The Ambitious City

by Scott Thornley

  “Yup, I’m on it. I’m actually diggin’ this cross-border copping. Demetrius wanted to know if I was from the Caribbean. He couldn’t believe that my family goes back generations in Canada—and in a place called Africville.”

  “How did he know you were black?”

  “You know, sir. You just know.”

  After MacNeice ended the call, he sat for a moment looking out at the city before going back to confirm that he’d be getting a report from Whitman and any footage from the cameras—if they had been recording.

  Driving around the line of cruisers blocking the ramp to the bridge, he looked at the cops redirecting traffic to the opposite side and thought about the ride the night before. Was there anything he should have noticed that would indicate the threat on Mancini’s life was greater than he imagined it to be? It was possible that his car was rigged while it sat on the gravel outside the cottage. Was the C4

  in place before he arrived and detonated from a follow-car with a phone call, or was it on a timer? Who tipped off the bomber? And why now? Had Pat Mancini died because he’d spoken to a cop?

  As he turned into the division driveway, he noticed Vertesi pulling in behind him. They parked beside each other and got out their cars.

  Vertesi spoke as they walked towards the building. “Yeah, well, they’re all really shaken up. His mother had to be taken upstairs; she had just calmed down when I came in and when she saw me, she started crying so hard she fainted—I guess because I was still alive. There were at least twenty people in the house—sisters, brothers, kids, cousins; a few of them I recognized from church or school. Mr. Mancini’s face was so pale it was grey. He doesn’t understand why anyone would do this, and he kept grabbing my lapels, begging me at one point, saying, ‘You must find the people who did this. I need to know who did this to Patrizio.’ ”

  MacNeice held the door for him and they climbed the stairs together.

  Stopping in front of the second whiteboard, MacNeice took off his jacket and threw it on the back of his chair. He wrote Pat Mancini’s name next to Vanucci’s and Hughes’s and stood back, studying the board. Then he turned to his three detectives. MacNeice told them about his drive with Pat Mancini, and how a love of weed and women had forced him into a lie that had carried him away and gathered momentum until it came crashing home with Wallace’s press conference.

  “He told me he knew nothing about how Paradis was using his information, and I believed him—he was too shattered. I want to speak with Pat’s father before we upset the family with a warrant. Michael, I’ll want you there with me. While I hope it won’t be necessary, depending on how that meeting goes, we’ll seize their records as well.”

  “Phew … that’s gonna hurt,” Vertesi said.

  “I know that,” said MacNeice. “But two of the concrete companies used bikers as security specialists, and by doing a forensic audit of the books we may able to find out which two—and also discover who provided the concrete for the tunnel.”

  “What about the money Paradis stashed somewhere at Cayuga?”

  “Swetsky will be granted an unlimited warrant to literally tear that place apart. He’s already scheduled an excavation of the barn’s drainage system.”

  “What do you want to do with Langlois?” asked Aziz.

  “While Michael and I are paying a visit to Alberto Mancini, you and Williams rattle him. Tell him about Pat Mancini, that we’re going for broke, that we have nothing to lose—he’s just the unlucky one who’s still alive. And even if he doesn’t say a word, the remaining D2Ds and Jokers will assume he has, so the best strategy for him is to tell us what he knows.”

  Mancini Concrete was closed for the remainder of the week, but Alberto had asked MacNeice to come to his office, not his home. A man who introduced himself only as Pat’s uncle met them at the door. Of medium height, he was slim and elegant; he offered a solemn handshake. His black suit and black satin armband seemed out of place in an office covered with a thin film of concrete dust. Walking past Pat’s desk, Vertesi tapped MacNeice on the shoulder and pointed to the Ferrari. MacNeice could easily imagine how painful it had been for Pat to sit there, pretending to be in the concrete business, waiting for the train to arrive from Montreal.

  Alberto Mancini stood to greet them. His bearing impressed MacNeice, his grief betrayed only by the redness around his eyes. MacNeice kept the condolences brief, which seemed to be appreciated by the older man, who then gestured for them to sit in the chairs in front of his desk.

  “May I offer you something? Coffee, water, something stronger?” He pointed to the trolley with its crystal decanters and bottles of spirits.

  “We’re fine, thank you.” MacNeice looked over at the uncle, who had come in and taken a seat on the sofa.

  Mancini caught his look. “My brother is a partner in this company, and he’s also Pat’s favourite uncle. I asked him to be here.”

  MacNeice nodded. “As you wish. First, I want you to know that your son came to my home to see me last night.”

  Mancini straightened in surprise and glanced at his brother.

  “He was frightened—though he was not seeking protection,” MacNeice explained. “He needed to speak to me.”

  “I don’t understand. What would he want to speak with the police about?” Mancini poured himself a glass of water from a stainless steel carafe on his desk.

  “How much do you know, sir, of your son’s lifestyle?”

  The question hung in the air for a few seconds as Mancini drank the water. When the glass was empty, he studied it for a moment, then put it down slowly on a leather coaster. He met MacNeice’s gaze. “Like any father of a young man, perhaps not much. But Pat was a good boy—”

  “I believe he was. But when he was a hockey player, he became involved with a motorcyle club in Montreal called the Jokers.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Alberto Mancini protested, but his tone was tentative. MacNeice could see that he wasn’t being honest with himself.

