Summer of the Gun

by Warren Court

  22

  When Temple got back to the fifth floor he saw both Dalupan and Mendoza hard at work. He was about to talk to Mendoza when Moonshine yelled his name.

  Temple tried to remain calm; he turned slowly. He could see the veins on Munshin’s neck popping out from fifty feet away. That was a rarity. Tim was nowhere in sight. He usually acted as a buffer; that was part of being lead detective.

  Moonshine ushered Temple into his office and slammed the door.

  “This thing at the Beautiful City. I have heat coming down on me.”

  “Nallartnam—that asshole.”

  “Who’s this Cornell Taylor?”

  “Apparently he pals around with the chief.”

  “Yeah, well, the chief just chewed me out. Says you’re stalling.”

  “Two days is stalling?”

  Moonshine was calming down. He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Bacardi white rum and two coffee cups. Temple was floored; he would never have guessed straitlaced Moonshine drank on the job.

  Temple took his cup but did not drink.

  “Too early for you?” Moonshine said.

  “No, boss.” He sat down and sipped the rum. Moonshine tossed his back.

  “So where are you with it?”

  “It’s gotten complicated. I don’t think the Chinese gang was the target.”

  “Come again?”

  “I think it was the old man, the owner of the Beautiful City.”

  Moonshine raised his eyebrows and poured them another slug.

  “The ballistics doesn’t make sense. The owner was the first one taken out; the others were collateral. Misdirection. Throw us off the scent. These guys are professional, cool headed. They made it look like a slaughter, rival gangs bumping into each other, but I think it was a targeted hit on one man. And the dead shooter—they dressed him up nice, removed his head and his hands, drove him all the way out to the country and made it look like he got hit by a train. This is a professional crew we’re dealing with. Russians.”

  Munshin said nothing, just studied Temple. Held his cup with two hands like he was letting the warm fumes of a cup of coffee warm them.

  “They did it before. A body was found at the same location a year ago. Same result: no head or hands, no ID. Peel is reopening that one, but I don’t think they’ll get very far.”

  “That’s a fair assumption. I’ll hold off the chief, but hurry it up. You know how crazy this town is with its condos. Money talks and all that.”

  “Thanks for the drink.”

  Temple put the cup on Munshin’s desk and went back to his cubicle. Mendoza was on the phone; Dalupan was nowhere to be seen. He swung by Tim’s desk and saw that he had been in; his briefcase was lying there. He must be in the washroom, Temple thought, or he’d gone over to the food court for a coffee or was elsewhere in 40 College. Without taking his eyes off the main door into the fifth floor, Temple clicked opened Tim’s briefcase. Mendoza did not hear it; he had his back turned to Temple and was still on the phone. In the briefcase, sitting on top of a stack of papers, was Wozniak’s brown leather notebook. Wozniak, like a lot of senior detectives in the TPS, was so old-school he still wrote everything down. Temple was not much better, but he was trying. He’d spent one afternoon copying every phone number he had written down over to his phone and encrypting the file. Temple took the notebook, closed the briefcase and carried the notebook back to his desk.

  Temple knew that Tim played around. He remembered that party. Sylvia had been making eyes at Temple, and meanwhile Tim had been doing the same with another woman. A friend of Sylvia’s, Carmen D’Souza. She was a teacher.

  Temple found Carmen’s number. Wozniak kept both personal and work-related numbers in the same book. Temple wrote D’Souza’s number down, went back to Wozniak’s desk and put the book back in the briefcase.

  Just as he clicked it shut, he heard Tim say “Hey.”

  Temple looked up quickly. Wozniak was standing there, holding a cup of coffee.

  “Hey, Tim. Just looking for that booklet on Justices of the Peace. We have to amend a production order.”

  Wozniak reached over his cubicle and pointed at a small pink pamphlet tacked to his cubicle wall.

  “Great. I couldn’t find mine.”

  “What are you amending?”

  “The order on the Beautiful City killing. I want to take a look at the owner of the restaurant.”

  Wozniak stood there, deadpan, just sipping his coffee. Temple couldn’t tell if he had caught him in the briefcase or not. If Wozniak found out that the production order had already been amended—Mendoza would have no reason to lie—then Temple would be found out.

  “How did today go?” Temple asked.

  “Good. Our guy is going away for twenty-five at least. You should have heard his defence lawyer; questioned everything. My professionalism, my integrity, my IQ.”

  “Don’t they always? When we have them dead to rights—eyewitnesses, video, DNA—all they can go after is our integrity. Whether we like to dress up in women’s clothing, etcetera.”

  “Like we would acknowledge that,” Wozniak said, and they both laughed.

  “Thanks.” Temple held up the booklet. He went back to his cubicle, removed his own copy of the pamphlet from his cubicle wall and slid it into a desk drawer. Wozniak came over. Damn it.

  “What’s Munshin think?”

  “He’s letting me run with it. Wants me to put it in gear, though.”

  “I heard. Sorry I wasn’t here to deflect it.”

  “I can handle him. Calmed him down. We’re working on a motive; the owner filed an injunction against a property developer. The injunction was denied, of course, but still… We’re looking into this property developer to see if he has any ties to the Russians.”

