19
Daniel Kennicott smiled when he saw the white plastic bag on the handle of the side entrance to his second-floor flat. Inside the bag were fresh tomatoes, carrots, and cucumbers, a bright red apple, and a note from his landlords: “In case the store be closed, Mr. and Mrs. Federico.” The couple lived downstairs, and Mr. Federico was an avid gardener who constantly pushed food on his upstairs tenant. Unlike most cops his age, who owned town houses out in the suburbs, Kennicott had rented this place downtown for years. It was on Clinton Street, just north of College and the heart of Little Italy.
He put the Terrance Wyler file and the plastic bag on his kitchen table and pulled out a carrot. Kennicott had more than enough experience with sleep deprivation, first as a law student, then as a young lawyer in a top downtown firm, and now as a cop. It was important to eat.
The apartment was stuffy. He opened the windows at the front of the flat, then the back ones too. He tilted his head out into the cool night air. There was a chirp-chirp and a rustle of feet. Two black squirrels chased each other up Mr. Federico’s grapevine, which blossomed into a shaded awning over his concrete back porch every summer. Kennicott took out a bottle of vinegar and a rag from under the sink and wiped his leather shoes clean before he went to his bedroom to change.
Back in the kitchen in a clean T-shirt and shorts, he sat down. Even though there was a desk in his second bedroom, he liked to work here. He opened the Wyler file and started reading through the legal pleadings to get an overall view of the divorce case. There were long, detailed affidavits from husband and wife that were mirror images of each other. Classic “he said, she said” stuff.
Terrance’s affidavit was ten pages of dense prose detailing every faux pas and misstep. Samantha was a workaholic, she had never bonded with Simon, and she was a careless mother—as illustrated by the time in late July when the boy sliced open his cheek and had to go the hospital. She didn’t even notify Terrance. Samantha was untruthful, as demonstrated by the “patently false” charge she’d brought against Terrance, alleging that he’d threatened her with a knife. She systematically alienated Terrance from his family and almost bankrupted him two years ago with her ill-conceived plan to start a gourmet food shop.
Samantha painted an equally unattractive picture. Terrance was controlled by his family. He had lots of ideas to modernize Wyler Foods but no one listened and he was too weak to stand up to them. She started the food shop so he could realize his potential. Nathan Wyler used his contacts to undermine them and Terrance wasn’t prepared to work hard enough for it to succeed. Even though Terrance was acquitted of threatening her with the knife, he wasn’t the easygoing person he pretended to be, but was angry and potentially violent. He destroyed the marriage by leaving Samantha for the actress April Goodling.
Kennicott had seen this type of angry dispute over and over again. Two people who’d lived together, been intimate, had children, yet at the same time were secretly keeping score, like accountants at tax time.
The next file was marked E-MAILS. For some reason e-mail brought out the worst in people, especially when they were angry. There were three in a subfile marked “Samantha E-mails for Police”:
July 30
You’re unbelievable. Simon gets three stitches on his cheek and you’d think he’d lost a limb. No I didn’t call you about it because he’s fine. Now you’re trying to use this against me and it’s pathetic. I bet your family is behind this. All they want is to get their hands on Simon.
August 7
Where the hell does your lawyer get off saying I’m an incompetent mother!!! That I’d be lucky to get supervised access to Simon once a month if we go to trial!!! I’m so pissed off. Your family will stop at nothing to try to take my son away.
August 12
One week from the trial and now your lawyer amends her pleadings and asks for full custody. Says it’s not safe for Simon to stay overnight with me???!!! Who the fuck do you think you are? Just like you to stab me in the back. You want to go to war. Watch out. You’re not the only one with a knife.
Kennicott read the last message over again. “You’re not the only one with a knife.” The prosecutor will love that line, he thought.
He yawned. It was three-thirty in the morning. Kennicott had been going nonstop since the initial radio call early this morning, and there were hours of work ahead of him: read the correspondence between the lawyers, listen to the voice mails, go through the other e-mails, and comb through the financial information. Greene was spending the night at the morgue observing the autopsy. He was going to pick Kennicott up at eight in the morning to go see the Wyler family and would expect to be fully briefed.
