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Halifax, May 16
2:50 a.m.
Print match.
The ERT van was black and nondescript. It coasted slowly down Walnut Avenue. Behind it two radio cars parked diagonally across the south entrance to the street, closing it off. At the north entrance, two other police cars did the same. No residents would be going home just yet. More importantly, none would be leaving without being identified.
Beneath a disconnected streetlight, the van pulled to the curb and stopped. Its male driver extinguished the headlights.
There was no one around. The neighborhood was quiet, asleep.
The man checked his watch: 3:00 a.m. His name was Sam Keating, commander of the Emergency Response Team. He wore a SWAT uniform. A black balaclava covered his face but for a strip across his alert green eyes. Beneath it a small earpiece was connected to a mike attached to the front of his Kevlar vest. On the passenger seat sat his ballistics helmet, complete with a mounted night-vision monocular.
The neighborhood surrounding him was segregated only by its high income. The street was tree lined, the houses elegant, with sloping lawns and manicured hedgerows.
From the dash Keating picked up a pair of night-vision binoculars and pressed them to his face. Up ahead, around the bend in the road, loomed the green-hued silhouette of the target house—a brick colonial with white pilasters and a peaked pediment. The stand of trees behind it was dark against the lighter shade of sky.
Adjusting the center dial, Keating brought the home into sharper focus. All the lights were out. The BMW belonging to the occupant was parked in the drive.
Disgusted, Keating shook his head.
“Who says crime doesn’t pay?” he whispered to himself.
On Wednesday afternoon the forensics lab had lifted four useable latents from the heroin packet retrieved in Cathy Ambré’s bedroom. All but one thumbprint was identified as hers. That one was entered into AFIS. A short time later, the identification system returned a match—Bernard Potter. He was a twenty-nine-year-old former resident of Vancouver who had amassed a long list of drug-related priors. It was anyone’s guess as to how he had slipped through the cracks in Canada’s justice system and ended up in Halifax to set up shop with anonymity.
With a little extra legwork, Allan discovered Cathy Ambré had used Call a Cab the night of her suicide. The taxi company’s logbook revealed that she had been picked up at her apartment building, driven to Potter’s home, and then returned again.
Armed with this evidence, a judge issued a search-and-seizure warrant. It was the job of the Emergency Response Team to carry it out.
Once more Keating moved the binoculars over the property, considering the point of entry. There would be no dynamic breach. No shotgunning the door locks or hinges. No use of explosives or battering ram. At the briefing earlier, the team decided a stealthy entry would be more appropriate. The battering ram would be used as the backup if the initial plan failed. Potter was considered a high-risk, dangerous offender. His whereabouts in the home were unknown. Surveillance had also revealed there was a young woman in there with him.
Keating put down the binoculars.
Keying his radio, he spoke into the mike on his vest. “Check. Check. Radio check.”
The response was instantaneous. “All clear.”
With a sigh he picked up his helmet, opened the door, and stepped out. His nerves were tingling. This happened whenever he went out on these operations. One mistake could be disastrous.
Keating put on the helmet and secured it by the chinstrap. He circled the van and opened the rear doors. Five team members were waiting patiently inside. The man closest to him held out a Heckler & Koch MP5. Keating checked it over and then slung it over his shoulder.
“Are we ready?” he asked the team.
In unison they replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s move.”
The weather was perfect for the operation—dark, overcast, and a wind stirring enough sound in the trees to conceal someone’s approaching footsteps.
Without hurry, the team moved through one yard, then another. Out of the reach of streetlights, the darkness seemed to absorb them. Within minutes they reached the target’s property. Crouched low, the team used the concealment of a hedge to move into the backyard. Once there, they stopped. Keating directed two men to oversee the front door. The remainder would go with him.
As they approached the house again, their feet were but whispers in the grass. Rifles at the low ready, the team single-stacked the back door. Keating’s hand closed over the brass knob, expecting it to be locked. It was. The deadbolt was also engaged.
