Torque

by Glenn Muller

  Lareault had a respect for the big sergeant that was shared by the entire department. A bullet from a Saturday Night Special had ended Bloomfield’s detective days, but it was retirement that began to drain the life from him. His part-time posting as staff sergeant was a good deal all round.

  “Which way does it lean, Frank?”

  “Forensics vacuumed everything, and the ex-wife affirmed the victim wasn’t interested in little girls, so we’re looking for a woman who is intimate with her Gillette.”

  “The victim overdosed. A junkie?”

  “There was but a single needle mark, below the left shoulder blade, and Durrell was no contortionist. The coroner thinks he was either jabbed from behind or, more likely, the couple were sitting conjoined, facing each other on the bed. The perp could then reach around the victim and stick him in the back. After that, Collier said, she likely got one hell of a ride.”

  Lareault took the lid off the file box and peered inside. For a copper it was like opening a treasure chest because the contents always unveiled a mystery. It was sort of a consolation prize for being lumbered with someone else’s case.

  “Feel like some overtime?”

  “Arlene'll shrink my undershorts, but okay.” Frank rubbed his nose. “What do you need?”

  “Harrowport & Dynes. The funeral home volunteered their services for the two street kids but there could be more to it.”

  “What’s the scoop on the kids?”

  “Two separate incidents. Collier said one was high and wandered in front of a car. The other one was an allergic reaction. Tongue swelled up and he suffocated.”

  Bloomfield grimaced. “Not nice but not unusual. Was there something more?”

  “They both had patches on their arms. Butterflies.”

  “Butterflies? What sort of gang is that—The Monarchs?” Bloomfield’s limp-wristed gesture made Lareault laugh.

  “Not gang patches. These are like what smokers use when they want to quit, except the active ingredients are different.”

  “And you think the funeral home is tied in?”

  Lareault shrugged. “The home is already on the radar for pilfering and fraud. Who knows what we’ll find once we start turning over headstones. We already have an undercover officer working the case but I could use an extra pair of eyes on the street. Just short term, and it may turn out to be a dull watch, so pack a flask.”

  “Good idea. I can tell Arlene I’m playing poker.”

  “I meant a coffee flask.”

  “Whatever. Tonight?”

  Lareault shook his head. His desk phone rang. “I'll make up a schedule in a day or so.” He picked up the handset. It was the coroner.

  “Evan? Dennis Collier. I finally remembered where I’d seen that patch before. We had a cerebral haemorrhage victim at Chedoke about two weeks ago. He had one in his wallet.”

  Lareault perked up. “Did you send it to the lab?”

  “Well,” Collier sounded embarrassed. “At the time I actually thought it was a fridge magnet. It was something I hadn’t seen before.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “All the personal effects were handed over to his lawyer, but her card is stapled in his file. I’ll send a copy over as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks, Dennis. I could use a decent lead,” Lareault began, but Collier wasn’t finished.

  “Then follow this: the deceased was a research scientist for a drug company, and,” he pressed as Lareault tried to comment, “it may be nothing, but the lawyer insisted we send him to Harrowport and Dynes.”

  “Just a sec, Dennis.” Lareault had grabbed a pen and was jotting it all down in shorthand. “You said the lawyer was female?’

  “That’s right. Not much in the way of personality but nicely developed in every other way.”

  “I don’t suppose she was a redhead?”

  Collier thought back. “No. This one had straight black or brunette hair.”

  “Okay. Well, you’ve got my number should you think of anything else. If you can fax me those papers I’d appreciate it.”

  “Will do.” Collier rang off and Lareault relayed the new information to Bloomfield.

  “What you’ve got here is a buffet,” the veteran cautioned. “Sure, you can pile everything onto one plate but there’s probably enough there for several meals. Take your time and figure out which of the ingredients compliment each other the best.”

  Lareault nodded, and smiled.

  “Hungry, Frank?”

  Bloomfield hitched his belt once more. “Maybe.”

