Rough Business
By Randall Sawka
Digital ISBNs:
EPUB 9781772990683
Kindle 9781772990690
WEB 9781772990706
Print ISBN: 9781772990713
Copyright 2016 by Randall Sawka
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Dedication
To my wife Nancy, with love.
Chapter One
Sweat rolled off Peter Houston’s brow and dripped onto the controls of the treadmill. The sun poured in through the oversized windows, overpowering the stressed air conditioning in the private gym at the firm of Dominick Investments in downtown Toronto. Houston wiped the sweat from his eyes. He reached for a sports drink and took a long pull. A man climbed onto the treadmill to Houston’s right with his own bottle of Megapower.
In the reflection of the tinted glass Houston noticed three men from the sales department he managed skulking around two attractive women from the accounts department. None of them daring to lift a weight or ride a stationary bike and risk creasing their designer gym wear. Peter looked at his own reflection. He wore an ancient sweatshirt, twenty-year-old-jogging shorts, and an old sweatband on his forehead that did little to stop the flood of perspiration. Houston smiled, knowing that the group at the far end of the gym lived a lie. They were maxed out on their credit cards, and rented apartments that far exceeded their pay scale. He, on the other hand, was worth many times their total net worth thanks to a big payday dating back from his days in Edmonton when he acted as a go-between in a somewhat unethical business deal.
Houston had been eking out a living as an investment analyst in Edmonton. One day he ran into a man named Claude Gervais at a coffee shop. Gervais was desperate for financing to build a manufacturing company to compete with the company he had worked with for many years. Houston smiled at the blue liquid drip down the side of his bottle. The liquid was the product of the formula Gervais stole from his previous employer. Houston found money for the project and his cut was large. Gervais didn’t mind the money came from underworld criminals who insisted on a quick payback and absolute secrecy. In fact, secrecy was a vital part of Gervais pulling off his plan. The money suppliers knew that if the police learned about the transaction they would pass the information on to the tax department. Houston’s part in the deal was done. All he had to do now was relax and keep his mouth shut.
People moved in and out of the gym. Some were fit and aggressively exercised to maintain it, others barely fit into their clothes. The tall man Peter was unfamiliar with started his treadmill and jogged at a leisurely pace. Peter touched the computerized controls, increasing his own speed another fifteen percent.
At the far end of the gym a man in maintenance coveralls huddled behind a plasma television with a box of electronic parts and hand tools. An Out of Order sign hung over the large screen. Peter increased the speed of his treadmill another twenty percent and was now running at his maximum pace.
Suddenly the television exploded, sending up a plume of smoke and a shower of sparks. The workman was leaning back against the wall, apparently thrown there by the force of the blast. The electrical equipment in the gym vibrated and ground to a halt. Peter staggered back as the power stoppage threw him off balance sending him tumbling onto the soft mat surrounding the machine. Instinctively his arms reached back, reducing the impact of the fall. The man on the next treadmill managed to maintain his balance. Nobody saw the man grab both his sports drink in his left hand and Houston’s sports drink in his right. Houston sat down on the mat, joining several others who slipped off their apparatus, staring at the light show at the end of the gym. Someone nudged Houston on the shoulder. Looking up, Houston saw the man from the next treadmill handing him a bottle of Megapower. He had no reason to expect it wasn’t his.
“Thanks.” Peter saluted the man with a wave of the bottle.
The man smiled back. “My pleasure, sir. Good bye.” He grabbed a towel from his treadmill and walked towards the change rooms. He tossed Houston’s bottle in the garbage can around the corner.
The excitement at the end of the gym cleared up as quickly as it started. The plasma TV quickly came back to life, the smoke cleared through the ventilation system, and the workman departed through the service entrance. Peter Houston got off the floor, wiped down the treadmill and tossed the worn towel over his shoulder. He walked past the group in overpriced spandex, nodding in response to the smiles directed at him. Peter sat down at the bar and ordered his usual, a glass of orange juice and club soda. The bartender brought the frosty glass and, as usual, Houston drained it in a moment. After signing the bill Peter waved it at the barkeep, who gave him the thumbs up.
Peter walked down the hall and pushed open the door to the change room. After showering he tried to open his locker but had a little difficulty remembering the combination. A few tries later and the old metal door opened. Peter dumped his gym clothes in a sports bag and changed into his suit. The suit was of a high quality. It was wise to dress sharply when trying to convince clients that you know the best place for them to keep their large investments.
