by R. D. Cain
Nastos put his beer on the deck and stood up. “You’re fucking kidding me. How can you be sure?”
“He matches the description. He used to be a hell of a fighter too. Extradition — yeah, that was bullshit. Not this.”
NORTH’S CONDO WAS TIDY AND sparsely furnished with a modern minimalist feel, inside a building in East York’s Crescent Town. Both the stove and fridge were stainless steel; the countertop was granite and the kitchen floors tiled. The rest of the space — 1400 square feet — featured bamboo flooring and was decorated with oil paintings, all acquired before he left the employ of the police service. While no police officer’s base salary could afford this place, the various forms of graft money he had “earned” from his days in the drug unit had made this and much more possible.
He had this condo on the side. His wife had never known anything about it, which was a good thing since she would either have gotten it in the divorce or told the fine lads at Internal Affairs, who would have probably taken it, sent him to jail or told the Revenue Agency about his untaxed income — whereupon he would never have been able to earn an honest income again. At least now he could earn income from both streams: his private investigations business, which generally catered to crime organizations, and the under-the-table piece work he did for previous co-workers who had matters that they wished to be dealt with unofficially.
Now, with the glory days of ripping off drug dealers gone, so were his early retirement plans.
His condo’s patio faced southwest, with a view of the city lights, and he could see just enough of the lake to advertise a lake view should he ever want to sell. Even better though was the vacant construction lot straight down from his apartment. It was an acre of fenced-in gravel and abandoned construction scraps. There was supposed to be a strip mall going in, but it was held up in the zoning. It was perfect for North.
The doorbell rang and he got up. Checking the peephole to ensure there was just one man he opened the door. A middle-aged working-class black man handed North two hundred in cash. North took the money, flipped through the bills, and as the man left North turned back into his condo and closed the door. After fifteen minutes of working on the paper’s Sudoku puzzle and checking his BlackBerry for text messages, he promptly took an empty can of Coke Zero out of his recycling box, put in a baggie containing a few grams of cocaine from the freezer and went out to his balcony. He aimed and tossed the can to the same place as always, near a garbage Dumpster, then went back inside, back to the Sudoku. This was a frequent process for North, who did not even drink Coke — but at seventy-five profit a can, the investment was worth it.
He’d learned this trick while on the drug unit. They had arrested a man for trafficking cocaine and other drugs out of his house. Once the house had been identified, they watched discreetly as customers went to the door, made the buy then left. They would arrest and search the customers down the street, then release them without charges if they agreed to be a witness. After enough evidence was obtained, they raided the dealer’s place. Most of the cash and drugs were submitted as evidence, with the modest remainder split between the officers. Eventually the man was convicted and sentenced to home arrest, whereupon he went right back to business — only this time the man had started employing the Coke Can Method. This time, if police hassled the customers leaving, they would be left empty-handed. A reasonable time later, the buyer would return, look around the vacant lot — or in that case, neighbour’s backyard, find the lucky can of Coke and go on his way. North went straight to this advanced technique and even his friends who were still cops had no idea what he was up to.
His phone rang. “North.”
Koche asked delicately, “Did you get everything sorted out?”
North checked his watch for the time, then turned on his tv. “Yeah, I have the copies; I’ve had things to do here at the house this morning and didn’t want to email you anything or call you at work.”
“You could have sent a text.” Koche was pissed, but did not want to push too hard.
Using his tv remote, North switched the video feed to his computer instead of the cable. On screen was the live video coming from Dewar’s bathroom. The glass shower door was steamed up. Forgetting about Koche, he jacked up the volume and listened to the jet of water and splashing sounds. “I just have to look after something, then I can meet you anytime you want, okay?”
“And I need one more thing, something extra and easy.”
“Fire away.”
“We need a testimony job for the trial. The cleanest guy you can get who’ll be solid.”
“Five grand.” North winced a little when he said it, thinking he had gone too high.
“Deal.”
I love the private sector. “What’s he have to say?”
“Just that he saw Nastos leaving the park that night.”
“That’s it?” North asked.
“That’s it.”
North shrugged. “Sure.”
“I’ll send the witness statement over, I want your guy to memorize it cold. Send a text when you’re good to meet.”
“Okay, bye.” North said.
“Bye.”
The image on the tv changed when the glass door opened and Dewar stepped from the shower naked. North took a seat on the couch, leaning back to enjoy the view. He was in no rush; it was all being recorded. She reached for a towel, bending forward and wrapping it around her long, black hair. She grabbed another towel, putting it around her waist, and stood in front of the mirror. North’s BlackBerry buzzed with a text that he didn’t even hear. As Dewar braced one arm on the vanity, she began plucking her eyebrows in the mirror. When the towel around her waist fell off and to the floor, she just left it there and went back to plucking.
“You’re my kind of girl, Madam Prosecutor.”
NASTOS SAT OUTSIDE NORTH’S CONDO building in Carscadden’s pickup truck, holding a pair of binoculars. He’d seen three dirtbags go in and out. So far two Coke cans had come flying out the window he’d learned was North’s.
