Worschuk did, as did most local newshounds when it came to the male prostitution stories of the previous owner. Now was the time to offer up something of his, the knowledge of what he knew. He was searching for the tell, the slightest of indicators that could confirm the whereabouts of Claire Hebert. Anything.
“Yeah, it’s been a busy twenty-four hours for the sex trade.”
~
Cindy felt her back tense up. If it was any other day, the back-handed comment would have not even registered. She was bending over when it happened, placing a pot into a cupboard, turned away from Worschuk. Shit! she thought. This fucker’s digging for a lead. In the nanoseconds that followed, she thought of the best response. Steady, matter of fact, nonchalant. Don’t give him a reason to stick around. Make this place cold.
“Yeah, I saw something in the Sentinel about it. Some working girl and an HR?”
Worschuk wasn’t going to get anywhere — and Cindy could see that he knew it. No flinch, no reaction. Just some recovering addict working in a soup kitchen who can read. He wiped his hands on a nearby dish rag and retrieved his smartphone. “Yeah, not a good week to be in the sex trade, or formerly in it. Did you hear about the explosion on Main Street?”
“The what on Main Street?”
“The sex shop, near Cathedral, The Other Woman or something. I was there right after it happened. Got a video in here somewhere.”
Oh God. Tommy!
“Yeah, I think there were a couple of bodies in the place.”
Tommy and Jasmine. Oh my fucking God!
Worschuk found the video and pressed Play, handing the phone to Cindy. “Here it is. Sorry, my camerawork is a little shaky.”
Cindy fused every fibre together in her tiny frame. No tells. No tells. Even if you see Tommy cut into twenty-seven pieces, you WILL NOT BUST! DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME? YOU WILL GIVE THIS FUCKER NOTHING! Cindy watched what little could be seen from the impromptu coverage: a lot of smoke, car alarms going off, general panic. No sign of Tommy. No pieces of Jasmine, either. She watched as the camera panned to the street. The battered Cavalier, the glassless Civic. The Econoline. Anyone else would have burst. Cindy looked at the shattered van, with the quizzical look of an eight-year-old. Worschuk stared at her hard. Cindy held it together, no tells, no flinches, nothing. Her chuckle subsided to a warm smile as she handed the phone back to Worschuk.
“That piece-of-shit van,” said Cindy. “It’s always stalling out somewhere.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nathaniel knew that Sawatski would be tied up with the investigation at the explosion for at least a couple of hours. He knew that Claire was in the wind; though near, probably ten minutes from where he was parked. He had retrieved a long-lens camera from the trunk, capturing as many stills of the crime scene as he could from the rooftop of an evangelical hall just south of the explosion, on the opposite side of Main Street. The lock was conveniently broken off of the access ladder shroud. There was enough of a façade on the wall facing the street to shield his presence, not that anyone was looking.
There was a clear view of the scene. The building had seen mostly cosmetic repairs over the years, which explained how it so easily caved in with the force of the explosion. The laundromat was largely intact, escaping the brunt of the blast with half of the front glass blown out. The wife of the owner had been apprised of the discovery of her husband’s body. She was inconsolable, restrained from entering the scene by the largest of the available rookies. Nathaniel scanned the pictures, uploaded to his police-spec laptop. There were no people of concern in the crowd. His next scan brought up the detail on the license plates of the totalled vehicles. The Cavalier and the Civic were clean for wants, though the Cavalier owner was in for an expensive surprise; they had missed their last insurance instalment. The van came back as a commercial registration to a numbered company. Nathaniel dug deeper into the principals. The company was operating as a non-profit, a community mission of sorts.
