“Mancini’s a friend of mine. He’s offended by the search and seizure of the company books. Apparently two cruisers showed up right after you left with their lights flashing, blocking the entrance to the yard like it was Crime Busters or something.”
“I believe someone in Mancini’s operation placed the call that resulted in Pat’s execution on the bridge. But, if it’s any consolation, we’re also hitting ABC-Grimsby and McNamara, and hopefully the state police are doing the same at ABC–New York.”
“Mac, is all this really necessary?”
MacNeice reached for the door handle. “I’ll see you later, Bob.”
“Wait, wait. Before you go, as friends, I wanna make something clear—I don’t give a rat’s ass about McNamara and ABC. D’you know why?”
“They’re out of voting range?”
“Exactly. But Mancini has just lost a son and he carries a lot of influence locally. You get my point, Mac?”
“Yes, but it pales next to Pat Mancini’s being splattered all over the bridge and feeding carp in the bay while we sit in your limo worrying about votes. So if there’s nothing else to say, Bob, let me do my job.” He looked over at Maybank, who was still fuming but could only manage to wave MacNeice away, the way one would a wasp at a picnic.
MacNeice stepped away from the limo and watched it loop around the parking lot and onto the street. As he was walking to the door, his cellphone rang. He looked down at the display and saw Harvey Whitman’s name.
“You’re in luck,” Whitman announced. “Highways called back. The summer student who was supposed to shut down the video equipment on the bridge—he forgot. I asked them to isolate the footage leading up to and after 1:30 a.m. It will arrive electronically in the next hour or so.”
“Good news. Anything else?”
“Yeah, well … The divers went down over an hour ago. The first ones to come up found pieces of the car—only because they were red. So far, no pieces of Pat. Oh yeah, I sent Forensics over to his penthouse, and except for the weed we found, the place was clean. You having any luck?”
“Well, I’m pissing people off.”
Whitman laughed. “Always a good sign, Mac.”
Williams was fuming about a call he’d received from his Buffalo Homicide contact: the state troopers had been forced to release the Old Soldiers and lift the lockdown on the roadhouse. The judge basically told the district attorney to come back when he had evidence that crimes had been committed in the state of New York, and to let other jurisidictions—meaning Dundurn, Canada—know they should do the same.
“I’m not surprised, Montile,” MacNeice said as he took off his jacket and sat down to look at the whiteboard. “We’ve got to produce the evidence and present Wenzel as a witness. But sitting in jail here for a while should at least cool out the club. They know we’re watching.”
More positive was the second interview with Langlois. When he wouldn’t say anything more about his colleagues, Aziz finally told him about the death of Pat Mancini. Langlois dropped his arms, moved his chair in closer and put both hands on the table as if playing a major chord. It turned out that Langlois knew about Pat’s appetite for Ukrainian girls, and he seemed surprised that the detectives didn’t know the girls weren’t just for Pat. He was the one who shepherded the girls from Montreal to Dundurn. On four occasions when he arrived with them at the penthouse from the train station, it wasn’t Pat who opened the door but another man, whom Pat introduced as his Uncle Roberto. The girls would stay the night or—twice—the whole weekend. Langlois would show up early in the morning on Monday to take them back to the station.
“Right. Williams, pick up Roberto Mancini for questioning. If he isn’t at Mancini Concrete, you’ll likely find him at the family home.”
MacNeice turned to Vertesi. “Can you organize an interview and a lunchtime raid for the books at McNamara?”
“The officers are ready to go when we are, so I’m on my way.” He swung around to call the Waterdown detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police, who would supervise the operation.
Taking the business card out of his pocket, MacNeice turned to Aziz. “I want the forensic accounting team to retrieve the financial records for Mancini Concrete, on file at Mancini Group Financial, 1 James Street South, Suite 1200.”
“I can do that,” Aziz said, picking up the phone.
As Williams stood up to leave, the tinny refrain of Ravel’s Bolero broke the tension in the cubicle. “Shit! Sorry, boss, I haven’t had time to change it …” He stepped out into the corridor to take the call.
