3
Ted DiPaulo opened the door to his law office and stared at his desk. What a fucking mess. Damn, he hated paperwork. Even more, he hated a boring week like the one coming up. Today nothing was doing, and he’d be stuck pushing that pile of paper around. Tomorrow he had a guilty plea for a drunk driver, Wednesday a sentencing on a fraud case, Thursday a meeting with a new client charged with stealing from his employer. Friday zip. He could do all this in his sleep.
If there was one thing DiPaulo couldn’t stand, even more than dishonest prosecutors or incompetent judges, it was not having enough to do. Not having a big case on the go. Not getting into court to cross-examine a witness. Not having the press lapping up his every word.
Bloody summer. His law practice was too damn slow, as if everyone were on holiday. Even his best criminals.
DiPaulo needed to be in court the way an actor needed to be onstage. That’s why he’d started his career as a Crown Attorney, where prosecutors were on their feet all day long. With his love of doing trials and his great capacity for work, he had risen through the ranks fast. Became the youngest-ever head Crown of the Toronto office at the age of forty-one.
He’d thrived in the job. Couldn’t get enough of the pressure. The profile. Then, five years ago, his wife, Olive, was diagnosed with liver cancer. She died in three months, and in the blink of an eye he had to take care of his two teenage kids. All those years before that, he’d been a part-time parent, practically living at the office. That was no longer an option. He quit and went into private practice so he’d have more time.
At first Kyle, then fourteen, and Lauren, twelve, clung to him. Wanted him home every night for dinner. Funny thing. Just as he got used to it and started to crave their company, they turned into full-fledged teenagers. On the go all the time. And perhaps they knew their dad was much easier to live with when he got his daily dose of the courtroom. Soon he was back to doing big cases, sleepless nights and crazy hours, with the added bonus of a new closeness to his children. But that was time-dated, like a container of yogurt in the fridge. Kyle was away on a six-week canoe trip and would be off to university in September. Lauren was home, taking a summer school course. Another year and she’d be gone too.
He stopped for a moment at the credenza near his office door and picked up a framed photo. Olive died four months after their twentieth anniversary. On the first Mother’s Day after her death, the kids gave him this picture of the two of them on top of Ayers Rock. They had taken the hiking trip to Australia to celebrate their forty-fifth birthdays, which were one week apart. Ted was very tall, over six feet six. And big. Olive was quite short, fine and delicate.
It was his private ritual to look at the photo every time he entered and exited the office. In a job where the demands on his time and emotions were so extreme, he was determined to keep this piece of his own life intact. Half a decade. He’d never forgotten.
He settled behind his desk and the phone rang. DiPaulo smiled. On Saturday night he’d been invited over to some friends’ house for dinner and they’d introduced him to a woman named Chiara. She was an orthopedic surgeon, a few years older, smart and independent, Italian even, though a dark beauty from Sicily in contrast with his blond northern Italian blood. They’d joked about who started work earlier on Monday mornings, and as he was leaving, he gave her his card and said, “Call if you want. Earlier the better.”
After Olive died, DiPaulo had waited a few years before he started dating. At first he made the predictable mistakes—talked incessantly about his late wife, his children, or his career as a criminal lawyer. Lessons learned. He wasn’t going to blow this one.
He leaned far back in his chair. “Hi there.” His voice was warm. Even sexy.
“Ted, so glad you are in early,” a male voice said. He recognized it immediately. It was Winston Feindel, a family lawyer who sent DiPaulo a lot of work.
“Winston, oh, hi.” He snapped straight up in his seat. “You must be on your way to court.”
Feindel was an elderly British barrister who’d moved to Canada ten years earlier. Trading on his English accent, his well-tailored suits, and his courtly manner, he had quickly established himself as a leading light in the local family law bar. His specialty was representing women splitting up from rich husbands. When a client had to testify in a divorce trial, he sent them to DiPaulo to prepare them for court. DiPaulo had been working with Samantha Wyler, a particularly difficult woman, since the beginning of July, and her divorce trial was starting this morning.
