The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery

by Richard Cain

  “You should know that I was followed to the building, but not to your condo. You are still safe.”

  Karen resisted the urge to interrogate Falconer and focused on luring her away. “Shelters aren’t bad places. They are clean, comfortable . . .”

  “That would be nice.” If it were possible to cry with no tears Falconer was doing it. “I can’t make myself do this anymore.” She took a sip of water. “You know I came to this country to be a nanny, because I love children and it was a chance to escape my life back home. I answered the ad in the paper and I had no idea it was a scam until I arrived in the airport. I was raped that day. I was taken to a strip bar and raped by the owner. They took my passport, my plane ticket home. I couldn’t speak any English and they told me they’d kill me if I didn’t dance. That was my first experience with sex that day. With a total stranger, who thought of me as garbage.”

  Karen had heard it all from Falconer before and as much as she knew it was all true, she knew that she had to let her tell it again. While Falconer rambled Karen thought about how much easier it would be if she had been the one that died and if Walker had come to her. Falconer seemed to subconsciously thrive on the drama in her life as if the only thing giving her meaning was to be wanted dead by others. Few men seek drama the same way.

  “I lost thirty pounds in three months. I dropped to ninety-eight pounds. I had to become a whore if I wanted to eat. You can’t imagine what that feels like, to be that hungry for so long that you’ll have sex with filthy strangers for food. I thought when I was arrested and thrown in jail that it would be better, but look at me. I’m still doing it because it’s all I know. It’s like they won.”

  She put the glass of water down and rubbed the palms of her hands into her eyes. She sobbed loudly, loud enough that Karen thought the neighbours would hear.

  Karen grabbed a box of tissues from the mantel and brought them over. “Here. Don’t worry. You don’t ever have to do that again. I told you that. You can stay here as long as you need to, okay?”

  Falconer didn’t acknowledge her verbally but she did reach a hand out and take Karen’s. Falconer squeezed but not too hard. “And Rob. He actually loved me but I refused to love him back. I refused to let him in. I treated him like garbage and now he’s gone. He died trying to deal drugs so I wouldn’t have to do this anymore.”

  Karen wrapped an arm around her. “Here, take a nice warm bath. Between bottles of alcohol I actually managed to wash the bed sheets last night. Have a nice bath then get some sleep. When you wake up we’ll put a plan together. There’s all kinds of places that can help you get off of the drugs and start over.”

  An expression crossed Falconer’s face that Karen read as hope.

  Falconer stood, turned her back and took a sip of water. She rested the glass on a table where condensation dripped down and began to pool. When she turned again it was like she had become a different person. “Have you not heard a thing I said?”

  Karen asked, “Sorry?”

  “You think this is all because of drugs? You think this is about drugs?” Her grip tightened on the glass and she lifted it up again.

  Karen became concerned that Falconer was about to throw it at her. “Ann?”

  “Do you not place any value upon what I went through, what they did to me?” Falconer’s fingers clenched around the glass again. She raised her arm and tossed it through the air. It struck the patio door smashing it into a thousand pieces, the water and the glass itself disappearing in the explosion.

  Karen expected a vacuum to suck everything out of the room like in the movies — instead it was just noisy as the fragments littered the floor. Before she could react she heard, “And I’m taking my life back.”

  Karen glanced back to see Falconer gripping her laptop.

  “Ann, put it down, I need that for work.” She took a step forward but Falconer moved back and lifted it over her heard.

  “You think you can rewrite my life, tell my story better than I can?”

  Any sympathy she had felt for Falconer was gone. She had crossed an invisible line and was no longer worth the aggravation. Karen lunged at her, kicking her in the stomach and knocking her backward. The laptop fell back with Falconer, who tossed it sideways. After she collapsed to the ground she sprang after it. She raced around to the dining room with Karen following. She stopped near the window and she tossed the computer over the balcony. All Karen could do was watch.

