“That’s what they think.” Annie grinned. “I’ve handled worse.”
Sadie sipped her espresso and nodded. “How’d you deal with them?”
Annie laughed. “I may seem like a teen, but I’m a hardened bitch. Detective Harker got nothing from me but grief. When he got angry, I asked for a lawyer. He said I wasn’t being charged with anything. I said I still wanted my lawyer. He said fine. Who? I said Brad.”
Sadie laughed.
“He said he’d be glad to call Brad and have him come in. I said, terrific point. I’ll call Jenni Blighe.”
“The crown prosecutor?” Sadie laughed. “Hilarious.”
“That ended the interview.”
“I’m not sure I’d be this calm about it.” Sadie sipped her espresso. “Hey, why didn’t they interview me?”
“You want to be interrogated?” Annie asked.
“No, it’s just—”
“That’s wonderful.” Annie leaned across the table. “It means they aren’t making any connection between you and Brad. We might be able to meet to get messages to Brad.” Annie winced. “Today might screw that up, though.”
“I thought Steele and Zerr were meeting him?”
“It worked last night because they ditched their tail. They got called in today by IA and asked questions about where they were for the hour last night when the surveillance team lost sight of them. Our homes are under surveillance and we’re followed everywhere. They even follow Sergeant Briscoe when he’s at work.”
Sadie stared out the window. “Did they follow you here?”
Annie grinned. “I hope so.”
“Why?”
A man dressed in black clothes, a black ball cap and hoodie slid in beside Sadie and pushed her over.
Sadie pushed back. “What the—”
“Sadie, quiet,” Annie said.
The figure grinned at Sadie.
Her eyes went wide. “What are you doing here?”
“I just have a minute and then they’ll be here,” Steele said. “There was another murder last night. A drunk fell down the stairs.”
“How is that a murder?” Sadie asked.
“They found a police Billy club under the couch. It’s Brad’s. They’re keeping it quiet. Archer doesn’t want Brad to know.”
Sadie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, god.”
“What do you want us to do?” Annie asked.
“Find Brad.”
“You don’t know where he is?” Sadie asked.
“No.”
“Brad needs to know this,” Annie said. “When are you supposed to meet him?”
Steele chewed on his lip. “Tonight, after nine.” He leaned across the table. “Think, Sadie. Did he say anything when he was with you about his plans?”
Sadie shook her head. “No, he … the note—”
“What?” Steele asked.
“He left me a note yesterday. It talked about visiting the Central Library today.”
“What time?”
Sadie shook her head. “The note didn’t say.”
“Shit.” Steele’s eyes widened. “That’s where he can do research where no one would recognize him.” Steele pulled out a portable radio. “Central Library.”
The front and back doors opened, there was a clanking sound, then an explosion and bright white light.
Annie was disoriented and blinded. She knew voices shouted at her, but she had no clue what they were saying. Then she was dragged off the bench and thrown to the floor. Her arms were wrenched behind. Her hearing returned. She heard the handcuffs clip into place. She was lifted from the floor and shoved back onto the seat. Her eyes cleared. The coffee shop was overrun with tactical cops and guys in suits. She recognized two of the suits—it was the Internal Affairs Detectives Genereau and Harker.
Assholes.
While a few cops kept their eyes on her, most were focused on the dark-clothed, facedown figure on the floor. One tactical cop had his knees on Steele’s back while another cinched up handcuffs. They shoved Steele into a booth.
“Thought you could hide from us, huh, Coulter,” Genereau said. “It’s with the greatest pleasure I read you your rights.”
Detective Harker reached over, flipped the hood back, and removed the ball cap.
“Bradley Coulter—” Genereau paused. “Steele?”
“Did we forget to pay our bill?”
Zerr was driving south on Fourteenth Street. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Four cars back, the dark sedan followed. Zerr had led them on an extensive tour of southwest Calgary. If something didn’t happen in the next couple of minutes, he’d pull into the A&W and get a burger.
