Dark Matter

by R. D. Cain

  The girls were all together now, using the tampons and pads to clean the blood away. Tears and dirt caked their faces. He smiled under his mask. He dumped the drugged boy at their feet, stopping to make sure he was breathing. They were the unwanted. If they had been cared for, properly coached, they would not have fallen into the hands of a man like him. He stood tall over the boy until all eyes settled on him; then he did something he had not done before: he spoke.

  “For what you did, one of you bitches is going to die.” He looked at Lindsay and removed the mask so she could see him smile.

  8

  Nastos met Carscadden at the office at nine-thirty. They had only two names to check out; it looked like it was going to be a quick day. They sat into Carscadden’s Ford Escape and headed out for the morning.

  Carscadden shifted into drive. “First stop is Jessica Taylor, I take it?”

  “Jessica Taylor. Yeah, I’ll put the address in the GPS.”

  “Let’s just go up through town: north traffic won’t be too bad.”

  “Sure thing, we have all day. Besides, I doubt she’s an early riser.”

  Carscadden stopped at a red light and leaned over to get his sunglasses out of the glovebox. Nastos caught the smell.

  “Jesus, boy, you take a little nip out of your flask this morning?”

  “What?”

  “You okay to drive, for fuck’s sake?”

  “I had a small swig to finish off a bottle for the recycling bin. You my mother now?”

  Nastos smiled. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep the recycling guys waiting.”

  Carscadden’s hands tightened on the wheel but he remained silent. Nastos decided not to press the issue for the rest of the drive. He’d let it go for now, but he’d keep an eye out for a problem resurfacing.

  Jessica’s address came up as a row house; Carscadden parked a short distance down the street.

  Flemingdon was a notoriously bad area. A maze of red-brick and brownpanel townhouses lined the private roadways on both sides. From where they stood Nastos could see that a few residences had cracked windows; more had bags of garbage left out front. Near the laneway entrance into the townhomes on the right, there was a dumpster overflowing with garbage — it stank from fifty paces. There wasn’t an automobile in sight born in the current decade, and many had expired val-tags from years ago. Most people here would be on drug squad watch sheets and street checks. Claire Bannerman might say that this was where the other half lived.

  They had gotten out of the car and locked it before Carscadden realized he’d forgotten his BlackBerry on the dash. Moments later, the device safely in Carscadden’s pocket, they began their search for Jessica’s house. As they turned a corner and began walking down the main driveway, Nastos noticed a Toronto Police cruiser parked at the far end of the complex.

  Carscadden checked his BlackBerry for the address. “That’s too far down. Jessica’s just here on the left.”

  “Good. The fewer cops, the faster this will go.”

  A brown Chevy Impala pulled in off of the street and began driving behind them at a crawl. Nastos tried to ignore it. He found the number they were looking for and had started up the driveway when the car drove up to the curb behind them and jerked to a stop. The passenger window slid down and a thick freckled hand waved them over. “As I live and breathe — Steve Nastos.”

  Nastos stiffened at first, then relaxed as his mind searched to link a face to the voice. He turned and approached the car’s window with Carscadden following. Nastos recognized Detective Brian “Hollywood” Dennehy. No one ever referred to him as Hollywood except himself. Dennehy was a thirty-year vet who considered himself a movie star and never went anywhere without his partner, Brad Byrne. Byrne would be the obscured man in the passenger seat.

  Nastos smiled a greeting at Dennehy. “Got yourself a body up at the end of the street there?”

  “Yeah, looks like an OD.” Dennehy poked his head out the window with an uncontainable smile. “Here’s a better question. What the hell are you doing here, revoking someone’s car insurance?” The obscured mass in the passenger seat shook and laughed.

  “Can’t you tell by the suit? I’ve gone Mormon. We’re offering multiple wives if you sign up today.”

  Dennehy’s grin turned into a scowl. “You and your stupid fucking jokes, Nastos. Good riddance.”