“Unfortunately,” Feindel said. “The trial has been canceled.”
This was Feindel’s style. Very British. Understated. “Canceled?” DiPaulo asked. “Why?”
“My part in this matter has ended. Ms. Wyler will now be your full-time client.”
“My client? Divorce isn’t a crime.”
“Ah. But murder is,” Feindel said.
“What?” DiPaulo said. “Who?”
DiPaulo had watched as Samantha, or Sam as she insisted on being called, had become increasingly unglued in recent weeks. What had she done?
“Ms. Wyler’s now late husband was found at his home this morning. Victim, it seems, of a great many stab wounds. Puts a crimp in the divorce action.”
“Oh, no.”
“I just received a phone call from a homicide detective, Ari Greene. You know the gentleman?”
“Good cop,” DiPaulo said.
“The detective was inquiring as to the whereabouts of our formerly mutual client.”
After all his years in the court, DiPaulo prided himself in his ability to take startling news in stride. But he needed a minute to absorb this. The air-conditioned office felt hot. “Where’s Sam?” The tumblers in his mind were locking into gear.
“She was sitting on the steps of my office a few minutes ago when I arrived,” Feindel said, as calmly as he’d tell a colleague where he’d gone for lunch. “She’s in my office now and most upset.”
And a dangerous client for you, DiPaulo thought. Feindel wanted to pass her off fast, like a real-life hot potato. His law chambers, as he insisted on calling his luxurious office, were in a brownstone in Yorkville, a trendy midtown location. Near all the best restaurants for his ladies-who-lunch clientele. It would be a short drive.
“I’ll get right over there.”
DiPaulo reached for his old leather briefcase, grabbed a few pens and a clean pad of paper, and rushed out. Samantha Wyler could be questioned by the police, or even arrested, at any moment.
His office was on the eleventh floor. At the elevator, the numbers above the door were at six, then five, then four. To hell with it. He headed to the stairwell. Keeping one hand on the steel railing, he skipped down the concrete steps.
It wasn’t until he got to the third floor that DiPaulo realized he hadn’t paused at the anniversary photo on his way out. He gripped the railing. Then kept going down.
4
It was a perfect room for a boy to grow up in, Ari Greene thought, closing the door behind him and grinning at the dark-eyed child nestled in the bed on the far wall. Tucked in next to him, a short woman was reading him a book called Really Big Trains. A large poster of Thomas the Tank Engine smiled down on them from above. On the wood floor a throw rug featured a print of Curious George forever being chased by the man with the yellow hat. In a bay window that overlooked the street the built-in sitting area was covered with a half-finished Lego construction of a tall building.
“Hello.” The boy smiled at Greene, remarkably at ease with a total stranger coming into his room. He patted a small black dog at his side.
“I bet you’re Simon,” Greene said.
“Yep,” he said. “Arceli told me someone would be coming to see me. She said my daddy had to leave early. This is my dog Billy.”
Greene kept a smile on his face. “Arceli’s a special friend.”
“When she reads about the train named Victor she says Bictor.” Simon laughed.
The nanny nodded
at Greene and forced herself to laugh along.
The boy had deep, dark eyes. “Have you ever been in a fire truck?” Greene asked.
“At day care they taught us ‘stop, drop, and roll.’” Simon popped out of bed, stood erect on the carpet, dropped to the ground, and rolled over to Greene’s feet.
Greene got down on one knee. “Ever been in a police car?”
“I’ve got one.” Simon jumped up and pulled a basket out from under his bed. It was packed with cars and trucks and trains. He expertly extracted a black-and-white car.
“This one’s my bestest.” He made driving noises—vroom, vroom, vroom—as he rolled it along the edge of the bed. “Police emergency, police emergency,” he called out in as deep a voice as he could.
“Guess what?” Greene said. “A police car’s going to take you to Arceli’s place.”
Simon turned back to Greene. A confused look on his face. “This is zoo day at day-care camp.”
“It’s so hot. The animals need to stay inside,” Greene said.
Simon thought about this for a moment. “Arceli’s apartment is hot too. She told me.”
