Cold Comfort

by Scott Mackay

  “It was the grease, wasn’t it?” said Matchett. “The grease on the parka.”

  Gilbert nodded.

  Matchett continued, critiquing his own crime. “The rest of it was pretty much circumstantial. The Kedamine, sure I burgled the animal clinic but that didn’t necessarily tie me to Cheryl. The missing gun. I’ve already explained that. The money, Larry Varley, my affair with Cheryl, none of it was conclusive. It was the grease. And the paint chips under the rug. You matched the paint chips to the laundry room window, you matched the grease, and you had my parka.”

  Gilbert nodded. “One after the other,” he said. “Like dominoes.”

  “You can see why I decided to cooperate.”

  “Actually, the grease wasn’t your biggest mistake.”

  Matchett’s eyes widened. “It wasn’t?”

  “The car was.”

  Matchett now looked truly puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

  Gilbert leaned forward to explain. “All we got from the crime scene was Michelin XGTs. Tire marks. We did some checking. At least twelve different makes and models come with Michelin XGTs. Then you have to take into consideration all the Michelin XGTs used as replacement tires. Your big mistake was when you tried to run me down on Prestine Heights Boulevard. That gave us a good make on the car, the midnight blue Crown Victoria. Maybe it wasn’t even the same Crown Victoria you used for Cheryl, but there’s seven in the pool, and it got us looking in that direction.”

  Matchett was more perplexed than ever. “But I never tried to run you down, Barry,” he said. His brow furrowed in utter and genuine mystification. “You think after all my careful planning I’d be stupid enough to try and run you down?”

  To Gilbert, the room suddenly felt a lot warmer. “Then if you didn’t try to run me down,” he said, “who did?”

  Twenty

  Solomon Sing arrested the Honorable Thomas Webb, member for Sudbury West, the following Monday afternoon while the legislature was in session. Not only did it make headlines in Ontario, but across the country. Gilbert lay in bed next to Regina watching the coverage on Global TV. He shook his head to himself. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. Sometimes a murder investigation could get away from you. Ronald Roffey had already phoned him twice, as had a half dozen other reporters. So far, he hadn’t returned any of their calls.

  He watched as the regular legislative cameras caught Detective Solomon Sing and two uniformed officers of the Ontario Provincial Police enter the red-carpeted Assembly Chamber and present the arrest warrant to Webb. Webb, a prominent front-bencher, sat in the chair next to Premier Willis. Premier Willis’ face went blank as Solomon Sing, a tall austere man of Malaysian origin, began to read from the warrant.

  “I don’t know if I can watch this,” he said. “This is so pathetic. How many times are they going to show it?”

  Regina grinned as she marked some grade eleven test-papers. “I like Sing,” she said. “He’s so unflappable.”

  Webb stood up, an unmistakable figure in the Chamber, with his mane of white hair, and addressed the Speaker, as if it were the Speaker’s concern. How many times would they hear it? Mr. Speaker, this is an outrage. Please have the Sergeant-at-Arms eject these…and now Premier Willis stood up, put his hands on Webb’s shoulder, asked him to sit down, struggled to spare his government as much embarrassment as possible. The scene cut to the north entrance of the Parliament Buildings, where Webb, looking shell-shocked, his hands cuffed behind his back, was escorted to a waiting unmarked car by Detective Sing and the two O.P.P. officers. The segment ended and the scene cut to Raiva Bhupal, Global’s Queen’s Park reporter, who could only say that the chairman of the Management Board had been arrested on numerous corruption charges and that the allegations connecting him to the murder of Cheryl Latham had been neither confirmed nor denied by investigators.

  Gilbert flicked off the television. He felt uncomfortable. Regina put her hand on his arm. He looked up at her. She was the one beautiful constant in his life. “I don’t know,” he said. “Did you see the look in his eyes when they brought him down the steps? I just wrecked that man’s life. He’s never going to be the same again.”

  She gave him a pat. “You didn’t wreck it, Barry,” she said. “He did.”

