by R. D. Cain
He just about jumped from the car and advanced on Anthony’s front door. It was a nice place, probably cost a couple million back in the day. The brick exterior was a hundred years old; the house had a slate roof and a big garden. Not a bad lifestyle for a professional liar and confidence man. Telling people what they wanted to hear was probably the second-oldest profession, and more profitable than number one.
Nastos rang the doorbell — three chimes, like a subway stop. He pressed it a second time. Through the decorative glass on the door, Nastos saw a shape approaching, backlit by a crystal chandelier hanging by what looked like a spiral staircase. The prospect of going to jail for the night would normally have horrified him, but with Hopkins gone, one night didn’t seem like a big risk. He’d get a cot and a reasonably warm place to sleep for a few hours; hell, he could use the break. He was more worried that it would be for nothing. Anthony made his living reading people, so trying to beat him at his own game to uncover undisputable evidence that would link him to Hopkins’ disappearance was as daunting as it was critical. If Anthony didn’t know anything, had nothing to do with her absence, Nastos had nothing.
Anthony opened the door. His face was unreadable, almost too composed. They watched each other for a moment, trying to decipher each other’s minds.
Anthony’s calculated impassiveness gave Nastos all the confidence he needed. “What did you do with Hopkins?”
Anthony hesitated, buying time to conjure a lie, but something stopped him. He stood silently. Nastos forced his way inside, pushing Anthony out of his way, and began searching through the house. He studied the walls and floor for signs of a struggle, blood, fragments of decorations that might have been broken. Any signs of a house not perfectly decorated might be an indicator of trouble. “She said she was coming here, she never came back.”
“I’m calling the police.” Anthony produced a cell phone and began to dial.
Nastos focused on his search. “Ask for Detective Dennehy, he’s with Homicide.” He saw Anthony tighten up for a moment, then proceed with the call.
“She never came here.” Anthony held the phone up to his ear. “Fuck off.” With his free hand he pointed to the door.
Never here? The lie was enough to embolden Nastos further. He searched the entire main floor, Anthony following at a safe distance. He was apparently talking to the emergency operator. He could have hung up, though, pretending to stay on the line.
Nastos searched the upstairs laundry room and the bedrooms, saving the master for last. He opened the dressers, starting from the bottom and leaving the drawers open as he went so he didn’t have to close a drawer to search the one below. The clock was ticking. If he didn’t get the entire house done before the police arrived, he’d never get a second chance.
With the self-admission of his urgency came another: the admission that he was looking for evidence of a murder. He reached down and with one hand threw back the sisal throw rugs, looking for blood. He hammered the light switch to the closet and flung the door open. He two-handed racks of clothing out, dumping them back on the bedroom floor. He made note of the clothing sizes. Something about the shoes struck him as odd. He kept looking, his desperation rising.
Then the basement. He tried to pull back the aggression, pull back the emotion, and treat the search as just business. He had to remember that by searching for something minor, he would catch something major. If all he looked for was bloodstains, he’d miss everything else. Anything out of place, missing things, broken things would do. A large portion of the floor in the basement was concrete; the rest was wood flooring. Blood was tough to clean up fast. Glare from the overhead lighting revealed no scuff marks or signs of abrasive cleaners. The seams between the boards were clean.
When the police came into the house — two uniformed officers, one older, one younger — they found Nastos in the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, reading a newspaper and drinking a Bud Light beer that he had taken from Anthony’s fridge. All he had to show for his actions was his account of catching Anthony in a lie. That and something about the clothing upstairs. He had considered going up again, but when he heard the siren from the police car, he decided he’d better spend his time trying to look relaxed and unthreatening.
The older cop spoke. “Sir, there are a lot of knives and potential weapons in the kitchen. Just so there is no misunderstanding of your intentions, come out here to the lobby.”
