by Richard Cain
Radix raised the gun again and jabbed it forward. “Why?”
“Because when we confronted them we barely made it out alive. They took our wallets, they know where we live, they can get at us and, more important, they can get at the people we love. You have to see that we’re in this together now. And if we work together we can take care of them before they take care of us.”
Morrison asked, “Why should we trust you?”
“Because I used to be a cop just like you. Something that was bigger than me and beyond my control took it away or I’d still be carrying a badge right now. These guys you’re up against are dangerous. Too dangerous for you. They have you doing everything except their laundry.” Nastos remembered the loss that Radix’s girlfriend said he had suffered and thought fast. “I have a young daughter, Josie, and I don’t want to see her hurt. Since her mom died, I’m all she’s got. I can’t imagine how hard it would be on her if she lost the last of her parents to assholes like this.”
Carscadden raised his hand, showing the swollen knuckle. “I got this from one of their faces. If the one guy wasn’t too drunk to fight, we’d be dead by now.”
Radix turned the gun on Carscadden. “And who the fuck are you?”
Carscadden shrugged. “I’m Kevin Carscadden. I’m a lawyer and work with Nastos here.”
Radix turned back to Nastos. “You’re Nastos? Detective Nastos?”
Morrison chimed in. “Holy shit, it is you. I’ve seen you on TV. You punched Dimebag on live TV.” Morrison smiled.
Carscadden finally found the confidence to take his eyes from Radix’s gun. “As your attorney, Nastos, I’m cautioning you not to make any comments since that matter is still before the courts.”
Radix jammed the gun toward Carscadden. “Shut your face, lawyer.” He said lawyer like the word tasted like battery acid.
“Face shut,” Carscadden replied.
To Nastos he said: “You two assholes were at my house. You said you were Professional Standards.”
Nastos rested his hands on the lip of the truck’s bed. “Can I put my hands here for a sec? I’m getting tired.” He took a breath and tried to show that he was relaxed, thinking that if he didn’t show any fear, Radix and Morrison would calm down too. It didn’t work, but Nastos’ perception of Radix began to evolve. Radix began looking younger, more fragile than hostile. Morrison too. Between the two of them they had less than five years on the job. The blind leading the blind. And they had been taken advantage of, their fears used against them, digging themselves in deeper while they tried to buy time. They were like junkies who haven’t realized that they’ve already hit rock bottom.
“Listen,” Nastos began, ignoring the fact that he had been at Radix’s house, “He’s my lawyer. Anything I say to him is in confidence. It’s legally protected. If he were your lawyer too then this whole conversation would be protected. We could all talk about what we know and none of it could be used to bite us in the ass.” Nastos pointed around at the sky. “If somehow we were being recorded, none of this could be used against us in any way.”
Morrison looked around, Radix didn’t.
It was a conscious choice by Nastos to use the word we as much as possible, a psychological technique called “forced teaming.” The more Nastos sold Radix and Morrison on the notion that they were all victims of the same men, the more likely it was that Radix would put the gun down. “I say we go someplace more private —”
“We stay here and we don’t need a fucking lawyer.”
“— or we can stay here.” He turned to Morrison. “Carscadden and I have already decided what we are willing to do to the bikers to protect our family. I’m betting that you guys are willing to do the same thing. So rather than you shooting us, and just digging yourselves in a deeper hole, I say we take them down. And end this thing once and for all. Make you guys look like heroes. Then you’d have your pick of specialty units.”
Morrison leaned his back against the passenger side of the truck. “Exactly, Radix. Sounds reasonable. This is the chance to turn it on them that we’ve been waiting for.”
Nastos continued, “Hell, we’ve already proven we can keep your secret about Walker. And Falconer too.”
Radix looked perplexed. “That’s the second time you mentioned her. We had nothing to do with that.”
“Really?” Nastos tried to read their body language. Radix did seem confused. Morrison was scared, but he had been scared since they had gotten there. “Yeah,” Radix explained. “We had nothing to do with that. I thought she committed suicide. Or got high and wandered in front of traffic.”
Nastos watched both Radix and Morrison’s facial expressions. Radix was confused. Morrison nodded along with Radix.
“My mistake,” he said. “Come on. Put the gun down. Did they call you? Did they put you up to killing us?”
Morrison answered. “Yeah. They called me. Told us we might run into two guys. They said if we shot you it’s over and we’re in the clear.”
Carscadden tested the waters and opened his face. “That was bullshit. You know that now, right?”
“Yeah, we just had to be sure,” Radix answered. He paused a moment then put the gun down.
Nastos felt his blood pressure returning to normal, leaving behind a residual headache. “I need a beer. This is the second time today I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“It’s kinda nice to feel like we aren’t in this on our own anymore.” Morrison looked to Radix for approval, receiving none.
Nastos used his hands to scrape his hair back. “You’re not. None of us are. Now it’s their turn to feel some heat. It’s their turn to feel hunted.”
Morrison nodded excitedly to Radix. “We’re not alone anymore. We might finally have a way out of this.” Radix avoided eye contact, crossed his arms and chewed his lower lip, which made Nastos feel that Radix wasn’t yet one hundred percent trustworthy.