As he crossed Seventeenth Avenue, his cruiser radio came to life. “We’ve got something in the alley. A tall guy dressed in black just entered the back door. He appears shady.”
A voice replied, “What the hell does shady look like?”
“Head down, shoulders hunched. For sure he didn’t want anyone to see his face.”
“You think it’s Coulter?”
“Right size, right build.”
“Roger that. Detectives and TSU, move in.”
Zerr glanced in his rearview mirror again and watched the dark sedan slide sideways in the intersection and head east toward the coffee shop.
Zerr passed the A&W. A burger would have to wait. Steele’s voice came over the secure tactical portable radio. “Central Library.”
Zerr skidded his truck to the curb outside the library. He tossed a sign that read “Police Business” on the dash and jumped out. That sign might buy him five minutes before they towed the truck. Rush-hour traffic did not like obstructions.
He raced into the library and up to the reception desk. He flashed his badge, then slid a photo of Brad onto the counter. “Have you seen this man?”
The librarian set her pencil down, closed the book she’d been writing in and glanced at Zerr. “Can I see the badge again?”
Zerr slid his badge out of his back pocket. As he pulled the badge away, the librarian grabbed his hand, and with her other hand slid on her glasses. Satisfied with the badge, she glanced at the photo, then back at Zerr. She released his hand.
“This is a police emergency.” He pointed at the photo. “Have you seen this man?”
She picked up the picture and held it close to her eyes. “We get a lot of cops in here. We have a problem with the homeless.”
“Right, uh, he wouldn’t have been in uniform.”
“Then this picture isn’t much help.”
“Check his face, not the uniform.” Zerr was still surprised that people he dealt with daily when he was in uniform didn’t recognize him out of uniform. He remembered every face, not the clothing.
“Maybe,” she said. “A homeless guy was on the fourth floor. I was going to kick him out, but he was quietly reading newspapers.”
“When was this?”
“About ten this morning.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see him leave?”
She slid off her glasses. “I believe I answered that when I said I hadn’t seen him again.”
“Right. Fourth floor?”
She nodded.
Zerr raced to the elevator. The librarian saw Brad over six hours ago. Zerr had a sinking feeling in his gut. He was too late.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Griffin, Genereau, and Harker sat silently at the conference table in Deputy Chief Archer’s office. Griffin’s jaw was clenched so hard his teeth ached. Every muscle in his body was tense. He’d need a four-hour massage to loosen the tension. Working with Genereau and Harker was all he expected, and a lot less. Their assignment had been to follow Annie Sutton. Griffin was sure she was the key to finding Coulter. Everything had been going well, but they’d been set up. Fuckin’ Steele.
Not that it was Genereau and Harker’s fault, Griffin just didn’t like the IA detectives. But now he was sitting waiting for an ass-chewing fr
om Archer.
Archer had barely acknowledged them as his secretary escorted them into Archer’s office to the conference table. Head down, Archer had continued to read a report on something. Finally, Archer shoved the paper to the side of his desk and pushed his chair back. He stood by the table, staring at them. Like Griffin, his jaw was clenched, but there was a pulse in his jaw as he clenched and unclenched.
Archer leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the table. His eyes, dark-black holes, bored into each man. “Forty-eight hours and nothing to show. Oh, except for another murder and our prime suspect is still at large.” His hands slammed on the table.
Griffin winced. Harker might have pissed his pants. Genereau stared at a pen on the table.
Harker dared to glance up. “No one knows it was a murder.”
Archer’s eyes rolled as his head swung back. “That doesn’t matter. I’ve lost count of how many are dead. Add one, subtract one, who gives a shit. The point is, we have arrested no one for any of them.”
“Well, we know it’s Coulter—”
Archer’s finger was up and pointing at Harker, daring him to say another word. “You believe it’s Coulter. Fine. Then arrest the fucker. End of the day at the latest. I want someone charged. I want someone in our cells. I want to tell the mayor and the press and the citizens we did our job. You know, the one where we arrest dangerous guys. Where the killing stops.”
