by Warren Court
“She was my girl, for a while.”
“Till her parents ran you off?” Mendoza asked.
Quinte looked puzzled.
“Her parents. You ever meet them?” Mendoza asked.
“One time. I came to her house. She forgot her money and I went home with her.”
“What’d her old man do? I bet he wasn’t too pleased.”
“Shit. Those Indians, they keep to themselves. Don’t like their little girl mixin’ with nobody who ain’t Indian. Even the Indian dudes can’t get with them.”
“But you did, huh?”
Solomon said nothing.
“You take her down, Solomon? Go where no man has gone before?” Mendoza said.
“Couple times. If she couldn’t pay. You can’t pay then you got to play. That’s my motto.”
“Sounds good. When’s the last time you were together?” Mendoza asked.
“About six months ago.”
“That’s the last time you saw her? About six months ago?” Mendoza asked. Even though everything was being recorded, Temple was taking notes.
“Maybe. Yeah. Saw her downtown.”
“Where?” Temple said. Solomon couldn’t look at him.
“Down by the clubs. Near King and John I think. Man, she was strung out on something. She was all dolled up. Looked good but she was fucked up, you know?”
Mendoza said, “You talk to her.”
“Tried to. She couldn’t talk. Didn’t see me. Didn’t know who I was. Then this big dude, he came along and took her away. Put her in a car. Drove off.”
“What kind of dude?”
“Big guy, white dude. With a beard. Husky son of a bitch. Looked like a football playa.”
“A biker?” Temple said.
“I don’t know. Had regular clothes on. Lots of tats. There was another dude too, smaller, tougher. Had a tattoo on his neck. I was with nobody so I didn’t start anything. Just went about my business. The guy with the neck tattoo, he got in my face, told me to get lost. I got lost.”
“If you saw them again, could you recognize them?” Temple said.
“You going to let me go?”
“I don’t think so, but we can put in a good word. We won’t take you down for running away from us, resisting arrest.”
“Man, I didn’t resist no arrest.”
“Let me finish,” Temple said. “The pills—that’s bad shit, Solomon. You’re selling that to children. We ain’t letting you walk on that.”
Quinte looked away at the wall.
“So answer his question,” Mendoza said. “If you saw the men who took Sidduth away, would you recognize them?”
“Yeah, I would, man. Fuck it. Sure. Especially the guy with the neck tattoo. Who the hell does that, man? That shit must hurt.”
The two detectives stood up. Mendoza said, “Someone will come along and take you.”
Temple paused at the door. “One more thing, Solomon. You just graduated. Graduated, dropped out—I don’t give a fuck, but you stay away from that school, understood?”
Quinte nodded.
“We’re going to drop by there from time to time. I see you there and you’re going to get more than detention.”
Temple and Mendoza left 55 Division and went back down to 40 College. When they were settled in at their respective cubicles Wozniak came over to Temple.
“What’s up?” he said.
“You gotta brief Moonshine?” Temple said.
“Something like that.”
“So far all we know is the older daughter got mixed up in drugs. Brought a lot of shame to the family, you know? They don’t like that. Indians.”
“What family does?” Wozniak said.
“Anyway, the mother lied to us. Told us the older one was at University in Montreal, studying to be a doctor. Turns out she dropped out of school. Grades went to bat shit. She hasn’t been seen in six months.”
“And this is tied to the bodies in the car how?”
“I don’t know yet. We’re going to go back to the mother now and drop it on her. Get to the bottom. She’s scared of something and it ain’t deportation. I think there might be some biker element involved. Drug dealer who supplied the older one while she was still in school saw her downtown. Sounds like she’s been turned out.”
Wozniak’s eyebrows went up. “Too bad,” he said. “Okay, let me know what she says. I’ll speak to Munshin. Maybe he doesn’t want to speak to you directly.”
“That’s good, ’cause I got a case I gotta run here. I can’t be trekking back here to jerk Moonshine off every hour.”
“I know, pal. We all got work to do.” Wozniak made to leave and then turned back around. “Is it true you had a principal arrested?”
“Vice principal. Damn right I did. This guy insists on going to get the kid we wanted to talk to from class. Instead he tips him off, even holds open the door for him, and the kid takes off. I got the surveillance right here.”
Wozniak shook his head. “You’re something else, John.”
“You know it,” he said.
Wozniak left. Temple brought up a browser on his computer and found a phone number at McGill University and dialled it. He introduced himself to the woman who answered the phone.
“I’d like to confirm if a female student is attending school there.” He was bumped around to a few people until an administrator was put on. He repeated his request.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t divulge that. I mean, how do I know who you are?” the woman said.
“Call this number.” Temple rattled off the TPS main switchboard. “Ask for Detective John Temple in homicide. They’ll transfer you to me and we can resume this conversation. Will that do?”
The woman said, “Fine.” Temple could hear the reluctance in her voice. They hung up and thirty seconds later Temple’s phone rang and he was back on line with her.
“What was the name?” the woman said.
“Sidduth Nair.” Temple spelled it for her.
“Hold on.” She put him on hold and Temple listened to a repeating commercial about how wonderful McGill was. She came back on after five minutes.
