by Warren Court
Summer
of the
Gun
Warren Court
Summer of the Gun
Copyright © 2019 Warren Court
All rights reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
For Tina and Katherine
1
Temple glanced to his left, saw a flash of yellow and slowed his Buick down to the speed limit.
“You see that?”
“What?” said Mendoza, his partner, sitting next to him.
“That little jerk-off, there in the alley. Tommy Wilson.”
They were southbound on Church St. In the distance loomed the elevated Gardiner Expressway and, beyond it, Lake Ontario. Temple had happened to glance down an alley, an involuntary reaction from years spent in uniform. He saw someone flit between the buildings, running down the narrow laneway that ran parallel to Church. In that split second, Temple had ID’d him: Tommy Wilson, a ‘person of interest’ in official police parlance.
Wilson was a thirty-six-year convicted sex offender—girls mostly, but the occasional pre-pubescent boy—was out on parole. Wilson was a snitch, a fink, and Homicide Team Two wanted a chat with him. They hoped he had information on the whereabouts of a murder suspect and that he would sell it to keep from going back to prison. Temple was sure Wilson had restrictions as part of his parole. They’d find something to violate him back, Temple was sure of it. The threat of that would make him talk.
Temple floored it to the mouth of the next alley and slammed on the brakes. The two homicide detectives waited silently. A thin man in a bright yellow windbreaker ran past the gap.
“Hey, that is him,” Mendoza said. “You must have x-ray vision or something.”
Temple floored it again, moving parallel with Wilson. He cranked the wheel hard to the right, killed his lights and roared down the next alley.
Temple counted to three in a whisper and the wraith of a man in yellow came by at full tilt. Armour hammered the gas and turned on the lights. Wilson froze, then took off again at a faster clip.
Temple manoeuvred the Buick down the alley and turned hard into the laneway. The road was bumpy and jutted with potholes. It ran between the back ends of small apartment buildings and storefronts. Temple could make out fire escapes, all cloaked in darkness.
“Nice of him to wear yellow,” Mendoza said, and just then Wilson stripped off the yellow jacket and tossed it aside.
“Great,” Mendoza said.
Temple was keeping twenty feet behind him. He didn’t want to run him down. There was no point in putting the flashers on; the fleeing man knew who was after him. He just didn’t know why.
Wilson plunged out of the alley, dashed across an on-ramp and into the shadowy world under the Gardiner, and they lost him. Temple stopped his car and hit his high beams. They lit up a ramshackle world of cardboard boxes and wooden lean-tos.
Temple and Mendoza got out of the Buick and entered the shantytown cautiously. Like a homeless telegraph wire, the community began to hum with news of their presence. “Cops, cops, cops,” echoed underneath the length of the Gardiner. The sounds of glass shattering echoed back.
“He’s gone,” Mendoza said. He couldn’t hide the trepidation in his voice. They were engulfed in the eerie blackness of this village within the city.
“Come on,” Temple said, and led the way deeper into the fringe world.
Their eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The drone of cars on the highway above them was constant. That must be what drives them nuts, Temple thought. Not that they needed any help. Most of the people down here were on some sort of medication. When they went off it, they were loose cannons.
Mendoza pulled out a flashlight.
“Turn that off,” Temple hissed.
The shantytown extended for four city blocks under the Gardiner. It was an eyesore, a real problem. Temple knew that the City was prepping to tear it down. The residents knew it too. Cops were not welcome, especially at night. The dwellers felt emboldened in the dark. There was more breaking glass and someone shouted Fuck off.
“We’ll never find him. He’s gone,” Mendoza whispered.
“Yeah,” Temple said, disappointed. They were turning to leave when a brick whistled by and broke in two on the concrete highway support beside their heads.
“Play nice,” Temple called. “Or we’ll be back for breakfast.”
Mendoza had his hand on his holster, but Temple didn’t bother. What were they going to shoot at?
Back in the Buick, they sat for a moment. Temple put the strobes on, a warning to the shantytown dwellers to stay away.
“We’ll have to try again tomorrow,” Temple said. “He’s gone underground for the night.”
Temple did a three-pointer and roared back up the laneway. The yellow jacket was gone. Had that little prick circled around and retrieved it? Temple gritted his teeth and drove off.
2
They were northbound on Church, their blood still boiling over Wilson giving them the slip, when the call came in. There had been a fatal shooting at the Beautiful City restaurant in Chinatown. The dispatcher read off the address robotically. Temple and Mendoza didn’t listen. Both were very familiar with the Beautiful City restaurant, as they were with all the good places to eat at night in the city.
“Hmm. I’m hungry,” Mendoza said. “Maybe we can get some kung pao while we work this one.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
They pulled onto Davis Street and saw two scout cars blocking a hundred-foot stretch of road in front of the Beautiful City restaurant. Civilians were gathering and the uniforms were having a tough time keeping them away from the scene.
Temple motored up to the nearest scout car, flashers and lights going to try and scare the gobbers back. More scout cars came in behind Temple’s Buick and disgorged their occupants to add to the perimeter. The lights were on in the Beautiful City, and a uniform was standing at the entrance. Temple nodded at the uniform and palmed his tin as he and Mendoza entered the restaurant.