  “He was trading information for women and marijuana.”

  “He was a hockey player, Detective MacNeice. What information of interest to a biker gang could he possibly have?”

  “Your son had an active imagination. He either pretended to be an Italian with mob connections or he was tricked into believing he’d made such a claim.”

  “That’s a joke—and this is not a day for joking.” The old man crossed his arms and stared defiantly at MacNeice.

  “I’m not one given to joking, on this or any other day. The events reported yesterday by Deputy Chief Wallace were unknown to your son, but the individuals involved were not. Your son told Frédéric Paradis, one of the bikers who was shot yesterday, about the deal with ABC. He told him about an argument you had on the phone with someone from McNamara.”

  Alberto Mancini looked again at his brother and lifted his chin to indicate he should go. The younger man stood up, straightened his jacket and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Go on, please.”

  “There isn’t much more. Pat was frightened and wanted to leave the country. I persuaded him to stay and he agreed to do so because of the potential threat to you and your family if he left.”

  “I see …” Mancini stood up and walked over to the drinks trolley. “Please join me in a grappa.”

  “I will. A short one.” MacNeice said.

  “Si, grazie mille.” Vertesi added.

  “Prego.”

  Mancini picked up a tall, slim bottle and poured three shots. He handed them their small glasses and then, toasting them in silence, emptied his glass and set it on the desk before he sat down again. MacNeice and Vertesi followed suit.

  “What do you want to know from me?”

  “What was the conversation Pat overheard in this office, and who was it with?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Pat didn’t think he was right for the concrete business and felt that everyone but you understood that—”


  “He wasn’t, and I did know that. But … I hoped he would learn.” He used his hands to help him make his point. “No one aspires to be in the concrete business, but it’s a good business. It’s been good to our family. I wanted to leave it to him.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He’s a partner—actually he’s not much older than my son—but I control two-thirds of Mancini.”

  “And my first question …?”

  “Even though we won two-thirds of the bay project together, McNamara was at a disadvantage because of the distance they had to truck their concrete. They were losing on every ton because of fuel and labour, in addition to the penalty the government imposes for the environmental costs.”

  “Did they blame you for that?”

  “They saw two Italian-owned companies and called it an Italian conspiracy.”

  “Who were you speaking to on that call?”

  “The owner, Sean McNamara. He’s my age; we started out more or less at the same time. Friendly foes—it’s a competitive business.”

  “Do you know who won a job to supply a large amount of concrete to a farm property in Cayuga?”

  MacNeice watched his face for any flicker of recognition. He saw none.

  “No.”

  “Did you warn ABC about McNamara, or indicate in any way that McNamara felt resentful about your having an exclusive contract?”

  “I did. They had a right to know.”

  “Did anyone other than yourself know that McNamara was upset?”

  “Well, anyone in concrete could guess. But here, other than Pat, only Gianni Moretti knew about the call.” Seeing the next question in MacNeice’s face, he added, “Gianni’s desk is next to Patrizio’s. He’s the most senior here—he’s been here for twenty-one years.”

  “What was Gianni’s relationship with Pat like?”

  “I don’t understand, Detective.”

  “How did Gianni feel about Pat coming back to Mancini Concrete and getting a desk right beside his with no experience in the business?”

  “Ah, yes, I see. I think Gianni was disappointed, yes, but in me, not Pat.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “He felt I favoured my son over him. Of course, that was true—I did. I asked Gianni to teach him all he knew about the business.”

  “But that didn’t happen.”

  “No.”

  “Pat suggested that he found out where I lived because of the gravel that was used for my driveway. Who in this office would know about that?”

  “It may have been our gravel, but your contractor would know that better than I.”

  “My contractor, as I recall, was Menzies Paving and Stone.”

  “Menzies is our customer, so our order desk would have a record of it.”

  “Is there one person who collects all the orders from the desk?”

  “Gianni.”

  “One last question: have you ever needed to hire additional security?”

  “For what?”

  “To protect you or your assets, Mr. Mancini.”

  “No, not ever.”

  “We will be bringing down a search warrant to seize your books for the past three years. We’ll try our best to minimize the disruption to your business. I trust you understand.”

  “Well … I don’t understand at all. Our books are absolutely in order; this is a business built on integrity. But do as you must. When will this happen?”

  “Today.” MacNeice stood up and held out his hand. Before the old man took it he pressed a button beside his telephone. The door opened and the brother reappeared. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, sir. I apologize again for the intrusion.”

  “Find who did this, Detective.”

  “I promise you, we’ll do our best.” MacNeice turned towards the door.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Mancini,” Vertesi said. “My father and mother would like to pay their respects today.”

  “By all means. They should come by the house, Michael.”

  As the brother led them through the office to the front door, MacNeice glanced at Gianni’s desk and made a mental note to have it searched. At the door he turned to the brother. “I’m sorry, what is your name?”

