Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Silent Partner by Scott Mackay

Scott Mackay’s new Barry Gilbert story will see print at the same time as his new Gilbert novel, which is scheduled for 9/03 (St. Martin’s). Old Scores is the third book in the Arthur Ellis Award-winning series. Mr. Mackay also writes science fiction novels. (See The Disintegrating Man; Roc.) He is currently nominated for the Arthur Ellis for his 1/02 EQMM story “The Christmas-Tree Farm.”

Detective Barry Gilbert knelt over the body of Jason Morrell. Morrell was a black man in his early forties. The victim lay on his back, four bullet holes in his chest, his white dress shirt soaked with blood, his striped tie tossed by the wind over his left shoulder. His jacket — a bomber with the emblem of Morris T. Hewitt Collegiate Institute on the left breast — was open. His gray flannels, speckled now with blood, rode low on his hips, revealing the waistband of his blue boxers. He held a gold chain in his hand. A small goat’s head amulet dangled from the chain.

Gilbert rose, his arthritic knees pinching him, and looked around Regent Park, a government-subsidized housing project not far from the Don River. Low-rises stretched identically along the walkway: red-brick dwellings, three stories high, with twelve apartments apiece. Local residents, mainly black and East Indian, gazed out apartment windows at the police activity. Uniformed police officers secured the crime scene with yellow police tape. The coroner’s van, a black Plymouth Voyager as gleaming as a piece of polished obsidian, drove up onto the grass.

Gilbert waited for his young partner, Joe Lombardo, to come back from a first quick search for witnesses. While he waited, he looked around for shells. Four gunshots, but where were the shells? Powder burns on Morrell’s white shirt indicated close-range discharges. That meant the shells had to be around here somewhere. But where? He concluded the killer had been smart. The killer had picked up after himself.

Lombardo, wearing a dashing gray suit and a long leather coat, came back a few minutes later with Morrell’s wallet in a plastic Ziploc evidence bag. He walked along the crumbling sidewalk with a young black man. The two stopped at the garbage Dumpster and talked. Then Lombardo directed the man to the nearest uniformed police officer and came over to Gilbert.

“Who’s the guy?” asked Gilbert.

Lombardo grinned, proud of himself. “A witness,” he said.

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Does he know the shooter?” he asked.

Lombardo’s grin faded. “He saw the whole thing from that door over there. So he was a good ways off. It was dark at the time. But at least we have something. He says it happened around five A.M.”

“Did he get a description?” asked Gilbert.

“A black male, six feet, two hundred and fifty pounds.” Lombardo gestured toward the parking lot. “He fled the scene in a late-model white or beige four-door sedan.” Lombardo lifted Morrell’s wallet. “I phoned the victim’s home,” he said.

“And?” said Gilbert.

“He’s married,” said Lombardo. “His wife’s name is Lorna. He has two kids. They live out on Morningview. The East End. Way out.”

“So you spoke to his wife,” said Gilbert.

“Just to inform her,” said Lombardo. “I wrecked her day.”

Gilbert nodded, then turned to Morrell. “He’s a long way from Morningview,” he said. “I wonder what he’s doing down here.”

Lombardo glanced around. “This is gang turf.” Out on Gerrard Street a streetcar rumbled by. “And no way he’s a gang member.”

“I think he’s a schoolteacher,” said Gilbert. “Look at that jacket. Morris T. Hewitt Collegiate Institute. Isn’t that out in the East End, too?”

“I think so,” said Lombardo. “Maybe he came to buy drugs. Maybe this is drug-related.”

“He would have been robbed,” said Gilbert. Gilbert nodded at the wallet. “He still has three hundred dollars in there.”

Lombardo scanned the winter-worn grass. “Did you find any shells?” asked his young partner.

“Not yet,” said Gilbert. “And it doesn’t look promising.”

Lombardo’s eyes rested on the gold chain in Morrell’s hand. “What do you make of that chain?” he asked.

