by Warren Court
“What makes you think they were Russians?” Chung said.
“We have evidence that points to that. Two Russian shooters. Pros. Blasted your guys to kingdom come. But not before one of your boys got a shot off. What’s your beef with the Russians?”
“We have no beef with anybody,” Chung said.
“Would the Mekong Delta Boys hire Russians to do their dirty work?” Temple asked.
“They would lose all respect hiring those drunken Ejun—Russians. A real man takes care of his problems himself,” Chung said.
“Did Confucius say that?” Temple said, and finally Chung’s veneer cracked.
“No, my father said that. And my father’s father.”
“Mine too. Do you know the owner of the restaurant, Kiet Du?”
“Yes, we knew him. Too bad about him. He was a nice man. Good businessman.”
“He was on your payroll for protection. I guess he’s entitled to his money back,” Temple said. Once more, Chung gave no emotional response, again neither confirming nor denying what Temple had said. That pissed Temple off more than anything. He looked around the place. “I don’t see a liquor licence here, a green pass from the city. This is an illegal booze can. The girls who work here, they got their documentation in order?”
“You go ahead, big police man; do what you need to do. No matter. Lots of places around. Lots of girls too.”
“I’m giving you one last chance. Tell me who did this.”
No response.
“When the Russians come for you, you better be quicker on the draw than your friend in the restaurant.”
Chung smirked.
Temple and Mendoza left; the doorman stood to the side, not bothering to open the door for them.
Temple drove Mendoza back to 40 College so he could collect his car.
“Let’s call it a night. We’ve been at it for thirty-six hours. I can’t even think straight.”
“I hear ya.”
Temple watched Mendoza leave, then picked up his phone. “Yeah? Where are you?” he said when the person answered. “Right. I’ll be there in ten.”
13
There was a lineup to get into the Cactus Club. The after-work crowd had been replaced by the club crowd. Temple went to the head of the line. The doorman, who knew Temple, nodded and pulled the velvet rope free.
“Hey bud, there’s a line,” the next person in line said.
Temple spun around and smiled at the man in the skinny suit. “See you inside,” he said.
He squeezed through the crowd of people clamouring for the bartender’s attention. There was a line of booths raised up on a foot-high platform that surrounded the bar. Temple mounted the platform so he could see over the crowd. A hand touched his, and he turned; it was a woman. There were three of them squeezed into the booth. They were also squeezed into tight-fitting glittery dresses.
“You wanna party with us?”
“Maybe later,” Temple said.
“Got any coke?” The girl said.
“No, I have a Glock.”
“What’s that? Never tried it.”
“It’ll blow your mind,” Temple said. He spotted his bookie, Horowitz, in the far corner with two men. “I might be back,” he said. The girl huffed.
Temple saw the back of Black Tommy, Horowitz’s bodyguard, sitting at the table. Horowitz was on his phone but saw Temple approaching. Temple put his finger to his mouth, snuck up behind Tommy and put his finger to the back of his head.
“Gotcha, punk.”
Tommy flinched then was up and spun around. His pale, freckled face flamed red with hatred and embarrassment.
“Easy, partner,” Temple said. He spread his legs, gunfighter style. “We throw down on each other in here and a lot of beautiful women are going to get it. But that wouldn’t bother you, would it, Tommy?”
Temple knew that Black Tommy, as tough a guy as he was, was Horowitz’s lover in addition to being his bodyguard.
“You’re a smart-ass cop,” Tommy said.
“Can’t help it.” Temple pulled out a chair, flipped it backwards and sat down with Horowitz. He now recognized the other man; he was a city councillor. Nallartnam.
“Hello, Councillor.”
Nallartnam didn’t answer; he was stoned out of his mind.
Horowitz hung up and extended his hand, feminine style. Temple shook it and squeezed hard. Tommy sat back down.
