by R. D. Cain
Nastos scanned down in the reports. The van was described in both reports as old and grey. One report suggested that one of the side mirrors had been shattered. There was a decal or writing on the sides; neither teen was able to recall what it said. One incident occurred in the Ellesmere and Meadowvale area, the other at Steeles and Morningside — ten minutes apart by car.
The door chimed. Madeleine Nastos smiled when she saw him at the front desk.
“How’s it going with them in there?”
Nastos shrugged. “No yelling, no weeping; they’re not giving me much to go on.” Madeleine didn’t take her coat off. He said, “If I had known you were coming by, I would have cleaned up.”
She checked out the office and peeked into the lunch room. “Tara’s done a good job with this place since I was here last.” The phone rang. Nastos picked it up, and Madeleine picked up a magazine and began flipping through it. It was an old one of hers that she had donated a few months ago.
The name on the call display read Bannerman.
“Carscadden Law.”
“Is that you, Nastos?”
“Yes, sir, it is. What’s up?”
Bannerman let out his anger. “You remember that con artist psychic that my wife had over? Anthony Raines?”
Nastos wedged the phone to his ear with his shoulder and began shuffling the files together. He left the Andrea Dobson file and the two suspicious persons files on top. “Yeah. That asshole followed me home after I left your place.”
Bannerman carried along as if he hadn’t heard Nastos. “He’s been back to the house. I just got off the phone with my wife. She had him over again. He gave her a psychic reading. He went into Lindsay’s room, for Christ’s sake.”
Nastos had plenty of ideas regarding what to do about Raines. He reminded himself that the Carscadden Law Firm utilized a customer-based approach in decision making.
“Just tell us what you’d like to happen here, Mr. Bannerman. Our firm would be happy —”
“I want a cease and desist order issued to him today, telling him not to contact me or my wife ever again.”
Nastos was disappointed. He was hoping Bannerman was pissed enough to suggest something more exciting than a letter written by a lawyer, even a harshly worded one. “Sure. It’ll be delivered today. Maybe you can do me, or both of us, a quick favour?”
Bannerman sounded surprised. “What can I do?”
Nastos brought over a writing pad. “Check out Mr. Raines, see what kind of mortgage he owes. Do a full financial on him.”
“You think he’s broke? He lives in Rosedale.”
“Let’s find out.”
Bannerman answered by pounding a keyboard. There was a pause. “He’s not with our bank. I’m doing a credit score, though. Holy shit.”
“Won’t you get in trouble for that?”
“We can do searches on people for security reasons in case we suspect fraud. The credit bureau will see it as an invisible search, and people with lower access will never know.”
“So what’s it like?”
Bannerman said, “It’s like we wouldn’t lend him five dollars if his life depended on it. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs.”
“Then there you go. He smells money, and you ended up on his radar screen.” Nastos hesitated. “Other than that, how are you holding up?”
Bannerman didn’t answer right away, like maybe he didn’t really want to. “Up and down. I feel like I’m going crazy. At times I push her out of my mind just to function; then I remember, and I feel guilty for forgetting about her. She’s all I can think about but, because it hurts, all I can’t think about. We’re both taking Atavan to sleep. We drank two bottles of wine at dinner last night . . . But you know . . . the people at work here are so understanding. I . . . I think they heard about the girl they found dead and think the worst. My secretary is a battle-axe. She came into my office yesterday and gave me a hug. She was crying. I asked her what was wrong and she wiped her eyes and said that they are all worried about Lindsay.”
Nastos didn’t want to tell him what he was thinking. With a second body found at the Junction Triangle, it was beginning to look like his suspicions of a serial abductor and killer were more accurate than he had hoped. “We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Bannerman.”
“I know, I know.”
After they hung up, Nastos scratched a note on the writing pad, then stood up to see Madeleine. Before he could say anything to her, Mills came out of the office. When he saw Nastos, he declared, “He’s cured,” and smiled.
Nastos stood up and offered his hand. “Thanks again for coming in like this.”
“It’s nice to get out of the office.”
Mills recognized Madeleine when he reached for his coat. “Hey, Madeleine, nice to see you.”
She smiled. “Hey, good to see you, too.”
Mills put his coat on, and with a wave of the hand disappeared out the door.
When Carscadden and Hopkins came out, Carscadden was embarrassed to see Madeleine waiting there. He said, “Holy crap, does the entire country know?”
Madeleine wrapped her arms around him. “Big deal, so you hit the booze like a sailor. Girls think sailors are cute.” She finished by saying, “But back it off before you make us worried about you.” She released Carscadden.
Nastos told them about Bannerman’s phone call and Anthony Raines.
Madeleine said, “Sounds like he’s desperate for money.”
“Yeah, so Carscadden will fire off a quick letter and we’ll get his address and drop it off. He’s somewhere in Rosedale.”
Hopkins went over to the computer and brought up Canada411. After a moment, she said, “Unlisted. I’ll just go to his website.” She frowned. “Only email — wait, here’s a number.”
She was going to dial when Nastos stopped her. “He’ll see the call display if you call from here.”
