Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

Satisfied everything was under control, he decided to walk his usual route.

  Anna objected.

  “Do you really think that wise? After all, someone clearly wants you dead. Walking the canal makes you an easy target.”

  “I can’t become a recluse every time someone threatens me. It’s part of what I do.”

  “Well, at least take Bulldozer with you.”

  “Naw, I want to be alone. I need time to think. Dozer would babble the whole walk. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think.”

  Anna frowned.

  St. James laced up his Nikes, grabbed a windbreaker from the closet, and headed out the door.

  Some but not all of the early-morning fog had lifted, and the sidewalks were damp from a light overnight mist. The air was fresh and clean. Church bells rang in the distance, a reminder it was Sunday.

  He walked slower than usual, enjoying the fresh air, his mind awash with a rampant stream of consciousness.

  The men he and Dozer had rousted in Wakefield.

  Who is Sterling? Where does he fit in all this? Who is he working for? What’s next?

  Somehow it didn’t feel like Nells’s gang. Nells wasn’t sophisticated enough to engage others to do his dirty work. His gang consisted of hands-on crooks, scam artists, and thieves, but not murderers.

  He thought about Anna. Where was the relationship going? How did he really feel about her?

  What was next with the Stevens case? He had to tie it off soon, if for no other reason than to pump life into his winded cashflow.

  He second guessed himself again for taking on the CISI case. Anderson was not the spin doctor Graves had made him out to be.

  Am I just a pawn in some internal political game?

  When he was almost to the Pretoria Bridge St. James felt a presence. At first he didn’t know from where, then he realized it was from behind. Not a runner or a cyclist, they would have passed already. It felt more like a lingering presence, as if someone or something wanted to maintain a consistent distance.

  When he reached the Pretoria Bridge he turned right over the canal onto Elgin instead of straight down Colonel By as he usually did. The presence made the same turn, keeping pace. St. James was reluctant to confront whatever it was: it could be something he wasn’t prepared for. But, that wouldn’t work for long. Nor would it solve anything. The ostrich strategy never worked.

  Police headquarters was located on the next block, after the Queensway–Elgin Street overpass. That gave him some comfort, but not much. It was Sunday morning. Very little traffic. Police officers would already be assigned and cruising different parts of the city. There wouldn’t be many at headquarters itself, maybe a skeleton staff; some off for the weekend, but most on patrol.

  The presence had to be confronted one way or another, police or no police. Under the overpass at the corner of Elgin and Catherine, St. James in one swift move snapped an about-face.

  There, twenty feet behind, startled by St. James’s move, was a man wearing a long black coat and a white toque. He seemed familiar, but at first St. James couldn’t place him. Then he could. The guy’s nose was bandaged. It was the Accord driver from Wakefield.

  A small black SUV crept alongside the man. Maybe a Honda CR-V, tinted windows, St. James couldn’t be sure.

  Then bandaged nose pulled something from his overcoat, something St. James couldn’t see. Then he could. It was a gun. A sharp, excruciating pain ripping through his left shoulder was the last thing he remembered.

  Chapter 41

  At first St. James couldn’t see. Then he couldn’t focus. Everything was murky like the early morning fog. Yet it seemed more eerie than fog. Then he winced. His left shoulder throbbed with all the intensity of a badly decayed tooth, times ten.

  Vision recovery was a long slow process. He saw white, a white mass. Then the white mass spoke.

  “I am Dr. Lee. You’re a very lucky man, Mr. St. James,” said the white mass. “Nothing vital was hit. Two inches lower and you wouldn’t have a worry ever again.”

  “Where am I?” he mumbled.

  “Ottawa Civic.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Sunday. Take it easy. You’re just out of surgery. A lot of anxious people are waiting to see you, but I can’t let them in all at once. You’ve had enough excitement for one day. I’ll just let your girlfriend in for now.”

  Feeling terrible, St. James was content with Doctor Lee’s gatekeeping.

