The Nephew

by Claude Bouchard

  * * * *

  Sheraton Centre, Toronto, Ontario, 4:24 p.m.

  “Sean and Benny scored,” Jonathan informed the others. “Guy by the name of Jose Ortez walked into their arms at Donna’s apartment.”

  “Ortez?” said Chris. “The one who’s Civic Chavez was driving?”

  “That’s my guess,” Jonathan replied. “Danilo dropped him off so they must have just driven from Maynooth. Sean and Benny also have Edwin’s car which was still parked nearby.”

  “Where’s Ortez now?” asked Chris.

  “They’re taking him to their place on Norfinch,” said Jonathan. “Should be there in half an hour.”

  “I’m going to go talk to him,” said Chris.

  “One of us can go if you prefer,” Jonathan offered.

  Chris shook his head. “I’m going to deal with him.”

  “You want me to go with you?” asked Dave.

  “I’d rather you stay available if something else comes up,” Chris replied. “In the meantime, keep on searching. At the very least, we want to find Danilo and Fernando.”

  * * * *

  Mississauga, Ontario, 4:27 p.m.

  Carlos’ apartment was located on the seventh floor of a ten storey building which, a few years earlier, had become rundown due to mismanagement, shoddy maintenance and neglect. Over time, tenants had begun abandoning apartments, lawsuits had been filed and the building’s owners had eventually defaulted on their mortgage and declared bankruptcy. The city had been considering having the building deemed unfit for residential use when a reputable firm had stepped in and acquired the property at a bargain. A city-approved renovation plan and timeline had been part of the sales agreement.

  True to their word, the new owners had immediately begun addressing the required maintenance issues and renovating rental units. As once abandoned units became available, they were offered for reasonable rent in an effort to rapidly maximize the occupancy rate. As a result, Carlos had been lucky enough to snag his two bedroom apartment three months earlier at a lesser cost than the basement studio he had been living in previously. Located at the rear of the building overlooking the parking area below, the view from the small terrace could be better but the front units were more expensive and closer to the noise generating traffic.

  Due to renovations, which were almost complete, the apartment across the hall from Carlos’ was currently vacant, a fact Jonathan had passed on to Barton and Perriello in a subsequent call. Upon their arrival, the two men had each taken on a lock, playfully racing to see who would be picking up the tab when dinnertime came. Barton had won by barely a second. Twenty minutes later, after changing Carlos’s lock and installing appropriate surveillance and other equipment, they had settled into the vacant apartment to play cards while they waited.

  “We may have a visitor, Ty,” said Perriello.

  “Crap,” Barton muttered, turning his attention from his cards to the monitor. “I had a great hand.”

  They watched as the wiry man in his thirties left the elevator, looking left and right before moving along the corridor in their direction. He disappeared from one pane of the multi-split screen but they tracked his approach on the next as he moved closer. Perriello tapped some keys and the image zoomed in while Barton scrolled through photos on his tablet.

  “That’s Julio Abrego,” Barton announced, turning the tablet toward Vince.

  “Yep,” Perriello agreed. “Nice face tats.”

  Abrego stopped at the door of Carlos’ apartment and, following another cursory glance down the hallway, got busy with the lock. Though he would have never won against either of the men watching him, he did manage to pick the lock in just over a minute.

  “Not bad,” said Perriello as they watched Abrego enter Carlos’ apartment and close the door behind him.

  Barton smiled and said, “Too bad he can’t get out of there.”

  * * * *

  Julio pushed the door shut, turned to lock it and said, “What the fuck?”

  Where he had expected to find a knob of sorts to engage the bolt was a small, heavy-duty numeric keypad. He grasped the door handle, turned and pulled and swore again. He was locked in.

  “What kind of bullshit lock is this?” he muttered, examining the keypad, searching for some unlock switch, button, something – nothing. He punched in numbers at random and a red light came on after the fourth. Another four digits produced another red light.

