“Do you still talk to him?”
“For the first couple of years we’d get together for beers or run into each other at The Cuff and Billy. Then the beers became infrequent and we haven’t talked in two years. I heard he and his wife had a baby three months ago.” Toscana took a long drink of beer. Her brown eyes glistened.
Brad realized it was time to change the topic. “What do you want to know about TSU?”
Toscana set her beer down and slid off her lumberjack shirt, leaned back and crossed her arms under her breasts. He thought they’d pop out of her T-shirt.
“I want to know everything. I want to know how I can get on TSU.”
Toscana’s arms weren’t just toned, they were defined and bulging. She was a solidly built lady. “That might take more than a beer, something to eat, and fancy shooting.”
Her eyebrows arched and she smiled. “I’m fine with meeting again.”
Oh, oh. Was this only about TSU? Rather than feeling safe in the back corner of the restaurant, he felt cornered. Then he gave his head a shake. Feeling a bit high on yourself, are you? “Where do you want me to start?”
“How was the team originally formed?”
“That’s a loaded question.” He sipped his beer. “Some ex-military Airborne were robbing banks and Brinks trucks. They were an elite Canadian unit, not as skilled as the US Navy SEALS, but they were proficient. They stole all the guns and ammunition they needed. As well, they were trained in tactics and worked well together as a team. The police were hopelessly outgunned, and our revolvers and shotguns were no match. They’d already killed my partner.” Brad’s grip tightened on his bottle.
“Sorry,” Toscana said, meeting his eyes.
Brad peered out the window. “Sergeant Jackson went to Los Angeles and met with their SWAT team. He then convinced two members of LA SWAT to come back and train us. The SWAT guys told stories about stuff we have never encountered here. Riots, gang wars, and multiple homicides. They had some great tips. Like if you see one weapon, expect at least one more. Always carry a backup gun and a knife.”
Toscana leaned forward. “Do you?”
“I thought they were crazy.” Brad grinned. “But yeah, I always have a backup in an ankle holster. A CZ75 and a tactical knife in my belt.” He stared at his beer. “They’ve both been handy to have.”
“But you were selected for the team.”
“We went through rigorous testing, and finally, six were chosen.”
“Did any women apply then?”
Brad shook his head. “Remember, this was four years ago. There weren’t that many women on the streets in 1976, let alone ready for the jump to that.”
“How was training?”
“We spent two weeks with the LA SWAT guys and then hit the streets. That’s when we realized we didn’t know squat. We were highly trained, and nothing was happening. Then we had a couple of holy-shit calls. An estranged husband killed his wife in front of their kids, then barricaded himself in the basement.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh my god. What happened?”
“I tried to talk him out. But in the end, it was suicide by cop. Then a young guy, high on glue, barricaded himself in a garage. One cop was killed, and five others injured.”
“That was Detective O’Shea.”
“Yup.”
“Didn’t the military end up coming?”
Brad frowned and took a drink of beer. “The ending was not Calgary Police’s best moment. Later, the robbers got aggressive—a full-on assault on a bank near Chinook Mall. The bank was shot up, and the two ex-Airborne were stranded in the bank. They chose to shoot it out. By then, we were a cohesive team. The Airborne guys had added real-life experience than we did, but we had trained for something like this. Three Airborne were killed.”
“Jeez, that was some start to the team.”
“It was.” It felt like so long ago. A lot had happened since. And not a lot of it cheerful. Or what was going well went to shit. If you believed in luck, which he didn’t, then he was born under a bad sign. They say you make your own luck. He wasn’t sure what he had to do differently. Brad drank his beer. This had started out as fun. Now he wanted to get out of here.
The waitress set the pizza on the table and glanced at Brad’s drink. He held up two fingers.
“I need to get back to my dog soon. Do you have specific questions? Ask away while we eat.”
“Sure. Sorry to take your time.”
“That’s fine.” Brad grabbed a slice of pizza.
Toscana ignored the pizza and leaned forward, her brown eyes fixed on Brad’s “How can I get on TSU?”
