Cape Diamond Page 9

The frail chime rang out from the four speakers suspended from the ceiling corners of the conference room of the main detachment of the Springfield Police. There were eight people in the room. Besides Yakabuski, O’Toole, and Fraser Newton from Ident; there was Jack Laurier, the inspector for Criminal Investigations and Yakabuski’s direct boss; Max Ferguson, who was Newton’s direct boss; Samantha Dillon from the coroner’s office; and two RCMP officers from Toronto who had shown up late yesterday, after the Mounties had received a forensics-lab request for DNA testing on blood taken off a $1.2-million diamond.

  No one had requested they show up. But the diamond had caught the Mounties’ attention. They were sitting in on the conference call as observers. The phone chimed and chimed and the various people in the room leaned into the phone console in the middle of the oak table, as though this might help make the connection. O’Toole drummed the table with his fingers. Yakabuski again read through the opening paragraphs of the Upper Divide Métis Assembly’s land claim for Cape Diamond, which Griffin had printed off and left on his desk.

  Then the chiming stopped, there was a metal click, and a woman’s voice said, “Good afternoon, De Kirk Mines. How may I direct your call?”

  O’Toole straightened in his chair. Yakabuski put down his papers and stared at the console. It was O’Toole who spoke.

  “Ma’am, this is Chief Bernard O’Toole, with the Springfield Regional Police. I have a conference call scheduled with your general manager.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Merkel is expecting your call. I’ll put you right through, sir.”

  Some more metal clicks, and then a man’s voice said, “John Merkel.”

  “Mr. Merkel, this is Chief O’Toole, with the Springfield Regional Police. I have some people in the room with me. I won’t bother going around the table. I know you’re pressed for time.”

  “It is rather a busy day, Chief, thank you for mentioning that,” said Merkel. “I gave a rather lengthy statement to one of your detectives, yesterday. Are you aware of that?”

  “I am, sir. And I’m glad the detective has brought you up to speed on what is happening down here. We’re investigating a rather gruesome homicide, so again, I appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

  “Well, yes, of course. Anything I can do to help. I am just not sure what more I can add to what I have already said.”

  “I can help you with that one, Mr. Merkel. That’s one of the reasons I’m phoning. We are now in a position to confirm the diamond found on the body of our victim came from the Cape Diamond area, almost certainly from your mine.”

  “Who is the gemologist who has told you this?”

  “Mr. Joshua Edelson, here in Springfield. He is a licenced cutter and appraiser.”

  “I would like to see his report.”

  “I can send it to you. Not a problem. I’ll send you his estimate as well.”

  “That should be part of the report.”

  “Well, yes, I guess it is. You’re right about that.”

  O’Toole looked at Yakabuski and rolled his eyes. It was rare to see O’Toole taking part in an investigative conference call. Rarer still to see him have this much patience.

  “What is his estimate?” demanded Merkel.

  “One-point-two to one-point-six million dollars.”

  “He can’t be serious.”

  “He certainly seems to be. This is all new to me, but that was one mother-sized diamond we found in the throat of our victim.”

  “Well, I would have to see the report. Although, again, I still don’t see what this has to do with us.”

  O’Toole didn’t reply. He looked at his senior detective and gave a small nod.

  “You don’t see that?” said Yakabuski.

  Merkel paused a beat before answering. “That’s right, I don’t. Your victim was not an employee of De Kirk. The crime happened in Springfield, not at Cape Diamond. The diamond was not stolen from us.”

  “What makes you so sure about that?”

  “With whom am I speaking, please?”

  “Detective Frank Yakabuski, Mr. Merkel. I’m the lead investigator.”

  “It would be nice if you identified yourself.”

  “It would be nice if you answered the question.”

  Although they had a bad connection, there was no way of missing Merkel’s gasp. The two Mounties looked at Yakabuski and smiled. Rattle the man’s cage. Always a good interview technique.