Keating dipped a hand into a pocket and produced a leather pouch. Opening it, he ran his finger over an assortment of metal instruments. He chose a tension wrench and a pick, not unlike one found in a dentist’s office.
Carefully, he slid the pick into the top of the keyhole of the doorknob. When he felt the hooked tip reach the rear pin, he gently lifted it. Next, he inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and applied a slight clockwise pressure to it. Breath held, he pressed his ear to the door, listening for the telltale click as he let the rear tumbler fall against the shear line.
Five remained.
One by one, he skillfully repeated the same procedure as the first, working his way from back to front. With each tumbler he felt more anxious. Beneath his balaclava he could already feel the sweat beginning to collect. As the final tumbler fell into place, the plug turned freely. Only the deadbolt remained. In less than a minute he defeated it.
Keating inhaled. He moved a hand up to his helmet and flipped down the monocular, adjusting it over his right eye.
Voice low, he talked into his mike. “Door has been unlocked. Team, switch to night vision. Going in.”
Gently, he pushed on the knob. In slow motion the door swung inward. Holding up one hand, he gave the signal to enter. The first man in was the second in line. He headed to the left. Crisscrossing, the next man went to the right. Keating was the third one in, followed by the final man.
Behind them the night wind slipped in. The rear guard closed the door. Its click was quiet.
> > > < < <
Down the street, Allan sat in a patrol car with Constable Darryl White, who worked in the Integrated Drug Unit. Both men had binoculars trained on Potter’s house.
White was forty-two, tall, gangly, and ruddy faced. His hair was black with a smattering of white where it touched his ears.
In terse sentences Keating’s hushed voice would come over the radio, relaying the team’s progress through the home. “Kitchen, clear. Moving on to the next room. Dining room, clear.”
All at once, a light turned on in an upstairs window. Moments later, a shadow passed over the curtains.
Allan keyed the radio. “Someone’s up.”
Keating’s answer came back as a whisper. “Roger that. We hear movement above us. Advancing to the staircase. Stand by.”
Seconds passed.
A tense minute.
Then another.
Mouth pressed tight, White began drumming the steering wheel, his tension palpable.
Suddenly, there was an instantaneous flash of light throughout the second-floor windows, and Allan knew the team had deployed a stun grenade. Even from this distance away, he could hear the percussive pop.
For minutes the airwaves were silent. White moved his hand to the ignition and held it there.
“C’mon,” he muttered, “c’mon.”
Suddenly, the radio squawked to life. “Primary is in custody.”
Hitting the button, Allan asked, “Roger that, Commander. Anyone else?”
“Affirmative,” Keating replied. “One female.”
White started the engine and stomped on the gas. The car peeled off, pushing Allan back in the seat. The sensation of acceleration, the flashing lights took him back to his days in patrol.
With a trace of a smile, White gave him a sideways glance. “Hang on there, Al.”
Far up the street the neighborhood pulsed with blue-and-red strobe as the other radio cars raced for the house.
White pulled up to the front of the house and had one foot out the door before he had even shifted into park.
The front door opened, and Keating appeared with Bernard Potter. Head down, the dealer’s hands were cuffed behind his back. His blond hair was mussed, his eyes puffy. He wore a bulky gray sweatshirt and sweatpants that were bunched up at the ankles.
Like him, the young woman escorted out also had blond hair, long and braided in the back. She was blue eyed, slim, and startlingly attractive.
Across the lawn, Keating and his men shepherded the pair to the driveway and put them into separate radio cars. As they were driven away, a thorough search of the house began.
In the basement, the find was substantial—packets of heroin and cocaine, two brick-shaped bars of hashish, MDMA tablets with various logos and colors, bottles of Ritalin, weighing scales, and loose cash amounting to over twenty-six thousand dollars. The combined street value of the drugs was estimated at over three hundred thousand.
Upstairs in the bedroom where Potter had been arrested, a loaded .45 caliber handgun was found tucked away in a night-table drawer. Either the man had no time to go for it, or had decided not to risk an attempt.
