by John Moss
“Nasty,” Morgan responded. She was handling herself so well emotionally, he was taken off guard by the revelation in her crude language of how much she was hurting inside.
They walked into a palatial hotel lobby, past service personnel in livery, straight to the beauty salon near the Unisex Health Club.
“Police,” said Miranda, flashing her ID at the mascara- afflicted receptionist. “We’re looking for a manicurist who works off premises.”
“No one here like that,” said the receptionist, her voice indicating she had taken offence. “We’re not allowed.”
“You send people up to guests’ rooms, don’t you?” Morgan leaned past her desk to look through the door of the gym, over which there was a large sign reading GUESTS ONLY.”
“Yes, we can keep an eye on things here. But no one goes out. We’re not an escort service.”
“No,” said Miranda. “That’s not what I heard.”
She was bluffing but she had pressed the right button.
“That was months ago. It wasn’t us, just one of the girls. She worked independently, she was a pro.”
“As in prostitute or fingernails.”
“And toenails. She was both, I suppose.”
“And where would we find her?”
“She was murdered.”
“What?”
“Two nights ago. Someone found her in a dumpster.”
“I heard about that,” said Miranda. “Bourassa’s case, he’s working with Audrey Slocombe.”
“Pardon?” said the receptionist.
“I was talking to my partner. So, what can you tell us about her?”
“The same pretty much as I told the other cops, yesterday.”
“Did they leave a card?”
“Yeah, the big guy did. Here it is. His name is Detective Bourassa.”
“Like I said, do you know who her customers were? Did she have regulars?”
“This is a clean operation. You’ll get us thrown out of the hotel. I never talked to her for months. I hardly knew her name. Rhoda something, she was a part-time blond. Good looking, with roots. Not too smart. I know she had regulars in that condo across the street. Over there, top floor. She had every guy up there on the string.”
“On the string?” said Miranda. “She was working them.”
“Yeah, there are three or four really large condos on the top floor. She’d spend a whole day there, once every week.”
“A whole day?”
“Like I said, she was a pro.”
“But you didn’t keep track of her.”
“We’d better call Bourassa,” said Morgan.
“Thanks, for now,” said Miranda to the receptionist, whose eyelids drooped under her makeup, her lashes solid gashes of deep blue. Then as they stepped out into the corridor she said, “No need. I heard them talking at lunch. It was a domestic quarrel. Her old man beat her up. She climbed into the dumpster herself and died there. You got to figure she felt like garbage. The bastard, he lived on her money, hated her for it. And she hated herself, probably for loving him. It’s a funny old world, Morgan.”
“It’s a hell of a way to die.”
“Yeah.”
He pointed to the massive new art deco building across from them when they emerged onto the street. “Do you think Philip Carter lived there?”
“He had to live somewhere,” she said.
They crossed over and rang the buzzer for the building manager.
“Sure,” he said, when they asked him. “Philip Carter, he’s a lawyer. Top floor. Condo fees paid up until September. Haven’t seen him around much.” The elderly man’s nose twitched and his small eyes glistened. Some people look guilty, Miranda thought. Not for anything in particular, it’s just the way they are. He looks furtive, like a squirrel after the first snowfall.
“What about the others?” asked Morgan.
“What others? He lived alone.”
“Was he friends with the other residents on the same floor?”
“I don’t know, I mean how would I know? These people, they’re polite, but they keep to themselves.”
“These people?” said Miranda.
“Yeah, single guys with a lot of money. You don’t want to ask.”
“What does that mean?” Morgan demanded.
“Hey, I don’t know. It means nothing.” He paused, looked at them. He plainly did not want trouble from the police.
“Speak,” said Morgan.
“Single guys, lots of money, no parties, you don’t know what to think.”
“Well, try,” said Morgan.
“Maybe drugs?” said Miranda.
“You just don’t want to know. There are three of them up there. I guess they know each other. They have the same interior decorator. Very expensive, nothing personal, you know what I mean. No photographs. Generic collectables.”