* * *
The man dressed in the maintenance clothes went down the rear stairs of the building, slipping out of the coveralls halfway between floors. At the bottom of the staircase he looking around to make sure he was alone. He ducked behind the last set of steps, past the stack of dusty, broken staking chairs that blocked the entrance to the open area under the stairs. As he bent into the opening he grabbed a brown paper bag containing two empty sandwich bags, an empty water bottle, and two expensive sleeping bags. He heard footsteps. Reaching into his tool kit, he gripped the small pistol and glanced over the edge of the stairwell. His twin brother, still in workout clothes, swung around the corner and joined him at the bottom of the stairs. The two men slipped into the building the previous day. They had brought two small video players and tied into the video feed in the cable running under the stairs. They recorded the activity in the gym from the previous day and played it today. The people manning the security desk in the office towers front entrance wouldn’t see what was happening in the last few minutes. There were no surveillance cameras in the stairwell. The twins would be long gone before anybody in authority tried to find them. Ken, the older twin by ten minutes, glanced at his watch. He and Eric had been in the building for twenty-four hours. The stairwell was clear of people, so the brothers slipped out the emergency door, having previously disconnected the alarm. They walked nonchalantly along the rear alley, passing a truck dropping off boxes to the rear entrance to a deli a short distance down the alley. Ken hopped on a nearby motorcycle hidden behind a garbage bin and strapped on a helmet. Eric walked around the corner, and ordered a double espresso at a sidewalk café across from the building they just left. Sun reflected off the large window in the gym. Eric lifted his sunglasses and glanced at his telephone. The screen displayed the video feed from the camera on his brother’s motorcycle helmet. At the top right of the screen was the time of day.
He should be here in about five minutes. Eric sipped his coffee.
* * *
After straightening his tie in front of the mirror in the change room Peter Houston took the elevator to the parking garage in the basement. The hinges squeaked as he pushed open the cold metal security door. Slightly disoriented, he had to think twice before he turned to his right and walked up to his twenty-
year-old pickup truck.
Houston tapped the fender on the truck. No sense wasting money on pretentious transportation. The clients won’t see it. The engine fired and a little blue smoke shot out the exhaust pipe as Houston pressed the accelerator. The truck backed out of its spot, chugged up the ramp, and turned onto Bay Street. Ken’s motorcycle pulled out of the alley and followed Houston’s truck, keeping two vehicles between them.
Peter passed the street-front café and slowed as he came to a busy intersection filled with cars and SUVs. His eyes watered and perspiration on his hands made him lose his grip on the steering wheel. He rubbed his dry throat while he struggled to control the vehicle as the light changed to green. The truck swerved left, then right, ripping the mirror off the compact car in the next lane. Peter never heard the driver in the expensive sports car to his right honking as the truck scraped against the length of the bright red car, coming to rest against the curb. Houston’s body twitched several times then slumped back against the sticky vinyl seat, his face contorted and pale.
Ken’s smiling face wasn’t visible through the tinted visor as he drove past the truck. Eric’s expression was more sombre as he watched the same view through his cellphone. Eric pressed a button on his phone and the video of the accident was attached to an email and instantly relayed to the Toronto Police Headquarters. He munched on a warm croissant, and sipped his strong coffee. Wiping the crumbs off his face, he paid the bill and walked several more blocks before turning down an alley and walking ten more blocks. After passing the tenth block Eric stopped at various garbage bins, depositing the items he carried out of the office building, including the prepaid cellphone. In the event the police checked nearby garbage bins for evidence they usually went a maximum of five blocks. He entered a small park and found an empty bench. A few minutes later he spotted his brother removing the licence plate from the motorcycle. The twins walked several blocks, their last stop at a pier on Lake Ontario where they discretely dumped the pistols. Walking along the water for thirty minutes, they entered a building and took an elevator to the thirtieth floor.
Chapter Two
A carp. A cold unmoving fish. Detective Jim Collins had seen plenty of dead bodies in his twenty-five years on the police force, but nothing like this. The pressure of dealing with the families of the victims and pressure from the brass had turned his hair grey. The terrible hours of a detective also saw him develop a gut since it was nearly impossible to schedule regular visits to the gym when the cellphone seldom stopped ringing. Peter Houston’s face looked like all the skin was sucked inwards. Collins’ tech crazy partner David Folk, one of the new breed of cop who had more education than physical stature, bent his tall thin frame over the stainless steel table studying the body with the close-up interest only found in young cops.
The pathologist, Doctor Emily Good, stood across the body from Collins and Folk, her eyes fixed on a chart.
Collins scratched his three-day-old stubble and bent closer to Houston’s naked body, “Emily, the ambulance report says he lost consciousness and the vehicle bounced against several cars, likely a heart attack. Why’d you call us, we’re in homicide?”
Emily Good looked up from the chart. “It wasn’t to see your pretty face, Jim.”
Collins smiled. Having worked with Dr. Good on many cases over the years he and his wife were friends with Emily and her husband. “Come on Emily, you can’t keep your eyes off me. What would Steven say?”
“Steven does have a message for you. Next time you play golf with him bring enough balls for yourself. He can’t afford to lend you five balls that end up in the woods.”
Collins laughed and shook his head. “Okay, Emily, what’s with the fish here?”
“Well gents, at first glance it does look like a heart attack but I noticed his eyeballs are shrivelled and grey. I ran a blood test and found high levels of butylate. That was the cause of the asphyxiation. Once it worked its way through his system it substantially reduced the transfer of oxygen, hence the eyes.” Good lifted an eyelid and exposed an eyeball that looked like a grey prune.
