by R. D. Cain
After the fourth ring, the phone went silent and the call display screen wiped itself clean. Shortly thereafter came pounding footsteps and finally the whoosh of the door flying open.
“Oh, hi Jeff, how’re you?” She tried to hold the insincere smile, but it reluctantly faded when she saw the state he was in.
“Don’t you answer your phone?” Scott pointed to accentuate his frustration, then rested his hands on his hips. He wanted to know what she was doing. The thought that she might actually be working must have eluded him.
“Sorry, Jeff, I was right in the middle of a thought on the Nastos trial, so I just wanted to finish it. You stopped ringing, so I thought you’d just leave a message.”
Dewar closed off her email and started shutting down her computer.
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Come to my office.” He took a step back as if expecting her to race after him. When she didn’t move, he turned back to her incredulously.
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” she said while she reached for her purse.
“Come right now, it’s important that we deal with this right away.” He jabbed his left thumb in the direction of the door as if she had forgotten how to leave a room.
Despite her efforts, she found his rage a little contagious and her voice rose to meet his. “Okay, just one sec.” Dewar stood up grabbing her purse. These tirades were becoming increasingly frequent. Yelling back seemed to be the only thing he understood. Until recently, she would have held back.
“No, you’ll come to my office right now, Ms. Dewar — Jesus Christ!”
Dewar bolted up to her feet. With her left foot, she closed the desk drawer. Scott missed the organized collection of small audio tapes neatly inside. She reached down with her hand to tug the handle, ensuring the drawer was locked.
“Actually, Jeff,” she said, “I’m menstruating this week and I want to change my plug first. Is that okay? Are you glad you asked?”
Scott recoiled, as disgusted with her words as she had hoped. Even Mrs. Black out front must have heard that one; Dewar hoped she had gotten a good chuckle.
“You can’t talk to me like that,” he hissed at her.
“When I say I’ll be right there, I’ll be right there, Jeff. I’m not always being obstinate, you know.”
She walked past him, out of the office, exchanged rolled eyes with Mrs. Black, then went into the washroom. She used the mirror above the sink to place a recording device in her jacket pocket and adjusted the microphone. She washed and dried her hands and face and left for his office.
“SIT DOWN THERE.” SCOTT POINTED to the chair against the wall and gruffly closed the door as Dewar entered.
She sat.
“Listen,” Jeff began as he took his seat, “people say you are going at Nastos with a light touch. This is a career case for you; you should know that. Get a conviction and people will notice you. Be aggressive with this guy.”
“I know what I’m doing here, I’ve been a prosecutor for —”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve been,” he interrupted. “I’ve been a prosecutor for fifteen years and the chief Crown attorney for another five. Don’t you think I’d know when you are being too soft? People upstairs are watching you. Show them what you are made of.” He held her gaze, searching for weakness.
She took a breath and replied, “Yes, you’re absolutely right, Jeff.”
His lips pursed, confused. “I know I’m right.” He had obviously been hoping for a confrontation.
Dewar continued, “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll go at him harder tomorrow.”
Scott got to his feet and began pacing. “I don’t know why you new breed of women need pep talks so often. I never did. Must be the estrogen.”
“I guess it muddles the thinking sometimes, sir.”
“Try eating more protein — apparently it helps.”
“You would know, sir.” While Scott’s face twisted up as he considered whether he’d just been insulted, Dewar smiled broadly and made her way back to her office. She closed the door behind her and sat at the desk. Opening the bottom left drawer, she took the cassette tape out of her pocket recorder and placed it in a labelled case. She put it in the drawer with a dozen similarly labelled cassette cases and locked it up.
CARSCADDEN SAT AT THE STAFF booth in the back of Frankie’s. he had a glass of Rosemount Shiraz to one side and a calamari appetizer in front of him. He was beginning to trust himself with alcohol again. He wasn’t going to let the disaster of the past repeat itself. He had only drunk that much to suppress the pain. Things were much easier away from corporate hell. One drink wouldn’t hurt.