  “Come on, then. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A tanker truck fire had turned the QEW through Oakville into a fume-ridden parking lot. Finally home, after weaving her way through congested side streets, Reis slipped off her jacket and shoes and flopped onto the bed. Conventions always made for a long day and The National Franchise Exposition at the International Centre in Toronto was huge. It always involved a lot of walking and a lot of talking but it was good for networking. A couple of the cards in her purse were from men actually interested in legal services.

  One of them expected a callback so she reached for the phone to let her boss know. The connection rang three times then her own taped voice cut in:

  “You have reached the office of Edward Hartman, Q.C.: civil litigation; wills and estates; family law, & notary public. We are presently closed, but your call is important to us. Please leave a message.”

  “Hi Ed. It went well. They all thought I was a partner. I may be late coming in but you need to call Peter Rennie of L. E. Parson & Sons, before noon, concerning a title search and transfer of ownership.” She gave the number and hung up.

  Ed Hartman was wheelchair bound. While he’d never let his handicap restrict him, since they’d taken on more real estate clients he had expanded Brittany’s role from legal-secretary to front-line businesswoman to ease the legwork. The situation lent credibility to the cards she’d printed with her name and personal number. It also gave access to connections like the West Coast investor she’d met this morning.

  He was the one attendee who had been accompanied by obvious muscle; an Armani-clad bone-crusher with a unibrow. Reis had freshened her lipstick, pulled the sag from her stockings, and introduced herself. Their conversation had been cordial and they’d spoken of mutual interests with broad strokes yet, at the end of it, both understood the kind of pharmaceutical venture she wanted to set up. When they parted the gentleman had given her a card with the phone number of Wharfmine Investment Group and said she should speak to Mr. Wray. It was exactly the introduction that Reis had been hoping for.

  Her current sponsor was a funeral director named Lucien Harrowport. Handsome, cultured, and married, Harrowport also fancied himself as a player and Brittany had fostered that desire. He’d been able to supply Roger Aird with cash and other hard to acquire items. Adequate in bed, he was generous with his presents and, someday, she might even let him have his BMW back. Where Harrowport had been a good resource to start her venture, Mr. Wray and Wharfmine Investments had the capabilities to take the project to the next level.

  She looked at Aird’s ugly computer sitting on her desk. Although it had burped up a couple more files Reis hadn’t had time to try all the obscenities the fat man had favoured for passwords. When Aird’s body showed up at the funeral home, Harrowport had not even suspected he was actually connected to the man. And Reis had not enlightened him.

  She peeled off her stockings, fell back on the pillow, and let the bed mould its warmth to her. Stanley Svoljsak, another loser, would be waiting for his turn but it was only eight-thirty p.m. and she needed to recharge.

  == == ==

  Reis slid a mirrored panel in front of its twin and plucked a red stretch-cotton dress from the closet. She chose matching heels from the Emelda section, and a knapsack-style leather bag with large zippers like those on her black bomber jacket. No stockings tonight. She freshened her face, checked her hair, and then went
for her favourite piece.

  Snug within padded slots, inside a walnut box lined with white satin, lay a rubber-stopped glass vial and an antique jade hairclip of oriental design. About the width of her thumb and slightly longer the dark green piece had a smooth undulating surface like that of an ocean swell. The underside had a narrow channel into which a brass tube had been fitted. One end of the tube had a flexible grommet valve.

  By inserting a thin hollow pipe into the grommet, fluids could be drawn into or released from the tube. The pipe for this application was a custom-made hypodermic needle. It served double duty as the hairclip’s fastener. The broad end of the needle swiveled on a tiny cantilevered hinge that enabled it to dock with the grommet. With practice, Reis found she could convert it with one hand, like a neat magician’s trick. The brass tube had a small slider on the side for pumping the desired contents.

  Originally, those contents would have been solutions of heroin, opium, morphine, or laudanum. According to the antique dealer the piece had been made in 1926 for a woman of considerable means to facilitate her considerable habit. Reis had a jeweler refit it with nylon seals and a modern high-tensile lance.

