Torque

by Glenn Muller

  “This better be good.”

  “Just thought you should know; we tailed him from the lab and goosed him around Barton Street.” The voice had a smoker's nettle to it.

  Back in the bed, Reis pulled the pillows up behind her.

  “And just what did you do to ‘goose’ him, R. J.?” The flatness of her tone made the caller pause.

  “We followed him around town for a bit, then I drove up beside his car and Brick put a shotgun blast across the bow. Man, was he spooked!”

  “So you goosed him and you spooked him,” she said dryly. “Anything else?”

  “Uh. Yeah. He took off and we gave chase until he cut down an alley. Brick helped him on his way with a couple more shots, you know, over his head. We couldn't follow anymore but you only wanted us to put a burr up his tail. Right?”

  Now fully awake, Reis sat a little straighter.

  “Are you telling me that you guys fired a shotgun, three times, in downtown Hamilton in the middle of the night? Were you both born crazy, or was that something you contracted as kids?”

  She could almost hear the gears turning while he fathomed an appropriate response.

  “You wanted him bounced—we bounced him. It would have been just as easy to take the packet off the guy, you know. You could have had it by now.”

  “If you had cornered him, he might have damaged it or tossed it. I just wanted Svoljsak to have some incentive to move it along before he got funny ideas of his own. Besides, if your idea of putting a scare into him is to wake up half the city, what would you have done to take him down—blown up a couple of blocks? My God. You guys have all the subtlety of a Sherman tank, and only half its brains.”

  The loss of sleep had only served to sharpen her tongue, though deriding a moron was hardly a fair contest. The lack of response prompted her to get on with the business at hand.

  “All right, R. J., I asked you to pressure him and you say you did, so we’ll move on.” She softened her voice. “Your bull in a china shop routine might come in handy, yet.”

  “You mean you want us to find him again?”

  “No. I'll take care of that. Go home and get some shut-eye. I'll call you later in the week.”

  A hacking cough on the other end was followed by his nettley, “Yeah. All right.”

  The line clicked to silence.

  It was now four-thirty.

  == == ==

  The large city block was a warren of small alleyways. Unable to follow, the big American four-door had given up the pursuit. Svoljsak made one tight turn then another before he sensed an element of safety and came to a stop. A prickling low voltage charge ran under the dampened armpits of his shirt and sweat trickled down his back. He shoved the gearshift into Park and squirmed out from behind the wheel. With the door ajar and engine running he walked cautiously back to the previous alley and peered around the corner.

  All was quiet.

  The short return walk helped to slow his heart rate and calm him down. He pulled the big flashlight from the duffel bag and made a survey of the damage.

  All in all he’d been damned lucky not to get a flat tire from a shotgun blast, or when he’d hit the curb, though the latter had bent one of the rims and probably screwed up the alignment. There was a star crack in the rear window and several small dings in the hatch. The hood looked like it had been whipped with a chain.

  At least the damage was less noticeable on an old beater like this than it would be on a fancier ride. For now he was just glad it was still drivable. It was another victory of sorts and he looked around for his cigar. It lay beneath the brake pedal, crushed. He flicked it down the alley, lit a cigarette, then leaned back against the car.

  The rain had stopped but an enveloping mist draped a phosphorous glow over the city. Daybreak was yet a couple of hours away and he wondered how long the sedan would patrol the block. With his option of exits from the maze of back passages, the chance of meeting his assailants again, tonight, would require an extreme case of bad timing.

  They had to be connected with the Simedyne job. No one else would have known where and when to pick him up. He took another deep drag on his cigarette and peered down the lane into the darkness. It was actually quite a peaceful hideaway.

  Just then the car’s automatic cooling fan kicked in. It sent a jolt of adrenaline through his veins and he instinctively ducked for cover.

  “Cut that out!” He lashed out with his boot and put a dent in the fender.