  Nastos visualized his fist mashing into Dennehy’s face. It was far from the first time he’d done so — only now he didn’t have to worry about getting demoted or transferred to the traffic unit. He clenched his fists. Carscadden grabbed him by the upper arm but Nastos broke free easily and forced his way into Dennehy’s face.

  “Why don’t you get out of the car, Dennehy? Stretch your legs a little.”

  Dennehy pulled the door handle and barged out, Nastos stepping deftly to the side of the swinging door. Byrne bolted out of his side of the car and came around. Dennehy and Byrne had the same crewcuts, thick bellies and dark suits. Carscadden squeezed between Byrne and Nastos.

  Dennehy and Nastos were now nose to nose. The other man was taller, peering down, his face flushed. “Here I am, tough guy. You’ve got a big mouth. Now take your shot.”

  Carscadden had to put both of his hands on Nastos’ shoulders to pull him back from Dennehy.

  Dennehy smiled. “That’s the second time this lawyer has saved your ass.”

  Still staring at Dennehy, Nastos let Carscadden de-escalate the situation.

  “C’mon, Nastos, he’s not worth shit. Let it go.”

  His eyes still locked on Dennehy’s, Nastos’ lips curled in a slow smile that would make the hair on the back of anyone’s neck stand on end. “Some other time, Dennehy.”

  “I don’t have time for pieces of shit like you. And hey, Inspector Koche sends his regards. Bet you didn’t know he made inspector, courtesy of you.”

  Koche was the cop who had had Nastos charged with murder. The news that Koche had gotten promoted by ruining Nastos’ life only made him angrier. “All the more reason to crawl under his desk, eh, Dennehy? Good for you. You’re blowing a real somebody.”

  Dennehy produced a middle finger and slid back into the car. Byrne went back to the passenger side, sneered at Nastos and spit on the ground toward him. After Byrne poured himself in, Dennehy hit the gas, squealing the tires as the Impala peeled down the lane of row houses.

  Carscadden said, “Saves me having to tell him to screw off.”

  Nastos straightened his jacket and tie. “Save it for next time.”

  Carscadden began walking for the townhouse and Nastos followed. Nastos remarked, “You know, he’s a devout Catholic. Goes to church all the time.”

  Carscadden scowled down the laneway. “Guess there’s no commandment stopping him from being an asshole. And what’s the deal with those guys? Same suits, same hair, same attitudes. Tweedle Dumb and Tweedlefucking Dumber.”

  They stopped at the small alcove by the front door. A rusted black mailbox hung on the brick wall, its lid stuck open.

  “They’ve worked together for years and years. They’ve always gotten transferred together — that never happens for anybody.”

  “They have friends higher up?”

  “They must. They’re like Frick and Frack. They spend their time off together, get their haircuts together —”

  Carscadden’s face contorted as he considered this. “Heterosexual life partners.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  Carscadden pressed the doorbell. “Well, if we start finishing each other’s sentences —”

  Nastos pulled a few letters out of the mailbox, checking for the name Jessica Taylor. They were phone bills and flyers for pizza places. He dumped them back in.

  There was no sound from inside, so Nastos pounded on the door. “Don’t worry, if we start finishing each other’s sentences, I’l
l push you in front of a subway car.”

  Nastos was about to peek in the side window when the door shook and rattled open.

  “Who are you?” The woman was white, skinny, with hair bleached blond except for three inches of brown and grey roots, held back in a bun. Her face was red and blotchy with yellow areas, like the back side of wallpaper.

  Carscadden said, “We’re not cops. We’re looking for Jessica Taylor, hoping she can help us out.”

  “With what?” Her weight shifted to one side, causing her bony hips to poke out the top of her white track pants. Her fake D-cups rocked from side to side in her tank top.

  Carscadden held up a photograph. “This is Lindsay. She’s seventeen now.”

  Jessica looked at the picture. “She’s pretty. Sorry, I haven’t seen her.”

  “But you’ve been speaking with her for at least four months. She’s been calling your phone. You’ve probably called hers.”