“Gang stuff. I’m going to have Devon Lewis in Narcotics take a look at it.”

“That goat’s head,” said Lombardo. “That’s definitely gang.”

Dr. Blackstein, the coroner, assured the detectives he would do his best to preserve any slugs recovered from the victim’s body.

“The shooter picked up his brass,” Gilbert told Blackstein, “and right now the slugs are all we have.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Dr. Blackstein, “but as you can see on these X-rays, three of the slugs hit bone, and they’re mashed up badly. This fourth one... I don’t know. Dan Murphy over in Ballistics will have to have a look at it. He might match it to some of the other slugs you have on file from other murders.” The doctor gave the detectives an inquiring look. “Are you both staying for the autopsy?”

“I’ll be staying,” said Lombardo. “Barry’s driving out to Scarborough to talk to the wife.”

Gilbert drove out to Scarborough an hour later.

When he arrived, Morrell’s wife, Lorna, invited him into the kitchen. Gilbert was perplexed by Lorna’s evident composure.

“I find my strength in Jesus Christ,” she explained.

But he still thought she would have been more upset. Her husband’s murder was barely eight hours old.

“Did he have friends in Regent Park?” he asked. “We can’t figure out why he was down there.”

“He keeps contact with many of his former students,” Lorna told him, in the sing-songy tones of her Kingston accent.

“We guessed he was a teacher,” said Gilbert. “At Morris T. Hewitt?”

“Yes,” said Lorna. “As I find strength in Jesus Christ, so he finds strength in his students. Last night he was with Gabby. Gabby is a great support to him.”

Gilbert took out his notebook. “Gabby,” he said, jotting the name down. “Do you know her last name?”

“Sheridan,” she said.

He jotted that down as well.

“And she was his... student?” he asked.

A patient grin came to Lorna’s face. “Six or seven years ago, yes, she was.” She shook her head sadly. “But she’s become considerably more since that time.” Her grin broadened into a deprecating smile. “I know he finds solace in her, and in that little child of theirs, just as I find solace in the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Gilbert paused. “They have a child together?”

She gave him a stolid nod. “Jason and I live our lives... how shall I put it? Yes, together, but also apart. It’s better for us this way. I have nothing against Gabby. And I have nothing against that child of theirs. The child is God’s gift. As Jason’s been troubled for so many years, I urged him to find what solace he could in Gabby, and to see if he could find his way to Christ through that dear sweet child. I knew Jesus Christ was making me do the right thing. Jesus allowed me to find it in my heart to preserve his home out here in Scarborough, and to raise our two wonderful boys, but also to bless and forgive Jason in his love for Gabby. Jason was so troubled. Not even the medication helped him. Gabby was his support.”

“So... he was depressed?” ventured Gilbert.

“This is what the doctor calls it,” said Lorna. “But I believe it was simply his resistance to Christ. The poor man went to church every week but he never opened his heart to the true Lord and Savior. And until a man comes into the house of Christ, he can never hope to be happy or at peace with himself.”

Gilbert noticed a framed photograph on the wall. It showed a church minister handing Morrell a large cardboard check.

“That’s Jason there?” he said.

Lorna glanced at the picture. “That’s him just a month ago,” she said. “In one of his proudest moments.”

“Did he win a lottery?” asked Gilbert.

Lorna laughed — she evidently thought this speculation the funniest thing she had ever heard.

“No... no, of course not.” She gazed at the photograph with the indulgence of a mother for a favorite but errant son. “He raised money at our church for a school in Jamaica. Now the school will stay open. It was his old school, Sanderson School.” She gestured at the photograph. “He wanted all the boys and girls in the area to have a school to go to. He was God’s instrument, even though he didn’t know it. The Lord will pick the unlikeliest servants at times.”

Gilbert found Gabby Sheridan in her Regent Park apartment with her two small children early that afternoon.

She was a hazel-skinned Jamaican beauty in her mid twenties, slim, not particularly tall, but delicate and feminine.

