by John Farrow
16
DARKLING STAR
The next day, Wednesday, February 16, 1999
Dawn found Emile Cinq-Mars invigorated, driving eastbound toward the city, connecting with the early commuter traffic that flowed from the rural communities on either side of the Quebec-Ontario border. Like him, his fellow drivers had chosen life in the countryside while holding down city jobs, and the price to be paid was late nights, early risings, and hard drives in the winter’s dark along snowy highways. Frustrated by the slow pace, Cinq-Mars dug out his red cherry flasher from under the passenger seat, leaning way over and bobbing up again to check on the traffic until he’d rooted it out. He ran the wire to the cigarette lighter, opened his side window, and plopped it on the rooftop of his Pathfinder, where it would be held in place by magnets. That gave him some driving room, and he sped on through to downtown Montreal.
He had a jag on. His sleep had been beneficial, and now he felt that he was ready to take command of this case.
At Police Headquarters he primed himself with coffee. He had no room to stomp around in his cubicle, but when he stepped outside to the squad room he bumped into people and desks. So he invaded the lunch room and told the cops hanging around in there to get the hell out. By the time Bill Mathers arrived he was pacing, and taunting himself.
“Emile?” Mathers had had a bad night, beginning with his investigation of the car-bombing of Harry Hillier. When he had called his wife later, she’d been in a state, upset by the news that a cop had been beaten in his home and murdered.
Cinq-Mars stopped in his tracks, suddenly surprised to see him. “Bill.”
“What’s going on?”
“I have this case,” the older man said.
“What do you mean? What do you have?”
“Nothing. Nothing yet,” the senior cop admitted.
“You have this case, but you’ve got nothing. All right.” Mathers sat down, willing to give his partner the benefit of the doubt.
Cinq-Mars turned and faced him. “I can feel it, Bill. I know that I’ve seen something. My mind, in my sleep, somehow, my mind thought things through and understands everything, or understands enough of everything, and I can feel that I’ve got this made. I just don’t know what my mind knows. It’s all—right here!” Cinq-Mars exclaimed, and he held both his open hands a foot away from his eyes.
Mathers watched his partner stomp back and forth. “All right, Emile, I don’t quite know what you’re saying. I’ve never seen you like this before.”
Cinq-Mars stopped again, and sighed, and held out his open hands chest-high. “It’s inside me, Bill. All right? I don’t need more information. I don’t need to interview anyone. My brain either saw something, or figured something out, but that information hasn’t registered yet with me, you know? I don’t have it in my conscious mind, but I do believe, I feel, that it’s all inside me.” In his pent-up frustration, Cinq-Mars pushed a hand through his slightly graying hair. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “When I talked to my father’s priest, Father Réjean, I told him that my job is to be ready. That sounded so foolish at the time. Except that a part of me believed it. And I still do. The only thing I can offer in this job is readiness. If something happens, I react, and I have to be ready to react. I woke up this morning, Bill, and I felt ready. I’ve trained myself for a case like this my entire adult life. I’m prepared, Bill. I just don’t have all the synapses firing and connecting, not yet.”
Mathers nodded sympathetically. “You’re wired, Emile. Maybe you should try calming down. If you’re waiting for something to float to the surface, you might want to relax.”
He was right, of course, and Cinq-Mars conceded as much with an odd grimace. He sat down. They were interrupted by a cop coming in for coffee, and he brayed at the intruder, “Get out! Get out now!” The rookie beat a retreat.
After awhile, Mathers tried to prime him. “You have this case.”
The senior detective nodded. “I saw something. That’s what I think, anyhow. It must have been at Painchaud’s house. I saw the answer, or the clue we need. In all that mess, something registered with me, but subconsciously. Damn it, Bill, what was it? I know it’s important. Why can’t I get at it?”
They were interrupted again, but this time, before he could yell, Cinq-Mars was informed that a call had come through to him from the Mohawk Peacekeepers. He and Mathers returned to his cubicle where he picked up his phone. “Cinq-Mars here.”