  “You fucking bitch, you drug-addicted fucking psycho!”

  She thought back to the interviews with Falconer, the rapes, the food-for-sex program that the traffickers had used on her before they upgraded to getting her hooked on OxyContin pills. It was the first time it occurred to Karen that it could all be an orchestrated lie, developed or more likely stolen and repeated until she thought it was true. Falconer was just a user who had turned her condo into a brothel and led her on some drug-induced stage show for little more than free food and lodging while she banged her way from one hit to the next.

  Before Karen could lay into her, Falconer ran for the bedroom and locked herself in. Karen banged on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Getting my things.”

  If anyone could help her get the bitch out of her life it was Nastos. She picked up her phone and sent him a text. Nastos, I need your help fast. It’s Ann. Come over now.

  As she was hitting Send, the door swung open and Falconer charged out with a small bag bulging with stuff.

  Karen forgot about the phone and blocked the hall. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Falconer punched Karen in the face and charged past. Karen recoiled from the strike, feeling hot liquid pouring out of her nose and down the back of her throat. She raised both hands to her nose as she hunched forward and spat out a mouthful of blood that sprayed on the walls, her pants and the floor below. With her airway clear she lunged after Falconer, one hand plugging her nose. Falconer reached for the door and was yanking it open when Karen caught up to her and pressed her against the wall. But Falconer was scrawny and lithe and wiggled by, and Grant found herself chasing her out the door and down the hallway.

  Carscadden put the car in park and took out the key. “Did Karen say what it’s about?”

  Nastos twisted to one side to secure his BlackBerry back on his hip. “No. And now she’s not answering. I asked if she wanted us to bring lunch. There’s a sitting area at the top of her building with tables, it would be a great place to eat. Great view of the city.”

  “Sounds good.”

  They exited the car. Carscadden pressed the remote to lock the doors, causing the horn to beep.

  Nastos smiled, “You realize we’re at the Toronto Police forensics lab. I don’t think anyone is going to steal your car.”

  Carscadden shrugged. “We’re on Jane Street in Thirty-One Division.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think the kids in this neighbourhood are going to bother with your Kenny Loggins CDs.”

  The receptionist was well dressed, with long dark hair. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Gus Randon. He asked us to drop by. He has something for us to pick up.”

  She picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “Two men at the counter for you, Gus. Okay, sure.” She put the phone down, grabbed two temporary ID cards from a stack and began recording the serial numbers on a clipboard. There was a slot in the glass screen and she slid two visitor tags under it. She said, “He’ll be right down,” then and pressed a button on the counter. The side door to the left popped open and Carscadden instinctively pulled it back partway.

  Gus Randon arrived with a warm smile. “Nastos, good to see you.” Randon was a short, bald thick man, his skin tone Mediterranean. He turned to Carscadden. “You must be Kevin Carscadden. Nice to meet you.”

  Carscadden reached his hand out, “Nice to meet you too.”

 
; To Nastos, Randon asked, “Have time for me to give your friend a tour?”

  “No, we have a lunch appointment with a client. But thanks, next time.”

  Gus waved a hand. “Follow me back to my office.”

  Grey carpet, white walls with framed crime-scene pictures and newspaper covers of various historic crimes were hung among plaques and awards. From the pictures and plaques it appeared as if Randon had worked every major homicide, abduction and rape in the city for the past ten years. He led them back to a large bright room that was probably a photo lab before everything evolved to digital. Nastos noted the tracks from curtain railings were still on the ceiling, the curtains now gone. A high white-topped counter against the south wall held a microscope and various slides. Randon flicked a switch on the microscope and an image appeared on the TV screen above it.

  “Check this out.” Nastos and Carscadden watched the screen while Randon moved the images on the microscope. “We score the fingerprint samples that get submitted — yours was a good lift, Nastos — then we check out the returns we get from AFIS. Three types of patterns — arches, whorls and loops — and variations of each. Anyway, the computer shows us likely matches but it still takes a person to verify it.”