19
Karen’s journalist ID helped her past the main reception and into the revered workspaces of the Homicide Unit. She had worked projects in here on two occasions as a third-line investigator, one time for a man who took out his job search frustrations by dismembering his entire family, the other for a young mother who boiled her baby in a bath then went clubbing while the poor thing died of neglect. Both were cases of infant homicide where Sexual Assault officers were frequently seconded for practical reasons such as interviewing children witnesses. However, Homicide was still policing’s big show and she had never made it in full time. Aside from the prestige, Homicide was also an opportunity to be noticed by the investigative elite and it was the closest she’d ever been to feeling like she was on a fast track.
Her current boss at the newspaper, the future cat-lady spinster Megan Swan, had called and left countless text messages. The last one, the one she actually replied to after the past four days, read Get into the office today at two p.m. with everything you have. And Karen, it better be good.
She had nothing new. Jacques was her only hope.
The outside door was stencilled Major Crime Unit, Homicide. Inside was a receptionist with Greek features and long black hair. She resembled a stone-faced Threshold Guardian of ancient mythology. Upon seeing Karen, she smiled insincerely. “Yes?”
Karen lifted the press pass from her chest. “Jacques Lapierre, please?”
The woman turned her back to refer to a sign-in board. “Okay. Yeah, he’s in.”
“So I can go back then? I know the way.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Karen zigzagged through the cubicles. In the centre, an area with the least privacy and no clear view of the outside, she found the temporary desks used by the seconded officers brought in for project work. Although most of them had been investigators and detectives for years, here they were essentially on probation.
She found Jacques sitting at his desk wearing earbuds a
nd watching a police interrogation that was playing on the monitor. He sat and typed. Encapsulating the weak denials and lies from the people under investigation was the kind of slave labour that was routinely dumped on probates to test the degree to which they were prepared to ass-suck for a full-time slot.
Karen studied him. He had the looks but he was no Nastos. When she tickled his neck he dumped the earplugs and spun around.
“Oh, Karen, what are you doing here?”
She slid a chair over and sat down, watching him change from curious to slightly angry that she didn’t answer fast enough. He had suffered enough. “I just need a favour.”
Confused. He’s got a cute confused. She paused while a couple of detectives squeezed past. Both stole second glances at her legs.
“What kind of favour, Karen?” He pushed back from her, turned off the monitor and put the earbuds in the desk. “Come on, we can talk outside.”
“Not so fast, Sunshine.” She eyed the files and corresponding DVDs stacked on his desk. She rolled forward and began perusing. “Listen, Jacques, I’m in a bit of a tough spot at work. The private sector doesn’t exactly have a lot of patience and they expect this stuff called results. And I haven’t exactly been delivering much lately since both of my sources were murdered and no one has solved the cases yet.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should have spent the last week fishing for a story in court instead of coming here.”
“Anything good in court is already being covered, you know that.”
He kicked his chair back from her. “Listen, Karen, I’m not telling you how to do your job, all I’m saying is that I’m on probation here. I can’t be giving out tips, not yet. When I’m a made man I’ll make you the pipeline. Until then I have to keep my head down.” Jacques wasn’t in the mood for fun.
She pointed to the screen. “Still on bitch work.”
“Yeah, you know how it works.”
Another detective passed by. This one had a bagel in his mouth and was swinging his arms into a black suit jacket. He shouted, “Lapierre, you have the phones.”
Jacques deadpanned, “I’ve had the phones since January, you lazy wop.”
The detective took a bagel out of his mouth and blew Jacques a kiss before disappearing down the hallway.
Karen leaned in. “Are you going to help me out or what?”
Jacques produced a twisted face and huffed. “One sec.” He spun around and dug through papers. “Here.” He turned back and handed her some pages.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Ann’s handler with Witness Protection. He’s a York guy. Sit down here.” He pointed to a chair and she slid it over. “Read it here, make no notes, and when you’re done,” he paused, “we’re done. Until, like I said, I’m a made man.”
“Jacques, I’d bear your children.”
“Go right ahead. At times I can’t bear them myself.”
Another voice came from behind. “Who the hell is this?”
Jacques looked up at the ceiling and clasped his hands on his head. “Jesus Christ, Karen.”
She pivoted to see an older man standing there. He had a tie that was too short on his protruding belly and two day’s growth on his face. She extended her hand. “Karen Grant, Toronto Tribune.”
“Yeah, well, I’m Detective-Sergeant Terry Mallon.” He stared at her, his eyes narrowing as he looked her up and down. There wasn’t even a hint of attraction. The only emotion he felt for pretty girls was resentment. “Karen Grant — the one who was fired for releasing confidential case files to the media. Now you’re in here sticking your tits in Jacques’ face hoping he’s as corrupt as you are? Get the hell out of my police station.”
Jacques stood. “It’s not like that, Terry, she’s actually been helping me and —”
He ignored Jacques and continued, “Karen, you waiting for a more personal invitation?”
“Fine, I’m leaving.” She straightened up her jacket.