  Dr. Lee opened the door and signalled Anna into the room. She brushed past him and ran straight to St. James’s bedside, tightly holding his hand.

  “I have rounds to make,” Dr. Lee said. “I will look in on you later.”

  Anna sobbed.

  “I was never so scared in all my life. So afraid, I could have lost you,” she cried frantically.

  St. James tried to reassure her.

  “Anna, it’s not that serious.”

  But that wasn’t her point. It most certainly could have been serious.

  “Who else is out there?” he asked groggily.

  “Everyone. Nothing could keep them away. Spencer’s here too, although he may be here more out of duty than love,” she babbled.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Mark and I get along pretty well.” A feeble attempt at humour. “Ask them all to come in. Easier on me to tell the story once and not four times.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Anna beckoned in the herd. Smythe, Dozer, and Detective Spencer traipsed in, all wanting to talk at once. St. James held up his hand. The room went quiet.

  “Where’s Denzel?” he asked looking at Dozer.

  Dozer said, “Waiting in the hall.”

  St. James frowned. Dozer got the message. Without another word he opened the door and waved Denzel into the room.

  “Hi Denzel,” St. James said with as much warmth as he could muster.

  “Wanted to be here because you gave me a job,” Denzel said, staring at the floor.

  “Glad you came, Denzel.”

  Denzel smiled.

  Spencer had his notepad out ready to take notes.

  “What happened, Hamilton?” he said anxiously.

  St. James began with the start of his walk, giving as much detail as he could given his physical and mental state. He described the presence, the same feeling as someone standing in a pitch-black room with you. Nothing you can point to. No sound. No touch. No smell. Nothing but the feeling someone had entered your space. That was the presence.

  “Had you seen or heard anybody or anything up to this point?” Spencer said, scribbling in his notebook.

  “Nothing. I hadn’t turned around at that point. I wanted to assess the risk before making a move.”

  “Then what happened?” Dozer said.

  “I walked under the Queensway overpass and out the other side on Elgin, then made an abrupt about-face.”

  Smythe was anxious too. “And?”

  “I saw someone vaguely familiar, someone I couldn’t place at first, but I knew I’d seen him before. Then it hit me: his nose was bandaged.”

  Dozer stiffened with anger.

  “Sonofabitch I hit in Wakefield?”

  St. James nodded.

  Anna frowned, first at Dozer and then at St. James. “Was he the old friend you ran into while Cathy and I were in the shop?” she said tersely, obviously annoyed at being lied to.

  St. James nodded again. Any pity Anna had for him just went out the window.

  “You provoked the guy!” she said accusingly.

  St. James shook his head. “You’re upset, Anna, not thinking straight. Someone’s ordered a hit on me, plain and simple. Nothing to do with Dozer hitting the guy.”

  Spencer said, “Anna, a guy doesn’t shoot another person because of a busted nose. If St. James had taken him to dinner, he still would’ve shot him. He was paid to do it, no matter what.”

  Anna relaxed some but was clearly finding it difficult to forgive the two for lying.

/>   Dozer looked at St. James and shook his head. “I should have done him in while I had the chance, man. But why were you so stupid to walk the streets alone, without me?”

  Spencer lightly scratched his facial scar, bristling at Dozer’s choice of words.

  St. James’s dazed mind chose to throw twisted logic at Dozer. “Oh, quit stewing, Dozer. Even if you’d been with me and taken the guy out before he shot, they’d just send someone else. Look on the bright side. Mark has a bullet for ballistics: first step to finding a smoking gun.”

  Spencer tried to refocus the conversation. “Did you notice anything else?”

  “Only other thing I can remember is a small black SUV, with dark tinted windows I think, creeping alongside the shooter as he walked.”

  “Make?”

  “Can’t say for certain. Think it was a Honda. Late model CR-V, I believe.”

  “Did you get the plate?”

  “Couldn’t see. It happened so fast.”

