by Warren Court
“Yes, our older one. Sidduth.” Temple saw that she realized she’d said “our” and saw a flash of sadness sweep over the woman’s face. There was no more “our”?
“Is she here?” he said
“She’s at school in Montreal. McGill. Studying pre-med.”
“I imagine she’s on her way home. To help you in this difficult time.”
“Yes, she’ll be home soon.”
“Let’s talk about your husband. Did he have any enemies that you know about? Anyone who would want to do him harm?”
“No,” she said.
“Owe anybody any money?”
“Well, the bank. We have credit cards. A line of credit. It’s very hard to run a restaurant. You live week to week.”
“I know what that’s like,” Temple said, and Farzana gave him a weak smile. Amala came in with two cups of tea and put them down in front of the detectives. Temple thanked her and she left.
“Mrs. Nair, ever hear you husband argue on the phone with anyone?”
“Once. He was shouting at someone on the phone a couple of days before he left.” Temple looked at Mendoza, who wrote it down. There were phone records to be checked. A production order would have to be written up.
“What was the argument about?”
“I don’t know. He was in the bedroom. I was downstairs.”
“And this was how many days before they disappeared?”
“It’s hard to remember. Maybe three or four.”
“Tell me about their disappearance.”
“I told the detective last year. He wrote it down. Don’t you keep these notes you write?”
“Yes, we do, and they’re all fed into a computer. I want to hear you tell it to me,” Temple said, letting his voice carry just a little bit of the annoyance he was now feeling.
“They just disappeared. A Tuesday afternoon. Aruna left school, never came home. My husband, he was supposed to join me at the restaurant to help with dinner, our busiest time. He never came.” Mrs. Nair’s story was exactly as Tasnady had heard it six months before. Not a slip, not an indication or an addition of new information.
“Let me ask you, Mrs. Nair, how long have you been running the restaurant?”
“Nine years. Before that my husband drove a taxi. I cleaned offices. We saved what we could to buy a restaurant. Put our girls through school.”
“What high school did your younger daughter go to?”
“West Park Collegiate.”
“Both girls go there?”
“Yes. But my older daughter has graduated.”
Again, that almost imperceptible twinge at the mention of the older girl. “Of course—she’s at McGill. Studying medicine. You must be proud.”
The woman nodded. There was something there, Temple was sure of it. He was going to let this woman build a house of her own lies and then he’d tear it down. Not now, not today, but after he had done his work he’d come back to her for the truth.
“We’ll need a picture of both your husband and your daughter.”
“I gave them to the detective last year when they disappeared.”
“It would save time if you could give us another set.”
“Okay, but I want them back.”
“You have my word.”
On their way out of the house Temple stopped to talk again to the constables on the porch.
“Guys, you record every licence plate that’s come and gone from here?”
“You bet, Detective. Not the press, of course.”
“Can I get that list?”
“Yeah. It was just three since yesterday. We copied the ones the first guys wrote down, the guys we replaced.”
“Excellent. DC Mendoza here is going to copy those from you.” The constable showed his notebook to Mendoza, who quickly scribbled down three licence plate numbers. The reporters shouted questions at the two detectives on their way to the car but Temple told them to contact the TPS spokesperson; they had no comments.
“I want you to run those numbers, you can use a work station here,” Temple told Mendoza when they got back to 55 Division. Mendoza asked a sergeant for a terminal and was shown into another room. Temple asked to see Detective Tasnady and was shown to the detective’s room on the second floor of the station.
“Detective Tasnady, I’m Detective John Temple. I’m working the Nair murders.”
“Right. Good to meet you. Call me Rudy.” The man was close to retirement but he had that stare. Temple could see the man was a real go-getter. Temple hoped he had that look, too, the one that could bore into a suspect and rip out a confession. That could see a line of bullshit a witness or perp was throwing down and get to the truth.
“We just came from their house.”
“How’s the mother?” Tasnady said.
“Like what you’d expect. You did the main interview last November when the pair went missing.”
“Yup.”
“What do you think she was hiding?” Temple said, and Tasnady pushed back a bit in his chair. The office was quiet. There were only two other detectives working there, and they were on the other side of the room. It was about one-quarter the size of the fifth floor at 40 College.
“What are you talking about?”
“I checked your notes. The six days before reporting it. It jumps out at you.”
“She said she was scared. I couldn’t get anything more out of her. I thought it was some sort of cultural thing. Like maybe the father had done a runner with the kid back to India—that was our most likely scenario. I talked to the cops over there in Bangalore. Phone connection sounded like I was talking to someone on the moon.”
“You wrote down who you spoke to?”
“Of course. Some Inspector or something like that. Name’s about a mile long. I have it here somewhere.”
“What’s your theory on the six days, now that you know they didn’t go to India?”
Tasnady blew out his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s a hard one. Business was clean, no outstanding debts. The guy didn’t gamble.”
“How’d the mother get that burn on her face?”
