to know why Ari went away for a year. My mother says do not get rid of Ari or she won’t buy your books.”
Fortunately, Ari is back. But I’ll leave it as a mystery which small literary liberties I’ve taken this time around. I’m sure I’ll hear from you.
Huge thanks, and sincere apologies, to my wife, Vaune Davis, and my three children for their endless support and patience.
And thanks to my agent, Victoria Skurnick, as well as all the people at Simon & Schuster Canada. In particular, Amy Prentice, my publicist and cheerleader through all five books; Dinah Forbes, the freelance editor who never lets anything slip (she did warn me about the Roll Up the Rim); and Nita Pronovost, any writer’s dream editor: inspiring, brilliant, and wise.
Special mention to Kevin Hanson, president of Simon & Schuster Canada. The first day we met, I promised him twenty books in this series. I’m passing the quarter mark with this fifth novel and I appreciate more than ever how Kevin’s belief in me and his unwavering support have made all the difference.
Toronto
January 31, 2017
P.S. Do keep those cards, letters and emails coming. I respond to every one.
About the Author
© TED FELD PHOTOGRAPHY
Robert Rotenberg is one of Toronto’s top criminal lawyers and the author of several bestselling novels, including Old City Hall, The Guilty Plea, Stray Bullets, and Stranglehold. He lives in Toronto. Visit him at robertrotenberg.com or follow him @RobertRotenberg.
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ALSO BY ROBERT ROTENBERG
Old City Hall
Stray Bullets
The Guilty Plea
Stranglehold
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Cover design: Pepe
Cover Image: Yolande De Kort / Trevillion
Rotenberg, Robert, 1953–, author
Heart of the city / Robert Rotenberg.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4767-4057-7 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4767-4059-1 (html)