by Brent Pilkey
Silence.
Fuck. Still on the tactical band.
He dialled over to 51’s band and the usual police crap squawked out of the mitre.
“— neighbour was smearing feces on his car. Don’t know if they’re human or —”
“Major Crime 51 with a priority,” Jack interrupted. “Major Crime with a priority.”
The dispatcher took control immediately. “Units stay off the air,” she ordered. “Unit with the priority, go ahead.”
“It’s mk 51,” Jack said as he knelt beside Jenny again. “Suspect for assault police last seen running northbound through Allan Gardens.” He scanned the area around him. Just because fuckhead had run off didn’t mean he wasn’t coming back. “Male, white, muscular build. Wearing a black shirt and blue jeans. Units be advised, this male is possibly the suspect for the assaults on prostitutes and should be considered extremely violent.”
“mk 51, are you in foot pursuit of the suspect?”
“Negative, dispatch. We’re at Gerrard and Horticultural Lane.”
“10-4, mk 51. Units to respond. Suspect last seen northbound through Allan Gardens.” She repeated the description then came back to Jack. “I have units heading to the area, mk 51. Do you need an ambulance?”
Jack looked at Jenny as she struggled to sit up. He slipped an arm under her shoulders as he keyed the mike. “10-4, dispatch. I need an am —”
Jenny’s fingers weakly gripped his wrist. “No,” she managed.
“You’re hurt,” Jack explained. “You need to go to the hospital. Dispatch, get —”
“No,” Jenny said, stronger this time and her grip tightened on his wrist. “No time.”
“I have an ambulance attending your location, mk 51. Can you advise of injuries?”
Jack watched as Jenny dragged herself up onto the bench. Her hair had pulled free of its ponytail and draped over her face. Shreds of grass and tiny bits of litter clung offensively to her black tresses.
“Jenny,” he beseeched but she would have none of it.
“No,” she said, her voice stronger. Stronger and harder. “We don’t have time. I’ll go later.”
Jack studied her for a moment, seeing past the battered flesh to the steel beneath. She met his eyes defiantly, challenging him, and he felt a rush of pride for his partner.
“Cancel the ambulance, dispatch. We don’t need it.” He pocketed the radio and helped Jenny to her feet. “What’s the rush?”
Jenny swayed on her feet then steadied as the dizziness passed. “His shirt had a crest,” she said, twirling her finger over her left breast. “Filmore’s. The bastard works at Filmore’s.”
The chubby man scratched his chin. “That sounds like Taylor. Always thought he was a little off centre. Something not quite right upstairs.”
“How so?” Jack asked.
“Can’t really say,” the manager of Filmore’s tried to explain. “Always had this look on his face like he was hiding something. Gave some of the girls the creeps, the way he looked at them.”
“Looked at them how?” Jenny asked from where she stood by the open office door, keeping an eye on the hallway leading from the club’s main room.
“Like he had a problem with them. Hated them, I guess. Sorry this is taking so long. This piece of shit runs slower than I do.” He drummed stubby fingers on the computer’s keyboard. A chunky gold ring that matched the chunky gold necklace and even chunkier gold watch glinted in the fluorescent light.
Jack ate his impatience. “Was he at work tonight?”
“Yeah, he was. Supposed to still be here but he never came back from his break.” He slapped the computer. “Come on, you bloody thing. Probably got a virus or something. You know anything about a gunshot earlier? Some customers said they heard one but I can’t hear shit back here.”
“No, but we’ve been busy with other things.” Jack checked his watch. Kris and Tank would be finished searching the building soon and Jack wanted an address to hit when they were done. “How much longer?”
“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Filmore’s head man promised. “Unless this thing crashes again. Last week I was doing payroll and just before I finished, the bloody screen went blank. Poof! Just like that. Took me hours to do it all over again.”
“That sucks,” Jenny commiserated absently. Jack ground his teeth.
“Here it is,” the boss said at last. “Taylor Furlington.”