She knew about Morrell’s murder.

“The lady downstairs told me,” she said.

Her eyes were puffy; she’d been crying.

“I was talking to Lorna Morrell this afternoon,” said Gilbert. “Tell me, is the boy Jason’s, or is the girl?”

“Jason fathered the boy,” she said. “His name is Michael. My daughter’s name is Judith.”

Gabby had her hair wrapped in a tropical piece of cloth and wore an amber necklace around her throat.

“So... Jason was here last night?” asked Gilbert.

“He comes every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,” said Gabby. “Lorna understands that. She knows those are our nights. She has her man friend on those nights. A sweet old St. Anne boy.”

Gilbert took a moment to consider this. As this was the first mention of any black male to enter the investigation, he of course couldn’t help thinking of their witness description: tall, black, two hundred and fifty pounds, fleeing the scene in a white or beige late-model four-door sedan. Maybe this sweet old St. Anne boy might match their witness description. He took out his notebook.

“Do you know this... this man friend’s name?” he asked.

“Judith, don’t put that in your mouth!” The little girl, three years old, chewed on the corner of an Ebony magazine. “It’s dirty.” Gabby got up and yanked the magazine from the girl’s hands. The girl began to cry. Gabby scooped the child up. “There’s my little angel,” she said. “You can’t be putting things in your mouth. No, you can’t. It’s nasty, nasty.”

Gilbert tried again. “I was just wondering if you knew this man friend’s name.”

Gabby rocked the child. “Trelawny,” she said.

“Trelawny?”

“Trelawny Holmes,” she said. “A true gentleman. When the doctor said Jason was sick, all Trelawny wanted to do was help.”

Gilbert jotted the name into his notebook. “Could you describe him?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He’s black. He’s big. Taller than you. A gentler soul can’t be found.”

“So over six feet, and two hundred and fifty pounds?” he asked.

“About that.”

Gilbert felt as if he was getting a break in the case.

“And is he... Lorna’s age?” asked Gilbert. “Or closer to yours?”

“He’s thirty-five.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know what kind of car he drives, would you?” he asked.

“No.”

That covered specifics. Gilbert now went for background.

“So Trelawny got on well with Jason?” he asked.

“Not all the time,” she said, “but generally, yes.”

“Did you ever see any open animosity between them?”

“Once or twice. Trelawny thought Jason should come home and look after his two sons. They argued about that.”

“And Jason left here at what time last night?” asked Gilbert.

“At five in the morning. He likes to get back to Scarborough in time for a shower and breakfast before he heads off to school.”

For now, he had at least one suspect, Trelawny Holmes.

He thanked Gabby for her time, told her he might have to question her again, then went back to headquarters to make a stab at identifying Trelawny Holmes through any prior arrests the man might have had.

As it turned out, Trelawny Holmes was a thirty-five-year-old janitor who worked at the Scarborough Town Center shopping mall. His record included three counts of aggravated assault and a number of smaller violations. Gilbert thought this might be their man. Height and weight matched Gabby’s description, which in turn matched their witness’s description. The photograph on his computer screen showed a black man with copper-toned skin, broad cheekbones, a pronounced brow, a thick neck, and a high forehead. Holmes lived on Old Finch Road, around the corner from Lorna Morrell. Significantly, the photograph showed a goat’s head amulet around the man’s neck.

He downloaded the record into his case file and was just about to check the Ministry of Transportation search program to find out what kind of car Holmes drove when Joe Lombardo entered the squad room carrying a big brown envelope.

“Guess what I’ve got,” said Lombardo.

“What?” said Gilbert.

“I’ve done some digging on the Morrell case,” he said. Lombardo withdrew the contents of the envelope — five sheets stapled together — and put them on Gilbert’s desk. “This is a copy of Morrell’s life-insurance policy. He increased his coverage by three hundred thousand dollars just two weeks ago. The sole beneficiary is Lorna Morrell. It’s not a smoking gun, but it’s definitely something worth looking into.”

