by Warren Court
“I think it was a clean shoot. They could nail on us probable cause, not following procedure, but I don’t think it’ll be anything more than just a write-up on our situational reports. Not even a reprimand, really.”
“I don’t know. Concordia has a hard-on for me.”
“I know. One that’s well deserved.”
“Come again?”
“You go rogue too quick, too often.”
Temple shrugged. “It’s in my nature. And I clear cases.”
“And you use warrants and production orders for your own little investigations.”
Temple knew what Tim was referring to.
“You think I wouldn’t find out?” Tim said.
Temple shrugged again. He wasn’t going to give him anything he didn’t already have.
“I’ve been seeing Carmen for a year. We’re good friends. We were before Sylvia died. Maybe she thought we were having an affair…”
“Were you?”
“No. Not exactly.”
Temple chuckled.
“You know what an emotional friend is?”
Temple shook his head.
“There was nothing physical. We just talked. She was having difficulty with her marriage. Then she separated from him. I was having trouble with Sylvia. Sylvia caught on. Nothing more.”
“If you say so.”
“You really think I killed Sylvia?” Wozniak said.
“Maybe.”
“Because I’m a homicide detective and I could get away with it.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation.”
“Okay. How about this one? Stay away from Carmen and me. We’re going to get married.”
“Congratulations.”
“You smug son-of-a-bitch. I could have hung you out to dry with Concordia. SIU had you in their sights.”
“How so? It was your tip.”
“Because they came to me first. Because, as you said, Concordia has a hard-on for you. I could always recant my testimony. Say that you went off half-cocked on my tip.”
Temple sipped his coffee. “You’d do that to me, pal?”
“If you harm my career, yes. If you keep on with this fantasy investigation about my deceased wife, yes.”
Temple put his hands up and Wozniak stood up. Half the diner was watching them.
“This mean we’re not friends anymore?”
“Means don’t stab me in the back and just leave this where it belongs.” He jerked his sport coat off the corner of the booth and left.
Temple took out his phone. “Karen, I want the GPS logs from Tim’s car. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
58
Temple didn’t see Wozniak down at 40 College when he arrived. That was good. Their conversation might flare up again, and this time it would probably turn physical. It wasn’t unheard of. Some cops hated each other’s guts. A conflict between friends on the job or in their personal lives would fester and boil over, and a grudge would be formed. And like everything else a cop did, they were committed to it.
But Wozniak and him—this was different. Temple doubted a detective had ever suspected another detective of murdering his spouse. If this argument got around the TPS, they would both be finished. Which was one reason Temple was confident that Wozniak would keep their disagreement to himself. And, what’s more, that he wouldn’t turn on Temple and throw him to the SIU wolves unless Temple went further with it. Which he fully intended to do.
All TPS unmarked work cars had GPS trackers on them. Most of the scout cars had them now too. All their data was fed into the TPS computers and was sometimes used as evidence in cases, to collaborate where a detective said he was at what time. Much of the time it was just used to do audits on cops, make sure they weren’t taking work cars out on jaunts or using them for personal business.
Back at 40 College, Temple called operations and told the duty sergeant, Bob Graham, what he needed.
“Surprised they didn’t strip it from you the night of the shooting, John.”
“Well, it’s gone now. I should get it back in a couple of days after they do ballistics. But for now, I need a piece.
“Okay, Jane St. has got that for you,” Graham said, referring to the operations depot in the west end on Jane St. that outfitted cops with everything from their shoes to their caps. I’ll call ahead and sort it out. I still need the paperwork on your old car.”
“It’s totalled. I got a new one.”
“I know, but I don’t have the final report. I need that in order to write it off.” Temple sighed. “We’re all busy, John.”
“I’ll get to it in a day, okay?”
“I guess.”
Temple hung up. The bureaucracy of this place was daunting. He’d filled out two forms over the car and now he had to track down this final report and sign off on that. Luckily, operations had not found any bullet holes in the vehicle. Temple was still resigned to sorting that out himself.
He’d thought a lot about the incident on the highway. They must have followed him to the airport. Maybe found out that he had flown on a single ticket to Washington and figured he was coming right back, and had just set up on his Buick and waited. Maybe they found out he was going to see General Markinson and that had been the catalyst for ordering the hit on him. They were afraid he’d come back with the name of the Marine.
Temple’s voicemail button was glowing red. He scanned through and saw twenty-six calls that had come in over the past week. He hadn’t had the time to listen to them, never mind return them. He knew most of the names that flashed up on his call display as he scrolled through. They were the names and number of other cops or forensics. But one name stood out: two calls from Councillor Nallartnam. Temple could go directly to those recordings with the touch of a finger and bypass the others, so he did. He listened to Nallartnam’s first call.
Detective Temple, I am still wondering when the crime scene at the Beautiful City restaurant is going to be finished. I have a constituent, a very important constituent, who is eager to press on with construction there. it means a lot of work in my area, and it’s very important…
Constituent my ass, Temple thought. Taylor lived twenty kilometres away from Nallartnam’s ward. He hit delete and listened to the next message.