  “Not for long,” Carscadden said.

  Randon never took his eyes from the microscope while he adjusted the focus on the image. “Oh yeah, it’s just a matter of time until the machines take over.” He stepped back and squinted. “There, take a look at that.”

  Nastos saw that Randon had put one image directly over another. They were perfect matches. “So our guy Rob Walker is in AFIS. I had a friend run him on CPIC but nothing came up.”

  “Well,” Randon reached behind the counter and produced a stack of papers, “Here’s his original booking information and here’s his mug shot.”

  Carscadden took the papers. “Kevin Lauder.” He began reading. “So who the hell is he?”

  Randon pointed to a place on the page. “Kevin Lauder. Accountant turned informant against a cocaine smuggling ring.”

  Nastos and Carscadden glanced at each other then turned back to Gus. Nastos said, “So it might have been a hit. People would pay to have him dead. And what’s an accountant and informant doing buying drugs at Trinity Park? Somehow they lured him there and shot him.”

  Carscadden closed the file. “Let’s get this to Grant, she can take it from here. Once she puts it out there, the Attorney General will start an investigation and we can back out of this.”

  Nastos didn’t answer as he thought through how far the investigation might go.

  Carscadden read the expression on Nastos’ face. “What?”

  “Yeah, the SIU should take this one now. They could invoke their mandate over something like this if they wanted to. And the more reason to get clear, if you ask me.”

  Randon said, “It’s insane that we have mall cops, university security guards investigating police officers whenever a civilian gets hurt. Special Investigations Unit? Yeah, they’re special, all right.”

  Carscadden lifted the papers up. “Gus, do you mind if we keep these, just to close the file?”

  “Sure thing. You guys want to see the other print?”

  Nastos said, “Pardon?”

  “Yeah, the second one. You might know her as Ann Falconer. You should check out what she had going on.” He offered up a few sheets of paper in each hand. He handed the first one to Carscadden. “This is her story.”

  He handed the bigger stack to Nastos. “This is the guy she was going to testify against. Angelo Moretti, the president of the Devil Dogs Motorcycle Club. Apparently she personally watched him murder three people. She’s the star witness. You run her real name, you’ll see that Moretti is looking at twenty-five years in jail based on her testimony. At his age that would be the rest of his life.”

  Nastos and Carscadden stared at each other, mouths hanging open.

  Randon continued, “Which would you rather do, hold the policy for her life insurance or be standing anywhere near her when she starts her car in the morning?”

  Nastos put his hands on his head. “Jesus, Karen, you’re in some serious trouble.”

  10

  Nastos and Carscadden sat idling in traffic on the Overlea Boulevard bridge. An ambulance, fire truck and a few police cars were blocking the right eastbound lane. Nastos noticed that no one was in a rush. The paramedics weren’t even out of their truck. Eventually a cop walked up to the ambulance on the passenger side, said something and the big truck pulled away. Soon the fire truck left, leaving just two police cars.

  Traffic eventually began moving when a cop decided to shut down a westbound lane and clear out the backlog of eastbound traffic. Nastos had paid little attention to any of this until they were going by the accident scene and Carscadden said, “Looks like a pedestrian got hit.”

  Nastos glanced over. She was under a yellow tarp, white platform shoes protruding at the far end near the sidewalk. A hand stuck out on one side. “Humm. Wonder if it was a suicide.”

  “Don’t they normally jump off the bridge?”

  “Maybe she was scared of heights, decided to take the better way.”

  Carscadden groaned. “Funny, the TTC’s motto. The world is not a happy place for everyone.”

  They parked in the visitor lot at 701 Don Mills Road, Grant’s condo. Nastos gave her cellphone another try then hung up. “Straight to answering machine.” It was nearly one in the afternoon and the sun had begun its dip into the western sky, burning the west face of the pale brick building. He sent a text, We’re here, and put his phone away.