  The glass storage vial contained one of Aird’s exotic mixtures. He’d hinted that an adrenaline derivative and poison from an exotic toad were part of the mix and that she should be extremely careful with it. She’d thought he was kidding until the day she dripped a tiny portion onto the tip of her tongue, just to see if the set-up worked, and within minutes lay paralyzed upon the kitchen floor. For six hours her body buzzed with a pulsating electrical charge while her mind had streaked at warp speed throughout the galaxy. After that she’d cut it with water.

  Reis checked the mechanics by tucking the needle’s pointed end under a catch to make a clasp, then unfolding it until the broad end inserted into the grommet thereby completing the hypodermic. She worked the thumb button that slid the plunger rod up and down inside the brass tube, and then went to the sink for a seal test.

  Inspection complete, Reis returned to the box for the glass vial. It was half full, enough for one complete refill or two partials. Either quantity would be deadly. But that would be all until she managed to cultivate a new source for liquid narcotic. Perhaps her new contact, Mr. Wray, could help her, there.

  Reis inserted the needle into the vial and slowly drew the thumb button upwards. The thin steel spike sucked up the juice until there were equal quantities in the vial and tube. It was her dangerous mosquito and simply wearing it gave her a thrill.

  == == ==

  The dash clock showed one-twelve a.m. when the BMW’s quartz-halogen headlamps hit the wall of the variety store across the road from Stan’s motel. Reis took a small tin from her bag and treated each nostril to a fingernail of powder. She stepped from the car, tugged on her skirt so it at least covered her underwear, and clicked her way over to unit 8A.

  Svoljsak opened the door seconds after her soft knock. His sleepy scowl morphed into a smug leer. He stood against the doorframe so she would have to squeeze by. Halfway in, Reis stopped and pressed a spiked heel into his instep.

  “Where is it, Stanley?”

  The leer became a grimace. “I thought we agreed I should mail it.”

  She scraped the heel over his toes just to watch his eyes widen, then moved on past. The room was dark save for The Late Night Talk Show. The flickering images bounced off a whisky bottle that was missing a lot more than was in the adjacent glass.

  Reis deposited her bag and bomber jacket on a moth-eaten armchair, instantly improving its looks, and cat-walked about in the guise of inspecting Svoljsak’s abode. She met him in the middle, by the bed, and draped her long slim arms around his neck. The stiletto's brought her lips almost level with his and Svoljsak closed the gap. He tasted of stale tobacco. She asked for a drink hoping the whisky would mask the bitterness and also warm her up. Svoljsak liked his environment on the cool side.

  Bathed in the light of the TV’s cathode ray tube, their bodies were soon contorting on the bed before a clapping and cheering audience. At one point Reis focused on the screen to identify the familiar voice of a British film star, but now Stan was on elbows and knees over her and his shoulders, knotted with effort from supporting his weight, blocked the view. She dug manicured nails into his back and etched angry pink lines from spine to side. Stanley groaned, the audience laughed, and Reis allowed the occasional small gasp.

  His thrusts began to rock the bed. She brought her arms up to the pillow and carefully removed the jade clip from her hair. Arm extended just above the side table, she held it in her right hand and deftly manipulated the needle from the catch and into the grommet. It locked into place as Stan turned his head to follow her arm. She ran the fingers of her other hand into his hair and steered his face toward her breast.

  His cadence increased and he reached beneath her knee to raise the leg. She responded by drawing both up around his waist, reveling in the slickness between them. His neck was salty and the combination of whisky and cocaine was starting to peak. Another nail pierced his back and there was more applause.

  Stan didn't have far to go. Perhaps only seconds. Anticipation quickened her pulse and she dropped her feet to push at the mattress and match her partner's rhythm. He slid a hand under her neck, his mouth searching for hers. With her left arm firmly across his shoulders Reis locked them together.

  Like a roller coaster reaching a crest Svoljsak paused at the top of a long stroke, then, with a throaty growl plunged full-length into her. Reis gave an involuntary cry as she absorbed the thrust. She arched to hold him still and with her nail guided the needle below his left shoulder blade. It sank to the hilt and she slid the thumb button all the way down.