Detective Temple, I just wanted to call and thank you for clearing the crime scene. The yellow tape is down and construction is going to commence immediately.
Temple could hear the smugness in Nallartnam’s voice. He was calling to gloat. He had used his influence circumvent a cop and get what he wanted.
It was getting late, and the operations night team was going to come on. They might not make it easy for him to get his new weapon, so he hurried up to Jane and Finch. Ironically, one of the worst areas in the city for crime was also the location of a major TPS facility. It did not deter crime, though.
Temple walked in and found Sergeant Graham.
“You bring those forms?” Graham said.
“No, I said give me a day.”
“I need that car written off, or else it’ll throw off my balance sheet at the end of the month.”
“And we can’t have that. You got my piece?”
“Sure. This is a loaner, right?”
“Of course.”
“Come with me.”
Graham led Temple into a back room that had cages and cages of weapons. He hadn’t been in here since he was a rookie being outfitted before going off to his first divisional assignment.
Graham unlocked a cage and pulled out a rack of Glocks. He selected a Glock 27, racked it and handed it to Temple.
“Check it out.”
It was a more compact weapon than what he was used to carrying. He liked it. “I want to fire it first. Make sure the damn thing will work when I need it to.”
“You’re planning on shooting somebody else this week?” Graham said. He handed Temple a box of .40-calibre ammo.
Temple started loading a mag but didn’t slam it home just yet.
He and Graham went to the indoor range, where weapons that had been repaired were test fired. It was also used to collect ballistic information on each weapon the TPS had in its massive arsenal.
Graham lit up one of the shooting lanes. There was a standard paper target in the shape of a man at the end of it. Temple put on ear protectors, loaded the magazine into the Glock and cocked it. Graham put on ear protectors and stood beside him as range supervisor.
Temple raised the weapon, sighted it and fired off five rounds, nice and slow, taking his time. When he was done, he put the weapon down on the plank of wood stretched across the firing range booth in front of him. Graham hit a button and the target came at them on an overhead rail.
“It’s pulling to the right a bit,” Temple said after examining his result.
“No worries,” Graham said. He took the weapon and unloaded it, then carried it over to a bench and put it in a vice. There was a technician there and he showed him the target. The technician used some small tools to adjust the front sight. When he finished, he brought the Glock over and gave it back to Temple.
On the second round of test firing, Temple said it was fine, it would do, and thanked Graham and the weapons tech.
After signing forms in triplicate, Temple put his loaner gun in his holster.
“Tim been out yet for his? SIU grabbed both of ours.”
“No,” Graham said.
Temple shrugged. “Guess I feel more naked without one than he does.”
“Well, he is more mature than you,” Graham said.
“Fuck you, pal.”
“Just get me that form on your car, and then you can bang me all day.”
“Will do.”
They shook hands and Temple left.
59
Temple took Jane Street up to the 401 to head east and back downtown; it was quicker than the slow-moving city streets. At least normally it was quicker. As soon as he got on the highway, he wished he hadn’t. There were flashing lights of fire trucks and OPP cruisers up ahead and the whine of an ambulance in the distance. He thought quickly about firing up the grill and blasting through it, but he could see the accident was serious. All three collector lanes of the were blocked. Traffic was stopped dead.
Temple pulled out his phone. It was against the law to text while operating a vehicle, even for a cop and even when traffic was at a dead stop, but he had messages to catch up on and every other driver was doing the same thing.
He skimmed through two dozen texts before he saw the one Mendoza had sent him.
Finally found something. He’d included a link, and Temple clicked on it. He waited and eventually a web page popped up: Canadian Veterans of Vietnam. At the top of the site was a mission statement: A place for those who fought for America in Vietnam. He began to scroll through the site, keeping one eye on the red-lit bumper ahead of him. There was photo after photo, some of them really old, of young men in fatigues or dress uniform. Then there was a section of up-to-date group photos of much older men, their bellies extending out and their hair grey or gone.
The traffic moved up half a car length. Temple eased his foot off the brake and idled up a bit, then they were stopped again. Despite the late hour, his air con was working overtime trying to keep the car cool.
He kept scrolling down the page, and finally one picture caught his eye. It was a pair of before-and-after shots of a large group of men. The first one was labelled 1986 – first reunion. The second one had the same men in the same positions, but with gaps where men were missing, probably dead. This one was labelled 2015. Temple spread his fingers to enlarge the photo and saw someone he recognized. He was sure of it.
He looked up again at the sea of stopped cars in front of him. Now he had cause. He fired up the grill lights and the siren and pulled over onto the shoulder. At fifty clicks, he quickly moved up to the scene of the accident. It was bad. There was an OPP cruiser blocking the inside lane that Temple had been in. A fire truck was angled across the other two lanes and two fighters were holding a fire hose onto a burning engine. Other firefighters were crowded around a second car that had flipped on its roof. The OPP trooper gave Temple a dirty look as he barely slowed down to pass.
When he was free and clear of the scene, he put the pedal down and roared off down the open road.