  Wozniak nodded and went away. Temple looked down at his desk. On the scratch pad, clearly visible, was Carmen D’Souza’s number.

  “Fuck me,” he hissed.

  23

  Temple brought up a reverse lookup application on his phone and punched in Carmen D’Souza’s number. The address that came back was the Hamlet of Brooklyn, east of the city and in Durham County.

  D’Souza lived at 29 Holstead Place. Temple cruised down the street and checked out her house. There was a car in the driveway and lights upstairs. Temple knew that she was divorced. She had been invited to the Wozniak barbecue because she was still depressed from the breakup of her marriage. Temple wondered if Tim had had anything to do with that.

  He parked a block away from her house and kept an eye on it in his mirror. He sat like that for ten minutes before he saw a car turn onto Holstead and approach the house. Temple wasn’t at all surprised when he saw Tim Wozniak get out of the car and go up to the front door. Temple could see Carmen D’Souza open the door and practically drag Wozniak inside. Temple sat there, counted to thirty, and then started his car. He did a three-point turn and drove past the house again. It was completely unnecessary; there were any number of exits and side streets he could have chosen to leave the community. But he wanted to do it; part of him wanted Wozniak to glance out the window and see his partner, his friend, drive by. But the curtains remained closed.

  Temple pulled over half a mile from the house and got out his phone.

  “Yeah?” a woman shouted over loud music in the background.

  “Why do you even bother answering your phone in a bar?” Temple said.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “It’s John.”

  “Johnny.”

  “Yeah, Claire. Long time no talk.”

  “Hold on.” The music became muted and then was gone.

  “Where are you?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “I’m just down the road. The Kilt and Beaver.”

  “I know it. You with someone?”

  “Someone who won’t mind.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in ten.”

  The Kilt and Beaver was packed, and the music was even louder than
what had come over Claire’s phone. Temple spotted Claire across the room and they made eye contact. She was with a muscular young fellow who gave him a hard glance and then looked away. Temple went up to the bar to order and pointed at the entrance to the patio out back. Claire nodded.

  She was out there waiting for him when he made it through the throng of people, two cold Budweisers in his hand. He remembered that had been her drink of choice back at the Ontario Police College in Aylmer.

  “You still drinking this swill?”

  “King of beers, jackass. Dude, you could have gotten what you wanted.”

  “Trying to make nicey nice,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  They engaged in small talk about the job for ten minutes even though Temple knew he didn’t need to beat around the bush with Claire, that she would do whatever he asked if she could. But seeing her brought back the good times they’d had at Aylmer. Though there had been plenty of fooling around among cadets of the opposite sex, they had never done anything themselves. They could have, easily, but it was more enticing this way. This cat-and-mouse game. They might hook up one day, but not tonight.

  “Who’s the guy?”

  A friend. He’s good police.”

  “He won’t mind you being out here?”

  “Told him you were a sleazy confidential informant.”

  “You’re still with drugs?” Temple meant Durham Regional’s drug squad.

  “I’m addicted to it.”

  “Funny. I need your help.”

  “I figured.”

  “You still have an open production order and warrant in Durham for suspected grow-ops?”

  “Yes, we do.” Despite the legalization of marijuana and its easy availability, there were still plenty of illegal dope operations, including ones producing crystal meth, which was a growing concern in Ontario.

  “And it’s protected? Only your unit sees it? The JPs don’t see the names, just addresses?”

  “Yes. We can go after anyone, but we have to have the proof to back it up when it gets to court.”

  “Great. I have an address I want you to add to it.”

  “What, for a murder case? You know I can’t do—”

  “It’s personal, Claire.”

  Claire sipped from her bottle; she crossed her legs and looked around. She looked good; faded jeans with appropriately placed rips and tears. A faded but form-fitting Black Sabbath T-shirt. Several piercings dotted her face. Perk of being undercover in the drug world.

  “Who is it?”

  “A civilian. She’s done nothing wrong. Well…” He hesitated. “I can explain it to you after it’s all over.”

  “I probably don’t want to know.”

  They sat there silently for a minute, looking around.

  “I have to do a full workup on them. It’ll look stupid otherwise. That means hydro bills, licences. It will take a week to get,” Claire said.

  “What about just phone records?”

  “They’ll come in the quickest. Probably in a day.”

  “That’s all I want.”

  “I can put it in, get those records and then kill it. It’s been done before. A confidential informant gave us the wrong address.”

  “I’ll want a hard copy.”

  “Okay, Temp. I miss you.”

  Temple nodded. Hearing her say his nickname again brought back a flood of good memories. He wrote Carmen D’Souza’s address in his notebook, ripped the page out and handed it to Claire. He stood up to leave.

  “Back door is that way,” Claire said.

  On an impulse, he bent down, pulled her face up and kissed her. “I miss you too, babe. Sometimes I think I should have joined Durham.”

  “You’d be bored out here.”

  “I am an adrenaline junkie; that’s true.”

  She laughed and he was gone.

