DEADLY LEGACY
A Carmedy & Garrett Mystery
Alison Bruce
DEADLY LEGACY
Copyright © 2012 by Alison Bruce. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
http://www.alisonbruce.ca
FIRST EDITION ebook
Imajin Books - http://www.imajinbooks.com
April 15, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-926997-59-9
Cover designed by Sapphire Designs -
http://designs.sapphiredreams.org
Praise for DEADLY LEGACY
"Bruce writes a novel, which grips your attention from the first page. There is romance, grief and a complex plot. It has grim crime scenes, the unexpected beauty found in the dark corners of a city, vividly realistic characters and an irreverent sense of humour. In other words, it's a treat for the senses. This is a great read. Alison Bruce's Kate Garrett is a wonderful, complex, intelligent and realistic character. Then Bruce surrounds Kate with other quirky personalities. As a result, the reader is along for the hunt while Kate tracks a poisonous predator." —Garry Ryan, award-winning author of Malabarista
"Deadly Legacy is a compelling story of loss, deception and finding one's place in a world where change is fast and unwelcome. Set in 2018, Alison Bruce has a created an intelligent plot in an intriguing environment. Her smooth writing style and fast-paced scenes immerse the reader into complicated lives filled with grudges. Best of all, Kate Garrett is a sensible professional blessed with a welcome mix of brains and heart, and she might have met her match in the handsome and uncertain Jake. The potential for a hot sizzling romance is there, and I can't wait for this duo to pair up for more crime solving adventures." —Debra Purdy Kong, author of Deadly Accusations
"Bruce has woven an ingenious plot, deftly delivered through the eyes of the newest detection pairing—Carmedy and Garrett." —Alison Bruce, UK author of The Calling
My mother Joan (Nash) Bruce introduced me to Hercule Poirot, Nero Wolfe and Lord Peter Whimsey. She talked shop around the dinner table, sharing insurance tales of decapitations, arson and dealing with 'legitimate businessmen.' And she gave me the motive for this murder. For all that, and in loving memory, I dedicate this book to my Mum.
Acknowledgements
As usual, I must thank my friends and family for their support and enthusiasm, particularly my children, Kate and Sam. Thanks especially to Nancy, who always keeps me on point and Frances, who gave me valuable information on drug interactions.
A very big thanks goes to Provincial Constable Mark Cloes, Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) and Detective Bob Strathdee (Ret), Toronto Police Services. Mark patiently let me interview him on procedure and shared some of his great stories. Bob walked me through a sample homicide investigation and gave me some insight into police culture.
I'd also like to thank every Guelph Police Services or Ontario Provincial Police officer who took the time to answer my technical questions—what's that thing on your belt?—when I buttonholed them in coffee shops. You guys are great.
1
Tuesday November 20, 2018
It was no longer raining. It made no difference. Detective Kate Garrett was already soaked and mud oozed over her shoes as she picked through the bushes in the overgrown industrial lot, looking for evidence of illegal drugs.
"Ah, the romantic life of a police detective," Kate said, echoing one of her father's favourite sayings. A wet branch slapped her in the face and reminded her that a girl's life hung on the work she was doing.
Meanwhile, the instigators of this search were wrapped in blankets, each waiting in the back of separate squad cars. She hoped they were in their own private hells, worrying about what was going to happen next. Perhaps the prospect of imprisonment chilled them as much as the grey November afternoon chilled her.
She doubted it. They were probably pissed off they'd been caught.
While Kate and several uniformed officers trolled the bushes, her senior partner, Mercy Rudra, oversaw the bagging and tagging of potential evidence in and around the site of the recent police raid. The property was a neighbourhood problem, a strip of contaminated land in the middle of an area re-purposed for residential use. It was fenced off, but that didn't stop the gangs from using it as a meeting place for roars, bangs or worse.
The drug and alcohol enhanced dances and fight nights were loud in-your-face events, hard to hide and easy to break up. Horrifying events, like the rape and beating of fifteen-year-old Fania Michaels, were quiet. Too often the damage was done before the deed was discovered.
Kate spotted something in the thorny heart of a wild rose bush. She snapped a couple of images with her eCom, a law-enforcement-grade version of the popular consumer communication, data gathering and computing device. Then she retrieved the small glass bottle, suffering a dozen painful scratches in the process. The jar was the type used to store beads, sequins or other tiny items. Whoever was distributing the stolen medication had acquired a case or more of these containers. They were turning up all over. This one had a couple of little blue pills left inside.
"Got something! Looks like one of the morphine derivatives." She backed out of the bushes, holding the container with as little contact as possible while the crime scene photographer logged the event as a digital video sequence. As soon as she straightened, she pulled a clear bag out of her pocket.
"Don't seal it yet!" Kate's partner strode over, her black leather trench coat fanning out behind her. Mercy wasn't a tall woman, but her personality lent her height. Handsome and dark-skinned, she was a conservative dresser, favouring the neo-gothic look of unremitting black, spider web lace and silver jewellery.
