Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars checked the map drawn for him on the back of an old envelope by an adolescent at the General Store. Outside, in large block letters a sign advertised: BEER WORMS FUDGE ICE. Inside, he explained that he only wanted directions. The hesitant twelve-year-old brought in from the storage room instilled no confidence, but it turned out he knew his stuff. Each landmark into the backwoods appeared exactly as indicated: a mossy rock outcropping, a clump of five skinny birches, and now – Armand Touton’s silver trailer shining through the trees.
A rutted, sharp descent. Tall, stiff grasses between the tire tracks brushed his oil pan. Harder nudges indicated rocks and uneven ground. Touton’s station wagon and trailer had handled the pitch somehow; the Bug struggled. He parked in the weeds on an upslope and lugged himself out to be welcomed by a thirsty array of mosquitoes.
No point thrashing and dancing, attracting another contingent. He walked past the trailer down a near-vertical descent where Touton slept in a lounge chair on the rickety wood wharf.
Cinq-Mars reached the water’s edge before being noticed by Touton, who looked groggy as he roused himself. He’d already learned the bad news, which Cinq-Mars knew because the pimply kid at the General Store said so while diagramming directions. The message had been picked up when Touton dropped by for a pound of coffee. He’d sworn out loud, startling many.
The younger detective sat down on the dock and neither man spoke a cheerful word.
Cops hated hearing that one of their own had been shot dead. They inhabited their mutual gloom. The air they breathed deflated inside them.
In the sunlight, the mosquitoes left them alone and Cinq-Mars took in his surroundings. Touton’s property had evaded development due to the steep descent to the lake. The jut suitable for his trailer would not support a house; regulations demanded a further setback from the water. He occupied one end of a finger-shaped pond and had the surrounding woods to himself. The opposite end, with flatter topography, supported cottages, the nearest a mile away. On the dock, the shining lake before him, the forest rising like a concert hall around him, Touton was buttressed from the world. Cinq-Mars experienced the sensation that the retired captain dismissed his old life here, that it merely trolled along behind him as a sparkling lure below the surface.
Cinq-Mars blinked into the sunlight. ‘Fish biting?’
‘We’ll eat.’
Like an aging relative, their silence took up residence between them.
Cinq-Mars watched clouds drift. Then said, ‘Any of your guys get killed over the years?’ Opening up that can of worms.
‘Luck of the draw,’ Touton determined.
Cinq-Mars took that to be a no.
‘You can’t blame yourself.’
He was thinking, I assigned him.
‘You know this story,’ Touton continued. ‘Let me tell it a different way this time. End of the war, almost. The Germans in retreat. We were force-marched out of our POW camp in Poland. Scrounged our own food along the way. Anybody who fell by the wayside took a bullet in the head. Time came, it was over for me. I had dysentery, I was weak, I was done. Last day alive. We heard tanks coming up over a hill. I noticed how they sounded different.’
‘Not gas engines,’ Cinq-Mars remarked. He had heard the story before and waited for what was new. ‘Most German tanks ran on gas. These were diesels.’
‘I told my buddies, my fellow prisoners—’
Cinq-Mars finished his thought. ‘American tanks.’
‘The Germans surrendered without a shot. An American lieutenant poked his head out of a turret and asked if any German mistreated us. I always told you, guys pointed to the officer who shot us if we lagged behind. The American took out his pistol, climbed down, and shot the German in the head. Instant justice.’
Cinq-Mars gave him time, then asked, ‘What’s different?’
Touton inhaled deeply. An exhale rattled out of him. ‘No bunch of guys pointed to the German. The lieutenant climbed down. He didn’t ask the question. He was looking at us like we were nothing more than rags on sticks. I spoke up. “See this guy?” Pointed to the German. “He’s been killing us off, one by one.” That Nazi bastard would have shot me before nightfall, when my legs and my will gave out. I knew it. The German knew it, too. The lieutenant took out his pistol. I looked at him. He handed it to me. I never told you that part. I changed it before. I’m the one who fired the shot. Point-blank. Through his left eye. I let the German blink. Then killed him.’
Was it the lakeside retreat? The killing of a policeman? His sleepiness after waking from slumber? The older man was coming clean in his old age. Some memories failed to stay submerged forever.
‘Today they call that a war crime. We called it what it was. War. Just that. War.’
‘Why is it on your mind, Cap?’ He was impressed by the scene. The old warrior, half-falling through the webbing on his lounge chair which had seen too much sunlight, half-buried in bad memories, speaking to the forest and to the lake. And to a friend.