Madeleine suggested, “Use the Lands Registry program; that’s not unlisted.”
Nastos smiled appreciatively. “That’s my sneaky girl.”
She winked at him and blew him a kiss like Marilyn Monroe, except cuter.
Hopkins thought it was funny enough, but Nastos found himself resenting the gesture. She’d frozen him out for so long that he knew it was just a sales job for her friends. He reached back over the reception counter and produced the suspicious persons files for Carscadden to read.
Carscadden read the first page. “How did you get this, exactly?”
Nastos shook his head from side to side. Carscadden didn’t really want to know.
“Two girls reported being followed. It was by an old piece-of-junk van with a decal on the side. One girl said the side mirror was busted. The driver was dark, muscular and in his forties.”
Hopkins said, “You should tell the cops about it.”
Nastos felt like a loser. Now he was the kind of guy who, when he had a problem, had to go running to cops for help.
“Yeah, you’re right.” He felt his excitement dissipate. He had been feeling like he was putting everything together; now the pieces were all over the floor again. “We’ll give them a call.”
Hopkins sounded keen. “Hey, check this out. Raines has two houses on record. One in Rosedale, the other — one sec.”
Hopkins went to Google Maps. “Rexdale. Assessed value, two hundred thousand. A single house, it says.”
Madeleine shook her head. “I’ll tell you right now without looking at it that no one lives there — it’ll be a boarded-up piece of garbage for that valuation.”
Hopkins said, “Oh, yeah?”
Maddy said, “Guaranteed. Maybe he’s going to do a reno and try to flip it. It could go for four hundred if he does a good job, so if he could do it with only a hundred in, he’d walk away with a hundred thousand.”
Hopkins whistled. “Not bad
for extra money.”
Carscadden opened the door to the office. “Ms. Hopkins, if you could forward me the asshole’s address so I can write a nasty letter.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Carscadden,” she said. “I’ll even deliver it. Right after I have tea with Madeleine. We have some urgent matters to discuss about Dr. Mills, the rugged-looking sensitive type.”
Nastos said, “We won’t be here when you get back. They found a dead girl in the Junction Triangle area. Carscadden and I need to talk to the cops there. We’ll leave the letter on the reception desk.”
“You think it’s Lindsay?” Carscadden’s body tensed with dread.
“No, I think it’s Andrea Dobson.” Nastos held up her missing person report. “Exactly thirty days.”
18
The last time Nastos had been to the Junction Triangle for work was for a call where a deranged dad had tossed his three kids from a third-floor balcony, then dismembered his girlfriend while his wife smoked a crack pipe and watched from the couch. As Carscadden drove them past brown brick low-rises and sand-coloured concrete plazas, nineteenth-century homes, narrow and tall with tight, crooked porches, peeked out like children hiding behind a curtain. Nastos glanced at the building where the near-massacre occurred and felt sick to his stomach.
Carscadden yawned. “Remind me — they didn’t release the name on the radio, did they?”
“No, you didn’t miss it. The name isn’t released. But she’s been gone thirty days, just like the last girl, Sorrow.”
“Rebecca.” Carscadden reminded him. “Rebecca Morris.”
“Right. And this is Andrea Dobson.”
Nastos turned on the GPS and typed in the intersection of Dupont Street and Lansdowne Avenue. “There,” he said. “Get on Lakeshore and exit north at Parkside. It goes —”
“Yeah, I know, right up to Dupont. With traffic we’ll be there in fifteen.”
Nastos exhaled.
Carscadden smiled. “Did we just finish each other’s sentence?”
Nastos shuddered as he thought of Dennehy and Byrne. “That one doesn’t count.”
Nastos held up the Andrea Dobson report in his right hand and glanced at it. If she turned out to be the missing person they had just announced on the radio, then Lindsay Bannerman was in some serious trouble.
With the enviable knowledge hindsight offers, Anthony sat in his office, planning for overnight success for the second time in his life. The Casa Loma show was going to be his legacy. Like the prophesies of Nostradamus and Edgar Cayce. The difference was that he was going to do it live, over the internet, for all the world to see.
It was going to run two hours, which for him was a long time. He would start with cold readings for the audience; then, at the forty-five-minute mark, he would show a short video on the history of mysticism and tarot. Here he would take a piss break if needed and set up for the real purpose of the show: the enlightenment of humanity.
They had to know about the afterlife once and for all. It was going to be a turning point in human spiritualism to finally know what happens after death, where we go and what is waiting for us on the other side. The video would be replayed on YouTube millions of times. The knowledge that he would soon change the view of every organized religion on the planet was exhilarating.
He admired the image of himself on his desk: a silver-framed black-and-white picture of him and his older sister; they were six and seven at the time. A neighbour, a budding photographer in the early 1970s, had asked his mother permission to do a photo shoot with the children. He had shot them as they were, faces dirty and clothes grubby from playing, and had instructed them not to smile. The shot captured them both with forlorn expressions, their eyes gazing intently into the camera.
The image was, in a way, ominous. It was like the Anthony of the past was staring into him and in turn he was sending information back. The confidence he had always felt about his sexuality, the confidence he had always had in himself — he realized that it was at this moment of his present life that he was able to transmit it back to his past self. He had become a self-defining spirit, like the Dalai Lama.
