by D. L. EVANS
That evening, Mack’s phone rang as expected. “What can I do for you, my friend?” The words were slurred together and grated like sandpaper on veneer.
“Nice to hear from you, old friend.” Mack knew that small talk was a waste of time. “I need to see if a bloke named Roger Smythe, head of CHAT-TV is everything his glittery biography says he is. Someone I care about is involved with him and...”
“No need to slide through the murky depths of justification,” the voice rasped. “You need to know, that’s enough. I’ll get back to you when I’ve got something. Ciao.”
That was it. Mack hung up, and placed his lovingly prepared shepherd’s pie-for-one into the hot oven, opened a voluptuous red wine and waited for it to breath. He figured that if patience was a virtue, he was a goddamned saint.
He half-filled the balloon glass and held it to the light, admiring the dark blood colour. Was it too much to hope that Adam was through his grieving period? Two years was a long time to view the world from the bottom of a glass of bourbon, even the good stuff. He should know. He’d danced along that precipice himself until he’d lost two days in his life. It had been just over ten years ago, on a Friday night, and he had been celebrating his last day before leaving on vacation for two weeks of salmon fishing in northern British Columbia. Just one more in a long line of paralytic any-excuse-for-a-party evenings, nothing special.
Then, he’d opened his eyes in an empty lot a few blocks from his home to find his face being licked by the ugliest, smelliest junkyard dog in the world. He could remember the sensation, trying to stand, focus, get his bearings and eventually having to tack his way up the street. So he had downed a few too many, he thought. So what? A few apologies, a few laughs at his own expense. So he missed the plane. So what? Maybe he could catch a later flight when his stomach settled down. After a long cold shower, and half a dozen glasses of water, he had sprawled in front of the television, still queasy. He would never forget his shock when he realized that he had lost two complete days out of his life.
To this day, he had no recollection of the lost time between the Friday night in the bar and the Monday morning in the vacant lot with the dog. What had happened to him for two whole days? He knew he hadn’t spent the entire time lying unconscious in the weeds, or he would have surely pissed his pants and he hadn’t done that. The sick realization that he was an alcoholic had feinted past his ego and faced him squarely in the mirror. His father stared back, laughing at him.
The memories rose from the dark and surged upward like bile rising in his throat. Shards of a past that still bled freely, even now. Having hit bottom, he’d promised himself then and there that he was not going to end up like the old man, lying dead in the rain, drowned in his own vomit outside a Dublin pub.
The drinking hadn’t stopped completely, but with a doctor’s help and a year of AA meetings, he’d taken charge again. Head-shrunk and re-organized, with his life under tight control, he’d met and started dating a dietician. A lovely Greek lass, he recalled, with masses of jet-black hair and blue eyes, a little like the fabulous Lauren. Unfortunately, she’d been a lost cause between the sheets but was a goddess in the kitchen and to his amazement; he’d discovered delight in the preparation of food. Living had become a routine of physical exercise, an occasional romp in the sack, his police work and cooking.
Admittedly, there had been a few minor setbacks when some experimental recipes hadn’t worked out in the early days, but lots of experts had shaky beginnings, he reasoned ... and nobody had actually died. And he had improved considerably over the years. If only his sainted mother had lived long enough to pass on her skills.
Experimentation led to actual cooking classes, and after a few years, he considered himself a gourmet chef. All he needed now was a beauty, someone with class, who would recognize his talents and be impressed with his culinary skills ... translate: fuck at length and feed like a queen. What more could Lauren want? It was beyond him.
He was a natural detective and rose through the ranks with amazing speed. He did, however, have a short fuse when dealing with child molesters. A year ago, in a local bar he had arrested a suspect on the 'wanted' list. He had been causing a disturbance, smashing glasses and screaming about voices from hell when they got the call. As Mack was about to take him to the car, the suspect asked to use the men’s room. Mack had to be physically restrained by four other men when, still in a drunken stupor at the urinal, the man confessed, bragging about his ‘technique’ with the young victims he had lured into his car. Police chief Phillip Rains had to do some fast dancing to smooth the incident over before it was plastered all over the front pages.
Directly under the Chief of Police was the Chief of Detectives, Bill Lewis. On Bill’s advice, Detective Mackenzie was quietly transferred to ‘Missing Persons’, to cool off. Chief Lewis would have liked to have had him kicked off the force entirely but there wasn’t another cop who would criticize Mackenzie for his actions. Not to mention that backlash from the press might have caused embarrassment and Lewis would not risk that. After all, the suspect was well known to them and had served prison time for molesting minors previously. Most officers who were interviewed about the ‘accident’ thought that Mackenzie should have finished the job and saved the government some money.
It was supposed to have been a temporary transfer, just until the heat dissipated, but Lewis made sure Mack stayed there.
