Sawatski snapped her out of it. “Need a moment?”
“No, I’m good. I haven’t seen all those white movie trucks around on a shoot lately. No radio chatter for street shut-downs either.” She thought the angle would end there. Then it hit her, and Sawatski felt a smack in his chest from her notebook. “Music! What about a band at the MTS Centre?”
The city had seen a growing number of big-name concerts at the MTS Centre. Perhaps a member of an entourage had employed the roommate, shooting her up with purity beyond her normal limits. When the overdose was in full swing, he ran. The Centre was close, only three blocks from Cumberland. “Who’s playing right now?”
Spence did a quick check on her phone. “This week it’s Willie Nelson.”
Sawatski gave a low, quick snicker. “They won’t be on anything stronger than weed.”
The tap on the passenger side window was enough to jar Sawatski and Spence into the initial stages of a Glock reach, until they noticed it was David Worschuk. “Hey, guys,” he said, muffled by the closed glass. “Got anything new on Claire-Bear? I hear her roommate OD’d last night.”
Spence took the initiative and hit the power window control. “Why don’t you talk to the PIO like everybody else? You know we can’t comment on an open.” The usual protocol for any press interactions with the police service was to first enquire with the Public Information Officer by phone, and then follow up with an email. Most of the PIOs wouldn’t offer information until the official release, keeping the story uniform throughout the local media. Worschuk had done a River Kwai to that bridge, though he did have a knack for taking the slightest offhand comment at a crime scene and inflating it with just enough eyebrow-raise to prompt a slew of unique visitors to the Sentinel’s website. The new reality of newspaper had even prompted the creation of a smartphone app for the Downtown 24/7 column plus regular tweets. The rest of the story would be peppered with comments by onlookers, neighbours, anyone who could make the tale taller than it really was.
Worschuk pounced on the one word that mattered. “Open, you say?” he said as he quickly scribbled in his notebook. “Sounds like it may not be another tragic tale of a sex trade overdose. How —”
“Who told you it was a fucking overdose?” Spence had already lost this battle and simply didn’t know how to get out of it. Every word and every gesture just fanned the flames of Worschuk’s story.
Worschuk scribbled with increasing flourish. “So, it wasn’t an overdose? Perhaps mistaken-identity murder? Wrong place, wrong face, wrong time?”
“Fuck off, Downtown!” said Sawatski. He was surprised that he used the name that he had made a point of never using when addressing the reporter. “Go through channels or go fuck yourself!” He slammed the Crown Vic into gear while at half throttle, narrowly missing the parked car in front of them while kicking up plenty of grit and slush onto Worschuk as they left. Sawatski saw Worschuk in the rear-view, hastily brushing off the cold mess from his coat and notebook. He did manage to flip the Crown Vic off before it was out of sight.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ernie Friday knew that Claire Hebert had gone underground by now. The question was how far. Any of the known hole-up spots were reserved for the higher-ups in the Heaven’s Rejects, not the hired help, and certainly not the hookers. The last independent safe house that he knew of was on Battery Street off Burrows Avenue, in a weathered pre-war storey-and-a-half. It was run by a low-level crystal-meth dealer by the name of Martin Biggs. Biggs was on disability, caught in the crossfire of a gas station holdup gone wrong. It was big news for Winnipeg, with the shooter shot dead by three patrol officers, one of whom was hit by a friendly fire ricochet. Biggs was gassing up his truck when it went down, taking a slug in the hip, a reflex trigger action from the would-be robber after police slug number three hit the perpetrator’s upper body. A second reflex slug ended up in the back seat of Biggs’s rusty Silverado, the entry hole still in view on the passenger side door. Ernie noticed the hole as he parked next to the truck in the back lane.
Ernie banged the reinforced rear door five times hard. From within, he heard the signature shuffling of someone with a walker. The shuffling grew to grunts as Biggs neared the door. “Fuck off, or I’ll shoot you with my goddamn shot-gun,” said Biggs. This was his signature line, the one he used to scare off neighbourhood hoodlums who thought he might be an easy score for drugs or cash.
