Free Stranglehold by Robert Rotenberg

job. Why would the police care about that?”
    “Does your wife know you were fired?”
    “No.”
    “Do you know where she is now?”
    Darnell looked at his watch. “It’s four o’clock. She’s starting a big trial next week. I know she’s busy, so I haven’t talked to her all day.”
    “How about this morning?”
    “She’s training for a marathon, so on Mondays for the last few weeks she’s been doing long runs in the morning then working later in the day. Why?”
    Kennicott felt a gigantic lump in his throat. He looked straight at Darnell. “I’m afraid I’ve got terrible news for you.”
    “What?” Darnell’s eyes seemed to stare right through Kennicott. His hands started to shake.
    “Your wife. She’s dead.”
    Darnell’s mouth gaped open. He seemed to stop breathing. Then his body collapsed onto the table, his arms flailing out in front of him, splattering scalding coffee across Kennicott’s chest.

14
    ARI GREENE HAD BEEN IN THE OFFICES OF DIPAULO, PARISH, BARRISTERS & SOLICITORS, CERTIFIED Specialists in Criminal Law, many times during his investigations of various homicides. But never as he was now: a potential client.
    He took a seat in Ted DiPaulo’s office in the Thomson Building, across from both old and new city halls. DiPaulo closed the door behind him and sat beside Greene in the other client chair facing his desk.
    Twenty-five years earlier, when Greene joined the police force, DiPaulo was an up-and-coming prosecutor in the Crown’s office. They worked together on a number of files, and as their careers progressed, so too did the seriousness of their cases. DiPaulo’s wife had died when his kids were teenagers and he’d become a defence lawyer so he could spend more time with them. Since then he and Greene had tangled from opposite sides of the fence. Always professionally.
    DiPaulo was a big man with powerful energy. His body always seemed to be in motion. Turning in his seat, he arched his thick eyebrows. “Ari, what’s going on? You said this was personal, not professional. You’re always one of the best-dressed men I know. But you look terrible.”
    Greene pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his coat pocket and handed it over. “I’m retaining you as counsel,” he said.
    “Don’t be silly.” DiPaulo raised his hands, palms out, refusing to touch the money.
    “Please, Ted,” Greene said.
    “Ari, I’d never charge you.”
    “That’s not the point. I need to retain you. Officially.”
    DiPaulo nodded. He took the bill, put it on the corner of his desk, and placed a Skier of the Year, 2005, paperweight over it. “It’s going into trust and I won’t touch it. But now I’m your lawyer, meaning my lips are sealed forever.”
    He pointed to a framed quote on the wall beside his desk. “Whenever anyoneretains me, the first thing I do is read this out loud.” He cleared his throat: “ ‘Despite all the rules and objections and soft illusions of decorum, a trial was after all a savage and primitive battle for survival itself.’ This comes from the novel Anatomy of a Murder. It’s my way of warning my new clients that there is always a rough road ahead, and that I’ll do whatever it takes, within the rules, to win.”
    “Smart,” Greene said.
    “Reality.”
    DiPaulo meshed his fingers and rubbed his thumbs together. He smiled. “What’s up?”
    “This is bad.” Greene knew DiPaulo had mentored Raglan for many years and that they’d been good friends. This would be devastating news for him.
    “What?” DiPaulo squeezed his thumbs.
    “Jennifer Raglan.” Greene was having a hard time getting the words out. He could see the concern mount in DiPaulo’s eyes. “She’s been murdered.”
    “Jennifer?”
    Greene nodded.
    DiPaulo exhaled a huge gust of air. “How? When?”
    “She was in a cheap motel out on Kingston Road. Someone strangled her to death.”
    “My God.” DiPaulo bolted to his feet and put his hands to his forehead.
    “Ted,” Greene said.