The place had a level of customer service that he was not used to and it was not uncommon for the chef to try new recipes out on frequent patrons to get their opinions. So far it was a bit salty, but the wine was compensating just fine.
“Mr. Carscadden, what a nice surprise.” Viktor took a spare glass from the table and poured himself some wine from the bottle, then sat down. He was wearing a dark suit jacket with just enough stubble to show. Viktor liked the George Michael look and it apparently worked for him, considering all of the girls he had around him whenever he was here. Carscadden wondered if it would make a difference if he knew that Michael was gay. “Nice to see you again, Viktor.” He waved his glass in the direction of the front of the restaurant. “Business is good.” Carscadden lifted his glass and touched it to Viktor’s and took a sip.
“You know, Carscadden, if you don’t get the nerve soon, I’m going to have to ask your secretary out for a drink sometime.” He smiled and took a bite of the calamari. “Umm. A little too salty,” he said, almost to himself.
Carscadden watched Viktor’s gentle mannerisms: the way he gingerly held one hand under his mouth while he tasted the food with the other. He saw nothing but kindness. Yet Viktor was a murderer. It made him doubt himself about Nastos, despite some observations he had made during the day’s testimonies.
“Hopkins is out of my league. Anyways, I’ve had enough problems with women to last a lifetime. I just want to be left alone now, not strike out and make work life awkward.” He regretted immediately that wine had caused him to loosen up about his secretary. Viktor wasn’t likely to let it go now.
“Say, how’s everything going with the cop case?”
“I don’t really know, it’s too early, but I got some information for Nastos that might help him out.” Carscadden saw Nastos come in the front door and waved him down. “Here he is now.”
Nastos walked up to the booth. “Well, if it isn’t Viktor Kalmakov the businessman,” Nastos said, reaching his hand out. Viktor took it and stood up from the booth.
Carscadden put his glass down. “Sit back down, Viktor, where you going?”
“I’m sure you have business to discuss here. I’ll get out of your way. Wave down the waitress when you’re ready to order.” Viktor tapped the menus that were lying on the table, then excused himself.
“You got him off a few murders?” Nastos asked, taking a seat.
“No one was more surprised than me, but what the hell — I’m good at what I do. How are you holding up?”
Nastos poured the last of the wine into a water glass, leaned back into the chair and took a sip. “Drinking again, eh?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“How am I holding up? Let’s see . . . the house bills, the stress of the trial, the Leafs can’t win a game — I could use some time in jail just to get away from it all. But other than that . . .” He made a face and took a bite of the calamari. “Just enough salt. They add it to keep you drinking.” He took a long slug of the wine, finishing his glass.
Carscadden was excited to tell Nastos the good news and wanted to get to it right away. “I checked into one of the dental assistants like you asked,” he began.
“And?”
�
��And someone paid her $7,000 to sign a non-disclosure regarding the client list for the deceased Dr. Irons.”
“Who?”
Carscadden rolled his eyes. “She obviously wouldn’t say, Detective.”
“She has to say,” he replied, thumping the table. “You can’t sign a contract to circumvent criminal law.”
Carscadden took a big slug of his wine. What the hell, let’s both have a good time. “Some law book say that somewhere? Great. Laws are just words printed on paper, Nastos. That’s nothing compared to money, which is numbers printed on paper.”
“People kill for numbers printed on paper.”
“Yeah. No one gives a shit about laws, or we wouldn’t have jobs. All people care about is money.”
“Touché.” Nastos smiled.
The waitress came over with another bottle of wine and more calamari. “From Viktor.” She smiled.
Carscadden checked the bar to raise a glass to Viktor, but he was busy with a woman. Nastos was speaking and he just caught the end of it.
“Carscadden, if the time comes, she won’t remember who’s missing. You can’t honestly expect her to remember all the names anyways.”
