“Hey, Fletch,” said Sawatski. “Yeah, I wish. I guess they’ve got to pay for the new station first.” Sawatski looked outside at Fletcher’s idling rig, a very shiny International flat deck wrecker with an equally shiny BMW 7 Series strapped to it. “Is that a new one?”
“They both are,” said Fletcher. “Get this: the truck’s a repo, too! Only cost me seventeen grand at the auction.”
“That ride makes a lotta sense for the Repo Man.” said Sawatski. “Hey, isn’t your yard around here somewhere?”
“Yeah, we took over that old Dodge dealer’s compound on Partridge,” said Fletcher. “Locks up tight, nice high fence, keeps the neighbours happy. Hey, if you know anybody looking for cheap wheels, we’ve got the towing auction next week.”
“Anything good?” said Sawatski. “I kinda need something.” Sawatski paused and looked around the store first before he leaned in closer. “Actually, Fletch, I kinda need something right now.”
Fletcher nodded in kind, mimicking the store-wide scan. “Message received and understood. Besides, you never know when I’ll need backup. It’s almost like a reality show some days. Aren’t you up for retirement soon? I could use a quality guy.”
“Yeah, quality,” said Sawatski. He thought about just how little quality he had recently exhibited. “Let me get your coffee, Fletch. It’s the least I can do.”
Sawatski followed Fletcher the short drive to the towing compound. The lot had approximately two hundred cars lined up for the next auction. It was easy to spot the newest cars for the sale, as they weren’t completely buried in snow. He had explained the GPS problem on the Crown Vic without getting into all the details as to why he had to ditch it. “Deep undercover stuff, I get it,” said Fletcher as he flipped through the auction list for cars that still had active tags. “Looks like you’ve got your choice of classy or trashy,” said Fletcher.
“Classy?” said Sawatski.
“That would be the 1996 Jaguar Vanden Plas,” said Fletcher.
“And what about the trashy?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you; I’ve got to show you.” Fletcher disappeared into the shop while Sawatski waited. He hadn’t even noticed the dogs in the compound, who seemed more interested in getting ear scratches from Sawatski than barking at a new stranger. Inside the shop, something roared to life with a low grumble. The overhead door started to rise. The exhaust fog was thick as the trashy wagon ventured forward. Sawatski blinked. He could vaguely remember the period of automotive customization known as vanning, though as memory served, it had lasted about as long as disco. The painted theme on the sides looked like a cross between Star Trek and fantasy porn, with plenty of airbrushing that never quite hit the mark of artistic merit. The exhaust left through dual side-mounted pipes, while the tires and wheels looked equally vintage, accented by Iron Cross windows in the rear and a tubular chrome grille up front. Sawatski figured it was probably a Chevy, though it was hard to tell with all the custom touches. Through the windshield, he could see Fletcher grinning like a Cheshire cat, with a string of dingle balls dancing above his head. He put the van into park, kicking down the high idle before exiting. “So whaddya think?”
Sawatski stared at the cartoon-like breasts of one of the Barbarella-esque space swashbucklers. “So, where’s that Jaguar?”
“Yeah, about that. It’s nice, but the big kitty doesn’t like the cold.” Fletcher pointed to the Vanden Plas inside the shop, its hood wide open. “I think it needs an alternator, or a starter, or maybe a boat anchor and a good stiff push down the North Main boat launch.”
Sawatski quickly realized that the boogie van was his only choice. He arranged for Fletcher to follow him with the van to the District Three police station on Hartford Avenue, about three minutes away from the compound. Sawatski knew that Sangster would be watching the Crown Vic move on the GPS map. The stop at the station wouldn’t have seemed suspect, as the cold weather often wreaked havoc with the in-car laptops. There were backup units at all the districts for quick changeovers. Sawatski parked the Crown Vic at the rear of the station, bringing in the laptop to the desk sergeant. He quickly swapped it for another unit and then headed over to the detectives’ section. The desks were deserted except for a uniform who had ducked in to have a conversation with his girlfriend, a chat that sounded anything but PG. The uniform was surprised to see Sawatski. He quickly ended the call, nodding to Sawatski as he left.