Now we’ve got you, asshole. Jack pulled out his memo book and jotted the name and birthday down. “You got an address for him?”
“Sure thing. It’s —” The boss man paused, his fingers hovering over the keys. “He ain’t gonna be able to sue me over this, is he? Breach of privacy or some shit like that? Maybe I shouldn’t be giving you this stuff until you get a warrant or something. What did he do, anyway?”
Jenny strode over to the desk and leaned across it. She brushed the hair from her face so the boss wouldn’t miss any of the swollen and bruised flesh. “This,” she snarled.
The boss’s face blanched and his fingers dropped to the keys. “Here’s his address.”
They cut through the dark club, past tables. For a Thursday night, the strip club was quite busy but the patrons, alone or in groups, avoided looking around at their neighbours. Jenny and Jack roused some attention with their purposeful strides but again, no one showed much interest. Eyes would flicker to them then quickly avert back to the stage and the woman dancing in the hot lights.
Not that I consider that dancing, Jenny mused as she spared a look toward the stage, although the woman currently on stage was doing some impressive moves and holds on the brass pole. Good upper body strength.
Jenny figured she’d be getting more looks if her shirt was still tied off beneath her breasts, but the shirt was down and her Glock, baton and handcuffs were a comforting weight riding on her hips. They had an address for their suspect and she was looking forward to payback time. She touched the hammered flesh of her face and winced.
So much for looking good for my date on Saturday.
Tank and Kris were waiting by the front doors, the two bouncers near them trying not to look unsettled by the presence of two pissed-off cops. Jack broke free of the tables with Jenny right behind and they headed for the doors. A dancer slipped up to Jack, reaching out with a tentative hand.
“Excuse me.” She was almost shouting but Jenny barely heard her over the thumping music. The blonde woman — probably closer to girl — had a diaphanous red scarf ingeniously wound around her hips and small breasts. Jenny glanced at her partner and was pleased, somewhat childishly and possessively, to see that his eyes never left the woman’s face.
“Is Taylor in trouble?” the dancer asked, shifting her look between the partners.
“Why do you think we’re looking for Taylor?” Jenny asked.
“I . . . I heard . . .” she stammered, gesturing at the doormen. She took a deep, steadying breath, then rushed ahead. “I heard a couple of them talking. He isn’t in trouble, is he?”
“He is in trouble and he knows it,” Jenny told her, none too softly. “If you know where he is or how to get hold of him, tell us now before he makes it worse.”
“What did he do?” The woman was wringing her hands.
This girl is a stripper? I thought strippers were supposed to be tough. She should be back in high school. “What’s your name?” Jenny asked, easing up.
“Sandra,” she said timidly.
“Well, Sandra, this is what Taylor did.” She pointed at her face. With her hair tied back, the darkening bruises and scabbing cuts were painfully visible.
Sandra’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Taylor could never . . .”
“Yes, he could. And did,” Jenny said harshly. “Do you know where he is?”
Sandra shook her head. “He didn’t come back after .
. . after his break.” She latched onto Jenny’s arm. “You don’t understand,” she implored. “He’s only been here a little while. He isn’t used to the city.”
“He’s from someplace where men are allowed to beat on women?” Jenny snorted as she disengaged her arm from Sandra’s fingers.
“No,” Sandra answered, a confused look on her face. “He’s from Sudbury. This isn’t . . . it can’t be his fault.”
“Well, it is, Sandra, and if we find out someone called him to warn him,” Jenny cautioned, “we’ll be back for you.”
They left the naïve stripper alone with her worry and Jenny muttered, “Stupid bitch. I wonder how many times this asshole has beaten on her.”
“You got a name?” Tank asked as Jenny and Jack joined the two MCU coppers by the doors.
“And an address,” Jack told them with a nasty smile. “200 Wellesley,” he said, once they were all outside.
“Cool.” Tank flipped open his cell phone. “Thomas, it’s Tank. I need you to meet us at 200 Wellesley with a pass-key.” A pause. “About five minutes ago, that’s when.” He tucked his phone away. “I’ve got a buddy on Housing security. He’ll meet us there with the key.”
