by Warren Court
“Who are you going after in the Villains?”
“Guy named Coconis.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Real piece of work. He owns a piece of a cheque-cashing place Nair phoned a week before he disappeared. It’s the only connection I have that links the father to the dark side.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Working theory? Eldest daughter got mixed up with bikers and was turned out. Father tried to get her back, got whacked. Explains the four grand we found on him, but doesn’t explain why it was still on him. If Nair arranged a meet with the Villains, they would have told him to bring the money and they would have searched him. And it doesn’t explain the daughter being there as well.”
“Maybe she went along for the ride.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I’m off,” Temple said.
“Stay safe.”
20
The Steely Dan was a country and western bar west of the theatre district and was not that bad a bar as C&Ws go. It had good live music on the weekends and attracted tourists and upscale hipsters who wanted to slum for a night.
Three blocks from the bar was the No. 32 fire hall on Adelaide. Temple knew a firefighter named Allan there, so he pulled into a visitor’s spot and walked into the firehouse. His friend wasn’t on shift, but Temple recognized a buddy of his and asked if he could park there while he was on the job. The guy recognized him back and said it was fine. Better than trying to find parking on a busy Toronto Friday night.
Temple walked the three blocks to the bar. It was one of a stretch of taverns along King, many of which he had been in at one time or another, either for work or pleasure. Temple couldn’t remember the last time he had spent any serious time in a bar drinking. It wasn’t his thing anymore. When he’d first moved into Guildwood, he had been happy that there was a local pub, Ace’s. He used to tell himself that as long as he had a pub to go to he’d be a happy man. Then he’d turned forty and something inside of him clicked, and going out and spending ridiculous amounts of money on beer suddenly seemed stupid. He was now a confirmed homebody, preferring to drink on his back deck. He hadn’t been in Ace’s in months.
Temple walked by the Steely Dan and heard another Eagles’ song, “Witchy Woman,” coming from a jukebox. He went into the Starbucks next to the bar, ordered a coffee, and sat in a booth that afforded a view of the entrance to the bar. He pulled out his BlackBerry and logged into PowerCase.
The familiar logo popped up on his small screen and after it loaded he saw exactly the same display as if he was sitting at his desk. It was remarkable. Like a lot of computer-illiterate, old-time cops on the job, he had resisted this new technology when the TPS had first rolled it out, but the more he worked with it the more benefits he saw. The correlations and linkages the system provided were amazing, not to mention the fact he could use it here in a Starbucks. Using the old methods of obtaining phone records and tracing business ownership papers, it would have taken him days, maybe weeks, to discover the link between Prajoth Nair and a biker gang.
He had saved his queries on the Nair case. He clicked on Coconis’s name and a mug shot popped up on his screen. The face was cold and hard. A sweet-ass neck tattoo of an eagle was visible above a simple white T-shirt. There was a smirk on the man’s face staring back at him, a smirk that said Dude, if you only knew what I was getting up to. What I was capable of. With the picture of his target fresh in his mind and still on his screen, Temple finished his coffee, got up and left the Starbucks, and walked into the Steely Dan.
The bar had about thirty people in it, some up at the long wooden bar and the others at tables. There was a mechanical bull at the back of the room and a jukebox and a pool table. The bull had a corral around it that was covered in foam bumpers. A girl wearing a cheap straw cowboy hat was riding the bull. It was set to a slow speed and she was doing a bump and grind act straight out of Urban Cowboy. Some men were standing around the corral whooping and encouraging her. Temple went up to the bar and ordered a Bud. He wanted to blend in. He took a stool and tried to appear disinterested in what was going on around him, but the whole time he was searching the faces of the people in the place, casually looking around or catching them in the large mirror behind the bar. He didn’t expect a gaggle of Villains motorcycle club members to come strolling in. This wasn’t their hangout; they just owned it.