  Susan Allen, Wesley Rowe’s social worker at Mount Joseph Hospital, lived in Willowdale, one of the more settled and affluent suburbs, on a quiet street of thirty-year-old split-levels and ranch styles. Susan Allen’s husband, the same man Gilbert had seen a few weeks ago in Susan Allen’s office, stood at the foot of the stairs reading the search warrant while Lombardo and two officers began going through the house, looking for the typewriter. Derek Allen had grown a mustache, an effete line of bristles, and kept stroking either side of it as Gilbert stood there waiting. All the furniture in the living room was covered with plastic; it looked more like a protected museum display than a living room.

  The house was a split-level. A half-flight of stairs led to the upstairs, another half-flight down to a large den with sliding glass doors, a bathroom, and door leading to the two-car garage.

  “Is the garage down there?” said Gilbert. The question was more a polite indication that he now wished to search the garage.

  Allen looked up with mild trepidation. “You want to go in the garage?”

  Gilbert gave him a friendly shrug. “Might as well check it?” he said.

  Allen now stared at him. Already unsettled by their arrival, he now looked downright nervous. “But you’re looking for her typewriter,” he said. “It wouldn’t be in the garage.”

  “Why don’t you tell us where it is then?” said Gilbert.

  At first he couldn’t answer. But then he said, “I don’t really live here. I…”

  Gilbert gave him an understanding nod. “Okay,” he said, “then I’ll…” He headed down the stairs. “If you don’t mind. Just to make things go quicker. I hate to disturb you on your lunch hour like this.”

  Allen took an apprehensive step after him. “But I really don’t think…”

  Gilbert open the garage door. Two ten-speeds hung on an overhead rack, a workbench stood against the wall, and a car with a big plastic cover over it stood parked in the middle. He stared at the car. Because he recognized the car. And he felt his shoulders sinking. It looked as if it hadn’t been driven in a long time. It looked as if it had been hidden here on purpose. A midnight blue Crown Victoria. He heard Allen come down to the doorway. Gilbert glanced over his shoulder and the two men stared at each other. He knew that Allen understood. There was nothing that could be done now. He walked to the front of the car and lifted the plastic cover. He knelt by the fender. She hadn’t even bothered to clean it. In the mud on the fender he saw a clear impression of the weave of his own pants. He looked over his shoulder at Allen.

  “Is this your wife’s car?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Allen. “Yes, it is.”

  Allen continued to stare; he looked like the kind of man who might have had a serious drinking problem at one time but now had gotten over it. He gave Gilbert a barely perceptible nod.

  “I think I better call her,” he said. He turned to go.

  Did Allen realize with that one simple statement, more or less an admission to his collusion, he himself was now facing charges? That he knew about Susan’s attempted murder of a police officer but failed to report it? He stood up and sighed. Marsh’s life, destroyed. Webb’s life, destroyed. And now the Allens. And what about Matchett? Would he find it funny that the most important clue in breaking the Latham case turned out to be this Crown Victoria, a car that had absolutely nothing to do with Cheryl’s murder? He stood up, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the car, fighting against his old pervasive cynicism, trying to recognize the irony of the situation. He could take that only so far. Marsh and the Allens were good people who had made human mistakes. And because Barry Gilbert had been added to the equation, they were going to pay a heavy price. Both Susan and Marsh had simply been trying to
protect their jobs, jobs put on the line by Webb’s spending cuts. Yet vehicular manslaughter seemed extreme, and he couldn’t help wondering what Susan Allen must have been thinking as she stepped on the accelerator, whether she had been in her right mind or if she had had a momentary lapse, whether murder was her intent or if, coming to Parkview Hills to talk to Gilbert, she had simply lost control of herself in a blinding fit of rage. He would have to ask the Crown Attorney about her defense strategy if and when she went to trial.

  Lombardo appeared at the door, his hair now short because of his head wound treatment. He looked good; Lombardo could go bald and still look good. He held a Smith-Corona cartridge typewriter in his hands.

  “We found it,” he said.

  Gilbert glanced back at Lombardo, trying to hide the cold wind that he felt blowing through his body.

  “Yeah,” he said. He gestured at the car. “So did I.”