Morgan Zigfeld, the field medic and forensic pharmacologist following her, favoured the universal geek look complete with black-rimmed glasses and pocket protector.
Ziggy took the container from Kate, carefully opened it and retrieved a sample. His eCom scanned the blue pill—he had the app for it.
"The hospital needs this info now," he said, never taking his eyes from his work. "Knowing exactly what they're dealing with may help them treat the victim. She isn't doing well."
Kate nodded. She dropped the bottle into an evidence bag, sealed it, then marked the bag and passed it over to Mercy.
It shouldn't take long to tie the illicit medication to the three young men waiting in the squad cars. It might also link them to the death of two other neighbourhood girls, one kidnapped two nights ago and the other a week before. Their DNA would be mapped and compared to evidence collected. That would take longer. Forensic evidence gathered at the hospital would be the clincher, of course. Defensive wounds, angle of penetration, epithelial and other trace evidence would paint a picture so graphic it should convince a judge to try the suspects as adults.
Sneezing intermittently, Kate stayed clear of further evidence recovery and caught up on her notes so she could make a thorough report later.
Mercy, as good as her name, directed Kate toward their assigned vehicle, an unmarked hybrid wagon. "Why don't you warm up the car and check on the status of the girl?"
Kate nodded. "Don't mind if I do. And if you think I'm ready, do you think you could let me in on your secre
t to staying dry?"
Mercy flashed a warm but fleeting smile. "Later, grasshopper. I promise."
Kate stripped off her jacket. Her blouse would dry faster without it. Once the heater was going full-blast she kicked off her shoes and warmed her feet.
Then she checked on the city's latest crime victim.
Minutes later Kate shoved her barely-thawed feet into her shoes, stepped out of the car and called to her partner and fellow police officers. It didn't matter her voice was hoarse and barely audible. They could tell what she was saying from the look on her face.
"Fania Michaels' heart failed. She didn't make it."
Ah, the romantic life of a private investigator, Joe Garrett thought as he shuffled his feet to keep warm. His all-time favourite movie line popped into his head and he smiled. "'I'm getting too old for this shit.'"
Fifty-three years, six months and—he did the math—eight days. He could pass for forty-something, thanks to all the exercise and healthy food choices that had been forced on him by his doctor since the last heart attack. Even in his street clothes, designed for anonymity not style, Joe didn't cut a bad figure. Still plenty of pepper amongst the salt in his hair, though the hair was starting to thin out. Men much younger had a lot less on their heads. A lot less in their heads, too.
"Vanity, thy name is Joseph Garrett." Joe took a drag from his cigar and blew a smoke ring. It wasn't a real cigar. He'd given those up years ago after his first heart attack. Cigarettes had gone a decade or so earlier when his daughter was old enough to question why he said one thing and did another.
Now he faked it. Why? Smoking was a plausible excuse for furtive-looking souls to hang around doorways. Besides, cigars were easier to fake. This one was a particularly expensive fake since it was both a functional prop capable of emitting smoke and it concealed a nano-phone linked wirelessly to his eCom.
"Showtime," he murmured. "The mark is moving."
The mark was fifty-two, but looked older. His pale face was a map of worry lines and a fixed frown. He wore one of those endurable overcoats and a matching hat, both advertised as 'guaranteed to protect your clothes from anything nature or environmental pollution throws at you.' It made the short, stocky man look like a walking tent.
Joe knew the man's routine, so he didn't need to follow closely. Because of the rain, people made a beeline for covered walkways and underground tunnels connecting most of the buildings in the downtown core. Even the tree-lined main street was quiet enough that Joe could stay on the opposite side of the road and still keep his target in sight.
When the man turned the corner toward the municipal parking garage, Joe quickened his pace. He jogged across the avenue, then resumed a leisurely pace.
The man paused by a news box.
Joe slowed. Don't stop now. Don't look around.
A figure in generic, baggy black sweats, and an oversized hooded jacket stepped out from the shadow of an intersecting alley. The man Joe was tailing detoured across the garage exit and to the pedestrian entrance.
Joe pulled an old-fashioned flip phone out of his pocket and answered it as if it had signalled. It looked like a digital camera phone, a piece of disposable technology that could be bought from most corner vending machines. Like the cigar, it was more than it seemed. The innocuous shell had a Nanotech audio-video recorder installed, which now homed in on the person in black.
Making a quick check to see if the road was clear, Joe headed toward the same garage where a late-model hybrid was pulling out while its driver fiddled with his headset.
The black-clad figure turned and Joe caught a glimpse of a ratty blond goatee and furtive grey eyes. Startled, he hesitated in the middle of the road. "You?"
The HUV braked, skidded on the wet pavement and stopped.
Too late.
