Dark Matter

by R. D. Cain

  Nastos rounded the corner first, cutting the angle, which put Carscadden firmly in second place. And as the saying goes, you don’t have to be faster than the dog — you just have to be faster than your friend.

  Carscadden was taken down hard, but to his credit he never turned to look back. The goal was the car, and second best was not an option. When teeth closed on his ankle, he kicked and twisted his left leg while he crawled forward, scrambling quickly to his feet. Thank god it wasn’t going for his throat, he thought wildly, or the release of blood would have made a mess of his shirt. Nastos had made it to the Escape and popped the truck while Carscadden kicked and flailed.

  Nastos rounded the car armed with a fire extinguisher. A blast of cold, thick air sent the dog retreating. White carbon dioxide powder coated the car, the dog, the driveway. The dog stopped only ten feet away then started barking with a thick heavy voice, thundering through the air like the bass drum at a Led Zeppelin concert.

  Nastos shouted, “Move!” and Carscadden clearly thought it was the best idea he’d heard all day. He bolted for the car, leaving a shoe and sock behind. Nastos retreated to the SUV, went around to the driver’s side and closed the door after himself.

  Carscadden panted. “Fucking thing was going to rip my foot off.”

  Nastos hit the gas, revving the engine. The dog didn’t budge; it had retrieved Carscadden’s shoe and sat on the driveway with its one-hundred-dollar trophy in its slobbering mouth.

  Nastos spoke almost to himself. “Well, that answers that question.”

  “What?” Carscadden asked.

  “What’s black and tan and looks good on a lawyer? A Rottweiler.”

  “Funny guy. You know, if you’d taken the corner a little wider I might have made it. Asshole.” Carscadden checked his foot and ankle. There was no blood, just thick, frothy saliva. He tried to wipe it off with a lone napkin he found in the glove box, but the serviette was quickly saturated.

  Nastos had to smile. Carscadden’s sense of humor was at its best when he was pissed off. Nastos saw a King Cab pickup truck that resembled a garbage scow — mostly green and rust, and a door didn’t match — driving down the road. It slowed at the end of the driveway, then turned in. There were two more Rottweilers in the pickup’s bed. The truck stopped beside them. The sneering driver was so big he had to pry himself out.

  Nastos opened the window for Carscadden. “You can’t get out looking like that. Stay here. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Sure.” He pointed to the dog. “And tell him the Land Shark can keep the shoe.”

  The driver was six-four, close to three hundred pounds, in his fifties, with a dirty grey-white beard, deep wrinkles and red patchy skin. He might have been a redhead at one time in his life. The Rottweiler with the shoe in its mouth wiggled over to him, the shoe dripping with slobber. It ignored Nastos when he slowly exited the car.

  Nastos stuck his hand out. “Steve Nastos.”

  The Rottweilers in the back of the truck began pacing, then jumped down on their own and lay down near their master’s feet. The huge man didn’t seem very interested as he looked Nastos up and down with apprehension. “Fine. What do you want?”

  “I’ve been hired to find a girl, Lindsay Bannerman. Don’t suppose you know a person named Anita Bonghit?”

  The man’s eyes briefly flashed surprise, then returned to anger. Nastos knew he’d found his guy.

  The man’s face squinted into a fake confused expression. “Who?”

  “You have each other’s phone numbers.”

  Bonghit didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be stalling. He pulled the shoe out of the dog’s mouth and inspected it. It was soaked and full of puncture marks. “Well, your buddy’s not going to want that back.” He put it back in the dog’s mouth like he was sticking a plug in a bathtub.

  Carscadden shouted over. “You can keep it.”

  Nastos smiled.

  Bonghit turned back to Nastos. “Remind me how I know her? Your friend, I take it?”

  “Sort of. Her parents hired us to find her.”

  “Parents? How old is she? What kind of guy do you think I am?” He glanced from Nastos to Carscadden, going from shock to anger.

  Nastos produced a photograph of Lindsay. “This is her.”

