“Of course not, Alex. What’s going on?”
“I’m just wondering if you could give me the name of your friend at the newspaper. We’ve got something we want to look up.”
There was a pause. “Why don’t you just tell me what you need? I can talk to him.”
“All right,” I said. Like there was any other way. “This is what we’re looking for. A man named Reynaud was murdered a long time ago, in Soo Michigan. Most likely in a bar.”
“What’s the full name?”
I pictured him getting out his little notepad, standing there among the snowmobiles with the phone to his ear.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Natalie. “Did you ever tell me his full name?”
“Jean Sylvain Reynaud.” She kept staring straight ahead. We had just driven through Iron Bridge, and now we were back out on the open road.
“Jean Sylvain Reynaud,” I said into the phone.
“When was the murder?”
“Natalie, do you remember—”
“Nineteen seventy-three,” she said, her eyes still straight ahead. Her voice was flat. “I don’t know what date. Sometime early in the year.”
“Leon, it was early 1973.”
“Do you have anything on the cause of death? Shooting? Stabbing?”
I looked over at her.
“Leon,” I said. “That should be enough to go on, shouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah. No problem. I’ll give my guy a call, see what he can find out. If it was here in the Soo, I know the Evening News will have a record of it.”
“Thanks, Leon. You’re the best.”
He told me he’d keep in touch. Then he was off to sell more snowmobiles. I put the phone down and looked out the side window.
“This Leon,” she said. “He’s good at this stuff, eh?”
“He is.”
“How long will it take him to find out?”
I looked at my watch. It was 3:15. “We’ll be down there by what, 4:30?”
“Before that.”
I looked over at her speedometer. With the snow stopped, the needle was back up to 120 on her Canadian dial, which meant she was going somewhere around 75 miles per hour. She was driving just like a cop.
“If his newspaper friend is in the office,” I said, “Leon will call me back before we get there.”
“That fast?”
“He’s like a pit bull when he wants to find out something. That’s why he’s such a good private eye.”
“And you’re not?”
“He loves this stuff,” I said. “He lives for it.”
“He sounds like the perfect partner. You ever think about trying it again?”
“Not really, no.”
“Why not?”
“You’re serious?”
“What else are you going to do? Sit around in your cabin all day?”
“With a blanket on my lap, yeah. In my rocking chair.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Actually, right now that sounds pretty good.”
She reached over and touched my arm. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
She kept driving. We hit Thessalon, and she had to slow down for a while. When the town was behind us, she blew by a big truck and got back to cruising speed again.
“So what do you want to bet?” she said.
“About what?”
“About whether Leon calls you back before we hit the bridge.”
“I don’t want to take your money,” I said.
“Who said anything about money?”
“Hmm, you might have something there.”
“Unless you’re too sore.”
I looked over at her. After everything that had happened that day, finding the picture of her father, having to think about his death, having to work up the nerve to call her mother of all people in the world, the visit to Mrs. DeMarco—after all that, here she was trying to pull herself out of a blue mood. She was willing herself to be happy again. It was something I needed to learn.
“We’re almost there,” she said. We were coming up to Bruce Mines.
“He’s got plenty of time,” I said. “All the time in the world.”
There was more traffic on the Queen’s Highway now. She passed three cars in a row and kept going.
“No fair,” I said. “You’re cheating.”
“Nobody said I had to drive like a civilian.”
“He’ll still make it. I know he will.”
We passed the Garden River First Nation. I looked at my watch. It was 3:45. Leon hadn’t been on the case for more than thirty minutes.
“I’ll take dinner first,” she said.
Then the phone rang.
“Hello, Leon,” I said as I picked it up. “What took you so long?”
“I’ve got something,” he said.
“What is it?”
“You said early 1973, right?”
“Right.”
“How about a few minutes into the year?”
“How do you mean?”
“It was New Year’s Eve. He died just as 1972 was turning into 1973.”
That stopped me cold. New Year’s Eve. I thought back over all the jumbled references Mrs. DeMarco had made to New Year’s Eve.
“It happened here in the Soo,” Leon went on. “Just like you said. You want to know exactly where?”
“Yes, tell me.”
“Right outside the Ojibway.”
“My God.” I looked at Natalie. She was back to her straight-ahead stare.
“I’ve got the old news article here,” he said. “Reynaud was found around the corner, right next to the building, on Water Street.”
“On the side overlooking the locks?”
“Yeah. He was shot in the back of the head. They never found out who did it.”
“No leads even?”
“No, at least there aren’t any mentioned in the paper. You’d have to talk to the police about it. Maybe somebody remembers the case.”
“Okay. Can I get a copy of that article?”
“Of course. You never bought a fax machine, did you?”
“Why would I buy a fax machine?”
“Just stop by the motor shop,” he said. “I’m here for another hour.”
“Thanks, Leon. I really appreciate it.”
I hung up the phone. I told her everything he had given me.