“I have no student by that name ever recorded here. Only thing I did find was that her name was submitted for a tour group of prospective students who came through here in March of last year. I don’t know if she attended the tour or not. You’d have to check with her high school.”
“Okay. Thank you, ma’am.” Temple ended the call. He had known that was going to be the result, but just wanted to confirm before he called out Sidduth’s mother on the lie.
“Serge,” he said. “Let’s go see Mrs. Nair.”
“Right. All the way back out to fifty-five. We were just there,” Mendoza grumbled. His own cubicle was ten feet away and he had listened to Temple’s side of the conversation.
“The job’s fucked. You know that, right?” Temple said.
18
Mrs. Nair looked different than she had on the day before when Temple and Mendoza first spoke to her. Calmer, maybe sedated. They were back in her sitting room. The cousin had left, but a friend of the family was now there, a woman who stayed in the kitchen and didn’t come out to introduce herself when Mrs. Nair let the two detectives in. Which was just as well.
Temple and Mendoza seated themselves, and they all politely waited for the family friend to serve them tea and then leave the sitting room.
“Mrs. Nair, has your daughter returned home to help you?” Temple said.
“My daughter?”
“Yes. Sidduth. The one at McGill. You mentioned she was coming home to help. Makes sense, an older daughter returning home.”
Farzana Nair looked off into the distance and Temple saw a peculiar sadness come into her face.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened to Sidduth?” Temple said. This time, he was not trying to catch her off guard but simply trying to get to the bottom of it.
“What do you mean?”
“I know she’s not at M
cGill. She’s never attended school there. I know she never graduated from high school. That her grades were poor in her last year there. They fell off. I know about the drugs. Maybe we can help.”
Farzana Nair started to cry, and she took a Kleenex from a box next to the teacups.
“I don’t know where she is,” she said.
“But your husband was trying to find her?”
She nodded.
“That angry phone call, the one where your husband was shouting—that was about your older daughter, wasn’t it?”
“Another nod.”
“When did she disappear?”
“Last year, in the summer, I think.”
“You never contacted the police?” Temple already knew the answer was no. He had checked.
“No. We were ashamed.”
“Why?”
“Our daughter is under the spell of the devil. We hoped she would come back on her own.”
“Who was your husband dealing with on the phone? Who was he talking to?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t involve me. He spent less and less time at the restaurant. Going out late at night.”
“To look for her?”
Farzana nodded.
“Because he knew she was working as a prostitute.” Temple said it as a statement, not a question. Farzana yelped a little and Temple heard movement from the other room. Another eavesdropper.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Nair. We’re here to help you. It’s very likely that the people who have control of your daughter are the ones who killed your husband and Aruna. We need to find them. And hopefully find Sidduth and return her to you.”
“You’d do that? After what we did?”
“Not contacting the police after someone disappears is not a crime. But withholding important information about a crime, even if it’s perpetrated against your family, is a crime in of itself. A very serious one. So we’re going to need you to be honest with us.”
Farzana nodded.
“One more thing. That scarring on your neck.”
Farzana shrank away, turned her head to the side.
“How did you receive that?”
“A long time ago. In India. There was an accident.”
“Was it acid?” Temple asked, and Farzana Nair nodded. Her face was flushed with shame.
“Okay, I think that’s all for now,” Temple said, getting to his feet. “You say you don’t know anything, fine. Give us a call if you remember anything else.”
“What was that all about? That question about the scarring?” Mendoza asked when they were back in Temple’s Buick.
“Just curious, I guess.”
“How did you know it was acid?”
“Read the papers, Mendoza. Read the papers.”
Mendoza said nothing else for a while.
“In India and other countries over there, they throw acid on women who have disgraced their family or someone else’s. To damage her, take away her beauty. To mark her,” Temple said.
“Oh,” Mendoza said.
“What’s the word on those phone records?”
“Should be in later today. We have the warrant for the restaurant.”
“We’ll go through it,” Temple said. “But it’s those phone records. That phone call. That’s what I want.”
Temple and Mendoza headed back to 40 College to wait for the phone records and catch up on some paperwork. Mid-afternoon they and a couple of uniforms from 55 Division headed to the South Asian Delites restaurant on O’Connor. It was only about four kilometres from where the Nairs’ bodies were found at the Sobeys. The restaurant was closed but they had obtained a set of keys from Mrs. Nair. She had nothing to hide, she said, and had given her consent. Temple had gotten a production order, just in case she hadn’t been cooperative; it was redundant now. They all gloved up. Temple opened the restaurant door and they filed in.
The restaurant was modest in size. Like most of the Indian restaurants Temple had eaten in, the walls displayed artwork and cultural items from the region. The floors were muffled in Persian carpets. There was a green sign on one wall that indicated the restaurant was Halal, and under it there was a full bar which made Temple chuckle. There were twelve tables in the main area, and two large circular ones at the back for bigger parties.
“Want a cocktail?” Mendoza joked. Temple said nothing.
It was the office they were interested in. They went to the back and quickly located it. In it, they found filing cabinets and a safe plus two desks whose drawers were unlocked.