“Generic collectables, where’d that come from?” said Morgan.
The man’s nose twitched. “I read it,” he said. “It’s in a magazine. Generic collectables. What’s the matter with that? I wasn’t snooping, just doing routine maintenance.”
“Is there anyone up there now?” asked Morgan.
“I don’t know, I could ring.”
“No!” said Miranda. “Don’t do that. We’ll want to surprise them.”
“You sure you’re cops?”
“Yeah, we like surprises.”
“On them, eh? Not on yourself.” The man with the squirrel eyes chuckled.
“What are the names of the other two?” Morgan asked.
“Besides Mr. Carter, there’s Mr. Johnson.”
“Does he wear a gold ring?” said Miranda.
“Johnson? Yeah, a big honker. And the other one is Mr. Savage.”
“You’re kidding,” Miranda exclaimed.
“He’s registered as Savage?” said Morgan, incredulously.
“He’s the owner, he owns it. Yeah. He banks offshore.”
“How do you know that?” said Morgan.
“I see the mail. I take it up to their foyer, that’s part of the service. Funny thing, the other two don’t get any mail. They must do their banking by phone.”
“He can’t be that brazen,” said Miranda. “All we had to do was look him up in the phone book.”
“No, you couldn’t do that. His number’s unlisted.”
“Unlisted?”
“I tried to call him myself about something, can’t remember what. Unlisted. If he’s into drugs — do you think he’s into drugs?— a young guy like that with money, he’s going to be very particular who has his number.”
Morgan leaned into the man’s space. “He’s not that young.”
“To have enough money to live here, yes he is. Do you want me to go up with you?”
“We’d appreciate if you’d go to your own place, please. Stay there. We’ll let you know when you can come out.”
“Yeah, sure,” said the squirrel-faced man, looking disappointed that he wouldn’t be there when they confronted Savage. He had not seen the other two around lately but he was fairly positive Savage was home.
“Fourteenth floor?” said Morgan.
“Yeah. Here, you’ll need this key. The elevator stops at thirteen, then you turn the key and it goes the rest of the way. They pay extra for that.”
Miranda took the key and turned to the elevator button. Morgan stood close beside her as the building manager retreated to his own quarters.
“You okay?” Morgan asked.
“Sure. You?”
“Yeah. You armed?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yeah. Press it.”
When the elevator door opened, they stepped into a mirrored cage, like a shower stall in a bordello. Only the floor was not mirrored. No matter which way they looked, they saw reflections and refractions of themselves.
The elevator stopped at the thirteenth floor. Miranda inserted the key, the doors closed again, and after a brief whirring opened into a marble foyer with a g
reat crystal chandelier and three doors leading to the separate condo apartments. One door had a brass label by the buzzer that read PHILIP CARTER. Miranda felt a twinge and Morgan touched her on the arm. The next read, JOHNSON. An unlikely name for the man with the ring.
Poised in front of the third door, which had no nameplate, Miranda suddenly turned around and looked up. Concealed within the intricate armatures of the candelabra were three small cameras. She pointed them out to Morgan.
“We’re expected, I imagine,” he said.
“He must have another way out — a private exit leading down to the fire stairs, a service elevator.”
“I don’t think he’s going anywhere,” said Morgan. “He can’t be sure we don’t have backup waiting at ground level. And he’s not the kind to run.”
“You admire this guy, Morgan!”
“No way. Like you said, I know him. Not the way you do, but I do. He shot a man in the head right in front of me. He knew we would meet again. Some things are unavoidable. He’s waiting for us.”
“I am, Mr. Morgan,” said the disembodied voice of Mr. Savage.
Neither Morgan nor Miranda whirled around. Both turned slowly and stared up into the lens of the camera aimed in their direction.
“You have come to pay me a visit, Ms. Quin. How very thoughtful. And you, Mr. Morgan, I have been expecting you. I have been expecting you both.”