  == == ==

  At first it felt like one of her sharper claws until it penetrated deeper. His orgasm had taken hold and carried him along until, frighteningly, an intense fire began to rush through his veins. Behind it came an avalanche of pain that blasted through his heart and up into his skull.

  It hit like a botched lobotomy. Jackhammers pounded on his chest and drilled into his head, pulverizing his world into senseless, quaking rubble.

  Oh, Christ. Somebody, please help!

  Amid the shocks and jolts, Svoljsak heard voices. Other people were in the room. Desperately, he tried to make them aware of his distress. He shouted, then louder, but succeeded only in biting the tip off his tongue.

  His body involuntarily strained and convulsed. And continued to orgasm. Distorted cheers washed in from a distant shore, and from somewhere far below came a sporadic, almost primeval, grunting.

  Every cell felt ready to combust and hot lava began to flow along his spine, sweeping before it every sound, every thought, every feeling with a volcanic roar. He was in the volcano, the volcano was in him, and Stanislaw Svoljsak realized that soon his flesh would melt, his bones would dissolve, and the agony would end. It would happen soon—but not soon enough.

  == == ==

  With Durrell she had played it safe and remained on top. This time she’d wanted to experience the full force of her lover’s death throes. Arms splayed to the sides, heels cratered into the bed, Reis continued to grind and writhe beneath Svoljsak’s dead weight. The warm press of unyielding flesh, both exciting and frightening, extended the climax. As it gradually faded, her tempo became erratic until the need to expand her lungs with air took priority.

  Her body continued to tingle and involuntary muscle pulses made her thighs squeeze and relax against Svoljsak’s hips. The violent fornication, however, had moved them up against the headboard and now, unable to push on his shoulders to slide out, Reis had a bit of a problem. She squirmed sideways and managed to work a hand under his chest. Using the bedsprings to amplify the motion she started to rock until a frantic heave and pelvic thrust finally rolled the lifeless bulk over. Only a cat-like move prevented her from going off the bed with it.

  Unsteadily, she searched the floor for the hypodermic and found it in front of the night
table. Hot water rinsed away the residue and she reassembled it back into a hairclip. Stan had landed on his left side so Reis pushed him onto his chest. It took close scrutiny in the dim light to locate the puncture wound. A wider nail scratch would disguise it.

  There was vomit mixed with blood on the bed. It was on her too. She began to shake and headed for the bathroom where the scalding shower had a cathartic effect without triggering any latent emotion. Reis toweled, dressed, and then wiped down the few places she might have touched. The drink glasses were washed and placed in the sink to dry.

  A quick search of the unit before she left seemed prudent—just to see if the old boy had kept anything back. She started with the pockets of his clothes. The billfold contained just over two hundred dollars and a torn piece of a phone directory page. She stuffed the cash in her bag and dropped the wallet on the table; just like any reasonably honest working girl would do if her trick seized up.

  She upended the wastebasket.

  A page of lined paper crumpled into a ball rolled out. The handwriting was rough, and there was much crossing out. It was the draft of a letter. She looked again at the wastebasket and this time noticed an adhesive label clinging by a corner to the plastic liner. It had an address on it. That of her postal box.

  She went back to his pocket for the torn bit of phone directory. Three pieces of paper, one story, and she wasn’t liking the gist of it.

  “You deceiving bastard!” She delivered the corpse a sound kick to the hip.

  Svoljsak had mailed the package, but not to her. The name at the top of the draft matched the one on the torn phone list.

  “I suppose whoever you sent it to will also want to screw me over.”

  What was it with men? She punted his ass again for about the same yardage. Whatever. No matter who got the package she'd also fix their wagon—they all had the same pathetic weakness.

  A pair of black airline slippers came out of her leather bag and the noisy red pumps went in. The attention that might have followed her here was no longer desirable. Still fuming, Reis tucked her hair under a paisley scarf, belted Svoljsak's gabardine over her bomber jacket and slipped the deadly jade hairclip into a pocket.