“What do you want to take with you?”
Simon dove under his bed again and brought out a plastic bucket. A moment of rummaging and he found a police badge. “This,” he said, showing it to Greene. He grabbed a well-worn Sesame Street doll. “And Bert.” He looked at the dog, who was still on the bed. “And Billy. Are dogs allowed in police cars?”
“Sure. A policewoman bought you chocolate milk and doughnuts for breakfast. Arceli’s going to go get them and you can eat here in your room.”
Simon furrowed his brow. “My mom lets me eat in front of the TV, but Daddy says I have to eat in the kitchen or the dining room.”
“That’s a good rule. But today we can do something special.”
The nanny left and Greene glanced out the bay window. The squad cars he’d ordered had cut off the street on both sides of the house. Greene pulled out a basket of Brio trains and wooden track. “Do you want to work on this with me?”
“Sure.” Simon stretched out on the floor.
Within a few minutes they’d built a figure eight, with an extension looping off to an outer ring. A second spur line circled under a bridge and curled back to a painted wood station.
“You’re fun to play with,” Simon said.
Greene reached back for more rails and felt something soft touch his arm. It was the boy’s hand.
One Saturday afternoon when he was six years old, Greene’s father came home early from work and they took two buses to get to a store called George’s Trains on Mount Pleasant Avenue. When Greene walked in he could hardly breathe, so overwhelming was the place. The walls were lined with hand-painted locomotives, and the salesmen, none of them young, wore gray-and-white-striped conductors’ hats. Best of all, a large train ran all the way around the store, high up on the walls, toot-tooting every minute or so.
Greene’s father could afford only one circular track, with a locomotive and a coal car. Greene spent countless hours in the basement, running the train around and around. There was a special liquid that came in a glass bottle, and three drops of it would produce steam once the engine warmed up.
The nanny opened Simon’s bedroom door, quickly shutting it behind her. “Here’s your doughnut,” she said. “And chocolate milk.”
Simon reached for the doughnut. “Sprinkles.” He smiled.
“Drink your milk first.” She put a straw in the milk carton and held it out to him. “Careful, no spilling.”
“This man likes trains, like my mom,” Simon said after he took a sip.
“Most people like trains,” Ocaya said.
“Arceli had to take a long airplane ride to get to Canada,” Simon explained. “Her family is far away but she doesn’t cry. My dad doesn’t cry, but my mom always cries when I have to say goodbye.”
Greene got up from the floor. “That’s because she loves you,” he said.
“She kisses me at night when she thinks I’m asleep, and I know she’s crying. Like she did—”
“Simon, take another sip,” Ocaya said. “Enough talking.”
“I’m saying that Mommy cries.” Simon put the straw back into his mouth.
“Yes. Here’s the doughnut.” She had it wrapped in a white napkin. “Be careful. No crumbs on the floor.”
“She cried last night,” Simon said.
Greene and Ocaya exchanged glances. “Silly Simon,” Ocaya said. “Last night you were not at your mother’s house, you slept here.”
“My mom came into my room here at my dad’s house. She kissed me and she was crying.” Simon took a bite out of the doughnut and swallowed it. “She said she wouldn’t see me for a long time. How come?”
Instead of looking at his nanny, Simon looked squarely at Greene—the man who’d appeared in his life, built trains with him on the floor, and told him he wasn’t going to day-care camp today.
He picked a red sprinkle off the doughnut. “How come?” Simon asked again.
5
“I’m looking for Wyler Foods.” Officer Daniel Kennicott jumped out of his patrol car and grabbed the arm of a muscle-bound man carrying a basket of fresh corn with both hands. Kennicott had just parked at the Ontario Food Terminal, a gigantic tract of land in the southwest part of the city.
“Main building.” The man indicated the direction with his chin. “Turn right and right again. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” Kennicott took off at a run. The food terminal was one of the biggest fresh food depots in North America, and the lot was filled to capacity with farmers’ pickup trucks and vehicles belonging to buyers from every corner of the province. One caught his eye: a paneled van painted in gaudy orange and green colors, the words IT’S WYLER FRESH standing out in old-fashioned block letters.