“Shitbag Central,” said Nathaniel as he continued to probe into the owner, a Pastor Thomas Jasper Bosco, no official ties to any mainstream churches. Notable in the query was the criminal background, especially the nature of the charges. Nathaniel respected the art of smuggling. It took a keen mind to pull it off, and Bosco must have had a lengthy career, until his arrest. Nathaniel smirked as he read the details of the arrest. Son of a bitch was set up. The searches brought up the untimely demise of Jeremy Bosco, the crime scene splashed across a scanned image from the Winnipeg Sentinel. Nathaniel wondered how Thomas Jasper Bosco would have taken the news, how it would have shifted his modus operandi. The Jesus Train was a pretty big shift, though it wasn’t squeaky clean. Though not criminal in nature, The Guiding Light had been cited numerous times by the department of social services, as well as for building code violations. Nathaniel dismissed these concerns as part of the territory, as a quick search of similar infractions confirmed that every independent community mission had logged similar complaints. It all seemed very plausible. That’s when Nathaniel knew that it needed checking out.
~
Tommy and Freddie the Ford followed the water department van from a safe distance as it headed east on Logan Avenue, just slightly under the speed limit. If there was a water emergency somewhere, the driver of the van didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to get to it. The old Ford had worked most of the storage bugs out of his system by now, settling into an idle speed that didn’t need coaxing from Tommy’s right foot at the traffic lights. The van squeaked through a late yellow signal at Salter and Logan, leaving Tommy and Freddie at the light, behind a larger U-Haul rental truck. By the time he was able to steer Freddie around it, the water department van was gone. Tommy decided to head back to The Guiding Light.
Tommy was just about to make the turn into the back lane behind the Light when he stomped on the brake pedal. The water department van was parked in the lane, about halfway down the length of the snow-covered ruts. He put Freddie into reverse, keeping the Ford out of sight. Tommy exited the cab as quietly as possible, making sure not to latch the door in a noisy fashion. A heavy vintage downspout on the corner of the building was enough to shield his view, with a gap between the pipe and the building for clandestine watch. The van was running, with soft plumes of white exhaust wafting away from the rear. The driver was nowhere in sight. Tommy couldn’t see if there was anyone in the cab. He decided to move closer.
As Tommy entered the lane, he noticed the driver, crouched down, moving snow away from the water main feeding The Guiding Light. Tommy moved quietly to the rear of the van, half-pleased with himself for his quiet approach, half-concerned with what he would do next. He inched his way along the passenger side of the van, keeping his shuffle in time with the snow clearing of the water department employee. As he peered through the passenger window, Tommy saw the usual trappings of any service vehicle: Tim Hortons cups, invoice holders, and a few tools in the footwell. When he looked back at the water department employee, he breathed a sigh of relief; he was turning off the water. Tommy knew it was a distinct possibility after the latest round of bills spilled across his desk. He wished he had kept the cash from Paulie Noonan’s wallet at the landfill.
Tommy knew he was going to startle the water department employee from any angle, so he tried to make sure he wasn’t in swinging range of the shut-off tool, should it be swung in fear. He headed to the back of the van, to appear as though he had quietly approached from behind. He then found his inner asshole. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Tommy. “We just paid it two days ago!”
The water department employee did swing around, without using his shut-off tool as a sword. “Jesus Christ, man,” said the employee. “You just about scared the shit out of me!”
Tommy continued the role. “You know, you guys got a lot of fucking nerve, turning off the water to a bunch of homeless people.” He pointed at the cuts on his face. “Look at this,” said Tommy. “This is ho
w they act when they have water. How happy do you think they’re going to be without it?”
The water department employee muttered under his breath as he walked over to the driver’s door of the van. He reached inside and produced a pink copy of a disconnection order. “Hey, don’t come down on me, man,” said the employee. “I’m just doing my job.” Tommy grabbed the order, acting as though he was reading the fine print. He threw it back at the employee.
“All I know is you’d better get your supervisor on the phone and ask if he wants to get this story on the six o’clock news tonight or not.” The employee looked at Tommy’s stare for a moment, and then relented. “You know, this shit wouldn’t happen if you paid your bill on time. Just so you know.” He bit his lip, as he pondered his next move. “Just go pay something. You’re like three blocks from city hall.”
Tommy turned down the act. “Hey, sorry I yelled at you, man. I know you’re just doing your job. How much do I gotta pay?”