“Do that and I’ll shoot back, and I don’t need a shotgun to hit things like you do,” said Ernie, a hint of smile in his thunder. He heard the locks unclasp. Biggs swung open the heavy metal slab. He smiled at Ernie. “That little pussy Beretta of yours couldn’t punch a hole through a wet Kleenex,” said Biggs, smiling as he waved him in. “You want a drink?”
“As long as it’s not alone,” said Ernie.
He followed Biggs into the kitchen. It was a respectable state of bachelor clean, dated to the last renovation of a previous owner in the early seventies. Biggs reached up slightly to a built-in shelf, grabbing a half-empty bottle of Seagram’s Seven. Ernie took a seat at the kitchen table, lifting a pair of mismatched lowball glasses off of a circular souvenir tray from California. He figured from the vintage that it must have come with the house. The shotgun was not an idle threat; it was leaning against the cupboard door reserved for the built-in ironing board. Biggs poured healthy doubles, clinking his glass against Ernie’s as the only indication of a toast.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” said Biggs. “I’m hoping it’s not something I did. Or didn’t do.” He chuckled slightly as he raised the glass to his lips.
“Nope, nothing like that,” said Ernie, taking a sip. “Just have to check the hole-ups. Even the low-rent ones like yours.”
Biggs looked stunned. “Since when is $150 a night low rent? Besides, I got out of that in ’09. Making too much off this brain-bake shit.” Biggs lifted off the top of a vintage flour can, revealing the packets of crystal meth within. The disability claim, occurring within a police incident, had given Biggs something of a Teflon coating in the neighbourhood. As long as the buyers kept their hours before eleven at night and the noise to a minimum, the unofficial word for patrols was to leave well enough alone. Biggs would also phone in the odd tip, usually on tweakers with burglary beefs that most first-week rookies could spot, though it could take ten of them to finally stuff the suspect into the cage if they were flying. “Look around if you want. They ain’t here.”
Ernie took a healthy sip. He knew Biggs was telling the truth. Catching the wanted was usually easy enough, especially in a place like this: the slightest residue of female scent, an unexpected creak from a closet, a steady inhale and exhale of movement that no one could ever hold within. Ernie heard nothing. “Anybody else in your inner circle doing this kind of business anymore?”
Biggs took a swig of rye. “Well, it’s not like we have a benevolent association or anything. There’s a few HR hangers-on that might, but you must be pretty much past that if you’re here.” Biggs took another sip. He grabbed the Sentinel off the kitchen counter, plopping it down on the table and pointing to the front-page story. “Can’t remember the last time I harboured a whore,” said Biggs. “They tend to get under the radar pretty quick with their own benevolent associates.”
Ernie nodded as he put down his empty glass. “This one is definitely a special case. Double rate.”
Biggs stopped half-sip. “Double rate?” Biggs looked over at the shotgun, pointing at it like an exuberant child. “Need a partner?”
Ernie smirked at the offer. “I’d prefer one without a fucking walker.”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck you too, you fucking cripple.”
The two men chuckled as Biggs shook the last of the rye into their glasses. “Here’s the way I figure it,” said Biggs. “You’ve got a coked-up whore-slash-user on the run, can’t get a fix and can’t call to get a fix. She’s got detox to deal
with while still trying to get safe. She can’t call another whore. They can be just as bad on that shit as she is, which means that whore could call in the tip or off her herself for the cash, especially if she hears it’s four grand. That can pay for a party weekend without getting fucked in the ass with a dribbly dick.” Biggs took a swill to finish his thought. “Still, it’s probably an ex-whore. Somebody she’d trust. And in this town, that’s gotta be a pretty short list.”
Ernie nodded. “There are a few reformed ones who do that hooker safety outreach bullshit.”
“Too risky,” said Biggs. “Too high of a community profile, and this bitch is a wanted killer. This is way too much for a hooker with a heart of painted gold to take on.”
“What about a business?” said Friday. “I’ve seen a few. The news loves to talk up that reformed shit.”
“Could be,” said Biggs. “I think one of them started a pole dancing party thing. One might be a sex therapist or something.”