Locks snapped on the door behind them and as they turned back it swung open. The voice urged them to enter.
“No need to draw your guns. There is no point,” said the voice. “Much of the weaponry at my disposal is already directed toward your vital parts. If I wished the flesh flayed from your bones by bullets and shrapnel, it would already be done. But that is not discreet, and I believe it is better if we keep our business discreet for the time being. Do come in, make yourselves comfortable. I shall be out in a moment.”
There were mirrors here and there along the walls of the entryway and in the two-storey living room, behind which, it was safe to assume, there were arms and armaments poised for the destruction of unwelcome visitors. They heard an electronic bolt slide on the door behind, locking them in. Looking around, Miranda and Morgan could see how this opulent if uninspired residence could well be a fortress, bristling with instruments of death.
Everything hidden. Morgan had no doubt the entire place was rigged for lethal impact. And yet, gazing out to the balcony, he marvelled at the serene view of Toronto that would be accessible, lounging among the summer palms that flourished in an oasis of huge plastic buckets, looking down Avenue Road to Queen’s Park.
A door to the side swung open and Savage stepped into the room. He was wearing a light blue linen suit, rumpled in just the right way to accentuate the clean lines and expensive cut. His eyes were dark but lively with highlights from the light of the day streaming through the two-storey living room windows. He nodded graciously and motioned to them to sit. He sat opposite.
“Let us be civilized,” he said. “It is good to see you again, Detective Quin.”
“I don’t remember our first meeting,” said Miranda. “I wasn’t all there.”
“Indeed you weren’t, but I assure you, the pleasure was mine.”
She refused to show emotion, apart from a hint of contempt in the curl of her upper lip. There was too much at stake to let him take the lead.
“It’s over,” said Morgan. “Whatever your name is, do you have a name of your own? It is over.”
“For me, perhaps. But it is not over. As they say, Mr. Morgan, my name is legion. It is a long way from over.”
Miranda opened her handbag and slowly removed her diminutive Glock semi-automatic. She pulled back the action and grasped the gun firmly in one hand with her finger on the trigger.
“You will shoot me now, Ms. Quin? That is certainly an option.”
Miranda raised the Glock to a firing position, bracing one hand with the other. She aimed at his forehead, then lowered her sights until the gun was pointed directly at his crotch.
“That seems a reasonable course to take, Ms. Quin. You were humiliated, so humiliate me. It will be very painful, and that will give you great satisfaction.”
“Miranda,” said Morgan emphatically.
“What? You think I would give this twerp the satisfaction of directing his own retribution? If I kill him, Morgan, it will be on my terms.”
“In that case,” said Savage, crossing his legs, “perhaps we should talk.”
“Talk,” said Morgan.
“Well, you see, Mr. Morgan, if I may just open my jacket, there, you see I am wearing a belt with little gadgets and wires. What will happen, if I slump over, shall we say, with a bullet or bullets in my head or my groin, these wires will detonate materials in the bedrooms with an explosive equivalent to approximately fifty tons of TNT. I am afraid the damage to this part of Toronto would be quite extreme. But such is life. If it is time, it is time. I had been hoping to delay the inevitable. I have come to enjoy your city a great deal. It is very cosmopolitan, Toronto the Good — isn’t that what you call it in your very smug way, Toronto the Good?”
“Hogtown,” said Morgan. “Closed on Sundays. That’s all in the past. We’re world-class now.”
“How sad. A city that defines itself as world-class never is.”
“You’re not too good on irony, Mr. Savage.”
“Oh, but I am. Do you see? I live very well, I will die for a cause I no longer believe in. Do you see the irony? Death has no meaning, Mr. Morgan. Only life is worth dying for.”
“So are we at an impasse once again, Mr. Savage?”
“Not this time, I’m afraid. It is no longer about just you and me and the very attractive Ms. Quin. I am quite serious about the damage to be done. This is not a standoff, it is a rout. You will place your weapons on the coffee table, please.”
