by Scott Mackay
“No, it was last Friday,” corrected Gilbert. “Friday the first. At about nine-thirty.”
Phil thought again. “I was here,” he said. “Getting ready to go. Packing and stuff. I was in bed by ten.”
“Was anybody here with you?” asked Gilbert.
“No.”
“Did anybody call?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s the best I can do for you,” said Phil. “Sorry.”
“No…no. That’s fine. Do you know anybody who might want to kill Boyd?”
“Practically everybody who knew him.”
“Yes, I realize that. But…anybody specifically?”
“I haven’t talked to Glen since February. I spoke to Ted, though. Ted Aver. Ted told me Glen was mixed up with some guys from Colombia. I have no idea what that’s all about, but it might be worth checking into. And it doesn’t surprise me he would get himself killed. He was always dumb about the impact he was making on people, always rubbing people the wrong way, especially recently.” Phil shook his head. “He’s lost touch with what’s appropriate. No wonder he makes so many people angry. I half suspect it’s because he’s never been able to clean up his act.”
“No?”
“No. He’s never kicked his habits the way the rest of us have. I still have the occasional bout with the bottle, once a year or so.” Gilbert remembered the suspended license report on Phil. “But Glenny does it daily, both drugs and alcohol, and when you’re fifty-seven, your body can’t take it. Your mind gets all fucked up. When you’re under the influence all the time, whether it’s drugs or alcohol, it’s hard to see things the way they really are. I’m sure he said something to these Colombians to make them mad. And you don’t want to make Colombians mad. At least not Colombians in that line of work. But Glen thinks he can get away with anything. He always has.”
Like stealing my wife away to France, thought Gilbert, and again wondered if he could be objective on this case.
“Do you know these Colombians?” asked Gilbert.
“No. Ted just mentioned them in passing. The White Lady is a thing of the past for me. Unfortunately, not for Glen. It’s too bad, because I think Glen had a real talent at one time. But the White Lady screwed him. I wish he and I could just go back. I wish we could find out where it all went wrong, and mend all our broken bridges, and just start over again. I had some real good laughs with Glenny. We all did. I wish things never got sour between us.”
Gilbert thought he’d better wrap it up.
“I saw you on TV the other night,” said Gilbert. “The release party for your new CD.”
“Yes.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks,” said Phil.
“You told the veejay you were going on tour,” he said. “When’s that going to happen?”
“We’re rehearsing till the end of July, taking a week off, then heading out the second week of August. Our first date is August tenth in New York City.”
“I don’t know how long my investigation will take, but I may need to talk to you again.”
Phil nodded. “I’ll have my publicist send you the concert list. She’ll include our hotel phone numbers.”
“Thanks,” he said. He took out a business card and handed it to Phil. “Call me if you have any more thoughts about Glen.”
Phil slid the card into his shirt pocket. “Sure,” he said. “But I try not to think about Glen. I find it only irritates the hell out of me.”
On this, thought Gilbert, they were of like minds.
Eight
Undercover narcotics agent Al Valdez, a Canadian of Mexican descent, sat in the Homicide office with Gilbert and Lombardo the following Wednesday. He had long hair, a beard, and a mustache. He was young, in his late twenties, and wore baggy ghetto-style pants, a Chicago Cubs sleeveless sweatshirt, and a baseball cap on backward—gang attire, in keeping with his undercover job.
“Barcos is a vicious bastard,” Valdez told them. “You see this scar?” he asked, holding out his arm for inspection. Gilbert saw a scar two inches long. “He cut me with a knife. Just on a whim. Just to see how I would react. He thought it was funny. He had a good laugh about it. I had to go to Emergency for nine stitches. I didn’t find it funny. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one who killed Boyd.”
“What about Deranga?” asked Gilbert. “What’s he like?”