Sawatski put the laptop on one of the desks, firing up Constable Herridge’s desktop computer. He lucked out with the password, though it was probably even money that Herridge’s password would be the same string of digits that most cops used for their desktops; his badge number, which was on various pieces of department correspondence. Sawatski had one thing left to check through official channels. He punched in the license plate he had seen in the Salisbury House parking lot: 729 DWN. The plate came back to a 2008 Chrysler 300-C, registered to the Department of Weights and Measures for the Province of Manitoba. Sawatski figured that it had to be a bogus tag.
Sawatski was preparing to go offline. There would be no Crown Vic to track, no laptop signature in motion, and no cell phone to ping from the transmission towers. The boogie van was clean, as far as he knew. He found a universal charger that fit his phone in an unlocked desk drawer, making sure to put all the phone alerts into bedside mode. He stuffed the phone under the desk, plugging it into a power bar that was hidden by a tangled mess of electrical cords. If anyone was currently watching him, it would appear as though Sawatski was checking on leads for Claire Hebert. Sawatski waited till the hallway to the rear was clear of any uniforms. The camera that had the view of the exit was at least twenty years old. Sawatski could have easily pulled the coaxial cable off the camera, though a dead camera was sure to get someone’s attention. As helpful as cameras had been to modern policing, there had been instances where a recording could hurt a case, rather than help it. Sawatski removed a small jar of Carmex lip balm from his jacket pocket. He figured his chances were fifty-fifty that someone would be watching the hallway camera feed at that moment. He took a generous swipe of the balm and quickly spread it over the camera lens. He slipped out the back, his image obscured by the greasy smear. He headed over to the side street where Fletcher was waiting with the boogie van. “That must have been some dump you took in there,” said Fletcher.
“It was a stinker,” said Sawatski. “Just wait till it hits the fan.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Everything was quiet at the St. John’s library branch. Cindy busied herself with the newsprint of the day while Claire tried to relieve the boredom. She wandered through the stacks, wondering if any of the volumes present had a chapter on what she should do next, if there would be a next anything to indulge in. If everything did go according to plan, Claire knew that the party was over. She was fast approaching the age where her unique talents were unemployable. She hoped that she might be able to hoodwink some rich old man into a comfortable lifestyle, with trips, clothes, and a few credit cards with her new name on them. She knew that it meant she would still be a whore of sorts. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about carrying a razor in her boot anymore.
Claire wanted a cigarette, but she didn’t feel like asking Cindy for it. She checked a librarian’s desk near the front entrance. The top drawer was locked, though the lock looked old and tired. A look under the desk blotter revealed a dull letter opener. With a little leverage, the drawer slid open and a pack of Peter Jacksons presented itself, with a lighter stuffed where three cigarettes had previously been. She gave little thought to the No Smoking signs as she lit the cigarette. A half-full cup of cold coffee became the ashtray. The desk had pictures of its occupant, a heavy-set woman with mousy grey hair, with at least two cats accompanying her in each picture. The cup must have been part of a birthday bouquet. Claire pondered the quotation on the cup. “It’s nifty to be fifty,” she said as she exhaled.
“Yeah, like you’ll e
ver find out.” Cindy was leaning up against one of the stacks near the desk. “Toss me a dart.”
Claire was getting too tired to be annoyed anymore. She threw the pack wide and feeble, but Cindy was quick on the draw. One of their stomachs grumbled. “Let’s see if the cat lady has any kibble,” said Claire-Bear. The bottom drawer revealed a meagre picnic: a six-pack of generic diet cola and a package of equally generic crème-filled cookies. The pair ate, drank, and smoked.
Cindy finally broke the silence between them. “So, you sliced up that Stephanos pretty good.”
“Well, it’s not like I had any experience,” said Claire-Bear. “Not like you.”