60
“Mendoza, I’m on the 401, heading back downtown. I want you to call City Hall. Talk to security, ask for a Ben Curtis. If he’s there, tell him we want to talk to him about an assault at City Hall.”
“What assault?”
“There wasn’t one. We just want to see if Curtis is there, and if he is, hold him there.”
“And if he’s not on duty?”
“Speak to the manager on duty, get Curtis’s home address.”
“Okay. Hang on.” Mendoza put Temple on hold.
Temple roared across the top of the city until it slowed down again. He had the grill lit up, but even then, it was slow going on the narrow shoulder; he was in danger of scraping the side of his new car on the guard rail.
Mendoza came back on the line. “He’s not there. His boss doesn’t know where he is. He called in sick.”
“What’s his address?”
“It’s 241 Waltonice. I’ll look it up.”
Temple started pounding his steering wheel as the shoulder pinched down and he came to a stop. There was no accident, just regular hot-summer-night grind. People getting out of the Blue Jays game. He pulled back into the inside lane and the cars in front of him slowly angled over to let him through, but there was nowhere for them to go.
“I got it. It’s in Scarborough. Brimley and St. Clair.”
“Right.”
“You coming by to get me?”
“No time. Meet me there.”
61
The security guard’s house was large but ramshackle. The roof was in desperate need of repair; the shingles were all flayed up. The lawn was browned over, with weeds growing here and there. The driveway was broken and cracked; it was also empty of vehicles.
Temple pulled right up into it and ran up on the porch. With his hand on his gun belt he rapped on the door. He turned slightly as Mendoza pulled up behind him and got out.
“No answer,” Temple said.
He went around the back. There was a chain-link gate and he opened it. The backyard wasn’t much better than the front. There were blue recycling bins full of empty beer bottles. A green garbage bin was on its side, its contents lying on the ground, shredded from a raccoon attack. Flies buzzed and Temple saw hordes of maggots crawling around the bin.
There was no answer at the back door either. Mendoza kept well back, hand on his gun, looking around. There was a large bay window that looked out on to the backyard and Temple peered in. The house seemed cluttered, and there were stacks of newspapers and beer crates on the hardwood floor.
Temple had no warrant; all he had was a picture of a veteran on a website. He took his lock picks out of his pocket and was in through the back door in a matter of seconds. The place smelled of garbage, and there were houseflies by the dozen zipping around. The smell increased as he moved across the dining room towards the kitchen. There were a half dozen grocery bags full of refuse tied and sitting on the floor. More were stacked on the counter. He moved through the kitchen and into the front room. There was a couch with a blue blanket thrown over it, a TV and DVD player on a stand in the corner and a chipped and scratched brown coffee table. On it was an ashtray overflowing with cigarettes and marijuana roaches. He also saw some white residue that looked like cocaine.
Off the living room was a small den that had been turned into a computer room. There was a vintage monitor and computer tower and an office chair. Beside the desk was a shelf with a few books, all of them about the Vietnam war. On the wall was a black MIA/POW poster.
Mendoza was in the living room. “He’s not here.”
“Maybe. Just let me check upstairs.”
Mendoza followed him up. There were three sma
ll bedrooms. One was stacked to the ceiling with cardboard boxes and blue Rubbermaid bins.
The next bedroom contained a bed and another TV and DVD player set. There was a video game unit on the floor. Mendoza picked up an empty video game package.
“Call of Duty,” Mendoza said and he showed Temple the game. “Love this game. It’s addictive.”
Temple opened the closet. There were uniforms on hangers. They seemed small and tight-fitting for a grown man. There was a US Marines dress uniform and a tan one. On the dresser was a cardboard box containing several medals and citations held together in a row. Not that many, but a decent number. More than Temple had. But he wasn’t in it for medals.
The last room contained no furniture, just two wall-mounted gun cabinets. The right-side cabinet held firearms. Big, shiny .357s, .45s, Glocks like Temple’s, at least a dozen handguns. In the other cabinet were long guns—rifles, shotguns and what looked like an M14, the kind the Marines used in basic training.
Temple noticed two empty spaces in the long gun cabinet and one in the pistol cabinet. Either Curtis had not gotten around to filling those spaces or he was out there, somewhere, heavily armed. There was a footlocker below the cabinets and Temple flicked it open with his foot. In it were combat fatigues, black leather combat boots, boxes of ammunition and spare magazines for the weapons. There was a printed-out photograph taped inside the lid. It showed their man Curtis in full camouflage holding an AK-47 and standing in front of a black Ford SUV.
So Curtis had been following him, Temple realized. He was probably the one who had waited for him to return from Washington and his visit with Markinson. And he was the one who’d later tried to kill him on the 401. How long he had been following him around, Temple did not know. But he had to assume he’d tailed Temple and Mendoza out to Vicky Nguyen’s house after the funeral.
The two detectives left the house the way they’d gone in and stood in the backyard.
“Time for me to pay a call on Aunt Vicky,” Temple said. “You stay here, call this in.”
“What? I’m coming with you,” Mendoza said.