“Frank’s equally capable. I was with him when he broke the kneecap of that street-level guy in Moss Park I told you about. A young guy, couldn’t have been more than eighteen, just a kid. Frank used a water-filled aluminum baseball bat. He says the water gives it extra torque, really adds power to the swing. I wanted to stop him, but what could I do? I couldn’t blow my cover. So, bang, we crippled this guy, and we just left him there. If Frank can do that, he can easily strangle Boyd.”
“And is Waldo Munoz the same way?” asked Lombardo.
Valdez shook his head. “No. You don’t have to worry about Waldo. He’s their money guy. He cleans it all up for them and sends it down south. He’s a nice guy. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. He actually writes poetry. It’s the other two you have to worry about.”
“So why has Narcotics suspended your operation?” asked Lombardo.
“Because Barcos is on a witch-hunt,” said the undercover agent. “I’ve been rolling up his network one dealer at a time. Now he’s suspicious as hell, and he’s ready to shoot just about anybody. I have a wife. I have a baby girl. Joyce took me off. She says Barcos needs time to cool down.”
Gilbert remembered what Ted Aver had said, how Barcos thought someone, possibly Glen Boyd, had compromised the Toronto operation. In fact, it had been Al Valdez.
“He’s as unpredictable as a wild animal,” continued Valdez. “Joyce and I both know that, so we scaled back to surveillance-only for the time being. If you two guys end up arresting him, take the uniforms along. I’d even get the K-9 unit. It takes an animal to fight an animal, and believe me, he’ll put up a fight. He’s the kind of guy who will shoot you in the foot just for looking at him the wrong way.”
Over the next day, Lombardo organized a witness canvas of Queen Street West. Gilbert was glad Joe was doing most of the legwork, ducking into arty boutiques, trendy restaurants, and corner convenience stores. Gilbert’s arthritic knees were giving him a hard time this week.
“He’s showing Al’s surveillance photos of the Colombians to the local retail and restaurant people on Queen Street,” Gilbert explained to Staff Inspector Nowak. “We’re hoping someone might have seen them on the night Boyd was killed.”
“It’s a long shot,” said Nowak, “but I guess you have to try.”
Long shot or not, the effort produced results by Thursday afternoon in the way of a convenience store security video.
“Jay’s Smoke and Gift,” said Lombardo, shoving the tape into the machine as he and Gilbert sat down to watch. “On the corner of St. Patrick and Queen. A nice old Korean guy runs the place. He remembers Barcos and Deranga distinctly. Especially Deranga’s jacket. Rhinestones all over the place.”
“Good work, Joe,” said Gilbert.
Lombardo ran the tape.
Barcos and Deranga came into the store. The image was black and white, a bit blurry, but the suspects were still recognizable as the two Colombians. Jay, the old Korean guy, didn’t look too happy to see them, smelled trouble the minute they walked in.
Oscar Barcos was short, and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred-and-twenty pounds. He had dark curly hair and big square-rimmed glasses. His mustache was no more than stubble, not a mustache at all, just a shadow of whiskers.
Francesco Deranga was of average height with extremely broad shoulders and a thick chest. He had a body builder’s physique. His dark hair was cropped close to his scalp. He was clean-shaven, and he looked one or two years younger than Barcos. He wore that jacket. Rhinestones all over the place. The rhinestones were like tiny islands of light on the pale material
. Definitely something one would expect to find on that stretch of Queen Street, where outrageous fashion was the rule.
Barcos went up to the counter and bought a pack of cigarettes. Deranga stood by waiting. Another customer, a bald guy in his forties, looked at skin mags at the magazine rack. Deranga gave him a glance. The guy unfolded the Playboy centerfold.
The evidentiary value of the tape lay in the clock readout in the bottom right-hand corner: June 1st, Friday, 9:17 p.m., roughly thirteen minutes before Boyd was strangled.
“How far is GBIA from this smoke shop?” asked Gilbert.
“Two blocks,” said Lombardo.
Barcos paid for his cigarettes and the two Colombians left the store.
“This looks promising, Joe,” said Gilbert. “Barcos and Deranga look like they might be our guys.”
And that was a relief because he really wanted to clear this one quickly.
