(A snowflake in summer)
Dusk sheltered the streets and tree-lined avenues of Park Extension as smaller children begrudged being called home. Older ones congregated on street corners or in parks or slouched off looking for trouble. Young adults also banded together.
The cusp between late adolescence and early adulthood was a precarious tightrope. Quinn Tanner divided her time between these two clans. Teens her own age looked up to her. Young men who were older thought of her as someone within their purview. Knowing the score, young women tolerated her status.
In Park Extension many streets bore bold French names. Champagneur. D’Anvers. L’Acadie. Querbes. Jean Talon. Saint Roch. These ran adjacent to streets reflecting a Scots and English heritage. Bloomfield. Ogilvy. Stuart. Hutchison. Ball. Wiseman. A mishmash of centuries-old allegiances. Those who gathered in Ball Park represented a broader world than that of the ancient battling nations of France and Great Britain. Kwang-Sun. Rahim. Padmini. Hideaki. Tomas. Dawida. Sanjay. Youthful men and women in a new world that proffered an open invitation to be explored. A world as baffling as it was inclined toward promise; a venture contradictory in its inducements and perils.
On that evening, Quinn separated from both those who were older and those younger, drawn toward a man who moved gently forward and back sitting on a swing. ‘Need a push?’
‘I’ve seen kids do this thing,’ he replied. ‘They stand on the swing. Get it going higher until they’re parallel to the ground at both ends of the arc. Then they try a 360-degree spin, to go right over the top. It’s impossible, except some do it. A few nearly kill themselves.’
‘I’ve done it,’ Quinn remarked. ‘I was the only girl who could do it then, at that time. I was ten or so. Maybe all the kids go over now, once they’re strong enough.’
‘Doubt it. I agree with you, though – create a daring game, someone will take on the risk. I’m not surprised you did.’
‘Ah, is that an insult?’
‘A neutral observation, Quinn.’
‘You bet. Are you hassling me, Mr Detective?’
Cinq-Mars liked the way she could suddenly turn direct and challenging.
‘I’m sitting on a swing. Minding my own business. How is that hassling you?’
‘You’re here. You’re a cop. You’re keeping an eye on me. I call that hassling. My friends are wondering who’s the guy in the suit.’
‘You came over on your own.’
‘Because I know who you are. Are you following me around?’
Rather than answer, Cinq-Mars began to swing a little. It felt pleasant. Quinn chose a swing two down from his and sat. She merely rocked and rotated on hers, at times imperceptibly.
He let his feet drag in the sand, slowing to a stop.
She made her case. ‘How do I explain you to my friends? Oh, he’s a guy who follows me around because he thinks I’m a thief or a murderer, probably both.’
‘You are a thief.’
‘They don’t all know that. Although apparently a rumor is flying around the block at the speed of light. The point is, they don’t know you’re a cop. Yet. It’ll break up the party when they find out.’
‘What’s the rumor?’
‘Why was Dietmar in his car in the Town of Mount Royal? Why was he on the other side of the fence? Where was I? The Gazette mentioned a robbery nearby. Some of my close friends know I steal. They’re asking stupid questions that maybe aren’t so dumb. Like did I kill Deets? I bet it’s discussed behind my back. God. Your being here does not help with that.’
‘Relax, Quinn. Tell them I’m investigating the death of your boyfriend. They might want to pitch in, help us out.’
An argument that made sense, although barely. She chose not to concede the point.
‘My fault,’ she said. ‘Deets getting killed.’
‘Only true if you killed him. I only blame the killer.’
‘You say. I say different.’
