Summer of the Gun

by Warren Court

“Did your people go back out there?”

  Pause.

  “You said that you would,” Temple said.

  “No. We had other priorities pop up. You find anything?”

  “No, I didn’t. I guess I saved you all a trip.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Please don’t forget to get back to me about the other body that was found on the tracks.”

  Another pause. “You bet,” the sergeant finally said.

  “I would appreciate it. Thanks. …Lazy son-of-a-bitch,” Temple muttered as he hung up.

  Temple pulled up the three Lucky Eight Society member profiles on his computer to familiarize himself with their past deeds. Although the youngest gang member had no prior arrests, he was known to police. He had been questioned and detained on numerous occasions for crimes including murder, but never charged. The Luckys were grooming him for bigger things, and apparently, he was stepping up to the task.

  Temple’s phone rang. It was Detective Dominic Ricchio from Guns and Gangs.

  “We’ve processed everything we got from the Beautiful City scene,” he said. “You want the report faxed or do you want to come over?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The warehouse. You know where it is?

  “Is it at the same place it’s always been?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  8

  Guns and Gangs worked out of several discreet locations throughout the GTA. They all had official names but also nicknames. The warehouse was exactly that: a warehouse located down by the waterfront near the Distillery District. G&G had moved the warehouse there ten years ago, when the now-fashionable Distillery District was just starting a renovation project.

  The site of the old Gooderham and Worts distillery company, long since abandoned, had now been revived with artists’ lofts and condo towers. The warehouse used by Guns and Gangs was right next to it. It wasn’t low profile anymore, which was why Temple had asked if they were still there. He suspected the detectives working out of it liked the close proximity of restaurants and cafés that had sprung up. Not to mention the increase in young female traffic. When Command finally caught on to that, they would be forced to pack up and relocate.

  Temple left a note scrawled on a pad on Mendoza’s desk and went out to his car. It was a quick ten-minute drive down to the warehouse. He pulled around to the back, and a metal door opened before he was even out of his car. It was a young undercover from Guns and Gangs; they must have watched Temple on closed-circuit television.

  Temple flashed him his badge and said, “Here to see Ricchio.”

  The warehouse’s main room was nearly empty; it was a huge cement-floored space with dim lighting. A few crates sat in one corner. Temple wondered what they might contain. The young copper led Temple up a flight of metal stairs to the second-floor offices that overlooked the warehouse floor.

  Ricchio was in a large meeting room, standing over a table looking at some paperwork. There were other scruffy-looking Guns and Gangs guys in there as well. Some Temple knew; some he didn’t. Two female officers were hunched over computer monitors, their tight butts sticking out towards Temple, Glocks on their hips. Very sexy, Temple thought.

  He knew what Guns and Gangs was all about: infiltrating and submersing themselves in gang culture. Getting to know the players and the up-and-comers. Doing their best to bust up or otherwise disrupt any and all of the various gangs in the GTA. Temple had no real idea how many gangs there were, but was familiar with the bigger ones. The Lucky Eight Society wasn’t a big-time operation, but it was entrenched.

  Ricchio came over and shook Temple’s hand.

  “Nice place,” Temple said.

  “We’re getting it redecorated next week.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still here. So much activity across the street.”

  “No money to move. It’s a bit of a problem. I’ve gotta task young Ferguson here with watching the CCTV all day. Not a good use of a copper’s time.” He handed Temple a manila envelope. “Here’s the report.”

  Temple opened the envelope, pulled out a stack of papers and flipped through the pages. He could do a thorough read-through once it was fed into the TPS computers, but for now, he wanted Ricchio’s take on it.

  “That gang-banger, Kim Luck—he got off two rounds. And the unknowns, the shooters; there were definitely two of them. One to do the restaurant owner and the cook, and another to take care of the players in the corner. The guys at the counter were probably done with a revolver. I’m thinking .357 Magnum.”

  “Hence the absence of shell casings.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The other one that did Luck and his two buddies in the corner used a TEC-9 semi-auto. Our guys in forensics can tell that by the extractor marks on the rounds; full auto makes a different mark.”

  “More control that way. Automatic would have put out triple the number of rounds and smashed the walls up,” Temple said. Full auto was for the movies. Only an idiot would unload with a full auto in a confined space like the Beautiful City restaurant. And professional hitmen generally were not idiots. And the semi-autos were easier to come by.

  “We think we found one of them,” Temple went on. “The one who got tagged. He’s a lump of hamburger in a morgue in Brampton, but there’s a hole in the leg, through and through.”

  “That’s a break.”

  “And there’s more. He has a Russian prison tattoo on his elbow. Spider climbing up a web.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Do you have a briefing on the Lucky Eights, who they might be fighting for turf with?”

  “It’s in the report. Things have been quiet down there for a long time. There are other gangs. One of the emerging ones is a Vietnamese gang, the Mekong Delta Boys. But you say a Russian mobster was involved? Anybody’s guess.” Ricchio held up his hands.

  Temple thanked Ricchio and left. Russian mob was technically outside of Guns and Gangs; the case would be bumped up to a provincial organized crime task force. Temple and his team would still run with it for now, but if it was a Russian mob hit then they’d get some help from the OC guys. Not the kind of help they were looking for, he thought, annoyed; more like interference.