“It’s Roland Harvey.”
He sat in his swivel chair behind his desk. “It’s good to hear from you.”
“I set it up with Lucy for this afternoon. Anytime after one, she said.”
“I just show up at the monastery?”
“That’s it. It’s the wing on the west, the part that looks like a castle. Either Lucy or some monk will meet you, show you where to go.”
“Any restrictions?” He slouched down, stretching his neck and legs. As he spoke he surveyed his desk. The clutter of paper was getting out of hand.
“I wouldn’t bring in the SWAT. That might spook her.”
Cinq-Mars appreciated the humor, as it showed that they were getting along, a trust was forming. “Thanks for this, Roland. Will you be there yourself?’
“Lucy said no. It’ll be you and her.”
“All right then. Thanks again.”
He hung up, put his hands behind his head, and told Mathers the news.
“What’re you going to ask her?” Mathers wanted to know. He stood, thinking about going out for a coffee.
“To be decided.”
Mathers left and when he came back he was blowing the steam off the top of his mug. He put his coffee down to cool beside the computer—perpetually unused—and with his left hand played with the cord for the mouse, which hung off the edge of the desk. The day the department had furnished Cinq-Mars with a computer, the curmudgeon had installed an antique clock on a top shelf that tolled the hour and half-hour with a deep mellow chime. Most of the squad believed it was a message to the upper ranks to screw off. While the mouse dangled freely, advising anyone who entered not to ask for his e-mail address, the keyboard, Mathers noticed, lay buried under files on a side shelf.
“Spill the beans, Bill,” Cinq-Mars said, noticing a worried look on his partner’s face.
Mathers looked up at him briefly, but chose to remain silent.
“How’s Donna?”
Mathers sighed. “The cop we were working this case with is dead. She noticed that, Emile.”
Cinq-Mars nodded. “It is tragic. Today, every cop’s wife is rethinking.”
“I think Donna has done her thinking on this.”
“Really? And?” He felt like another coffee himself, but knew that he had better not indulge.
“She wants me and you to split up as partners.”
Cinq-Mars looked off to one side, taking that in, absorbing the sentiment on the chin. “Now?” he asked. “Today?”
“No,” Mathers shot back, as if that idea was ridiculous. “Not today.”
“When then?” Cinq-Mars kept his hands behind his head, taking his partner’s measure.
Mathers tried a sip of coffee, and he could just manage the temperature. He cocked his head first to one side, then the other. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Or maybe the next day.” He didn’t look at Cinq-Mars after that. He just stared into his mug.
Cinq-Mars sat straighter in his chair and clutched an armrest in each hand. He observed his partner a moment, then deliberately averted his gaze to spare him the severity of his disapproval. He wouldn’t tell him that his wife had to understand that she could not dictate how he did his job, that she just didn’t have the proper expertise. In the past he had been able to assure both of them that his notoriety gave them a kind of unofficial immunity—it was dangerous to kill a cop, extremely so if he happened to be famous. Recent events had pulled that argument out from under him. “Well,” he said quietly. “That’ll be a sad day. I don’t look forward
to it.” He lowered his head a moment, as though to shift mental gears. “Bill, tell me about the car-bombing. What’s there to know?”
Mathers told him about the crime scene. He was glad to do that, to be on a different subject. Harry Hillier had been blown up in his car in the company parking lot upon his departure, after working long hours. The keys were in the ignition, and the bomb squad speculated that starting the car had ignited the explosion. The windows in Hillier-Largent were blown out, and residents for blocks around had been shaken off their favourite television sofas. Randall Largent, Mathers said, had arrived on the scene and was upset, even hysterical.
Cinq-Mars breathed deeply. “This is part of my problem. Maybe I can’t process my information because I don’t know what I’m trying to do. Am I after the people who killed AIDS sufferers in the States? Am I after Stettler’s killer? Or Charlie’s? What does this bombing have to do with any of that, or the attack on my house? How many people are we after? Deep down, I think it’s a house of cards. I have that impression. If we can get one answer, we’ll know them all. But which crime am I solving? I’m not even sure, and maybe that’s what’s gumming up my head. Partly.”