Genereau found his voice. “Some people, including the press, think drug dealers and pimps dying is okay.”
Archer’s eyes widened. “Is that what you think? Vigilante justice is okay? A seventeen-year-old murdered and put on display for raping a girl is okay? He deserves jail for a couple of decades, but not this type of justice. Not a death sentence. Find Coulter or clean out your desks, polish your boots and iron your uniforms. The three of you will be assigned to search prisoners in the arrest processing unit. Dismissed.”
Griffin bolted from the room. He was pushing open the door to the stairs when Genereau called to him. Griffin took the stairs three at a time and shouldered his way out the back door into the alley. He didn’t need those two slowing him down.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Brad parked on Fourteenth Avenue and headed to the 7-Eleven. He bought a large coffee, then headed around the corner, facing the tattoo parlor. The windows were boarded, and no vehicles were parked nearby. If the Russians had taken over the business from the Hells Angels, it was unlikely anyone would come there for several weeks, if ever. The Russians would know the cops have eyes on the place. Brad scanned the surrounding buildings and cars. Across Sixteenth Avenue, he spotted an older sedan parked in the parking lot of a strip mall. Same make and model as the two sedans parked near the entrance to Bowness Park, forcing the cancelation of his meeting with Steele and Zerr.
In the darkness, he spotted two people in the front seats. He twisted slightly and faced south. Down the block, he spotted another black sedan. They were too close to the streetlight and Brad could see their faces, not enough to identify them, but enough to know they were Narcotics undercover—beards, long hair and shabby clothes, not unlike what Brad was wearing.
Brad sipped his coffee and watched for half an hour. In that time, no one went near the house. One cop from the car down the street exited the car and headed Brad’s way. Time to move on.
It was too early for the inhabitants of the night to come out of the darkness and seek food or drink at the store, so Brad continued west. If they weren’t on the street, then they’d likely be at the Beacon Hotel Bar. Years ago, it was the meeting place for the Gypsy Jokers outlaw motorcycle club. Brad and his TSU team had been locked in their battle for control of the city with another gang, the Satan’s Soldiers. When the war was over, most of the leadership of both clubs were dead or in jail. That left a void the Hells Angels were ready to fill. Nowadays most crime in the city was controlled by the Angels, including the hotels and prostitution. If the girls were back working, it was likely they were at the Beacon.
The Beacon was a popular bar with the working class. Known as “Peekin’ at the Beacon,” it featured the city’s largest strip show, bringing talent from across Canada and the United States.
As Brad crossed Centre Street, he pulled his beanie low, hunched his shoulders, and tucked his hands in his pockets. The bouncer didn’t give him a second glance as he entered the bar. He stood for a minute, allowing his eyes to adjust. Even coming in from the darkness, the bar was still dimmer. The odors of beer, popcorn, and sweat greeted him. The walls were cheap laminate paneling, peeling in spots. Wooden chairs without armrests encircled tables meant to hold four patrons, but the closest ones to the stage held six or seven guys with their eyes glued to the stage and their jaws dropped onto their chests. Their jaws closed momentarily to wolf whistle.
The bar was about three quarters full, with most of the clients close to the stage. Brad took a seat near the back with an excellent view of the two main doors, the stage and the bar.
The waitresses were rushing from the tables to the bar where two male bartenders poured beer and mixed hard liquor, mostly rye and ginger or rum and Coke. Then the waitresses headed back to the table with trays loaded with at least twenty glasses of beer and the occasional rum or rye.
After distributing her load, a waitress stopped by Brad, empty tray in her left hand, and right hand on her extended hip. She didn’t make eye contact, and her eyes roved the bar as she smacked her gum. “What’ll ya have?”
“Four draft beer.”
“Ya got it.” She drifted away, never once having glanced at Brad.