  Cursing to himself, he moved into the apartment, glancing into the room on his right, a small windowless bedroom set up as an office. Next was an equally windowless bathroom facing the lab-style kitchen. Beyond was a dining/living area with sliding doors which he found himself also unable to open.

  “What is this crap?” he growled before peering out onto the small terrace and remembering he was seventy feet up.

  He stormed into the bedroom where a quick glance out the window confirmed it would never serve as an exit either. Returning to the living room, he pulled out his mobile to call for help, his frustration increasing as he realized he was unable to make any calls.

  Kicking a coffee table over in rage, he yelled, “What the fuck is going on here?”

  * * * *

  “Dude’s going to have a meltdown,” Barton predicted as he stood while ensuring the surveillance camera images displayed on his phone. “We don’t want him to trash the place.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Perriello agreed, donning a wireless earphone headset. “Too bad, though. He’d be fun to watch. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  “Julio Abrego. Step out of the kitchen and into the living room with your hands in the air.”

  Julio froze then frantically spun around, looking for the source of the voice.

  “I repeat, move out of the kitchen to the living room with your hands up.”

  “Screw you,” Julio shouted, desperately looking about. A heavy cast iron skillet on the range top caught his eye and he lunged for it before rushing toward the sliding door.

  * * * *

  “He can’t be serious,” Perriello exclaimed as he unlocked the door to Carlos’ apartment. As he pushed the door open, they heard a crash of shattering glass from within. Guns in hand, the two men rushed in as Julio, some thirty feet away, ducked through the jagged opening in the sliding door onto the terrace.

  “Julio, don’t be stupid,” Barton called out, he and his partner slowing their approach, unsure if Abego was also armed.

  Julio hurried to the side railing and looked down, assessing his options – over the railing and onto the terrace directly below or a diagonal leap across a twelve foot span to the next terrace one floor down. He glanced back and saw two men, no doubt cops, approaching warily, guns trained on him. Getting caught in Carlos’ apartment meant drawing attention to the kidnapping which would not please Danilo.

  His decision made, he scrambled over the railing, ignoring the shouts of the two men who were rapidly moving in on him. With his feet on the outside edge of the terrace, he gripped a baluster in each hand then crouched down.

  “You’re going to kill yourself,” one of the men warned.

  “Stay the fuck away from me or I’ll let go,” Julio threatened.

  “You won’t get away,” the man replied as the other rushed back inside, likely on his way down to wait for him.

  “Fuck you,” said Julio, letting his left foot dangle as he slid his hands down the balusters.

  “Let me pull you back up,” the man pleaded, already holstering his weapon.

  Julio ignored him and pulled his right foot off the edge of the terrace. The jolt of his sudden full weight caused his right hand to slip and he found himself hanging from his left hand. In desperation, he grappled with his right and grabbed onto the bottom horizontal rail. Taking a deep breath, he swung his body back and forth, once twice then released on the third swing, a second too soon and with insufficient momentum.

  He crashed into the top of the railing below with both shins, the impact shat
tering bone and literally bouncing him backward. Despite the pain, he grasped for the railing and touched it but failed to achieve a solid grip. He passed out as he began his descent.

  From the terrace above, Perriello watched Julio freefall and land, ironically, in an open dumpster below. Quickly scanning the area, he noted no activity suggesting immediate witnesses and activated his headset as he returned inside.

  “The idiot fell,” he informed Ty. “Let’s pack up and get the hell out of here.”

  * * * *

  Vaughan, Ontario, 5:02 p.m.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Benham as Chris walked up from a side entrance of the small warehouse with Hayden. Edwin’s Mustang was parked by a black, windowless minivan off to one side.

  “Thanks, Benny,” Chris replied, shaking hands. “I hadn’t seen my sister in years but I have fond memories of her. I’m sad and angry that she died this way without us getting a chance to reconnect, but what really breaks my heart is seeing her son lose her. He’s a good, smart kid and she deserves a lot of credit for how he turned out. He’s crushed by her death and I intend to make these bastards pay for taking her away from him.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Benny vowed.

