by Warren Court
“Of course. I’m the one doing his job.” Temple finished his drink and slapped Rush on his shoulder. “See you at roll call?”
“Not unless they do it in my apartment,” Rush said. Temple laughed.
As he walked past the table all three heads of the denim-clad goons turned to watch him. He looked right at the punk who had been rude to Tracy the day before. The kid smiled. Temple walked out the door and ducked down the alley to the right of the bar. He moved about ten feet in and pretended to be holding his cock, looking down at an imaginary stream of piss. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the three guys come into the alley after him. His new buddy was leading the pack.
“Hey, motherfucker,” he heard the rude kid say.
Without preamble, Temple turned and punched him straight in the face, flattening his nose and sending a splash of blood down and onto his grey T-shirt. The other two came at him and Temple kicked one in the groin as hard as he could, hard enough that the blow reverberated painfully back up into his own foot. He dodged back and put his hands up, ready for the third, who hesitated and looked at his friends. One was reeling back clutching at his nose; the other writhed on the ground.
“Take a good look, asshole,” Temple said.
Number Three looked again at his friends, and Temple moved in and landed an overhand right on his ear. Temple then pivoted and kicked the guy with the busted nose in the groin, sending him to the ground. He stepped over the three and exited the alley.
“Thanks, lads. Just what I needed,” he said over his shoulder.
16
Temple and Mendoza waited a block up the street from the high school. They sat in Temple’s Buick and watched the kids amble in. Some didn’t get to the building until well after 9.
“Bring back memories?” Temple asked.
“Sure. I loved high school. You?”
“It was so long ago. Hard to remember. Couldn’t wait to get out—I remember that.”
“Why are we waiting?”
“’Cause if there’s some kid we need to talk to, I want them all there.”
They waited another fifteen minutes. One last straggler bolted through the front door and then Temple said, “Let’s go.” He started his car, drove the block to the school, and parked in the visitors’ spot next to a marked police car. As they passed through the entrance to the school they saw a metal detector. “Jesus,” Temple said. He flashed his tin to the constable standing on the other side of the threshold. The detector buzzed as he went through; same thing for Mendoza.
“Hey,” Temple said. “We need to talk to the principal.”
“Office is down there to the right,” the cop said.
“This paid duty?” Mendoza asked.
“Yup.”
“Good way to make sixty-two dollars an hour,” he said.
“No, it ain’t, I hate these kids.”
Mendoza laughed, and he and Temple headed down to the office. The door was open. Two boys with jean jackets and long stringy hair slouched in front of the chest-high counter. Temple and Mendoza showed their badges to the woman behind the desk, who nodded and then went into a back office.
Temple looked down at the kids, whose eyebrows had shot up when they saw the badges. “Don’t worry, we’re not here for you,” he said. Then he paused. “Or maybe we are.” He chuckled. Mendoza laughed too. The two kids looked at each other, their bravado draining away.
The woman returned, followed by a tall thin man wearing a grey three-piece suit.
“Can I help you, gentlemen.?”
Once again the badges came out, and the detectives introduced themselves. To Temple’s surprise, Grey Suit sneered at them; usually the sight of a police badge rendered civilians courteous and compliant. Temple knew what he had here right from the start. He could read the disdain the man held for Temple’s profession on his face. The man introduced himself as Krenshaw, the vice principal. The principal was out of town at a conference.
“We’re here about Farzana Nair,” he said. “Want to know what she got up to before she disappeared.”
“You two boys, you go on back to class,” Krenshaw said, ignoring Temple. The two boys practically ran out of the office. “Farzana Nair,” he said, turning to Temple with an oily smile. “She was an excellent student. Such a pity. I heard about her on the news. She had a nearly perfect grade point average. Almost as good as her sister’s.” Krenshaw’s face fell and he looked at the floor.
“Was Farzana in trouble? Drugs? Running around with the wrong crowd?”
“No. Never,” Krenshaw said. “I think you’re confusing her with her sister Sidduth.”