With new eyes he appraised himself, the child he had been before the bullying and abuse at school had begun when it became obvious that he was different from the other boys. The taunts and punches were still in this young boy’s future. He had gotten through it with no help from anyone, with a quiet, unstoppable resolve, the source of which he understood only now. He had taken the pain the world had served him and had overcome.
He was pulled from his reverie by a knock at the study door. Who would knock? Do I have a reading today?
“Hello?”
It was Greta, the dog walker. “Anthony, you have a client here.”
Anthony opened the door. Behind her was a woman he had never seen before. He squinted. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember having a reading booked.”
The woman smiled demurely and glanced at Greta.
Greta squeezed Anthony’s arm before leaving. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”
Anthony smiled. “Oh, right, bye.”
After she had followed him down the hall, the short woman extended her hand. “Tara Hopkins.” She was curvy, well dressed. Dark hair, big eyes.
He reached to take the proffered greeting. Instead of shaking his hand, she placed an envelope in it and smiled broadly. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”
Anthony looked down, surprised. He opened the envelope and began reading the letter.
She said, “I’ve been to psychics, years ago. This is a letter from Mr. Bannerman’s lawyer. It’s asking you not to contact them or to enter onto their property.”
Anthony smiled insincerely and waved off the psychic comment. He was trying to determine if he could still make it work with the Bannermans off-site. He could. “Is there anything else? Do I need to sign anything?”
“No. But I’ll watch your show from Casa Loma.” She had turned to leave when Anthony stopped her.
“Wait one second.”
She paused, “Yes?”
“You work for that cute lawyer — what’s his name again?”
He looked down again at the letter while she answered, “Kevin Carscadden.”
He watched her face. His eyes lingered just a little too long. “Well, you don’t need to be a psychic to know he’s your man.”
“Yeah, well, it’s pretty cliché to be dating the boss.”
“It just means you get to spend a lot of time with someone you love. Good for you.”
She said nothing in return; she just smiled.
“Well, here, I’ll show you out.”
He waved an arm, inviting her to join him. “I’ve never been in a house in Rosedale before. This place is huge,” she commented.
“Six thousand square feet. I bought it years and years ago. It’s become quite the money pit. Now, Castle Frank is one of the nicest streets in the city — I’m not complaining.”
“I like the built-in cabinetry. It looks so lived-in, but with such clean lines.” She was checking out the décor. She had a good eye for detail. Maybe her man could buy her a house here if he was good with his money. Anthony knew with some certainty that she had grown up poor. She had probably tended bar, earned money off her looks. By now she was either divorced or was a serial dater of chronic losers. She had hit the lottery with this lawyer. Carscadden was her meal ticket and Anthony knew how that worked. In a way, she had surrendered her courage to find her own way and was dating a paycheque. Now she was allowing herself to dream about the good life.
“I had the built-ins done myself. I met a man who’s good with his hands.” He paused. “If you know what I mean.”
Hopkins smiled.
He stopped at the front door and opened it. “Well, I’m sorry we had to meet this way. I hope this doesn’t turn you off my profession.”
“No. Just don’t tell my boss I’ll be watching your show. That has to be our little secret.”
Anthony smiled. “Thank you.”
He watched her go. She had a confident walk. Thick, clunky shoes that she had to clop along in; Anthony was sure she drove the boys crazy and caused traffic jams from time to time. Thinking of his expanding waist and thinning hair, he forced a smile. Lucky bitch.
A van stopped at the end of the driveway. It was Chavez, parking in right out front despite being explicitly told not to — twice. There was no getting through to him.
He was wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt, which would almost be enough to make Anthony forget the indiscretion if the stakes weren’t so high.
When he glanced back at Hopkins, he knew right away that the world had come to an end. She had stopped in place, an arm’s length away from her SUV. She was staring at Chavez — no, at his van. Something about his arrival was obviously ringing alarm bells in her head. She knew something.
Anthony, even at twenty feet away, could see the goose bumps all over her body. She wasn’t excited. She was scared out of her mind. At first he frantically appealed to himself to understand what it was that she perceived as a threat. The van was so distinct, white with the peeled decals and the smashed side mirror. It was too late to worry about what it was that caught her eye; all he had time to do was minimize the damage.
Chavez smiled at Anthony. When he noticed Hopkins, he realized something was wrong. He stopped in his tracks. It was standoff.
Anthony made an instant decision. He broke the draw, shouting, “She knows. She knows!”
Chavez reacted immediately. He charged Hopkins at full speed, racing up the long driveway. She shot a terrified glance back at Anthony as she fumbled to pull the keys out of her purse. She quickly abandoned the idea, dropping the purse entirely and opening the vehicle door with the remote. She was half-inside and beginning to pull the door closed when Chavez grabbed hold of her. One hand grabbed a fistful of hair while the other wrapped around her neck. He ripped her out of the car like she weighed ten pounds and tossed her to the ground. He straddled her, his knees on either side of her head, and choked her unconscious in seconds. She never made a sound.