by Warren Court
“So,” she said. “All I see is you heading to the bar.”
“Play it again.” The clip ended and she hit play again.
“That blonde at the bottom of the shot, right there. Her hair. That’s our girl. The dead girl in Mendoza’s room.”
“So.”
“She’s alone. We assumed the guy that shot her and Mendoza was the girl’s male escort, the one who makes sure the room’s okay. But she showed up alone. They do that sometimes.”
He had reached her. She put her hand to her mouth. She played the video again and paused it when the top of the hooker’s head was mid-screen.
“So what’s it mean?” she said, her brow furrowing.
Temple still wasn’t entirely sure she was on the level, that her purpose at the hotel had been to draw him away from the room. He decided to take a chance. “I have found a connection between Mendoza and the mayor and his whores. It’s not the greatest linkage but it’s something. I think someone was sent there to waste Mendoza and make it look like one of the Villains. It’s the same person, I’m convinced, who killed Dennis Wade and Eva Zurawska. He’s going around cleaning up any connection between the mayor and this prostitution ring. I say he because I don’t think it’s you personally doing the killing.”
Kindness looked at him and said nothing. She looked almost helpless.
“If you’re involved with the mayor, doing things to protect him, you should know this. When this comes out, it’ll take you down with it.”
“Why would he want Mendoza dead?” she said softly, still looking at the blonde head in the shot.
“Because he’s killed at least one girl, maybe more that he’s been with. He likes it rough.” She put her hand to her mouth again and he saw her shudder.
“Was he rough with you?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I liked it at first. Then it got out of control. He’s….”
“He’s out of control. You said it yourself.”
“I was afraid of him, the last time.” With a sinking feeling, Temple realized that Kindness already knew the mayor was capable of murder.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I should ask you that. I have no badge, no right to be investigating this. Now that you’ve got this video shot here, I’m expecting you to pass it on to Marinelli. He can use it. I’m going to tell him about the linkage I found, tying Mendoza to the mayor and his whores.”
She adjusted her suit coat. “But you won’t tell me?”
Temple said nothing.
“I could make you.”
“How?”
“Because I got you. You’re one of my boys now; you’re on my team. You’ll do what I say.”
Temple laughed. “Oh really? How do you figure?”
“’Cause I got you here in my office, on the seventh floor. It’s on video. I got marks on my face that will soon be photographed and I got a diaphragm full of your DNA.”
Temple raised his eyebrows. Damn, she was good. He had to admit he felt some respect for her ability to manipulate people, other cops. “This is my case, Karen. I’m taking it to Marinelli myself.” Temple turned to leave and paused. “You know, Tim Wozniak said you had a great ass.”
“What did you say?” she said.
“I said it was a bear trap.”
She smiled. “Well, maybe next time I’ll let you put that monster of yours in it and you can find out.”
40
Temple turned on Horowitz’s bedside light and stuck the muzzle of the .357 into the snoring bookie’s open mouth. Horowitz came suddenly awake and gagged on the barrel. It was then that Temple realized Horowitz was not alone in the king-sized bed. He saw a lump next to the man whose attention he now fully had. The lump moved, and Black Tommy awoke with a start, threw back the covers, and sprang naked out of the bed.
“Jesus, Tommy. I had no idea,” Temple said, and laughed. With a quick move, Black Tommy ducked down, picked up a pair of undershorts, and covered his genitals with them. Temple cocked the revolver.
“Tommy, calm down. Get your clothes and go wait in the living room.”
Tommy looked at his boss, who was still staring, bug-eyed, up at Temple. Horowitz said something but it was muffled by the two inches of steel in his mouth.
Temple watched as Tommy boiled with rage and embarrassment. “Move, Tommy. That’s a good boy.”
Tommy shuffled sideways over to a chair and picked up his clothes. A silver automatic pistol fell out of the pile and clunked on the floor.
“Leave it,” Temple said, and he turned his attention back to Horowitz as Black Tommy left the bedroom. He removed the gun from Horowitz’s mouth and watched as the bookie regained his composure in an instant and sat upright in bed. He was naked too, and he pulled the luxurious silk sheet up a little higher around him. The room was expansive for a downtown condo. The curtains on the window were open and Temple could see a plane landing at the island airport.
“I’m sorry, pal, I really didn’t know,” Temple said. “I mean, I figured it out about you. It’s obvious. But Tommy?”
“Why all the theatrics, Johnathan?”
“Wanted to cut through the bullshit,” he said. “Getting tired of it.”
“I won’t ask how you got in here.”
“It’s not that hard if your bodyguard is in bed with you.”
“Good point. I trust you’ll keep that within this room.”
“I suppose,” Temple said with a smirk. He was enjoying collecting cards on people and putting them in his pocket—just as Kindness had two hours earlier in her office when she’d got hold of him by the short and curlies. But he had enjoyed that too, hadn’t he?
“What do you want, Jonathan? It’s late.”
“The mayor. Where is he?”
“How should I know?”
“You run in those circles. You know his people.”
Horowitz let out a sigh and retrieved an iPhone off the nightstand.
“I’ll message his personal assistant.”
