by Richard Cain
Falconer stepped out from the kitchen, using a finger to smooth out her lip gloss. “It’s beautiful out; I’m going for a walk.”
Karen noted the white capris and white tank top Falconer was wearing. Her hair was like something out of a Bon Jovi music video. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Where are you going?”
Karen had never been a coward. Even with a dad who was a cop and over-protective of his daughter, she was raised with a cop’s street smarts. However, since Walker was shot to death and after hearing the Life and Times of Ann Falconer, weariness was becoming paranoia.
“I’m going to the park,” Falconer replied. It was a lie, a rehearsed statement offered almost before the question was asked. Falconer wasn’t exactly a nature lover; she was a former prostitute with a not-so-former drug addiction. “And where were you anyways? I thought you’d be back sooner.”
“I was meeting with my friend. Ann, I told you, he’s going to help us find out who shot Rob. Are you sure you really want to do this, with everything that’s going on?”
She raised a defiant chin and proudly charged for the door. “I won’t be too late.”
“If you need some money I’d rather loan it to you than for you to do anything dangerous.”
Falconer found the mirror on the wall by the front door and checked her hair, sweeping it back from her face and smiling to herself. Her demeanour changed for Karen. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
And that sentence was the one that sent Karen over the edge. They both knew that the one thing Falconer needed most was a handler or Falconer wouldn’t be freeloading with her. No rent, unrestricted food; she could at least clean the place up a little.
“Ann, I know what you’re doing. I’m not stupid. You’re raising money for drugs. If you want some cash for a bag of weed I’ll give it to you — if it helps you relax. I just don’t want you hooking for hard drugs. It’s too dangerous with everything that’s going on. There are men looking for you —”
“My name is Martina Svobadova.” Falconer left the mirror and stormed over to the door. She slipped on her white shoes, two-inch clunky heels with silver buckles, and gripped the door handle. “You’d rather I stay here? So you can put on your video and ask me a hundred more questions? How’s your little book coming along? You’re going to make millions and millions from my life story and you don’t want the golden goose out of your sight? I can write my own life story. I don’t need you.”
“You don’t need me? Take a look around, Ann — sorry, Martina. You came here looking for help and I brought you into my home. All I ask is that you don’t do anything to make things more dangerous than they already are!”
Falconer wrenched the door handle and pulled it open. “All you care about is you.” She slammed the door behind her.
Karen couldn’t tell if the thumping she heard was the sound of Falconer stomping down the hallway or the blood pounding in her head. Damn, her cellphone. She went into Ann’s room and searched for the phone. The room was a mess, a collection of empty Coke cans on the dresser. Clothes, clean and dirty, on the floor. She found the phone charger plugged into the wall on the floor but there was no sign of the phone and she didn’t know the number to call it. She thought back to Nastos telling her to get rid of it, that it could be traced. At least she’s not here, and when she comes back, it’s going down the garbage hatch.
She went to the kitchen, tugged open the fridge door and gripped a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, then a second and carried them out to the balcony. She sat in her wicker chair, kicked her shoes off and rested her aching legs on the cool railing before twisting open one bottle and taking a long slug. She leaned back and used the other cool bottle to ice her head.
It barely took five minutes to get the two drinks down. She tried to tell herself that it was because they were invigorating with a witty, crisp flavour and not because Falconer was driving her to alcoholism. Karen gathered her two empties and put them in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. She opened the fridge and took an inventory of food. She had a steak marinating for the barbecue that was still mostly frozen. “Looks like today is the cheat day this week.” She resigned herself to having to order pizza and finish off the last of the lemonade coolers.
The cellphone needed a charge so she plugged it in and left it on the microwave and went to her bedroom to get the home phone. Right away she noticed that her bed was a mess. She always made it in the morning. And even though two drinks were starting to work their magic she clearly recalled making it today. Falconer had been in there. A sick feeling hit her like cresting the first hill of a roller coaster. She forced herself to check the wastebasket by the bed and found balled-up Kleenexes.