“That’s going to be a huge uphill battle. I don’t know of any Tactical or SWAT team with a female member.” Brad bit off a huge section of pizza.
A grin formed and her eyes sparkled. “The Israelis?”
“They’re in a league of their own.” Brad wiped his mouth. “Not the group to compare to.”
“But it can be done.”
Brad twirled his bottle in his hands. “All the emergency services are stuck in a male 1950s paradigm. You know women have only been on the street for seven years. EMS has a few female paramedics, but only in the last few years. The Fire Department has no female firefighters or people of color.”
“I applied for TSU earlier this year.”
“So I heard.” He grabbed another slice of pizza.
“I didn’t make it. You know some guys there. Did they say anything?” She didn’t meet his eyes.
“Nothing other than you had done well.”
Toscana’s shoulders slumped. Her confident, playful mood was gone. It was like her energy was exhausted. “But not good enough.”
“I wasn’t there, but I know it’s extremely competitive. It’s a major accomplishment that you are an acting sergeant. Heck, you probably aced your interview and you’ll be a full-fledged card-carrying sergeant. That’s not a small achievement.”
“I’ll believe it when it happens.”
Brad grabbed another slice of pizza and chewed. It was like a switch was flicked and he was talking to a different Toscana. “To make TSU, you’d have to be the best in every test—best shooter, best physical shape, smartest, psychologically sound, and strongest. You might accomplish the first ones, but it’s unlikely you’ll be the strongest.” He grinned. “I heard you bench pressed more than a current member, so you’ll be okay. As long as you can carry a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound cop who is shot out of a building, you’ll have a chance. That’s the bottom line.”
Toscana’s lips pursed. “Yeah, I can do that.”
Brad held up a pizza-greased hand. “It’s a worthy goal. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sharma maneuvered the ambulance through the snow and ice. There was no sense rushing tonight—they didn’t need to get into a traffic collision. For a Thursday at midnight, the traffic was light. No one wanted to be out in freezing weather, not even to go to the bar. The back end of the ambulance slid through the turn onto Seventeenth Avenue as Sharma fought to straighten the vehicle.
“Damn, that was fun.” Cook held tight to the handhold above her door as her right foot jammed into the floor.
Sharma glanced over at her foot. “Did your side stop?”
“Just a reflex.”
Sharma got the ambulance under control, and they plowed through the snow toward the apartment building.
“Isn’t this the same address we were at a few months ago?” Cook asked. “The boyfriend beat up his girlfriend. We transported her to the hospital, and the cops took him away.”
“You mean the guy Coulter tuned up?”
“Twice. Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Shit. He was a nutcase. Make sure the cops are close,” Sharma said.
“Dispatch, Medic 2. We’re a minute from the address. Are the cops on the way?”
“Medic 2, CPS should be right behind you.”
Cook glanced in the rearview mirror in ti
me to see a police cruiser slide through the intersection over the curb and onto the sidewalk. “They’re taking the long way.”
Sharma maneuvered the ambulance to the curb, and they jumped out. Cook slid a black wool beanie over her frizzy light brown hair and grabbed the kits while Sharma keyed his radio. “Dispatch, Medic 2 on scene with police.”
“Roger, Medic 2.”
Sharma and Cook started up the sidewalk to the main door of the apartment building as Robson and Rossi caught up.
Cook glanced over at them. “Who was driving?”
Rossi stared at her boots. “That would be me.”
“Don’t worry,” Cook said. “Sharma almost did the same thing.”
“Almost is the key word,” Sharma replied.
A squat man with bulging biceps held the building door open. “I’m the manager. I’m tired of the noise. I want them out.”
“Have you served an eviction notice?” Robson asked.
“Sure. It don’t matter. They no leave. You come before. Take him away. Next day, he’s back. It’s worse than before.”
“What happened tonight?” Robson asked.
“Half hour ago, they start again. Yelling. Then sounds like place is being wrecked. Screaming, shouting. I take no more. I call.” He marched to the stairs. “Tonight, you make go.”