2
Kate was seven years old the first time her father took her to work. Back then, the detectives' room was a large open area filled with grey steel desks. Vacuum tube computer monitors and hard-wired keyboards took up most of the available surface area. The rest was covered in stacks of paper, personal items and coffee cups.
As Joe Garrett showed his daughter around, he painted another picture of a squad room, the one he'd visited as a child. Policing ran in the family.
Desks were made of wood. No computers, at least none generally available to the detectives. Officers entered information in their Occurrence Books. Reports were produced on temperamental electric typewriters.
Now, the Occurrence Book had been replaced by eComs, usually an eCom, that could do everything but make coffee. Workstations with composite oak-like desks were equipped with flip-up flat-screen monitors, keyboards and docking ports so detectives could plug in, upload or download files and generate reports which could be read on other screens. The stations were like hotel rooms. Officers moved in for the duration of an investigation, spreading their personal property out—or not—according their personality. Detectives carried their 'offices' with them in a briefcase, backpack, or in some cases their pockets. One thing that hadn't changed was the coffee cups. There were always coffee cups, some half-filled with five-day-old sludge, some clean. 'World's Best Mom' or 'Dad' or 'Fisherman' could be found among the collection, along with the inevitable 'Detectives do it with cuffs.' Clean or dirty, you didn't touch another cop's mug.
Kate found hers in the drying rack of the kitchenette, despite the fact she was sure she had left it in the sink. She dialled up a dark roast and set it under the coffee machine to fill. Soon, she was warming her chilled hands on the hot ceramic. She staked out a desk and plugged in her eCom. While it went through its automatic virus check and login, she headed toward the locker room and dry clothes.
In her father's day the room was a labyrinth of grey lacquered lockers and matching benches. Someone could hide in there. Little Kate had, and grown Kate sometimes wished she could. Now the locker room was more like a communal living room, complete with family photos and kids' art. There were comfy chairs and a couch at one end, and an ironing board, hair dryers and vanity mirrors at the other. The lockers were generously sized for multiple changes of clothes and a full range of toiletries. Being a modern police officer meant always going out looking professional, even if you came back looking like something the cat dragged in.
"If you give it to me now," a deep voice said behind her, "I can save the suit. The shoes are toast."
Kate turned and passed the water-stained wool jacket into the outstretched hands of Detective Vincent Valerio, a pleasant-looking man of uncertain years and somewhat academic demeanor. He reminded her of Mr. Chips, without the cap, gown and English accent. Vince was one of a handful of people still in the department who had known her father when he was a police detective, before a gunshot wound and subsequent heart trouble forced him into medical retirement.
He gave her the bring-it-on hand gesture. "Pants, too. You can launder your own blouse, I imagine."
"You don't have to, Vince," she said, reaching for the jacket. "I thought you were kidding."
He swung the garment out of reach. "You know I don't kid about clothes. Get out of those damp things and into something warm." He bestowed a disarming grin. It transformed his face at once from mildly attractive to rather handsome. "Everyone knows rookies get all the worst jobs, but that suit did nothing to deserve such bad treatment."
Kate let him have the suit. Stripping off the rest of her wet clothes, she dumped them into the laundry bag in her locker and selected a warm sweater and linen pants from the clothes she kept at work. Then she fluffed her short chestnut hair and applied fresh lipstick before heading for the office.
Mercy waited by Kate's desk. Except for a little mud spattered on her boots, her black hair, lace t-shirt and leather pants were immaculate. The effect was only slightly spoiled by the fact Mercy looked nervous.
"Thorsen wants to see you," she said quietly.
"What did I do this time?"
Mercy pursed her lips and nodded toward the docking po
rt. "Take everything. I'll generate the reports. I'll be around if you want to talk."
Brow furrowed, Kate disengaged her eCom from the port and picked up her mug. It was probably not a good idea to walk in to see the Chief of Detectives with a cup of coffee in hand, but the brew had just reached the perfect temperature for drinking. She compromised by taking an extra minute to gulp down half the cup, then poured the remainder in the sink. Wiping a dribble of coffee off her chin she paused outside the only enclosed office in the suite, took a deep breath, and then knocked.
The chief opened the door and ushered Kate in. This didn't bode well. His usual response was bellowing, "Come in."
Usually, Kate felt like a shrimp in the presence of her boss. She'd made the minimum height requirement to join the police force and there was nothing wispy or fragile about her. But Chief Igor Thorsen was a giant of a man, a Viking warrior with long red-blonde hair, a full beard and the hint of a Nordic accent. Most would say Igor Thorsen was a behemoth. 'Large as life and twice as ugly,' her father joked. Except right now, he seemed deflated.
"What's wrong, Chief?"
"Kathleen...it's your father."
And then Kate knew. The knowledge closed in on her, shutting down her ability to react, to speak, to take a breath. It wasn't just the Chief who had shrunk. The whole world had suddenly grown smaller.
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