“She must know how to get a copy,” Carscadden said.
“The cops got everything when they seized the computers in the office; she doesn’t have anything. It’s a dead end.”
Carscadden shrugged then leaned back into his chair. “We’re back at the beginning.”
“Unless —” Nastos said. He looked around to make sure no one was nearby.
“What?” Carscadden asked.
“The dental assistant, do you think she was a drug user?”
Carscadden thought back to the goon who answered the door, Troy, with the marks on his arm. “No, her boyfriend’s the junkie. I saw the track marks on his arm.”
“Didn’t you say something about the drug inventory at the office?” Nastos remembered out loud. “All kinds of stuff was unaccounted for. OxyContin, right?”
Carscadden was nodding, liking where it was going.
Nastos continued. “You could’ve threatened to turn her in if she didn’t talk,” he said. “We could have worked an angle on her.”
Carscadden was thinking something. “Maybe we still can.”
“It’s a dead end,” Nastos reminded Carscadden.
“Getting the list of names might be. But if I could get her on the stand to tell the jury that she was offered cash to get rid of the list, that might be worth something when the jury is deliberating. Who knows what else we might find to stir up reasonable doubt?”
Nastos considered that. Certainly someone was protecting himself or a client. It would be nice to find out who. “Maybe it’s worth a second look.”
“Okay, so when do we do this?” Carscadden asked.
“Not we, sunshine,” Nastos said. “You’re a lawyer. After dinner you’re going home to watch the Leafs disgrace themselves and leaving the big decisions to the grown-ups.”
“Junkies are dangerous and unpredictable — you can’t go alone. Besides, you have a thing called a curfew.”
Nastos didn’t flinch. “Well, be a good lawyer and take detailed notes on the hockey game so we both have a good alibi.”
“Like your lake swim, Nastos? As I recall, you had to phone Daddy to come get you when the last party got out of control.”
Nastos smiled.
“Your face has been on tv, Nastos — you try to pressure this guy and he’ll rat you out.”
“Who do you think is better suited to go, the young lawyer or a cop? Or failing that, an accused murderer?”
Carscadden shook his head. Allowing Nastos’ breach was risky; helping wasn’t such a great idea either. “I’m going with you. I can watch out or help bullshit our way out if things go bad.”
Nastos grabbed the second bottle of wine and examined the label. It was two years old, Australian. He noticed Carscadden watching him — he seemed to be hoping Nastos would open it, but two bottles between the two of them was way too much when they had things to sort out. He pushed the bottle aside and smiled at Carscadden.
“Maybe after this mess is behind me —” Nastos tried to change the subject. “ — Hopkins, that girl is nothing but trouble, I like her.”
“I know Nastos, she’s great.” Carscadden agreed.
“So when are you to going to do the deed?”
“I don’t know —” he began lamely.
“She likes you. Get her drunk and kiss her, hard. A real good one. The rest will look after itself, I’m telling you.” Nastos took a sip of water. “Madeleine liked this place last time we were here.”
“Bring her next time. Now let’s order, I think tonight’s going to be a long one and I need an hour to clear my head.”
CARSCADDEN WAS GLAD NASTOS HAD pushed the second bottle of wine away before they left to visit Maggie and Troy. In his glory days, he’d closed multi-million-dollar deals wasted and would slam back more Scotch by nine a.m. than most Marines did all day. It was nice to have those days farther and farther behind him.
They pulled up across the street and watched the house. The fall sun was long gone but most of the streetlights were working. The neighbourhood was like post-war Europe except for the signs of electricity and newer shit-box cars in the driveways. The rows of houses were derelict — some with misshapen laundry lines, some with smashed windows and crooked wall boards. Plastic shopping bags and empty water bottles littered the streets and sidewalks, grass was over-grown. Patchy, half-hearted paint jobs were sun-bleached and peeling away from years of neglect.
