People fled when the guns were fired, driven on a wind of panic, then congregated in the aftermath, wholly absorbed by the sight of two dead men on the pavement in broad daylight. They hovered on the edge of that excitement. Then many who were absent at the time of the shooting swarmed to the crime scene, summoned by the clarion call of sirens.
Uniforms jumped to the task of crowd control.
Homicide Sergeant-Detective Jerôme LaFôret and his partner Detective Alfred Morin arrived amid a phalanx of squad cars, lights flashing, sirens at full wail until they reached the market square. An abrupt silence followed the caterwaul.
‘Jerk-offs,’ Morin steamed, addressing Cinq-Mars and Casgrain. His words kept private. ‘Get it through the lead in your heads. You investigate domestic disputes and the theft of penny candy. Anything else, call in the big boys.’
‘That would be you,’ Cinq-Mars noted. ‘A big boy.’
‘Think otherwise, jackass? Oh, sorry, Sergeant-Jackass-Detective? What are you doing here? Playing tourist?’
‘Waiting to be interviewed. We’re eyewitnesses.’
‘Oh yeah? You were witnesses? How can you be an eyewitness when you’re a cop? What did you do, Cinq-Mars, as a witness. Pee your pants?’
‘We gave chase. Are you interested? The getaway car was a pale blue Plymouth or Chevy. Twin exhausts. Didn’t catch the plate number.’
‘Course not. That would be doing your job.’
‘Shots were fired. At us. A woman was hit. Consequently, the ambulance.’
‘She’s not with the dead guys?’ The question was posed by Sergeant-Detective LaFôret, who thought the input of two officers present at the time of the shooting ought to be taken seriously. Morin took note of his boss’s displeasure with him.
‘Innocent bystander,’ Henri Casgrain informed him.
‘They fired at you. Did you fire back?’
‘We were in a crowd of hundreds,’ Cinq-Mars told him. ‘What would you do?’
‘How about you let me ask the questions and you curtail the attitude?’
‘Seriously?’ Casgrain interjected to short-circuit his partner’s rising pique. ‘Attitude?’
LaFôret acknowledged that it went both ways. ‘Let’s chill, guys,’ he suggested. ‘Two hundred people around. We don’t want them going talk-radio on us.’
‘Fine,’ Cinq-Mars consented. ‘Just keep your dog on a leash.’
LaFôret forestalled any further reaction from Morin, holding up a hand. His junior officer backed off.
‘What were you doing here?’ the senior homicide detective inquired. Politely.
‘We were called in. A significant quantity of flowers was stolen. Two truckloads. As we arrived, pow-pow. That quick.’
‘Two shots?’
Casgrain and Cinq-Mars glanced at each other. They answered simultaneously. ‘Four.’ Cinq-Mars added, ‘At first. Two from each gunman, most likely. They were in sync. A single shot as they ran off which hit the woman. Another one after that down the lane.’
‘How far away were you?’
‘Here to the street,’ Cinq-Mars said. ‘They saw us, fired once. Hit the woman instead. Then ran. Once they were away from the market we pursued. They shot at me. Sadly for you, they missed. The rest you know.’
‘Since when do thieves steal flowers?’
‘Look into it. My opinion anyway.’
‘How’s that?’
Cinq-Mars indicated a group of vendors to his left. ‘Italian merchants. They’re robbed. Who do they call? Us and …?’ He let the homicide detectives fill in that blank. ‘The Mafia sends a pair of thugs. Somebody was waiting for them. That part looks obvious to me. It might explain why the flowers were stolen.’
‘That’s a stretch. How would anybody know who’d be sent?’
‘Could be it didn’t matter.’ Cinq-Mars kept another thought on the subject to himself.
LaFôret was satisfied. Given his run of good manners, Cinq-Mars informed him that he wanted to take statements from the vendors – strictly to do with the theft of flowers. Then be on his way.
All parties were content with that. Cinq-Mars and Casgrain investigated the flowers’ heist, took names and numbers, and noted the vendors’ opinions on the murders. ‘Like they were waiting,’ the consensus view. The most common question posed: ‘Who shoots Mafia?’
Cinq-Mars considered the question valid. He wondered if homicide would agree. When he and Casgrain were done with their interviews, he said, ‘Let’s separate those two. Henri, take LaFôret. Talk about anything. Leave Morin to me.’
‘What are you up to, Émile?’
‘Investigating my case.’
‘Flowers or toasters?’
The slightest of smiles barely informed his lips. ‘Neither,’ Cinq-Mars declared. His smile became more evident. ‘Murder.’
‘You’re trouble.’
‘You’re a good man, Henri.’
They approached the homicide detectives. Both men played the moment by ear. Casgrain asked LaFôret if he was going to the funeral tomorrow and the detective almost replied, ‘What funeral?’ before catching himself. He said, ‘I guess so. Don’t know if I got time off yet.’ Which meant that he hadn’t put in for it. Casgrain kept talking to him about it anyway. With his man, Cinq-Mars skipped the pleasantries. He beckoned to Morin with a jerk of his chin and the detective disentangled from a group of uniforms and came away.
‘What’s up?’ Morin asked.
‘Had a question. About the party. How was it?’
Morin’s expression went blank, cold. ‘What party?’
‘You know, Johnny Bondar’s. The night he was killed.’
The detective straightened perceptibly, turned defensive, although he tried to project the same disinterest as before. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Johnny Bondar gets out of jail. He throws a party. You go to the party. I’m curious. How did you end up on his guest list?’
‘You think I answer to you about something?’
‘I’m asking out of my own curiosity. Friendly basis.’
‘There ain’t nothing friendly between me and you.’
‘I gathered that, Morin.’ He spoke under his breath, terse, tense. ‘Why did you visit Johnny Bondar in his house, the night he was having a party, the night he was going to be killed, the night my partner was shot and killed by him? What reason did you have?’
‘Screw off, Cinq-Mars.’
‘I’m the senior officer. Answer the question.’
‘Who said I was at some damned party?’
‘Norville Geoffrion did. It’s in his notes.’
‘What notes? He had notes? If he did, the man was mistaken.’
Cinq-Mars clutched Morin’s elbow as he was breaking away. ‘You need to do better than that. It was a party. A lot of people were there. You weren’t invisible. You need to come up with a better response than denial.’
Motionless, Morin gazed at his elbow until Cinq-Mars let it go. ‘LaFôret and me, we were working, Cinq-Mars. What do you need to know more than that? Sweet fuck all.’
‘Yeah,’ Cinq-Mars said. He almost agreed. ‘We’ll see. Although when you said you weren’t there, you were blowing smoke. I want to know why.’
Morin bolted from him. Casgrain was still yammering on to LaFôret, even though the man wasn’t listening and had noticed his partner’s fury. Casgrain broke away from him; he and Cinq-Mars trundled off to their squad car.
Away from them, Cinq-Mars said, ‘Interesting.’
‘What is?’ Casgrain squeezed in behind the wheel.
‘The whole road. Drive. I need to spin a few thoughts on a loom.’
‘The way you talk, Émile. Women should like you more than they do.’
‘Quit it.’ Then he amended his edict, tried to diminish his testiness. ‘Not now.’