Summer of the Gun

by Warren Court

  There was a yellow button on the screen and he clicked it. It took him to another screen that allowed him to set those parameters. He knew the victim’s age; no need searching against people older or younger than the victim. But just to be safe, he added five years on either end in case the man’s date of birth was incorrect. This happened sometimes with refugees, especially ones who had come here back in the eighties. People literally coming off a boat or a plane with no English had trouble with the immigration forms and officials. Things were better now; the Canadian immigration system could accommodate any language in the world.

  Temple sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. He knew the search would take hours. But it was better than a week. He saw Tim Wozniak stroll in and head for the water cooler. Wozniak looked haggard, like he had been making love to his dead wife’s best friend the entire night. Temple didn’t want to talk to him, but the detective in him couldn’t help himself. He went over to him.

  “Rough night?” Temple said.

  Wozniak grimaced. “I was in Etobicoke working that liquor store holdup from last month,” he lied. “Confidential informant gave me a lead.”

  “You should have called me. Dangerous area at night.”

  “Meh,” Wozniak said. “What do you have on tap for today?”

  “We’ve got the fingerprints of the restaurant owner in the system. I want to see what they come back with. And also, get this—we amended the production order, included his apartment. He’s made two calls to the States.”

  Wozniak yawned.

  “One was to the US State Department. The other one was to the Pentagon.” That woke Wozniak up. “That’s why I’m running this guy’s prints. I want to know everything about him. They can’t be wrong numbers, not both of them and on the same day. I bet when we get his internet records from his ISP, we’re going to see Google searches for those numbers.”

  “Doesn’t the daughter live with him?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Where is she?”

  “We don’t have a warrant to search the apartment. But I’ve been in it,” Temple said.

  “What?”

  “When I went to talk to her.” Even if Temple didn’t suspect Wozniak was a wife killer, he wasn’t going to tell him that he had broken the law himself and illegally entered the apartment. “Weren’t you in it too?”

  “Yes, I was. You’re never going to get a warrant on what you have.”

  “Not yet, but maybe something will come back on the prints.”

  Tim went into Munshin’s office. They had only two days left on shift, and then Team Three would take over. Luckily for Temple’s team, things had been quiet the last couple of days, with no additional murder cases added to their already heavy workload. It was as if the city had let off some steam with the Beautiful City shootout and things had chilled out. But that wouldn’t last.

  26

  Temple hung around 40 College, waiting for the search on the restaurant owner’s prints to come back. He was delighted when they came in, but that quickly turned to disappointment; there wasn’t a single hit, not even close.

  “Damn,” Temple whispered.

  He pulled up CPIC, another computer program, and typed the man’s name and social security number into it. Several people whose names were close, just slightly different spellings, came up. Temple had expected this; he deleted the ones that were from too far out of town, keeping the hits within city limits.

  He figured that a refugee who’d come from Vietnam in the eighties, had managed to make it to Toronto, and had evil intentions wasn’t going to branch out too far. It was an assumption, some might call it a prejudice, but to Temple it was good detective work. Always refine your searches whenever possible. He remembered that from his time at Aylmer, when they were being taught on the then-available computer systems. Those applications were long gone, replaced by more powerful applications like PowerCase.

  There were twenty-three hits. None of them exactly matched Du’s name as it was listed on his driver’s licence. Everything from shoplifting to murder one.

  Could the licence be a phony? Temple wondered. Possibly. It looked real, though. So maybe it was a legitimate driver’s licence, issued by the province, but for a fictitious name.

  Temple rubbed the bridge of his nose. His land line rang.

  “I got it,” Claire said.

  “Okay. Hold on. I’ll call you back.”

  Temple crossed the street to the food court and went to a bank of phones along the wall. They were never used; he suspected that they would soon be ripped out. He called Claire back.

  “You want all the numbers? There’s about forty,” she said.

  “No. I’ll read one off; you tell me if it’s on there.” Temple gave her Wozniak’s cell.

  “Yes,” she said. “About half a dozen times last month alone. Hold on.” He could hear her shuffling papers. “It looks like that number goes back well over a year.”

  “Okay, I want a copy of that.”

  “You can have this one, but you’ll have to find me. We’re working today.” By ‘working,’ Temple knew she meant they were planning some sort of operation, probably a raid. She would be very busy.

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do to get out there. How was the date last night?”

  “It wasn’t a date. Just a friend.”

  “Okay, so you’re still single. Good. I like you that way.”

  “Misery loves company, eh?”

  “I’m not miserable.”

  “Sure you’re not, Temp. Sure you’re not.”

  27

  Temple looked at the photograph he had stolen from the owner’s apartment. Mendoza came over and Temple showed him the pic.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  Temple didn’t answer the question. He took the photo back and pointed at the grainy image of the man behind the counter. “We should try and find this guy. Maybe he was there that night, managed to get out unscathed.”

  “He may no longer work there. He may no longer be in the country or even alive. The other business owners around the restaurant—that would be a good place to start.”