Mack closed his organized mind to his erotic thoughts of Lauren and focussed on the reality of his work, staring at three missing women’s files. He wanted to crack this case so badly he could taste it. It occupied his every waking minute. He even dreamed about the bastard he felt had taken them.
There was literally nothing to go on; no leads, no clues. Three women had separately left their homes and disappeared off the face of the earth. The youngest, Melissa Como, twenty, was single and not reported until she had missed three days of work at the Stock Exchange. Four days later, the second woman, Jasmine Train, thirty-two, was reported missing by her husband Joseph when she didn’t return from the supermarket after a few hours. She was a creature of habit and was never late. Then Lorraine Westinghouse, twenty-one, didn’t return to her parents home in Leaside. She was home visiting from Dalhousie University in Halifax and was due to return the following day. A few minutes out of her life to post some letters. She had been missing for six days. Her parents were both on the verge on a breakdown.
Just days apart, and from opposite sides of town, but Mack knew in his gut that the same guy was responsible for all three of their fates. They were active, fit and beautiful and he knew they had been murdered as sure as God made little green leprechauns.
In most cases, the prime suspect was automatically the husband or boyfriend, no matter how upset he seemed. Prisons are full of academy performers, but that scenario didn’t fit this case. Mack trusted his gut feeling. Joseph Train was sincerely devastated. Lee and Jonas Westinghouse were barely hanging on. No one could act this upset. He had a premonition that these people were headed for serious therapy or the nut house and would bear watching. Dead end number one.
Mack went back over his notes. What else did Melissa, Jasmine and Lorraine have in common, other than youth and extraordinary beauty? Nothing. Melissa was black, successful, educated and gay. Her ‘sometimes live-in friend’ was visiting parents out of town at the time. The alibi was airtight. Dead end number two.
Their pictures were pinned to a corkboard above his desk. There was no proof that the cases were connected. Their social circles had never crossed as far as he could determine but there was a quality about them, something the camera caught but was hard to define. Mack stared at the women.
He had approached Chief Lewis with his theory that the three might be victims of one killer; something no one else particularly believed. The chief wanted blow off his speculation, but given Mack’s past habit of being right, instructed him to go to homicide with it. As a result, two detectives were currently reviewing the possi
bility that the three cases might be connected and (knowing his reputation for results) were taking his speculations very seriously. Sooner or later the press would get the story and any lead-time in a murder was precious. A formal request from the homicide division directly over Lewis’s head to the Chief of Police to get Mackenzie back into homicide and on the case was approved. If Mack’s theory proved correct, the city had a serial killer on the loose.
Suppressing his rage that the ‘clever little Irish turd’ had managed to get back into Homicide by doing an end run around him, Chief Lewis called the group together to instruct them ‘to get this maniac, quickly’. He would never accept that it had not been Mack’s doing, but that of his friends in the division.
Like he needed an incentive for fuck sake, Mackenzie fumed, as Lewis droned on about the probability that the people closest to the women had most likely done the deeds. If one guy had done the three women, as Mack suspected, the killer had probably ‘acquired a taste’ and would try again.
Christ, he thought, it'd been a long time since he’d had such gorgeous faces involved in any of his cases. It just didn't feel like a coincidence. Jasmine could pass for a Scandinavian with blond hair and a strong body. Melissa had a more powerful face, wide Negro lips and flaring nostrils, tall, almost six feet, and well formed, like a dancer. Lorraine was small and delicate with slightly predominant teeth and short black hair. This creep liked variety.
Hundreds of interviews; friends, co-workers, family and neighbours had produced zip. No one could remember anything helpful. Every angle led to a brick wall.
Seventeenth Precinct at King and Oak was a busy place at any hour, so Mack was accustomed to living in a pressure cooker, but these missing women added extra emotional weight to the situation. Most murders are solved in the first twenty-four hours or not at all. In the majority of cases, it’s because the average jerk-off can’t keep his trap shut. They get drunk at the local bar or run off at the mouth when questioned by police. Mack knew that when a crime was intelligently planned and executed, the chances of solving it were slim and shrank more with the passage of time. He was sitting, spinning his wheels when his phone rang. The news on the other end wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it certainly eliminated the Train woman’s husband as chief Lewis’s best prospect for a suspect.
“Mackenzie, come into my office for a sec.” Chief Lewis threw the command casually over his shoulder as he passed by Mack’s desk, coffee in hand. His scratchy voice suggested a lifelong affection for unfiltered cigarettes.
Mack sat and leaned back comfortably in the chair opposite his superior, intertwined fingers locked casually behind his neck, elbows pointed squarely at his boss. Chief Lewis took his time settling behind the desk with his coffee, aware that his size usually intimidated smaller men, Mackenzie being an exception. He also hated the Irish for some vague reason but never would have unsheathed his prejudice in public. Coincidentally, Mack noted that Lewis always preferred one-on-one meetings with him, although the other detectives were usually confronted in group sessions.