Temple was there an hour and two beers before he saw someone he knew. It wasn’t Coconis; it was the punk he’d roughed up outside the Wentworth. He was alone and came into the place like he owned it. The guy strode to the back, not glancing at Temple, who tracked him in the mirror. He saw the bandage across the bridge of the kid’s nose. Temple left fifteen on the bar for the beers and headed for the exit, leaving half of his third one still in the bottle. He didn’t want to get made by the kid.
So this jerk’s a Villain? Temple had caught the patch on the back of the guy’s jean jacket before leaving. It had the black silhouetted V in the centre of it and some wording circling it. Above the patch was the word Villains. There was no patch below that would signify a full patched member. This guy was a prospect. Though Temple’s goal in going into the Steely Dan had been to locate Coconis and then start digging into him, this might be just as good: the kid might lead him to Coconis. There was no car registered to Coconis and no official residence. He was no longer on probation, so he was free to drop off the radar if he so chose. The last known address for the guy with the neck tattoo was out in New Brunswick, but that was two years old. Coconis was off the grid, but this young punk was not—and he was very much on Temple’s radar.
Temple crossed the street, dodging slow-moving traffic. He saw several checkered yellow cabs from Ravinder Nair’s company pass him and heard shouts of “Taxi!” There was another bar across the street, the Silver Dollar, and he went inside. He took up a position at a booth at the front window and drank and watched and waited. Hours ticked by but still no Coconis. Closing time in Toronto was 1:30; drinks had to be off the bar and the tables by then. A place could stay open later than that but most cleared the tables and closed up.
It was twenty after one when he saw the guy he’d roughed up leave Steely Dan’s. Temple decided to follow him. Coconis still hadn’t shown, but he could at least find out who this guy was. The kid was clearly intoxicated. Temple could see that his steps were somewhat off balance. The biker wannabe bumped into a few people and didn’t turn to say sorry. Temple weaved through the crowd and closed the distance. The biker headed for an early nineties Acura. He was going to drive? Christ… Temple decided not to stop him from driving under the influence. He was working something bigger and just hoped that some poor sucker didn’t get killed by this drunken idiot. Temple ducked into a doorway and watched the guy get into his car. At least he buckled his seat belt. The guy pulled out of the parking lot and Temple moved quickly to get close enough to read his plate. He watched the silver Acura disappear and then punched the plate into a text file on his BlackBerry. He then sprinted back in the opposite direction to his car at the firehouse.
On the run, Temple dialled TPS switchboard, identified himself, and gave the licence plate. The girl on the phone said “Stand by.” Temple kept moving until he reached his car. He got his door open just as the fire truck came rolling out of the station, sirens and lights going. Temple saw the guy who had given him permission to park there in the shotgun seat and he waved at him. Could it be the Acura, involved in an accident? Christ, he hoped not. Temple started his Buick, connected his phone to the Bluetooth, and followed the fire truck, which was flying down the same route the Acura had taken. The girl came back with the plate info over the phone. The address was in East York, out on the Danforth where East York turns to Scarborough—not far from where the Nairs had been found. Temple knew the street.
The operator read out the guy’s name: “Dennis Parker Wade.”
“Parker,” Temple said out loud.
“Yep, that’s what it says.”
“O
kay thanks, hun,” Temple said, and clicked off.
The fire truck punched a hole through traffic and Temple followed close behind it, ignoring the “Keep Back 150 Feet” sign on the back of the vehicle. It turned off onto a side street and Temple saw a steaming SUV, not the Acura, with its front end wrapped around a telephone pole and a crowd of people around it. Temple made a hard right and roared down an alley. He knew he had little hope of finding Wade’s Acura even in the slow-moving end of the night downtown traffic, so he wanted to get back to Wade’s domicile before he did. He liked driving fast in the city. He honked his horn to get a gaggle of drunken college girls out of the way as he turned the wrong way onto a one-way street, then rushed down it for a block until he could get into another alleyway.