  Enough of this crap. He needed to find a payphone—and maybe a mailbox. He heard sirens approaching. The gun-toting goons wouldn’t stick around for that sort of attention, and neither would he. His exit from the alley was a few blocks from the highway which he took to a truck stop a few kilometres east. He parked as inconspicuously as anyone could park a car that had been chummy with a shotgun and headed for the restaurant’s bright and inviting entrance.

  There were a few patrons, most of them taking a break from the road. A Caribbean-looking trucker with dreadlocks occupied both the payphones—leaning on one while talking on the other. Svoljsak caught part of the conversation as he passed:

  “… and they said they haven’t been paid for that load … Yeah, Mon … I know that … but they won't let me take it away … Okay … Okay … so what should I do?”

  He found an empty booth that gave him a view of the entrance and the phones, and slumped into it. Jeans and an apron appeared beside him and he looked up to see the waitress. Average looking and probably in her forties, her expression was neutral as she wiped the table.

  “Coffee?”

  He cradled the cup, his rough tar-stained fingers absorbing the therapeutic warmth. The swirling cream in the black liquid was hypnotic and his mind strayed to the woman who had set him on this path. She remained as mysterious as she was enigmatic and not knowing her full name wasn’t all that important in this game. In fact, for Svoljsak, it had enhanced their encounters rather than detracting from them.

  Their only meeting after Hanlon Place had been on the site of a vacant strip mall still under construction. It had been a Sunday yet Brittany wore corporate attire; a dark purple skirt and short jacket over a blouse a shade lighter. She'd explained the location was convenient since she had to check it out for a client.

  Within the confines of freshly installed wallboard and the papered-over windows of one of the units, details of the heist had been delivered in a sterile monotone. Businesslike, though not exactly what he’d prepped himself for.

  “Do you need me to repeat anything?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow night about the car. Stay by your phone because if I get an answering machine I’m hanging up.”

  “Understood.”

  Then, without taking her eyes from his, she’d simply unbuttoned her blouse and stepped forward. The dry skin of his fingers had caught on the lace of her bra until he found the release between her breasts. Her nipples hardened beneath his thumbs and after a moment her hands reached down to unfasten his slacks. Kneeling before him with one knee on the dusty floor she had tugged on the waistband of his briefs, and the memory of his fingers woven into her long dark hair aroused him, now, as her mouth had, then.

  “Ready to order?” the waitress was back.

  “Oh. Yes. Sausage and eggs.” He hoped his expression hadn’t given away the nature of his thoughts.

  “White or brown toast?”

  “White.”

  The waitress refilled his cup and went to the kitchen. Over at the phones the trucker's conversation had just ended. Apparently unsatisfactorily, for the dreadlocks shook all the way to the washrooms.

  CHAPTER 15

  Svoljsak slid from the booth and dredged a few coins from his pocket. Among them was the small Peruvian talisman he carried for luck. He stood it on the metal shelf, slotted coins into the box, and began punching numbers.

  There were two rings before she answered.

  “Tell me it’s you.” The voice that blew in
to his ear had a sensual quality that conjured up an image of satin sheets and silk pyjamas.

  “Yeah. It’s me!” His throat felt raspy. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and coughed.

  “Well. Did you get it?”

  That was not so alluring. Svoljsak’s fantasy dissolved.

  “Of course I got it,” he replied with a flash of annoyance. “It’s right here.”

  There was silence on the other end. She wouldn’t know of the attack. With his free hand he massaged the back of his neck.

  “There may be a bit of a problem. Two goons just tried to blow my head off.”

  “What! Where are you now?”

  “At a truck stop just off the highway. Casablanca Boulevard.”

  “Where?”

  “Grimsby—you know, past Hamilton on the way to Niagara Falls.”

  “I know where Grimsby is. I just didn't hear you.”

  Svoljsak now lapsed into silence.

  “Sorry, lover. I’m not at my best without a full night’s sleep. I’ve been lying here thinking about you.”

  “And what have you been thinking?”