“Ryan, there’s some footage from the bridge coming in to my computer. Can you open it up for me, please.”
“Yessir.” Ryan rolled his chair over to MacNeice’s desk. Within a minute he said, “Yup, here it is. I’ll send it to the Falcon and have it up in no time.”
Williams came back smiling—it had been his new best friend Demetrius Johnson on the phone. Johnson had met with Vanucci’s landlord. When the big man vanished, the landlord had waited three months before emptying the house for a new tenant. Since the place was rented furnished, that meant clothing, personal effects, his computer and office files. They were all in a Sekurit container and the landlord was more than happy to hand over the contents, as it was costing him money every month to keep them. Williams had arranged to meet Johnson on the American side of the border, at Martin’s Real Italian Restaurant, to be briefed and get copies of any paperwork that might prove useful to them.
“When does he want you there?”
“Tonight at six.”
MacNeice gave the okay and said he’d square it with Wallace. Then he added Roberto Mancini and Gianni Moretti to the whiteboard lists.
Ryan swivelled about. “Okay, sir, black-and-white overhead footage from the Sky-High.”
“You know what we’re looking for. I want to know about any cars behind Mancini’s Corvette. Make it as clear as possible.”
“It makes my job easier that they’ve got a time code on the bottom. Give me five.” Ryan pushed the joystick forward, watching the numbers tumble through time.
Aziz pressed the hold button and turned around. “When do you want to hit their offices?”
“Within the next two hours, or sooner.”
She turned and relayed the message. When she hung up, she said, “Check this out. While I was waiting on the phone I googled Roberto Mancini.” MacNeice rolled his chair next to hers. On the screen were several photos of Roberto and his wife, Angela, as well as their two kids. “One big happy family.”
“Not for long,” MacNeice said. “It’s going to get ugly. Roberto was sharing the women, and he probably provided the lion’s share of the tips. Pat didn’t know enough about the business ever to fake it—I think he was just the messenger. Roberto knew Pat wouldn’t betray him, and he didn’t. Even when Pat was telling me everything, he was still protecting his favourite uncle.”
“Still, it’s hard to believe he’d be that foolish. Look at his wife—she’s beautiful, and the kids are adorable. He’s close with his brother by the sounds of it. Do you think he knew they would kill Pat?”
“Can I be brutally unsentimental?”
Aziz nodded at him.
“With Pat out of the way, Roberto becomes the logical heir when Alberto retires; he already owns one-third of the business. And with Pat gone, he doesn’t have to worry about his nephew eventually taking over a business he has no talent for or interest in, putting Roberto’s one-third share in jeopardy.”
Before Aziz could respond, Ryan swung around. “This is seriously nasty stuff. Brace yourselves.” He waited for them to slide in beside him. “Okay, check the time on the bottom of the screen. I’m paused at 1:28:24 and the image takes in about two hundred yards, judging by the stripes on the road. The Corvette will appear in the speed lane here”—he pointed to the left side of the large monitor—“in about one-tenth of a second. I’ve slowed everything down so you can make sense of it. In real time, it’s just a blur
—that car was off-the-charts fast. Ready?”
“Ready.” MacNeice watched as the Corvette entered the frame. Even in slow motion the front end of the car was blurred, as if it was pushing the speed of light. At mid-frame an elliptical flash grew until it filled the whole screen. “My God,” MacNeice said.
“It’s not over, sir.”
The strong prevailing wind blew ragged holes through the cloud of smoke and fire as another car appeared at the top right of the frame. “I’ll pause it here for a second. Judging by its speed as that second car enters the frame, it was locked on to the Corvette, maybe a hundred yards behind.” The car was three lanes away from the Corvette. “But watch.” Ryan released the image and the second car slid down towards the bottom of the frame, where he paused it again. “It maintains speed. He doesn’t even slow down to see the damage. If the Corvette is red, then this car—it’s a 2011 Mustang—was dark grey, blue or black.” He released the image, the smoke cleared and the fire scattered into several sites of burning debris.
“Is there any way you can enhance that second car?” MacNeice asked, pushing his chair away.
