by R. D. Cain
Copyright
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Six Months Ago
March 11, 2011
THE DENTAL BUILDING WAS A cool, dark place, lit by offset casts of amber streetlight that refracted between slats in the blinds. His shadow glided along the wall as he walked the hallway with measured, practised, maybe even rehearsed paces, to the utility room where two miniscule, green led lights from the DVD recorder shone. They were reflective like cat’s eyes, glaring from a lower shelf, from blackness. He took a disc out of the recorder and placed it in an empty case he obtained from a lower shelf. He put this disc in his pocket, then took a new blank disc from a drawer, placed it in the slot and put the now-empty case where he had retrieved the previous one.
Excitement wasn’t the right word; it was hardly his first time taking a recording home and he was a man of strong emotional control. No, not excitement. Satisfaction or contentment maybe, as his collection of videos and veiled conquests was growing, slow but sure.
Dr. Irons was a six-foot-two, square-jawed man in his late forties with a lean, sculpted body from years of weight training. His greying hair, cut every two weeks, was kept trim and sharply angled.
He left, closing the door behind him, then proceeded toward the last room at the back of the building, his exam room. With the hallway door partially open, the vibrant Winnie the Pooh posters, colourful balloon borders and various children’s trappings were lifelessly greyed down, looking no more alive than his silver, glinting dental instruments perfectly lined up on the chair-side tray. Sickle probes, excavators, operative burs, chisels — all waited eagerly for a patient, hopefully a child, to come in. Irons took a last moment to survey his operating room, then closed the door. He walked to the back door, keyed in the security code and left for the night.
He drove silently to his usual Monday stop: a corner grocery store. Inside, he grabbed enough vegetables, bread and cheese to last a week, placing them in his basket. Irons had begun walking to the cash when he noticed an attractive Latina mom with her five-year-old son in tow. Irons watched from a distance, considering the child, appraising his exaggerated movements. The blood in Irons’ body came alive. How his face warmed and his heart thumped and thumped again like a bird testing its wings for flight. A welcoming smile slowly crept across his lips, his eyes remaining absorbed and predatory.
He considered how love comes as a gift and can be found anywhere at any time, always unexpected, and we never turn it away. How much saner would the world be if we could control what we love? When the boy’s mother noticed Irons’ interest, she unconsciously stepped between the two, blocking Irons’ view. She looked back at her boy, then at Irons. Irons’ smile became shy.
“Looks like my nephew, Charles,” he said.
The mother’s smile was no more sincere than Irons’. She grabbed her boy and walked away.
He walked into his condo. He carried his groceries in one hand and with the other he closed the door behind him, locking the deadbolt and putting a chain lock in place. Seeing only by the stove light, he kicked off his shoes, dropping them neatly in the floor tray, and placed the groceries on the counter. Pulling the dvd from his pocket, he went into the living room to the tv and put the disc in the player. The condo was minimally decorated: an efficient, modern look with matching black leather couches, chairs and an antique wrought-iron, glass-top coffee table.
He grabbed the remote from the table and walked back into the kitchen while he started the video. Irons took a steak that had been marinating in the fridge and placed it onto a wooden cutting board. It was a rib steak, less tender than a chateaubriand or a tenderloin, but far more flavourful. The delicacies of life were always worth a little more work.
A 60-inch flat-screen, big enough to be easily enjoyed from the kitchen, hung on the far wall. Video then audio came to life: his office and exam room. He was there with an assistant, a small child in the reclined chair. Irons couldn’t take his eyes from the screen. He listened to himself speaking. The script he spoke was very important to him. It was all part of the ritual, like touching glasses before drinking wine.
“That little needle will help you relax, okay?”
“That did taste like banana,” the child said.
His assistant Maggie spoke. “You don’t mind doing the X-ray, Doctor?”
“No,” Irons said softly, “we don’t want to risk the little guy you’ve got growing inside.” He smiled. “Actually, Maggie, I’ll do the once-over as well, if you want to start the exam on Josie Nastos out there.”
Maggie smiled, obviously relieved. “Okay, Doctor, let me know if you need me.”
“You bet,” Irons said. “Oh, and I’ve been watching Josie’s spacing at two-four, so if you could measure it, we’ll compare it to some old X-rays and see how it’s doing. I won’t be too long.”
She left. White trash, through and through, he smiled to himself. Half the time she smelled like marijuana in the mornings and drank beer on weekends, but it was the X-ray that made her worry about her baby. Now it was just Dr. Irons and the boy.
There was a time on the video where nothing was being said. Irons glanced away for just a second, sprinkled spices on the steak, then took time to position it perfectly on the cutting board.
“Sammy, can you hear me . . . Sammy?” He absorbed the image on the tv screen. His face was that of a man in complete rapture. There were no sounds coming from the video, but whatever he was watching, he was completely under its control. His arms tightened: the tendons and muscles in his forearms slid under his skin like snakes squirming under a tight blanket. Slowly, then more deliberately, he began to bash the steak on the cutting board, beating his meat.