“The one with the better GPA?” Temple asked.
“Well, up until her last year here. Then things fell off. Sometimes they do that. The pressure gets to them. I don’t know anything about any drugs.”
“Where is Sidduth?”
“Well, she was in grade twelve last year. Was heading to McGill, going to study medicine. I’m also the career counsellor here. That’s my background.”
Temple sighed. Get to the point. “What happened?” he said aloud.
“She just disappeared, dropped out. I remember her father came to see me. Wanted to know what to do. I said there wasn’t anything we could do. She was eighteen, could refuse to attend school if she wanted to. He was upset. Who wouldn’t be? Bright kid and all. Her younger sister took it hard.”
“Anyone still here who used to hang around with her?”
“Yes,” Krenshaw said. Temple noticed a note of reluctance in his voice.
“Who?”
“Now, look. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Most of these kids come from broken—”
“It’s a police investigation. If I want to speak to a student I can,” Temple said, heading off Krenshaw’s diatribe on the plight of his downtrodden students.
“I have to be present.”
“Sure. We don’t care.”
“And I’m going to go get him. I don’t want you disrupting a class or stigmatizing the boy.”
“So it’s a male friend. A boyfriend?”
“Solomon Quinte. He’s trying to make up some extra credits for his high school diploma.”
“He failed grade twelve?” Mendoza asked.
“We don’t put that kind of label on our young people.”
Temple smirked. “Right. They’ll get that when they get out into the real world. Can you please, Mr. Krenshaw, go retrieve Mr. Quinte and kindly ask him to come here so we can chat?”
Krenshaw lifted the wooden plank on the counter and came out from behind it, letting the plank fall back down hard.
“Don’t take all day,” Temple said. Mendoza moved aside to let the vice principal leave.
The woman behind the counter went into another room, leaving Temple and Mendoza alone.
“I don’t get it, John. What’s the older sister got to do with this?” Mendoza said.
“Maybe everything. Something’s wrong in that family and I want to find out what it is. The mother lied to us. Maybe she’s just embarrassed her older daughter dropped out. Maybe there’s more.”
From their vantage point they could see several black and white monitors of security cameras. One of them showed the uniformed cop at the entrance to the school picking his nose. Others showed hallways and stairwells, and one showed the outside of the school at a side door. Temple saw that door open and a tall black kid walk out and look back. Temple could see a hand holding the door but not the person doing the holding. Then the kid took off running across the field.
“That’s our guy. Christ,” Temple said. He and Mendoza ran out of the office and sprinted down the hall. “Get out of the way,” Temple said to the cop at the metal detector. They cleared the metal detector and rushed to the Buick. Temple spun the tires out of the parking lot and turned left in the direction the kid had run.
“There he is,” Mendoza said. They saw the subject running down the exit ramp of the underground car park of a high-rise apartme
nt building two blocks from the school. “Little shit.”
“Okay, we got him,” Temple said. He slowed down and drove up to the car park entrance. He wasn’t about to go down the ramp. “See him?”
“No,” Mendoza said, squinting.
Temple drove down the ramp into the darkness.
“There he goes,” Mendoza said sharply.
Temple saw him too. The kid was walking casually between a row of cars. He looked back once at Temple’s car, but it was unmarked so it didn’t spook him. Temple took it nice and easy and approached like he was looking for a spot. The kid was wearing an oversized silver winter coat and a red toque. Easy to spot. He must have grabbed his jacket as he was hustled out of the classroom by the vice principal. Temple couldn’t decide who he wanted to bust more—the kid or Krenshaw. He was going to get them both.
He surged forward and opened his door and doored the kid. Solomon Quinte went flying. Temple jammed the brakes on; the car screeched to a halt and both detectives were out. Mendoza was on the kid fast, pinning him on the ground.
“Some kid,” Temple told himself. “This guy is nineteen. This is a man.”
Mendoza had Solomon Quinte on his belly now and was cuffing him.