Sipping the scalding coffee Lewis asked, “Not having much luck huh? Maybe you’re not such a hot-shot homicide star, after all?” Mackenzie kept his face expressionless, knowing the question was rhetorical. It was an ability that he’d mastered as a child with a drunken father that constantly goaded him to justify a beating and it was an ability that Lewis found extremely irritating. He took a cigarette out of a silver case and made a performance out of lighting it in his ‘no smoking’ office. “Give me an update on the Train case. Any leads?” He smiled indulgently, keeping his voice evenly modulated. Mack had intentionally left the door open and Chief Lewis was always polite when the door was open.
Mack understood the little penchant for head games. “It’s still early days Chief. I just got the word a few minutes ago that the husband Joseph has been committed.” Lewis remained expressionless although Mack knew the news surprised him. “I kinda expected it,” Mack continued. “He wasn't very stable when we interviewed him. Had a history of mental illness, as I'm sure you recall from my report." He flashed one of his most sincere smiles. No reaction from the stone face. “Snapped his band, the doc says... not exactly those words... He was being treated as an outpatient when she disappeared. No history of violence though. Kinda squelches your theory that he did it, don’tcha think?” Mack said in a voice as smooth as a double latte.
Mackenzie’s vacant grin made Lewis want to toss his coffee in the handsome face. It was too hot to drink and it would have been satisfying to scald the little Irish ass-hole with it.
Instead, he took a long deep drag on his cigarette, leaned back in his chair and glanced at the nicotine-bronzed ceiling. “Yes,” he finally conceded, “I suppose that eliminates poor Joseph.” Lewis leaned forward over his desk and gestured at Mack. “Since we both know you are, shall we say ‘dried out’ on this one at the moment, I have a suggestion.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “You managed to worm your way back into Homicide so pretend you’re as good as you think you are and get this fuck or I’ll personally find another opening to cram you into at least three time zones from here. Got it?”
Chapter Eight
MACK MACKENZIE:
Mack knew that Franko’s information was never wrong. The building that housed CHAT-TV occupied most of a city block. The entrance foyer was a small plaza that was as busy as a bus station with a series of restaurants and boutiques down one side and benches under giant potted plants on the other. There were hundreds of people, mostly suits, downing quick coffees, sneaking cigarettes, wolfing down vending junk food and generally rushing down their own self-imposed paths to a coronary.
Mack placed himself on the second level behind a collection of silk plants. From his vantage point he could see the entire floor area. He could always smell a stakeout and this one stank to high heaven. Franko had told him that Smythe and/or someone in his circle was being watched, probably by the Feds. The questions rolled around and around in his head while his eyes scanned the well-dressed crowd, searching for the watchers. He couldn’t immediately spot them, so they were very good. He leaned back into the shadows and forced himself to mentally follow an invisible grid, breaking the area down into manageable quadrants. Eventually he would spot someone who didn’t belong, find a pair of eyes that were scanning or staring, sensitive to the crowd, instead of ignoring the activity around them. They had to be here somewhere; at least two, maybe more. Bingo! On an iron bench near the centre of the plaza, he finally recognized Charles Reese, the top fraud squad detective, in a sloppy denim jacket and cap pulled over his ears. Charles Reese! Cops, not feds. He must be sweating like crazy on a day like this, even with the air-conditioning, as he sat casually eating a vending-machine sandwich and reading a newspaper. Unfortunately, several hundred people, including a handful of celebrities who worked in the studios, also jammed the indoor square. Still, he thought, they could be watching anyone. He knew Reese, the sneaky bastard, would eventually make contact with his people, or vice versa. Time was on Mack’s side and he was in no hurry.
Across the huge room, beneath a strip of illuminated floor numbers, a bank of six pairs of elevator doors shone with the subtle glow of brushed aluminium. While he watched, one pair opened. Reese, who was facing that general direction, continued to read his paper as several men left the private elevator, crossed the plaza at a brisk walk, staring straight ahead, without any conversation. One of the men, sporting perfectly coiffed silver hair, stood out like a beacon as the group passed before his careful eyes and out the main doors. Roger Smythe. Mack largely ignored the royal entourage because he was concentrating on Reese who now lowered his newspaper and glanced to his right. A model-type in designer serge put down a magazine and casually, but quickly, moved to follow the party, catching up to them as they left the building. Mack caught a glimpse of at least two limos waiting for the men as the doors closed. ‘So,’ he thought, ‘it’s someone in the inner media circle they’re watching. Or... were they just p
awns in a larger game?’ Reese stood and brushed some crumbs from his coat; looked around the entire floor as if momentarily confused before heading for an exit across the plaza. No one made a move to follow.’ Whoever he, she or they were,’ Mack thought, they certainly knew how to stay invisible. What the fuck was going on here? Why was the fraud squad interested in Smythe and/or partners?