Ernie looked down at the paper. The Sentinel had been increasing the amount of small earlug-style ads on its front page to the point that slow news days were starting to look like Madison Avenue was eating the paper from the outside edges. The tiny ads were cheap, which attracted all manner of businesses. One ad caught Ernie’s attention. He pulled it closer to the right bifocal angle. “Wasn’t there some ex-hooker who opened a sex shop somewhere?”
Biggs took a sip and rested the glass on his sternum as he thought about it. The recollection hit him mid–glass raise. “Yeah, that dildo shop on Main Street. The Other something-or-other. Right by Arlington.”
“Well,” said Ernie, as he gulped the glass clean. “That’s the closest. I guess I’ll start there.” Ernie rose to leave. Biggs responded with a wave and the last sip of his glass at the same time.
“And Friday,” said Biggs. “You might as well get a clean butt plug while you’re at it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Claire Hebert had finally moved into a sitting position on the couch. Proceeding past that position didn’t seem like a good idea with the current state of queasy. She assessed the current location of the wastepaper basket for a potential volley of dry-heaves. She was alone, for the moment. Cindy and Tommy had gone downstairs to assist with the lunch preparation. She looked around the room, still squinting at the little light afforded by the bare sixty-watt bulb overhead. It was a mess of papers and piles of T-shirts and jeans that may or may not have been clean. There were no pictures of Tommy and Cindy. Claire wondered why.
Her first steps were shaky, still affected by the detoxification process. Claire used the desk to steady herself. She knew better than to expect any coke in the top drawer. She set her sights low: antacids, Tylenol, anything to stop the combination of stomach churn and throbbing headache. She found service station–style sample packets of each in the drawer, tearing them open, and tossing the pills in dry, which she immediately regretted. A capped half-empty bottle of water was close to the edge of the desk. Claire reached for it, slightly out of focus. The bottle fell, rolling under the desk. She swore quietly as she reached down to pick it up. The bottle had rolled farther inward than she could reach without having to crawl on all fours. She reached blindly up to the desktop, figuring a stapler, ruler, even a manila file folder would be enough to start the bottle rolling in her direction. She pulled down the ledger of the late Jimmy Stephanos, not realizing what it was until she had removed the bottle from under the desk. She pulled herself up, using both bottle and ledger to steady herself as she sat in the desk chair.
Swigging the water, she flipped open the pages of the ledger. The coded entries failed to register any meaning: a lot of numbers, a lot of columns. No names or places, not even a scrawl of a phone number and first name. She capped the bottle and placed it on the desk without looking. It landed on a lopsided pile of bills and papers, a teetering mess waiting for the slightest rustle to send it to the floor. “Shit,” she said, as the pile slid to the floor below. Claire almost fell to the floor to retrieve them, convinced in some strange way that this minor indiscretion of home-office etiquette would be her undoing. On the trip down, the ledger fell with her, opening to its natural spine. She did her best to keep the papers in their semi-organized fashion, stacking them on one side of the open ledger. The bills were the usual variety: Manitoba Hydro, cell phone, internet. The last of the stack was three water bills, as if Tommy had dragged them out as long as possible, waiting until the last day of the estimated bill to call in an actual reading from the meter. The invoices had landed in such a way that the account number was legible at the top of each invoice. 1263734119. Claire grabbed at the invoices, dropping the last invoice as she hoisted the other two to the desk. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” she said, as she reached down for the last time. The loose invoice was covering part of the ledger with a bank of numbers that started with the first three of the water bill. She blinked hard. It wasn’t her mind playing detox tricks. She slid the invoice away from the ledger slowly, confirming each matching digit as she moved the paper; it was a lottery she didn’t want to win. The panic rose in her face as the numbers matched, one after the other. There were six additional characters on the end of the string that didn’t coincide, all with different sequences. She wasn’t sure if they were simply there to mask the meter number or if they held something more ominous in their string. She didn’t care. Tommy is in on it, she thought, whatever ‘it’ is.