  “Hmm. Okay.”

  “How stupid is it for a guy to shoot someone so close to police headquarters?” Smythe said, shaking his head.

  “Actually, not as stupid as you may think,” said Spencer. “It’s Sunday. Light traffic. Squad cars would be already assigned patrols across the city. There’d only be a skeleton staff at headquarters, it being the weekend and all. All the shooter would have to do is jump in the SUV and have the vehicle turn left up the Queensway ramp. These guys could have been parked in a garage anywhere in the west end watching television within thirty minutes.”

  Spencer turned to Dozer.

  “I’ll need you to come down to headquarters to help with a sketch of the nose guy. Meanwhile I’ll process the bullet and see what we have on criminals with small black SUVs. That’ll be a needle in a haystack for sure, I’m afraid. It’s a popular model. Hundreds in the city. If nothing else, ballistics and a sketch will provide Toronto police with something to ask Franklin about when they finally pick him up.”

  “Sure thing, Detective. How’s first thing in the morning?” Dozer said.

  “Good enough,” Spencer said.

  Suddenly Dozer remembered the cell he’d taken from Broken Nose in Wakefield. He pulled it from a pocket and handed it to Spencer.

  “This is the cell we took off Broken Nose on Saturday. There’s an email exchange between him and a guy named Sterling in Montreal. Last name unknown. I figured you or the Sûreté could make something out of it, maybe find this Sterling guy and wring something out of him.”

  Even though Spencer was becoming used to Dozer’s vocabulary, he still found himself frowning at his choice of words.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said sternly.

  Spencer turned to St. James.

  “I’ll need coordinates for the Washington detective on the Stevens case to pass on information.”

  “Anna, can you get that to Mark?” St. James asked, words slurred.

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  Dr. Lee pushed his way back into the room.

  “Okay, troops, that’s enough. The patient needs rest.”

  Suddenly a loud smash came from the hallway, a full kitchen tray hitting the floor, cutlery flying, dishes breaking. Then, a woman yelling,

  St. James closed his eyes. “Oh no. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”

  Anna and Dozer threw bewildered looks at St. James at the same time.

  Shaking his head, St. James read the look.

  “You’ll see,” he whispered.

  Anna and Dozer both shrugged.

  Dr. Lee stuck his head out the door, then quickly pulled it back to avoid a flying dish.

  “You weren’t by any chance expecting someone else, were you, Mr. St. James?” Dr. Lee said cautiously.

  Everyone turned to St. James. His eyes opened.

  “It was just a matter of time,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  Anna looked puzzled. “A matter of time till what?”

  St. James resigned himself to what would happen next. “Let her in, Doctor.”

  Dr. Lee pulled open the door, and in walked a plain-looking woman in her mid-sixties with greying hair touched by blue rinse. She was plump, less than five feet tall.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, meet my sister, Betty Sparks,” St. James said, closing his eyes once again.

  Betty ignored the introduction, and everyone else in the room.

  “What the hell happened?” she said bluntly, giving St. James no time to answer one question before firing off another. “Why do I have to hear this on the television like a total stranger? Your only sister, left out. Christ, I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

  Betty’s demeanour was not enhanced by her baggy, faded patterned dress and unkempt hair.

  She looked at the others.

  “Who is this motley crew?”

  St. James felt tired all over, and not from the gunshot wound.

  Dozer struggled to keep himself from laughing.

  “These are my friends,” St. James said slowly, trying to maintain his patience.

  “Will some of you please leave now,” Dr. Lee pleaded.

  “Okay,” said Anna. She leaned over and kissed St. James.

  “I’ll be back later to see how you are doing,” she said softly.

  Dozer grabbed St. James’s hand and leaned over so Spencer couldn’t hear.

  “I’ll get the sonofabitch, Hamilton. Don’t worry.”

  St. James said nothing.

  Smythe said goodbye and Denzel offered an abrupt wave.