  They began to head out, but Munshin popped out of his door.

  “Hey, I got a call from this councillor this morning.”

  “Nallartnam,” Temple said.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

  “Let me guess: he’d like to know about the Beautiful City restaurant killing, when the wrecking ball can swing.”

  “Something like that.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to go piss up a rope.”

  “Did he get that old-school reference?” Temple said.

  Moonshine gave him the finger. “Next time I got one of these jokers coming my way, give me a heads up,” he said.

  “Point taken. Say, Inspector, let me ask you. If we need to speak to someone from the US government about a call, who should we talk to?”

  “FBI liaison officer at the embassy. Name’s Donaldson. I play golf with him. Nice guy.”

  “Great. Donaldson.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Our restaurant owner called the US State Department and the Pentagon just before he was killed. I want to find out why.”

  Munshin shrugged his shoulders. “Good luck. Donaldson owes me, big time. You run into any roadblocks with him, just tell him that if he helps you, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Thanks, Inspector. I will do just that.”

  28

  “You take that one across the street.” Temple pointed at a pawn shop. “I’ll try the gift shop next door.”

  Before they’d left, Temple had fed the photo he’d stolen from the apartment into his computer. He was able to blow up the picture to show only the unknown man behind the counter. It was still a blurry picture, but it would have to do.

  Mendoza went into the pawn shop and Temple opened the door to an Asian artifacts and gifts store. Lots of Buddhas and those crazy s
miling Japanese cat statues that wave at you.

  The man came from out behind the counter and put on a big display of bowing and showing reverence to his new and only customer. He waved his arms at the stuff, ready to help Temple pick something out. Temple showed him his badge and his demeanour changed.

  “Sir, I want to know if you know who this man is. We believe he worked next door at the Beautiful City restaurant.”

  The man shook his head without looking at the photo.

  “It’s a serious police matter, sir. Please take a look.” He thrust the photo forward.

  “Don’t know don’t know,” he said. A woman came out from behind a beaded curtain.

  “Ma’am,” Temple said. “I wonder if you could help the Toronto Police.” He showed her the picture.

  “Ahh yes,” she said. “He worked with the restaurant owner. Long time, long time.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “No,” she said.

  “What is his name?”

  “I think it is a friend of Mr. Du’s. He lives up above restaurant.”

  “He does?”

  Temple thanked the woman and walked out of the store; a row of cats waved at him as he passed.

  Mendoza was coming out of the pawn shop. “We really need that chick from 51 Division down here—Jilly,” Mendoza said.

  “Do we? They no speak English in there?”

  “Sort of. But no luck on our guy.”

  “I got some. He lives above the restaurant.”

  “I canvassed all of those apartments; didn’t see him.”

  “Maybe he made it out the night of the shooting and took off.”

  There was a glass door in between the restaurant and the gift store, along with several doorbells. Temple pushed them, repeatedly. Finally, he saw some movement at the top of the stairs, and an Asian woman in her thirties, very pregnant, came waddling down and opened the door.

  “Your handiwork?” Temple said to Mendoza before she opened the door.

  “Hell no,” Mendoza said.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Ma’am, we’re looking for this man here. We’re told he has an apartment up there. Do you know him?”

  “He’s not around,” she said, reluctant to open the door further even though Temple and Mendoza’s badges were visible on their belts.

  “It’s part of a murder investigation ma’am. A lot of people were hurt in the restaurant next door. We need to come into the building.”

  She sighed, pushed the door open wider and started to waddle back up the stairs.

  “We’re really sorry to get you down here. We appreciate it,” Temple said.

  “It was a terrible thing that happened. I was in Mississauga visiting my sister.”

  “Uh huh,” Temple said. He slowly climbed behind the woman, Mendoza behind him.

  They made it to the second floor and she went down a hallway to the back apartment after pointing out where Du’s friend lived.

  They knocked. No answer.

  “Watch the hall,” Temple said. He pulled out his picks.

  “What, seriously?” Mendoza said.

  “We have probable cause now,” Temple said. “We go in, look around and then get a warrant.”

  Temple had the door open in seconds. It was a simple one-room apartment with a single bed in the corner. A television and an old, thick VCR on the floor. Temple looked out the window and down onto the street in front of the Beautiful City restaurant.

  There was a water leak in the washroom, and the linoleum floor was rising up in the middle. The kitchen’s pale green cabinets hung askew. There were dried dishes in the rack.

  There was a dresser next to the bed. Temple opened the top drawer and found a piece of paper folded neatly.

  “Identity papers, landed immigrant status, eighty-four,” he said. He tucked the papers into his jacket.

  On the dresser was a black-and-white photograph, taken on a ship’s deck, of two young men standing side by side, the restaurant owner and the friend. Neither of the two men was smiling.

  “Boat people,” Temple said, and showed the picture to Mendoza. “That’s our boy there, and there’s his friend Kiet Du.”

  Temple studied the picture. Du’s friend could be seen clearly now, and he compared it to the fuzzy printout he had of the same man, now much older.