“Jacques, you’re doing great work here. You don’t need Ginger torpedoing your career before it even gets started.”
“Right, boss.”
“And by the way, I need a volunteer to scribe for the surveillance guys who are doing a track in Windsor.” He sneered at Karen then said to Jacques, “You’re my guy.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Windsor? For how long?” Jacques shot glances of surprise between Terry and Karen.
“A week tops. And before you bitch, it’s for your own good. I like you, Jacques and I want see you make full time. This will help you stay away from girls like her who shake their asses for a story.”
KAREN SAT IN THE SPACIOUS GLASS BOARDROOM, UTTERLY ALONE. SHE WAS TWENTY-TWO STOREYS OVER THE CITY IN THE TORONTO TRIBUNE CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS BUILDING FACING SOUTHEAST WATCHING A SETTING SUN AND GREYING SKY.
Industry jargon referred to it as getting “called in.” Those two words said it all. There goes Karen, she just got called in. She had seen it before in the short time since she had been working there: the “walk of shame” from the main elevator around reception to the corner strategy room. It was the kind of moment where the others, the survivors, would avert their eyes and be thankful it wasn’t them this time. But they weren’t so much acquaintances as competitors. There were a dozen or so second-string writers and journalists doing straight news or opinion work who were gunning for her byline. When they weren’t working on novels or their CVs so they could get off the sinking ship and into a teaching job, they were sharpening their wits.
Karen watched through the window as a large jet banked wide in a counter-clockwise arc over the city dropping through the control zones as it made its final approach for Pearson airport. And so endeth the career.
Since leaving the police service it had felt like she was in free fall. You think that the entire way down to the ground when you skydive feels like a gut-churning roller-coaster ride but it doesn’t. You get the initial adrenaline dump when you step out of the door, then your entire body drops at once, all at the same time, so there is no inner torsion or inversion. It’s just a somersault and wind as you leave the jumping platform behind and hurtle to the ground and death.
The only way she could get out from under this was to break the corruption story of Radix and Morrison and become untouchable. In a world where every ten-year-old with a blog page is a journalist willing to work for free for fifteen minutes of fame, or the average schmuck would sell his soul to be that “ignorant local” TV crews find for the story of the week, she had no chance. With policing behind her, if she were fired from journalism, she’d be on welfare, scrambling for work, selling jeans in a mall. Note to self: Life is not fair.
She jolted when the door hinge clicked behind her. Megan Swan was there with some guy who looked like a lawyer and two women from HR. Swan showed no emotion. The two women produced awkward smiles. Karen greeted them, extending her hand and playing nice. Would they fire me with four people? Maybe this is just a performance management team? She knew she was kidding herself. She took a seat at the table. Her last meeting with the police service was almost the same except there she had a union guy with her. Here she was alone.
Swan started, “Karen I want to thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
Short notice? You’ve called me a dozen times a day for a week. “Any time. Besides, I wanted to drop off some opinion stories on the new pan-handling bylaw.”
Swan shared a glance with the lawyer who gave a subtle “no” vote. “That’s great, Karen, thanks. But what we need to discuss —”
“You can’t fire me.” She wished that she hadn’t blurted it out. “I’m in this too deep. You know I can’t discuss this all in front of HR but you know where this story is going. This is going to be front-page news for a month. This is going to go international. All I need is a few more days.”
Swan exhaled. “I’m not very goo
d at this, Karen, but I have to be firm, I owe it to you.” Instead of being firm Swan slid over some papers. “This is your release from the contract. Here’s a cheque for your final pay, vacation payout and eight weeks’ severance. That’s pretty generous considering how long you’ve been here.”
Later Karen would be surprised at how rational she had become, careful not to burn bridges. She put on a good show. “Listen, I appreciate the way you are doing this, and if I were in your place I would probably do the same thing. Like you say, I haven’t produced much lately because I have been gambling on this story. I underestimated how close it was to breaking and I’ve been taking advantage of your generosity.” She stood and collected the papers. “Listen. I’m still working this story and when it breaks, I want you to know I’ll give you first crack at it.”
Swan tried not to be insulting and by doing so was only more insulting. “Great, Karen, thanks.”
Swan accompanied Karen while she cleaned out her desk, then left her with two dispassionate security men who escorted Karen to the elevator. The elevator was spacious, with tinted glass and geared in such a way that the stops and starts were essentially imperceptible, leaving only the downward progression of the overhead floor lights and the sinking feeling in her gut to remind Karen that yet another career was dead.
20
Morrison hadn’t realized how it made him feel to be sitting next to Radix nearly 24/7 until he hit the open road by himself. Highway 401 east of the city, a flat three-lane wide road divided by a grass median, was hypnotizing him. Skyscrapers, pollution, people everywhere were gone. The outside world consisted of a clear blue sky and farmers’ fields. He was alone with the radio, with a cooler riding shotgun that contained bottled water, diced fruit and a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
The sun hung over the horizon and it cast a burnt orange light on cornfields, the asphalt road and roadside truck stops. Morrison allowed some of the brightness to creep its way inside him. With Nastos and Carscadden offering to help, hope felt alien and was taking some getting used to.