Robson pushed in front of the paramedics and took the stairs two at a time. Rossi brought up the rear. When they stepped into the corridor, there were no sounds. Robson waved the paramedics behind him and, hand resting on the butt of his gun, he stepped down the hall. The apartment door was ajar.
He waved Rossi to the other side of the door, then said, “You two wait here.”
Robson nodded to Rossi, nudging the door open with his foot. “Police. We’re coming in.” Silence. “Police, coming in.” No answer. Robson stepped into the apartment, Rossi on his heels.
Cook and Sharma followed cautiously behind.
Robson continued left into the tiny bedroom, Rossi headed to the combined living room and kitchen. “Clear.”
“You’d better come here,” Robson said.
Cook entered the room and stopped short in the doorway. A barely recognizable male lay on the floor, legs splayed at weird angles poking out of the bathroom. His upper body lay in a pool of blood, his face smashed beyond recognition. Cook stepped over his legs and knelt at his head. Blood bubbled from his mouth and nose. “We’ve gotta move quick.”
“Dispatch, 424. We will need detectives and Crime Scene Unit here.”
“Roger, 424. We will notify,” dispatch said.
Cook glanced up at Robson. “Can you and your partner grab our stretcher?”
“Better than that.” Robson spoke into his mic again. “Two cruisers just pulled up. They’ll bring the stretcher in. We need to stay until the detectives arrive.”
“Hey, where’s his girlfriend?” Cook opened her paramedic kit and pulled out the airway pack.
“Her name is Sylvia,” Robson said. “Another cruiser found her running down the street. She wasn’t wearing a coat, was freezing and talking about a guy that beat Vinnie with a bat. The cops took her to a women’s shelter.”
Cook swept the blood away from the patient’s face with gauze, then slipped in an airway. Blood bubbled out of the airway. She grabbed the suction, slid a tube into the airway and suctioned. The canister filled with blood.
Sharma had secured the patient’s neck with a cervical collar and tied his legs together.
A loud noise came from the hallway—swearing, clanking of metal and something hitting the walls. Then four cops pushed the stretcher, at full height, into the room.
“You know that collapses, right?” Robson asked.
An exhausted cop leaned against the wall. “Thanks for the heads up on that.”
Sharma lowered the stretcher. “We’ll need a hand lifting him.”
Robson glanced at the cop by the wall, who mouthed, “Screw you.”
Robson nodded to his partner. They knelt with Sharma and Cook, then lifted the patient.
Sharma wrapped the patient in a blanket, then connected the straps. He pulled the stretcher out of the apartment to the stairwell. Robson and Rossi stayed in the apartment. With the help of the cops, they carried the stretcher down to the main level and rolled it out to the ambulance.
Robson and Rossi were sitting on the carpet outside the apartment, issue parkas across their laps, when Griffin and Sturgeon arrived. As they stood, Robson arched his back and groaned.
“Sorry for the wait,” Griffin said. “It’s not the night you get anywhere fast.”
“He drives like my grandmother.” Sturgeon pretended to hold a steering wheel close to his chest, then strained his neck forward and squinted.
“It could be worse,” Robson said. “You could have been driving on the sidewalk.” He glanced at his partner, who reddened.
“Bring us up to date.” Griffin brushed snow off his blue parka and stomped his feet, snow falling off his black boots.
Robson filled them in. “There are a few things you need to see. Follow me.” He led them to the bathroom door and pointed. “There’s a baseball bat in the tub. The weapon of choice, if you go by the blood and hair. Might belong to the victim and used in the struggle.” He glanced at Sturgeon. “But then, that’s above my paygrade.”
Sturgeon unbuttoned his brown overcoat and slid off his gloves. He peeked his head into the bathroom, then glanced over his shoulder.
“No, we didn’t touch them,” Robson said.
“We’ve been here before,” Griffin said.
Robson nodded. “The paramedics, as well. But it was for the girlfriend.”
Griffin stepped toward the living room. “But she’s not here.”