  “Detective, I don’t appreciate your tone. Is this how you normally speak to people?”

  “When I’m on a conference call it can be. I don’t care for them much. So what makes you so sure you haven’t been robbed, Mr. Merkel?”

  “All right. If you insist, Detective, I’ll go through it with you. Just once, so please listen carefully. Is this call being recorded?”

  “It is.”

  “Good. Then your notes won’t be a problem. Detective, every one of our miners is searched when they come off shift. We’re not shy about it, I can assure you. It’s a complete strip search, with x-ray scans. Every diamond we mine is numbered and registered, and we check our stock against our mining manifest every morning. It is a visual inspection. Not a computer check.

  “The only transportation link in and out of the mine is by air, and we’re the only ones who fly here. Before leaving, the miners have another four-stage search at the airport. They are not allowed carry-on luggage. One checked bag, and those are thoroughly inspected. As for the mined diamonds, we warehouse them and fly them out every quarter, again, using one of our planes. We contract out none of our security or transportation. Our plane goes straight to New York City, where a customs inspection is done on the tarmac. When the diamonds have been cleared, we load them into an armoured car and take them directly to the vaults at our New York office.

  “In eighty-seven years, De Kirk has never been robbed while transporting or mining a diamond. Nor has a diamond ever failed to match up perfectly with a shipping manifest. This is what makes me so sure we have not been robbed, Detective Yak-a-bus-ki.” Merkel dragged out the last name.

  There was silence in the room. The RCMP officers shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed, as though they had just wasted someone’s time. O’Toole started chuckling and had almost started to laugh when Yakabuski said, “Mr. Merkel, I get that you’re in love with your security protocols. They sound beautiful. But that doesn’t change the fact someone is robbing you. Now, I need to get up there and see that mine. We’ve hired a plane and a pilot for the day. How does four o’clock this afternoon work for you?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The address Jimmy O’Driscoll had given Yakabuski was for an apartment in the back of a brownstone in Fergus Glen, thirty miles downriver from Springfield. The street was one block from the river, and you could hear the Lemieux Rapids in the distance, see terns diving for fish in a shoal. Yakabuski walked up the rear outer stairs until he stood before the apartment door. There were cardboard cases of O’Keefe stacked on the landing, the rusted wheel of a clothesline that probably hadn’t worked in years. In the backyard, there was a picnic table and a green plastic sandbox in the shape of a turtle.

  The man who answered the door looked to be in his eighties. He was wearing a white undershirt that hung loose on his belly. Through the armpit holes and over the neckline Yakabuski could see thick tufts of white hair. The man was only an inch shorter than he was and he held the door open a long time before saying, “You’re bigger than you look in photos. I thought I’d be bigger.”

  “You probably were at one time.”

  “That’s not saying much. Are you here to arrest me?”

  “I’m not aware of any warrants for your arrest, Mr. Maguire. Would you like to confess to a crime?”

  The old man gave Yakabuski a hard look, but it wavered in a few seconds and he started to laugh. “Anything I’d like to confess. T
hat’s good.”

  “You never know. I’m here because of your grandson, Jimmy. He suggested we talk.”

  “You’ve seen Jimmy?”

  “Last night. He’s in bad shape. He’s actually at my ice fishing hut right now, getting some sleep.”

  “He can’t go back to his apartment?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Yeah, we talked about that. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Can you help him?”

  “Perhaps. Am I coming inside?”

  Maguire stared at him a moment, then he pushed the screen door, a quick shove, not holding it open for Yakabuski, who had to catch the edge of the door before it slammed into him.

  “You’re coming inside,” he said.

  . . .

  The windows in the apartment had the blinds drawn and the only light came from side-table lamps in the living room. Just enough light to show off a corduroy couch, a brown leather La-Z-Boy, some fold-away television trays, one of which was set up permanently in a corner, covered in a linen cloth, and on top of that a dozen different prescription medicine bottles. Maguire sat in the La-Z-Boy. Motioned for Yakabuski to sit on the couch.