“At least it explains why we have two different DNA patterns for the trace epidermis found under Boyd’s fingernails,” said Joe. “One belongs to Barcos, and the other belongs to Deranga.”
Gilbert tried to piece the events of the evening into a likely sequence.
“They leave Jay’s Smoke Shop around nine-twenty, they get to GBIA at nine-twenty-five, they rough Boyd up, break his arm, then strangle him with that scarf around nine-thirty, maybe a little later.” Gilbert grew hopeful. His brow creased. “The only thing I can’t figure out is the fresh packet of cocaine we found on Boyd’s bedside table.”
“What about it?” asked Lombardo.
“If they were going to kill him,” said Gilbert, “why would they sell him a fresh packet of the stuff, and then just leave it there afterward?”
Lombardo shrugged. “Maybe it was already there,” he said. “Maybe he bought it from somebody else, since his credit was shot with the Colombians.”
Gilbert was doubtful. “Maybe,” he said. He peered more closely at Lombardo. “There’s something different about you today. You’ve done something.”
“No,” said Lombardo. “There’s nothing different.”
But his partner was acting self-conscious.
“You’ve definitely done something,” said Gilbert. “Something with your hair.”
“Oh, that,” said Lombardo. “I parted it on the other side You don’t notice the bald spot at the back so much. Plus Virginia likes it better parted on this side.”
“Virginia?” said Gilbert. “Virginia Virelli, from Patrol?”
“Yeah.”
Gilbert shook his head. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Lombardo. “I like her. She knows how to dance.”
Gilbert glanced at his hair. “Let’s see,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“I want to see if parting it this way hides the bald spot better.”
“Okay.”
Lombardo leaned forward and showed Gilbert his hair. Gilbert had a look.
“Actually, I think it hides it better when you part it on the other side,” said Gilbert.
Lombardo looked up at him, his eyes wide. “Really?” he said. He started fishing in his pocket for his comb.
“Yeah.”
Lombardo shook his head. “I told Virginia that, but she said she didn’t think so.”
“It just goes to show you, Joe.”
“What?”
“Always trust your partner first when it comes to your hair. At this stage of the game, Virginia’s going to say anything you want her to say. It won’t matter what side you part your hair on, she’s going to say she likes it.”
Regal Road, a tree-lined street of modest but well-kept homes in Toronto’s West End, curved steeply up from Oak-wood Avenue, south of Little Italy, and close to the small Hispanic community at Dovercourt and Hallam. The houses, built in the late 1920s, were of redbrick, and terraced their way up the hill stepwise, one after the other, until they reached Regal Road Elementary School, a dour-looking building plunked amid a treeless expanse of macadamized playground.
Barcos lived in an attractive if small dwelling, a story and a half, with a green-shingled roof shaded by lofty American beech trees. The big front porch was cool and deep, had cushy old furniture, and a canary cage hanging from a hook screwed into the cream-colored ceiling slats. Tall cedar hedges lined either side of the yard.
Gilbert got out of the car and checked over the DNA court order—they needed a baseline sample from Barcos to compare it to the skin samples underneath Boyd’s fingernails, and, on the basis of the Smoke and Gift videotape, had obtained a warrant from Justice Dave Lembeck a couple hours ago.
Lombardo, sitting in the passenger seat, radioed their location to Dispatch. Dispatch in turn alerted units in the area in case Barcos decided to give them trouble.
Gilbert leaned over and peered at the public-health nurse, a squat, fiftyish woman of Irish descent, who sat in the back, ready to take swabs from the suspect’s mouth.
“Fran, you might as well wait until we make sure he’s here,” Gilbert told her.
“I’ll make myself comfy,” she said, and took out a Reader’s Digest.
Gilbert and Lombardo walked up to the house. Gilbert was impressed with the lawn and garden. The grass was clipped to golf-course length, as thick and lush as a carpet, unmarred by any crabgrass or dandelions. The flowerbeds were planted with tasteful arrangements of daylilies, monkshood, and Canterbury bells, exhibiting the care and attention one might find in the flowerbeds of Toronto’s various botanical gardens.