  “Roberto, Roberto Mancini.”

  Looking back at the desks, MacNeice asked, “Is your office here as well?”

  “No, I’m an accountant; I work uptown. My partnership responsibilities are to oversee the books, advise on financial matters, do the taxes.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  “Yes.” He pulled out a silver holder and handed cards to MacNeice and Vertesi.

  “So you work closely with Gianni?”

  He seemed surprised to hear the name spoken with such familiarity. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Gianni Moretti.”

  “And the records are here and not at your office?”

  “Yes, they remain here. I keep duplicates for tax purposes, but the day-to-day paperwork is here.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mancini.”

  Vertesi waited till they were in the car and out of the yard to ask, “What made you decide to go for seizure, boss?”

  “At first, only Gianni Moretti. But after that exchange at the door, I’ve got two reasons: Moretti and Roberto Mancini.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Neither may have been too happy about Pat Mancini coming back and taking the pole position without earning it.”

  “You think one of them might have tipped off the Irish about ABC coming to a meeting with muscle? His own uncle?”

  “That, or someone called ABC and told them about the Jokers and D2D. Also, one of them might have known Pat was coming to speak to me, and tipped off the bikers.”

  “Pat probably trusted them both, especially his uncle …”

  “Yes. And because he knew he had no intention of staying in the concrete business, he wouldn’t have considered himself a threat to either of them.”

  “If that’s true, it’s good that the place is closed till after the funeral.”

  “Except, if I’m right, Roberto now knows that we’re coming to seize the books. I want Gianni’s computer seized along with everything in his desk.”

  Vertesi took out his cell and made the call. “Two cruisers will be there within five minutes.”

  43.

  FOLLOWING THE ANNOUNCEMENT of Pat Mancini’s death in a fiery unexplained explosion on the bridge, television news reran the Cayuga press conference from the day before. Behind the Deputy Chief on the screen were two coroner’s vehicles and a SWAT van; in the distance several figures dressed in black were walking between a farmhouse and a barn. For the cameras the Deputy Chief gave a recap of the history of violence at the farm and mentioned that the Dundurn Police investigation, under the leadership of MacNeice and Swetsky, was straining the resources of both teams of homicide detectives. Then he announced that the investigation had taken “a new turn with the death of gang leader Frédéric Paradis and two fellow members of the Jokers Motorcycle Club from Montreal.”

  “This seems like the perfect time to do her, Billie.”

  “You mean, because she and everyone else is distracted by the biker dudes?” Dance said, turning off the television.

  “Exactamundo! We could take her at the hotel after a hard day of biker-bashing.”

  “Hmm … I’ve thought about it. There is a balconey right above hers. We could get into that room and rappel down to her floor.”

  “Fuckin’ A! She’d be our first bed job. Probably doesn’t sleep naked, but we’ll check out her ya-yas anyway.”

  “Have to be fast, quiet—not wake up that cop sleeping outside her door. Hotel security’s useless. It could be done …”

  “Let’s do it. They’ll talk about this one forever.”

  “They would. On the other hand, we wouldn’t get to shove their noses in the shit, would we?”

  “I don’t follow you, Billie. They’ve got a cop outside the door; she’ll be sleeping. We can leave her opened up
and naked on the bed. How sexy cool is that!”

  “Very sexy … but think about it. They’ll blame the cop outside, they’ll blame MacNeice for not securing that upper level … I want the blame to go much further—I want it to cover this whole fucking trash can of a country. And I want her profile to be bigger. They cancelled that psycho series interview last night—that would have put her on televisions all across Canada. I want her to be a star … We can wait till she is.”

  “So what? We do Narinder Dass?”

  “We go underground for a while. Break the schedule and we’ll break their certainty there’s a schedule we’re following.”

  “The best screw-up for demographics is a broken pattern.”

  “Precisely. When I unzip her, she’ll be our star—our name and hers will be linked together forever. Even her parents won’t be able to think about her without thinking about us.”

  “Man, you are the Templar Wizard of Oz.”

  “I am—and that’s spelled A-W-E-S.”

  44.

  MACNEICE RECOGNIZED THE black limo parked illegally in the handicapped spot outside Division. He told Vertesi he’d meet him upstairs, then walked over to the mayor’s car. The driver got out, smiled briefly and opened the back door.

  “Is this a social call, Bob?” he said, climbing in beside him.

  The mayor pushed the button to close the tinted glass screen between them and the driver, then said, “I was on my way to a lunch meeting when I took a call from Alberto Mancini—you had just left. What the fuck are you up to?”

  “My job, Bob. And you may get a call from ABC and McNamara before the day’s out.”

  “Christ almighty, we’re drowning in bodies and fuckin’ intrigue when we should be celebrating the boldest initiative in the city’s history! When I called you—”

  “When you called me, you asked me to keep this quiet. I told you you can’t keep homicide quiet, and now—”

  “But what the fuck is happening, Mac? Pat Mancini was a local hero, for chrissakes. Who’d wanna blow up that kid?”

  “I should be able to answer that question very soon. Tell me the specific problem you want me to solve.”