The two MCU cops led the way in their car, Jack and Jenny close behind. “How you feeling?” Jack asked as he eased the car to a stop at Dundas and Sherbourne.
“Okay,” Jenny said, nodding. “Sore as hell but okay.”
“Good thing you’ve got a date with a doctor this weekend,” Jack joked.
Jenny laughed, then grimaced in pain. “Ow, don’t make me laugh.” She rubbed the side of her jaw gingerly. “Yeah, I’d already thought of that. Glad to see my love life is a concern of yours. Now, what about yours? Did you call Karen tonight?”
Jack shot Jenny a look as the light greened. “When would I have had time to call?”
Jenny stared at her partner, her disbelief clear. “Come on, Jack. You were sitting in a church for about five hours.”
“I was supposed to be watching you,” he pointed out. “Not calling my wife.”
Jenny laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder to remove any bite from her words. “If you don’t call her, how much longer will she be your wife?”
Jack stared ahead, not answering, but his hands clenched the steering wheel, bunching the muscles in his forearms with the strain. In a whisper, he said, “Not now, Jenny. Let’s get this asshole. Then I’ll worry about Karen.”
Jenny heard the pain in his words, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, but honoured his request and let the short trip ride out in silence.
200 Wellesley Street was an apartment building in St. James Town, the division’s northern hot spot. The housing complex comprised a dozen or so high-rises and on a hot summer night like this the playgrounds and walkways between the towers would be crawling with human vermin. But they were after one specific vermin tonight and hopefully he had run home, thinking he was safe. He was about to be proven wrong.
Jack parked behind Tank’s car and the four of them approached the front doors together. Surprisingly, the lobby door was locked —like Regent Park, locks didn’t stay intact long in St. James Town — and Tank’s friend Thomas was waiting for them by the elevators. Clad in the drab uniform of Toronto Community Housing Security, he looked big enough to play linebacker without the shoulder pads.
Looking at the three men and Kris, Jenny felt immensely undersized. Is it something in the water down here?
Tank and Thomas shared a quick hug with lots of manly backslapping then exchanged rapid-fire Chinese — Mandarin or Cantonese, Jenny couldn’t tell. She looked at Tank with new respect.
“I didn’t know you spoke Chinese,” she said.
The big copper shrugged and actually blushed a bit. “Thomas taught me some,” he confessed. “Just enough to get laid.”
“Of course.”
“It’s near the elevators,” Thomas told them, handing Tank a key. “Pretty much right next to the elevators.”
“Cool.” Tank bounced the key in his palm. “Okay, we’ll each take a stairwell and meet at the apartment. Thomas, you taking off?”
Thomas looked shocked at the suggestion. “And trust a 51 copper to return the key to me? Are you nuts?” Only the barest of smiles said he was joking.
Jack and Jenny headed up the east stairwell while the three behemoths took the opposite end. They made it to the second floor without running into any crackheads and ghosted down the hallway, rendezvousing with the others at the apartment. Jack and Jenny were on the key side so Tank tossed Jack the key.
Jack listened at the door then raised his hands palms up. All quiet. Tank twirled his finger impatiently. Let’s go.
Jack slipped the key into the lock and gently, quietly, turned the knob. The door cracked open and gunfire erupted from inside the apartment. Three bullets hit the door, punching through it in small splintery explosions, slamming the door shut. Jack slapped himself against the wall and tugged his Glock free at the same time.
With the gunshots still echoing in the concrete hallway, Jack grasped the knob and flung the door open. Moving as if choreographed, Jack and Tank took the doorway, Jack high on his side and Tank kneeling across from him. Jack stayed tucked in behind the wall as best he could, very aware he wasn’t wearing his vest.
The living room was sparsely furnished — an old couch and a tv — with their man, Furlington, standing by the balcony door. He was still wearing his black Filmore’s shirt and had a knapsack slung over his back. His face was fixed in a snarl of rage. He held a silver revolver firmly in his hand as he contemplated the two cops training their guns on him.