  24

  That one beer had triggered a bit of a craving in him to cut loose and get drunk with Claire and her friend. Maybe pick up a friend of his own? As he was walking up to his house, he heard steps behind him. He whirled around. It was Sara Chang.

  “Great timing,” he said.

  In the morning he woke to the smell of bacon and eggs. He went out to the kitchen. She was wearing one of his long-sleeves shirts and nothing else. He’d at least put on a pair of underwear and a T-shirt.

  “Smells good,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her.

  “You were a bit rough last night,” she said. “Where’d you learn that stuff?”

  “Oh, here and there. Maybe I was angry with you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not giving me a second chance.”

  “Eat your eggs.” She dumped a mess of them on a plate along with some bacon and handed it to him.

  It was seven thirty. They ate for a half an hour talking about nothing at all.

  “How long were you waiting for me last night?”

  “Two hours. If I smelled someone on you, I was going to slap your face and leave.”

  “Wasn’t I allowed to come home smelling of someone?”

  “Not last night.”

  “You’re not getting the key back,” he said, and she frowned. “You have to work for it.”

  “Maybe I don’t want it,” she said, and stood up to clear the dishes. She came back with more coffee.

  “Listen, that thing at the restaurant downtown. Your team—they would have printed the two bodies behind the counter, correct?”

  “Uh huh,” she said. “It’s routine, but we don’t enter the files into the system until you guys tell us they’re of interest. We just did the three guys in the corner.”

  “So they’re on file. Just not run through the system yet.”

  “Correct. Why? You want me to put them in?”

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  They showered together and fooled around a bit and then dressed hurriedly. Sara kept his T-shirt. It was awkward outside when they were about to part ways. Temple didn’t know if this was just a one-off; he suspected not. Deep down, he hoped it wasn’t. Maybe they were moving towards that coveted “friends with benefits” type of deal.

  She came over and gave him a hug and kissed him hard. “I’ll call you,” she said before Temple could say anything.

  That was okay, he thought. She was taking control. He remembered his last experience with Karen Kindness. He had to admit a woman taking control turned him on.

  25

  “Data from the amended production order has come in,” Mendoza said, and dropped a file on Temple’s desk before he could even remove his coat.

  “Okay,” Temple said. “First things first: coffee.”

  Mendoza was still waiting at Temple’s desk when he came back from the fifth floor’s coffee station. “I already had one, thanks,” he said, noticing the lack of a second cup in Temple’s hands.

  “I’m so glad,” Temple said and sat down in front of the file. It wasn’t a thick one; it covered only a month before the shooting. They could go back further, but this would do for now.

  “So about thirty calls from their home phone,” Temple said. “Only fifteen from the store. That makes sense. You don’t see a lot of restaurant owners gabbing on the phone. These are probably to suppliers, but we should check them out. It’s the apartment I’m interested in. We get no joy with this, we’ll get their cell numbers.” He folded the file, ripped it in half and gave one half to Mendoza. “Okay, go away. Do your job.”

  Temple spent the next hour calling the numbers on the file, using a re-dialler to mask his number. Some were disconnected; some were to Vietnamese residents who didn’t speak a lot of English and hung up when Temple told them he was calling about duct cleaning. He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly; mostly he was just hoping something might pop up.

  And it did, although it was Mendoza who bagged it. “Hey, John. Check this out.”

  Temple went over to his cubicle.

  “Dial this number,” Mendoza said, pointi
ng.

  “Seven-one-six area code. That’s in the States.”

  “Yeah. Just call it.”

  Mendoza had his re-dialler working and he punched in the number for him.

  “State Department,” said a woman on the other end.

  “Uh,” Temple muttered. “How clean are your ducts?”

  “Excuse me? This is the State Department, sir. How may I direct your call?”

  Temple hung up.

  “Bro, what the…? He called the US State Department?”

  “Yeah. Now try this one. It’s a seven-oh-two area code. It’s wild.”

  “Just tell me what it is.”

  “No way. You have to hear it. You’d never believe me.”

  Temple dialled the second number. A recording said, “You have reached the Pentagon phone system. If you know the number you are trying to reach…” Temple hung that one up too.

  Mendoza said, “One wrong number to the US government might be a fluke. But two?”

  “I hear you,” Temple said. “This is wild. What could it mean?” He rubbed his face. His hand came away smelling like Sara Chang and for a second, in his mind, he went to a nice place.

  Then his phone buzzed. It was a text from Sara. The coincidence creeped him out.

  This isn’t that call, the text message said. The records from the restaurant are in the system.

  He texted back, Thanks. Looking forward to your next communication.

  She texted back a happy-face emoji.

  “John?” Mendoza said. “The two calls?”

  A distracted Temple said, “Yeah. Who is this guy?” and went back to his desk.

  He brought up the forensics application and saw a recent update to the file by Sara. He opened it up and the fingerprint charts appeared on his screen. Of course, they meant nothing to him; Temple had seen thousands of sets of fingerprints in his career. But now this new application allowed him, as an authorized person of the court, to conduct searches. He now had the ability to load them into the national fingerprint database and define parameters, all from his desk.