by Warren Court
“And us,” Tim added.
“Yes, you two are hotties. I have no doubt you’ll do okay.”
She waved as she left and turned her back on them. She and her girlfriends finished their drinks and Carmen left. The rest of the girls got another round. So much for all of them having just one drink.
“I remember Sylvia tried to set me up with her,” Temple said.
“Did she?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t my type, or at least that’s what I thought. But who knows. She’s looking good.”
Tim checked his phone. “Whoa,” he said.
“What is it?”
“The guy that shot that Durham copper…”
“Claire Barron. I knew her.”
“Right, sorry. A CI just texted me. He has a line on the guy. He’s not far from here.”
“Let’s go.”
“You strapped?”
“Of course,” Temple said. “You?”
Wozniak raised his calf and showed a silver pistol in an ankle holster.
“That’s fashionable.”
“Makes me walk in a circle.”
They left their aluminum Buds on the table and pushed their way through the throng of people. Temple felt a hand latch on to his bicep. One of Carmen’s friends. But he had no time for that.
50
“Where we going?” Temple asked when they were in his car.
“Just up the road here. Cement factory.”
Temple drove up Brock Street, past the animal clinic where Carmen D’Souza worked. Temple’s senses were fired; his mind was racing. What was happening here?
“Tell me about this tip,” he said.
“Fink I know is connected to the drug operation out here. I used to work him when he lived in Toronto, but he got tired of all the busts, the shootings. Wanted to retire. The quiet life.” Tim laughed. “Plus, it’s just as profitable out here. These guys think the Durham Police don’t have it together.”
Temple remembered Claire suiting up for that raid. She’d had it together and then some, but still, look how she’d wound up.
Tim said, “He texted me. Knows where the shooter is. Mitchell DeGurry.”
Temple nodded. Every cop in Durham and the surrounding area had been looking for him.
“This guy DeGurry is a born loser,” Tim said. “Rap sheet you could choke a horse with. Word is he’s crazy, paranoid. Whether it was from the coke or he was just messed in the head—who knows. That’s probably why he opened up on the team that went in instead of just putting his hands up.”
“It’s amazing he got away.”
“Uh huh,” Tim said.
Temple broke free of the traffic and sped up. They left Whitby and cruised past Brooklyn, where Tim’s mistress lived. The housing surveys and strip malls disappeared.
“So this guy is holed up at a cement factory?”
“Yeah. My guy knows a guy who brought him some money and a change of clothes. He’s looking to get out of town.”
“Why’s he at a cement factory?”
“God only knows. We can ask him.”
“We’re taking him alive,” Temple said.
“Of course we are. But he’s dangerous.”
“I know, but we’re taking him alive.” Temple wanted more than anything to shoot this DeGurry guy for what he’d done to Claire, but the last thing he needed right now was a lengthy Durham SIU investigation. Two Toronto homicide detectives, off duty and armed, get a tip from a confidential informant and the suspect is shot dead. That would be bad too many ways to count.
They drove for another five minutes on the twisting road, further into the country. At Glanford Corners, Wozniak, who was looking at his phone, said “Make a right.” Two minutes later they saw the looming buildings of the factory.
“There it is. Drive by. Let’s get a look.”
Temple slowed down to ten over the speed limit and they cruised by.
The plant was in darkness except for a single spotlight to mark the highest part of the plant for low-flying aircraft. Temple drove down a kilometre, pulled over and shut off his lights.
“So?” he said.
“Go back, lights off. Just creep up nice and slow,” Wozniak said.
Temple kept quiet; this was Wozniak’s show. When they were two hundred feet from the plant, Wozniak said “Stop.” Temple parked and they got out. With their guns drawn, they approached the front gate of the plant. The chain-link fence was topped with barbed wire. The gate was locked with a heavy chain.
“Let’s try down the side here,” Wozniak said, and set off. Temple followed. They paused and studied the plant as best they could in the darkness. It was a series of buildings and cone-shaped beehive units that stored sand and gravel. The only offices were two trailers attached end to end.
Temple looked up at the sky. The overcast blanket of clouds was moving fast, and beyond it was open sky with a field of stars. The place was going to light up in about two minutes.
“Moon’s coming out,” he whispered. “We have to get in now.”
Tim was exploring the chain-link fence down the side of the plant.
“Here—look.” There was a gap in the fence, which was rusted and ripped in parts; it was bowed out enough for a man to crawl under.
“Great,” Temple said. He was wearing his nicest shirt.
Tim got down on his belly and crawled through. Temple followed after him. A jagged end of wire dug into his side and he heard his shirt rip. He turned his head, annoyed, and saw Tim standing over him, his gun pointing down at him. Temple paused for a second, realizing the situation he’d placed himself in. Then Wozniak moved away, heading towards the dark shadows for concealment. Temple released the fence from his back, scurried through and jumped up. They crossed an open space of fifty feet and hid behind a bulldozer just as the moon broke free.
“How are we going to find him?” Temple whispered.
“He’s racked out in the office. Where else would he be? See the back door there? I’ll take that. You take the front.”
“If he’s in there with a gun, he’ll have no way out. He’s already killed one cop. Let Durham tactical take him.”