Kennicott kept eating carrots as he read. The last forty-eight hours he’d hardly had time to breathe or eat—or do what he wanted to do most of all: call Jo Summers.
They’d met years ago in law school and had stumbled upon each other again last winter at the Crown’s office at Old City Hall. Kennicott was working on his first murder trial with Greene and Jo was running bail court. It was an embarrassing moment, because at first he couldn’t remember her name. Not a good thing with a woman who you had a one-night stand with so many years ago and never even called afterward.
Throughout the spring and early summer they’d become friends, edging closer to each other. In the last week of July he went to Italy for three weeks to track down some clues to his brother Michael’s murder. His parents had died in a car accident two years earlier. But now there were questions. Was it really an accident?
It had been a rough and disappointing trip. He had returned last Thursday and called Summers. She said the first time she was free was Sunday night. He took the ferry over to visit her on the Toronto Islands, not really knowing what to expect.
She met him at the landing. It was eight o’clock but still stifling hot. They walked along the outer boardwalk to a deserted part of the beach and looked out across Lake Ontario. There was no breeze. Sitting in the sand at sunset, she reached over and straightened the collar of his shirt.
They talked, it seemed, about everything but themselves. Even when the sun went down, the heat didn’t relent. “When’s the last ferry?” he asked after what seemed like hours.
“You missed it.” There was just enough moonlight that he could see her mischievous smile. “But you can always take a water taxi.”
He laughed.
“Truth or dare?” she said, laughing back.
“Truth.” Good, he thought. At last they’d talk about what was so unspoken between them.
“Truth. I was pissed that you never phoned after that night in law school.” She had her sandals off and scooped sand over her feet. “But I was even more pissed, I think, when you walked into my office last winter and couldn’t even remember my name.”
“Truth. I was an asshole.”
She touched his elbow. “Truth. You weren’t an asshole. Actually, you were kind. I’m not a prude, Daniel. I can handle a one-night stand. But there was something careless about you. It scared me.”
“Truth, then,” he said. “Why are you sitting here with me?”
She kicked her feet out of the sand. “Truth. Last winter in my office, remember I told you I thought about calling you after I heard about your brother’s murder?”
“I was touched.”
“I must have picked up the phone ten times. I wrote you three or four letters, but never mailed them. I wanted to reach out to that kind side of you, but I was afraid.”
“Of my careless side.”
She looked at him. Jo had wide blue eyes. “Dare.” She jumped up. “Remember the opening scene in the movie Jaws? There aren’t any sharks in this lake.” With a snap she yanked down her shorts, in one move pulled off her T-shirt, and reached back and unleashed her mane of hair. Kennicott watched her for a moment in the moonlight, slack-jawed, before he stripped down and followed her in. It was so hot, there was no difference in the temperature of the air and the water and Jo’s luminous skin
.
Tonight a cool breeze blew through his apartment, driving out the stifling heat. Kennicott felt around his landlord’s bag of fruit and vegetables, yanked out the apple, and sank his teeth into it. No matter what happened on this case tomorrow, he was going to find time to call Jo.
20
Visiting the family of the deceased was one of the toughest parts of the job, but Ari Greene knew it was a prime opportunity to learn more about the victim and to find possible suspects. Right now, those were the two top priorities.
Timing was key. Wait too long and the family would feel abandoned. Nothing was worse in a murder trial than when the family lost faith in the police and the prosecution. But if you descended upon them too fast, people would be in shock, and there was a real danger of overwhelming everyone.
The afternoon before, he had called Nathan Wyler and offered to come see them all. But they’d agreed it would be better if he came in the morning. They needed some time to talk to Simon. Be alone together. Greene said he’d be there by nine.
Daniel Kennicott sat next to him as they drove past Woodhill, a town northwest of Toronto. This was, according to snobbish downtowners, “nosebleed country.” As they rode, Greene and Kennicott updated each other on all they had learned the previous night.