“Just something, anything,” said the water department employee. “Like even forty bucks will probably make it cool. I’ll say I couldn’t find the valve, okay? And you’ll need this,” said the employee, handing the crumpled disconnection order to Tommy.
Tommy smiled his best smile of appreciation. “Thanks man, I’ll whip over there right now.” The water department employee nodded, and stowed his shut-off tool in the rear of the van. He paused at the driver’s door. “And get some louder boots, man.”
Tommy waved as he watched the water department van spin through the ruts. He wasn’t convinced that this was a simple disconnection visit. He wasn’t convinced that there was anything wrong with the water. There was only one thing that he was convinced of: time was running out for Claire Hebert.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Miles Sawatski got into the driver’s seat of the Crown Vic as Gayle Spence scanned the car-mounted laptop. “I got nothing on this Bosco guy since that federal rap you told me about,” said Spence. She tapped a few more keys. “Nope, just fines and warnings from the city, mostly health and building code stuff.”
“Well, this one is looking like a homicide,” said Sawatski, knowing full well that it was. “The fire didn’t get too hot, and it turns out that the laundromat guy had just enough pants left on to cover his knees, if you get my drift.”
Gayle looked up from the laptop. “Okay, so Laundry Man is fucking the other woman at The Other Woman? Brilliant. So, we like Mrs. Laundry Man for this?”
“Maybe,” said Sawatski. He wondered if the wild goose–chase approach for the double homicide behind him might be enough to split the pair up, keeping Spence at the scene of the double while he braced Tommy Bosco. He didn’t know how much thug he would have to use on Bosco for information on Claire Hebert or any luggage she might have been carrying with a ledger or two inside. He didn’t want to drag Spence into his mess. “Why don’t you hitch a ride with the techs, see if the M-E can get a quick look at Mr. and Mrs. Crispy?”
“Crispy?” said Spence. “They looked a little blackened Cajun to me.”
Sawatski just looked at her the way any partner would when driving home the needed tasks.
“Ugh,” said Spence. “I’ll find out what I can about the Crispy couple.” Spence exited the Crown Vic. Sawatski headed to The Guiding Light.
~
Tommy was starting to feel the fatigue. He sat in Freddie’s cab, listening to the stumbling engine, prodding the throttle every few seconds out of habit. There was too much happening, too much to process. The explosion, Claire-Bear, the cops, the HRs, plus whoever would be freelancing for the hit. This wasn’t going to end well. The chances of moving quickly, quietly, to avoid detection, were fading faster than the afternoon sun on a January day.
What does any of this have to do with the water? Tommy went there, to the place of X-Files weird. He wasn’t sure what he and Freddie had just encountered in the back lane. The water was getting turned off or was in danger of being turned off on a regular basis at The Guiding Light. This was normal. A whole bunch of other water department service trucks leaving the federal virus lab at the same time felt a lot more like a tin-foil-hat conspiracy scheme than a happy coincidence. Even if there was something in the water, there was still the primary issue at hand: Claire Hebert was a walking dead girl.
Tommy weighed his options. One: throw her to the wolves. She had done untold amounts of damage to him if he chose to accept that any of the outcomes that had occurred were in no way related to his own bad choices — but he couldn’t walk away. He could feel the sting of the Padre’s bible for just thinking it. Two: get her out of town. This wasn’t going to be easy. Tommy figured that his chances weren’t better than twenty percent. The locket was the key for a clean exit for Claire, and Tommy didn’t have it. He hoped it was in the smouldering debris of The Other Woman. What if it wasn’t? What if it had been found? It wasn’t the cops he was worried about; it was the various soldiers of the HRs. If there was a sliver of information, no matter how slight, it meant that they would be coming. They would not be cordial. They would kill for what they needed to know, even if it was just the next piece in the puzzle. The Guiding Light would burn quick. The residents would die in agony. Cindy. She would try to fight. She wouldn’t win.