The waitress came by. There were only a few of them on duty and it was hard to flag one down, which was why the bar was so crowded—movers and shakers and the beautiful-people set jostling for attention from a squadron of bottle-tossing bartenders. But Horowitz ranked here, so the waitress stopped. He ordered another round. Just he and the councillor were drinking. Tommy had a club soda in front of him.
“I’ll have a pint of Stiegel,” Temple said.
“My tab,” Horowitz said to the girl. “Tommy, where is our friend John here at with his payments?”
“Still eight thousand behind,” Tommy said, glad to get one over on Temple.
Temple patted a bulge in his suit jacket.
“Good boy,” Horowitz said. “The Red Sox are in town this weekend, Johnathan.”
“I’ve got too much on my hands at the moment. Can we talk alone?”
Nallartnam was swaying back and forth, his eyes half-closed.
“He looks like he’s ready for the emergency room,” Temple said.
“Sangra,” Horowitz said. “Oh, Sangryyy.” He snapped his fingers in front of Nallartnam. The councillor finally came to and saw Temple there. He leapt to his feet and practically ran into the throng of barflies.
“You too, Tommy,” Temple said.
“I don’t leave him.”
“Make an exception,” Temple said. “Besides, who’s better protection—you or me? I mean, really. You sit with your back to the crowd.”
Horowitz nodded and pursed his lips, and Black Tommy got up and followed after the drugged-out city councillor.
Temple put his chair closer to Horowitz. “Great place you picked.” The music and the din of the crowd were so loud he couldn’t hear the conversation at the next table. It was better than talking in the bathroom with the water was running. He pulled the envelope out of his jacket and plopped it in Horowitz’s lap.
“I’ll count it later.”
“It’s not all of it, but it should put me in good standing.”
“You’re always in good standing with me, Johnny boy,” Horowitz said.
“Excellent. I need some info,” Temple said.
“I’m not a fink, and that envelope is what you owe me, nothing more.”
“Stars on the knees; you know what that means right? Means a man will not bow down before the cops.”
“The Russians,” Horowitz said, and a look like he’d smelled something rotten came over his face. “Yes I’m familiar with Russian prison tattoos and their meanings. I try and stay away from all that.”
“But you know the players.”
“As does your police force’s intelligence unit.”
“You’re quicker. Less paperwork.”
“Stas Kumarin. He’s at the top spot now, but you wouldn’t know it unless you started to dig. They call him Kojak. Big into real estate. He’s the one putting up all those condos that are blotting out my view of the lake.” Horowitz lived in a penthouse downtown.
“I got five dead people who I think were taken out by Russian shooters.”
“I don’t want to hear any more.” Horowitz plugged his ears playfully, and Temple grabbed one of his arms and pulled it down. Not playfully. Horowitz’ demeanour changed. Temple saw Tommy emerge from the crowd, a serious look on his face. Temple pushed back from the table, and Horowitz waved his protector off.
“I want to know how to get in contact with them.”
“May I remind you that you are indebted to me, not the other way around?”
“I know, I know. You could drop a dime on me and get me run off the force for g
ambling. For consorting with known criminals and underworld figures.” Horowitz scoffed at Temple’s choice of words. “But not before I come to your condo and do the dirty on you. And you won’t get another job afterwards. I’ll take my pay out and head south to a beach. You’ll be heading down to the dark place.” Temple nodded at the ground.
“I don’t like theatrics, Detective.” He sighed and leaned closer. “This is a one-time transaction in this particular direction, not to be repeated.”
“Whatever. I need it quick.”
The waitress came over with the drinks. Temple took a large sip of his pint. It left a foam moustache, and he licked off. He gave a satisfied “Ahhh” and set the pint down hard on the table, causing a wave of foam to slosh over the side.
He saw the bodyguard on the way out. “Keep him safe, Tommy.”