Temple stood over him. “Solomon, why’d you run?”
Solomon tried to crane his neck to look at Temple.
“What the fuck is this? I didn’t do anything?”
“We just wanted to talk to you, Solomon. Why’d you run?”
“Shit. They told me you was going to arrest me.”
“Who told you—the vice principal?”
“Yeah, that crack-uh.”
“He said that? We were there to arrest you?”
Solomon faced the ground again. “Not exactly. Said you wanted me. That I should take off.”
“So the vice principal helped you out the back door.”
“Uh huh. That fool.”
Mendoza patted him down. He pulled out a small plastic bag with some brightly coloured pills in it and handed it to Temple.
“Solomon, what are you doing? Sergio, call this in. We need a marked car here to escort Mr. Quinte to jail.”
Mendoza stood up and took out his phone. “No reception,” he said.
“Go up to the street. Wait for it. I’ll keep Mr. Quinte company.”
Mendoza ran back up to the surface. Temple squatted down so that Solomon could see him better.
“Solomon, you’re in a lot of trouble you didn’t need to be in today.” He swung the bag around on his finger. “This why you didn’t want to leave school? Business too good?”
“Hell, yeah. Captive audience, eh?” Quinte said. His accent was West Indies mixed with home-grown Canadian.
“Yo man, what the fuck?” Temple heard someone shout from about twenty feet away. He stood up and saw seven black youths coming at him. They weren’t armed, not even bats or pipes. They were young probably ten to fifteen years old, and they were advancing quickly. They all should have been in school. Temple stepped back from Solomon and took his badge out.
“Beat it,” he said. “Police business.”
“I don’t care what yo bidness is—you let that guy go. He’s our friend,” said the smallest of the group, who stood at the head of it. It always happened that way: little guy steps into big-guy shoes.
They kept coming, closing the distance from twenty feet to ten. They spread out now so that they formed a semicircle that was threatening to enclose Temple. Temple’s heart started to race, the adrenaline pumping through his body. One or more of these kids could have a gun. Didn’t matter that they weren’t old enough to drive; he’d taken enough guns off kids to know they could get them. He’d once taken an automatic shotgun off a thirteen-year-old. An illegal weapon in Canada—even the cops weren’t armed with those murderous things. He withdrew his Glock, keeping it pointed at the ground.
“Solomon, you don’t move a muscle,” Temple said. “I’m going to shoot you first if you do.”
“That supposed to scare us, white boy?” the lead kid said. He had a light complexion with black features, a soft head of curly light-brown hair. Freckles on his tan skin. Temple brought the gun up.
“Back up, son.”
“Fuck you. I ain’t your son. You ain’t my daddy.” The rest of the kids had stopped their advance. Their leader checked his pace but kept moving forward, swinging from side to side, his hands in the pockets of his coat.
“No, I ain’t your daddy. I’m just the guy who’s going to shoot you in the face if you take one more step.” Despite his jacked heart rate, Temple stood there rock steady, pointing the weapon at the kid’s face. The kid finally realized he was now alone in his advance. He checked his step and looked around.
“Your friends aren’t stupid,” Temple said. “You die alone.”
“Hey!” Temple heard Mendoza’s shout and saw his partner running down the ramp towards him, his weapon drawn. The kids scattered as one into the dark recesses of the parking lot. There was a crash of metal doors as they fled. Mendoza turned to go after them.
“Let them go,” shouted Temple. “We got what we wanted.”
They hauled Solomon up and put him in the back of their car, then drove up to the street to wait for the patrol car. When it came, they transferred Solomon to it, instructed the officers on the arrest charges, and handed them the drugs. Temple said they could have the pinch and that he and Mendoza wanted to talk to Solomon, but first they had other business. The constables, grateful for the easy bust, drove away and Temple and Mendoza headed back to the school.
The paid-duty cop was sitting on a chair reading a paperback. He jumped up quickly when the detector went off as the two detectives passed through it, their steps purposeful.