  “You already nabbed one so you’re on the right track,” said Chris.

  “Did you hear about what happened at your nephew’s apartment?” asked Hayden.

  “Only that one showed up and fell off the balcony,” Chris replied. “Jon called me just as I was arriving here.”

  “Vince and Ty cornered him and he tried to escape to a lower terrace but missed,” said Hayden. “No apparent witnesses so our guys gathered their stuff and left. They since dropped word to the cops so your nephew’s apartment will be off limits for a while. I hope this doesn’t cause him any hassles.”

  Chris smiled briefly and said, “He’s got a solid alibi. Now, where are you keeping this little shit, Ortez?”

  Benham pointed to one of four steel doors along the back wall. Each led to an actual cinderblock walled holding cell complete with a stainless steel toilet/basin unit, iron cot and chair, the latter two bolted in place.

  “Is he restrained?” asked Chris.

  “Handcuffed,” Benny replied, “But we were nice and switched the cuffs to the front when we got here to make him more comfortable.”

  “Attitude?” asked Chris.

  “He tried but it sounded more like whining,” said Hayden. “The kid’s scared. He thought we were cops at first but guessed maybe not once we got here. He kicked the furniture and toilet a bit when we locked him in but gave up after a couple of minutes.”

  Chris nodded and said, “Okay, I’ll go have a chat with him. Let’s make him more comfortable and lose the cuffs for now.”

  “You want us in there with you?” asked Hayden.

  Chris shrugged as he removed his jacket and tossed it on a chair. “Can I take him if I have to?”

  “Depends if you’re losing your touch,” Benny teased. “He’s twenty-two, average height and build. Doesn’t look too impressive but he is in the gang. Nothing about him in Vince’s database except for a pic and identification so he’s new.”

  “Keep an eye on your screen,” said Chris. “If he gets nasty and it looks like he’ll kill me, come on in and save my butt.”

  Benny nodded and the three men made their way to Ortez’s cell.

  “He’s crashed on the cot,” said Hayden, looking at his phone as Benny unlocked the door then pulled it open.

  “Someone here to talk to you,” Benny announced as they entered.

  “Fuck you, old man,” Ortez replied. “I’m not talking to nobody.”

  “Sit up and extend your wrists,” said Benny.

  “Leave me alone,” Ortez.

  Benny smiled then reached down, grabbed the front of Ortez’s t-shirt and yanked him completely off the cot before shoving him back down in a seated position against the wall.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Ortez cried, raising his hands to rub the back of his head, a task made difficult due to the cuffs.

  Ignoring the question, Benny pulled Ortez’s hands back forward and removed the handcuffs then turned to Chris where he sat on the chair.

  “He’s all yours,” he said before following Hayden out of the cell and slamming the door shut.

  Ortez glared at Chris and demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Is that all you can say?” asked Chris.

  “What?” said Ortez, confused.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Chris replied. “You need to expand your vocabulary.”

  Ortez gazed at Chris, dumbfounded. “Whatever. Now, answer my, uh, damned question.”

  Chris shook his head. “You don’t get to ask questions. I do.”

  “Well, I have nothing to tell you,” Ortez scoffed.

  “You’re wrong,” said Chris. “You’re going to tell me everything I need to know.”

  Ortez attempted a grin. “Yeah, right, old man.”

  “Let’s get started,” said Chris. “How much did Fernando steal in cash and dope?”

  “Fuck you,” Ortez replied. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Answer my question,” said Chris.

  “Make me,” Ortez challenged.

  “Fine,” said Chris as he rose from his seat. “If that’s how you want to do it.”

  * * * *

  Sheraton Centre, Toronto, Ontario, 5:19 p.m.