  9

  On his way back to 40 College, Temple got a call from Sergeant Piller. He must have put off his dinner plans.

  “Yo,” Temple said.

  “Detective Temple, I’m calling you back about that second body.”

  “That was quick; I appreciate it. What do you have?”

  “You were correct: eleven months ago we found a body. Got hit by a train.”

  “Let me guess, the westbound train to Milton?”

  “Yes.”

  “With no head or hands?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I got the autopsy and forensics report here.”

  “Does it say anything about the hands being sawn off, maybe by a buzz saw?”

  “No. I don’t think they put a lot of effort into it. The guy got hit by a train. There are pictures from the autopsy in the report. There’s even less of him than the one we just found.”

  “What about forensics on the fresh one?”

  “Ongoing.”

  “Can you tell them to go over it again and pay attention to the wrist? I want to know if it was done by the train. We pulled an arm out of the underside of the engine that hit him. It’s missing a hand too. Sliced off clean.”

  “We’re a little busy up here,” PIller groused. “We do get our fair share of murders and other crimes to work.”

  “This is the biggest thing you have at the moment.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I think what we have is the preferred dumping ground of a very professional group of killers who may be tied to the Russian mob. Someone runs afoul of them or otherwise has to be disposed of, they remove his head and his hands and make it look like the guy fell asleep on the tracks. We’ve both seen what a locomotive can do
to a body. They can get away with it once, but now we have the exact same situation twice within a year. Same stretch of track, same train. These guys have gone to the well once too often.”

  “Okay,” Piller conceded. “I’ll get them to check the wrists. First guy was cremated, so we just have the report.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  Temple phoned forensics while he sat at a red light.

  “Sara, it’s John.”

  “Yeah,” she said, still icy cold. Their little talk under the train engine had not softened her. He wouldn’t mind giving it one more go with her. Temple had done some soul-searching after Sylvia Wozniak had died, and had decided that it was time to settle down. But was he settling with Sara Chang? Did he love her? Hell, no. Did he want her? Hell, yeah.

  “What’s the update on the forensics report from the restaurant?” he said in the nicest but most professional tone he could muster. He had to deal with this now. The longer she gave him the cold shoulder, the more problems it was going to cause for this case, and for her.

  “I faxed it to Sergio an hour ago.”

  “You’re supposed to fax it to me. I’m lead on it. Or at least give me a call.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “I expect you to be professional, Sara. You’re letting what happened between us get in the way of our jobs.”

  “Anything else, Detective?” she said.

  “Yeah. You should take your anger out on an elliptical machine. You’ve put on a bit of weight since we were last together.” Temple hung up.

  10

  Temple went into the storeroom and roused a still-sleeping Mendoza.

  “Get up. We have work to do.”

  Mendoza sat up on the cot and rubbed his eyes. “I dreamt I was in a restaurant and these two guys burst in and started shooting up the place. I got Pad Thai Young all over me. I was in uniform. It was weird.”

  “I dream I’m back in uniform all the time. First year on the job, don’t know anything. Shrink I see says I’m afraid of screwing up, getting busted back.”

  “You go to a shrink?”

  Temple cringed. Why had he mentioned that? “Just wait, rookie. You see enough of those lumps like that one in Brampton and you’ll be begging to tell your stories to someone. Better a shrink than a bartender.”

  Mendoza shrugged and stood up, and they went back out into the office.

  “Sara said she faxed you the forensic report from the restaurant,” Temple said.

  Mendoza went over to the fax machine and came back with a stack of papers.

  “Not much here,” he said after a quick scan-through. “Five gunshot victims; one possible wounded guy at the door. We knew that.”

  “Look again. What about the restaurant owner?”

  Mendoza flipped through the papers. “Shot up close. Large-calibre weapon.”

  “Heavy calibre, .357 at close range. Guns and Gangs report coincides with that. Made almost as big a hole going in as it did coming out. The slug was imbedded in the wall, so we could possibly match it. But I doubt that gun will ever be found. All three members of the gang shot multiple times. Two of them bled out. One got a shot off at the assassins as they left.”

  Temple said, “I want to talk to any members or friends of the Lucky Eights. Let’s grab a bite to eat and then hit the clubs.”

  As Temple mentioned food, a wave of heartburn flooded up his throat and stung his eyeballs from behind. He always had a heartburn attack when he went for long periods without decent sleep and surviving only on coffee and junk food. On the plus side, though, Temple realized he no longer felt tired; he was tapping into his extra batteries to push on through.

  11

  They were at a Jamaican place on Kingston Road, east of downtown, where their sport coats and ties marked them out as cops. But there was no hassle. Everyone was there for the good food.

  Temple studied a series of signed pictures on the wall showing two people singing and gyrating on a stage. The man was Gerald Winters, a famous rapper and one of Toronto’s own; the woman was Rihanna.

  “Rihanna and Winters,” Mendoza said. “They filmed a video here.”

  Temple nodded.

  “You have no idea who they are?” Mendoza said.