Gilbert glanced over the policy, then pointed to his computer screen.

“And look at this,” he said. “Here’s a picture of Lorna’s boyfriend, Trelawny Holmes. Gabby told me about him. His height and weight match our witness description. See what he’s wearing around his neck?”

Lombardo had a closer look. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“I was just going to find out what kind of car he drove,” said Gilbert.

“Let’s do it,” said Lombardo.

Gilbert minimized his current windows and accessed the MTO database through the headquarters’ intranet. Using the search parameters of Trelawny’s name and address, he easily pinpointed the vehicle the man drove: a beige, 2001, four-door Chevrolet Impala.

“Bingo,” said Gilbert.

While Lombardo drove to the big man’s home on Old Finch Road to see if he could surprise Holmes there, Gilbert tried Scarborough Town Center, a suburban mall off Highway 401, where, as the file indicated, Holmes worked as a janitor.

Gilbert parked his car, went into the mall, and looked around.

He found Holmes in front of the Rainforest Cafe. A huge aquarium formed a thousand-gallon archway over the entrance to the cafe, and big tropical fish swam placidly around inside, as bright as the colors of an impressionist painting. The sound effects of a tropical thunderstorm emanated from within the Amazon-themed restaurant, and Gilbert glimpsed a white-shirted waiter walking by with a tray of fruity drinks.

“Trelawny Holmes?” said Gilbert.

The big man looked up. “I’m Trelawny,” he said.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Barry Gilbert of Metro Homicide,” he said, and showed Holmes his badge and ID. “Could we talk?”

Holmes, dressed in working blues, a nametag stitched to his shirt, took off his gloves and wiped his brow with the back of his arm.

“What’s this about?” he asked, his voice deep, full, West Indian.

Gilbert told him what he had.

“And when you put it all together, not only do you have motive — the extra coverage Jason put on his life-insurance policy two weeks ago — but you also had opportunity. You know he’s down there Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights.”

Holmes studied Gilbert quietly for a few seconds. “I was nowhere near Regent Park last night,” he said. “I was at home watching the basketball game.”

“Was anybody watching it with you?” asked Gilbert.

“No.”

“Did anybody telephone you while you were watching the game?”

“No. I always take my phone off the hook when I watch the game.”

“So no one can verify that you were at home watching the game?”

A crease came to Holmes’s brow.

“I’m Jason’s friend,” he said. “I’ve been his friend for nineteen years.”

“Gabby says you fight.”

Holmes sighed. “I don’t deny it,” he said. “We have our differences. But that’s only because I’m trying to knock some sense into him. How’s Lorna supposed to raise those boys on only half a paycheck?” Gilbert guessed half of Morrell’s paycheck went to Gabby, but Holmes set him straight the next moment. “Jason... he cares more about that school back home than he does about his own two sons.”

Gilbert paused. Here was another mention of that school. He had to check this out. He played dumb. “What school?” he asked, scratching around for more information.

“This school he used to work at back home, a little private one up in the mountains, Sanderson School. It’s the only school around for miles and miles. It was going to close. Jason was always sending half his paycheck down there to keep it open. He doesn’t care how Lorna has to make ends meet. She’s always scrambling to make the mortgage payments. I don’t make much at this job, but I give her what I can. I’m always at Jason to give her more, and sometimes we fight about it. I told him he should try to raise money at our church. I’m smart. I think things through. I try to come up with solutions. I had to fight him a bit — he doesn’t like taking money from anybody — but he finally took my advice. He raised some money at the church for the school.”

Gilbert thought about this. Certainly keeping a school open was a noble enough goal. But the money from the church might yet be a new factor. He pecked a bit more.

“So the church was receptive?” he asked.

“Our church has good people,” said Holmes. “They give what they can.”

“Did Jason say how much money was raised?” asked Gilbert.

Holmes shrugged. “Around twenty thousand,” he said.