Cindy smirked. “Yeah, the Kildonan Park Incident. I thought they’d lock me up and throw away the key for killing that piece of wife-murdering shit. Next thing you know, I’m getting interviewed by that Cloutier dude on CJOB, getting free shit all over town. The Triumph dealer even fixed my bike for free!” Cindy took a reflective drag, exhaling just as long. “Yeah, they all said I was a hero, but I sure as hell didn’t feel like one. But I’d damn well do it again. It’s the only solution for some of these assholes.”
“Amen to that,” said Claire. She paused, realizing what she had just said. “So are you, like, ‘born again’ like Bosco?”
“Tommy’s not born again,” said Cindy. “He’s just trying to be as little of an asshole as possible.”
“I remember when I had a little asshole,” said Claire. “That was a long time ago.”
“Surgery is probably your only option there,” said Cindy. “As for personality, you’re still a little bit of an asshole. Actually, more like a —”
“A cunt?”
“Your words, not mine. But yeah, you’re a little on the cunty side. You might want to work on that.”
Claire stood up, looking at some of the books on the stacks, and wandered into the religion section. She pulled down a weathered King James edition. “Is there really an answer in all this prehistoric shit?”
“Yes and no,” said Cindy. “It’s basically the world’s oldest self-help book, and like any self-help book, it has some of the answers. The rest you gotta fill in for yourself.”
Claire flipped through the thin pages, hoping that the answer would somehow spring forth from the page and allay her fears. She closed the book shut and looked at Cindy. “Well, I think I’ll just work on being less cunty for a while.” The two women almost managed an in-unison smile then, which came to an abrupt halt as the side door opened. “It’s just me,” said Tommy. “Don’t start throwing National Geographics at me.”
The two women came around the corner carefully. Tommy was already doling out the bounty from the A&W bags; Mama Burgers, Teen Burgers, and a few orders of onion rings. As they devoured the contents, Tommy relayed the conspiracy theories that Galecki had told him, which had continued during the ride back to the library. “Steve says that they even sprayed chemical stuff into the air around the city in the 1950s. Cadmium-something, I think.”
“Is that stuff bad for you?” said Claire.
“Well, it doesn’t exactly sound good,” said Tommy, in between bites of his Teen Burger. He picked up the ledger, which had now earned a few blotches of onion-ring grease. “Maybe what they’re doing now is even worse.”
“But how can they get away with it?” said Cindy. “You can’t steal a grape at the grocery store without someone taking a video of it and putting it on fucking YouTube.”
Claire rustled in the bags for condiments, which seemed to have been forgotten by the night shift staff. “As interesting as all this shit is, it doesn’t change the fact that the cops want me in jail, and the HRs want me dead.”
Tommy pondered the dilemma as the discussion went on between Cindy and Claire-Bear. If they were going to make a move, the best time to avoid the police would be around 5:45 a.m. With a shift change at six a.m., the patrol units coming off duty would be making a beeline for their respective stations, hoping that no emergency calls would be going out. Freddie the Ford was just as wanted as they were, so they would have to move fast. The first thing to go would be the license plates to confuse the intersection cameras. They could take the trucking routes that left the city, which were far less travelled by regular traffic. Tommy knew that all it would take to end the run would be one cop or one of the thugs gunning for Claire, which included Papa Friday. The chances continued to be slim to none. “What we need is a fucking miracle!”
As if on cue, the phone at the St. John’s library started to ring. The three fugitives looked at the desk phone together as it warbled. After the eighth ring, Tommy figured that it must have been someone who knew the additional extension numbers within the library and knew which phones weren’t equipped with the voicemail greeting of the main line. Tommy reached carefully for the handset that predated call display. He looked at Cindy and Claire for some form of confirmation that his next move would be to answer. They nodded. Tommy swiftly picked up the handset. “Thank you for calling Gondola Pizza, would you like to hear about our specials?”
There was a chuckle on the end of the line. “You don’t have greasy Gondola down there, you’ve got A&W. I should know, I bought it for you.”
Tommy breathed; it was Galecki. “Way to scare the shit out of us, Steve. What’s up?”