Nastos straightened up. “Of course, Officer. I used to be a cop; I understand completely. I’m just going to finish off this pathetic excuse for a beer real quick.” He raised the bottle slowly, then finished off the drink. He lifted his hands up in the air. “You want me to come out backward?” He moved toward them, coming around the centre island.
“Stop there.”
Nastos stopped.
“Sir, now hike up your coat and turn around slowly.”
They were checking Nastos’ belt line for weapons. He had been in the kitchen and could have stuffed anything into his pockets or behind his back. He considered identifying himself, then thought better of it. By trying to get them to relax, he’d only make them more cautious. These guys weren’t rookies. He was better off just doing as they said and keeping his mouth shut until he was handcuffed.
After he had turned all of the way around, he followed their commands and backed out the rest of the way. He knelt down, with his hands still up, and finally was handcuffed. They double-locked the cuffs — authoritatively, not abusively. These were professionals, not thugs. Finally, they brought him up to his feet.
He saw Anthony. “Thanks for the beer.” He smiled; this was his chance to crawl into Anthony’s brain. “I found all I needed to see, Anthony.”
The psychic shrugged. “That better not have been my last beer.”
“No, and you still have the bottle for later; I’m sure you know where you can put it.”
Anthony wore a mask of pity, as if Nastos was some poor love-struck fool who had taken a breakup badly.
“Maybe you’re not the only psychic here. Maybe I know exactly what happened.” Nastos smiled again when he saw Anthony flinch.
“Don’t mock what I do, Nastos. I’m just not the type to put on a uniform and let society provide me a role so I can feel relevant, like a garbage man who wears a funny moustache to feel special in the world. I have a gift. I can bring hope to the hopeless. I can bring closure to the very depth of the deepest of wounds. My gifts deserve recognition.”
Nastos said, “I’d applaud, but —” He nodded toward his cuffed hands. “Well, you know.”
The older cop searched him while the other held him by the upper arm and wrist. First his belt line and pockets, the area of reach while cuffed, then the rest of his body in a four-quadrant search: upper body, left and right side, lower body, left and right side. He searched his socks and shoes, then ran his gloved fingers through his hair, as if Nastos was a crack addict hiding needles or pins to try to pick the cuffs.
He stood up and opened Nastos’ wallet. He read the name. “Steve Nastos, you’re under arrest for breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break in, I was invited. At best this is a Fail to Leave When Directed — Trespassing.”
The cop ignored the comment and opened his notebook. From the back, he read the Rights to Council. Nastos recited it along with him by memory, which made the cop more and more angry as he went.
“You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay . . .”
When they asked if he’d like to speak with a lawyer, he named Carscadden and gave them the phone number.
“You can do that from the station” was all the officer gave as a reply.
“You should also call Dennehy from Homicide. I have urgent information to give him. He’s expecting my call.” Nastos watched Anthony, disappointed to see that this time he didn’t react. Anthony knew Nastos’ desperate search fo
r evidence had failed. He was relaxing so much he was even stealing a few glances at the younger cop, bigger and leaner than the other one. Anthony, it seemed, liked the beefcakes.
The cruiser was a tight fit. Nastos had to turn sideways so his feet and wrists wouldn’t get crushed. The younger cop was a smooth driver, who didn’t play any games like making abrupt stops or playing Black Urban Radio as psychological warfare. At Fifty-Three Division, the sally-port doors opened, then closed behind him. He was led out into a cells area, where he had to answer a series of questions on video. Had he been assaulted by the cops, did he have any injuries or medical problems or a lawyer to call? He didn’t play any games or give cute answers; he was respectful.
Soon enough, he was sitting on a bench in the common holding room. His right wrist was cuffed to a metal loop sticking out of the cement wall. Passing cops sneered at him like he was a piece of trash. It was a part of rookie syndrome; young cops still care enough to make known their contempt of the arrested.