She looked straight up. Quinn gripped the swing’s galvanized chains and leaned back, looking at the sky. She let her head fall further so that she was gazing at the street upside down through the steel fence. As though her world had been turned upside down and she was adjusting to it. Upright again, she stood on the swing, bent her knees, flexed her thighs and drove her hips. She reared back on the chains then released the tension, gaining momentum, and swung back and forth. She went higher, leveling off when she gained about sixty degrees beyond center. Her blond hair flowed off her head when flying up, then over her face on the descents. An anger, a resentment, a dismay returned, reminiscent of her time on the mountain when she wept and crawled within herself in grief and loathing. This experience was not the same; having been through it once, she’d been inoculated from its repetition. Other latent emotional stimuli found traction, though. Cinq-Mars could see in the force that she applied through her arms, torso and legs, down into her feet, that this was not merely a physical performance. An inner fury was expressed. She was driving to go over the top, to do a 360.
The entire set of swings vibrated with the power of her fury.
‘Quinn,’ Cinq-Mars cautioned, quietly. He didn’t want to pick up the pieces.
She went beyond ninety degrees from nadir and fought for greater velocity. She’d not been this tall or heavy when performing the trick in the past. When she flung herself upward to try to complete the circle, gravity yanked her back to earth. The chain lost its centrifugal tension and she hurtled downward. Not a full-on crash. She pulled out of her free fall, yanking hard on the chains and twisting, her bottom thumping the seat. Quinn reinvigorated the motion to try again, attempting to will the full force of her propulsion to fly, fly, circle the moon, and when she released herself again, she went higher, out to the limits of her arc before she collapsed back, head first as she hurtled down and past the swing’s supporting bar, spinning in the descent, crashing at the bottom, yet still holding onto the swing before bouncing up erratically then falling off. She grunted. Plopped on the ground, she fought off the wildly gyrating swing seat. It smacked her once, hard. Finally, she reached back, snagged it.
Half the people in the park were staring at her. Cinq-Mars didn’t stir. The girl might be bruised, but she was alive and OK. He permitted her the dignity of recovering on her own.
Cross-legged, she took her time, then pulled herself up and brushed off her jeans. She sat on the swing and offered her pals a comforting wave.
‘I missed,’ she lamented.
‘I know how it feels. Unable to do stuff you’ve done before.’
‘Not the same,’ she said. ‘You’re old. I’m young.’
‘We’re both younger than we will be. Older than we once were.’
‘Quite the philosopher,’ she said.
‘Point is I’m not old,’ he corrected her.
That made her smile. ‘You are to me.’
They sat on the swings in the deepening gloom of the evening.
Street lights flickered on.
‘I asked you to check on a few things, Quinn. Uncover anything?’
She nodded. ‘Arturo Maletti is one bad dude. A piece of royal crap. I found that out firsthand.’
Not completely firsthand, he would learn, and only from a distance. Still, she’d seen him in action. He was more than surprised. He had expected she’d not come up with anything.
‘He drove this guy around in his trunk to teach him a lesson.’
‘Where’d you see him, Quinn?’
‘Downtown.’
‘Where downtown?’
‘Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Who was the guy in the trunk?’
‘A stranger.’
‘Did you meet this stranger?’
‘Doesn’t concern you, really.’
‘You met this person? You talked to him?’
‘Yeah? So? It’s nothing that concerns you.’
Like pulling teeth. ‘What happened, if anything, that concerns me?’
A dribble of details. He got the impression that she’d had an adventure. She seemed affected and was quieter within herself. In her piecemeal retelling, her usual spiritedness was noticeably subdued.
‘You religious?’ she asked out of the blue.
Something had happened that day, Cinq-Mars was convinced.
‘Treacherous question, Quinn.’
‘How so?’
‘No matter what anyone answers – yes, no, or only in a foxhole – the other person has no clue what that person really believes or feels. The short answer is yes. But you have no idea what I mean by that. You? Religious?’
‘Not anymore. My mother was.’ She shot a glance his way, indicating that she had something to confide. ‘I’m Catholic. I’ve known nuns to be OK as people. Maybe a little weird. I’ve known them to be mean, too, but more like grouchy. In school, one of them enjoyed giving detentions. She set the record. Today I found out they can be evil.’
What had she learned?