He made it up to the Danforth where it crosses into Scarborough in record time and, to his surprise, didn’t pick up a cop that would have pulled him over. None of the TPS homicide work cars had any indication they were cop cars; that was the whole point. He might have gotten a ticket from some eager-beaver rookie who didn’t know the score about not ticketing other cops, but luck was with him so far.
He drove slowly by Wade’s house and didn’t see the Acura in the driveway. He pulled up half a block and parked and waited, watching the house through his mirrors. He kept his car running and the Sirius on. The music was Springsteen’s “Racing in the Streets.”
Wade didn’t show up until three. He roared into his driveway fast and came to a screeching halt on the concrete pad. He got out clutching a fast food bag. Temple stepped quickly out of his Buick, but didn’t close his door all the way to keep it quiet. Wade’s house was small, the cement foundation sticking high out of the scraggily lawn. Wade walked up a simple step of three concrete slabs to the front door and fiddled with his keys in the poor light. Temple came up quietly behind him on the wet grass. Wade got his door open and Temple lunged forward up the steps. Wade could barely shout as he was propelled through the door into the house. Temple was betting on Wade living alone. He threw the biker onto a couch and then took out his gun and pointed it at him. Wade spun around and righted himself, ready to fight. Temple flicked on the overhead light and Wade saw the gun and stopped.
“Take it easy,” Temple said.
“You? What the fuck?” Wade shouted.
Temple put his finger to his mouth and shushed him, and then he kicked the front door closed and threw the deadbolt.
“Anyone else at home?”
“Yeah,” Wade said.
Temple cocked his head; he knew Wade was lying. The house was small. The living room held a couch, a small computer desk, and an office chair on wheels. There were several magazine spreads of naked chicks on choppers taped to the walls, as well as a Canadian flag with a marijuana plant replacing the leaf that had been nailed in place. There was a small kitchen with a half wall separating it from the living room. Beyond that lay a dark hallway. The place looked like a typical bachelor pad: very little décor, all functional. There was a big flat-screen TV and a game console beside it on the floor. An ashtray full of butts sat on the floor next to it. At least Wade had the good sense not to put his cigarettes out on the rug.
“How was the Steely Dan tonight? You try the bull?”
“I thought that was you. I work there.”
“Doing what? I didn’t see you come up to the bar once.”
Temple grabbed the office chair, spun it around, and straddled it, still pointing his gun at Wade. Wade rubbed his lip. There was a little blood.
“I was across the street. The Steely Dan—that’s a Villains bar, right?”
Wade didn’t say anything.
“The Glock isn’t that loud of a weapon,” Temple said mildly. “I doubt in this neighbourhood it would even wake your neighbours up. They’re probably used to gunshots anyway.”
“Yeah, right. You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’d just blow your foot off.” Temple closed one eye and made a big show of aiming at the guy’s boot. Wade squirmed around, trying to get his foot out of the line of fire.
“Okay, okay. Yeah, we hang there. It’s ours.”
“You’re not a member. Prospect?”
“I’ll get my patch. Then you fucking pigs won’t be able to fuck with me.”
“Yeah, sure. We’re terrified of you guys. I know all about you, Wade. You’re what we call ‘known to police.’ But lucky for you, I ain’t working biker gangs. I just want to know where one of your buddies is. Steve Coconis.”
“What do you want with him?”
“None of your business.”
“I ain’t no rat.”
“No, rats are smarter. They know how to survive. This is how it works: you tell me where he is, I go away. You don’t tell me where he is, I’ll let it drop that you are a rat and let the system work you out. You might live to next Christmas—who knows?”
Wade sat there sweating.
“Time’s running out.”
“He’s with some broad over on Bathurst.”
“The address. The broad’s name.”
“I don’t know the address. Never been there. The cunt’s name is Eva Zurawska. Polish broad. Big nose. Big tits.”
Temple smiled; he knew Zurawska had been driving a car one night with Coconis when they were pulled over. “She sounds nice. I’m going to run this. If it doesn’t pan out, I’m not going to come back. But someone will. Understand?” Temple gave no indication that he was making strong connections on this case.
Wade nodded.