“What do we have?” he said under his breath, to no one. There were three bodies in the far corner. One was sprawled across a table and the other two were on the floor. Blood everywhere. A black pistol was on the floor near one dead guy’s hands. The three men were Asian, probably early twenties.
Temple and Mendoza gloved up. “What’s the scoop?” Temple said to the uniform guarding the door. He had followed the two homicide detectives in but stayed at the entrance.
“Report came in on shots fired about fifteen minutes ago,” the uniform said. “We were first on the scene and could see the bodies in the corner. We backed out and called you.”
“Good. Anyone go around the back?”
“Yes, my partner did, but nothing back there. Door to the place is locked.” Temple noticed that the uniform had gloves on; he hoped his partner did too.
“Okay, let’s see what we can see.”
While Mendoza worked the three bodies in the corner, Temple skirted around the pool of blood and went to the counter. The menu sign was still lit and Temple could hear hissing as boiling pots spilled over in the kitchen.
There was a blood splatter on the wall by the cash register, and Temple peered over the counter. A middle-aged Asian man had fallen back against the wall and was slumped over to one side. A massive bullet wound at the bridge of his nose had caved in his face. To the left of him was a younger Asian man lying on his stomach. His head was propping open the door to the kitchen.
Temple switched his attention to the three in the corner. Mendoza was getting as close to them as he could without stepping in the lake of blo
od.
All three were young males. Two of them wore matching red track suits. Gold chains were laid out in figure eights in the blood. The one on the floor wore jeans and a leather jacket. They looked like the Chinese version of the West Side Story cast. The one nearest to him, with the gun, was staring at the door, his eyes wide open. He had bled out. His chest was stained a crimson colour.
Mendoza said, “What a slaughter.”
“We’ve got two behind the counter as well. Both male. One old, one young.” The smell of burning Vietnamese food was mixed in with the reek of the emptied bowels and bladders of the deceased. Temple reckoned it might be a while before he tried Asian food again. He might have to write off Chinatown altogether for a while. Too bad.
Temple noticed a blood smear near the front door. As he got close, he saw the silver dollar–sized hole in the black metal of the door frame. He turned back to the dead guy with the gun.
“Looks like the one with the gun got a shot off before he bled out. There’s blood here. He must have tagged at least one of them,” Temple said.
“So we could be looking for a wounded shooter?” Mendoza said.
“We should get out an alert to hospitals in the area for a bullet wound or any kind of wound. It might have just grazed him.”
The sizzling from the kitchen grew louder.
“Someone should get behind there and turn those plates off. See, they came in from the back, though. I don’t want the counter area disturbed until forensics gets here.”
Mendoza went into the bathroom, his hand on his gun in case the shooter was inside. He came back out and shook his head. No more dead people in there.
It took half an hour for forensics to make it down. The scene had been pushed back by then to the top and bottom of the block. Yellow tape had been stretched across the street and extra police were manning the perimeter. Temple had dispatched Mendoza to follow up with a witness a couple of stores down from the Beautiful City restaurant who had approached one of the uniformed cops; Temple stayed and worked with forensics.
The blood samples were taken and, with doilies on his fine black shoes, Temple was able to approach the bodies in the corner. He got the nine-millimetre pistol, a Beretta, into a baggie and handed it over to forensics. Then, with a Bic pen, he probed their jackets until he came up with wallets. He backed off carefully and carried them over to the other side of the restaurant to go through.
He put all three drivers’ licences together on the table and left the rest of the contents alone for the time being. The first two names were Ki Leung and Chin Leung. Maybe brothers, maybe cousins, maybe no relation at all. Temple thought. The third guy was Kim Luck. That name rang a bell. Temple had never worked in Guns and Gangs, but he had worked enough Asian gang homicide scenes and talked to enough witnesses to know that name from somewhere. Of course, there could be a dozen Kim Lucks running around Toronto—that name might be the equivalent of Mike Smith in the Asian world, for all he knew.
He put the three licences in a plastic bag and went through the wallets quickly. They were full of plastic—credit and debit cards. No one used cash anymore.
Temple walked out of the restaurant and saw Mendoza half a block down, standing with a civilian and a uniform, a female cop. When he approached, he heard Mendoza talking to the uniform. The civilian, an old Asian woman, was ignored.
“So when did you graduate?” Mendoza said to his female colleague.
“Nine months ago,” she said.
“Really? How do you like it?”
“Mendoza,” Temple said, and Mendoza whirled around, embarrassed at being caught trying it on with the uniform, who was young, Asian herself, and very good-looking.
“John,” he said.
“What does she have to say?” Temple said, and nodded at the old woman.
“This woman heard the shooting, saw two men leave,” Mendoza said.
“She’s sure they were men?” Temple said.
“Jilly—I mean Constable Liu, here—is helping translate.”
“My mother was from Vietnam. We had to speak it at home,” Jilly said.