‘Priests, too,’ Cinq-Mars concurred. ‘Cops, as well. We’re just people. Put a robe on a man, that doesn’t make him a saint. Give a man a badge and call him a policeman, he’s not necessarily a defender of justice. Ultimately, people are who they are because they are who they are.’
She was thinking, he could tell.
‘That sounds like a rationalization,’ she concluded.
‘That’s human, too,’ Cinq-Mars said. Whatever was going on with her, he understood that she was testing him. ‘I’m sure you’ve rationalized being a thief.’
For a minute, she seemed to be mustering a response, then chose silence.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’re throwing my words back at me. I guess that’s what you do, being a cop.’
Part child, part young woman. Unformed, but forming. Further dimensions resonated through her. Her responses indicated a range he couldn’t fully grasp, more was going on with her than she revealed. Her friends took her to be a conundrum. Some knew she was thieving; among others, she kept that quiet. She knew that her friends were puzzled by her. A few condemned her.
She was right that he had thrown her own words back at her and done so as a policeman. No denying. Crooks frequently belittled arresting officers to demonstrate that the flaws in cops somehow excused their own, a continuous joust to show that no one should think themselves better than those destined for hard time.
Still, this wasn’t a full-on interrogation. ‘Asking questions is what I do as a detective. I’m not saying I have the answers. When people ask me if I’m religious or if I believe in God, I believe in the questions. The answers? Maybe that’s why I’m a detective.’
She seemed less antagonistic with that notion.
‘Speaking of questions, if you won’t tell me where you saw Maletti and won’t say who he dumped in his trunk and then released, what can you tell me?’
She preferred to ask questions of her own. ‘Who raised you, Detective? Were your parents good, bad, or just boring?’ Her spirit was returning, clawing back to the surface from a depth.
‘Horses.’ He had to keep her off-guard.
‘Ah, you were raised by horses?’
‘Pretty much. Like you, I lost my mom too early. I have a great dad. We lived on a horse farm. Horses, I think, taught me everything I know. I was going to be a priest. Then a vet. Now I’m a cop. Horses guided me every step of the way. Growing up, I was as close to them as to any person. Preferred their company. Still do, in a way. Not that I’m around horses much anymore.’
‘Not if you live in Park Ex.’
‘Exactly. What you brought up: I can be religious, but to be that way I have to accept the horrors of my religion. I can be a cop, but that means I contend with the evil that men do, including colleagues. There’s a lot of criminals and other bad people in the world. Some are cops. Some are priests. You talk about nuns. In my view, even when the world is bright, the light still shines in darkness.’
Smiling again, amused. ‘A philosopher, totally.’
She had started swinging once more, gently this time.
‘And you, Quinn? What should you be?’
‘To be determined, no?’
‘I hope so,’ Cinq-Mars told her.
He sensed that she was happy with his response.
‘What’s next?’ she asked in reference, he understood, to their association.
‘I ask tough questions. You return honest answers.’
She dug her heels into the ground to stop swinging.
‘First,’ he began, ‘why won’t you tell me where you were today? People your age are like that, but your circumstances are unique. Your boyfriend was killed. Why the big secret about where you were?’
Silence.
‘Perhaps what you were doing pertains to secret things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what. I thought I was asking the questions. But since you ask … you’re a thief, maybe you were out stealing the crown jewels. Or planning to knock over a bank. It’s my business to find out stuff like that.’
‘You don’t take this seriously?’
‘Of course I do. Here’s something I was seriously wondering about. In the past, you stole items of value. You sold them. How did you off-load the merchandise, Quinn? Where did you get rid of your stuff?’
She’d had help. That had to be true. He anticipated her reluctance to share that level of information directly. To work around it, to work around her, he wanted to test the edges of what she kept hidden.
‘Garage sales.’ Ezra Knightsbridge had warned that the detective would be asking the question. Make him work for answers, then hand him a false one.
‘Good reply,’ he said. ‘One thing wrong with it. You’re not that stupid and neither am I.’
She stared at him a moment, then smiled. ‘That’s two things.’
‘Shall we start over?’ he suggested.