1
September 6, 2011
BEHIND THE FAÇADE OF THE crisp, dark suit, under a sharp haircut and behind pale blue eyes, was a place of anguish. Steve Nastos walked down the street, avoiding eye contact with various lawyers, court clerks and police officers in the court district of downtown Toronto. Not long ago, he had been a respected detective in the Sexual Assault Unit, a father to a seven-year-old girl and a husband to a beautiful wife. He now wondered what kind of a father or husband he could be in jail.
Nastos was flanked by two uniformed officers a step or two behind him. The shorter, older officer had his hand on Nastos’ elbow and had a good grip, the way cops always seemed to. Nastos knew why, of course: if someone in custody was about to run for it, he would unconsciously become rigid in his upper body, and a good cop paid attention for any sign of tenseness in the arm or any other sign that the officer needed to wrench the handcuffs or slam the guy into a wall. Of course, Nastos was thinking of doing no such thing.
Despite his best efforts, his smile eroded at times as the natural walker’s sway of his arms was constricted and squeezed from the handcuffs digging into his wrists behind him. His shoulders, aching for relief, burned from the weight of his increasingly heavy arms. The last time he had worn cuffs was in training at Police College, twenty-five years and thirty pounds ago; they were a little tighter and heavier now.
Nastos observed the court building, stone and marble coming together in an imposing, rigid and cold shell. Engraved on an archway was something written in Latin, probably a courtesy warning from the lawyers to have one’s wallet ready if one wanted anything even resembling justice. And it was just like a lawyer to post it in a dead language. He wasn’t sure he had ever noticed it before.
With a cool September wind behind him, he pushed a dream of freedom aside and walked up the steps, past an archway into the court building, transforming from a free man, a man of the law, to a man accused of a crime. He hoped for an
imaginary wall to surround him, rendering him invisible to the crowd. With it he would drift into the back of bail court, anonymous in the audience. He’d say a few yes sirs and no sirs when called upon, then just float back out, unnoticed and unremembered. For that brief amount of time, he would just try to become someone else, a figment of his own imagination. No more perceptible than a ghost drifting through a thick, still fog.
His shoes hardly made a sound as he walked up the marble steps to the landing, past the pillars, through the turnstile and through security. He turned down the left hallway, weaving around and through the crowd. Years of pacing this very building, waiting for verdicts, allowed him to arrive at Courtroom 101 — the bail court — having rarely had to raise his eyes to anyone.
He made it as far as the double doors when he heard a voice from the side call out, “That’s him there, roll the camera. Detective Nastos?”
In that moment, Nastos relinquished his hopes of anonymity, took a deep breath and braced for impact. His body became heavy. He was aware that his heart was racing, his cold hands were sweaty and his wrists were aching from the cuffs gnawing into him like an old dog’s dulled teeth. He saw reporters and camera crews permeating through a deteriorating wall of courtroom derelicts as the media swarmed in around him.
“Detective Nastos? Detective Nastos, do you having any comments before you enter court?” a reporter asked.
He said nothing.
“Did he deserve what he got, Detective?” another tried.
Nastos thought it would be best to shut down. It was easier just to abandon a part of his humanity, to give up his sentient, communicative being and accept his fate. Questions came in a wall of noise from the dozen men and women wanting their quote for the day. Just shut down, let it all go. What could have gone on for an eternity ended when one of the police officers behind Nastos grabbed the door handle and directed him to the temporary safety of the courtroom.
Long immune to the odours, filth and scum of courts, Nastos stood still, looking for a place to sit with his small entourage of officers. The older of the two officers pointed to the defense lawyers’ desk and without a word Nastos headed directly for it. Looks like I move to the front of the line.
On his way down the walkway, he passed a young white man dressed like a black gangster. With a quick glance, Nastos saw the real gangsters in the back of court. They were probably here for aggravated assaults, attempted murders — real violence. For the white kid, dressing up like them was about as authentic as a Walmart Halloween costume, and more than a little insulting. Hopefully for this kid they’d see the humour in it rather than feel the need to stick a knife in his throat.
A sudden, violent stench identified the white kid as the very epicentre of the vomit and stale sweat odours filling the cramped room. The feeling of it settling into his mouth and lungs was as offensive as if someone had stuffed a rag soaked in gasoline down his throat. He suppressed a gag and moved past, shaking his head. Pretty soon, when this makes it to the front page, people are going to see me in the same light.
Slowly pushing the gate that separated the general gallery from the front of the room, Nastos approached the defense desk. Three lawyers eyed each other, then slid over to create a space. The two officers who had escorted Nastos took seats directly behind him, but made no attempt to pull his chair back. Obviously, they hadn’t been handcuffed in a while themselves or they might have known it was basically impossible for him to do it himself. Nastos shook his head, rolling his eyes, then began sliding a chair back with his foot. Quite surprisingly, the youngest of the three lawyers saw his efforts and reached a hand back to get the chair for him.
“Thanks,” Nastos said.
“No problem,” he replied without looking up, taking his own seat.
Nastos recognized him as Kevin Carscadden. He was barely thirty-five. Carscadden had only been in town for a few years. In that time, he had begun making a name for himself as a reluctant mob lawyer. How someone gets into that line of work was anyone’s guess. It was a good way to wind up dead, in jail or to become the media go-to guy every time they needed a sound bite from someone who talks like he’s spent the last ten years with his head up his ass. Of course, this seemed a little hypocritical in light of Nastos’ current predicament.