  “I’m still surprised I outlived Augustus,” he said when Yakabuski was seated. The old man’s breath was laboured, and he spoke in clipped sentences. “He may still have a contract on me. I don’t know how Sean feels about things like that. Whether executions should be passed down from father to son.”

  “Most people think you’re already dead, Mr. Maguire. You were declared legally dead fourteen years ago. I looked it up.”

  “I did a good job of disappearing, didn’t I? I always kept that in my back pocket. My get-out-of-Dodge plan.”

  “Where have you been?”

  Maguire thought about it a minute, then shrugged his shoulders as if to say “why not,” or “what the fuck,” and said he’d lived out west for nearly twenty years, spent most of that time working at a sawmill in Sooke, on Vancouver Island. He had a good union connection, and his name never appeared on the books. Then he got homesick and started migrating back, careful not to get too close, staying two days’ drive from Springfield for many years. His sons and grandchildren started to come for visits. He moved to Fergus Glen a year ago.

  “I wasn’t as worried about Augustus by then,” he said. “I had other worries to take his place. I’m betting you know what they are.”

  “Are you undergoing treatment?”

  “Not anymore. Stage four. I take pills for the pain. That’s all I can do. Like I said, it’s a real surprise, outliving Augustus.”

  “So what was the falling out about?”

  “Stupid stuff. That’s always the way though, isn’t it? The thing that fucks you up is never the thing that should fuck you up. You always get blindsided.”

  He laughed. Went to pat his belly. A quick look of surprise flashed across his face as his hand kept pushing down on the old T-shirt, looking for skin but not finding it.

  “Are you telling me you can’t recall why you had to get out of Springfield?”

  “Fuck, of course I can recall. I told Augustus he had a situation he needed to take care of. I showed him the damn videotape. I was chief of security. It was my job to know shit like that. Turned out showing him that tape was pretty stupid.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?”

  “No. I’m not part of this deal. This is about Jimmy. And you solving the murder of that fat fuckin’ cow.”

  “All right. Jimmy says you know who killed Augustus. Is that true?”

  “That’s true.”

  “You flat-out know. Not rumours. Not best guesses.”

  “Are you a serious guy, Detective Yakabuski? Jimmy says you’re a serious guy. I hear from people who should know these things that you’re a serious guy. So why are you insulting me? I just told you I know. So what can you do for Jimmy?”

  “I can get him into Ridgewood. The hundred-day program. If he wants to get clean, he can do it there. To be honest, Mr. Maguire, I would probably try to do that anyway. I’m going to need my ice fishing hut.”

  The old man laughed. “The season’s going to start as soon as God remembers it’s winter.”

  “I’m hoping.”

  The old man looked pleased. He was cut from the same cloth as his grandson, same cloth as a lot of people on the Divide, who held to a world view that said you don’t offer favours and you shouldn’t go around looking for them either. Yakabuski would want his ice fishing hut back. That made sense to Maguire. The two men were now bartering.

  “I can’t guarantee the Popeyes after the hundred days,” continued Yakabuski. “But bikers tend to have short attention spans. If Jimmy cleans up and leaves town for a while when he gets out, I’d say he has a decent shot of getting clear of this.”

  “Leave those bastard bikers to me.”

  “You can’t do anything rash, Mr. Maguire. That can’t be part of our deal.”

  “Relax. I’m going to pay Jimmy’s debt. I have money coming. I’ve already made the arrangements.”

  “That’s rather decent of you.”

  “Think so? How much money do you think I need right now?” The old man gave Yakabuski a sour look. He went to pat his stomach again, but stopped as his hand approached the T-shirt. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. I’m not going to tell you who killed Augustus, because if I did that you’d just walk out of here and make an arrest. Which means I would need to testify in court, on account of you not doing any of the work. Your evidence is me.”