“She had that a long time, I think. I checked into it. Her passport photo and citizenship ID made out fifteen years ago had the same scarring so I left it alone. I don’t think it was domestic. If it was, I think they were over it when they got here. Neighbours said they never heard any arguments or anything like that.”
“Any idea why Command would be personally interested in this?”
“No, no idea.” Tasnady said. He looked Temple straight in the eye. You didn’t get to be a detective without being a bit of a human lie detector, but those powers were almost useless on other detectives. Temple could only take Tasnady at his word. After a few more standard questions about the investigation Temple thanked him and left.
9
Temple found Mendoza working at a computer.
“I ran those numbers,” Mendoza said. “All relatives, I think. Same last name. One of them is the cousin we met.”
“Who’s this guy?” Temple said, looking at the readout on the licence plates.
“He’s a cousin. I pulled up PowerCase and he was interviewed by two PCs out of 55. Runs a dry cleaning business and a taxi company. He’s also listed as a silent partner in the restaurant.” Temple was impressed, he’d cross referenced the cousin’s name with the business records they had on file for the Nair’s.
“We’ll definitely go see him,” Temple said.
“What’s next, boss?” Mendoza said.
“I want you to go back to 40 College and see what that camera from the Sobeys shows us. Start on a production order for the phone records for the Nair house and their restaurant, as well as a search warrant for the latter. After that, just go over the PowerCase file, word for word. I’m going to talk to the auxiliary sergeant about our security guard, and then I’m going to go see him.
“Sure thing,” Mendoza said.
“You head back to 40 College.
And Sergio…” Temple held up the printout of the licence plate details. “Good work.”
Sergeant Drummond was eating a sandwich in 55 Division’s commissary when Temple approached him.
“You want half?” he offered.
“No, thanks. Wanted to talk to you about an auxiliary of yours from a few years back. Curt Kelowski.”
“Jesus. That guy,” Drummond said. His big round beer belly was straining the buttons of his tunic.
Temple smirked. “What’s his story?”
“Got kicked out. You know the type we get through here.”
“Yeah. How long you been working with the auxiliaries?”
“Ten years. It’s a good program. Most of them are okay but we get cop wannabes—you know?”
“Yes,” Temple said. I’m looking at one right now, he thought to himself.
“Kelowski I’ll never forget. I got these guys on the parade square night before they graduate. You know the training we put them through; it’s like a tenth of what you and I went through. But the uniform they’re wearing, the cap badge—it means something. Has to look good, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So we’re having a full dress rehearsal. This idiot shows up with his ordinary shoes on, not his parade boots, which are supposed to be all shined up. He laughs when I ask him about it. Says he’s saving them, doesn’t want to get them all scuffed up. I fucking snapped. My blood pressure ain’t so shit hot, right, so I gotta watch it. I don’t care. This guy’s been pushing my buttons. I should have kicked him out right there. I can do that right up until they get their certificate and parade out.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Nope. Next night he shows up with his real boots. They did look good, probably the best in his class.”
“How’d he get kicked out?”
“We have a program here. After they’ve been with the program for a while and we get a feel for them, an auxiliary can sign out a car if one’s available and take it to one of his duties. They have to do twenty-five hours a month. They sign up for things—Chinese New Year, St. Paddy’s Day Parade, shit like that. I can’t remember what he signed up for but he gets a car and proceeds to his duty. He spots some guy with an expired sticker on his plate so the little fucker fires up the roof and pulls him over. One of our guys, a real cop, is driving by. Sees the shoulder flash—it’s different for auxiliary. Stops and tells the driver of the car to take off, apologizes. Then he hauls Kelowski back to his own cruiser and throws him in the back, drives him back to the station here. We stripped him of his uniform right then and there. No way we were letting him leave with it on. His girlfriend had to come with clothes in a bag for him.”
Temple laughed.
“The guy’s not all there. He tried to get on the job a couple of times after that; thinks we don’t remember. It’s on his file forever. I saw to that.”
“Great. I’m going to go see him.”
“What’d he do?”
“Nothing. He’s a security guard at a thing of mine. Just want to talk to him, but wanted to know the score beforehand. You think he could go to the dark side?”
“Who knows? Anything’s possible with that guy. I think he’s got guns. Tell him I said hi.”
“You bet. Thanks.”
10
Temple walked out of 55 Division and his stomach rumbled. He checked his watch. It was 1:15 and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the previous day. The sight of the Nairs in the trunk had put him off everything except coffee.
He knew that Johnny’s Hamburgers wasn’t too far from the station. It was a regular cop hangout known for its gourmet burgers and killer milkshakes. On the way over he caught sight of a dark blue Oldsmobile Alero tailing him. He’d seen it once yesterday and again this morning, and now here it was again. It was a tail, and a sloppy one at that. He made a couple of quick turns onto side streets and the Alero followed him. He let it get close enough to read the licence plate backwards. He couldn’t make out the driver; the guy had a knitted cap pulled down on his head and dark glasses on. At a red light he called in the plate to homicide from his BlackBerry. The plate came back registered to a Samuel Horowitz. Temple shook his head and thanked the dispatcher.