“And does anybody have any idea where that money is now?” asked Gilbert.

Holmes shrugged, looking as if he were just now considering the money’s whereabouts. Either that, or he was bluffing. “Ask the church,” he said. “They might know.”

Gilbert phoned Minister Milroy Johnston at Keeper of the Faith Seventh Day Adventist Church the next day.

“I believe the figure was twenty-two thousand dollars,” said Johnston. “The congregation opened their hearts, Detective. And their wallets.”

Gilbert jotted the figure down.

“And do you have any idea where the money is now?” he asked.

Johnston paused. “I assume he sent it to Sanderson School already.”

When Gilbert got off the phone, he pondered the money. Twenty-two thousand dollars — money over and above the extra life-insurance money — cash both Lorna Morrell and Trelawny Holmes might find tempting. If he could trace the church money back to the pair, he would be that much closer to an arrest.

He phoned the headmaster at Sanderson School in Brown’s Town, Jamaica.

Much to his surprise, he learned the school had received not twenty-two thousand dollars, but sixty-six thousand dollars. This just made matters more perplexing.

“Any idea who the donor is?” he asked the headmaster.

“The donor wishes to remain anonymous,” said the headmaster. “Not even I know who the donor is.”

“But the money originated in Canada?” asked Gilbert.

“I believe so,” said the headmaster. “A Toronto bank administered the funds.”

Once he got off the phone, Gilbert tried to figure it out.

Who in Toronto but Morrell would send money to Sanderson School? But why was the figure now sixty-six thousand instead of twenty-two? He thought of the gang jewelry in Morrell’s hand. Was that the connection? Gang involvement? Gangs meant drugs. Had Morrell tripled the amount by selling drugs? And did this mean the murder was indeed gang-related?

When Gilbert explained things to Lombardo, Joe’s eyes lit up.

“I broadened my canvass in Regent Park,” said the young detective. “I found a small-time punk who told me Gabby has an older brother back in Jamaica, a guy named Trevor Sheridan. He’s a player, Barry. A big one. He has connections to the Ramaya cartel in Colombia. He runs an airstrip outside Ochos Rios on the north coast of Jamaica. I phoned the authorities at the Jamaican Constabulary in Kingston. They tell me they’ve had their eye on Trevor for a long time. Morrell could easily turn twenty-two thousand dollars into sixty-six if the product was sourced directly from Colombia.”

Gilbert went back to Regent Park to talk to Gabby again.

He found her in the laundry room downstairs folding towels. She looked up in mild surprise. Michael played with a toy truck on the floor. Judith clutched a doll in a playpen.

Gilbert spelled it out for her.

“We can’t help thinking your brother might have played a role,” he said.

Her shoulders sagged, and she stopped folding towels. She was so far gone in her grief, so exhausted by it, she was willing to give it up now. Still, he gave her a final push.

“I know you loved Jason, Gabby,” he continued. “And I know you miss him. But if we’re going to find his killer, you’re going to have to help us. You have to tell us what happened.” He leaned against a washing machine, taking the weight off his arthritic knees. “Sanderson School now has a sixty-six-thousand-dollar endowment. The donor was anonymous, but the money originated in Toronto. If your brother were to... help... or at least facilitate... you see why I’m so concerned about this, Gabby. That school got that money from somewhere.”

Gabby’s gaze shifted to the laundry-room window, where cold March rain streaked the dirty glass.

“My brother and I don’t speak,” she said at last. “He has his life, and I have mine. I don’t approve of what he does.” She looked at her feet, as if she now couldn’t face him. “But in this one instance...” Her eyes misted over. “Jason was a good man.” Her hands collapsed to her sides. “Education was his life.” She looked up at him now, her eyes big, the color of dark chocolate. “And that school... it’s not much of a school... just a brick building and a dirt playground in a small rural community up in the mountains... but it meant something to him. He believed in it. You don’t meet a man who believes so strongly in something like that often.” She cast an anxious glance at Judith. “So I helped him.” Her voice grew tremulous. “And now I guess I have to pay the price.”