  The auditorium was packed with police officers, detectives, their wives, and families. Deputy Chief Ling, a precise Chinese man, a second generation Canadian whose parents had come from Hong Kong in the thirties, stood at the front in full uniform. Sign of the times, thought Gilbert, sitting near the back by himself, the MTPFs first non-Anglo Deputy Chief of Detective Support Command, and a damn fine one. Ling spoke into the microphone.

  “Detective Giovanni Lombardo,” he said.

  Lombardo, in a new suit, climbed the steps to the platform.

  “For honor and courage in the abduction of murder suspect Alvin James Matchett, you are hereby awarded the Detective Award,” said Ling.

  Gilbert couldn’t help thinking of Matchett’s award, the one he never got, the one for saving Patrol Officer Barry Gilbert’s life, the one for finally stopping the crazed Laraby all those many years ago. At least Joe was a getting an award.

  Lombardo took the plaque, a well-respected and coveted award, and shook Ling’s hand. Then he saluted crisply and marched off the stage. Half the women in the audience just about fainted. Gilbert couldn’t help grinning. He had mixed feelings about the ceremonial trappings of a paramilitary organization like the MTPF, but today his feelings were nothing but positive. Lombardo left the stage to cheers and loud applause. A month ago, Joe was on Marsh’s preliminary discharge and layoff list. Now he had the Detective Award. What a difference a decent collar could make in a detective’s career.

  Lombardo walked up the aisle while Ling called upon the next recipient. Gilbert got up and gave him a gruff shake of the hand.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “I thought I might buy you a drink.”

  “Actually, I’ve got someone waiting for me,” he said.

  This didn’t surprise Gilbert; Joe always bounced back fast.

  “Oh, yeah?” said Gilbert. “Do I know her?”

  “Yeah,” said Lombardo, “you do. You might as well say hello. She’s right up here. I was afraid she wasn’t going to make it. She said she had to work late. But I saw her sneak in at the last minute.”

  They walked together toward the back of the auditorium. And Gilbert saw her. A tall, beautiful mulatto woman. Sonia Bailey. Cheryl’s next door neighbor from the Glenarden.

  She gave him a smile, a shrug, and a wave. Maybe something good was going to come out of this after all. He waved back, then stopped.

  “Actually, you two go ahead,” he said. “I think I’m going to stay for the rest of the ceremony. I want to see McGuire get his citation, that guy from Bomb Squad who lost his hand.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Gilbert nodded. “Go ahead,” said Gilbert. He glanced at Sonia. “I can see she loves short guys.”

  But he didn’t stay for the rest of the ceremony. He took the College streetcar over to Sherbourne Street and walked up to the Carlton Grill, the restaurant he and Matchett always used to go to back when they were both in patrol, didn’t know why, just felt he had to, hadn’t been there in years, had to look at it once more, had to somehow convince himself that the seven years he had spent with Matchett in patrol had indeed been good years, possibly the best years, years that would always occupy a golden spot in his memory. Sherbourne Street, where street drunks and panhandlers ruled. A place of rooming houses, cheap hotels, and even cheaper bars. He entered the Carlton Grill. Came here first in the late sixties, when he had been a student at architectural school. And it hadn’t changed much. Big fast food kitchen in the middle, with huge overhead vents, a counter all the way around, and tables against the walls. A vintage diner. A classic diner. Somehow appealing in its crass ugliness.

  He walked past the kitchen, glancing around to see if he knew any of the cooks, any of the waiters, but he recognized none. The 1970s now seemed a long time ago. Didn’t recognize anybody, and yet the place was full of ghosts. He could see these ghosts, people who were now probably long dead. There was George, cracking eggs with one hand over the grill, flipping bacon with the other, cigarette hanging from his mouth, expertly blowing the ash upward, where it was carried away by the overhead vent. And there was Bonnie, in her pink uniform and apron, hip thrust to the left, order pad ready, gazing at her next customer as if she sincerely suspected the level of his or her intelligence. And there was Hank, the linen service truck driver, who always stopped in for an egg sandwich and a coffee at this time of the day, as skinny as a starved rooster, in his workman’s blues, never saying anything to anybody, just staring, as if somehow the antics at the Carlton Grill bewildered him.