When she worked the Sexual Assault Unit with Nastos she had to escort the Child Protection Workers while they checked in on single moms with drug habits or vulnerable lifestyles. She had learned to find the most subtle signs of women working in the sex trade. Dozens of balled-up Kleenexes was a sign. Living with a former and suspected prostitute and seeing evidence like this was enough that she could no longer deny the obvious. Falconer had been working in the apartment all day, and planned on working all night on the streets. Hell, if I had one of those CSI blue lights they’d see the apartment from the fucking Space Station.
Karen gingerly grabbed the sheets and blankets from the bed by the corner and dragged them to the floor. She was going to stop at the laundry room but with the objectivity that alcohol provides she decided what the hell. She heaved the bedding and pillows down the hallway. She propped open the door and flipped the top swivel lock so the door couldn’t lock behind her, then snaked the bedding down the hall and left them in a heap near the garbage chute.
She came back inside, washed her hands in the kitchen sink then took the last two lemonade coolers out of the fridge. They weren’t going to be enough but there were a few bottles of wine in the cabinet in the dining room. Her cellphone hadn’t charged enough to reconnect to the network but she did see that four messages waited for her, all from her boss, Megan Swan. Two were voicemail, the last were text messages. Karen, you need to produce SOMETHING, you’re two weeks OVER deadline. Call me when you get this.
Megan had begged her to at least produce some fluff work. Ten reasons women can live without men, things to pack into carry-on luggage, anything, but it wasn’t in her nature. When she thought she’d have the Rob Walker story, being a few days late would not have been a big deal. Then the Ann Falconer story came to her and it was worth the next few days of being late. Now she was two weeks behind and she hadn’t produced anything and it was slowly exploding in her face.
She resigned herself to the fact that she would be fired within days and decided she’d rather ignore the messages than call Swan and say something self-destructive.
She dialed the local pizza place by memory and ordered a large Hawaiian with extra pineapple then retreated to her previous position the balcony. She listened to the sound of the city. The pervasive din of traffic, thunder from a passing jet. She observed the serenity of a clear blue sky being sliced in two by the aircraft’s vapour trail. With Falconer ripping her life apart, she thought she could relate.
Ann, you bitch. She sipped at the third cooler hoping it would last until the pizza arrived and pondered Ann’s strategy. Trying to make so much money so fast means you’re planning on running. You’ll go to the streets, won’t make it alone and will eventually trust the wrong person. You’ll get found and be dead within a week. You’ll bring them back to me and I’ll be dead too. She forced herself to pause after the third bottle. She had plenty more booze but it was wine and didn’t taste as good with pizza as the hard lemonade.
She regretted meeting Ann, regretted the death of her man Rob Walker — even though she had nothing to do with it — and regretted about a million other things in her life. She sighed and thought of Nastos. If I got him would it be worth this? Yeah, probably. With him in h
er mind she stood and checked her phone again. This time it was able to connect to the network. She brought it and the charger outside and plugged it in again.
It was close to three p.m. now. The afternoon sun was on the other side of her building. She sipped from her bottle watching the building’s shadow slowly stretching out. The phone began to ping that she had new messages. She pressed a button to wake the screen and saw that Nastos had sent an email. She opened the attachments and saw two pictures of young men wearing brand new police uniforms. She noticed that it had been forwarded from Jacques Lapierre.
A feeling came over her that took time to decipher. She decided it was the payoff. Her instincts had been right. Falconer had watched cops shoot Walker, which meant that she was going to break the biggest news story in Toronto. She had the sole witness living with her, and hours and hours of exclusive interviews. Falconer still needed to see the pictures but these guys matched the description perfectly. She returned to the balcony to wait for the pizza, this time with her laptop, and began writing, mostly questions, quick observations. She typed a few sample intros and headlines, nothing more than brainstorming. The real work would begin tomorrow. After Falconer gave the positive ID, it would be enough to go to the editor. Plus it would be enough to get Falconer other accommodations, with another babysitter while Karen could write the story.
