City of Crime

by Warren Court

  Ten years later when Temple got on the job, he’d dug into the case himself using the police database. One of the cops who had initially come to the house when Dawn disappeared was still on the force. He was now a sergeant in another division. Temple had thought about approaching him and asking him about his sister, but he knew because he was a rookie he’d get the brushoff. Might get written up for it too, abusing computer resources for his own personal manhunt. He was honest with himself: no one would remember a single runaway from ten years ago.

  By the time Temple had become a detective constable, first with the robbery squad and then with homicide, he knew the system better. Worked those computers like a pro. He’d brought up Dawn’s friends, the ones who had seen her last, and run their records. Only one of them came back with a criminal record, a pot conviction and a break-and-enter after he turned eighteen so it wasn’t sealed. He ran that mother down like a dog, going after every bit of information he had on him before going out to see the guy.

  His name was Scott Jeffries, Dawn’s on-again, off-again boyfriend the year she disappeared. He was the guy driving the stolen car that night. He had been questioned by the police when she disappeared, but his story had stuck. He’d dropped Dawn off at home the night before and that was the last time he’d seen her. Temple himself could corroborate that story: he’d heard a car pull up outside the house, late at night, and looked out the window, seen Jeffries at the wheel. His sister had staggered, drunk, into the house, and crashed into a vase on a stand before stumbling into her room and shutting the door. She was there the next morning, too—Temple was sure of it. Both his parents had got up early and left for work, and after they’d gone Temple had peeked in his sister’s room and seen her sprawled out on the mattress still dressed from the night before. It was a school day, but Temple had figured his parents were taking a break from trying to get Dawn to straighten up. It was a cooling-off period. A ceasefire had been declared, and they were going about their business hoping that the New Year would bring a change in their first child.

  Temple had left for school and never saw his sister again. By the things that were missing from her room—some clothes, a backpack—they figured she’d run away again. She had made an attempt earlier in the year but had not prepared, and twelve hours afterwards had called from a bus station asking for her dad to pick her up. Temple went along at his mother’s insistence, as a buffer between his father and Dawn. It didn’t work: their dad tore a strip off her right there in the bus station and then continued his tirade for the entire ride home. Dawn had sat there in stony silence.

  The second time, there was no phone call. No letters, nothing. Dawn disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Temple closed his eyes and willed the images of Aruna Nair’s decimated body out of his mind.

  7

  Temple stopped off at his local dry cleaners before heading down to a morning meeting with his team. The cleaners gave anyone on the job a twenty percent discount. Included in the pile of clothes was the sport coat and over coat he was wearing the day before at the Nair murder scene. He left the bedroom windows open to air the house out while he was at work, the coats had stunk up the place.

  When his team was on shift they met every morning at the Sand Dollar restaurant down on the waterfront. Most special outfits like homicide or the surveillance teams known as spin teams stayed well away from any station or headquarters as much as possible and met up where they liked. It was one of the perks.

  The Sand Dollar was a beat-up dive in desperate need of a makeover. Dated black and white photos of ex–hockey players and minor celebrities adorned the walls, their frames covered in dust. The vinyl-covered booths were stained and ripped in places. The food was a no-go. Whenever Wozniak’s team got a new DC assigned to it they would encourage the newbie to order the hash and scrambled eggs and then laugh the next day when the rookie would inevitably turn up complaining of a bad stomach and spend the day farting and running to the bathroom. That rookie would then wholeheartedly take part in the initiation ritual for the next DC to be assigned.

  Homicide Team 2 met at the Sand Dollar because it was near empty in the mornings, with just a couple of civilian regulars who always sat up at the counter. Temple pulled into the parking lot and saw Wozniak’s Impala and Dalupan’s Buick Regal. Every member of the team was assigned a work car. No lights or sirens or MDTs—Mobile Data Terminals—but their gas was paid for by the city. The Sand Dollar had an enviable view of Lake Ontario, which was a beautiful shade of gunmetal blue this time of year. Thin whitecaps were marching relentlessly ashore. The wind grabbed at Temple’s clean sport coat as he hustled into the restaurant.

  Dalupan got out of the booth to let Temple slide into the back across from Wozniak, and then took the outer spot. Delores came over with a fresh pot and filled Temple’s cup. Mendoza came in looking like he’d slept in his suit.

  “Rough night, Sergio?” Wozniak said.

  “Depends on what you mean by rough,” Mendoza said. He avoided Temple’s eyes, his scornful expression. Temple was expecting his partner to be clearheaded this morning, not hung over.

  “So, what’s our day like?” Wozniak said to his team.

  “We’re working the Nair thing,” Temple said, indicating a still-sleepy Mendoza. “You up for it, kid?” Temple asked.

  Mendoza nodded and snapped his fingers at Delores for some coffee. She took her time coming over and filled him up.

  “Where were you?” Dalupan asked.

  “The Catcus Club. What a place. A lot of talent in that place.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Dalupan said.

  “Okay if we could cut the bullshit? I want to know what’s going down today,” Wozniak said.