“They’re using great technology, and the lights on the bridge don’t over-illuminate the objects … I’ll give it a shot.”
Sergeant Ray Ryu of the Commercial Investigations Branch met Vertesi at the door of the OPP detachment in Waterdown. Three white SUVs sat idling in front, five cops in each.
Vertesi and Ryu shook hands and Ryu said, “You’ll come in my car. You can tell me what you know on the way over. It’s an eight-minute drive.”
“You work out of Waterdown?”
“Toronto, but my wife and I live here. She’s a teacher at one of the local high schools.”
Vertesi looked out the back window of the unmarked car and wondered what impact the parade of white SUVs, cruising quietly through town with cherry lights on their hoods and headlights flashing, would have on the quiet streets of Waterdown. “Not exactly discreet,” he said.
“Taxpayers gotta have their show, Detective.”
Vertesi was just wrapping up an abbreviated overview of the case as Ryu pulled over at the gate to McNamara’s yard. The SUVs filed through one by one, parking like horses in front of a saloon. He liked the style but wondered how effective it was when several men came out of the concrete-block structure and stood with their hands on their hips, laughing at the whole affair.
“This shit always happens. It’s gonna go like this till it flips over. Our guys are bigger than theirs, and they got guns and know how to use ’em. We’ll stay in the car for a while. Enjoy the show …”
As the police marched in carrying stacks of flattened banker’s boxes, the energy of those standing outside sagged, and one after the other they followed them inside.
“See what I mean—the flipover?”
“Yep.”
“I remember you from last year, Vertesi. You took some buckshot out by the lake—”
“That was me. My claim to fame.”
Neither of them looked at the other as they spoke, their eyes glued to the aluminum storm door of the building.
Soon a young female officer stepped out and waved briefly in their direction. “That’s our cue. I’ll let you take the lead on this—you okay with that?”
“I’m okay.”
Sean McNamara, a pug of a man, sat behind an ancient oak desk. The trappings of his office revealed the differences between him and Alberto Mancini. He’d mounted a large stuffed fish over the window that looked out on the working side of the concrete business, and on the walls were several framed colour photos of cement trucks with the McNamara logo—a shamrock—emblazoned on their sides. The floor was covered with indoor-outdoor carpet worn to a dull grey-green, the path to the desk trodden down to its black nylon roots. Vertesi could feel the plywood subfloor give way with every step. There were stacking chairs for the guests and an old overstuffed leatherette office chair for McNamara. He had an ashtray with several cigars butts in it and was sucking on another as they approached the desk. If he was upset, he didn’t show it.
“You two the heavies?”
“I’m Sergeant Ray Ryu of the OPP Commercial Investigations Branch, and this is Detective Inspector Michael Vertesi, of Dundurn Homicide.”
“A little off your beat, ain’t it?”
“A little, yes,” Vertesi said.
“So what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the deaths of several people linked to the concrete business. The investigation has led us to your firm.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, I’ll take that comment for what it’s worth.”
“Ya mean you’ll take my comment as meanin’ fuck all.”
“You said it. Sir, we’re aware that you knew of the exclusive arrangement between Mancini Concrete of Dundurn and ABC-Grimsby to supply the mayor’s waterfront project.”
“So?”
“We understand that you placed a call to Alberto Mancini and alleged a conspiracy between Mancini and ABC. Is that correct?”
McNamara stood up, looked out the window at the squat grey towers and dusty sheds of his business, and took a long drag on the cigar. Exhaling, he pointed the stogie to the concrete works beyond. “I built this—me. I din’t have any family to support me. Just me.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.” Vertesi said, though he knew exactly where McNamara was going.
“I employ ninety-four people in this town. I’ve earned my success. They’d spit in your eye if they knew what you was up to here, ya know that?”
“I’m concerned about only one individual at the moment, sir—yourself.”