  “We can take an affidavit, Mr. Maguire. You won’t have to testify in court.”

  “The other thing I’m not going to do is let everyone know I just turned rat-fink informant for the Springfield Regional Fuckin’ Police.”

  The two men stared at each other. There was a resolve in the old man’s eyes that Yakabuski knew would be as firm and unmoving as the north shore escarpment, as tough and unflinching as any set stone. Maguire had been staring down cancer for years, Yakabuski figured, and the chances of him changing his mind probably ranged from nil to none.

  “I think we have a problem,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t think so. This is the deal I’m willing to make, Mr. Yakabuski. You help out Jimmy, and I’ll give you the only clue you’re going to need to solve this murder.”

  “You’ve been watching too much television, Mr. Maguire. You’re going to give me some sort of riddle? Is that what you’re thinking of doing?”

  “Not a riddle. I’m going to give you a name. Find that person, and you’ll find your killer.”

  “You realize I’ll probably help Jimmy whatever we decide here. I’ve already told you that.”

  “I know. But I think you will take better care of my grandson if we make this deal.”

  There it was again. That Northern Divide world view. Maguire needed to barter for his grandson’s protection otherwise it wouldn’t be real, wouldn’t be the sort of thing you could hang your hat on, as people around Springfield still said. Extracting something from Yakabuski was the only way Maguire could feel good about what he was doing, the only way he could convince himself he might just have protected his grandson from the beasts and monsters that lived around here.

  “We have a deal, Mr. Maguire. Who do I need to find?”

  The old man smiled.

  “Katherine Morrissey.”

  “And who is she?”

  “Sean Morrissey’s mother.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The mountains were not tall enough to have exposed rock on the summits. From base to peak, it was a dense forest, mixed woods of jack pine and scrub spruce, oak and hickory. At this time of year, many of the leaves had fallen, but the mountains were still green. Mist rose from the valleys and the gullies to hang like smoke rings around the girth of the hills.

/>   Cambino drove through Arkansas, and although the land was sparsely populated, the highway was immaculate. A perfect, dark-black asphalt highway winding its way through the green mountains. This was an immense land, green, lush, and wet. The Mississippi River could be seen from time to time far to the east, and Cambino could not imagine there ever being a drought here, or famine in any real way. Wildlife was abundant. The rivers were plentiful and clean, not at all like the slow-moving, oil-slicked rivers of his youth. A man with a good rifle and a strong back could survive with ease in land such as this.

  Yet the people were poor. Cambino glimpsed their houses occasionally through the trees that bordered the Interstate, rough-timber and Typar-wrapped houses, with cars on cinder blocks and thin hounds that barked at shadows and other things they would never catch. When he left the Interstate, which he did from time to time, as he was making good time and could not arrive earlier than expected, Cambino drove through small town after small town where men sat on milk crates at four-corner gas stations, and every second store was shuttered. At truck stops near the Interstate, children sold lemonade and cookies beside the ramps, close enough to the passing vehicles to be coughing out diesel exhaust most of the day.

  Cambino wondered how such a thing was possible, to be born in a land like this yet live in poverty. He drove and considered the problem, searching for the disconnect, where the formula deviated from the logical conclusion: a free man in paradise will be rewarded. But the answer never came. The people remained a mystery to him, exiles in their own kingdom, reaping none of the bounty of the land, no more physical claim or linkage to the land than the shadows that came sliding off the mountains every day at dusk, to go skittering down this perfect black highway.

  . . .

  Both of the men from the North wanted the same thing, and as Cambino drove from Arkansas into Missouri, he thought again of what a coincidence that was, although as a man who did not believe much in coincidence, it must have been something else. Fate? A joke from God? He could not decide. But the men had approached him separately, independent of one another, with an identical plan. Betray and kill the other man. Because both men had been business partners of Cambino for many years, he had listened, and because it was a good plan, one that made sense to him, he had agreed.