“I think you better fire up the computer and look at the Sentinel website. That Downtown 24/7 dude just threw a wrench into the works. Gwen noticed it on her laptop while I was dropping you off. Use the one at the counter; I’ll call you back in five.” The call disconnected. Tommy motioned to Cindy. “Check the Sentinel website. Apparently, we’re on it.”
Cindy fired up the sleeping work station. As promised, the Downtown 24/7 story was posted as breaking news. The three fugitives took turns scanning the meat of the story. The headline read: “HR killer on the run, may have underworld ledger.”
“Oh, shit fuck,” said Tommy.
“That fucking idiot,” said Cindy.
“What does it mean?” said Claire.
“It means we’ve got to get out of here, now,” said Tommy. “It’s one thing for the cops to have a hard-on for you for the Stephanos slice, but now they’ve got a chance to fuck up the HRs in the process. Basically, now you’re wanted with a side of fries.”
“But we don’t even know if this book has anything to do with the HRs!” said Claire.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Cindy. “If the cops think it’s something, it’s something until they figure out it’s nothing. Tommy’s right — we gotta move.”
The phone started to ring. Tommy answered hard on the first ring. “Steve, I gotta switch cars with you, Freddie is too hot, the cops are gonna be all over it. And Steve —”
Tommy stopped talking. The line was silent, though it was anything but dead. It wasn’t Galecki on the phone; it was someone else, someone who had the smarts to know that certain things were worth watching, things like phone traffic on lines that shouldn’t have any traffic, alarms that hadn’t been activated, and internet activity on supposedly sleeping computers. Tommy had fallen into a basic technology trap. He ripped the handset off the desk, smashing it to bits in front of Cindy and Claire. “We’re not going anywhere; they know we’re here.”
~
Nathaniel disconnected his call to the St. John’s branch of the Winnipeg Public Library. He flipped a coin deciding who to send in: heads, Ernie Friday, tails, the Two Pauls. He knew that Sangster would be busy tracking Sawatski’s movements, even though he could see that Sawatski’s Crown Vic was still at the District Three station. Whether he chose heads or tails, his pick would be within ten minutes of the library. He removed his hand from the coin on the top of his hand. He sent the message to the winner of the toss.
Nathaniel confirmed that the clip on his Glock was full, and then attached his Osprey 45K silencer to the barrel. He then plugged in the address on the Chrysler’s navigation
screen for the other end of the St. John’s Library call, a Stephen J. Galecki. He tapped Go on the screen and put the Chrysler into drive.
Chapter Forty-Four
Tommy, Cindy, and Claire-Bear were looking for anything that resembled a weapon. The library had three expired fire extinguishers stored in the basement, an old wooden stepladder, and an oversized push broom. There was also a pair of rechargeable drills plugged into their charging stations. “Grab those drills and see if there are any screws,” said Tommy as he hoisted the ladder up on his left shoulder. “If someone’s coming, they’re going to be here real soon.”
Tommy had an idea: use anything and everything he could find to slow down access to the library. He tripped on one of the brackets that had been attached to the side of one of the book stacks on the way into the main level. He scanned the selection of furniture. It was mostly plastic chairs, institutional tables, and a few study carrels. The carrels were firmly attached to each other and had probably started life with the original construction of the library, their flat-headed screws covered with decades of protective lacquer. He tripped on another of the reinforcement brackets for the book stacks as he checked the office for anything that could help. Two vintage tanker desks took up the small space, loaded down with enough files in their locked drawers that they wouldn’t budge from their positions. As Tommy exited the office, he tripped on yet another support bracket, falling next to one of the stacks. He looked at the bracket that was next to his head, which had been screwed to the sides of the stack with Robertson screws. “Hey, Cindy, you got those drills?”
“Yeah, I got ’em.”
“What kind of screwdriver do they have in them?”
“Looks like the square one.”
Tommy got up from the ground, greeted by Cindy with the two drills. “Are they charged up?” said Tommy.
Cindy first answered with the drills, pressing their power switches for a confirmation whirl of their respective drill chucks. “Ready to spin,” said Cindy. “What are we screwing?”
Clean Sweep Page 20