  Bonghit looked the picture over a few times. “I haven’t heard from her in a while. She’s sure as hell not here.”

  “Mind if I have a quick look around so I can cross you off the list?”

  The man’s voice boomed. “Yeah, I do mind. I said she’s not here.” He took a step toward Nastos. “Why don’t you go before Daisy here decides she needs a matching shoe?” The dog perked up at hearing its name, then turned and sat next to the man so she could see Nastos better.

  Nastos didn’t react to the challenge. “I don’t know if you have kids, but there’s a guy out there who just wants his daughter back. Is there anything you can suggest to help us find her?”

  “Yeah. I suggest you quit wasting your time here.”

  Nastos pulled out a business card and handed it to the man, who ripped it from his hand and stuffed it in his pocket without looking.

  “Okay, bye.” Bonghit said it like he was saying “Fuck off.” He stood there glaring at Nastos, waiting for him to avert his gaze first and leave, like a submissive dog.

  Nastos didn’t waver. “You sold her pot. Was that it?”

  Bonghit didn’t even flinch. “Yeah, the odd time, for her migraines.”

  “How’d you meet up with her?”

  “Craigslist. Happy?”

  “I’d be happier if I knew where she was.”

  Carscadden pulled himself up on the open window and sat up on the frame so he could look over the roof of the car. By the look on his face, he was still furious. When the dog came over to bring his shoe back, he waved her off and said, “Keep it, Daisy. The score’s one–nothing for the dog.” He turned to Bonghit. “So what’s your deal, anyways?”

  Bonghit wasn’t impressed. “Watch yourself.”

  “Who the hell are you? You live up here at the North Pole with your team of satanic Rottweilers, coming down to the city to sell pot to the good girls and boys like Ganja Claus.”

  He didn’t smile. “That’s funny.”

  Carscadden kept going. “Yeah, well, tell you what, Ganja” — Daisy came over again, and he shooed her away — “we have this girl to find, so do you know anything or don’t you?”

  Bonghit eyed Carscadden up and down, finally beginning to soften. “Tell you what,” he said. “I remember her. She’s pretty, tough to forget. The fact is she’s a good girl and if she’s gone, like you guys say, then it’s probably bad news. All she did was pot, nothing serious. I don’t even think she drank.”

  Nastos asked, “Was anyone bothering her or did you get a read on her relationship with her parents?”

  “Just the usual stuff with parents. There was some woman, though — not her mom, maybe an aunt.”

  Nastos asked, “Jessica?”

  “Yeah, I banged her every time I was in town.”

  “You paid her in pot for sex?”

  “No, I paid her in pot to shut up and never tell me what to do with my life. Anyways, she was putting some kind of pressure on your girl, I don’t know what for. All I did was give her a good price on a quarter-ounce. You can check out the greenhouse if you want, you’ll only find drying plants.”

  Nastos checked with Carscadden, who looked satisfied. “No, that’s fine. Thanks for your help.”

  Bonghit shook his head. “Ganja Claus. Nice one.”

  Nastos put the car in drive. They remained silent, Carscadden rubbing his ankle, Nastos with his hands resting on the steering wheel. As they came down from the rolling hills and returned to the flat urban cityscape of Oshawa, Nastos felt more comfortable away from the country and back in the confine
s of the urban landscape.

  Carscadden asked, “What’s your take on Bonghit?”

  “He had no idea what we were talking about. He was genuinely confused. If anything, he made me want to know more about the pressure Jessica was putting on her. Maybe Jessica saw her as a meal ticket — access to guilt money.”

  Carscadden thought it through out loud. “Guilt for escaping the thug’s life while Jessica lived on the margins. I dunno, feels kinda weak.”

  Nastos checked his blind spot and moved into the middle lane to get around a slower driver. “Yeah, you’re right. But it makes me want to look for more all the same. Jessica is hiding a lot more than Ganja Claus.”

  Carscadden asked, “What about Bannerman?”