  Nastos knocked on the door then tried the handle. The door swung open but there was no one inside. “Karen? Delivery guy, anyone home?”

  Carscadden peeked in. “Nice place.” His opinion changed when he was in far enough to notice the broken patio door and the signs of a struggle.

  Nastos pushed his way past. He dropped the takeout on the kitchen counter. “Hey, you home?” He barged into the family room then checked down the hallway to the bedrooms. Empty. He came back to the kitchen and saw the cellphone on the microwave, charging. He picked it up and checked for messages. She hadn’t answered a message for two hours. All of the calls were his except one from her work. There was broken glass everywhere. “I’ll call Jacques —”

  He felt his cell vibrate. The screen said unknown caller. “Hello?”

  “Nastos, it’s Karen. Where are you?”

  Nastos spoke loud so Carscadden wouldn’t miss it. “Karen. I’m in your kitchen, what the hell happened here?”

  He heard street traffic through the phone. “I’m at a pay phone at the Science Centre. Come pick me up.”

  “Jesus Christ, Karen —”

  He heard her suck in a breath. “Ann’s dead. Somebody killed her.”

  He cupped the phone and repeated to Carscadden, “Ann’s dead.”

  “What? How?”

  Nastos turned back to the phone. “What happened? What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Steve, just get over here, would ya?”

  He hung up the phone and said to Carscadden, “See? This is out of control.”

  Nastos drove the circle of the parking lot to the Ontario Science Centre. When Grant recognized them she ran over and slid into the back seat. She was pale, her eyes red. She brushed her hair back and leaned between the front two seats. “The cops must have found her. They must have been looking for her.”

  Nastos tried to torque around but was thwarted by the seat belt. Instead he rotated his ass on the seat to glance back at her while he drove. “Was that Falconer who managed to wander in front of traffic and get herself hit by the city bus on Overlea?”

  “Yeah.” She read the expression on his face. “She was pushed. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Jesus, Karen, I had to ask. You do
n’t think that maybe she might have been a little depressed and hopeless?”

  “It was murder, Nastos. She was murdered by cops. That’s where we’re at here. If you want to turn your back on me, go right ahead. But let’s not pretend that what happened didn’t happen.”

  Part of him felt that she wasn’t taking about Falconer anymore; she was talking about her and him. “I’m not saying that, Karen. Listen, I’ll give Jacques a call. Let’s meet up with him and see what he can do for us.” He took out a phone and started dialing.

  Carscadden said, “You okay with this? You okay with investigating cops for murder after what happened to you?”

  Nastos thought back to what it felt like sitting in an interrogation room, wasting his time declaring his innocence to a cop who, blinded by personal motivation, had already made up his mind. Nastos recalled what it felt like to be told that he was under arrest for murder when he knew he was innocent. Feeling the cuffs click into place around his wrists, the cold steel gouging into his skin, the disbelief of what he was up against — it was all surreal. Two years ago felt like two days. Now he was in the position of investigating two police officers for the same crime. He wanted to be sure. “The only thing we are looking for is the truth. If they did it, they deserve what’s coming.”

  Unfortunately he didn’t feel as determined as he sounded. He still found it hard to believe that two rookie cops could get into so much trouble. “We’ll be slow and careful.” And what the hell have we gotten ourselves into?

  Karen signed and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck. “Thank you. I can’t do this without you, both of you.”

  As he pulled the car to a stop, Nastos saw that Jacques was waiting for them, leaning against a black unmarked police car. Jacques was lean with a military haircut. When he retrieved a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket his movements appeared sharp and choreographed.

  The Chester Hill Lookout offered a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. To the southwest the CN Tower stood head and shoulders above the BMO, Bank of Nova Scotia and TD buildings — nearly tall enough to gouge into the lowest of the ragged grey clouds that scrolled across the blue sky.