  “I was so worried that something unexpected might happen.”

  “Well something unexpected damn well did. Have you any idea who those other guys might be?”

  “The cosmetic trade is a cut-throat industry. Some companies will go so far as to hire mercenaries to get the latest formula. Now I feel bad that I didn’t warn you of something like that.”

  This was more like the script he’d imagined. He played up to it.

  “And just how bad do you feel? Never mind—you can show me later. I gotta tell you, though, from where I stand it looks like there’s a mole in your organization.”

  “I think you are right, and I’m going to look into it. Luckily I picked the right man for this job. You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

  “Nah. I'm fine. Nothing I couldn't handle.” He gave it the all in a day's work spin.

  “Think you can handle me?” she purred.

  “Just say where and when, Baby.” She’d be drowsy and warm and loosely wrapped in a rumpled duvet.

  “How about we finish the job at hand, first. Where’s the disc?”

  “In the envelope, which is in my pocket. Maybe this hot little item should float around the mail system for a few days to cool off.”

  “That’s why we have a back up plan, Stanley.” She gave him a post office box address in Burlington. He wrote it down but not on the label, and then said, “So when do we meet?”

  There was a pause. “I’m booked into a convention, today. It might run late but if I'm not too tired I can stop by your place when I'm done and we'll celebrate.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll stock the bar.”

  “Promise me you’ll take precautions, Stanley. As long as you have that package you’re a target. Unload it and make yourself safe. For me. Okay?”

  “Sure. And you keep it warm for me.” He wasn’t sure if that last bit made it down the line before the click.

  The waitress brought his food and refilled his cup. He ate heartily and having mopped up the egg with the toast he began to assess the situation with a critical eye.

  In his line of work, rules constantly changed and alliances were fleeting. Everyone had an angle. He had an angle and no doubt the woman had one, also. The only thing trustworthy was gut instinct. While not infallible it did seem the older he got the more reliable that was. And at the moment Svoljsak was getting a sense of déjà vu.

  He took the amulet from his pocket. He put little credence in superstition yet, since Peru, the tiny figurine was something he always carried with him.

  “We’ve been through a lot, you and I,” he muttered, rolling it over in his palm. The gold was dull. Pure. He wrapped it in his fist for a moment then, coming to a decision, slipped it into the bubblepack envelope with the disc.

  == == ==

  Reis lay in the warm depths of her bed yet agitation denied her sleep. She rarely slept more than six hours, and energized by the project at hand had lately been getting by on less. Roger Aird's death had been an unexpected detour but she would soon be back on track and able to move ahead with the next phase. The possibilities were entering a dream state when Svoljsak had called.

  Surprise. Sympathy. Seduction. Whatever he'd needed to hear. Predictably, the suggestion of sex had elicited the best response from her caller, as well as from her own body. Sleep was definitely out of the question now so she made her way to the shower. With arms outstretched to the wall she leaned under the spray and let her head hang low. The pulsing water hit the back of her neck and blanketed her shoulders. It ribboned down her sides then trickled around her legs in a myriad of threads.

  The heat lulled her back to the randomness that lurks on the edge of daydreams. The scene was Marty Durrell’s apartment. She saw herself reflected in a mirror, naked under his uniform jacket with the security guard cap perched jauntily on her red ringlets. She looked pretty good in that wig. Marty was laughing, reaching for her from the bed.

  The picture changed. His face was florid and strained, eyes wild with panic and disbelief. With particular clarity she saw the veins on his neck distend as his back arched in an uncontrollable spasm. The vision became vivid and engaged her senses. Legs bent and knees apart she stood as if to straddle a small pony, her skin increasingly sensitive to every fine jet of rain. Electrified from core to tip with flickering images of Durrell’s paroxysm, every sensation she’d felt was reproduced faithfully by a mind locked in a moment.

  That moment.

  She’d suppressed the memory for three days but there it was. Not a dream. Not even a nightmare. It was a reality that blocked the air in her throat and left her mouth open in shock. Durrell was dead, and she had murdered him.