7
Dave Morrison was running faster than the threshold of pain. With each stride he stretched forward, his mid-foot striking the ground, then the momentum of his body rolled the centre of gravity forward to the ball of his foot then his hamstrings flexed and like a slingshot launched his body forward again for another stride. This was happening with a blinding speed, his legs a blur. It was just a matter of time before the lactic acid weighed his legs down, making the sidewalk feel like wet cement, so he never took his eyes from Terry McLeish, the man who was trying to escape.
Running at that speed for that long had all but silenced the cluttered monologue in his head and everything had become simple for Morrison. If he gets away, I’ll just kill myself.
Off duty, in street clothes, this was another one of Radix’s great ideas on how to scrounge money. McLeish was a mid-market pot dealer supplying his co-workers at the nuclear plant where he worked in maintenance. He was a fit, professional drug dealer who didn’t smoke his own product. Away from work and the blue overalls, he was the kind of guy with the perfect smile and sweater wrapped around his neck that no one would suspect of doing anything more criminal than wearing white pants after Labour Day.
The traditional behavioural profiling had kept him out of trouble with the police. Getting tipped off to this guy’s hobby job was a godsend to Morrison and Radix, considering their financial pressures.
Radix had said this would be an easy one, a quick surprise takedown, then they’d hit a park to count the money. He could have mentioned that this kid runs like Donovan Bailey and can smell a cop as easily as he can smell bacon sizzling on a campfire. And ripping off pot dealers wasn’t a long-term solution to their problems. It barely bought time until they came up with a better option.
Morrison tripped over his own two feet taking a corner around a building, sprawling to the ground and clambering back up. He was oblivious to the road rash on his hands and knees. Pain could wait until later. Nearly up to full speed again, he hurdled a trash can, landing too heavily and knocking a teen girl flying into a parking meter, her iPod flying into traffic.
He’s a legit target. Be solid. Run solid.
Morrison took exaggerated long breaths. Except for McLeish, the entire world disappeared. McLeish led Morrison south on Jarvis Street, under the Gardiner Expressway, deking through traffic. Cars locked up their brakes, drivers hit their horns. McLeish tore through a parking lot crossing over to Queens Quay on an angle. It was here that Morrison detected McLeish’s first signs of cracking. His stride had shortened, his arms swung more as if he were trying to pull himself through the air and he was even pushing off of parking signs to try to maintain speed while Morrison closed the gap. With a steady pace, consciously sucking in more air to prepare for the inevitable fight upon capture, Morrison was ready to rip him to pieces.
A horn bleated, stirring Morrison from his tunnel vision. He glanced to see Radix in his truck appear out of nowhere, driving parallel to the chase. At first Radix pulled up alongside Morrison and shook his head like he was ashamed of Morrison’s efforts. Morrison was too tired to hate him in that moment.
Radix shouted, “Hurry and catch him, you big fucking vagina.” He beat the truck’s baseboard with a hammer fist.
Morrison felt a gush of relief that it would be over soon. They wouldn’t have to go to the property lockers for a while and McLeish was about to pay for making him run so hard.
Radix lurched ahead through traffic and pulled alongside McLeish. He shouted something that Morrison couldn’t hear from a distance but McLeish slowed considerably. For good measure Radix aggressively turned to the right at the next intersection, bumping into McLeish and knocking him sideways onto his ass.
The chase was over. Morrison slowed to a jog. By the time he stopped at the truck, Radix had McLeish handcuffed and sitting in the back seat of his personal pickup truck. Pedestrians stared sideways at them, not knowing whether to be relieved that undercover cops had arrested someone who likely deserved it or pissed off by the way they had done it. Morrison eyed the thick and heavy backpack McLeish had been carrying and decided he didn’t care what they thought.