“The autopsy was straightforward,” Greene said. “Seven stab wounds, no defensive wounds, cause of death loss of blood. They’re consistent with the kitchen knife. The cut that killed him was a small puncture to the neck, hit the carotid artery. He would have bled out real fast. Pathologist says four minutes tops.”
“I went over the divorce file,” Kennicott said. “She was angry. Sent him some e-mails that were close to being threats. Said he’d stabbed her in the back and had better watch out. He wasn’t the only one with a knife.”
Greene had seen more than his share of ugly family breakups that ended in criminal charges. “These divorces get nastier all the time. Any news from the door knockers?” Door knockers were the division cops Greene had tasked to canvass the streets near Wyler’s home and in Yorkville, where Samantha Wyler’s family lawyer had his office.
“No one saw anything on Wyler’s street. There were only a few people at home.”
“Not surprising, a neighborhood like that in the middle of the summer.”
“We got lucky down in Yorkville with one of the store owners.” Kennicott pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Allan Rupert. In business since 1968. Store called Chemise If You Please. Sells high-end men’s shirts. Was in early to set up for the fall rush and the film festival. Noticed a woman, Caucasian, dark hair, estimated age early thirties, curled up on the doorstep of Winston Feindel’s law office. Rupert knows Feindel. Both are British, like to go to the local pub to watch soccer matches.”
“What time?”
“A few minutes before seven. Knows the time because he always catches the BBC news at the top of the hour.”
“She gave the knife to Feindel. That’s how DiPaulo passed it over to me so fast. But how’d she get downtown?”
“She’s not on the subway videos. No cabbies picked her up and we showed her picture to every bus driver anywhere near the house. Nothing.”
In nosebleed country the streets were wide, the blocks long, and the sidewalks narrow or nonexistent. Greene hadn’t seen a tree in Wood-hill, just concrete and big-box stores, and there wasn’t a pedestrian in sight. Sprawling subdivisions sported garish stone gateways, their pretentious names ending in words like “estates,” “manor,” and even “domain.” Billboards announcing “record sales,” and “time-limited, must-buy-now” offers were surrounded by balloon-festooned flagpoles. Greene wondered who first hit on the notion that flags and balloons would induce people to slam on their brakes and go buy a new home.
“What’d you find about the Wylers?” Greene asked.
“Ran them all through CPIC,” Kennicott said, referring to the police database. “The father, William Wyler, showed up. Been charged twice. Once by a farmer who got into an argument with him down at the food terminal. And a female employee claimed he cornered her in the back office and forced her to have sex with him.”
“What happened?”
“N.G. both times.” N.G. was police shorthand for not guilty.
“Big surprise,” Greene said.
“A few years ago his wife called 911. He’d been drinking and was throwing things around the house. She told the cops he hadn’t hit her. They didn’t see any injuries. The oldest son, Nathan, came over and the father calmed down.”
“Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Greene swung into Fieldstone Forest, the development where Nathan Wyler lived. It was a warren of winding streets. Wyler’s mini-mansion was on a circular cul-de-sac between two other equally huge homes. Greene pulled his Oldsmobile into the driveway, where four sparkling clean cars were parked. A large Cadillac had the license plate name WFRESH 1, a black Lexus was WFRESH 2, a sleek Mercedes with a disabled notice in the front window was WFRESH 3, and a panel van painted in the corporate colors was WFRESH 4. Only the van had a transponder, a gadget that slipped on the windshield for use by frequent commuters on the 407 toll highway that led from the city to suburbia.
The front lawn was manicured, the trimmed flower beds filled with annuals in dull primary colors. A note on a plastic stake read “Early-Bird Lawn—Weekly Maintenance— Monday, August 17, 5:00 a.m.” It listed about twenty categories of work that had been done the day before.
Greene bent down for a closer look. Wonder what I miss with my hand-push lawn mower, he thought, reading through the list of chores. Beside an illustration of a robin pulling a worm out of the ground a note read, “Next Early-Bird Visit, Monday, August 24, 5:00 a.m.”