As they neared the porch, a woman, twenty-two or -three, emerged from the house’s cool dark interior. She possessed a keen Latin beauty. Her eyes were like perfect emeralds set in the teakwood darkness of her unblemished face. Her body had the alluring curves of a Spanish guitar. Her hair was like black silk.
Lombardo stopped dead in his tracks. “Caramba,” he murmured.
“Hello?” she called, in a Colombian accent. “Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Oscar Barcos,” said Gilbert. “Is he home?”
“No,” said the woman. “He’s working many hours these days.”
Her accent was exotic and musical.
“Are you his wife?” asked Gilbert.
“No. I’m his sister.”
“What’s your name?” asked Lombardo, out of the blue.
“My name is Magda,” she said.
“I’m Joe and this is Barry.”
They didn’t identify themselves as police officers. Now that Barcos wasn’t here, what was the point? To tell Magda or any other family member they were police officers would only warn Barcos. They didn’t want him running.
“You are his friends?” she ventured. “He has so many friends, I can hardly keep track of them all.”
She looked at Gilbert innocently, sweetly, and he wondered if she had any inkling of the true nature of her brother’s business.
“No, he wouldn’t know us,” he said. “But it’s work-related.” That, after all, wasn’t a lie. “Could you tell us where he is?”
“He has many concerns, sir,” she said. “Where he is at any given moment I cannot be certain. And when he comes home, sometimes I’m at work. Only Mama sees his comings and goings because she is here all the time. She looks after his house.”
Gilbert glanced at the house. “Tell her I’ve never seen such a clean house.”
She smiled, taken with the compliment. “Thank you,” she said.
“Your garden is beautiful, too,” said Joe, getting in on the act.
Magda’s smile disappeared, as if she didn’t like Joe at all. Gilbert didn’t see this reaction often, but every once in a while, Joe rubbed a woman the wrong way.
“My mama knows how to nurture these small things that grow,” she said.
Her voice was prim, civil, and curt. Sometimes the real beauties just didn’t get Joe.
Gilbert saw that Lombardo was trying to think of something to say, but, uncharacteristically, just stood ther
e, tongue-tied, growing red in the face.
“Do you have a card…Mister…Mister…Barry?” asked Magda.
“No,” said Gilbert. “I’ll call Oscar at the laminating plant. Do you think he’ll be there now?”
“He often is,” she said. “But he races around town like a Nascar driver, now that he has his Porsche. From one end to the other, it doesn’t matter to him, he loves to drive that car, no matter where.”
Gilbert saw Magda had a real affection for her brother. He was about to say good-bye when a summer breeze wafted the scent of her perfume to his nose.
“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” he asked.
She smiled demurely. “That is Laura Ashley,” she said. “A scent she calls Dilys.”
“It’s nice,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said.
As they walked back to the car, Gilbert turned to Lombardo.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Gilbert.
“She didn’t even look at me,” said Lombardo. “It must be my hair.”
“Joe, it’s not your hair,” said Gilbert. “Contrary to what you think, not every woman’s going to look at you, and it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with your hair.” Then he faked a proud but modest grin. “Now, with someone like me, it’s different. They’re going to look at me no matter what. I could be as ugly as the Elephant Man, and they would still look at me. It’s my charm.”
“At least you have all your hair.”
“Joe, you can’t even notice it. I wish you never ran into Mike Strutton. Mike always has to say something. I remember that about him from Patrol.”
“And what’s with the perfume again?” asked Lombardo.
Gilbert shrugged casually. “Like I say, I go with my gut feeling. I smelled perfume on the scarf around Boyd’s neck.”
“And you recognized the scent?” said Joe. “This Dilys, or whatever it is?”
“My wife wears it,” said Gilbert. “And now Magda wears it, too. And that just made our case against Barcos a hell of a lot stronger. The scarf probably belongs to Magda.”