  “I know who Winters is,” Temple said. “He uses the Danzig Crew as his own personal protection. He got tired of being ripped off by them, so he hired them. Smart businessman. Key to the city; mayor loves him.”

  “I know,” Mendoza said. “They can’t cross the border, though. Every time he has to go into the States or Europe he has to pick up a whole new crew.”

  The music was so loud in the restaurant that Temple wasn’t concerned that someone might overhear his comment. When he got up to the order taker, he ordered a garden salad and jerk chicken.

  “What?” he said when Mendoza gave him a look. “I’m trying to go healthy. You should too if you want to stay in this game a long time.”

  Mendoza said nothing.

  “You think you’re indestructible,” Temple said, getting a little annoyed.

  “No, no, boss.”

  “Or maybe you’ve decided you don’t have long-term plans in homicide,” Temple said as they carried their trays over to a table.

  That had the desired effect; Mendoza’s brow furrowed. Temple was constantly holding that over the Detective Constable - the threat of bumping him back to uniform at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t as easy as that: a request to bump Mendoza and replace him with some fresh meat from the uniform ranks would have to go through Wozniak and Munshin. But Tim would always go with his partner’s recommendation.

  More to the point, Temple had no intention of bumping Mendoza; he thought the young DC was coming along nicely. It was just all part of the game, designed to get back at Mendoza for his youthfulness and to keep him in line lest he become too familiar and try to challenge Temple’s authority. It had happened in teams before: a young upstart comes in and gradually starts running things. The older detectives at first let the newbie handle more and more, but suddenly they realize the kid is running the show. It could backfire on the whole team if they weren’t careful. Temple was, in a way, protecting Mendoza by keeping him in his place. Such was the complicated life of a homicide squad, a group in which nothing was ever easy.

  They ate quickly and stood up to leave. It was close to ten and the clubs down in Chinatown would be starting to fill up.

  Temple stifled a yawn. So much for his extra batteries. He should have racked out on the cot for a bit before this venture. They grabbed coffees to go from the Jamaican server and tipped her generously.

  “You take care now, officers,” she said, and smiled.

  12

  “Why didn’t we just eat down here?” Mendoza asked when they cruised into Chinatown.

  “I didn’t want our presence known. The remaining members of the Lucky Eights get wind of us being here, they might decide to stay indoors tonight.”

  The first place they rolled up on was The Black Orchid, a known Asian Club One hangout above a shoe store. It wasn’t much of a club, and there was no signage out front. As Temple led the way up the stairs, a burly Asian man stepped out of a doorway.

  “We’re closed,” he said.

  Temple badged him. “You’re open.” He pushed past the doorman.

  The music inside was subdued. There were a half dozen half-moon-shaped red velvet couches and matching floor rugs. Sprawled on the couches were young hip Asians engaged in quiet conversation.

  There was a bar at one end staffed by a cute Asian girl with chubby cheeks and ruby-red lipstick. Behind her was large wall-mounted diamond-shaped wine rack. Instead of wine, though, the slots held bottles of whiskey. Each one had a little tag tied to it. There were several bottles on the bar; all of them were Johnnie Walker Black.

  Temple knew the score; you could come in and buy a bottle; the barman would give you a ticket and you could return anytime to drink from the bottle. The concept was carried over from Asia
. He knew that most of the bottles were Johnnie Walker, with maybe a few bottles of Chivas or Glenfiddich. It was prestigious to drink only Johnnie Walker Black or something of equal value.

  Temple went over to a group of drinkers; two men, one woman. He could tell the two men were players, members of the Lucky Eight Society, just by their clothing and demeanour. They barely looked up when he towered over them. Mendoza stayed back, watching everything.

  “IDs. Let’s go,” Temple said, and snapped his fingers.

  None of them made a move for their ID.

  “You’re running an illegal booze can here. Either I get some IDs or we have you shut down.”

  The men reached into their jackets and handed their drivers’ licences up to Temple. The girl didn’t budge.

  Temple looked at the IDs and handed them over to Mendoza.

  They were addressing Messrs. Rudolph Chung and Emmet Chin, both members of the Lucky Eight Society. Temple found the anglicized names they had chosen for themselves amusing, but it did make it easier to address them.

  “Get rid of the girl,” Temple said. Chung said something quick in Mandarin and the girl left. He then barked an order at the bartender and she followed the girl out, as did the other patrons. That left just Chung and his colleague and the doorman, who stood with his arms crossed.

  Temple sat down on a couch. Mendoza repositioned himself to better cover his partner. Not that they expected any violence here; members of the Lucky Eights knew the score. They would have been expecting a visit from homicide after what had happened to their comrades in the Beautiful City.

  “We’re trying to find the guys who shot your friends. Any help you can provide…” Temple almost laughed as he said the words, knowing full well no help would be forthcoming.

  He continued on his spiel anyway, about bringing the perps to justice, restoring peace and tranquility in their neighbourhood. The two Chinese men sat there patiently, neither nodding nor dismissing what Temple was saying.

  “Why would Russians want to whack out two of your members?” Temple said, hoping to catch them off guard.