The older, arresting officer, had called Carscadden for him. The sergeant held the phone up. “Hey, Nastos, it’s your lawyer.” A cop came to take him to a private room, but Nastos waved him off with his free hand. “That’s okay, Sarge. Can you just ask him to come down and get me out?”
The sergeant spoke to Carscadden, then put the phone down.
Nastos asked, “What about Dennehy — you get a hold of him?”
The sergeant had gone back to his paperwork. He slid his glasses up his nose and didn’t look up. “Says he’s coming down. No more questions.”
Nastos examined the fluorescent lights and read the graffiti on the walls. How the hell does someone put graffiti on the walls in a holding cell without the cops noticing?
He felt a presence behind him and turned. “Dennehy, how the hell are you? Hey, and Byrne too.”
Dennehy asked, “I don’t suppose you and Carscadden roughed up a prostitute earlier on? Busted into her place, trashed her computer?”
Nastos asked, “Where did you hear a crazy story like that?”
“The OD we investigated in Flemingdon Park. I passed out my card to canvass for information after you and your metrosexual life partner left to buy matching underwear. She called me personally about you.”
Nastos smirked at Dennehy. “You have any proof?”
“No.”
“Then no, we didn’t do it.”
Dennehy stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at him like he had no idea what to say to an obstinate child.
Byrne asked, “And what’s the deal with the psychic? I assume you hooked up for an internet date but became embroiled in a — well, let’s call it an exchange of sorts — over who was going to be the daddy?”
Dennehy found this particularly funny. He turned to Byrne and laughed silently, his body convulsing and his face turning red, before turning back to Nastos and regaining his composure.
Nastos waited till he thought Dennehy was paying attention. “When I searched his closet —” He turned to Byrne. “Yeah, his fucking closet — I saw different-sized shoes. And different-sized pants. He’s living with someone.”
Dennehy replied, “The living arrangements of a gay psychic aren’t of much interest to me. Did you ever think that maybe he’s lost or gained weight?”
Nastos asked, “And shoe size?”
“Maybe he has a few friends who leave things there?”
Nastos was confused that they didn’t think it was at least worth looking into further. “Detective Blake. The guy from the Toronto Today story. He did a search of Anthony’s home. He might find it significant, in retrospect, that Anthony lied to him about living with someone. It’s kind of a major lie. You should ask him about —”
“First time you heard of a guy lying about being in a relationship when he sees something he likes? I’m not asking anybody anything, Nastos. I thought we had a deal — now you do crazy shit like this.” He shook his head like he was disgusted. Nastos found some comfort in the fact that he had at least come down rather than telling him to screw himself over the phone. There might be a vestige of hope that he could call in Dennehy again.
“We’re out of here, Nastos. Good luck.”
Nastos didn’t say anything. He watched as Dennehy spoke to the cell sergeant and pointed to him a few times, then left without another word to him. Shortly afterwards, a uniformed cop came over and let him out of the handcuffs.
Nastos asked, “What’s up?”
The cell sergeant waved him up to the counter. “Sign this.” He signed it. It was a release for his property. He asked, “My lawyer get here?”
“No. Dennehy determined that it was just a misunderstanding — a he said/she said.” He smiled.
Nastos rubbed his wrist and ripped open the plastic bag that contained his wallet and cell phone. “Everything’s here, Sarge.” The cop only responded by pointing to a special constable, who was ready to lead Nastos out to the back doors.
Nastos asked, “My lawyer’s on the way. He’s going to meet me at the front.”
The special constable replied, “Then you can walk the fuck around to the front.”
The special was over six-five and weighed at least two-forty. Some fresh air sounded like a great suggestion. Outside, it was a half-moon night, thin layers of blue clouds and a cold that felt like it was sucking the energy and concentration out of him. When he spun around to the front, Carscadden was standing there.
“What did you do this time?”
“Remember that shit-hole house that Maddy told us about in Rexdale? Come on. We’re going on a drive.”