“Come with us,” Temple said loudly. The officer put down his book and followed them into the office. There was no sign of Krenshaw. “What room is he in?” Temple barked to the woman behind the counter. She froze, eyes wide. “What room is Krenshaw in?” Temple shouted.
“103.”
They headed down the hallway, the uniform cop trailing behind them, not sure what was going on. Temple burst into the room. Krenshaw was teaching a history class on the war of 1812. There was a lively debate going on, the burning of York versus the burning of the White House. The students fell silent and stared at the officers.
“What is this?” Krenshaw barely got the words out before Temple was right in front of him.
“Krenshaw, I am placing you under arrest for obstruction of justice. Cuff him,” Temple said to the uniform, who stepped forward and spun Krenshaw around. Temple felt some satisfaction as he saw Krenshaw’s smugness melt away. The class was too stunned to make a sound.
“I didn’t do anything,” Krenshaw squeaked, his voice cracking with fear.
“Yes, you did. You just lost your job, you smug son of a bitch.”
They hauled him away. Another patrol car was waiting at the curb. On the way out, Temple went into the office, removed the surveillance tape, and took it with him. Just like Solomon Quinte, they gave Krenshaw to another pair of uniforms and he was taken away. They were on a roll now, and Temple didn’t want to stop to play games with Krenshaw. Maybe he would lose his job, maybe not. Temple wasn’t sure, but it had felt good to fuck him up like that in front of the students.
17
Temple and Mendoza walked into the cramped interrogation room at 40 College. It stank of body odour and stale socks. Quinte was behind a wooden desk, his hands still cuffed behind him. Mendoza brought a Styrofoam cup of water and set it in front of Quinte, then stepped behind him and unsnapped his bracelets. Temple picked up a chair and put in the corner, then sat on it and leaned back. Mendoza put the cuffs and the key in his pocket and took a chair opposite Solomon Quinte.
“Drink it,” Mendoza said, pointing to the water. Quinte made a big show of rubbing his wrists, then picked up the cup. He sipped at the water, and then gulped it down.
“Still thirsty?”
“Uh
huh.” Quinte nodded.
“I’ll get some more in a second. You were read your rights by the two officers who brought you down here. Correct, Solomon?”
Quinte nodded.
“There are two cameras in here. Everything we do and say is recorded, understand?”
Again a nod.
“Sidduth Nair. You know her?”
Quinte looked at the Styrofoam cup.
“Solomon, do you know Sidduth?”
“I didn’t do nuthin’ to her, man.”
Mendoza sat back and looked over at Temple, who nodded.
“Whoa, Solomon. I never said you did. Just want to know if you know her. Sounds like you did, correct?”
Quinte nodded.
“I want you to answer me, Solomon. I want your voice on tape.”
“Yes. I knew her.”
“You and her were friends?”
“I don’t know. I guess.” Quinte nodded.
“What about a customer?” Temple said. For the first time Quinte looked directly at Temple. Then he looked quickly back at the Styrofoam cup.
“That true, Solomon? She buy drugs off you?” Mendoza said.
“Sometimes. Sometimes me, sometimes some other guy. Depend on what she want.”
“You sell what, pills?”
No response.
“Solomon, we caught you with pills. What do the other guys sell—heroin? Now that’s ten times worse, ain’t it, John?”
“Sure is,” Temple said.
“Cocaine, heroin. If you’re not into that stuff, Solomon, we really don’t have a problem here. Long nights on the job, even Detective Temple and myself have had a hankering for a little pick-me-up now and again.”
Temple smirked and shook his head at Mendoza’s line of BS. This wasn’t the first time he’d let Mendoza take lead on an interrogation. The young detective constable was getting good at it, enjoyed it. Just wait, Temple thought, until you get in front of a guy who so sickens you and you want to tear his throat out. Then try and see how easy it is to fake a rapport.
“You going to let me go?” Quinte asked.
“Maybe. I mean, we can always talk about that. But first we want you to help us with Sidduth. What do you know about her?”