  Spencer said to St. James, “I’ve ordered an officer to stand guard outside your door, in case the guy tries again.”

  “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate the protection.”

  St. James was left alone with Betty, and his own misery. Great combination.

  When everyone had left, he turned to Betty.

  “Why do you have to be so rude? These are people I work with and care about.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?”

  “You are my only sister and I care about you deeply, but you make it very difficult for anyone to like you. You have no patience for anybody or anything.”

  “You’d have no patience either if you’d lost a spouse in their prime, before you had time to enjoy life.”

  “While we are all sorry you lost George, it’s no one’s fault. Driving everyone away with anger doesn’t solve anything. It won’t bring George back. You’re only isolating yourself.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Have it your own way. I’m happy, and I’m staying that way. There’s no incentive for me to connect with someone who uses negativity as a crutch. I would like to have you in my life, but only in a positive way. When you’re ready for that, I’ll be there for you.”

  “Who tried to kill you?” she said, ignoring his admonishment.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Who were those people here?”

  “They help me with cases.”

  “Are they any good?”

  “The best.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yes, I’m lucky to have them. And I work hard to keep their friendship and loyalty. You should learn something from that.”

  Betty gave him a disbelieving look.

  “Hmm. The woman, she your girl?”

  “She’s the only one in my life at the moment.”

  “She nice?”

  “Very.”

  “You serious?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Hmm. If you are, don’t lose her. They’re hard to find.”

  “I know.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I am.”

  “You mind if I sit a while?”

  “I can’t guarantee I’ll be good company.”

  “Shit, Hamilton, you were never good company,” she said, shaking her head.

  He smiled.

  It wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

  Anna sent Spencer the coordi
nates for Jason Williamson as soon as she landed back in the condo.

  Dozer hung around the lobby of 700 Sussex for a while, worried that with St. James incapacitated someone might try to get to Anna again. He told the concierge about St. James and asked for a closer watch over the building. The concierge agreed to be even more vigilant. Dozer gave him another $500, then went over to Anna’s to check on Denzel.

  Sometime after the gang and Betty left, Dr. Lee woke St. James to check his vitals. That’s when St. James told him he was going to England on Tuesday. Dr. Lee couldn’t believe it.

  “You underestimate the impact of a gunshot wound,” he said in an alarmed tone.

  “You said it was a clean wound, not near vital organs,” St. James argued.

  Lee was incredulous. “There’s been a tremendous shock to your body, your nervous system. Travel is stressful at the best of times. It’s not going to be any better with a bullet wound. Besides, the dressing has to be changed frequently; you can’t risk infection.”

  “Anna can change the dressing and apply anything you prescribe.”

  “She’s a nurse?”

  “Waitress.”

  Lee rolled his eyes.

  “There’s no way I’ll sign your release until you are ready,” he said authoritatively, over-emphasizing each word as if scolding a child. “You have the right to sign yourself out, but the hospital will not be responsible for whatever happens to you. If you insist on going against my advice, you should have the Victorian Order of Nurses teach your girlfriend the dos and don’ts of preventing infection.”

  “You have nurses here. Why can’t they teach Anna?” St. James protested.

  “There’s no way me or my staff will take responsibility for your stupidity.”

  With that, Dr. Lee left the room.

  “Well, that’s plain enough,” St. James muttered.

  The next time St. James’s eyes opened it was Monday morning and Anna was standing over him.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked in a soft and caring voice.

  His normal sarcasm kicked back in. “Like I’ve been shot.”

  He told Anna what Dr. Lee said about travelling to England.

  “I have to agree with him,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re that stupid either.”

  “Does that mean you won’t book the VON for instruction?”

  She wagged a finger in his face. “You’re ten times more stubborn than me. What’s even more maddening is that you know, and I know, that you’ve already made up your mind to go, so if I don’t get instructions and something happens to you in England, I’ll be the one having to deal with the fallout.”