‘Those were my guys getting shot coming out of Poland. None had to die. We tried to keep them going. Winter. Without boots. Without clothing. Amazing what a man can endure. To a point. Those were my guys being shot. Day after day after day.’
Cinq-Mars gave him that ground, that memory. Touton had lost men, too.
‘War, Émile,’ his old boss said. ‘I feel one coming on.’
He didn’t argue. Nor did he tell him that he felt it, too.
‘Tell me,’ Touton asked, ‘did Geoffrion have a family?’
A cluster of perch were filleted and fired up in lemon juice and butter. A rock cairn had been cobbled together on the shore that contained coals and perfectly supported a cast-iron pan. The older fellow diced the cooked fish, adding shallots and tartar sauce, salt and pepper, and inserted them into hot dog buns, buttered and toasted over the open flame on the end of a fork. They ate on the dock, and the simplicity of the meal did nothing to deflect from the feast. Cinq-Mars removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs and dipped his feet in the lake. Minnows nibbled his toes. He had two more fish dogs.
Touton called them fishwiches.
They quaffed beer before they got down to business.
‘Hear anything I should’ve heard by now?’ Touton asked.
Cinq-Mars let his toes dry in the sun. ‘A love triangle, homicide says. The man in the club Johnny Bondar came to kill was sleeping with his girlfriend.’
‘Makes sense. Except, you’re not buying it.’
‘Dominic Letourneau. The Dime.’
‘His ass landed on Atwater Street, I heard. One big glob of fat. Or in pieces?’
‘Dental had to confirm it was his ass.’
The two men couldn’t help themselves. It made no sense, but they chuckled. Clinked beer bottles as though to toast The Dime’s inglorious demise.
‘Here’s something,’ Cinq-Mars explained. ‘The guy killed by Johnny Bondar was Nic Jobin. Yeah, bedding his girlfriend. That part they got right.’
‘What’s a nice lady supposed to do when her man’s in jail?’
‘Do better for herself, why not? Nic Jobin was The Dime’s right-hand man. Together, they were in charge of the entertainment at several dozen strip clubs. Ran a fleet of hookers. Escort services, call girls, you name it. Is it an accident the two top pimps in the city are knocked off the same week? I’m not big on coincidence, but I am inclined to consider that somebody didn’t want their deaths to look related. The Dime is blasted out of a high-rise. Jobin goes down in a love triangle shootout. Different methods, but with the timing, I’m skeptical.’
‘The bombing,’ Touton noted, ‘has the feel of a war coming on. A bomb does more than kill. It sends a message. I don’t mean to the dead guy – he’s not listening anymore.’ He swatted a mosquito gunning for his neck. ‘Word of caution, Émile. Two ring pimps were whacked. Does somebody want the business? Could be. Could also be that Nic Jobin blew The Dime’s ass out the window. Number Two wanted to be Number One. Then he’s iced by Bondar. A love triangle, or payback for offing The Dime? Was Bondar a jealous lover or a hired gun? Hard to say.’ Touton slapped another pest, on his jaw this time. He examined the tiny carcass before flicking it into the lake. ‘None of this involves you, by the way.’
‘It involved my partner. That involves me.’ Cinq-Mars is not cross and they’re not arguing. ‘Something else. Nord Geoffrion kept a surveillance record. Who do you think visited Johnny Bondar at his party before he shot up the bar?’
‘My ears are barn doors.’
‘Morin and LaFôret. Know them? Homicide.’
Touton sat with his mouth agape a moment. ‘Never liked them. Never thought they’re dirty, just highly unlikeable.’
‘They could’ve had a legit excuse to disrupt the house party. Lay down the law, that sort of thing.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘I won’t. I picked up Nord’s book. Just took it. I don’t want them knowing what I know until I find out more.’
Touton grimaced. ‘This is how a police department comes apart at the seams, Émile. Trust and respect fly out the window.’
‘Sue me.’
‘Just saying. For now, I’ll let that sleeping dog lie in your bed. Not in mine.’
They both gazed at the lake shimmering in the sunlight, sinking into private contemplations. Eventually, Touton asked to hear about the great toaster caper in detail. A ritual that Cinq-Mars knew well. Re-examine a scene endlessly, until a nugget of interest crops up. Like panning for gold.
He stopped talking when Touton asked him to hold on.
Suddenly, Touton shot up like a Jack-in-the-box, from seated to standing in a flash, and demanded, ‘What? What did you say?’