Everything in the home of evidentiary value was bagged and tagged.
Allan and Darryl White returned to the department to interview the suspect. The time was 8:15 a.m.
After booking, Potter was taken to one of the department’s interrogation rooms, a windowless, soundproof cubicle with a wooden table and four chairs. A camera angled down from one corner, recording everything that went on.
Allan and White were already waiting inside. When a uniformed officer brought in Potter, White extended his hand to the dealer, introducing himself; Allan remained seated.
Potter sat down opposite the two men. He slouched back, clasping his shackled hands behind his head. His face showed no emotion.
“Please state your full name and date of birth.”
“Bernard Damien Potter. April twelfth, nineteen eighty-one.”
“Do you have anything to say at this time, Mr. Potter?”
“No.” His lips seemed to barely move.
White opened a folder on the table. “In 2003, you were arrested for importing cocaine. Authorities intercepted twelve kilos of the drug on a container ship in Vancouver. You were subsequently found guilty and served your sentence at Matsqui Institution. After which, you moved down to this coast.
“Didn’t like the weather out there? I hear it’s nice. At least the winters are mild.”
Potter simply stared back. He neither moved nor spoke.
From a manila envelope, Allan removed an 8x11 photograph. It was a blown-up headshot of Cathy Ambré taken at her autopsy. Slowly, he slid it across the table.
“Do you know this young lady?” he asked.
Potter leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. Mouth pursed, his face showed no emotion as his gaze swept the picture once then settled on the two officers.
Arrogance entered his tone as he said, “Nope. Can’t say that I do.”
From across the table, Allan eyed the man. It was hard, he found, to remain impassive.
“You do know her,” White said. “Don’t lie to us.”
“I’m not lying.”
“She went to your house last Monday night. Around one in the morning to be precise. She was there to buy some heroin from you.”
Potter licked his lips, shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. A first crack was appearing.
“No.”
“Your drug killed her.”
Potter’s head snapped up sharply. “What’s that?”
“You heard me.”
“Bullshit. Never seen her before.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“Stop playing games,” Allan barked. “I have the taxi driver who drove her to your house. Maybe Cathy went there to see your girlfriend. Is that what she’ll tell us?”
“Dunno. I was in bed.”
Allan clenched his fists. Garbage. That was all he dealt with. A young woman was dead, and this piece of shit couldn’t care less.
Fighting his temper, Allan put a finger on one corner of the photograph and dragged it back to himself. Then he reached into the envelope and brought out another picture. This one was a crime-scene photo showing the small empty packet found near Cathy Ambré’s bed.
Potter’s gaze lingered on the picture. Longer, Allan saw, than it had on Cathy’s.
“Forensics lifted your thumbprint from that bag,” Allan explained. “That’s what led us to you. And these same bags were found at your home earlier. All of them filled with your product.”
A furtive look snuck into Potter’s eyes. “You looking for a confession?”
“I don’t give a shit if you confess or not. We want to know why you were selling smack laced with coke. Did you not take into account the jeopardy you were putting people in?”
Potter gave a look of astonishment. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Allan rose to his feet, leaning over the table. “The heroin you sold Cathy Ambré was contaminated. Did you intentionally do that?”
Potter’s throat began working. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, the chain of his cuffs dangling between his wrists. For the first time he looked genuinely afraid.
Finally, he shook his head. “I never touched it.”
“I don’t believe you. Your drug caused her death. And we’re looking into the deaths of four others in the city who’ve died under similar circumstances. Criminal negligence causing death carries a stiff penalty in this country. Even steeper than the drug charges we already have on you. Up to life. You’re facing some serious time.”
“I never messed with it. If the heroin was contaminated, it came in like that. It wasn’t me.”
Bingo, thought Allan. His deadpan expression belied the satisfaction he felt inside. If only all criminals were this stupid.
Potter slumped back in the chair. “I want to call my lawyer.”
“Sure you do,” Allan said and walked out of the room.