He paused. Was there any way out for her? He didn’t think so. She looked at him, as if hoping he might throw her a lifeline. But he couldn’t.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked.

A gust of wind blew a particularly viscous rain squall against the window.

“Some other detectives will have to... you know... they’ll have to question you about this... business with your brother,” he said. “Right now, I’m more interested in Jason’s killer. We found a goat’s head amulet in Jason’s hand. You had gang help up here?” he asked.

She took a couple of deep breaths. “Are you going to take my babies away?” she asked.

He couldn’t answer that. “Your cooperation at this point will really go a long way,” he said.

Her eyes grew misty with trepidation, and she finally dipped her chin a few times in acquiescence.

“I had to give... Jason something he could grab on to,” she said, her voice halting and slow. “I had to give him something he could — because he was sinking so fast. I never knew it could get so bad.” She looked at Gilbert, her eyes bright, pleading, as if she were trying to find a much-needed sign of understanding in his face. “His illness. All those pills the doctor gave him... they didn’t help at all. When he got the news that Sanderson School was going to close, that was the last straw. It did something to him. It drained his spirit. I couldn’t stand to see him so low. So I decided I had to do something. I had to save that school.”

Gilbert glanced at the laundry room’s exhaust fan. A coating of gray lint covered the fan.

“So you helped him?” he said.

She hesitated. “I’m scared,” she said. “Of Richard Benson.”

“Richard Benson.” The name was familiar, and in a moment it clicked: Detective Bob Bannatyne, his colleague, had a posting on this known Jamaican gang member for the murder of a low-level Ross Park drug dealer, Miguel Diaz. A goat’s head amulet had been found in Diaz’s hand. “Richard Benson is his killer?” he asked.

She nodded. “He’s going to kill me now,” she said. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “He’s going to kill my babies. I’m trapped.”

“You’re not trapped,” he said. “You can turn to the police.”

“I was just trying to help,” she said. “I wanted to save my man.”

“We’ll protect you from Benson,” he said.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He said he would hurt my children.”

“We won’t let that happen.”

She shook her head. “He said he would... you know... kill them. And that’s why I couldn’t... tell you... about the partnership we had.”

“You, Jason, and Richard?”

“Yes,” she said.

Gilbert thought of the witness description.

“Richard’s Jamaican, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s a big guy, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what kind of car he drives?” asked Gilbert.

“A big old white car,” she said. “I don’t know what kind it is.”

Bingo, Gilbert thought again. “So this partnership,” he said.

Gabby glanced at Michael, who was now driving his toy truck around the table leg.

“We all went in together,” said Gabby. “We used Jason’s church money to buy what we could from my brother. Then Richard turned around and sold it up here. We didn’t know it was worth so much up here. Jason was like a... a silent partner. The church money and so forth — he didn’t want it getting back to Keeper of the Faith. Richard thought he was doing most of the work. He wanted to cut Jason out. I pleaded with Richard, but he said he was going to cut Jason out no matter what.”

“So did you warn Jason?” asked Gilbert.

“I warned him again and again,” said Gabby. In a softer, more resigned voice she said, “But I think... his sickness... he didn’t care by then.”

Gilbert thought of the extra money on the life-insurance policy. Dealing with dangerous people might have been Jason’s rationale for beefing it up. Then again, if Richard hadn’t done the job, Jason most probably would have done it himself. And that could have been his rationale as well.

“So Richard went after him?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her tears came faster. “He said if I told anyone, he would come for my babies. So I just had to take it. I didn’t want him killing my beautiful children.”

Gilbert saw a mouse scurry behind one of the washing machines.

“What about the money?” he asked. “Did you get a share?”

She shook her head woefully. “Richard took my money away,” she said. “I didn’t get one red cent.”

When Gilbert got back to headquarters, he checked with Bob Bannatyne about the Miguel Diaz homicide.