There were black and East Asian kids dotted along the streets, listening to awful electronic music. Some were playing basketball; others were just standing around, maybe waiting to see a street fight. The rest were content enough to slouch against buildings and spit on the ground occasionally, trying to appear dangerous.
Carscadden had seen Vancouver city streets filled with such kids, although more violent and more drugged-up than these punks, but he found them dangerous enough just the same. When he passed by a group of five or more, he unconsciously slowed, allowing Nastos to walk ahead a little.
Carscadden took a position right in front of the door. Nastos shrugged and took a step off to the side, smiling and shaking his head. The doorbell rang. Carscadden saw lights on inside. The tv was loud enough to hear from outside; cycles of canned laughter, ohhhs, ahhhs, then shouts of Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! When the door squeaked open, he barely noticed.
“What you need?” Carscadden recognized Troy’s voice from the inch-wide gap between the door and the frame. It seems like he has a job after all. He smiled to Nastos to say it was the guy they wanted.
“Troy, I just need to talk to you for a second.”
“Oh, you again. Sure thing,” Troy said.
Carscadden was smiling at Nastos like things were going smoothly when the door flew open and Troy burst out, waving a cast-iron fire poker over his head.
“Get the fuck out of here, white boy; I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Troy poked the sharp end at Carscadden, whose arms were spinning wildly backwards as he tried to get out of range. His back slammed into the loose top edge of the wooden banister, arching him over backwards. The ragged edge scraped up his spine, peeling back a few layers of skin, while Troy continued at him and pressed the fire poker under his chin.
“Still want to talk, buddy? Still got something on your mind?”
“I don’t want any trouble — keep the drugs, I just need some paperwork from Maggie.” Carscadden’s voice was strained and he had bent backwards too far to even see Troy, much less make a move against him.
The first bullet tore just past his left ear. Muzzle blast — the hot pressurized gases and debris from inside the gun’s barrel — burned his face like acid. His heart pounded like a bird trapped in a cage, his ear
ached and the blast burn felt like blood dribbling down his face.
“Oh, and it’s a close shave for the white boy. I was aiming for your ear. Now stay still.” The second round didn’t feel as close. If Troy had wanted to shoot him, he would have. He was probably just having a bit if fun — a little show for the punks on the street. But he was on drugs, and he could get careless and put a bullet between his eyes. Jesus Christ, Nastos, do something.
“I’m keeping the drugs, motherfucker, you can bet on that, and as far as paperwork from Maggie goes, I’m between attorneys, so you’re just going to have to fuck off for the time being. Got that, punk?” Troy pushed the poker in farther, lifting Carscadden off his feet. He considered just flipping back over the railing onto the ground behind him — it was only a five-foot drop. Only under circumstances like these would that seem like a fantastic idea.
He heard a click then a loud thump, which was followed by a scream. Then another thump and a louder scream. The poker dropped from his neck and he saw Nastos smashing a piece of the wooden banister over Troy’s head. Carscadden lunged past Troy, who was splayed out on the deck, shaking his head as he tried vainly to clear out the cobwebs. Nastos grabbed Carscadden by the arm and made for the truck. He dropped the banister and matched him stride for stride.
The street kids stepped back; they had watched everything silently, enjoying the evening’s main event, but now they were talking loudly.
One kid shouted, “Way to knock it out the park, Canseco,” which earned him some jack-o’-lantern smiles from his half-toothed posse.
Carscadden and Nastos got in the truck and Nastos hit the gas. “What the fuck were you waiting for?” Carscadden asked.
Nastos shook his head. “I was waiting for him to not have the gun pointing right at your face when I whacked him.” He checked the rear-view to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Maybe from now on, we’ll have the accused murderer deal with guys like Troy after all, eh? How’s your throat?”
Carscadden flipped down the sun visor and checked his face in the mirror. “Feels like a sunburn.” He rubbed and stretched his neck. “My back hurts more.”