  “How are you holding up?” Jonathan asked as he entered the adjoining room where Carlos had retreated after learning of the break-in and subsequent death at his apartment.

  “I’m feeling kind of numb,” Carlos replied. “My place is a crime scene because some dude broke in and died there and my mother was murdered. Not my best day.”

  “It’s a lot to handle,” Jonathan agreed, “But we’ll help you get through it.”

  “I don’t know how I’d deal with this without you people,” said Carlos. He paused then asked, “Do you know if they found mom yet?”

  Jonathan nodded. “I just got a call. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  Carlos took a deep breath and held it together. “Now what happens? What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing for now,” Jonathan replied. “There will be an autopsy and the commissioner’s office know they can reach you or your uncle through me.”

  “Will the police take this over now?” Carlos asked after a moment.

  “The OPP will certainly investigate your mother’s death,” said Jonathan, “Even if Edwin Chavez is dead.”

  “But what about Danilo?” Carlos insisted, “And Fernando? Will the police go after them too?”

  Jonathan hesitated then replied, “I want to discuss this with Chris to get his take on it. Since we involved the OPP, we may give them what we’ve got and let them handle this. Our main goal is to make them pay.”

  “I want them dead,” Carlos muttered.

  “I can’t disagree with you,” said Jonathan. “We’ll talk to Chris when he gets back. Have you found anything useful in your mother’s file to track Fernando down?”

  Carlos shrugged. “Some names of people he knows or places he’s been. Some addresses, phone numbers and emails which Leslie is researching but we haven’t found his secret phone number. It must be hidden in there somehow so I’ll go through the file again but first, if it’s okay, I’ll try to take a nap. I’m burnt out.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” said Jonathan. “We’ll either go down for a bite to eat when your uncle returns or order something up. Want us to wake you then?”

  Carlos shook his head. “I’m not hungry and I need to chill by myself for a bit. I’ll eat something later.”

  “No problem,” said Jonathan, patting the young man on the shoulder. “We’re next door if you change your mind.”

  * * * *

  Vaughan, Ontario, 5:57 p.m.

  “I think we’re done for now,” said Chris as he gazed at Ortez who was sprawled on the cot. “Do you see how easier it
was once you just cooperated?” He waited a moment and said, “I’m talking to you. You could at least look at me and reply.”

  Wincing, Ortez turned his head toward Chris, looked at him with his remaining good eye and feebly nodded.

  “Attaboy,” Chris approved before turning toward the door.

  “You gonna get me a doctor?” Ortez pleaded through puffy lips.

  “I didn’t hurt you that bad,” Chris replied.

  “You busted some bones, man,” Ortez argued.

  “They’ll mend,” said Chris as the door opened. “The lady you kidnapped is dead. You’re damned lucky you aren’t.”

  “But I didn’t kill her,” Ortez cried, “And I answered your damned questions.”

  “Those are the two reasons why you’re still alive,” said Chris before leaving the cell.

  “You haven’t lost your touch,” said Benny once he had closed and locked the door. “How bad is he hurt?”

  “Nothing that can kill him,” Chris replied, “At least, I don’t think so. Some broken fingers, both hands, definite fracture, right forearm, dislocated right shoulder and I kind of messed up his left knee. There may be damage to his right eye but it might just turn out to be a decent shiner. No broken teeth and his jaw seems intact. He’ll be fine eventually.”

  “He just may limp a bit,” said Hayden.

  “Hope he’s not a pianist,” added Benny.

  “I depart knowing I’m leaving him in sympathetic hands,” said Chris.

  “What do you want to do with him?” asked Hayden.

  “I’d like to hang on to him for now,” said Chris. “No problem keeping him here for a while?”

  “That’s what this place is for, my friend,” Benny replied. “Should we continue covering the apartment?”

  “No,” said Chris. “They’ll catch on and, anyhow, I have enough information to work with. Thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime,” said Hayden.