  Nastos thought for a moment. “Good point. Bannerman probably paid Jessica off during the adoption process. He might be pissed if she slimed her way back into their lives, but that would make him mad at her, not Lindsay.”

  Carscadden reached into the back seat and grabbed a water bottle. He offered one to Nastos, who waved it off. “Nastos, if he was hurting Lindsay, and she was ready to talk, let’s say he killed her — I just don’t see that. He just didn’t seem the type.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Or if he was mistreating her in some way, abusing her, maybe she just ran away and in twenty years she’ll surface in the Yukon, waiting tables.”

  Nastos had worked many cases just like that in the Sexual Assault Unit. The worst cases of abuse never came from 911 calls. Instead, the women just appeared at the front door of a police station, often years or decades after the abuse had happened, and dumped the saddest, most horrific stories of exploitation on the unsuspecting front desk officer. It was a strong possibility.

  Nastos dialed Rod, the Bell Canada contact.

  “Rod here.”

  “Yeah, Rod, it’s Nastos calling.”

  “Hey, Nastos, what’s up?”

  “That Taylor woman I asked about, did you clone her phone for me?”

  “Yeah, she’s wired. Why, you think you have something?”

  Nastos checked with Carscadden to make sure he was listening. “Yeah, we were at her place today asking about Lindsay. If she knows anything, she may have incriminated herself on her phone by now. I was wondering if someone could email me recordings of all of her phones calls so far today. I’d like to listen to them.”

  Rod asked, “You think dropping by was enough to get her talking?”

  “Oh, sure. Cops call it tickling the wires. Whenever cops have a situation like this, a disappearance or kidnapping, we tap the phones, then release the reward money for anyone with information. It always gets people talking if they have something to say.”

  “Sure, I’ll have it sent to me, then I’ll forward it to you.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Still need the phone tap for the next week, Nastos?”

  “Yeah, we better play it safe. Thanks, Rod.”

  “Anytime.”

  Nastos had nearly the same conversation with Jim from Rogers about the trace on Bonghit’s phone. He thought back to how many police investigations he had led that were stymied at every turn by the telecom companies. Only the influence of Bannerman had them behaving co-operatively. If either Bonghit or Taylor had said anything about Lindsay, he’d know about it right away. Hopefully Rod or Jim wouldn’t listen to the audio files. If there was bad news, it had to be confirmed and delivered the proper way, not by over-anxious friends who thought they were helping.

  When Nastos saw the Oshawa hookers out in broad daylight, he knew he was close to the 401. Good riddance to “the ’Shwa.” He turned from Simcoe Street onto the highway back to Toronto.

  Nastos looked over at Carscadden. It was quiet on his side of the car. “What’s with you?”

  “I was just thinking about some crap I need to deal with for Kalmakov, some offshore stuff.”

  “Umm” was all Nastos could say as a reply. “I’ve been thinking about what Taylor had to say. You know, about the abuse. When we go to Bannerman’s, we should check the drains while we’re there, just to be sure.”

  Carscadden stared forward with a blank look on his face and agreed. “I was thinking the same thing. If he molested her, like Taylor suggested, then we should check all the house drains for blood.”

  10

  Anthony Raines stood outside the Toronto Police headquarters at 40 College Street. The building, composed of glass and brick, looked like a pyramid that a child would make out of Lego. It had been years since he had been inside, but he was sure little would have changed. He would encounter professional skeptics, cynical people who were not open to the spiritual world around them. He wiped his cold, sweaty palms on his pants and focused on slowing down his breathing. It’s go time. Reaching into his side pocket, Anthony removed the piece of paper he needed. Wrinkled and moist both from his sweat and from the humidity, the sheets, which he had pulled from the writing pad he kept by his bed, twitched in his hands.

  He’d always had unusual dreams and liked to record them before they retreated back to that unreachable place in the cobwebs of his mind. Every detail of this dream had been jotted down in a frantic mess; he hadn’t wanted any detail to be missed. Rather than rewriting it more clearly the next day, he had left it as it was, as if the frenzied script communicated the urgent body language of the message.