  Jessica bit her lip for a second, then raised a defiant chin, brushing a few stray hairs back. “We met up on Facebook and I told her some stories about her mom.”

  Carscadden shook his head, “Heavily redacted, I hope.”

  “Huh?” Her face twisted at the foreign word. “She should know about her mom if she asks, don’t you think?”

  Carscadden tried to poke his nose in the door. “We don’t give a shit if you’ve talked with her, we just want to know she’s safe. Is she here now?”

  Jessica put her arm up to stop him. “No, she’s not.”

  While Carscadden was talking, Nastos focused solely on her body language. She seemed mostly honest, but only mostly. Nastos asked, “If you were Lindsay, would you take off? She had it pretty good with the Bannermans.”

  Jessica scoffed. “Oh, sure she did. Private school, designer clothes and all the sex she could handle from the old man. Yeah, she had it really good.”

  Nastos shared a look with Carscadden. “He was having sex with her?”

  Jessica brushed her hair back again. “She never came right out and said it. Just the warning signs were there. He had this way of looking at her. My stepdad used to look at me like that. And that was when I left too.”

  Nastos wasn’t going to discuss the allegation with Carscadden while Jessica was standing there. It was best to show confidence in her, to build trust and get her to say more.

  “Listen, we’d appreciate it if we could just come in, look around and make sure she’s either not here, or that she’s safe. She doesn’t have to go back if she doesn’t want to.”

  “Yeah, I know. But she’s not here.” She looked Nastos up and down, reluctantly stepping back from the door. “Go ahead. Look. She’s not here.”

  It wasn’t so bad that they had to hold their breath. Jessica’s place was cluttered, and the threadbare carpets looked as if they had never seen a vacuum. Stale cigarette smoke clung to every surface, adding another layer of despair to the already derelict condition of the house. Walking stirred dust up from the floor and the sound of compacting sand ground under each step where there was carpet. There were two bedrooms, one of which had been turned into a sewing room full of tacky quilts and pillows. A sewing mannequin stood in the corner, a tape measure draped around its headless form. The second bedroom was where Jessica plied her other trade. There was a plain mattress on the floor and a chair in one corner next to a plastic garbage bin. A night stand stood in the other corner, likely full of sexual accoutrements that Nastos preferred not to contemplate. There was no sign of a teenage girl living there.

  Nastos asked, “So, Jessica, she found you on Facebook, or you found her?”

  “What do you mean?” Jessica produced a cigarette and placed it in her mouth, leaving it to dangle annoyingly when she spoke.

  Carscadden said, “You contested the adoption to the Bannermans. You’ve known Lindsay a long time.”

  “She tracked me down. She said she wanted to know about her mother, that was all.”

  Nastos asked, “You know where she would be?”

  Jessica grabbed a lighter from the top of the refrigerator and lit her smoke. “No.” She took a long hard draw, sucking the smoke so hard her cheeks caved in, and exhaled in their direction. “And you two can leave now.” She pinched the filter between two fingers.

  Nastos waved his hand in front of his face to waft away the smoke. “Does Lindsay know what you do for a living?”

  Jessica put her hands on her hips. “Screw you.”

  Carscadden thanked her for her time, then he and Nastos left. Dennehy was still parked down at the end of the row houses. Carscadden broke the silence as they walked back to the car. “How old would you say she was?”

  Nastos considered it. “Maybe close to forty.”

  Carscadden shuddered. “Whatever happened to forty being the new thirty? She makes forty look like the new one hundred. And legs like pipe cleaners.”

  “With her, it’s not the years, it’s the mileage.”

  Carscadden slid into the driver’s side and started the car. “What’s your take on her allegations against Bannerman?”

  Nastos slammed his door shut. “I have serious doubts about anything Jessica would say. Bannerman was pretty cool about things when we were there. You know him better than I do; what do you think?”

  Carscadden drove out of the townhouse complex and turned toward the Don Valley Parkway. “If he had been assaulting her, there might be emails, statements to friends, maybe some kind of evidence at the house.”