“Police!” Jack yelled. “Drop the gun!”
Furlington glared at them then darted out the balcony door. He never paused before vaulting over the railing.
“Fuck!” Jack swore, remembering they were only on the second floor. He bolted into the apartment and across the living room. The glass in the balcony sliding door shattered as he shouldered it open. He pulled up at the railing, scanning the darkness beyond the haloed light thrown by the building’s apartments. Part of him, the sane part, realized he was silhouetted against the bright windows, a perfect target if Furlington decided against running. The emotional side of him, the animal that craved vengeance, wanted Furlington to take a shot, to reveal himself so Jack could unload a magazine of bullets at him.
No shots came and in the distance, fading swiftly, the slap of running feet on concrete.
“Fuck.” Quieter this time, frustrated and mad.
“Damn it,” Jenny echoed him from the other end of the balcony. She had silhouetted herself as well but at least she’d had the brains to keep away from Jack, presenting two targets instead of one.
Jack pulled out his mitre but knew it was too late. By the time cars arrived to throw up a containing perimeter, Furlington would be blocks away. Even farther if he had a car.
“Fuck,” he repeated and keyed the radio.
The atmosphere in the Major Crime Unit was subdued, gloomy and irritated. Furlington had gotten away from them twice. But at least they had a face for their suspect and a name for the face. Even Tank, with the remains of an extra-large pizza in front of him, wasn’t his usual bubbly self.
“I don’t fucking believe it.” Jack shoved away from the computer. “Not a damn fucking thing on him. Not so much as a ticket.”
“Where’s his dl registered to? Maybe he has history somewhere else.” Mason was slumped behind his desk. God, he was tired. He imagined the dark circles under his eyes were sagging down his cheeks like wet mascara.
“Hang on,” Jack muttered as he clicked over to check Furlington’s driver’s licence. “Sudbury. Guess he never got around to changing that.”
“Sudbury, huh? I’ll give them a call.” Mason pulled out a directory from his desk drawer. Over the course of his career the detective had attended p
olice conferences all over Canada and the States. As far as he was concerned, the training and exchange of information at the gatherings was secondary to establishing contacts in other law enforcement agencies. He had business cards from officers in police departments with less than a dozen guys right up to cards stamped CIA and DEA. He was sure he knew someone in Sudbury.
While he thumbed through his collection of contacts — I have to put these on a computer someday — he saw Jack rubbing the heel of his hand into his right eye. “Have you eaten anything, Jack?”
“Nah.” Jack scrubbed at his face. “I’m too pissed off to eat.”
“Go get something from downstairs,” Mason ordered. “We can’t afford you getting one of your bloody migraines. And since Tank didn’t order enough pizza for everyone . . .” The grouchy detective glared at his officer.
“Hey, I asked,” Tank protested. Grumbling under his breath, he added, “It’s not my fault getting shot at makes me hungry.”
“Anybody else want anything?” Jack canvassed the office. Kris shook her head as she stole a slice of Tank’s pizza then smacked his bald head as he raised his hand.
“I guess not,” Tank mumbled, glowering at Kris. She blew him a kiss.
Mason shook the can of Coke sitting on his desk. Faint sloshing sounds echoed out of the tin can. “I could use another Coke.”
Jack nodded. “Jenny?”
Jack’s partner looked up from where she was catching up on her notes and Mason noted the way she looked at Jack. Lucky bastard. What I would give to have a woman like that look at me that way.
Were they sleeping together? Mason doubted it; there was too much sexual tension between them. It hadn’t been tapped yet, but Mason figured it was only a matter of time.
“See if you can dig up some ice somewhere, Jenny,” Mason suggested. “Let’s see if we can get some of that swelling down.”
“Duh.” She lightly rapped the heel of her hand off her forehead. “I should have thought of that.”
“You’ve been busy. Now both of you get going; I’m thirsty.”