Folk moved in for a close look. “Butylate? Never heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised. Very rare stuff. A sophisticated choice of poison. It’s used in the manufacture of resins. Whoever did this did their homework and had expensive taste, this stuff costs a bundle.”
Folk entered Good’s information into his smartphone. Collins scratched his head, nudged his partner, and walked towards the exit. He stopped and turned back to the doctor, “Expensive? How expensive?”
“Let’s put it this way, it would cost you a month’s salary for the amount that killed this guy.”
“How was it taken” asked Folk.
“Orally. I found it in his stomach. It was either in a sports drink or orange juice he ingested just prior to death. The chemical makeup of the sport drink is consistent with the newest brand on the market, Megapower. The OJ is tougher to pin down, many brands use the same types of oranges.”
“Thanks Emily…thanks a lot. Listen, can you send me the details on that stuff?”
Folk waved his phone at Good and she nodded. “By the way, Mr. Houston left a health club at the Dominick Investments Building just prior to his death.”
Dr. Good turned to her computer and emailed the information to Folk.. She also faxed the same information to police headquarters, knowing Collins preferred the traditional hard copies.
We have to get Jim into this century. Good smiled indulgently.
Collins pushed open the cold grey door and the two detectives left the morgue. They climbed into the black sedan, Folk sat in the passenger seat repeatedly tapping on his phone.
“Jim, I just received an email from headquarters. Captain Dubois reports someone sent us a video of Houston’s demise claiming responsibility.”
“Wow, we have a murderer with balls.” Collins slipped the key in the ignition and hesitated. He looked over at his young partner. “Hey kid, you seem preoccupied. Something on your mind?”
Folk stopped tapping the screen set down the phone. “Jim, there is something nagging at me about that MO, but I can’t place it. I need to go into the archives to update my data.”
“You think this has been done before?”
“Yeah, I think so. There’s something…”
“Okay, let’s get back to the office and look it up.”
“I think I can find it from here,” Folk booted up the laptop computer in the car. His fingers flew over the keys as he linked with national homicide records database. A notice he had entered a secure site flashed across the screen. He keyed in his password, techsolvesit and the page opened. Folk input health club. The computer buzzed for a few seconds and the screen responded, no match. Folk flopped back in the car seat, the vinyl squeaking as he squirmed. “There was something, Jim.” He looked back at the report on the Houston case. He took a breath and went through the data word-by-word, not wanting to miss a detail.
Treadmill.
Gym.
Investment.
Folk sat bolt upright and again leaned over the computer. He returned the cursor to the search box and typed in Megapower. The computer hummed for a moment and two file numbers flashed on the screen.
“All right, I’ve got it, Jim.”
“Spell it out, lad.”
“Right, there was one other murder involving Megapower sport drinks. Three weeks ago in Edmonton.”
“It happened during a junior hockey game. The local team’s goalie, Jean Provost, collapsed on the ice shortly after Megapower he kept on top of the net. He died twenty minutes later.”
Folk read on in silence, his jaw dropping.
Collins looked over at his partner.
“Christ, I don’t like that look.”
“Jim, they received a video of the victim as he collapsed, I’ve requested a copy of the complete file.”
“Good work Dave. When will we get the file and info on the other case?”
“Here it
is now… the detective on the case is listed as Albert Thorpe, Edmonton Police Services.”
“Okay, call Thorpe and see if there are unpublished details we can use. We have to get to the crime scene a.s.a.p.”
Folk dialled the Edmonton Police Department. After a short stay on hold he was transferred to Detective Albert Thorpe’s desk. Thorpe wasn’t there so Folk left a voice-mail message explaining the situation, including his number.
“Any other details in that file” asked Collins.
“Not much. Nothing linked to Dominick Investments, the only similarity is the place was crowded. Hundreds at the game and lax security on the bench.”
“Did they keep copies of the television and security video?”
Folk’s fingers danced again. “Negative. The tapes in the security system had copies of the previous game. Someone disabled the system.”
“That’s a lot of trouble to go to just to kill a goalie.”
* * *
The adjoining suites near the top of the luxury hotel offered panoramic views of Toronto. Eric Clelland slept fitfully, an empty champagne glass on the stand beside him. Ken leaned against the windowsill, staring out at the endless streets. He cradled a half-empty flute of champagne. His gaze drifted from the city to the glass. Tracking down arrogant Peter Houston had been easy once they learned who arranged for the money that allowed Gervais to drive Clelland Industries, out of business. Gervais never spoke publicly about the source of his financing, but he’d told his wife, the co-owner of Gervais Manufacturing. The listening devices placed in Gervais’s office recorded enough information to lead the brothers to Houston. Ken swished the wine around and drained it. He lifted the bottle out of the bucket, saw that it was empty, and dropped it back onto the melting ice.
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