“The witness speaks no English?”
“None,” Jilly said.
“Mendoza, why don’t you go back and help work the rear of the restaurant. They’re setting up lights.”
“Right,” Mendoza said reluctantly, and headed off down an alley that would take him to the back of the scene.
“He get your phone number?” Temple asked, not caring that the old woman was there. She couldn’t understand them anyway.
“Not yet. I know a girl who dated him. He’s okay.”
“He’s too busy for romance. So, this lady—what did she say? I want to hear it again.”
Constable Liu spoke rapidly in Vietnamese to the woman, who perked back up. The woman replied and gestured at the Beautiful City.
“She said she heard the shooting. Many shots. Very quick. She saw two men leave. One big, one small.”
“How was she sure they were men? She saw their faces?”
“Short hair. Saw one face from the side. But too far away.”
The woman spoke some more. Jilly listened patiently.
“One man was white. She’s sure of that. The other… She could not see his face.”
The woman interjected again, and then she hunched over and grabbed her leg. Liu waited, then translated.
“Because the big one was hurt, he was limping. The other one, the smaller of the two, helped him. They got into a big black car, probably an SUV,” Jilly said.
“Did she say that?”
“No, I’m just guessing…”
“Don’t guess. Just translate, please,” Temple said.
Jilly asked the woman something and waited for the reply.
“They got into a large black vehicle. Sped off in that direction.” She pointed.
“She didn’t get the plate?”
“No plate. Just a big black car. That’s all she’s saying.” The woman tugged on Jilly’s sleeve. Her age and her connection to the young Vietnamese constable allowed her to get away with that. She said something quick and excited in her native tongue, something that had obviously just come to her. Jilly listened.
“She said she did not see the plate,” she told Temple. “Just the rings. Rings on the back.”
“Rings,” Temple said. “An Audi. That’s helpful. Tell her thanks and get her details, please. We might need her for a lineup.”
Temple waited for Jilly’s last bit of translation.
“So, when did you get on the job?” Temple asked, and smiled.
“I’ve been on for nine months.”
“You liking it?”
“Yeah. It’s great.”
“Your first murder scene?”
“Yes. It’s exciting.”
Temple raised his eyebrows and walked away. Cute, Temple thought. He remembered another Asian girl he had gotten close to and then blown it.
3
Lead detective of Team Two, Tim Wozniak, was on the scene now, and he was talking to a sergeant from 52 Division, which covered Chinatown.
“Tim,” Temple said. It was a struggle for him to hide the uneasiness he felt around his partner. His friend. The more the days went by, the more Temple stewed on a singular event in their relationship, one that had cast doubt on his partner’s integrity— Tim’s very own soul.
Temple was convinced that Tim Wozniak had murdered his wife, Sylvia. It had happened the previous year, just around the time that Temple had broken off the illicit affair he was having with her. The affair with Sylvia had ended badly. In the heated exchange, the last time they’d spoken face to face, she’d told Temple that her husband knew. But when Temple had threatened her with violence, she’d recanted.
A day later she was dead. Suicide. She’d put a bottle of pills down her throat. But the question was, had she taken them voluntarily or had she been forced? Tim had had her body cremated quickly afterwards.
Temple had gone to the serv
ice. It had been awkward, to say the least—trying to maintain a solemn face, he had covertly tried to determine if Tim knew about him and his wife. He had tried to look at his partner as a homicide detective would look at a murder suspect, but Tim was unflappable, flawlessly projecting the image of the grieving husband of a disturbed and depressed wife.
For a while, Temple had tried to shake off these suspicions and get back to normal with his partner. Tim showed no signs he knew Temple had been diddling his wife. But like any case that lingers on the mind of a homicide detective, especially one as seasoned Temple, it wouldn’t go away.
“What do we have, John?” Wozniak said.
“Looks gangland. Two shooters seen fleeing. One of the deceased managed to zap one of them. Got a witness, shop owner up the street, who saw a white guy helping another guy into a large black vehicle, possibly an Audi SUV.”
“One of the deceased was strapped?”
Temple escorted Tim inside the restaurant.
“That guy’s name is Kim Luck.”
“I’m not touching that joke; too easy,” Wozniak said. Temple chuckled.
“He’s the one who got the shot off. Forensics has his gun. We’ve got eight shell casings. Looks like nine millimetre. That matches the number of wounds on those three. The two behind the counter—we think they were done with a revolver, a big one.”
There were eight glittering brass shell casings on the floor of the restaurant. The ones that weren’t resting in the pool of blood had red lines drawn around them by the crime scene team. While Wozniak and Temple talked, there was the constant click and flash of the crime scene photographer’s camera. They still used old-style manual cameras for some reason.
“We’ve put a call out to hospitals to keep an eye out for a male with a gunshot wound or something that might be a gunshot, in case he just got grazed.”
“Would he be limping if he got grazed?”
“Maybe he has a low pain threshold?” Temple said.
“Who doesn’t?” Wozniak said. “We got any CCTV?”
“I looked but can’t see anything. They’re so small now, though; there might be something.”