He was fighting the clock. “You’re going to notify the oldest brother, Nathan Wyler, the one you see on all those billboard ads,” Detective Greene had told Kennicott half an hour before when he had gotten to Terrance Wyler’s house. “The parents and the middle brother, Jason, who’s disabled by some rare disease, live northwest of the city. Too far a drive. Better to let Nathan tell the family. Throw on your siren and get there fast. I don’t want him to hear about this from the press.”
Kennicott had looked at the other patrol cars that cut off the street. Greene could have grabbed any of those cops and given them this assignment. “No problem,” he’d said.
The food terminal was a large warehouse with a huge open courtyard in the middle. Storefronts rimmed the perimeter on all four sides, with colorful names like Rosie’s Bananas, So Green Organics, Romano Pasta Company, Upper Canadian Cheese.
A network of concrete paths ran around the complex, and a constant stream of electric trolleys, laden with all manner of produce, zipped in and out of stores. Their drivers beeped their high-pitched horns as they whirled around, like hepped-up go-cart drivers on a familiar track.
It was easy to find Wyler Foods. The garish façade featured the store’s orange and green colors, with the words IT’S WYLER FRESH on a banner high across the entrance. Inside was a beehive of activity. A lineup of farmers brought in cartons of food to show Wyler employees, all dressed in orange-and-green aprons. Nathan Wyler was right in the middle of it all, pacing back and forth behind a long, rectangular table, his striped bow tie slightly askew. He barked out orders as he pawed through the trays of fresh food his minions brought up for inspection.
Kennicott recognized the man immediately. Wyler Foods was a well-known high-end food store in midtown Toronto. It had recently launched a billboard ad campaign across the city that featured a photo of Nathan with his sleeves rolled up, arms filled with fresh produce, wearing the distinctive bow tie. Behind him were old photos of two other men wearing the same tie and handling produce. Obviously these were his father and grandfather. The tagline read “I’m Nathan Wyler. For three generations it’s always been Wyler Fresh.”
“Fucking heat wave,” Wyler said. He was a big man, with broad, hunched-over shoulders. He grabbed a tray of blueberries from one of his employees. “This stuff’s all shriveled to shit.”
Kennicott strode up to the table. Despite the fact that he was in full uniform, no one seemed to notice him.
“Look at this scrawny stuff they’re trying to hide.” Wyler dug through a carton of romaine and yanked a thin head of lettuce from the bottom row. It was brown around the edges.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wyler,” Kennicott said.
Wyler fixed him with a pair of eyes that were a remarkable translucent green. He wasn’t an attractive man. Up close, his brownish hair had the plastic look of cheap color. He had a deep double chin. But the eyes made the rest of his face irrelevant.
“Yeah?” Wyler didn’t seem at all surprised to see a police officer in his store. Squeezing the ends of a cantaloupe, he heaved it back into its box and turned to another employee. “These are good. Ask if he’s got any honeydew.”
“Could I speak to you for a moment, sir?” Kennicott asked.
Wyler held an oversize avocado out to him. “Organic, from Florida. Amazing stuff. What is it, Officer?”
“I’d rather speak to you in private.” Kennicott took the avocado. It had a thick, scaly skin.
Someone shoved a cluster of fresh basil at Wyler. He tore off a bottom leaf and popped it into his mouth. “This is the best. Americans have this quick cooling method. Stuff stays fresh for ten days.” He took back the avocado from Kennicott and offered him a leaf. “Try it.”
“No thanks, I really must—”
“Look.” Wyler spread his arms out at the train of food being brought up to him. “Monday morning. Peak buying hour. With this heat, no one has enough supply.”
“Sir, this is urgent.”
Wyler’s fingers danced over a basket of green zucchini. “They’re not great, but we better grab them. See if they have any yellows,” he said to yet another employee before he turned back to Kennicott. “Officer, you must be new at the division. Go help yourself to what ever you want. Not a problem.”
02 - The Guilty Plea Page 2