  “As I was saying,” Temple said. “We’re working that thing from yesterday. Wife and family, employees. Any business partners we can find on the father. They’re all going to get us today. No nightclubs tonight,” Temple said. Mendoza drank his coffee.

  “And that security guard. I wanna talk to that guy too.” Temple said. “Snow plow guy. Grocery store employees maybe, but probably later in the week. I want to focus on the wife. I read through the tape transcript made by the 55 Divisional Detective.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Tasnady,” Temple said.

  “Good man.”

  “Yeah, well, I think the wife was hiding something. I don’t think, in my honest opinion, that he pressed it hard enough.”

  “Explain,” Wozniak said.

  “She waited six days to call it in. Wouldn’t mean anything if it was just the husband, but her little girl was missing too. Thirteen years old. Four days of missed school.”

  “When Tasnady asked about it?” Wozniak prompted.

  “She just said she was afraid and he dropped it.”

  “You’re thinking there’s more there.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You’re going to talk to Tasnady?”

  Temple nodded. “Maybe something got lost in the transcribing but I don’t think so.”

  “You’re going to have to go easy on her.”

  “Why’s that?” Temple said.

  “There’s a lot of eyes on this one.”

  “Who?”

  Wozniak looked up at the ceiling for a second.

  “What’s Command got in this case? Just an Indian restaurant owner and his daughter. High profile it ain’t.”

  “I’m just the messenger, John. Just take it easy with the wife. The media’s all over it too.”

  “I don’t plan my investigations around news cycles.”

  “What about your other cases?” Wozniak said, changing the subject. Message delivered.

  “The shooting in 31 Division. I think we can wrap that up soon,” Temple said after a sip of coffee. “We got a lead on the guy who knows our shooter. Just need to find out where the bugger is.”

  The shooting had taken place in the stairwell of an apartment building that was in between two warring gangs’ tur
fs. A seventeen-year-old member of the Jane St. Hoods had run into four members of a Guyanese gang called the Burn Squad and they’d popped him. A case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time with no one to back you up. Trick was to find the weakest link in either of these two gangs and make them sing. It was just a matter of applying pressure.

  “I heard this morning that they’re going to call you in for this Tsingtao thing,” Wozniak said.

  “Not surprised.” Temple said. The SIU hearing into the Tsingtao shooting was well underway; they were interviewing witnesses and all of the cops who’d responded to the incident on the streetcar.

  “What are you going to say?” Mendoza asked.

  “I’m going to say I didn’t see it. That my guys did the right thing. What do you think I’m going to say?” Temple said, annoyed. He had no patience for this young upstart questioning how he would handle himself.

  “They won’t ask you your opinion,” Wozniak said, “because they already know what it is.”

  “SIU—bunch of assholes,” Mendoza said. “All they get paid to do is fuck cops. Civilian amateurs playing detective.”

  “I agree,” Wozniak said. “But they’re a necessary evil. Try and have as much of this Nair thing wrapped up before they call you. You could be there for days.”

  “It’s a cold fish,” Temple said. “But we’ll try our best.” The bodies had been in that trunk for months. Whoever did it had plenty of time to cover their tracks. They might not even be in the country. The men finished their coffees and left money on the table for Delores.

  “Stay safe out there today, guys,” she said as they left.

  “You know us, Delores,” Mendoza said, and he jerked his hand in front of his groin.

  “Grow up,” she said.

  8

  Temple pulled Sergio aside on their way out of the Sand Dollar and for a second the young DC tensed up, ready for another confrontation. Temple noticed it and chuckled.

  “Let’s leave your car at 55 Division. We can pick it back up when we go to speak to Detective Tasnady and the sergeant who managed this security guard, Curt.”

  “You know who it is in 55?”

  “Yup, checked it out last night. It’s a Sergeant Drummond. He laughed when I mentioned Curt’s name. You know the guy?”

  “Fat Boy Drummond. Yeah anyone, who worked 55 knows Drummond.”

  They left Mendoza’s Buick in 55 Division’s parking lot. Drummond was in a meeting so Temple left word with the constable manning the front desk that he’d be back later to talk to him. During the drive over to the Nairs’ house Temple attempted a little fence mending. Mendoza was his only DC, so the two of them were going to be spending a lot of time together. He’d said what he had to about Bill Rush and it was time to get past it.

  “Were you out late last night?”

  “I’m fine. I was out with the guys. One of them is transferring to Hamilton. We went through Aylmer together.” The Aylmer Police College was the main training academy for all Ontario police and even some forces outside of the province.

  “Christ—Hamilton? Why?” Temple, a Torontonian from birth, hated the steel town down at the west end of the lake.

  “He’s from there. Hates the commute to Toronto.”

  “Hope he enjoys night after night of drunken domestics,” Temple said. There was a bit of a pause. “I don’t care what you do in your personal life, kid. Just wanted to know what you got up to. I miss it.”

  “Going out?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m too old. Can’t cut it anymore. One late night of drinking and I’m done for two or three days.”

  Mendoza laughed.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get there,” Temple said. “Turn forty and you’ll find out.” Temple had ten years on Mendoza. When he was that age he was partying every night, using the badge to get as many perks and as much pussy as he could.

  “About this case,” Mendoza said. “What makes you think the mother is holding something back?”