“Good.” Temple leaned up against a closet door and lowered the gun but kept it at the ready.
“What do you want him for?” Horowitz said.
Temple said nothing.
“You’re in over your head, Jonathan.”
“Ain’t that the truth. You got the info?”
“Hold on,” he said. Temple heard some scuffling coming from the outer room. The iPhone chimed. Temple reached forward and grabbed it. Temple didn’t recognize the name on the text.
Heading to the Bier Market. Why? it said.
No reason, Temple texted back with one thumb and put the phone in his pocket.
“I could always phone him from Tommy’s phone,” Horowitz said. “Warn him.”
“You know about the mayor’s women, the whores. The ones he’s killed.”
“Unfortunate accidents. The mayor is a little over-aggressive in the sack.”
“Is Tommy?”
“Be careful, Johnathan. I like you.”
“What about the women?”
“I’ve heard of two who met their demise while in his company. Poor things. Such sweet young girls. We all have our weaknesses, Detective Temple.”
“The bodies?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I wouldn’t want to be privy to those details. You’d best run along now. If I know my Tommy, he’s already put out a call to some serious people who are enroute. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt, especially considering the status of your account.”
“Yeah that would be a shame.” Temple pushed off from the closet and walked to the foot of the bed. He kicked Tommy’s silver pistol under it and left.
41
On the way to the Bier Market, an upscale beers-of-the-world bar and music club on the Esplanade, Temple received a phone call from Detective Ferguson of the OPP.
“Yo, Ferguson. What’s up, man?” Temple said.
“Cut the shit, Temple. What is happening with your investigation?”
“I shoul
d ask you the same thing. Two-way street, remember.”
“Do you have anything for me or not?”
“Sorry, compadre, I don’t have a thing for you.”
“You’re making a mistake, Temple. You’re picking the wrong team.”
“Largest street gang in the world. You ever hear that before, pal?”
“Doesn’t mean shit and you know it,” Ferguson said.
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing. Lose my number.” Temple clicked off. No way was he telling Ferguson and the Operation Carnivore guys what he knew about the mayor. Not that they were after him for the murder of hookers, anyway—their probe was a mile wide and ten miles deep. They were more interested in getting the mayor on corruption. But could they have used a murder or two against the mayor? Would he open up like a can of sardines and spill all when they hauled him? Probably: even if they didn’t have a dead body, they could shake the mayor up with that line of questioning. But this was Temple’s case, always had been. He was going to see it through, and if he had to pass it on to somebody, that somebody would be Daniel Marinelli, one of his own.
Temple drove down the Esplanade and saw the mayor’s SUV out in front of the Bier Market, with the government tag—122F. The mayor was already in the club. Temple didn’t see Diminitrov in the car. He must be in there with his boss, transitioning from the role of driver to personal bodyguard.
Temple continued on down the Esplanade, a trendy street lined with bars and restaurants on one side and towering condos on the other, and spotted one of the OPP spin team’s cars, the Acura. Behind the wheel sat an unshaven man wearing a ball cap; he ignored Temple. Temple doubted Ferguson or Reynolds or any of those guys he’d met up behind the muffler shop in that ghost town would be on the spin team; they would just be in the loop waiting for updates. They would be close by, probably in the city, but nowhere near the Esplanade. Spin team cops were trained to blend into the crowd. Regular detectives stood out like cops even to the untrained eyes of civilians like the mayor and his bodyguard. Having them sniffing around here might spook the big man.
The action inside the Bier Market was intense. The crowd at the bar was four persons deep waiting for drinks. There was a band playing “Disco Inferno” at the far end of the club and doing a pretty good job, too. There were a few tables pushed off to the side but most of the space was standing room only with a bit of a dance floor in front of the band. Banners hung from the wall and the bar was a long curving monstrosity that was manned by ten bartenders. A few brave servers carried trays loaded with drinks high up above the heads of the crowd. Temple had been in here a couple of times with colleagues and he knew it took a long time for a round of drinks to make its way to a table. And standing in line with civilians at the bar was not an option; cops liked to sit and watch people. Judge them. The Bier Market was definitely not a cop bar.
Temple spotted the mayor and his entourage in a far corner. They were separated off by a phalanx of Bier Market security staff. Between this group of half a dozen rent-a-cops and the mayor’s table, Temple saw Diminitrov standing alone and shouting into a cell phone. Mayor Allen was seated at the middle of the table holding court, with a bevy of young girls on either side and a few well-dressed older gentlemen flanking them. The constant barrage of cell phone flashes bombarding the mayor didn’t seem to phase him. Temple suspected he secretly enjoyed being photographed with the girls. Temple recognized one of them: Barbara McBride. She was done up even better than when Temple and Mendoza had questioned her at the Marriott. Her dress glittered and her hair was done up, exposing a long milky-white neck. Her dangling earrings matched a diamond necklace. She hadn’t heeded Temple’s advice—quite the contrary: she had walked right into the lion’s mouth.
Temple skirted past the table and made a roundabout curve to the exit. He had seen what he needed to and would now wait in his car along with the spin team for the mayor to leave. He couldn’t imagine the mayor taking a rear exit and even if he did, Temple would just fall in with the spin team and reacquire the mayor’s ride.