“Morgan?”
“He means it. I’m guessing these condos are an upscale warehouse. This is their arsenal. This is where the money has gone, into weapons of imminent destruction.”
“Very wise, Mr. Morgan. But only a small part of our income from the vineyards of corruption went into armaments. Much is being banked for future use, when Armageddon shall come to the Western world.”
“I thought you weren’t a believer.”
“I am a leader. Leaders cannot afford to believe.”
“Well, you’ve led yourself into a dead end,” said Miranda. “Literally,” she added.
“Quite possibly I have. And I do see the irony. But this is just one of innumerable roads to the same end. There are other roads, others to travel them.”
“We all die?” Morgan asked with apparent disinterest.
“You die, Mr. Morgan. Your deaths will be heroic, I’m sure. For myself, there may still be time. We shall see.”
Miranda reached over and retrieved her Glock from where she had placed it on the coffee table. She cocked it and pointed it again at Mr. Savage.
“I understand your logic, Ms. Quin. If you are to die, at least you can take me with you. However, if you will think for a moment, it is not that simple.”
“You think for me.”
“Indeed I will. If you shoot me, a thousand people will perish in the flash of an eye. But if you let me go, there is a chance you may avert disaster. Perhaps you can disarm the explosives, perhaps you can evacuate the buildings in this vicinity — I warn you, you will need to clear a very wide radius. But no, I do not think there will be time. Disarming the explosives is probably your best bet. Except you know me too well, you know I will not allow this stockpile to go to waste. Therefore, it is logical, you shoot me and our bodies explode into each other. Imagine that.”
Morgan rocked back and forth on the sofa and Miranda passed her gun from one hand to the other, without taking it off Savage.
“It is possible, just possible,” said Savage, “if you let me go you might be able to do something to save yourselves and your beloved world-class city. People like you canno
t resist grasping at the chance to survive, no matter how miserable the odds.”
“He’s playing with us,” Miranda said with disdain.
“No,” said Morgan. “It’s a game. We’re playing each other.”
“It’s not a game of chance,” said Miranda. “Chess, not poker. I’m betting we win.”
“And if you don’t! Of course, there is another possibility,” said Savage. “Since I am the detonator, you have to be wondering, if I leave the premises, will my little gadgets broadcast this far? Now there is an irony, indeed. For me to reach safety, my weaponry might be disarmed. It is possible. Then you will be safe as well. Of course, knowing me as you do, you know there might be no explosives at all. But is there time to look? That is the question.”
He stood up.
“I really must go. At the very least, my departure will delay certain death by a few minutes. It has been a pleasure, once again, Ms. Quin.” His dark eyes flashed and she felt a chill to the bone. “Goodbye, Mr. Morgan.”
Morgan stood up.
The two men faced each other, less than an arm’s length apart. Morgan leaned to the side and picked up his semi-automatic. He held it in the open palm of his hand. Both men examined it as some sort of fossil, extinct and useless. He tossed it onto the sofa beside Miranda.
“Mr. Savage,” said Morgan. “We prefer you stay for the signing.”
Savage looked at him quizzically then pressed his lips in a sneer. “The signing, my signature, of course. Blood on the walls, an interesting diversion. This particular version of the Apocalypse should undoubtedly carry my name.”
“Miranda,” Morgan said, “use my weapon, it’s bigger. Shoot Mr. Savage in the right leg.”
Both men held their ground. Miranda tucked her own gun into the waistband of her skirt and moved on the edge of their range of vision. The eyes of the two men locked, as if they were in deadly combat without moving a muscle.
Suddenly a shot exploded from the gun in Miranda’s hands. Mr. Savage lurched but remained standing. Morgan stood close enough to feel the man’s minty breath on his face.
“This is an interesting turn of events,” said Savage, grimacing from the pain in his thigh. “Perhaps we shall die together, then.” He drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Morgan, I’m sorry about your friends. It was unavoidable.”