A picture of the man was beginning to form in Nastos’ mind: a marginalized, forgotten soldier who had been scapegoated and wanted a way back into the good graces of the establishment. North would know all of the tricks Nastos did, maybe even more. And he didn’t have bail or cops to worry about. He was anonymous and had little to lose. He wanted to go in there right now and deal with him, but that likely wasn’t a good idea. He put the truck in gear and drove back to Carscadden’s. He was going to have to plan this one properly. North was too dangerous; Nastos couldn’t do a half-assed job.
19
KOCHE SAT WITH SCOTT IN the office space, a large square room with pre-fabricated, taupe-coloured fabric cubicles in the centre and shoebox-sized offices around the perimeter. Scott’s office was in the back corner of the building, away from the main entrance and reception area. Dewar’s office was down a back hallway from there. Her own receptionist, like most of the others, was gone for lunch, leaving a skeleton crew to ignore the phones as best they could.
Koche and Scott had the door propped open so they could see her when she came in. Koche had his feet up on his desk; he was scanning through the copied Nastos files and already he didn’t like what he saw. When a person was arrested, a court package was made up by the investigators. Everything remotely related to the case was supposed to be in there: documentation, forensic reports, witness statements, the synopsis of video interviews — everything.
Not all of the reports themselves were always present because some forensics or other evidence could still be getting worked on. But the lead investigator needed to have things referenced and organized so that everyone knew what was going on and what future evidence was in the process.
The court package had gone to the prosecution’s office; it had been signed off. An intake attorney had gone through it and made sure the basic information was there and even made a
few requests to the lead investigator, Clancy Brown, for Google Earth pictures, overviews and street-level shots. Eventually, the case had been assigned to Dewar and she had had carriage of the case from then on. Dewar sent a disclosure package over to Carscadden, but the two files weren’t a perfect match.
What annoyed Koche and stopped him in his tracks was the murdered dentist’s patient list. Every name on that list was a possible suspect, a person with just as much of a motive to kill the dentist as Nastos. Yet four of the names were blacked out on her list. Carscadden’s list was a typed version that didn’t show the redacted names. That was a big omission. Dewar knew of four other people with a potential motive to kill Dr. Irons whose names were missing. That was four people who didn’t have to provide alibis or even be interviewed. The defense was entitled to their names, but they weren’t being provided with them.
For the first time in thirty minutes, Koche spoke to Scott. “I see what you mean about the names. If Carscadden notices the glitch, he’ll get a long delay. He gets a long enough delay, it could cause problems.”
Scott agreed. “You watch. It’ll be some stupid thing like disclosure delays or omissions that get the fucking case tossed out.”
But it also piqued his interest. “Who do you think these people are, Scott?”
“Not a clue. I have no idea what shit Dewar is trying to pull. On one hand it’s like she’s trying to toss the case, on the other she’s playing hardball.”
Koche mused, “Maybe she’s actually bisexual.”
Scott’s face squinted up. “I don’t get it.”
Koche smiled. “Seems to me like she’s fucking everyone.” He laughed at his own joke, then laughed some more at Scott’s disgust.
DEWAR CAME IN THE FRONT doors past the receptionist area, always staffed during business hours. They called it the bubble since no one there had any privacy and they took turns working it throughout the day. The woman currently staffing the bubble was in her fifties and overweight. She dressed like it was the 1980s, wearing a poorly fitting grey business suit. She had been there for years and had proudly hated Scott longer than anyone.
“Hello, Ms. Dewar,” she said as Angela walked past.
“The name is Ang, Janice.”
“I think Jeff wants to see you, Ms. Dewar.”
Dewar smiled and walked by. “Thanks for the warning.” Rather than follow the common walkway, she took the long way around the cubicles to the back wall. There was a janitor walking toward the back room. She thought that seemed a little unusual since the janitorial staff normally didn’t start until five p.m. The janitor was wearing a blue one-piece overall and a baseball cap. He seemed to have something smudged on his neck. No, she corrected herself, it’s a tattoo. Where the heck did they get these guys, at their parole board hearings? She opened a door to the more private area and tried to sneak past Scott’s office on the left.
“Ms. Dewar, in my office, please.” Scott poked his head out of his door, staring at her as she walked past without slowing.
She spoke over her shoulder. “I’ll just drop my bag off first, be right back.” She felt Scott’s eyes running up and down her body; it was nothing new. It was more the relentless abuse that made her want to just shoot him dead. There was no mood that would make a person interested in talking to that man.
“No, right now!”
She turned and saw that he had stood up from his wheeled office chair. His blood pressure was up, his face flushed. Why does everything have to be a pissing contest? “I’ll be just a sec, what’s the big deal?” Scott’s tirades were common gossip in the department. He was always yelling at somebody. Dewar knew she was the only one who ever gave it back, usually because she was recording it. This time she didn’t have her recorder going and there was no chance that she could get it. She was going to have to handle him differently.