22
Carscadden and Nastos stood out front of Anthony’s property in Rexdale under the dark night sky. Math had been involved in finding the exact house, since it didn’t have a number on it. The house on Wansey Road was basically as described by Madeleine: 1950s, small, square-ish, twelve hundred square feet, one storey, and in serious disrepair. The front door in the centre of the house with a padlock on it, large boarded-up windows on either side. Half of the shingles were missing; the rest were peeled up at the edges. Exposed plywood on the roof had been recently replaced in parts. The boards over the windows were new, the wood almost bright coloured compared with the rest of the house. In a city of asphalt and concrete hydro poles, there was a dirt driveway leading to a garage that looked more like a lean-to. The rest the neighbourhood, although still modest, was at least cared for.
Nastos exhaled. “Why would a guy like Anthony own a piece of garbage like this place?”
Carscadden agreed. “Good question. If he’s going to renovate, it’ll be a totally gut job — it’d cost more than a hundred grand to fix it up.”
Nastos added, “And I don’t think he’s the type to be handy with a nail gun.”
Carscadden pointed at the ground. “Look at the tire tracks. Trucks have been in and out.”
Nastos crouched down, studying the earth. It was densely compacted gravel with a layer of mud on top. “Tires are almost bald. They must be really old.”
He stood up and they began walking closer to the house. Carscadden tensed when he heard a faint scream that seemed to come from the back of the house. He looked over at Nastos, and they both ran up the driveway and into the backyard.
Two pre-teen girls from the house next door were in their backyard, chasing each other with fists full of wet leaves. Nastos and Carscadden smiled at each other with relief.
“Check out the windows,” Nastos said. “Boarded up here too.”
Carscadden reached the back door. The padlock had been picked or left unlocked. He pushed the door and it opened slightly.
“Jesus Christ!” He recoiled from the door, putting both hands up to his mouth and nose. He took a breath and waved at Nastos to back off. Nastos had already figured that part out.
Nastos said, “What’s it smell like, a body?”
“Smells worse than that, if you can imagine. Holy shit.” Carscadden coughed.
Nastos tried to get a trace of the smell. He caught the scent. “Smells like a chemical.”
Nastos went around the house. He sniffed near the dryer vent, then quickly recoiled, putting his hands up to his mouth.
“Solvents. Ammonia. I hope to god no one’s inside.” He spat onto the ground and wiped his mouth. Carscadden went over to a basement window and tried to look in. It had been painted black. “Tara! Tara! You in there?”
He pressed the door in and felt it hit something solid, like some kind of brace. It wasn’t going to move.
Nastos started dialing a number on his phone as he watched Carscadden prying at boards from a window.
Nastos cupped his phone. “Good friggin’ luck moving that.”
Carscadden kept on pulling. “It’s nailed, not screwed in.” He yanked hard. The nails squealed as they began to pop out.
While Nastos waited on the line, he peered up to the roof, taking small paces backward until he could see up the roofline. “Yeah, extra vents on the roof. It’s a frigging meth lab in there.” Nastos spoke into his phone. “Fire department, please.”
Carscadden had repositioned himself on the other side of the window, working the same board. With two hard yanks he pried the board off, nearly slipping onto his back. He tossed the board aside. “Tara! Lindsay! Anyone in there?”
There was the sound of glass shattering on the floor, like a drinking glass breaking, then a dull roar like a furnace firing up. Carscadden cocked his head to listen and examined the black window. Suddenly the glass burst out as orange and blue flames leapt from the blackness, licking at the eavestrough and roof. Black smoke trickled, then billowed out, obscuring the sky and city lights. Carscadden mouthed the words holy shit twice before he found his breath. “Tara! Tara!”
He looked around frantically, found another window and began ripping at the boards. Nastos shouted into his phone. “We’re at an abandoned house, there’s a meth lab on fire. It’s a residential area. No —” He looked to Carscadden. “We were just walking past. We could smell it from the road.” He gave them the address and hung up. “It won’t be long.”