“Nope,” Robson said. “A cruiser found her and took her to the Women’s Shelter. They’ll get a statement from her.”
Most of the time, Sharma would have asked a cop to drive the ambulance. But with the snow- and ice-covered roads and after witnessing the cruiser careen onto the sidewalk, he decided it was best if he drove. That left Cook in the back alone with the patient, but there wasn’t a lot she could do. This guy needed an emergency physician and a surgeon.
He pulled into the ambulance bay at the Foothills Medical Centre. A few paramedics hustled over and assisted lifting the stretcher out of the ambulance. Cook jumped out and they hauled the stretcher to the triage desk.
Cook stepped to the counter. “Approximately thirty- to thirty-five-year-old male, severely beaten, likely with a baseball bat. Unconscious, unresponsive. Pulse 130, weak. Blood pressure 140/86. Respirations shallow and eight a minute. I assisted ventilations en route. He has an airway in place and an intravenous to keep the vein open. Pupils unequal and reacting slowly to light.”
“Trauma one,” the triage nurse said.
They swung the stretcher next to the hospital gurney and with the help of the trauma team moved the patient. Sharma slid the ambulance stretcher out of the trauma room and into the hall.
Cook gave her patient report to the trauma team, then stepped back into the hall with Sharma.
“Someone gave that guy a shit kicking,” Sharma said.
Cook nodded as she watched the trauma team work on the patient. “Part of me hopes it was his girlfriend. He had it coming.”
“That’s as vicious of a beating as I’ve seen. I don’t think she could have done this unless he was unconscious.”
“I noticed a baseball bat lying in the bathtub. That would do it.”
Sharma cocked his head and chewed his lip. “Yeah, that would do it.”
“Let’s get X-rays and then a CT scan,” the emergency physician said. “Make sure he has circulation in his legs and watch for compartment syndrome.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Cook said. “When I splinted his legs, I didn’t see a lot of swelling, but I had a faint pulse.”
“The doctor just said to watch for it. If the swelling in the legs is severe enough, it decreases blood
to the foot, and the pulse is not palpable, then the docs can deal with it. I should have mentioned that to you.”
Cook’s eyes cast downward. Her jaw clenched.
Sharma pushed their stretcher down the hall. “The trauma team is on top of this. Let’s clean up.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brad hauled a stack of files into the compact conference room and set them on the table. For the next hour, he posted victim and crime scene photos on the walls. Under each victim, he added notes from the crime scenes and autopsies. His gut told him the deaths were all linked, unlike the sniper case a few months ago, but the link wasn’t obvious. He wasn’t the first to notice and point out that their recent spate of homicides seemed to involve karma serving up a cold dish to victims that wouldn’t be missed. Satisfied with his work, he stood back and reviewed each death.
The two drug dealers in Victoria Park were killed in the same manner, so in Brad’s mind there was no doubt about the same killer. He further believed the murder of Billy Tuck, the first drug dealer, had been the first in the series. The killer had hesitated or struggled with the first kill, but made up for it in the second Vic Park murder of Vito Sotelo.
The hit and run of James Duggan, the drunk driver, wasn’t a perfect fit. He wasn’t involved in the drug trade or prostitution. Too many DUIs, but just an elderly man who drank excessively. Now that Brad had posted the drunk driver, he didn’t see the connection and contemplated taking Duggan off the wall. The only thing he had in common with the others was a lengthy rap sheet.
The killer appeared to be gaining confidence with the pimp and bodyguard murder. Killing two asshats at the same time took balls. Walking up and shooting the pimp Owen Judd and his driver-bodyguard Anthony Moss while they sat in their car was gutsy. The accuracy of the shots was significant. The shooter had serious skills. And that the killer had done this without a single witness was another testament to his skills.
The killings at the tattoo parlor were well planned and perfectly executed. To surprise the large doorman and shove the knife into his heart was impressive in a dark way. Where did the killer learn this? The knife to the heart was the same style as in both drug dealer murders.
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