14
Temple lived in Guildwood, a residential community in the southeastern corner of Toronto. His house was situated on the Scarborough Bluffs, a stretch of cliffs that ran for miles along the shores of Lake Ontario. Guildwood had been home to one of Canada’s most notorious serial killers, Paul Bernardo. And for a time, Air Force Colonel Russell Williams, a pervert who had graduated, like Bernardo, from rapist to killer, had called Guildwood home as well. Temple figured that the tiny, quiet bedroom community had seen its share of notoriety and that it was now a pretty safe place to live.
He dropped his keys on the coffee table and collapsed on the couch. Temple didn’t watch a lot of television, but he did have a Netflix account. Mendoza and Dalupan were constantly going on about this show or that show and how they binge-watched entire seasons when they were off shift. Temple just watched the same Star Trek episodes over and over.
He pressed the silver controller for the Apple TV box he had connected to the TV and it came to life. It started displaying photos that Temple had taken with his phone. He had no idea how the thing had synced with his phone or how to undo it. The pictures rotated through from recent ones to some of the first ones he’d ever taken. He saw a picture of him and Sylvia Wozniak at a barbecue out back of the Wozniaks’ home. He couldn’t remember the details of the party or whether or not he’d already started sleeping with her at that point. Tim was in the background talking with another woman.
He remembered the times he and Sylvia had had together and his lust stirred. Sylvia had liked it rough. Near the end they were into rape fantasies. Temple would sneak into her house and attack her. Nothing serious, never leaving any marks. It had scared her, but she’d loved it and it had turned her into a dynamo.
Along with the passion and lust came the guilt. While Tim had been away on a course or testifying in court, Temple had been availing himself of his wife’s bedroom skills. But when he’d tried to stop it, she had threatened to tell her husband. He remembered his last conversation with her. He had gone to her house and told her it was over, warned her not to do anything stupid. A very short while later she was dead.
Temple watched the pictures of the party circulate on his screen. Wozniak had invited a lot of police. Sylvia had invited some of her friends. Eventually another woman showed up on the screen, one that he had no guilt over, only disgust. Disgust—and a lust even more powerful than what he had felt for Sylvia Wozniak.
Karen Kindness, the deputy chief of operations. Temple dialled her cell number.
She answered groggily after four rings.
“What?” she said.
“Karen, it’s John. I need to see you.”
“It’s two a.m.”
“Karen—”
“I’m your superior officer and you pull this crap?”
“Superior in rank only,” he said.
She laughed. “Really burns your ass, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll call you in the morning, set something up. And you owe me. Remember what I got for you? I could go to jail for that…”
“You asshole. Not over the phone.”
“Afraid someone might be listening, Karen?”
She hung up. He clicked the TV off and went to bed.
15
Both Mendoza and Dalupan were at their desks when Temple made it in at 9:30. He had slept solidly for six hours and woke with a start at 8:45. He rushed through a shower and dressed quickly. Mismatched socks taken off the floor. He flew through morning traffic, his siren and lights going all the way to get down to College quick. He hated being late for anything.
“Anything else on the Beautiful City come in?” he asked Mendoza.
“Nothing,” Mendoza said.
“What about prints?”
“Bernard spent all day there yesterday. Dusted the whole place.”
“He should be done by now.” Phil Bernard was the TPS’s best latent prints guy.
Temple took out his phone; he saw the call last night to Karen and remembered their brief conversation. He dialled Phil Bernard instead. Karen could stew.
When Phil came on the line, Temple was direct, all business.
“I pulled forty-three separate prints out of there,” Bernard said.
“The washroom, the kitchen, the back door?”
“Yup. Tons of prints, mostly smears. Nothing off the door handle or the bathroom tap. Everything has been fed into the computer. I’ll let you know who comes up.”
The preliminary from Guns and Gangs was on his desk. Ricchio had faxed over the complete report and he could now give it a thorough read while he waited for the prints. He would call Karen at lunch when everyone would be out.
“You coming? We’re hitting the food court across the street,” Mendoza said. He was standing over Temple.
“Huh?”