Glad that Cinq-Mars had not roasted him for his announcement, Mathers nodded. The case was a puzzle, and it was getting more complicated as time passed.
They sat in the cubicle awhile, then Cinq-Mars excused himself to go to the John. While he was gone his phone rang and Mathers answered it. He talked to Lieutenant-Detective Tremblay, and when his partner returned he delivered the bad news.
“Tremblay says we have to stay in. Two New York cops are coming at 12:30. He wants us to talk to them.”
“What for?”
“That he wouldn’t say.”
“Why not?”
Mathers took a swig of coffee before answering. “Emile. Guess what? The Lieutenant doesn’t explain himself to me.”
“We have to wait here?” He checked his watch. “That’s two hours! The hell I’m staying here!” Cinq-Mars stormed from his cubicle for a combative tête-à-tête with his commanding officer. This was supposed to be his day. He had the case inside him, waiting to burst forth in a wild moment of cognitive illumination. He was not supposed to be playing babysitter to visiting cops. Mathers knew that the tirade Tremblay was about to hear would have very little to do with the content of the order he had given, and more to do with his partner’s warring frustrations.
Camille Choquette kept her daughter, Carole, home from school. She didn’t want her blabbing anything she shouldn’t to a teacher or a friend, and word had probably gone around the community that the police had visited her the night before. Everybody would know by now that Charlie was dead.
While the child watched television by herself, Camille tossed and turned on her couch. She hadn’t slept at all through the night, although she had survived the interrogation all right. Sticking to her guns had been the right strategy. Somebody had called her house—according to the SQ officers, it had been Charlie—but no message had been left. No cop accused her. Instead they prowled around her house, apologizing for being thorough. While it was true that Charlie had dialled her place, it was considered understandable, and he had been beaten so badly that no woman would be under suspicion for his murder.
For a while, she answered repetitive questions about the timing. When did she get home? Was it dark? Was she sure it was dark? Where was she before that? At work. What did you do at home? Waited for Charlie. Did she ever leave? Yes. Why? To take my daughter to her friend’s. Why? Because Charlie was coming over.
In the midst of the Q& A merry-go-round, she had played the role of the stricken girlfriend, and eventually her misery had mitigated the police onslaught. She’d arranged to have Carole stay where she was, at her friend’s house, and after midnight she’d been left alone. Lying in her bed, she’d stared at the ceiling, praying that Honigwachs was having a miserable time also, in bed with his wife, fretting about the state of the universe.
The next morning she had picked Carole up early, as everyone in that household was going either to school or to work. Then shortly after noon, while she was serving Carole and herself lunch, Lucy called.
“Lucy! Lucy! Are you all right?” She couldn’t believe it!
“Camille, oh Camille. Charlie’s dead. Did you hear about Harry?”
“What about Harry?” At first, she couldn’t believe that Lucy had called, and then she moved the phone from one ear to the other and wondered if this was a trap.
“He’s dead too. He got blown up in his car. It’s on the radio.”
“Oh my God.”
Who had killed Harry? It couldn’t have been Honigwachs. He participated in murders but he didn’t plan them. Why would anyone want Harry dead? Then she felt suddenly exhilarated. All the fuss would only make it more difficult for anyone to suspect her.
“How are you?” Lucy asked.
Camille spontaneously burst into tears. She wept, and sputtered, and told Lucy that they might be next, that somebody was probably hunting them down.
“I’ve got a real good place to hide,” Lucy told her.
“You do?” She dried her eyes with the back of her hand.
“You could come here too.”
“I could? But, no. I can’t leave Carole.”
“Bring her.”
“What? Really? Where?” This could be a trap, or this could be the best thing possible, under the circumstances.
“I don’t know if the phones are safe, Camille.”
“Oh my God,” Camille moaned. “Oh my God. We’re not going to make it.”