“So I lose,” she said. Then nothing else. She just kept driving.
We rolled through Soo Canada, then crossed the International Bridge. High above the St. Marys River, I looked down at the locks and the thin stretch of rapids between the Canadian and American sides. The whole scene was cast in a gray, muted light, the clouds hanging low and dark over our heads. The snow would start falling again. It was just a matter of time.
When we cleared customs, I gave her directions to the motor shop on Three Mile Road. As soon as we got out of Natalie’s Jeep, I saw Leon coming out to meet us. I made the introductions.
“Pleased to meet you,” Leon said to Natalie. He bowed a little bit and did everything else but kiss her hand. “No wonder Alex is so loopy these days.”
“Leon, the only thing making me loopy is my concussion. Now who’s this guy over at the newspaper who can—”
I stopped and looked into the showroom.
“There’s like a dozen people in there,” I said. “Don’t you have to go back in?”
He took a quick glance behind him. “They’re fine in there. Everybody’s just looking.”
It made me feel a little guilty again, taking up his time like this. But he was already off and running.
“I’ve got a copy of the article right here,” he said. He took a piece of paper out of a manila folder.
I took it from him and started to read it.
“Leon,” I said. “This isn’t a fax. It’s a photocopy. How did you—”
“I ran over to the newspaper office and got it. Only took me a minute.”
I
shook my head and kept reading. It was a front page article dated January 1, 1973, with the same lighthouse that had been on the masthead of the Evening News since forever. The headline read “Canadian Man Slain,” and the text went on to describe the discovery of a frozen body on Water Street, behind the Ojibway Hotel. The man was identified as Jean Sylvain Reynaud of Blind River, Ontario. His wallet was still on his person, robbery ruled out, no suspects at the time. It was all pretty straightforward reporting, and I wasn’t sure if it gave us anything we could use. Except for one detail.
“Leon, it says here he was seen drinking in the hotel bar that evening. I don’t remember there being a bar in the hotel.”
“There was, way back when. I remember my dad going in there when I was a kid.”
“Where the dining room is now?”
“Yeah, I think it was on that side of the building. They redid the place a couple of times since then.”
I passed the paper to Natalie. She read through it quickly and gave it back to me. “Shot in the back of the head,” she said, “behind the bar. That doesn’t sound like he was protecting somebody.”
“No,” Leon said. “Did you have reason to believe he was?”
“Just part of my mother’s story,” she said. “Another lie.”
“I’m sorry,” Leon said to her. “This can’t be easy.”
She pulled her coat closer to her body. “I’m okay.”
“Leon, how can we find out more about this?” I said. “You think the police record is still lying around somewhere?”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, “in some storage room. Probably take forever to find it. You know any old Soo cops who might have been around back then?”
“You don’t suppose …”
“One way to find out.”
“Sure,” I said. “This’ll be fun.”
“You know, if you’re talking about the seventies, you’re going back to a pretty strange time around here. Like I said, I was only a kid then, but I heard about it later.”
“What do you mean?”
“You gotta remember, the air force base was still open then. There were a lot of men stationed up here. You add up everybody, I think it was like ten thousand. That’s a lot of people, Alex. With a long hard winter. You can imagine …”
“So you’re saying, what, there were a lot of prostitutes around, and what else?”
“You name it,” he said. “You remember what happened to the chief of police up here.”
“No, what?”
“He was arrested by the state police for taking bribes from the Detroit Mafia. I forget what year that was.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I was downstate back then.”
“What my grandfather said about this town,” Natalie said. “I guess he knew what he was talking about.”
I looked at the article again. “It’s hard to even imagine.”
A man stepped out of the shop and stared daggers at Leon’s back.
“I think you’re wanted inside,” I said. “Thank you again, Leon. You’re the best.”
“Yes,” Natalie said. “Thank you. Alex told me you were a good partner.”
That seemed to make Leon’s day, even though he was headed back inside to deal with an unhappy boss.
We got back in Natalie’s Jeep. “So now what?” she said.
“Take a right here,” I said. “It’s time for you to meet somebody.”
“Another friend of yours?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
We went up Ashmun to the north end of town. When we hit Portage, we could see the Ojibway Hotel, three blocks down. The red awnings seemed to glow in the fading light.
“This way,” I said.
We turned right, away from the hotel. It was going on five o’clock when we got to the City County Building. We pulled around back, just in time to see Chief Maven leaving.
“Chief,” I said as I opened my door. “Can we have a minute of your time?”
“What is it, McKnight? I’m on my way home.”
“It won’t take long,” I said. “This is Natalie Reynaud of the Ontario Provincial Police.” I figured the official title wouldn’t hurt, but it probably didn’t matter. His face brightened as soon as he looked at her. Turns out he was human after all.
“Officer Reynaud,” he said, taking her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, Chief. If it’s not too much trouble, can we go back inside for a moment?”