What does the water have to do with the ledger? Was this more about the pages within and less about the dead HR? Was the throat slit that set the events in motion just an unhappy coincidence? Who was pulling the strings? Tommy didn’t believe that the HRs were in the water-doctoring game, assuming that the game was even in play. Jimmy Stephanos was never lauded as anything approaching a mastermind. He was a mid-level manager with the basic responsibilities of a biker gang: drugs, prostitution, and keeping these areas in check through whatever means necessary. If the HRs were involved in anything above these elements, they were subcontractors. Their awareness of the packages, the formulas, and the parts-per-million of the chemical cocktails was most likely limited to the role of bagman. There would be no need to question this area of criminal enterprise, especially if it didn’t seem criminal. Whatever the HRs were getting paid, it was enough to look the other way.
Tommy eased Freddie the Ford into drive, depositing him at the rear of the Light, tapping the bumper ever so slightly against the wall to keep the battery from getting stolen. He took his time ascending the stairs, though not the climb of apprehension. He entered his apartment. Claire was sleeping soundly on the couch. She needed it. There would be more bouts of the sweats, the shakes, and generally bad behaviour from Miss Hebert. The stillness of the moment gave Tommy pause to smile. He looked away from Claire-Bear just as Cindy came through the door.
Cindy was shaking. At first, she didn’t see Tommy. When she did, the tears erupted. She ran into him hard and held him even harder. Tommy held her close as she convulsed, subduing the sobs, which would have awakened most of the residents.
She pulled back slowly, looking up at Tommy as she cradled his weary face. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered.
“So did I,” said Tommy. “The piece-of-shit van is though.”
Cindy smirked. “Yeah those window bars did a number on it. Did Jasmine . . .”
“It doesn’t look good,” said Tommy, as softly as he could. “I think she’s gone.”
Cindy buried her head back into Tommy’s chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sanctuary of her arms. He shifted his hands to her shoulders, and she looked at his eyes.
“How did you find out about the explosion?”
“I saw the video.”
“What video?”
“The video that the guy from the Sentinel took, at The Other Woman, right after the explosion.”
“What’s his name?”
“I think it was Davey Woros-something-or-other. Big fat redhead.”
Tommy rubbed Cindy’s arms as he processed the revelation. Things were getting much too busy for h
is liking. There were only two other people who could be coming through the door of The Guiding Light in short order: a cop or a killer.
Tommy released his hold on Cindy, heading back to the storage area. He whipped back the curtain, reaching for the dangling light string in the semi-dark. The illumination revealed an old wooden step ladder and the roof access hatch in the ceiling. He moved the ladder into position. Cindy knew the drill. She steadied the ladder as Tommy scrambled up, stopping just before the top of the hatch. She handed him a large rubber mallet, a required tool in the winter months to release the ice buildup on the hatch lid. Four solid whacks on the battered tin released the lid. Tommy poked his head up like a concerned prairie dog, scanning the roof for any unwanted visitors. He reached downwards with his loose hand, feeling for the strap of the binoculars that Cindy had retrieved from their case. He ascended to the roof.
The minimal insulation of The Guiding Light meant that heat escaped easily, keeping most of the roof clear from snow during the winter months. The downspouts would quickly become overwhelmed with the ice melt, forming freestyle stalactites of rust-stained ice, gripping each corner of The Guiding Light’s exterior. The same insulation properties were in play with the surrounding rooftops, close enough to the Light that no great Hollywood-style leaps were required to change vantage points. It was easy to spot an idling car with the current winter chill. The exhaust smoke would rise in a lazier fashion than that of passing cars. Tommy headed to the front of the building, using the crumbling brick façade as cover.
The first idler was a late model Chrysler 300 with deep tint on the windows. It seemed a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, possibly an HR associate. There was an old Ford Ranger with some form of metal cargo box in the back. He couldn’t make out the driver, though he did notice that the passenger was almost twice his size. On the opposite side of the street, a Winnipeg Sentinel Cavalier sent up its tailpipe plume, a large driver behind the wheel. Must be the big fat redhead. Tommy pivoted, checking the rest of the one-way street. An older rusty General Motors full-sized beast was idling at the curb, its lights turned off. Nice to see you, Dad. How’s Chico?
Clean Sweep Page 16