“We’ll have to get the combination for the safe from Mrs. Nair,” Temple said.
“I’ll call her house,” Mendoza said, and he went back into the dining room.
The filing cabinets were locked, but the key was on the keychain Temple had. He started removing files and putting them in plastic bins that the two uniforms had brought in. On the desk was a black and white photo of a young Farzana Nair. Temple picked it up and studied it. There was no scarring on her neck. He fiddled with the frame and removed the photograph. There was a stamp on the back in a script he could not read, probably Hindi, and a date, 1964. So the scarring had happened after that date? Good to know. He put it in the bin. Every other scrap of paper was taken, and they had a production order for her house too. Temple would dispatch Mendoza and Dalupan to secure Prajoth Nair’s personal papers if there were any.
They spent just over an hour at the restaurant and then left and locked it back up. The uniforms would deliver the bins to 40 College. The search warrant reserved them the right to go back in and do a complete forensics workup on the place if Temple suspected the murder had happened there.
“I’m hungry. You want anything from across the street?” Temple said when he and Mendoza pulled back into 40 College.
“Nah, I’m good,” Mendoza said.
“I’ll be up in a minute.” Temple left Mendoza in the parking lot and went out onto College Street. He crossed the road to 777 Bay St., a forty-story office tower directly across from police headquarters, and took the escalator down to the food court.
He grabbed a readymade egg salad sandwich and a Diet Coke at the Longo’s supermarket and headed to a vacant table. The food court was ringed by half a dozen fast food restaurants and the tables were modestly filled. A steady stream of people passed the food court on their way to or from the College Park subway station and added to the din. Temple took two bites of the sandwich and a sip of the Coke, then pulled out his cell phone and looked up one of his contacts. He found the one he wanted and hit dial.
“Tony. John Temple.”
“John. What’s shaking?”
“Not much. Listen, I need to see you. Kind of urgent.”
“I’m on afternoons.”
“I could come to you. How about that Tim Hortons in Vaughan? Across from the mall.”
“Sure thing. Just give me a call. If I’m free, I’ll swing by.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.”
Temple hung up. Tony Bucardi was with the Ontario Provincial Police, and as soon as Temple told him that he needed classified information about Operation Carnivore he would be breaking the law. He did not relish crossing that line but he admitted to himself that Horowitz had a hold of him, that ten thousand could easily turn into twenty. Temple had no way of paying it back all at once, and the vig took no prisoners. And on top of that, Horowitz had the proof that a detective in Toronto homicide was a compulsive gambler consorting with known criminals. Nice.
Temple ate and went back to 40 College. He crossed the street with quick little choppy steps in an attempt to keep the brown slush from splashing up the backs of his pant legs. His chiropractor told him he had a “flicky walk,” meaning his manner of walking included a little flick up when his heel reached its apex, shooting anything wet up onto his pants. He kept a package of baby wipes and a bottle of Windex at his desk to clean his trousers. His chiropractor cracked his feet and ankles but it did no good. He hated spring because of his flicky walk.
&n
bsp; Dalupan came over to his desk after he got settled and told him that PowerCase had been updated with the Nair home and business phone records, including all cell phones registered to the father and mother. Neither daughter had cells listed in their names, which Temple found odd. Most teenagers had cell phones; preteens and even younger kids had them now. Evidence of a strict family household, Temple thought—could have contributed to pushing the older daughter away from them and into the arms of Solomon Quinte and other bad elements. If the older daughter had been turned out and was working as a call girl, she’d most likely have a cell phone that was registered to a fictitious person, making it almost impossible to trace unless they got hold of the phone itself.
Temple logged into PowerCase. There was a new tag on the file for the phone records that Dalupan had added. Temple wondered if Mendoza would have put them in so quickly and proactively. He chided himself: Mendoza had his own way of working a case and there were some rough edges, but so far Temple was happy with the work his junior partner was doing. He looked over at Mendoza, who was on the phone. They locked eyes and Sergio nodded.
Temple turned back to his computer and scanned through the home phone records starting from the date of the reported disappearance and working backwards to the six days before when the pair had really vanished. Temple wanted to find that yelling match that Prajoth Nair had had before he disappeared. There were several calls from the house to local numbers shortly before the disappearance date. Offhand they meant nothing to Temple, but he would dig a little deeper. He could do searches on all the phone numbers, find owners of those numbers and their addresses and start probing from there. Temple took off his sport coat and hung it over his chair. This was going to take a while.
It was dark when Temple looked up from his computer terminal. Most of the other detectives had left for home or were out on cases. Dalupan and Mendoza had left at some point; they hadn’t bothered saying goodbye. That was fine. Temple discouraged interruptions when he was working, distractions that could throw his investigative mind off track and cause him to miss something important. Temple likened sifting through material like this, which on the surface appeared innocuous, to playing a complicated piano piece. The information was the notes and it would take on a life of its own within his mind. He could tickle the ivories of subtext and underlying motive and extract a masterpiece of criminal conviction. But one distraction or interruption could pull him off it and disrupt the whole process, and it would take hours for him to get it back.