  He found the table at the front, second from the end, their old table, and sat down; they hadn’t changed the furniture in forty years. The waiter came by and he ordered a coffee and brown toast, his old standby. He stared at the empty chair across from him. And he saw ghosts again. Matchett was sitting in that chair. Matchett was having his cigarette and coffee. Only it was a much younger Matchett. A Matchett who hadn’t been corrupted by his own bitterness. A Matchett who still believed in something. The waiter came with his coffee and toast. George kept breaking eggs at the grill, a ghost, hovering around the present-day short-order cook. Was it really so long ago? Was he really forty-eight years old, with a wife and two teenaged daughters?

  He took a sip of coffee. He wasn’t an architect but he still felt as if he had made something worthwhile of his life. Life was precious. You had to step back and watch it every so often, just so you could appreciate every minute. He felt wistful as he again thought of Matchett. Matchett would be in his sixties by the time he got out of prison. There wouldn’t be much of life left for Matchett when he got out.

  His pager beeped, and he looked down at the digital display. He turned the beeper off; he didn’t readily recognize the phone number. He got up, went to the public telephone in the foyer, and dialed the number.

  John Levinson, the Crown prosecutor in the Wesley Rowe case, answered the phone.

  “I knew you were anxious about this,” said the lawyer, “so I had my secretary page you. We’re going to drop the charges in the Wesley Rowe case. The match on the typewriter helped us but we were already leaning that way anyway. He’s not mentally competent to stand trial. Nor was he competent to look after his mother. We can’t reasonably hold him accountable for his actions. The papers are on their way to the Don Jail. He should be released tomorrow. I’ve already let Judith Wendeborn know.”

  “Thanks, John.”

  “Don’t thank me, Barry. If I had more staff around here he never would have been arraigned in the first place.” There was a pause as Gilbert heard the shuffling of papers on the other end of the line. “Oh, and I talked to Claude Rice. About the Susan Allen case? Ironic, but she’s going to plead incompetence too. She has no recollection of the night she tried to run you down. The same thing happened when she was seventeen. She lit a friend’s house on fire, had no recollection of it. The lawyer in that case presented a stack of psychiatric reports, so there’s a history, here, Barry, and the judge will probably just order evaluation and treatment. Is that okay with you?”

  Gilbert thought of Susan Allen’s Crown Vi
ctoria, how without it they never would have nailed Alvin; how, without it, they never would have gotten their embezzlement and conspiracy to commit murder charges against the Honorable Thomas Webb.

  “Whatever the judge wants is fine by me,” he said.

  He went back to his table and finished his coffee. Two boosts in one day. Lombardo gets the Detective Award, and the charges in the Wesley Rowe case are dismissed. The past was sometimes golden, but the present wasn’t so bad either, he decided. He took one last bite of toast and slid a couple of toonies on the table. That should cover it, and give the waiter a decent tip besides. He left the grill and walked out into the pleasant April afternoon. He crossed the street—he wanted to walk on the sunny side. Sunshine all around, but with snow clouds on the horizon, moving in from Mississauga, getting closer. The weatherman was calling for fifteen centimeters. April in Toronto, and winter was reluctant to ease its tenacious grip.

  As he reached the far sidewalk he turned around and took one last look at the Carlton Grill. A patrol car drove up, parked in front, and two young officers—neither could be more than thirty—got out, laughing, talking, heading into the grill, conspicuous in their uniforms, feeling special because of their uniforms, in the best days of their lives. They strutted. They exuded energy. They were vibrant. That was him, twenty years ago. That was him and Matchett going into the Carlton Grill.

  He turned away and walked north on Sherbourne, up past the Wellesley Hospital and the Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church. He turned left on Isabella past the old Isabella Hotel, where even this early in the day the prostitutes were hanging around street corners, in impossibly short dresses and three-inch heels. He headed toward Jarvis Street. Toward the old building. All the old ghosts were pushing him along. He turned right at Jarvis Street and headed north. And he decided he really did miss all the bright young students drifting up and down the street from Jarvis Collegiate Institute. He missed the panhandlers and the drunks. And despite his many running battles in patrol with the Isabella Street hookers, he even missed them, now felt a fond regard for them. It always baffled him, why they chose Isabella, two blocks away from his old headquarters.