  “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” Temple said.

  29

  “He’s in that one, number fourteen,” the morgue attendant said, and pointed at a silver drawer on the other side of the room.

  “Aren’t you supposed to get it out for us?” Temple asked.

  The man was eating a sandwich and looking at CNN on an iPad.

  “You just open it up, slide him out,” the attendant said. “I’m eating.”

  Temple rolled his eyes as he and Mendoza went over to the drawer.

  “Go ahead, Rook,” he said to Mendoza. The detective constable pulled on the chrome handle. The stench of death in the room increased only slightly. “Go on, pull him out,” Temple said.

  Mendoza huffed and then grabbed hold of the metal bed, which was resting on rollers. He pulled the table out until the entire corpse, encased in a black body bag, was fully out.

  Temple unzipped the bag and pulled it back. The Asian man with half his face blown away lay forlornly on the table, stiff as board and going grey.

  Temple took out the photo of the two Vietnamese refugees on the boat. He walked around to the other side of the table and squatted down so that the man’s face was in profile for him. At this angle the wound to the head wasn’t visible.

  He looked at the side of the man’s face and at the picture and back again a half dozen times.

  “Yeah, there you go,” Temple said, delighted with himself.

  Mendoza had come around and squatted down beside him. He took the picture from Temple.

  “You sure?”

  “Damn right. Take another look.”

  “I don’t know, John,” Mendoza said.

  “That’s this guy in the picture, not Kiet Du.”

  They kept their voices lowered so the attendant wouldn’t hear them.

  “Remember the daughter identified the body as her dad’s? Said she wanted it over and done quick, bury him. Probably have him cremated.” Temple remembered that Wozniak had had his wife cremated; she was in an urn on his mantelpiece. He’d seen it.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because her father is still alive and hiding. Whoever was after him thinks he’s dead. They think we dumb round-eyes think all Asians look alike.”

  Temple zipped the bag back up and slammed the table back into its slot so hard the attendant across the room jumped. A morgue was a normally quiet place, except for the sound of the rotary saw cutting into a corpse’s skull.

  On their way back to the Buick, Temple said, “That’s why the fingerprints taken off the corpse behind the counter came back negative. We have enough for a search warrant now for the Dus’ apartment. He’s faked his death and she’s complicit.”

  Temple’s phone rang. It was Claire. He stopped and motioned for Mendoza to carry on.

  “Yo. You coming out or not?” Claire said.

  “It’s tight right now,” Temple said.

  “I’m going dark, starting tomorrow.”

  He looked at Mendoza waiting patiently at his car. Temple unlocked it for him with his fob. “Okay, give me twenty.”

  When he got to the Buick, he opened Mendoza’s door. “Bud, can you take an Uber back to 40 College?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I have to take care of something.” Temple reached in his pocket and pulled out some cash. “Here’s forty.”

  “I can expense it. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No. Here, take it. Just put it on your own card.”

  Mendoza said nothing and got out of the Buick.

  “Get on that warrant when you get back and amend the production order. Slip in the apartment above
the restaurant and cell phones for all of them.”

  Mendoza was bringing Uber up on his phone. He waved his hand at Temple to acknowledge his orders.

  Temple said. “I’ll be back in an hour to review your work.”

  30

  Temple didn’t want Mendoza’s Uber ride showing up on an expense account. He also didn’t want his own trip to see Claire on the report. It would take him thirty minutes to get out to see her if he went via the 401, but he could cut that time in half if he jumped on the 407 toll highway. It was temptingly close. His work car had a transponder on it—all of them did—and those records were ignored until a cop was suspected of wrong doing or involved in a shooting. Still… Better not risk it, he thought.

  “Just crossed over into Pickering,” Temple said.

  “I’m kind of busy right now.”

  “Tell me where you are and I’ll come to you.”

  “Oshawa. Cumber Ave. But roll up on us slow.”

  “The dirty ’Shwa,” Temple quipped, using the local slang for gritty Oshawa.

  “I’m out here so much I might as well move out here.”

  “You’re too classy.”

  Temple ended the call, lit up his grill and got on the 401.

  He brought Cumber up on his dash-mounted GPS. It was in the north of the city, near Highway 7. He drove fast, cutting red lights, not stopping for stop signs. Things were rolling now on all fronts; he wasn’t going to let the Ontario Highway Traffic act get in the way of his duty. And his duty was to investigate the murder of a civilian, one Sylvia Wozniak.

  When he got to Cumber, he slowed to a crawl. He saw a nondescript panel van on the street and two unmarked cars behind it. He could see Claire’s blonde ponytail swishing this way and that as she talked to two colleagues on the sidewalk. One of the cops checked Temple out as he approached and said something to Claire. She spun around, put up a finger to the guys for a minute break and ran to his car.

  Temple reached across and opened the passenger door for her. She leaned in.

  “Come on, get in,” Temple said.

  “I don’t have a lot of time.”