As her mind raced, she envisioned that this underworld railroad was something more sinister: a gateway of safety until three bullets find purchase in your head and chest. It didn’t take long for her to find the Smith & Wesson in the file box. She stuffed it in the cushions of the couch, memorizing the location of the butt for quick access. She was done for sleep. She was poised for survival.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Paul Lemay wasn’t enjoying his upgraded weapon. He fidgeted in the tight cab of the Ranger while Paul Bouchard tried to keep the shifter from popping out of gear. “Quit squirming, you fat fuck,” said Bouchard.
“I don’t like the way this gun is touching my junk,” said Lemay.
“What do you care?” Bouchard chuckled. “When’s the last time you could look down and see it?”
“As long as the bitch can find it, that’s all I care about.” Lemay produced the revolver, stuffing it into his side pocket. “Ahhhh, that’s much better.”
“I’m sure the gun appreciates being out of your stinky fat man rolls.”
“That’s not fat, it’s pushin’ cushion.”
“Says you.”
“Says me, and my johnson.” Lemay still struggled for comfort in his seat, knocking the shifter into neutral. Bouchard had become used to it, quickly jamming the shifter into third. “Jesus,” said Bouchard. “Next truck is a fucking automatic.”
Lemay was too busy cycling through his phone to respond about transmissions. He had received text messages back from the HR-friendly cab companies; no one had picked up anyone with high heels, no jacket, and a high-end briefcase on the night that Jimmy Stephanos was killed. Either she grabbed a ride with a friend or hailed an indie cab. They could simply muscle the indies, though it probably wasn’t in their best interest, especially with all the police attention the Stephanos killing was earning, plus the Cumberland corpse. The Pauls had tried to get close to the HR house, but it was still under guard, with even more tents and white jumpsuit–wearing investigators.
“Any tips?” said Bouchard, still holding the shifter steady.
“Sweet fuck all,” said Lemay. “Like the ground swallowed her up or something.” He cycled further through the phone, hoping he had missed a pivotal message. “No wonder this gig is double. If I wanted to work for a living, I’d go back to Day Street.” Day Street was the epicentre for auto dismantling in Winnipeg, in the oil-parched moonscape of the North Transcona district.
Bouchard checked his phone for a text, just before a downshift. �
��She’s gotta be with some kinda hooker, former or otherwise. You know, some Julia Roberts–kinda skank.” The thought triggered a memory. “Take the wheel!” said Bouchard, as he started fishing under the driver’s seat.
Lemay instinctively steadied the Ranger. “We got a light in a couple of blocks,” said Lemay.
Bouchard fished his hand under the seat, past the fast food bags, coffee cups, and general indifference for the Ranger’s interior. He locked on the item of want, pulling forth a piece of the Sentinel that had seen better days. It was a copy of the Weekender, the replacement tabloid-style substitute for the defunct Sunday edition. Bouchard had the club section folded over, with stars next to the establishments that were hosting karaoke nights. He took back the wheel, steering, reading, and scanning the roadway. “Here’s where we start,” said Bouchard, handing the paper to Lemay.
The story was adjacent to the Lifestyles page, with a feature titled “The Working Girls; Former Sex Trade Workers Walking the Entrepreneurial Street.” The story profiled three former prostitutes with small businesses. One was in Thompson, another in Brandon. The last was an adult toy store on Main Street, near Cathedral. The picture had been stained by spilled coffee, but the caption was still intact. “Jasmine Starr stands in front of The Other Woman on Main Street. ‘I just couldn’t resist the name,’ said Starr. ‘It’s who I’ve always been.’” The story went on to tell the tale of Jasmine’s days on Albert Street in the early two-thousands.
“That’s around the time that this Claire chick was walking Albert,” said Lemay. “Better check it out.”
~
Jasmine Starr steadied herself against the washing machine, as Pete, the laundromat owner, thrusted against her backside. Her fleece sleep pants were bunched up around her ankles, about as much primping as she would indulge in for cheap rent. He had reached under her sweater and her loose-fitting bra, searching in vain for a squeal of the slightest delight. In her younger days, Jasmine would have been far more convincing. For this event, she could still shake the ash off her cigarette. She had found a magnetic tool bowl for the ashes, which showed no signs of being dislodged from the washer top by Pete’s antics.
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