herbal shampoos, organic soaps, body lotions, hand-ground makeup, imported facial masks, specialty eye creams, and moisturizers.
Andrea liked to drag Kennicott to the shop. He found the place overwhelmingly boring. “Oh, stop complaining, Daniel,” she’d say. “You like beautiful women, and it’s a lot of work staying gorgeous.”
There was only one item in the last compartment—a finely printed and embossed business card. Kennicott examined it carefully: HOWARD PEEL, PRESIDENT, PARALLEL BROADCASTING .
Kennicott paused. He went back to his long list of all the items they’d found in the apartment. The connection was easy to make. In the top drawer of Kevin Brace’s desk they’d found an unsigned contract between Brace and Parallel Broadcasting. Kennicott fished out the contract and read through it.
When he finished, he looked at Peel’s card again. In contrast to everything else in Torn’s well-ordered wallet, and every other scrap of paper that was carefully folded and neatly stored, all four corners of Peel’s card were cracked and bent over. It was as if Torn had worried the edges of the fine paper, the way a nervous suitor pulls the label off a wine bottle at a good restaurant.
He looked back at the contract. It was dated December 12. Kennicott riffled through the videos from the lobby and played the tape from that day. It was the day Torn had skipped her riding lesson. He fast-forwarded to the part where she and Brace came back into the lobby late in the afternoon. Something about it had seemed off the first time he’d watched it. What was it?
He had to play it three times before it struck him. This was the only tape in which Brace and Torn walked into the lobby together and they were not holding hands.
16
J ust to the west of the Market Place Tower, Ari Greene watched a group of mothers pushing strollers and sipping their midmorning lattes. Maybe I should start drinking coffee, he thought, yawning, as he fell into line behind them. It was his third covert pass by the condominium in the last half hour. This time the lobby was empty.
The concierge, Rasheed, was alone. He was reading the front page of the
Toronto Star
, which featured a big picture of Kevin Brace being led out of the condo in handcuffs by two young police officers, Mr. Singh in the background. A banner headline read CAPTAIN CANADA CHARGED WITH MURDER , and the subtitle said STAR REPORTER’S EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS OF ARREST .
“Good morning, Detective,” Rasheed said. He had a ballpoint pen in his hand, which he clicked a few times. “Going up?”
Greene stopped and lifted a thin leather briefcase onto the reception desk. “Not yet,” he said. “First I want to ask you a few questions. Routine stuff.” Greene unzipped the case. The cool metallic sound of the zipper crackled in the marble foyer.
Rasheed clicked the pen in his hand and ticked off something in his logbook. “I made a statement and gave all the videos and the logbook to Officer Kennicott.”
Greene nodded. He opened the notebook he’d pulled from his case. He wanted to take this slowly. “You know how we police are, always asking more questions.”
Greene had been up all night, overseeing the investigation. Reading the various witness statements and police reports as they came in. At eight in the morning he’d gone and had tea with Edna Wingate, the neighbor in suite 12B. Her apartment was a mirror image of Brace’s suite, but unlike his place, it was filled with plants and was extremely neat. Everything seemed to have little labels, right down to the place for her winter gloves. She’d reminded him again that her yoga instructor said she had the best quads he’d ever seen in an eighty-three-year-old.
Rasheed stopped clicking the pen and met Greene’s eyes. For a moment his eyes flickered toward Greene’s briefcase. Good, Greene thought.
Greene opened his notebook. “What’s your full legal name, sir?”
“Rasheed, Mubarak, Rasman, Sarry.”
Greene
Andrea liked to drag Kennicott to the shop. He found the place overwhelmingly boring. “Oh, stop complaining, Daniel,” she’d say. “You like beautiful women, and it’s a lot of work staying gorgeous.”
There was only one item in the last compartment—a finely printed and embossed business card. Kennicott examined it carefully: HOWARD PEEL, PRESIDENT, PARALLEL BROADCASTING .
Kennicott paused. He went back to his long list of all the items they’d found in the apartment. The connection was easy to make. In the top drawer of Kevin Brace’s desk they’d found an unsigned contract between Brace and Parallel Broadcasting. Kennicott fished out the contract and read through it.
When he finished, he looked at Peel’s card again. In contrast to everything else in Torn’s well-ordered wallet, and every other scrap of paper that was carefully folded and neatly stored, all four corners of Peel’s card were cracked and bent over. It was as if Torn had worried the edges of the fine paper, the way a nervous suitor pulls the label off a wine bottle at a good restaurant.
He looked back at the contract. It was dated December 12. Kennicott riffled through the videos from the lobby and played the tape from that day. It was the day Torn had skipped her riding lesson. He fast-forwarded to the part where she and Brace came back into the lobby late in the afternoon. Something about it had seemed off the first time he’d watched it. What was it?
He had to play it three times before it struck him. This was the only tape in which Brace and Torn walked into the lobby together and they were not holding hands.
16
J ust to the west of the Market Place Tower, Ari Greene watched a group of mothers pushing strollers and sipping their midmorning lattes. Maybe I should start drinking coffee, he thought, yawning, as he fell into line behind them. It was his third covert pass by the condominium in the last half hour. This time the lobby was empty.
The concierge, Rasheed, was alone. He was reading the front page of the
Toronto Star
, which featured a big picture of Kevin Brace being led out of the condo in handcuffs by two young police officers, Mr. Singh in the background. A banner headline read CAPTAIN CANADA CHARGED WITH MURDER , and the subtitle said STAR REPORTER’S EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS OF ARREST .
“Good morning, Detective,” Rasheed said. He had a ballpoint pen in his hand, which he clicked a few times. “Going up?”
Greene stopped and lifted a thin leather briefcase onto the reception desk. “Not yet,” he said. “First I want to ask you a few questions. Routine stuff.” Greene unzipped the case. The cool metallic sound of the zipper crackled in the marble foyer.
Rasheed clicked the pen in his hand and ticked off something in his logbook. “I made a statement and gave all the videos and the logbook to Officer Kennicott.”
Greene nodded. He opened the notebook he’d pulled from his case. He wanted to take this slowly. “You know how we police are, always asking more questions.”
Greene had been up all night, overseeing the investigation. Reading the various witness statements and police reports as they came in. At eight in the morning he’d gone and had tea with Edna Wingate, the neighbor in suite 12B. Her apartment was a mirror image of Brace’s suite, but unlike his place, it was filled with plants and was extremely neat. Everything seemed to have little labels, right down to the place for her winter gloves. She’d reminded him again that her yoga instructor said she had the best quads he’d ever seen in an eighty-three-year-old.
Rasheed stopped clicking the pen and met Greene’s eyes. For a moment his eyes flickered toward Greene’s briefcase. Good, Greene thought.
Greene opened his notebook. “What’s your full legal name, sir?”
“Rasheed, Mubarak, Rasman, Sarry.”
Greene
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