McLeish was hunched over, sucking air, a defeated, scared expression on his face. Radix unstrapped McLeish’s backpack and tossed it into the bed of his truck. Radix said, “Hop in, let’s move someplace more private.”
Morrison nodded, too tired to speak. McLeish pulled his legs into the truck and Morrison closed the door behind him. Radix went back over to the driver’s side and drove a few car-lengths down a side street then jerked the truck to a stop. Large maple trees loomed overhead providing shade and a sense of seclusion.
Surveillance on McLeish had been an all-day effort. They watched him complete transactions with a few men in Moss Park. These weren’t high-school dime-bag sales. This guy was bigger, selling a few ounces at a time to monthly buyers.
Morrison and Radix had caught it all on video. Radix had relished taking note of these men’s licence plates for future reference, suggesting that they could start their own blackmail scam.
Morrison could practically smell the money sitting just waiting to be counted in that plump backpack. Let’s get rid of this asshole and get on with it. He waited to catch his breath before he spoke. Radix turned to the prisoner in the back seat but before he could say anything a police car pulled up alongside him.
Morrison felt a knot of anxiety ball up in his stomach. His eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped open in abject fear. He recognized the cop as Brad Sweeney, a young blond kid with spiky hair and a permanent smile. Sweeney would know both of them and their work assignments and that they weren’t supposed to be out doing plainclothes jobs.
Radix dropped his window down. He had a calm demeanour, like this kind of thing was all in a days’ work. “Hey, man.” He flipped open his wallet so the cop could see the tin. “We’re doing some work for Intel. We were following this guy but can’t say much more. It’s all good in the ’hood, bro.”
Sweeney exited his car and came around. “Yeah, I recognize you guys from the station. Didn’t know you were doing shit for Intel.” Sweeney was skeptical, he wasn’t buying it.
Radix said, “I hope you didn’t run my plate. If we get too many hits on the Intel plates we have to trade them out.”
The cop eyed Morrison then the guy in the back. “No. I was just driving the other way when I noticed the commotion.” He pointed to McLeish. “Who’s your friend?”
Morrison sighed. Sweeney didn’t run the plate so he may not know this is Radix’s truck. But if he gets any more s
uspicious this could be the end of it. An image came into his mind, the face of betrayed shock on Rob Walker’s face when he had panicked and shot him, the image of cops coming to his door to arrest him for murder.
Radix lied glibly, “We were in the Lawrence Market. Buddy here picked the wrong time to try a purse snatch.”
McLeish protested, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Morrison said, “Shut up, kid, no one asked you.”
McLeish was only louder. “What kind of corrupt assholes — fucking cops in this town man, I’m telling you . . .”
Radix shrugged at Sweeney with an easy smile. “You know when they call you corrupt that you’re doing your job right.”
Sweeney didn’t smile. He eyed McLeish then the back of the truck. “What did he take, the backpack?”
“That’s mine, you fucking thieves.” McLeish’s mouth hung open. He said to Sweeney, “This is total bullshit man.” He craned his neck trying to get Sweeney’s attention, “Call your supervisor, would ya?”
Radix turned to McLeish. “Oh yeah, we’ll call a supervisor. And after he sees the pound of weed in your bag I’m sure he’ll agree that this is just one big misunderstanding.”
Sweeney eyed the bag and pursed his lips. Morrison sprang from the truck jabbing a finger at McLeish, “Don’t you fucking move.” He slammed the door and joined Sweeney near the back of the truck. Radix came out to meet with them.
Sweeney took a breath and said, “You two fucking guys, in your own truck, off duty, doing this kind of stuff? Have fun writing up this shit-show.”
Radix smiled. “It’s not like that, it’s —”
“It’s about wanting to get promoted. Everyone at the station knows what you guys are up to, trying to make names for yourselves. I’ve heard the stories, but holy shit, I can’t believe it.”
“Sweeney, come on . . .”