He leaned back and scanned the bar from one side to another. To either side of the long bar were doors. The door to the right apparently led to the kitchen, as trays of burgers, hot dogs and fries came out at regular intervals.
His gaze held on the left-hand door. To the handle side stood a beast of a man—six-foot four, at least, well over two hundred and forty pounds with a shaved head and piercing black eyes.
The waitress dropped off his beers, then hustled to more promising tables.
No one went near the left door while the show was on. Brad was on his second beer when someone announced the show would take a break. The waitresses pounced on the patrons, taking orders before they could think of leaving. After about ten minutes, a few men headed to the left door. They said something to the bouncer, slipped something into his hands, then the bouncer opened the door and they slipped past. For the next fifteen minutes, about a dozen men approached the door and gained entrance.
The intermission lasted approximately twenty minutes, then the lights dimmed, and unfamiliar girls took the stage.
While the third act was on, the left door opened, and a teenaged girl talked to the bouncer. She was a girl from the first show. He nodded and headed over to a table. He spoke briefly with the man, who then followed the bouncer back to the door where the girls stood. The man followed her down the hall, then the door closed.
He’d glanced at the first acts with slight interest. When the third act started, Brad almost dropped his beer. It was the girl from the video at the tattoo parlor. This girl had his undivided attention. If he was right, the girls performed on stage, then turned tricks in the back hall. He needed to figure out how this was arranged.
The waitress came back and stood with the same hip-out stance.
“Another round?”
“Sure,” Brad said. “About the girls, can a guy get some time with them?”
“Maybe. Anyone in mind?”
“Yeah, the girl on stage.”
She frowned. “You like them young, huh? I’ll see what I can do.”
She took a few additional orders, then approached the bouncer at the door. He briefly glanced in Brad’s direction, then said something to the waitress who headed to the bar. He stared at the girl again. He was sure they’d say she was eighteen, but he felt she wasn’t over sixteen. What he noticed was most were the same dead eyes he’d seen on the video. She was going thro
ugh the motions, her body moving, but her mind was blank.
The teen left the stage and was replaced. The waitress brought him four draft beers but didn’t say a word. Brad tossed a dollar on the table for the beer, then added a quarter as a tip.
Brad started working on a plan to get into that back hall. Maybe when the bouncer approached another table, Brad could slide through the door. The problem was that the bouncer never strayed far from the door or for long. That meant he wasn’t the only one making arrangements for the girl. Brad scrutinized the bar and came up with at least three other possibilities, all bikers. Brad had noticed them when he came in but hadn’t given them a second thought. Now he realized they were working a portion of the bar. He watched closer, then saw a waitress approach the biker on the far side of the room. She pointed to a table, and he nodded.
Brad sipped his draft beer and watched the bikers rather than the girls. The lights came up, and they announced another intermission. Again, the waitresses pounced on the customers before they could leave. Brad’s waitress came by. “Another round?”
“I’m good,” he said.
“Vic will come and get you when the girl is ready. Have a twenty ready and give it to him.” Then she headed to another table and dropped off the drinks.
Brad tried not to stare at Vic, but he wanted to remember every feature, so when the time came, they would have a discussion about which hospital Vic wanted to go to.
Intermission passed, and the music started. Another girl took the stage. As he stared at her, a hand tapped his shoulder. He jumped, and his left hand headed to his hip.
“Follow me, bud,” the bouncer said.
The bouncer opened the door and Brad extended his hand. The bouncer took his hand, and they made the exchange. He’d just given away most of the cash he got from Steele.
The teen met him in the hallway and took him to an eight-by-eight room. A bed was jammed against a wall and a coat stand sat next to the bed. She closed the door.
Brad smiled at her. Up close, he not only saw the dead eyes, but her posture was of one who had given up. Her shoulders sagged. Her movements were slow and spastic. When he peered at her eyes, he realized the pupils were pinpoint. They were feeding her narcotics.
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