‘There’s this pawnshop on Jean Talon.’
‘Nope,’ Cinq-Mars told her.
‘What do you mean, “nope”?’
‘I know it well. They don’t accept stolen property. Most pawnshops don’t, contrary to public perception. What else you got?’
She would have preferred drawing this out, as Ezra directed her to do – ‘Say nothing, when he asks. He’ll push. Say nothing again.’ But this detective’s tendency was to cut to the chase. What had sounded, on Ezra’s lips, like a good plan wasn’t working out so well.
‘There’s this guy down on Notre Dame.’
‘East or West?’
‘Ah, East. Yeah, East. No! West. I’m not sure. I get my directions mixed up.’ Already her lie was crumbling, and she was only getting started.
‘Let’s say it’s Notre Dame West for now. Who?’
‘Do I have to say?’
‘Yep.’
‘You understand. It could be dangerous.’
‘For who? Not for you.’
She delayed, then she said, ‘What do you mean, not for me? Who else?’
‘We’ll get to that.’
‘Get to what? Look, I’m answering your question, all right? I’m putting my life at risk here.’
‘A tad overly dramatic, no?’
‘You think so? When my boyfriend is dead?’
He conceded her point. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Look, you have to promise not to tell. Never tell. The guy I sell to scares the shit out of me. He works out of a bar called Dino’s. Us thieves, we show up in the backlot behind it. He comes out.’
‘Who?’
‘The Rabbit. He’s sort of Russian. But he speaks French.’
‘Do you speak French, Quinn?’
‘Enough.’
‘Do you know what a snowflake is?’ he asked her.
They were both rotating slightly on their swings.
‘Excuse me? A snowflake’s a flake of snow. No two are alike but I don’t know who checks.’
‘You’re a snowflake, Quinn.’
‘Excuse me? Because I’m blond? Up yours.’
‘If you went to Dino’s, if you met Guy Lappin …’
She shot a glance at him because he knew the man’s name although she hadn’t mentioned it.
‘And if you tried to sell him stolen property, you would not have come through the experience unscathed.’
Lacking confidence in her reply, she tried it out anyway. ‘Who says I didn’t? Maybe I was molested a little.’
‘With the people we’re talking about, Quinn, there’s no such thing.’
The lie wasn’t her own, and she presumed that that’s why she was failing at it so badly. ‘If I’m not telling the truth, then how do I know about those people? Think about it. How do I know about Dino’s, or the Rabbit?’
‘Excellent question. It’s not everyday knowledge. Only someone with deep experience would know the details. So, maybe someone gave you the story. That’s what I’m thinking. Am I getting warmer?’
She declined to say.
‘Did he invite you into his little back room?’
‘Who?’ she asked, but she knew who he meant. What she really wanted to ask him was ‘How do you know?’
‘Let me tell you about the man you know as Ezra Knightsbridge,’ Cinq-Mars said, mentioning his name before she did. ‘He’s protective of young thieves, but only to a point. His people are loyal, but with him everybody has a shelf life. That’s his pattern. How else can someone run a gang of juvenile thieves decade after decade and, except for Ezra himself, everybody stays young? My advice? Get out before you’re twenty. On your own terms, not on his.’
Quinn was alternately studying the sand at her feet, drawing patterns with the toe of a shoe, and looking back toward her friends. She was listening, though. Cinq-Mars could tell that he had her attention.
‘With Ezra – who has his virtues, cops leave him alone for a reason – with him, if you’re on the inside, you’ll never know if you’re being protected or being set up to be sold out. If he feels the need to sell someone out, Ezra sticks a “For Sale” sign on the sidewalk. He’ll hammer it home. Then wait for the highest bidder. Keep your eyes peeled. You’ll see it for yourself someday.’
She finally had to ask, even though the question itself constituted an admission, ‘How did you know?’