An officer sitting behind Nastos surprisingly removed the handcuffs from him. Nastos began rubbing his wrists. The acidic burn slowly began to clear from his shoulders and arms when he rolled his upper body forward. He tried to raise his elbows to stretch his back, but his body was not ready for that one yet.
One of the other lawyers leaned forward, past Nastos to Carscadden and spoke. “Looks like your guy’s up first.” The man slid a copy of the court brief over to Carscadden, then he and the other lawyer took seats next to the two cops in the row behind, leaving Carscadden and Nastos alone in front.
Nastos watched the brief sliding along, past him to Carscadden.
“Are you the duty counsel for me today?” Nastos asked.
“Looks like it.” Carscadden checked the other two lawyers. It was pretty obvious that he had just pulled the short straw. “Kevin Carscadden,” he said, extending his hand. “And you are?”
“Nastos. Detective Nastos.”
Carscadden appraised him directly for the first time. His eyebrows tightened when Nastos said “detective.” And it was obvious that he saw the exhaustion on Nastos’ face.
“You going to be okay?” Carscadden asked.
Nastos answered, “I just really hope to make bail. I’d like to see my family again before I go away.”
“I can’t promise you that one; all I can do is try.” Carscadden wasn’t too convincing. He kept eye contact until Nastos diverted his gaze down at the table. He was probably wondering what a detective was doing getting arrested and held for a bail hearing.
“Just do what you can,” Nastos muttered, almost to himself.
Nastos’ gaze fixed as if he were looking through the desk into nothingness, his body slumped forward and still. The table’s wood-grain veneer was nearly imperceptibly pitted, capturing the fluorescent lights almost like a kaleidoscope. The din of voices in court allowed Carscadden to lean closer to Nastos and they shared a private exchange.
“Detective, did they question you all night?”
“Since nine last night.”
“So you haven’t slept?”
“No. I sat with my arms crossed reciting ‘I want my lawyer’ over and over again. They never got tired of hearing it.”
The obvious question had to be asked. “Are you guilty, Detective?” Nastos didn’t respond. Even thinking he’d answer that question, here in court was an insult to his intelligence.
He had gone twenty-four hours or so without sleep and it had brought him a certain mental fluidity, a tendency to drift off into daydreams and digressions as easily as a person passes from one nightmare to the next.
He was nowhere near the lawyer who was sitting right next to him in court. Nastos was leaving the front door of his house on a hot sunny morning in July. He, his daughter and wife were walking into furnace-orange sunshine that warmed their faces when they stepped from the shade on their driveway. Josie was swinging from his left arm, springing up and down with each step. His wife, Madeleine, was dressed for work, wearing a dark blazer and skirt. Her hair was back in a ponytail, making her appear younger than forty-two. She’d been a jogger since college and her habit still kept her thin.
The three of them walked to the minivan. Madeleine got in the back passenger seat next to Josie. Nastos took the driver’s seat.
“Hey Jo, let’s wipe the rest of the toothpaste off your face, okay?” Madeleine pulled out a Kleenex and started cleaning her daughter up.
“You’re pressing too hard, Mom,” Josie squawked.
Nastos spoke from the front seat. “Relax, Jo, we don’t want the dentist thinking you have rabies.”
When he saw everyone was buckled up, he started driving. Traffic was light and through the length of the subdivision they were the only car on the road.
“Mom, is he going to freeze my face? I don’t wanna talk like Grampa.”
“Grampa only talks like that when he’s tired, Josie.” Madeleine glared right at Nastos through the mirror.
Oops. “What?” he asked, as if he had no idea that he had poisoned her mind.
“Nice one, Nastos” was all she could say, shaking her head.
Let’s try a subject change, he thought. “Should we pick you up afterwards and go for lunch? We can try Italian, Frankie’s place.”
“I wish you had asked me yesterday; today I have to list Jackie’s house, take a few pictures and do some running around. How about tomorrow instead?” She already had her BlackBerry in her hand, opening up the calendar.
“It’s a date, with the two cutest girls on the planet.”
HE LED JOSIE INTO THE dental office’s reception area. there was a waiting room with a wall of kids’ toys and books. A video game system — probably a Wii — was running on the big-screen tv with no one playing. Three moms flipped through magazines while awaiting their children’s return and Nastos’ nose was invaded by that dental smell. Baking soda and antiseptic odour filled the suite. Josie realized that she had all of the toys to herself and, not waiting for a personal invitation, she dove for the video game. Nastos went to the reception desk and the next time he saw Josie, she was boxing the computer.
The receptionist was an older woman, who, despite working bankers’ hours and though her most critical decision was to make a cancellation for an appointment, still found some reason to be cranky. The dental assistants and hygienists seemed welcoming enough while they grabbed or dropped off files on the reception desk or picked up equipment from the storage cabinets, but not this woman.
“Name?” she snarked.
“For Josie Nastos, please, nine o’clock.” He tried to sound upbeat.