  Nastos knew where Carscadden was going with this. “If he’s a molester, or a kiddie porn guy, from my experience, there would be images or files on his computer. He’d have a private hard drive where he’d keep it all. That what those guys do. He could have made and distributed files. There would be ways to find out. But —” Nastos stopped himself. “I’ve been wrong before, but with Bannerman, I just don’t think he’s the type.”

  Carscadden agreed. “But we have to at least ask him about it, right after we look into number two on the list. I don’t know about you, Anita Bonghit.”

  9

  The address for Anita Bonghit was north of Oshawa. It was a long drive, up the 404 to the 401, east to Simcoe Street in Oshawa, then north, all the way through town into Scugog Township. Toronto’s metropolitan high-rises became low-density sprawl. The flat geography of Oshawa near the lake changed as they entered its urban south-end ghetto of derelict buildings housing methadone clinics and Cash Converters. Then the landscape evolved into million-dollar historic buildings and subdivisions.

  Once they drove out of Oshawa, there were rolling hills and rural estate bungalows, with long, winding driveways lined by maples. Toronto had transformed into something from Anne of Green Gables in a little over an hour. They turned on a concession road and found the house on the south side, atop a ridge. At night the city lights would line the horizon, just before the great lake.

  The house wasn’t dilapidated or cramped by its neighbours. It was a grey brick with dated white aluminum trim over the windows matching the garage door and deck railings. It looked like the kind of place where an elderly couple would live. Parked beside the garage, with no other vehicle in sight, was an ATV. Carscadden turned the ignition off and pulled out the key. “Time for a Bonghit.”

  Nastos let Carscadden lead the way to the front door, hanging back and surveying the countryside.

  Carscadden hit the doorbell. “How in the hell would Lindsay have met up with this person?”

  Nastos brought a hand up to his forehead and squinted into the bright sun. It might have been an acre of fenced land, backing onto two acres of crown land filled with maples, birch and evergreens. Peeking around the side of the house, he saw a sixty-foot-long Quonset-style greenhouse. There was ample room for growing pot, and Bonghit’s hothouse, or pot house, would be perfect for drying and packaging.

  Nastos pointed to a basemen
t window that was blacked out. “Who blacks out their windows?”

  Carscadden shook his head. “And we are in harvest season.”

  No one was coming to the door. Nastos made sure there were no obvious surveillance cameras as they checked around the back of the property.

  Nastos sniffed, but smelled only fertilizer. There were no signs of neighbours. Two squirrels chased each other through the backyard. The road was quiet.

  Carscadden said, “Jesus, Nastos, let’s just look and get it over with, I can see the curiosity is practically killing you.”

  “Yeah. Not being a cop has its advantages. No rules of evidence. I can do an illegal search and the evidence won’t be tossed out. The worst I can get is a ninety-dollar trespass ticket. No reports, no supervisors with grade-four reading levels telling you they don’t understand what I wrote.”

  Nastos started toward the greenhouse, coming around the house and starting into the yard. Nastos noticed that, despite the direct sunlight, there was still dew on the lawn, wetting their shoes and pants. When he looked down he saw worse news and pointed at it for Carscadden to see. “Watch your step — dog shit.”

  “Great. These shoes cost two hundred. Could you imagine if —”

  Nastos later recalled that the scariest part about the whole thing was that the dog never barked. It never tried to call other dogs or alert its master. It had basically decided that it could take them both on its own. And no wonder, really — it was a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Rottweiler. It was fast for a dog its size. It came from around the Quonset hut, running full speed in a wide arc, like a base runner passing third and coming into home. Only the front incisors showed through the tight, vicious snarl. Small, beady black eyes, white froth on its chin.

  It didn’t take months of watching Dog Whisperer or extensive study of animal psychology to understand that to stay standing there with looks of horror frozen on their faces was suicide. Both Carscadden and Nastos turned at the same time in a panicked, frantic sprint for the SUV, parked a short eternity away.