“We’ve got an outstanding warrant on Richard Benson for that,” said Bannatyne. “We’ve got a witness who’s willing to come forward. But there’s no sign of Benson anywhere. Patrol’s been after him for months.”

“Were any slugs recovered at the scene?” asked Gilbert.

“Yes.”

Gilbert called Dan Murphy, in Ballistics.

“I’m wondering about the slugs from the Morrell murder,” he asked the veteran firearms expert. “Is the comparison nearly finished?”

“It’s going to take awhile, Barry,” said Dan. “Do you have any idea how many slugs we have on file up here?”

“Try matching the Morrell slugs to the Miguel Diaz slugs,” said Gilbert.

An hour later, Murphy called him back.

“We’ve got a match,” he told Gilbert.

Gilbert’s shoulders sank in relief. His case was now airtight. He could write a viable warrant on Benson.

“Thanks, Dan,” he said. “You’ve just made my day.”

When Patrol learned Benson was wanted not only for the murder of Miguel Diaz, but also for killing Jason Morrell, a well-liked, admired, and respected high-school teacher, they redoubled their efforts to apprehend him.

Devon Lewis, from Narcotics, phoned Gilbert with a tip.

“One of my reliable sources says he’s staying with a friend in the Jane-Finch Corridor.”

Gilbert relayed this information to Patrol.

Patrol had Benson arrested within the week.

The arrest happened one evening while Gilbert and Lombardo were having a drink at their favorite English-style pub, the Duke of York. The two detectives watched the arrest on the pub’s TV.

The whole thing was shot from the vantage point of the CFTO News helicopter.

Benson climbed a fence into a residential backyard. A uniformed police officer in a bulletproof vest ran around the side of the house and cut him off. The officer raised his firearm. Benson hesitated, looked around, but finally surrendered.

Lombardo raised his beer glass. “Cheers,” he said.

Gilbert raised his own glass. “Cheers,” he said, but he felt anything but jubilant.

Lombardo peered at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Gilbert took a sip of his beer. “You heard they arrested Gabby Sheridan?” he said. “They tracked the Sanderson School endowment back to her. She was lying to us. She got a share after all, and that’s what she did with her money.”

Lombardo nodded somberly. “Devon mentioned it to me,” he said. “I feel sorry for her kids.”

“The Jamaican Constabulary confiscated the money as evidence. The school’s not going to get it now. And that makes this whole thing really sad.”

The two detectives parted company a short while later. Gilbert, picking up a newspaper first, drove home in the family Windstar.

He glanced at the paper as he waited for a red light. He found a small story about Gabby on the first page. Drug busts usually didn’t make the first page. But because all her drug profits went to Sanderson School, this bust was noteworthy.

He shook his head as the light changed to green. He drove through the rain. He didn’t feel good about this one. Her babies. What would happen to them now? You couldn’t make good out of bad, but Gabby had certainly given it her best shot. Still, the school was no better off, Jason was dead, and Gabby was facing prison time. Plus a lot of kids in Toronto now had drugs they otherwise wouldn’t have had. He flicked the windshield wipers on high — the rain was really coming down hard now. He wondered why he did this for a living. Sometimes a murder investigation was nothing more than wading through a bunch of broken lives. He turned left on Broadview. He eased his foot on the brake as a streetcar pulled out of the Broadview roundabout. The streetcar dinged its bell a few times, thanking him. He continued up the street. Sometimes the satisfaction was barely there. An empty garbage can blew out onto the road and he swerved to avoid it. Jason, Gabby, Sanderson School, and maybe even Gabby’s children — all going down the drain. Sometimes this job was too much.

But then he thought of Benson.

Benson was off the street.

Gilbert hadn’t stopped Jason’s murder. But Benson wouldn’t shoot another Jason — another respected high-school teacher — anytime soon.

That, at least, was some good to come from all this bad. A grim consolation that made — just maybe — wading through a bunch of broken lives worth it after all.