“Jesus Christ, Dewar, in my office.” Scott pushed his chair back behind his desk and pointed to the chair near the door. Without looking away from the folder on his lap, he said, “Sit down there.”
Dewar observed Koche there. He resembled the wolf who wanted Little Red Riding Hood.
“No, thanks, I’ll stand.” She came into the room, but left the door open, hoping the receptionists could hear or would maybe even come over to eavesdrop on yet another Dewar/Scott yelling match. This should get him up to full volume. Quietly, at almost a whisper, just under her breath, she said, “Just say what you have to say, asshole.”
His eyes narrowed, his lips curled up like he had just bitten into something sour.
“What the fuck?” he hissed at her. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“What?”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
“Hey, if you’re going to swear and shout, then I really don’t have time for this.” On her way out of the office, Dewar made eye contact with Janice, who acknowledged with a sad smile that she had heard it. And if Janice heard from the front, everyone heard. She headed for her office and her recording device.
“Get back in here!” Scott shouted to an empty doorway.
She shouted back over her shoulder, “I’ll wait till you cool down a little,” and just kept on going. She passed the door to the women’s washroom, where another receptionist, Penny, had been listening in, afraid to even walk past the office.
Penny whispered to Dewar, “Sooner or later we have to do something about him. What a misogynist.” She was only twenty-two, but didn’t seem the type to want to take shit from Scott her entire working life.
Dewar agreed. “Tell me about it.” Looking toward her office, she saw the janitor come out through her door and walk away from her. Blue overalls, tattoos and an expensive black leather briefcase. What’s a janitor doing with — hey, that’s mine! He glanced back over his shoulder, turned away and began moving faster to the staircase and exit ahead.
She asked, “Hey, can I help you?”
The man broke off into a full sprint. Dewar took off after him, leaving Penny in the dust. Without slowing his stride, North kicked the exit door open and thundered down the stairs as fast as he could go. Dewar tried to keep up, but the man spiralled down the stairs effortlessly. He found the main floor fire doors that opened with an access card, which he lacked. When the doors didn’t yield, he went immediately through the first-floor office space, occupied by a private company. A woman shrieked in surprise, curling her arms over her head as North plowed into her, knocking her to the ground, and kept rolling.
A man who had heard the ruckus came out of his office. “What the fuck?” He fared no better than the secretary, getting launched back into a wall before sliding to the floor. North made it to the main doors and left through the front of the building. By the time Dewar got to the man in the hallway, the janitor was long gone.
“Damn it!” She pounded her fist into the wall.
“Who the hell was that?” The man got to his feet slowly. He was in his thirties, fit and wearing an expensive suit.
“I don’t know — did he touch anything we can fingerprint?”
“Just my face.” The man stepped past Dewar and helped the secretary to her feet.
“You okay, Beth?”
The woman smoothed out her outfit and brushed her short brown hair back from her face. “Oh yeah, I do Pilates, a lot of treadmill work — that was nothing.”
Dewar handed the man her business card. “There’s my card and my email. When you get the video from your it department, print off a still shot of that guy and send it to me, okay? He stole things from my office upstairs. I’m one of the prosecutors.”
“Hey, sure thing.” He read the card, front and back. “Hey, you might want to write down your home phone number in case we need to talk later.” He smiled coyly.
The secretary shook her heard, saying, “Nice, Romeo, guess we can’t blame you for trying.”
&nbs
p; Dewar returned to her office to find that it appeared untouched. The computer was off, her pen and message pad were still in the centre of her desk. She took a seat in her chair and checked her desk drawers. They were all closed, but when she pulled them one by one, they were all unlocked. She pulled out the bottom drawer all the way and saw that her audio tapes of Scott were all missing. Even the recorder was gone.
“Oh, great.” She had a sick feeling run through her body. It felt like a trap door had just opened under her feet. “So he’s got the list too. It was in the case.” She put her hands over her face and rested her elbows on the desk. Her phone rang, but she did not even flinch at the sound. After five rings, it stopped on its own, probably going to voicemail. She leaned back in her chair, pulled out her cell phone and dialled a number.
“I just chased some guy out of my office — he got the list. . . . No, I have no idea who, but I’m working on it. I think we’re going to have to bring Carscadden in on this one.”
20
September 30, 2011
NORTH STOOD SLOUCHED, HIS BACK against the building across the street, reading the newspaper, watching them. With another day of trial behind them, Nastos and Carscadden walked together out of the court building and down the stairs and then turned north on the sidewalk. The office was still a mess from the break-in and Carscadden had no intention of letting Nastos see it that way. While they bounced around ideas such as Thai, Indian, steak or pasta, they were both oblivious to North.
When the two got in front of him, North put his paper in a recycling receptacle and began to follow. North was excited to be so close to them without their noticing. He was becoming so deeply involved with the intimate details of their lives, but even if they were to look right at him, they would have no idea who he was.
With his short hair, but not a crew cut, and an expensive business suit, he had the perfect urban camouflage. When Carscadden and Nastos turned toward the parking lot, he began dialling his phone.