Yes, I remember him,” Shoe replied. He and Hank Trumbull had graduated from the academy together and, for a time, had worked out of the same downtown Toronto station.
“He’s an inspector now,” Matthias said. He took a mouthful of coffee, seeming oblivious to the temperature. “When we interviewed you,” he said, “you told us that you’d been discharged from the Toronto police service for striking a superior office. In actual fact, you resigned after your partner, one Ronald Mackie, assaulted you in the locker room with his nightstick and you fractured his cervical vertebrae taking it away from him.” Shoe sipped his coffee and waited for the other coin to drop. “He claimed you were sleeping with his wife.”
“Former wife,” Shoe corrected him. “I knew her as Sara Rosen. When I met her, she and Mackie had been divorced for a year and a half.”
“She was a cop too?”
“That’s right,” Shoe said.
Shoe had met Sara at someone’s retirement party, he didn’t remember whose. She’d been twenty-seven then, three years older than Shoe. She worked out of another station, and they’d been seeing each other for a month before Shoe had learned that she was Mackie’s ex-wife. Over the years, Shoe had asked himself many times if he’d have gone out with her that first time if he’d known. The answer was usually yes, despite the fact that Mackie had talked incessantly about “his ex,” certain they’d eventually get back together. According to Sara, though, there was no chance of that. Mackie knew Sara was seeing someone, he’d told Shoe, another cop. He didn’t know who, some suit, probably, he’d said. He’d find out soon enough, though, and when he did, the guy had better watch out.
“What else did Trumbull tell you?” Shoe asked.
Matthias looked up at his partner. Her strong, solemn face was expressionless.
“He said Sara Mackie died in the line of duty a few weeks later.”
Shoe was constantly surprised that even after all these years the memory of it still hurt. “She was killed when a drunk driver rammed her squad car at eighty miles an hour,” he said. “I suppose you could call that ‘in the line of duty.’”
“Is that why you quit?” Matthias asked.
Shoe nodded. “Between being responsible for ending Ron Mackie’s career and Sara’s death, I lost my enthusiasm for law enforcement.” And, for a time, just about everything else, he recalled. Two days before Sara had died, he’d asked her to marry him. She’d said yes.
Matthias finished his coffee before Shoe had drunk a third of his and dropped the empty cup into a waste bin beside the bench. “Trumbull told us something else.” Shoe waited. “He told us that unless you’d changed a lot in ways that most people don’t usually change, there’s no way in hell you’d be involved in your friend’s death.” Shoe waited some more. Matthias shrugged. “Anyway, I put my money on the wife. Nine times out of ten, it turns out to be the wife.”
“You’d lose this one,” Shoe said.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Matthias looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “The guy that whacked O’Neill was a pro. Or at least a talented amateur. Left the murder weapon behind but bugger-all else. We didn’t find so much as a nose hair we could tie to him. We’ve got reports of someone answering his description boarding the SkyTrain, but then nothing. Probably removed his disguise on the train then ditched it. Cool. Not the kind of psycho dimwit wives usually hire to off their husbands. They usually leave a trail like a slug leaves slime.”
“What about the weapon?” Shoe asked.
“An old .38 Smith & Wesson service revolver, probably a souvenir from World War Two. The serial number was intact, but it won’t do us any good; the gun’s too old. There were no prints on either the gun or the shell casings. The MO is similar to another shooting a few years ago in Surrey, but otherwise we got squat. The victim back then was an informant who ratted out the wrong dealer, but there’s no evidence O’Neill was connected in any way to drugs. Anyway, most drug-related killings in this city these days involve Indo-Canadians. Still...” He shrugged again.
“What about other suspects? Sean Rémillard, Patrick’s cousin, could there be anything there?”
“I doubt it. Rémillard is what you might call colourful, but so far no one’s been able to come up with a plausible motive. Or even an implausible one.”
“What do you mean, ‘colourful’?”
“After passing the bar on his third try,” Matthias said, “he chased ambulances for a while before discovering politics. He was an independent city councillor for a few years, a real hair in the ass of both Harcourt and Campbell’s administrations. Since losing his seat in ’93, he’s worked as a Liberal party mouthpiece and fundraiser. Now I guess he’s decided to make a run for the brass in a federal by-election. Some say he’s being groomed to be prime minister someday. The theory being, I suppose, that a perfectly bilingual French Canadian from B.C. could restore the Liberal’s fortunes in the West and reunite the country.” Matthias made a face. “He’s tight with a big cheese in the party, um, I forget his name...”
“Allan Privett,” Shoe supplied.
“Yeah, that’s it. Rémillard’s married to his daughter.”
“What’s she like?” Shoe asked.
Matthias looked up at his partner.
“It’s hard to say,” Worth supplied. “She’s a bit on the cool side—”
“Cool?” Matthias snorted. “She’s cold as a frozen mackerel.”
Worth scowled at him. “Are you going to let me finish?”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Worth said. “She’s of high average intelligence, I’d say, and well educated. She’s an only child and a bit spoiled. Attractive enough, but ...” She hesitated.
“She’s built more like a brick than a brick shit-house,” Matthias interjected.
Worth sighed. “She could use some time in a gym,” she agreed. “Good clothes, though,” she added as an afterthought, which brought a grin to her partner’s face.
“She knew Rémillard and O’Neill when they were kids growing up in Quebec,” Matthias said. “She had some emotional problems when she was fifteen or so, just after she moved out here with her family in ’76. She’s a do-gooder now, sick kids, the environment, women’s rights.” Worth scowled again, but Matthias ignored her. “The perfect wife for a politician,” he concluded.
“When I talked to Patrick on Friday,” Shoe said, “he told me there were a couple of business opportunities he was looking into. Anything there?”
“We got the number of an outfit in Nanaimo named LogiGraphics from his cellphone log. He called them just before he was killed to postpone a meeting. We had the Nanaimo cops talk to them. Bunch of computer nerds, they said, live like moles. They were pretty upset about O’Neill’s death. He was considering buying in and helping them go public to raise development capital.”
Shoe weighed his loyalties for a few beats, then said, “What about Victoria O’Neill’s friend, Kit Parsons?”
Matthias looked at Worth, whose eyebrow lifted again. He turned back to Shoe.
“Have you met her?” Matthias asked.
“Once, the day of Patrick’s murder. She was at Victoria’s house.”
“What’s your take on her?”
“She’s very protective of Victoria.” This time it was Worth who snorted. “How’s her alibi?” Shoe asked.
“She was in her studio with a client from two to four