“This prick killed your friend.”
A single cloud covered the moon and they ran to the office. The blinds in the trailer windows were closed. Tim climbed the wooden steps to the back door and tried the handle. It was locked, and he shook his head. Temple flashed him five and mouthed “Five minutes.” Tim gave a thumbs-up.
Temple made his way around the front. It was more exposed. The front door was in the middle of the right-hand trailer and was lit by the spotlight high above. He mounted the wooden steps, keeping to the outside of the planks near the railing so they wouldn’t creak. An old ninja trick. This door was locked as well.
Temple looked at his watch; two minutes left. He started to breathe deeply and concentrate. This is bad, he thought. If the guy was right in the middle of the trailer, that would be one thing. But if he was tucked in the rear, then Temple was going to be on point with Tim backing him up. Tim, who might suspect that Temple was investigating him for murder. Tim, who might know that he had been sleeping his wife on a regular basis. If Temple got shot trying to take down a cop killer, how convenient for Tim.
Temple watched the seconds count down. He stood back and hoofed the centre of the door. It buckled in.
“Police! Freeze!” Temple yelled as he came in. His gun was up and he swivelled around the trailer. The other door crashed and Tim came in; same posture, same manoeuvre. Both cops scanned the room quickly.
“Police! Come out. Hands up,” Temple yelled again. There was a long couch in the trailer, plus two desks and some filing cabinets. Temple reached along a wall and found the light switch.
When the trailer lit up, a dark shadowy figure appeared in the back. Temple swivelled.
“Drop it,” he and Tim yelled together, though they could not see a weapon. But it was a safe bet.
A shot came at them; the bullet buried i
tself in the trailer wall. Temple unloaded, going down on one knee as he put all the rounds he had into that dark shadow at the back of the trailer. They heard the shadow slump over and hit the floor. Temple had his spare mag out and changed it quickly, letting the spent one fall to the floor. Tim did the same.
“Reloaded. Covering,” Temple said.
“Reloaded,” Tim screamed.
Both men, covering each other, moved slowly to towards the back room where the shadow had fallen. They could see a dark shape on the floor, hear a raspy breathing sound. Wozniak found the light for this room and turned it on.
DeGurry lay in a heap. He was young, raggedy-looking in jeans and a jean jacket. His black T-shirt was wet with blood. A foot away from him was a small pistol. Temple studied his face; it matched the mug shot that had been circulated by Command and by the media.
“There’s the gun,” Tim said unnecessarily. He didn’t bother kicking it away from DeGurry.
The man was blinking. Blood was coming out of several wounds and bubbling up at his mouth.
Temple said, “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No, wait,” Tim said.
DeGurry was gasping for breath. Temple made to bend down to help him, to try and do something. Tim grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said.
Temple understood. They stood there and watched DeGurry bleed out. He was staring at the ceiling, blinking. The blinking stopped, his eyes went glassy and his last breath hissed out.
Tim said, “Now you can call it in.”
Temple went to the phone on the desk and called 911. Ten minutes later two Durham cars followed by an ambulance lit up the country road. Temple found a set of keys on a peg and went out to unlock the gate for them.
SIU made it out; so did most of Durham Command and eventually the press, clogging up the concessional road. The police tape stretched across it a half a kilometre on either side of the factory’s entrance. Temple could see the press clambering through the woods around the plant to get photos. At least the fencing would keep them out, he thought.
He and Wozniak sat down on the trailer’s steps while Durham secured the scene. They made a big show of searching the entire complex for other shooters. There were looks of consternation on the senior Durham cops’ faces. He imagined it was bittersweet for them, seeing the guy who killed one of their own dead but knowing that Toronto and not one of their own had got the kill.
Earlier, there had been a shouting match between the Durham deputy chief and Tim about the confidential informant and the tip that had led them to the factory, but Wozniak had stood firm and refused to give the guy’s name up.
After Temple had called 911, he’d called 40 College and spoken with Robertson the deputy chief on duty, Karen Kindness’s opposite number. Thankfully she had been off duty, but Temple knew that she and the chief and the entire TPS were now being informed of what two members of TPS Homicide had done. Temple had also spoken with Munshin, who had done a good job of hiding his emotions over the phone.
It took three hours before Temple and Wozniak were released from the scene. The sky was just starting to lighten, and Temple drove his partner home. They had been allowed to take their weapons, but had to report to Durham forensics the next day. SIU was also champing at the bit to get at them.
They drove back to the city in silence and pulled up in front of Wozniak’s house. As Wozniak made to get out of the car, he paused.
“Thanks man. For the backup.”
“That was messed up, Tim. They’re going to roast us alive.”
“No, they won’t. We got their guy; they’re just pissed they didn’t get to pull the trigger themselves. It’ll blow over.”
“I hope so.”
51
Temple crashed hard on his couch with Netflix going again. He fell asleep to the bombing of Hanoi.
A knock on his door dragged him out of a nasty dream about him and Wozniak trying to put DeGurry into a cement mixer. It was Mendoza.
“John, you okay? I just heard.”
“Last one to hear again, huh?” He let Mendoza in and made them coffee.