  She had murdered a man for his clothes.

  The water temperature dropped, terminating the replay. Her legs grew weak and she slid down the wall to the floor of the stall. The spray became mixed with salty tears as she smacked the side of the cubicle with her palm. A wail emerged from her lungs and she sucked it back in with heavy sobs.

  It was Durrell’s own fault. He had made her do it. She had liked the guy. He was cute. If she’d thought he could be persuaded to do the job, she would have cut him in. But he was honest. Too honest for his own damned good. Now he was dead, out of the game, and she’d sucked Svoljsak’s dick to replace him.

  She brought her knees up to her chest. Damn them both.

  Women always have to work harder to get satisfaction in life. Her mother had told her that. Her mother had also said ‘There’s something wrong with you, child. Why can’t you show some emotion?’ She could, but only when events impacted her directly. Being detached was safe. Gave her an edge.

  Cancer claimed her father the year she started college. Her mother spent his life insurance money on a world cruise. It was a solo trip. ‘Nothing moves you, Brianna, so there’s no point in your coming,’ was the last thing Virginia Saldoreis ever said to her. Within a year Brianna had unofficially adopted the name Brittany and shortened Saldoreis to Reis.

  But her mother was wrong. Some things did move her. Money moved her. Power moved her. Sex moved her. She didn’t need to feel love, or even lust. It was the act of sex. The physical stimulus. The source generally didn’t matter.

  Her side began to ache and the hissing rain was no longer hot. She reached up to turn off the shower and the remaining warmth slowly dissipated as the water drained between her feet. The past was the past and she’d done what was necessary to move on. Now all she had to do was deal with the present. And job one was to dispose of a red ringlet wig.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Present for you.”

  “Take it back.”

  “Sorry, Evan.” The staff sergeant dropped a box onto the file cabinet and hitched up his belt. “Heatherington said that until Rowan's suspension is lifted we just have to close ranks. Take up the slack, as it were.”

  Detective Inspector La
reault grimaced and tossed a paper cup into the trash. He hated lukewarm coffee but that last bit of bagel had needed help going down.

  “Remind the Chief Super that she’s already got me on loan to Hamilton Homicide for two possibles, there's this funeral home thing, not to mention a case file on my desk so old it makes the Cold Squad nostalgic. Come on, Frank. Tell her we're busy.”

  Frank Bloomfield chuckled. “She's already heard it. In fact, she said one more budget cut and ‘We’re busy’ would become our automated message for 9-1-1 calls.”

  Lareault closed the case file he’d been working on.

  “Fresh or stale?”

  “Pretty fresh, though the body is a few days stale. Rowan had managed to get the immediates together, just before his re-assignment to ‘other duties’. Pictures, statements, Coroner's call. They're all in the file there. Plus a few bits on the mainframe you can download.”

  Bloomfield hitched up his belt again. Lareault figured Arlene must have him back on the diet. “This one’s got a bit of everything; sex, drugs, maybe even rock & roll,” the sergeant added.

  “You make it hard to say no, Frank. Give me the highlights.”

  The sergeant propped himself carefully against the cubicle wall. “Martin Wayne Durrell. Twenty-eight. Died from an injected overdose after, or maybe during, intercourse. Discovered naked in his bed by the ex-wife.”

  “Ex. Is she a suspect?”

  “They were still friendly, apparently. And, no: pubic hair ruled her out.”

  “Wrong colour?”

  Bloomfield appeared to have found something fascinating on the ceiling. “More like, she had some and the crime scene didn’t.”

  “Positively?”

  “Absolutely. Of the female variety, anyway. They did find one long strand of red hair but it probably won’t help us much.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Synthetic. From a wig—although if it does figure in, it could be evidence of a premeditated act. A disguise and all that.”

  “Accomplices?”

  “Doesn’t look like it, but Rowan may have had other things on his mind and missed something.”