As they drove, the madness to their repartee contained its own method. Cinq-Mars and Casgrain never had had an opportunity to grill a prisoner together, yet both fell into sync with the other’s foray.
‘Plucking an eye out – can’t do that anymore, Émile. Gone by the wayside.’
‘The good old days, huh? Must be something we can do.’
‘Burn the soles of his feet. Is that still permitted?’
‘Trying to quit. Cigarettes, I mean. Not feet. I don’t carry a lighter anymore. You?’
‘No matches, either. Anyway, last time I did it the guy’s feet stank. Not worth the trouble. All that screaming.’
In the rear seat of the squad car, Mick knew they were stringing him along. He sneered and scoffed in a show of contempt. More silly than threatening, the men did not expect him to fall for their hyperbole, yet he failed to grasp their play. Realistic threats might scare him, not this litany of prattle, but scaring him was not their intention. They preferred to covertly demonstrate that they were in control of him now. If they wanted to tease him, they could. In imagining increasingly ludicrous possibilities – ‘The oxygen mask trick is effective, where the perp breathes pig manure vapor’ – they were successful in their goal. Despite mocking their charade, Mick gradually succumbed to their authority. He was in their hands; by osmosis he ceded to their dominance over him.
‘He’s a city boy. Quick to puke when pure pig stink floats up his nostrils.’
‘I’m sniffing pig right now,’ Mick said.
Smart guy. They didn’t mind that he fought back; part of the process to break him down. Mick was left with no false means of expression if and when they touched a nerve. He thought he was getting stronger, but his defenses were eroding. His lame threats provided the men with a baseline, so that he’d not be able to mask an honest reaction convincingly.
That moment arrived. Mick’s panic was obvious when Cinq-Mars threatened to arrest his dad.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Says who?’
‘He’s got nothing to do with this.’
‘You do?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Sorry. Only if you’re involved can you say that he’s not involved,’ Cinq-Mars pointed out.
The boy recognized that he’d snared himself in a knot. ‘He’s not involved, that’s all.’
‘Mick. That means you have something to do with it. Because – apparently – you know who’s involved and who isn’t. So tell us. What did you have to do with it all?’
He admitted to the flowers. He and his pals had been conscripted. To be paid later. They didn’t know what happened to the flowers after they transferred them from one truck to another. They knew the job was not legit, that they were stealing.
‘Are you aware that that makes you an accessory to murder?’
‘What? No! Are you insane? It was flowers! Who the fuck cares about flowers?’
Cinq-Mars explained it to him. He was driving so couldn’t look at him, whereas Casgrain was half-turned around in the front seat. ‘The flower heist lured a couple of Mafioso to the farmers’ market. They run a protection racket, somebody stole from their clients. A breach like that is not allowed. The two guys who arrived to check it out were gunned down. Ambushed, let’s say. Could be that the whole point of stealing the flowers was to get the Mafia to show up. Are you aware of that?’
‘Is that true? I had no part in that.’
‘Well, you did. Maybe your father did, too. Maybe he’s the ringleader. I’ll bring him in.’
The news appeared to break the boy’s heart.
At the station house, Cinq-Mars executed an order for Bogdan Ananyev to be brought in for questioning as a material witness. He instructed the uniforms to make their action public. Arrive under a siren. Keep the cherries flashing. Alert everybody on the block. Let the crowd that gathered see the janitor led away in handcuffs.
‘We don’t really have anything on him,’ Casgrain noted quietly. He and Cinq-Mars took a few minutes alone. ‘He went to the party. He doesn’t know we know that. Be interesting, how he reacts when he finds out.’
Cinq-Mars agreed. ‘Mick is weakest when we bring up his dad. His dad comes across as super-protective of Mick. Work them against each other. See what it delivers. For starters, why did he attend the Bondar party? Who did he know there? Did he conscript his son and his son’s friends to steal flowers? He’s going to tell me, or Mick will be introduced to, what did you say – pig manure vapor?’
‘I should’ve said skunk serum.’
‘No, I like the serendipity. If you call a cop a pig, you get to sniff pig manure. Seems fair. Time goes by, folks will start referring to us as sweet-smelling lilacs to spare themselves the fragrance-brutality method when arrested.’
Good to laugh. ‘Should we pepper Mick some more?’
Cinq-Mars appeared distracted. Finally, he said, ‘I’m waiting on Band-Aids. Let him stew. He made me run like I haven’t run in a year. Still catching my breath and my head hurts. We can always nail him on resisting arrest, but I want him to feel my pain before we book him.’
Casgrain assumed he was kidding but was uncertain. ‘Hope you don’t mind me looping around while you did all that running. You’re younger.’
Cinq-Mars scowled. ‘So you know, partner, I expect you to do the running next time. After you went around you took a seat on the railway tracks, as if you were the tired one. Mind? Why would I mind I nearly burst my lungs out while you were working on your tan?’
Casgrain enjoyed a chuckle. ‘Sorry your trousers tore.’
‘Will the department pay?’
‘Your department. My old one never would. Here’s the Band-Aids. How’s your head?’
A secretary brought in a first-aid kit and patched him up. She mentioned that the cuts should be stitched, certainly the deep one on his scalp, but he had no time for that.
‘How’s the head, Émile?’ Casgrain asked again. His partner looked woozy.
‘Damned concussion. I could use a nap.’ He seemed to suddenly perk up. ‘Hey. That gives me an idea.’
‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘Come on. Follow me, Henri. Don’t loop around this time.’