“Camille. Listen. Drive toward my house. I’ll see you coming. I’ll jump out at you, show you where to go. Come now, Camille. Come right now. Bring Carole with you. I don’t want you to die too, Camille.”
She hesitated, panting into the receiver. Then she said, “All right.”
Camille put the receiver back down in its cradle. Then she went to work. She packed the kinds of clothes someone was likely to take into hiding, for herself and her daughter. The last thing that she tucked away into her overnight bag was Charlie Painchaud’s pistol.
Cinq-Mars alternated between time alone, in which he tried to cull from his memory the answers he was looking for, and time on the phone, in which he tried to learn as much about the death of Charlie Painchaud as the SQ, already knew, hoping that that information might help him.
“Maybe I have to think outside the box,” he told Mathers, who looked at him in surprise. “What? Do you think I’ve never heard current jargon? Isn’t that a new phrase, think outside the box?”
“Yeah,” Mathers assured him. “It is. But what do you mean?”
“I keep thinking that I saw something at Charlie’s house that I passed over. I didn’t take proper note of it. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe what I saw, or heard, or remembered has nothing to do with Charlie’s house.”
“Maybe. Try to relax about it, Emile.” He was trying to do something about the shambles on his own desk, or at least appear to be interested in his caseload.
“How can I relax? I’ve got two cops flying in from New York for no known purpose other than to waste my time.”
Tremblay had been emphatic. He had to wait for the New Yorkers.
Mathers grunted and didn’t go any further into that problem, not wanting to encovage his partner’s rant. He hadn’t told Cinq-Mars the worst of his own problems. Donna’s demands had some beyond Bill splitting with his partner. She was leaving him. The only thing that would make her stay would be the news that he had quit the department and was looking for another career. He had coaxed her into giving him more time, but first he had to quit the partnership with Cinq-Mars as an act of good faith. She hadn’t given him a couple of days. He had to be off the case and out of the partnership when he came home, or their marriage would be irreparable.
“I’ve made this case, Bill,” Cinq-Mars was muttering as he passed behind the room dividers into his office cubicle. “I know it’s insi
de me.”
Maybe Donna’s right, Mathers was thinking. The man seemed half mad.
“New York cops!” he was raving, as if the indignity was too much to bear. “I have to waste my time with New York cops! Doesn’t anybody around here know we’ve had a cop-killing?”
They were both quiet awhile, then Cinq-Mars blew up and shouted from behind his dividers, “They’d better show up on time! And if they do, they’d better have something interesting to tell me. Or else!”
Against his better judgment, Mathers replied, “Or else what?”
Cinq-Mars came to the entrance to his cubicle and stared down his lengthy nose at him.
“Sorry,” Mathers apologized. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Another time he heard Cinq-Mars ranting and got up to calm him down. “Apparently, nobody cares if cops are being shot,” he was shouting, “or if key players are being blown up in their cars, or if witnesses are being stuffed under an ice cap or squirreled away from public view to keep them alive. I’m on assignment. I get to talk to New York cops. Whoopee!”
Mathers stood in the entrance and discovered that Cinq-Mars wasn’t ranting to himself but talking on the phone, to his dying father, as it turned out. The morning was shaping up to be a long one for everyone concerned. For his own sake, he hoped that the New York cops arrived on time.
The same day, Wednesday afternoon, February 16th, 1999
They arrived late, escorted by Lieutenant-Detective Remi Tremblay.
“Explain it to me, Bill,” Cinq-Mars whispered as, over the room dividers, he watched the men approach. “If the New York Police Department needs to communicate with us, if they have to do it in person, why are they sending two cops? Two plane tickets, two hotel rooms, double the meals. Either they don’t have a single cop smart enough to keep things straight, or this is a boondoggle. I’ll lay odds these guys brought their skis.”
Standing next to him, buttoning his jacket, Mathers mentioned, “They’re not wearing ski boots, Emile.”
Cinq-Mars wouldn’t be knocked off his soapbox easily. “They were lured here by the cheap Canadian dollar. They’ll want our opinion on restaurants.”