“Certainly. Right this way.”
He opened the door and showed her into the building. I followed, watching this unnaturally charming clone of Chief Roy Maven asking Natalie which detachment she was based out of, and how long she had been in the OPP. We went straight to his office and he went a couple of doors down to get a comfortable guest chair for her. I sat in my usual rock-hard plastic chair.
“So,” he finally said when we were settled in, “what can I do for you? Alex, your face is looking a little better, at least. Relatively speaking.”
“About that,” Natalie said. “What’s happening to the men who assaulted Alex?”
She wasn’t wasting any time. Maven threw his hands up in surrender. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot here,” he said. “I arrested all three of them, right after I saw Alex in the hospital.”
“How did you charge them?”
“Felonious assault, naturally.”
“What class is that in Michigan?”
“Well,” Maven said, “that’s actually a class three felony.”
“That’s one step away from a misdemeanor,” Natalie said. “Am I right? Is that how it works here?”
“It’s a mighty big step,” he said. “Believe me.”
“Three men beat him and left him for dead. You’re telling me that’s not a class two at least?”
“For a class two assault, you need intent to rob or else some sort of criminal sexual contact. For class one you need intent to kill or maim.”
“Chief Maven, if you’re telling me they had no intent to maim him …”
“I know what you mean, but you’ve gotta understand how it works around here. Intent to maim is strictly interpreted. With no weapon, and no admitted intent, it just doesn’t get prosecuted as class one.”
“Can we stop talking about me like I’m not even here?” I said. “Just tell me what they said when you arrested them.”
Maven looked at me, then opened a file on his desk. “We arrested Mr. Woolsey at his residence, and the two Grant brothers at their place of business.”
“Where’s that?”
He hesitated for a moment. “It’s no secret,” he said. “It’s an auto glass shop over on Spruce.”
“Grant’s Auto Glass,” I said. “I’ve seen it.”
“That’s the place,” he said. “We arrested all three men without incident, questioned them here at the station, charged each of them with felonious assault. They were arraigned later that day and released on bail. The trial date is pending.”
“Go back to that questioning part.”
He cleared his throat. “If you’d like me to summarize—”
“Just tell me,” I said. “I want to know why they jumped me.”
“Mr. Woolsey and the older of the two Grant brothers exercised their Fifth Amendment rights,” he said, looking back down at the file. “Marty Grant, on the other hand, had a few things to say.”
“Marty Grant,” I said. “He was the big one, right?”
“He’s a big boy, yes. His hand was in a cast.”
“I seem to recall ducking and somebody hitting the brick wall.”
“Yes, well, according to him, the events of that day were caused by an account given to him by his nephew, Christopher Woolsey. Apparently, there had been an altercation at the Ojibway Hotel three days before.”
“That’s the day Simon Grant died. What kind of altercation was he talking about?”
“It involves you, McKnight. He says you contacted Mr. Grant an
d asked him to meet you at the hotel.”
“What?”
“Despite the fact that Mr. Grant is not supposed to be out alone, especially in bad weather, you told him to meet you at the hotel. Then
you made him wait around there all day, and young Mr. Woolsey was unable to convince him to go back home.”
“You are kidding me, right?”
“Finally, you had words with him in the dining room. After which time you must have told him to leave the hotel immediately.”
“I must have told him? What does that mean?”
“Apparently, Mr. Woolsey was not present at that exact moment. When he came looking for his grandfather, he was gone.”
“Because I made him go out in the snow? An eighty-two-year-old man?”
“I’m just telling you the story as it was told to me, McKnight.”
“You got all of this secondhand from Marty Grant. Did you talk to Chris Woolsey directly?”
“I tried to, yes. So far, he hasn’t agreed to talk to us. He wasn’t charged, after all. Only his father and his two uncles. But I’m sure he’ll be subpoenaed for the trials.”
I didn’t have anything to say. I was completely dumbfounded.
“This kid is lying,” Natalie said. “Did you talk to anyone else at the hotel about this supposed altercation?”
“As yet, nobody else at the hotel can corroborate the story.”
“Yes,” she said. “Big surprise.”
“Chris is covering his ass,” I said. “His grandfather comes to the hotel and instead of keeping an eye on him he’s hitting on one of the maids or something. Then when the poor old guy wanders out and gets lost in the snow, Chris makes up this story so the rest of the family has someone else to blame for it.”
“I’m not saying I believe the story, McKnight. Okay? I’m not saying that. But if this is what he told his family, then it helps explain the state of mind those men were in the day of the funeral. They honestly believed that you were to blame for their father’s death. Not in a way that they could do anything about legally, but responsible just the same. Then later, when you were driving all over town trying to talk to them—”
“What does that have to do with it?” Natalie said.
“Ms. Reynaud,” Maven said. “Did Alex tell you that he went looking for Chris Woolsey the day before the funeral? That he went to his apartment on campus and then to his mother’s house?”
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