“So?” Mendoza said.
“So ask what you want to ask. Don’t be shy.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Tim got a tip on the guy that killed Claire. We were out having a couple of beers in Whitby and a CI texted him the guy’s location. I just went along for the ride. Well, I drove, but you know what I mean.”
“And you killed him?”
Temple gave him a sour look. “I defended myself. I wanted to take him alive. He took a shot at us, so I popped him. So did Tim.” Temple leaned forward and put his coffee on the table. He rubbed the top of his head.
“You all right?” Mendoza said.
Temple was about to answer him when his phone rang. It was Munshin, and he saw that his boss had called four times already. He’d been so bagged he’d slept through them.
“Don’t you answer your phone?” Munshin said.
“I was asleep. Out all night.”
“You have to call SIU. You weren’t answering your phone, so I sent Mendoza over.”
“He’s here.”
“Thought maybe you did something stupid.”
“Like eat my gun? Over DeGurry?”
“Listen, you call them now and get your ass out there. They’re close to issuing a warrant. You want that on your record? You can kiss homicide goodbye.”
“Okay, okay, Boss.”
“Mendoza’s there?”
“Yeah.”
“Put him on.”
Temple put the phone on speaker.
“Mendoza?” Munshin barked.
Mendoza rattled his coffee cup. “Yes, Inspector Munshin.”
Munshin changed his tone to syrupy sweet. “Thanks, sweetie.” He made kissing sounds and Temple laughed.
“Just call SIU, John. Do it now.” The line went dead.
“He’s crazy, isn’t he?” Mendoza said.
“Uh huh.”
Temple assured Mendoza that he was fine and walked him out to his car.
“I’ve gotta go in and deal with SIU. Afterwards, you and I are going to pay a visit to Taylor. I want you to find out where he lives.”
“Okay, John.”
Mendoza was getting in his car.
“Sergio,” Temple said.
“Yeah.”
Temple made the same kissing sounds that Munshin had made.
Temple showered and got dressed. The routine helped clear his head. Then he called SIU. He was bounced over to the investigator’s office; he gave his name and badge number and was placed on hold. Thirty seconds later a man picked up the line.
“This is Investigator Concordia. Am I speaking with Detective Temple, TPS Homicide?”
Not Concordia, Temple thought. This guy has a hard-on for me like no one else.
Temple knew all about Concordia. Couldn’t pass the physical or the written exam, so he’d joined the SIU, which had less stringent requirements. He and Temple had butted heads more than a few times.
“Investigator Concordia, I didn’t know you were assigned to this,” Temple said, putting on the best smiley-face voice he could manage.
“I am. Needless to say, I was distressed to find you were once again involved in a serious incident with a civilian.”
“Civilian—the guy was a wanted suspect in a cop shooting.”
“I am recording this call, Detective.”
Temple sighed. “When and where?”
“My office, 120 Bloor, immediately. I’ve been waiting two hours for you already.”
“Okey doke. See you in a bit.”
Even though the shooting had taken place in Durham County, SIU worked out of various offices across Ontario, and Concordia had drawn this incident. His office was at the corner of Church and Bloor, just north of the downtown core. It marked the end of the Millionaire Mile, a stretch of shops and restaurants in the city’s fabled Bloor / Yorkville area where celebrities strolled amongst parke
d Ferraris and Gucci shops.
Temple parked at 40 College and took the subway up two stops to Bloor. He signed in at the ground floor and was given a visitor’s card with his name printed on it, then was taken over to an elevator. The guard swiped it for him and pressed four. The building was nondescript; six stories high with only government offices in it now. At one time there had been offices for a bank and the ground floor had had an IBM lab in it, but they had long since been moved out over concerns about confidentiality.
The homicide detectives on the fifth floor speculated that CSIS, Canada’s spy agency, was also set up there, but there was no way of proving it.
Temple got out on the fourth floor, where he was met with more security. Things had been beefed up since the last time he’d been there, he thought wryly. They must have gotten some money from the government.
His ID and the visitor card were verified, and he was shown in through locked doors to a conference room. Same one he’d been in before; same gleaming wood table, the coffee maker in the corner. Stiff-backed office chairs. He pulled one out and sat there. And sat there. He checked his watch; it was going on twenty minutes before Concordia and a female assistant came in.
Temple didn’t stand. Didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did Concordia. The woman was carrying a recorder and a pad and pen. Concordia was carrying a paper file and was reading it as he approached, his glasses low on his nose.
“We are taping this conversation,” Concordia said, and the woman turned the machine on. She placed a microphone in front of Concordia and one in front of Temple.
Temple went through the usual rigmarole, stating his full name, badge number and current assignment: detective; Homicide Team Two; Toronto Police Services.
“So?” Concordia said. “What happened?”
“I was out with Detective Tim Wozniak. We were working a case, the Beautiful City shooting.”
“You were in a bar.”
“We had reason to believe one of our suspects was in that bar. We had to blend in. We consumed as little alcohol as possible. Then, while we were staking out the bar, Detective Wozniak received a tip from a fink—I mean, a source.”
“Did you know the identity of the source?”