McNamara smiled and took two more puffs as he continued to admire the view from his window. He rocked back and forth, toe to heel, heel to toe. Then he turned and sat down again. Vertesi thought he was going to go whole hog and put his feet up on the desk, but he didn’t. Instead he rolled his chair in close, leaning on his elbows on the desk, the cigar in the centre of his mouth. He kept puffing leisurely, the smoke escaping on either side. It was all Vertesi could do not to laugh. After a few more puffs, he took the cigar out of his mouth, picked a bit of tobacco from his lip and flicked it onto the floor.
When he looked up and noticed they were both smiling, he said, “You think I’m funny? Let’s see … a chink cop and a wop cop. You think you scare me? You have no fuckin’ idea, the two of you.” He swung his chair around and glanced back to the yard, where his business was continuing as usual. “Take the fuckin’ computers—they’re a pain in the ass anyways. Computers mean shit to concrete, and to me, you stupid fucks.”
“Forgive me, Mr. McNamara,” Vertesi said, “but you’re acting as if you just got called by central casting to play the part of a tough Irishman. But I know you were born here, just like me and Ray. So are you ready to have a serious discussion?”
“Fuck you, dago.”
“We can do this somewhere else … you do understand that, sir?” Ryu said. “And just so you’re fully aware, we didn’t come here to charge you with hate crimes, but I’ll be more than happy to do so if you continue with these slurs.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” McNamara let out a hoarse howl of laughter and stared at Vertesi for several seconds, tipping his head this way and that as if confronted by an exotic animal. “I was born in forty-three. That date mean anything to you, Vertesi?”
“No, should it?”
“My dad landed with the Allies in Sicily that year, about a month after I was born.”
“Your point is?”
“When I was old enough, I asks him, I says”—McNamara leaned into the desk again, stabbing the air with his cigar—“ ‘What was it like to invade Italy, Dad?’ An’ ya know what he says?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“He said, ‘It was all flies, fleas and fuckin’ Eyeties.’ Ain’t that great? Flies, fleas and fuckin’ Eyeties.” McNamara laughed so hard he rocked back and forth in his chair.
Vertesi wanted to shove t
he cigar down his throat, but he’d learned a lot from getting shot—basically that he needed to control his temper when this very button was pressed. He let the moment pass, watching McNamara settle down and take another long puff on his cigar before he said, “My grandfather was there too, and he tells a somewhat different story. He said that your dad and all the rest of them pissed their way through the streets, shit in the alleys and churches and tried to fuck every Italian girl they came across. Funny isn’t it, Mr. McNamara—you and your dad were both born in Canada, not Belfast, but here you are, smoking that shit-ass cigar and pretending you’re playing an Irish gangster like James Cagney.”
McNamara was caught mid-inhale. He started coughing, then laughed so much he had to stand up to keep from spewing out whatever smoky sludge lined his windpipe. When he’d pulled himself together, he pulled up his trousers and smiled, this time genuinely, across the table. “Kid, I like your style. Cagney, is it? Why, I never … That’s the tops!” He laughed again, the way he might do with his grandkids—God forbid the man had grandkids! Vertesi thought.
“Okay, let’s talk about what you two are here to do to my modest little enterprise in the heart of lovely Waterdown.” He ground out the cigar in the ashtray, where it stood smouldering among the others—a tiny stogie Stonehenge.
“For starters,” Vertesi said, “did you hire the Damned Two Deuces Motorcycle Club and their Quebec partners, the Jokers, to represent you at the negotiations in Grimsby with ABC?”
“Yes, sir. Next question.” McNamara nodded and adjusted his shoulders, keen to get on with the game.
“Why?”
“Because I was told ABC had no intention of doing an honest deal with me and they were bringing in some gang from New York to kick my Irish—my Irish-Canadian—ass.”
“Who told you that?”
“This ain’t gonna be pretty, Detective Vertesi.”
“I’m not here for pretty.”
He laughed again. “You sure as shit aren’t. Okay, I got a call from Roberto Mancini.”
“Seriously?”
“Fuckin’ A—seriously. It was a ‘thought you should know’ conversation. He says I should speak to D2D. I didn’t know what Mancini was up to, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to Grimsby to get beat up.”
The Ambitious City Page 29