“See you around the Wentworth?” Temple said.
Wade rolled his eyes.
“Hey, don’t let me stop you from dropping in. Just show a little more respect to the staff.”
He stuck his Glock back in the holster and left, closing the door firmly behind him.
21
“Hey, Sergio, wakey-wakey,” Temple said.
He was stuck in morning rush hour traffic. After he’d left Wade’s house he’d called in Zurawska’s info and checked it out. There was an Eva Zurawska listed at a residence off Bathurst in the east end. Temple had gone home and grabbed three hours’ sleep, showered and changed, and got back at it. Of course he knew Wade could be lying—Zurawska could have no connection to Coconis—so he had also fed Zurawska’s name into PowerCase. He had reviewed it at home on his BlackBerry. She was a prostitute, age 32. Her latest mug shot showed at least ten years of aging on top of that. She was from London, Ontario, originally. She’d picked up an arrest for loitering in that city when she was seventeen. Then a prostitution charge. Then possession. She had come to Toronto for the big bucks. From there she had picked up five additional charges around drugs and hooking. Nice lady.
“John, what time is it?”
“Six a.m., Sunshine. Time to go to work.”
“It’s Saturday, for Christ’s sake. Where are you?”
“About twenty minutes from your place.” Temple heard a woman’s voice in the background. He knew Sergio was single. “That’s how long you have to get rid of her,” he said.
“Alright, alright,” Mendoza grumbled, and hung up. Temple thought about calling Wozniak so Moonshine could get his daily report, but Mendoza was right: it was Saturday. The reports could wait until Monday. No one would be expecting him to work a four-month-old murder case on the weekends. He detoured through a Tim Hortons drive-through and grabbed coffees for himself and Mendoza.
Temple had been to Mendoza’s apartment once before to drop him off. He lived in a high-rise condo building near the Gardiner Expressway overlooking the airport on Toronto’s Centre Island, and Temple had gone up once for a drink. The fortieth-floor view was impressive. Temple joked that it would continue to be impressive until somebody eventually put a string of condos up between his building and the lake, blocking his view.
Temple pulled into the circular drop-off area and dialled Mendoza again from his car. He wasn’t going to go up.
“Be down in ten,” Sergio said when he answered. Temple saw a dishevelled-look
ing slim blonde woman in her early twenties leaving the building. She gave Temple a quick guilty look and then turned away. Mendoza came out five minutes afterwards.
“Can we get some coffee?” he said as he dumped himself into the passenger seat.
“Brought you one.” He handed Sergio his double-double.
“Thanks.”
“You going to see her again?”
Sergio laughed. “Probably tonight. She works at this club I like.”
“Not tonight. We’re on duty.”
“Really? Fuck. I told her I would see her. I don’t even have her number.”
“You can call the club tonight, but I need you with me all day.”
“That’s cool. Plenty of broads out there.”
“Yeah, I’ve got one all lined up for you. Nice broad—you’ll like her.”
“Huh?”
“Got a line on Coconis. He’s hooked up with this woman who lives on Bathurst not far from here. She’s a real pro, if you follow. Coconis has no known residence in Ontario. Last one was in New Brunswick.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Stake her place out for now. I don’t want to spook him. He gets word we’re after him and heads back to NB, it’ll mean loads more work.”
“How’d you find him?”
“One of his little biker pals. I made him my bitch.”
“Won’t he alert Coconis?”
“I don’t think so. He’s too dumb to know that’s the smart play.”
As he drove down Zurawska’s street, Temple spotted the Ford Fiesta registered to the whore sitting in a dirt laneway next to the house. They pulled into a Speedy Muffler shop across the street. It opened at eight; they had ten minutes before someone arrived.
“Log into PowerCase and bring up Coconis’s picture,” Temple said. He took a pair of small binoculars out of his glove box and trained them on the building. The house was small; so were the ones on either side of it. There was only a tiny front window and it was covered by a curtain. Up above, the second-story window had a Canadian flag draped across it.