“It’s eleven thirty.”
Temple had been reading for two hours; Frick and Frack, as he called Mendoza and Dalupan, always got in early and therefore had an early lunch. “No, I’m good.” His two detective constables left the floor. Temple looked around. There was no one else within earshot, so he dialled Karen from his cell.
“Hey,” she said, sounding out of breath.
“Were you working out?”
“Sort of.”
“I need to see you.”
“Not a chance. Booked solid until next month.”
Temple said nothing, just let the silence hang there.
“I work hard, you know. You try being deputy chief.”
“That thing I talked about, that I’m not supposed to mention over the phone.”
“Fine. Tonight. After eight.”
“Probably more like midnight.”
“Jesus Christ. Fine.”
She hung up.
That thing that Temple was holding over her was Operation Carnivore, a high-level, ultra-secret investigation into the TPS’s upper management and the mayor’s office. It was being run by the RCMP and Ontario Provincial Police.
Right about the time Tim Wozniak’s wife had died, Temple had been asked, by way of an intermediary—his bookie Horowitz—to find out what he could about the operation. Temple had pulled some strings, got what info he could and passed it on to Karen. Whether or not Carnivore was still ongoing, he had no clue. And she was right not to talk about it on the phone. He had just been using the only card he had on her.
With that done, Temple heard Dalupan and Mendoza returning. They had decided to bring their food back.
“Working lunch, fellas?” Temple said.
“You bet. We’re swamped.” Dalupan said good-naturedly. Temple wondered whether his two assistants could handle it if they ever made the grade and got bumped up to detective. He doubted it. They had two other DCs on the team but they were still on administrative leave for a shooting that had occurred on a streetcar. Temple felt that his team was being punished because of it; they were perpetually understaffed. But what the hell could he or Wozniak do about it? Karen would just laugh in his face, and he could really only use the Operation Carnivore card a limited number of times before she retaliated.
And right now, he was going to use it to get her to investigate the mu
rder of Sylvia Wozniak.
16
“Hey, John,” Mendoza said with a mouthful of food.
“Yeah?”
“We got the details from the receipts on the people who ate at the restaurant that night. The last one was at eight p.m. Our shooting was at ten, right?”
“Yup, so looks like that’s a no-go. Still, track them down. Maybe there was an argument in the restaurant first. Or maybe our shooters scoped it out and then returned.”
He sat back in his chair, weaved his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes, trying to picture the chaotic scene.
Three members of Lucky Eights, sitting in the corner, just talking, looking tough. There were no plates or cans of pop on the tables. Temple suspected they had been there to shake the owner down. Maybe they were hanging around, waiting for the money to be handed over. Two men walk in. Maybe casually, like they’re going to order food. They’re white, so the Luckys aren’t alarmed. Nice touch, using Russian hit men for this. The owner is behind the counter; maybe he even takes their order. The cook’s assistant comes out of the kitchen for some reason. Bad timing on his part. The food is simmering in the back.
Then the two white guys take out guns, a heavy-calibre revolver and a TEC-9 machine pistol. Shooter one shoots the owner, blam, right in the face. Then swivels to his left and takes out the fleeing assistant cook. The poor guy goes down; his head gets stuck in the door.
At the same time, shooter two turns and starts pulling the trigger as fast as he can, hitting all three of the Lucky Eights. The killers make it to the door. One of the mortally wounded gang-bangers takes out his piece, gets two rounds off. The killers are so shocked at their mistake, turning their backs on their targets, that they don’t bother finishing the guy off. Plus, one of them is shot; their priority is getting away. One helps the other into the waiting black Audi SUV.
Temple sat forward. “Mendoza, let’s take a trip.”
There was a constable on duty outside the taped-off restaurant. Temple had the cop unlock the door and ducked under the tape. He sent Mendoza down the street for three coffees.
There was still fingerprint powder everywhere, including on the door. Mendoza came back with the coffees and gave one to the constable.