From his vantage point back inside the Subaru, he could see the front doors of the Bier Market and the green Acura that was part of the spin box. Temple knew that the team would have one or two people in the bar as well, eyeballing the mayor, but that the majority of them would be in their cars waiting for the word.
That word came at ten minutes to one, when the doors opened and a gaggle of people spilled out onto the sidewalk. Temple could see the top of the mayor’s bald head in the middle of a group of security staff and the well-dressed gentlemen. The young girls that the mayor had around him inside the bar had been left behind, all except for Barbara McBride. Temple picked her out easily with his binoculars. The mayor and Diminitrov led McBride to the SUV while the security staff formed a semicircle to keep the drunken public away from their mayor. The scene was lit up with cell phone flashes that glittered off the wet pavement. The mayor stumbled on his way to the car. Jesus, is he ever lit, Temple thought. What kind of an idiot gets this loaded in public when he’s a public servant? Then Temple remembered the half dozen times he and his fellow detectives had closed bars and then driven home. At least the mayor had a designated driver.
Temple started his car and followed the green Acura. He knew the OPP surveillance unit wouldn’t think to put up any kind of counter-surveillance up to see if they, the watchers, were being watched.
The mayor’s SUV took Temple and the OPP team back to the Marriott, the location of Mendoza’s shooting. The SUV drove underground while Temple stayed above. He saw the spin team vehicles melt away and, moments later, watched two young men dressed in jeans, work coats, and ball caps hurry into the hotel. Temple figured they were OPP detectives rushing in to find out which room the mayor was headed to and to set up on foot surveillance at the front and rear entrance of the hotel.
It took half an hour for the SUV to re-emerge. Much too quick for a quickie with the young Barbara McBride, Temple surmised, and he was right. The light on the parking ramp allowed Temple to see right into the car, and he saw only Diminitrov behind the wheel. No Mayor Allen. Is worship was still up in the room.
Okay, you asshole, let’s see where you go, he thought. The mayor’s going to be a while with that young girl. Temple tried to push from his mind the image of the massive mayor squiring young Barbara McBride in a hotel bed. What he should have been doing, he knew, was kicking the door down and arresting that degenerate. He said a silent prayer that she would be alright, that she wouldn’t be added to the pile on top of Sidduth Nair and God only knew who else.
Temple again hung back and watched the spin team fall into place. He recognized all of the cars now. There were five of them, moving back and forth behind the SUV as it led them into Scarborough. He hadn’t seen the two detectives who had run into the hotel emerge, they had probably been left behind to baby sit the mayor.
It was close to two now and the driving was easy. But this was dangerous: fewer cars meant more chance of Temple being spotted.
Temple and the spin team followed Diminitrov to Morningside Avenue, at which point the mayor’s driver headed south. Was he heading to the motel to score some smack again? Temple had to change things up, get ahead of the ball. He floored it past the spin team, the mayor’s SUV, and finally the two surveillance cars at the front of the box. Risky, but took a chance that Diminitrov and the OPP would not make him. He increased his speed and ran a red light. Thankfully there were no cops around to pull him over. He had no tin to show them.
He roared into the parking lot of the Colonial Motor Hotel and drove around back. It was dangerous back here, almost pitch black. Temple shut the Subaru down and got out. With the .357 from the kid gangster stuck snugly in his belt, he made his way to the stairs and climbed them slowly, trying to appear drunk, normal. Not a threat. He saw a light coming from only one room and gambled that that was the room Diminitrov was headed for. The chauffeur was going to be here in a minute or less if he was coming at all. Temple rapped
on the door.
“Yeah?”
“Dude, let me in.”
“Who the fuck are you?” A man with a latino accent said from the other side of the door.
“Come on, man. It’s me, Alexi.” Temple said in a reasonable facsimile of an Eastern European accent. He had the .357 in his hand, ready.
The door opened. Temple put his shoulder into it and felt it hit the person on the other side. Temple barged in and pointed his gun at the man just as he was reaching for a weapon. A silver Beretta M9 lying on the floor.
“Don’t!” Temple shouted. He pointed the gun at the man’s face and took a step forward. “Don’t do it.”
The man put his hands up. He was short and rather pudgy. His skin was a deep brown and his hair jet black. His face was awash with pockmarks and he had a thin moustache. It was Jose Alvarez.
Temple kicked the gun across the room. “On the ground. Roll over. Put your hands on your head.” The man complied. Temple now looked around the small room. There was a double bed, a TV stand, and a nightstand. An empty closet with no door and a bathroom at the back. Temple cuffed the man and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. There was a driver’s licence: Jose Alvarez. Temple searched and came up with two more driver’s licences, each with the same photo on them but different names.. He rolled the man over and searched his front. The man had sleeves of tattoos on his arms. He was wearing a faded red T-shirt and Temple could see a necklace of tattoos around his neck, all of them letters spelling something out in Spanish. Temple recognized the trappings of a member of MS-13, a ruthless drug gang that had made its way out of Central America to take advantage of Canada’s slap-on-the-wrist approach to crime.