Cinq-Mars was glad she asked. He wanted to include her, to gain her trust through mutual knowledge. He was willing to give something back in the hope that she’d offer a nugget in return, now or another time. ‘Everybody in the business – cops, crooks – they have their ways. Anyone who’s been successful, and Ezra’s been amazingly successful, has their signature ways. Ezra teaches his recruits how to explain things should someone ask. Trying to sic cops on the Rabbit is one he’s pulled before. But it gives him away. If a thief blames the Rabbit, we can count on Ezra being behind that person. Anybody who worked for the Rabbit would never, ever, not for a second, give him up. Most people value their skin too much.’
‘Their skin,’ Quinn repeated under her breath.
‘The Rabbit would peel yours off your bones for dickering on a sale. You, Quinn, would not last. Ten nasty men would do unimaginable things to you for free. They’d only promise to be violent. Then ten very gross men would pay to do the same. They’d want their money’s worth. Then the Rabbit would hook you on heroin, what’s left of you, and sit you down to map out your future. He’d set you up with clients around the clock—’
‘Stop.’
‘I’m not making this up. You have to know this.’
‘I get it. Ezra said I should never go there.’
‘I’m sure he did. That doesn’t mean you never would. If you ever go down there, all I can do after that, all your dad can do, is pick up the pieces. Are you getting this?’
‘I got it already. Will you stop?’
‘First, what can you tell me? Where were you today? Who were you with?’
He waited.
‘You think you shocked me, Detective. But I got shocked today, big time. Did you know that in Montreal nuns took in orphans, and if they weren’t baptized they refused to call them by their names? Only by a number?’
Cinq-Mars knew the story and was familiar with the orphanage/convent in question. Why was she relating the tale? What did it have to do with her?
‘Quinn, did you meet someone who used to be a number?’
She nodded. ‘He’s given himself a name now. Calls himself Leonard. He ran away early, so he never learned what his real name is.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Skinny little runt. Nervous. He’s all right, though.’
‘Interesting. Do you know what his number was?’
‘He won’t say. I can’t blame him for that.’
Cinq-Mars thought a few things through. ‘We might be able to find it.’
‘Find what? His number?’
‘His name.’
‘Really? He says you’d need a lawyer.’
‘I might have the right connections without one.’
He had something to give to her now that surpassed anything she hoped for. Her chin lifted and dipped slightly, as if a nod was being vocalized, and somehow constituted a signed agreement.
Cinq-Mars stood. He dusted off the seat of his trousers. ‘I’m off, Quinn,’ he announced. ‘Nice talking to you. We’ll meet up again.’
‘One thing.’ Already she wanted to return the favor. ‘You asked me to check out my old boyfriends and Dietmar’s ex-girlfriends. I’ll do that. But I was thinking, maybe you should check out the woman’s boyfriends. We know about Arturo Maletti. Who says he’s the only one? She had Maletti in the sack while her husband was off saving lives at the hospital. That tells me she’s no saint. The husband, if he knew, might’ve been jealous, right? But what if she had more than the one lover? People think that boys are demons and girls are angels. But I’m a thief, right? Maybe this woman is more like me, wilder than anyone thinks.’
What counted was not to accommodate a new line of inquiry but to acknowledge her willingness to help. ‘Worth looking into.’
‘Can I ask a favor?’ The girl, it would appear, grew increasingly demanding as their connection evolved. He liked that. ‘Dietmar’s funeral is tomorrow.’ Quinn dipped her shoulder to indicate her friends on the other side of Ball Park. ‘I heard through the grapevine that I’m not welcome. His family blames me. No surprise. Can you go instead? Tell me about it? This sounds crazy, but maybe you could … sort of go there in my place. You know? In a way.’
An emotion which went unexpressed underscored her plea.
‘It’s breaking my heart,’ she admitted.
‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘I read the obit. I know where it is.’
They shook hands. The girl was unaccustomed to the ritual. She never greeted her friends or parted with a handshake. This one felt weighted, significant. Separating for the night, Cinq-Mars believed he’d made progress. The time had come to talk with Ezra Knightsbridge. That old fossil would not be easily broken down. A reconnaissance mission had to be devised with care.