  “Just a feeling. A mother not knowing where her kid is for six days and not doing anything about it? Doesn’t add up.”

  “Maybe she did know where they were,” Mendoza said.

  “Now you’re thinking like a detective,” Temple said and laughed.

  They pulled up in front of the Nairs’ house. There was a marked car in front and a uniform on the porch standing with his arms crossed in front of him trying to keep himself warm. He straightened up when the two detectives emerged from their car. There were a few media trucks on the street and on-scene reporters were talking into cameras, which was good as it let Temple and Mendoza make it into the house unmolested.

  Temple and Mendoza showed their badges to the constable, who made note of their names, badge number and the time in his book.

  “Just you here?” Temple said.

  “Partner’s inside using the washroom.”

  “You been here all night?”

  “No, about four hours. Got four more to go.”

  “This what you signed up for?” Temple said, and he grinned.

  “Beats paperwork,” the constable said, and all three cops laughed.

  “What’s the score?” Temple said.

  “Mother’s in there with a cousin, I think. Cried all night but she’s calming down.”

  “And what about them?” Temple indicated the newsies.

  “They’re keeping their distance. PR was here last night and talked to them for a while.”

  “Why would they stick around?” Mendoza said.

  “Slow news day. They want to see if we’re going to march the widow out in handcuffs,” Temple said.

  “Are you?” the constable asked.

  “Only if she won’t let us use the toilet,” Temple said, and he looked at Mendoza with a fake puzzled glance on his face. The front door opened and the constable’s partner reappeared, looking a little embarrassed. Temple and Mendoza didn’t bother reintroducing themselves. They just said “Morning” and pushed past the PC into the house.

  Temple could hear sniffing coming from a room past the entranceway. He and Mendoza made sure to wipe their feet on the rug first. The hallway had several framed photos of two girls, good-looking with nut-brown skin and long black hair. Graduation costumes and hats. One photo of the older girl with several other girls, one black, two white. It looked like a school trip. There was a picture of the younger girl holding a saxophone. She was really pretty with a wide, genuine smile and a dazzling set of white teeth. Dark, deep eyes that looked right at him. Temple tried to push the image of Aruna in the trunk from his mind and replace it with this one. It didn’t work.

  The two detectives entered the living room. Farzana Nair was lying almost prone on a couch. A woman around the same age was holding one of her hands and talking on a cell phone. She whispered a goodbye, placed the phone back in her pocket, and looked up at the two detectives. Farzana Nair didn’t even acknowledge the newcomers.

  “Hello,” Temple said. He introduced himself and Mendoza and they flashed their badges to her.

  “Mind if we sit down?” Temple asked, and the woman nodded.

  “I’m her cousin, Amala.”

  “Your last name, Ma’am? Temple asked. His notebook was already out and he was scribbling.

  “Amala Krishnan.”

  “Thank you. Do you live here?”

  “No. I live in Richmond Hill.”

  “Is Mrs. Nair well enough to answer a few questions?”

  “More questions? That’s all that’s been happening.”

  “We’re homicide detectives. We’re going to get to the bottom of who did that terrible thing to her husband and daughter.”

  Farzana Nair now finally opened her eyes. She struggled to sit up straight. The sitting room was small and the warm air was heavy with the smell of indian cooking.

  “Mrs. Nair, I know that your husband and daughter disappeared on the twenty-second, according to the statements you gave to a Detective Tasnady last year. Yet you called the poli
ce six days later. I’d like to know why.”

  The question seemed to puzzle Mrs. Nair. She shook her head slowly. Temple noticed a large burn-like patch of scarring on the left side of her neck, wrapping around the lower jawbone. It was faded and hard to see; the skin had repaired itself, but there were imperfections.

  “You took almost a week to report your missing family members. You told Detective Tasnady you were scared. Scared of what?”

  “Really, is this necessary?” the cousin asked.

  “Ma’am, I appreciate you’re here to comfort this woman, but if you interfere I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Then we’ll be forced to bring Mrs. Nair downtown for questioning. Nobody wants that.”

  “Yes. I was scared.” Farzana Nair said. Her voice cracked. She took a sip from a glass of water sitting on the coffee table. “Amala, please go make these gentlemen some tea.”

  “But Farzana…”

  “Please.”

  Amala got up and left the living room. Temple heard a kettle start up. He saw a shadow move close to the entranceway to the living room and knew Amala was close by.

  “What were you scared of?”

  “Deportation.”

  “I’m confused. You’ve been in Canada for decades. You’re a citizen. How could we deport you, especially if you didn’t do anything wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I just panicked. I kept hoping they would come home.”

  Temple absorbed what the woman said, the way her face moved when she said. She was still hiding something but he couldn’t tell for sure. Better not to press it right now, file it away.

  “Had they ever done that before? Had your husband ever taken your daughter away?”

  “No, never. She was in school. That was most important to him.” Temple wondered why the woman made a point of saying her younger one was in school. Something pinged in Temple and he wrote it down.

  “I see you have another daughter.” Temple caught something subtle: Farzana Nair tensed up for a split second. Another ping, this time stronger.