  Memorizing the information wasn’t going to be enough; for his interview with the detective, it needed to sound conversational. He would be more comfortable with the notes in his hands, though.

  He passed through the front doors. Inside, the station was a large, open place with glass elevators and marble flooring. A quick scan of the foyer revealed the receptionist at her desk; straightening his back, he approached. Overweight, over-accessorized and wearing entirely too much makeup, the receptionist hung up the phone and flashed a sincere smile at Anthony. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, my name is Anthony Raines, R-A-I-N-E-S.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need to speak with Detective Bob Blake of the Homicide Unit.”

  The receptionist’s face revealed a micro-expression of surprise. “One moment, please.” She picked up her phone and dialed a number.

  Under the counter, out of her sightline, he wiped the sweat from his hands again. “I’m not a suspect. I have some information that may help.”

  “Okay.” She smiled a little more easily.

  “The last thing I killed was a pound cake.”

  A broad smile. She could probably relate. He glanced at his notes and put them away for good.

  She glanced away while she spoke. “Yes, Detective, I have someone down at the front counter who’d like to speak with you regarding a case. He says he has information. Sure thing.” She glanced at Anthony. “Which case?”

  He cleared his throat. “The missing girl.”

  She relayed the message, vague as it was, then hung up. “He says he’ll be right down. You’d never find your way up; it’s a bit of a maze.”

  “Thanks” — he read her name tag — “Joan.” He smiled and sat down to wait on a nearby bench.

  He recognized Detective Blake from his research. Up a few pounds, Detective, not that I would kick you out of bed over it. He extended his hand and Blake accepted it with a warm smile. “Good afternoon, Detective. My name is Anthony Raines, R-A-I-N-E-S.”

  “Yes, and how can I help you today, Mr. Raines?”

  “Sir, if we could just go up to your office? I have information I would rather share in private. It’s regarding the missing Bannerman girl.”

  Blake turned and motioned with his hand for him to follow. They went up the elevator and around the perimeter of the building. Raines observed the glass walls, private offices, conference rooms and squad rooms. Blake opened a door that read Homicide Unit and sat at his desk. Anthony s
lid out the chair nearest Blake.

  Anthony asked, “Is your computer connected to the net?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I want to give you a lead on a murder, one that hasn’t been reported yet. I just need you to go on the internet and see something with your own two eyes so you don’t think I’m some nutcase.”

  Blake’s patience was beginning to wane, like he was thinking that very thing. “Sure, but can you make it quick? I was just going to leave the office.”

  Anthony gave the detective his personal website address.

  There was a delay as the detective read the information. “You’re a psychic? You’re that Anthony Raines?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. I wouldn’t come here in person unless I knew I could help. This is a risk to my career if I’m wrong.”

  Blake opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a notepad. “Okay, what do you have to tell me, Mr. Raines?”

  “Detective, I can tell you’re very skeptical. Virgos are very analytical; you wouldn’t be one, would you?”

  There was a pause. “Actually, I am.”

  “You know,” Anthony visualized the notes that were hidden in his pocket. “If you tell me the colour of your car, I can tell you what year you were born. If you told me the hour you came into this world, I could tell you all kinds of things to try to make you feel more at ease about trusting me.”

  Blake quickly scanned the office like he was wondering who was seeing him with this lunatic. “No, thanks, I’m not a big believer — I’d rather you just tell me the information you have for me and I can have it checked out.”

  “You were born in ’64, I think.”

  The detective was silent.

  “You’re probably methodically going through all of the ways I could have gotten that information. I assure you, my means aren’t fully understood, not even by myself.” Anthony waited till the detective spoke.

  “You could have gotten that from Facebook or something.”

  “Okay, how about this one, Detective? The first job you ever had in your life, you got through a lucky break. Someone older helped you out or it would never have happened. That was after the close call you had in the water when you were younger.” Anthony knew this described ninety percent of the world’s population. No inexperienced teenager obtained their first job without a lucky break from an employer willing to take a chance.