City of Ice by John Farrow Page A

rather than a moral dilemma.
    “Relax. He’s doing his duty. Today’s the boy’s funeral. LaPierre’s attending.”
    Mathers offered a little smirk. “You think of everything.”
    “Let’s go.”
    They clambered out of the car and walked up to Garage Sampson. The door to the side office was locked. Lights were on inside, and they could hear a radio.
    Mathers rang the bell.
    The radio was switched off.
    Mathers rang again, and this time they detected a motion down a lengthy corridor. A figure advanced toward them. When he was near he shouted in English for them to hang on a second. Momentarily they identified the figure as a young man approaching with a ring of keys. He had to open several locks.
    “Is this Fort Knox?” Mathers inquired in French when the door swung open.
    “What?” the young man asked in English. He was dressed in a mechanic’s greasy coveralls. Steel-toed boots protected him from mishaps.
    “Never mind.” Mathers pushed his coat back and showed his hip badge. “Police. We’d like to come in, ask you a few questions.”
    The youth promptly stepped aside. Cinq-Mars gave him a nod as he followed Mathers through the door and did a broad scan of the premises.
    “You alone here?” Mathers asked the mechanic. He offered a wide smile, to suggest that he was the one person he’d want to trust in all the world.
    “Yeah.”
    “What’s your name?” He was good-looking, dark-haired, thin, and Mathers guessed that Cinq-Mars would describe him as not having a criminal appearance. He looked the part of a grease monkey. He wore what girls were calling hockey hair, long at the back and on top, shorn on the sides.
    “Jim Coates. This about Hagop?”
    “You know Hagop Artinian?”
    “Yeah, he works here. Or—I mean. You know. He did. I can’t believe he was killed, man. Whew. He’s a good guy. Nobody deserves something like that. What was he doing in that Santa suit anyway?”
    “Were you friends?”
    “Sort of. Not really, but, you know, we worked together.”
    “Here?”
    “In the garage, yeah.”
    “What did he do?”
    “Mechanic. I do bodywork, he did engines.”
    Cinq-Mars listened to the boy as Mathers questioned him, catching his tone. An underlying excitement was apparent, as though the investigation was enough of a novelty, despite the grim circumstances, to give him something to talk about later. He seemed nervous but not frightened. Without bothering to ask permission, Cinq-Mars wandered into the garage bays to do a general snoop.
    “How long did you know him, Jim?” Mathers asked. His pen and notepad were poised to record the answer, and the boy leaned slightly forward on the balls of his feet to make sure that he did so.
    “I been here about three months maybe. Something like that. I knew Hagop since then. We didn’t hang out or nothing, but we talked to each other at lunch and stuff.”
    “You didn’t work together?”
    “I’m body, he’s mechanics. When I’m working it’s not so easy to carry on a conversation.”
    “Where’s everybody? Why are you here alone?”
    “Christmas holidays.”
    “Cars crack up around Christmas, don’t they?”
    “The boss gave us the week off.”
    “Except you.”
    “Tough luck. I got the least seniority. I got a couple of cars to do, but mostly he wants somebody down here telling customers to come back next week.”
    “Isn’t it a strange time of year to be closed down, Jim? With this weather, don’t you have a lot of fender benders?”
    “I guess so. Yeah. Maybe.”
    Mathers moved around the office, in between desks, casting his eyes on the paperwork waiting in abeyance, order sheets, invoices, much of it left as if the staff had suddenly been spirited away. He wanted to see if the young man would try to stop him, but he didn’t seem concerned.
    “Christmas holidays, is this something that goes on every year? Did you know about it in advance? Or did the boss just spring it on you?”
    “We had the day off before Christmas,