He suspected that not one member of the Wyler family planted a seed, mowed a lawn, pulled a weed, or raked a leaf. The chatter of crickets in the early-morning air was the only hint of real nature.
“Detective Ari Greene, Toronto Homicide.” He extended a hand to the big man who opened the front door.
Greene recognized Nathan Wyler from a long time before. They’d spent a few months in the same class during Greene’s final year of high school, after Wyler was kicked out of his fancy private school. He’d been a real jerk back then, used to getting his way and throwing his weight around.
“Nathan Wyler,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Wyler turned to Kennicott and shook his hand. “I’m sorry I exploded at you yesterday when you told me the news.”
“No need to apologize,” Kennicott said. “Losing a brother is a terrible thing.”
“I appreciate both of you coming. It means everything to my parents.”
Interesting how the mind works, Greene thought as they followed Wyler into the house. He could still remember Nathan’s distinctive, lumbering gait, those massive shoulders hunched over, the way his large head jutted out. And the fight they’d had in the high school cafeteria.
It had been a few weeks after Wyler showed up at the school. “Who spells green with an e on the end?” Wyler asked one day to a crowd of hangers-on around him. His voice was loud. Greene, who was skinny back then, sat across the long table, a few seats down.
He looked up at Wyler and waited. More people looked on. “Someone Hitler couldn’t kill,” Greene said, keeping his voice level. “What did your daddy do during the war? Get rich selling lettuce and tomatoes while everyone else was off fighting?”
Wyler glared back at Greene. “I get it,” Wyler said. “It’s e for greeny.”
“Greeny” was slang for a new immigrant.
The words were barely out of Wyler’s mouth when Greene grabbed a pitcher of fruit punch and threw it at him. Without waiting, Greene jumped on the table. Despite the fact that Wyler was so much bigger, Greene came down on him hard, hitting with all his might. It was the only time he’d ever punched someone.
After all these years, Greene would have recognized Wyler by simply walking behind him. He was sure Wyler w
ouldn’t remember him.
“Everyone’s in the living room.” Wyler led them across a bleached white wood floor into a large rotunda with a spiral staircase heading up through the two-story space, twirling around a massive chandelier. The living room was off to the side. Three enormous couches were packed with people around a square coffee table.
“This is Detective Greene and Officer Kennicott,” Wyler said. The chatter in the room died down instantly. He pointed to the couch on his left. “My cousins.” Then to the second couch. “My wife, Harriet, and some of her friends.” Finally he looked to his right. “My parents and my brother Jason.”
Greene walked directly over to the parents.
Mrs. Wyler stood as he approached and Greene grasped her hand. She was a surprisingly tall woman, with dark hair accented by a white stripe to the left of center. Her palm and fingers were cold. “We’ll do everything we can,” he said.
“It’s unthinkable.” Her eyes, the same enchanting green as her oldest son’s, were hooded in sadness.
“I don’t have anything to say to make it easier. I wish I did.” Greene never used the trite phrases they recommended at the police seminars, things like “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mr. Wyler got up stiffly beside his wife. “Damn knees are a mess. Too many years hauling around vegetable crates.” Like his oldest son, he was a big, hulking man. He wore heavy rubber-soled shoes, presumably to cushion his weak legs. His eyes were dark and cold. “Call me Bill.” He gave Greene an unenthusiastic handshake. “This was always my wife’s greatest fear. To bury one of her sons.”
“My father lost children too,” Greene said. At the seminars they said you should never personalize what you say to victims’ families. Advice he steadfastly ignored. The best thing he could do in this situation was be himself.
The third person in this grim receiving line was the middle brother, Jason. Unlike the other members of the family, he was short. He pulled himself to his feet with difficulty, grasping two well-worn metal canes to steady himself. Kennicott had told Greene that Jason lived on the ground floor of Nathan’s house. Suffered from a rare degenerative nerve disease called spinal muscular atrophy, or SMA.
02 - The Guilty Plea Page 9