‘There’s a spitter—’
‘Before that! Before that!’
‘What? I don’t know. I told you about the chalk marks.’
‘Tell me again!’
‘Parallel marks, in yellow chalk, denoted apartments with deadbolts. All left alone.’
Calm again, Touton said, ‘Those were my marks.’
‘Ah, sorry? Explain.’
‘I forgot. The day I met Coalface. I put two parallel marks on the gate. With yellow paint. A single line would be hard to find, like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. Doesn’t every gate have a scratch on it? A single slash might not stand out. An X? Too obvious. Too overt. Stands out too much. Other people might notice, ask questions. Or remove it. I did twin lines to mark the gate Coalface went through to find me.’
‘Twenty years ago. More.’
‘I told Coalface, when the time came, he had to find his own way to make contact.’
‘He could pick up a phone.’
‘We don’t know that. We know nothing about his situation. We’ve had tips in past years. A recent report. But in the moment, he might have to reach out any way he can.’
‘Sounds out there to me.’
‘Don’t start believing in coincidence now, Cinq-Mars. Where’s the building located?’
He told him.
‘Yeah,’ Touton pointed out, repeating what Cinq-Mars said, ‘on de l’Épée between Jarry and d’Anvers. Same block where I met Coalface. One street over. Not even. In the lane between the streets. Add that to your coincidence pile.’
‘Either way,’ Cinq-Mars concluded, ‘he’s been underwater long enough. Time to pull him up for air, maybe?’
‘We don’t know where he is. Or even who he is.’
‘You’ve seen him once.’
‘Once. The Ice Age has come and gone since then. Look. He relayed a message. Keep Bondar in prison. We failed. Well, you did. Same day we spring him, Bondar’s a stiff and he took Jobin with him. Coincidence? Or planned that way? Imagine. Somebody wants Jobin taken out but is worried about repercussions. How to do it? One way, release Bondar. Whisper in his ear about his girlfriend. Let him know where to pick up a rifle. Tell him there’s something in it for him, more than getting his girl back.’
‘Who did the whispering?’
‘I know what you’re thinking. We don’t know that.’
‘Only a thought,’ Cinq-Mars said. ‘Look, we have two state funerals coming up. The Dime’s tomorrow, then Jobin’s. I’ll run the photographs of the grieving mourners by you. See if you can pick out Coalface.’
‘I only saw his eyes close up. His whole face at a distance. Years ago.’
‘Give it a shot.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up. More likely, if he’s trying to alert us, he will.’
The two scaled the embankment. Touton lugged up the ice chest with the last of his morning catch. He noticed that his young visitor seemed in no hurry to depart.
‘Émile, you came out here to commiserate over Geoffrion. Only natural. You came to discuss your case. We did that. You came out here to lick your wounds. I get that, too. But I know you. You’re goddamn efficient. You don’t know how to waste your time.’
‘I have no clue what you’re on about.’
‘You want something from me, punk. I’m not like you. I don’t have the power to pull stuff out of thin air and know what another person’s thinking. Tell me what you want. I’ll probably say no. If that’s the worst thing that happens to you today, it’s not so bad.’
Cinq-Mars smiled to himself. ‘You just proved that you know what another person is thinking.’ He kicked a stone around with his right shoe.
Touton waited, then admonished him. ‘Enough soccer.’
‘I don’t know if a war is starting but something is going on. Armand, I’ll be assigned a new partner. That’s what happens when yours is killed.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up.’
Cinq-Mars looked forlorn and a little lost. ‘If there’s a war, I’ll need help. There’s a guy working nights. Henri Casgrain. Know him?’
Touton had heard the name.
‘Pull strings. Make him my next partner. He may not want to work days. He may not want to work with me. I don’t care. I need someone I can trust.’
‘I’m retired.’
‘Bullshit.’
Armand Touton smiled to himself. ‘OK. Promise me something, Émile. If you do, a good chance you’ll get the new partner you want.’
‘Promise what?’ In the past, he never liked these trades.
‘Visit Detective Geoffrion’s daughter. He was divorced, you said? Visit his daughter. Go see the new baby, his grandchild.’
He didn’t like this trade, either. ‘OK. Fine. Why?’
‘It’ll do you good. Not negotiable. Do it, you’ll get the partner you want. Anybody but me.’
He had witnessed this sentimental side to Touton before. Always, it surprised him. They shook on it, and Cinq-Mars was free to head back to town.