“Fucking Black Tommy. I should have known,” Temple said out loud. The light turned green and Temple floored it. His car’s V8 was quicker than the ten-year-old Oldsmobile. He pulled into a laneway with wooden garages lining both sides and ran down it at sixty clicks, fifty over the posted speed. The blue Alero came after him. When he was isolated enough with high garages all around him, Temple slammed on the brakes and quickly got out of the car. He didn’t draw his gun. He knew what it was about.
Black Tommy pulled his Alero up about fifteen feet behind Temple’s car, shut it off, and got out. He was a short little pug of a man, with a smashed-in face from a few reckless years as a sparring partner. He worked for Samuel Horowitz, Temple’s bookmaker.
“Why you following me, Tommy?”
Tommy was neither black nor actually named Tommy. Temple had run him in the police database one time; his real name was Francis Smith. Not exactly intimidating. The whole boxing thing had probably inspired him to take on an Irish tough guy persona. It worked on most of Horowitz’s clients. It did not work on Temple.
Black Tommy came up to him. His hands were in his pockets. It was colder out this morning. The sun was hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds the colour of cold steel. Temple unbuttoned his overcoat and let it swing away. Tommy got the message and slowly took his hands out of his pockets.
“Mr. Horowitz wants to see you,” Tommy said.
“I’m keeping up with my payments,” Temple said.
“It’s not about that. It’s something else. He told me to find you.”
“You found me yesterday.” Temple said remembering that exact same Oldsmobile Alero parked a block up from the Nair crime scene. Temple had done a survey of every car he could see and he instructed one of the uniforms to casually walk up and down each side of the street and record the license plate numbers on the off chance the killer had taken a drive down to see the discovery of what he’d done. That list of plates was on Temple’s desk back at 40 College, he’s just not gotten around to running them yet.
“Yup. Too many cops around.”
“I appreciate your discretion. I’m a little busy at the moment, and if it’s not about what I owe…”
“You should come. I was told to make you come.”
“You going to do that?”
“No,” Tommy said. Temple could see the reluctance in his eyes for admitting he was weak in front of this cop. “I mean I’m supposed to persuade you.”
“Tell him I’ll swing by this afternoon maybe,” Temple said.
“Okay. Don’t stand him up. He doesn’t like that.” Tommy headed back to his car.
Temple smirked. “Right. Tell Mr. Horowitz I will be there. And Tommy…” Tommy spun around to hear Temple’s parting words. “Don’t ever follow me again. Bad for your health.”
“Tough guy with that badge and gun, huh?” Tommy said.
“You want a shot at the title? I could put the badge and gun in the trunk.”
Tommy laughed. “Sure you could. Don’t forget about Mr.Horowitz.” Black Tommy got back in his car and reversed back up the laneway. Temple watched him go, then got in his car and drove forward to the other end. He was still hungry and Johnny’s was two blocks away.
Mendoza phoned him while he was in the drive-through line.
“John, there’s something you should see. It’s about that security guard. He’s on the tape from the store.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Uh huh. You should head down here.”
“Better be worth my while. It’s a ball-ache to get all the way downtown and then back out here to see our pal Curt.”
“I know, but I think it’s worth it. Especially before you go and see the security guard.”
“I’ll be there in an h
our.”
“You hittin’ Johnny’s?”
“How’d you know?”
“I worked 55 Division and its lunch hour. Bring me a milkshake.”
“Don’t count on it,” Temple said and hung up.
Temple was right. It started to rain, and traffic slowed to a crawl, It took him over an hour to get back to 40 College. At least the rain was taking care of the snow. Large patches of brown grass were exposed on the parks and vacant land that lined the sides of the Don Valley Parkway, a six-lane artery that pumped traffic in and out of the downtown core.
Temple ate the burger while he drove, leaning forward to avoid getting ketchup on his tie. The burger was as good as he remembered. When he’d finished he grabbed an inch of his gut and made a mental note to limit himself to one every couple of days for as long as he was working in 55 Division.
Temple found Mendoza on the fourth floor of 40 College, where technical services was located. He handed him a lukewarm, mostly melted milkshake.
“This it?” Temple said pointing at a standard PC tower sitting on a desk with a monitor and keyboard hooked up to it. On the screen was a frozen image from a black and white CCTV camera.
“Yeah,” Mendoza said, sipping his shake. Mendoza used a mouse to start the video. “This is from three weeks ago,” Mendoza said. It was a grainy black and white camera shot from the parking lot camera at the Sobeys. There were three cars in the shot, none of them the Nairs’ Town Car. “This little white mound up in the corner there, that’s the tail end of our car,” Mendoza said.
“If you say so,” Temple said, not sure what he was looking at. Eventually a man appeared. Temple couldn’t see his face; the angle was too high and he had his back to the camera, only slightly exposing the right side of his face.
“That’s our security guard. I checked his logs. He was on that night.”
“This is three weeks ago?” Temple said.
“Yeah. There’s the shoulder flash of his jacket.”
“So?”
“Look.” Mendoza pointed. “He just stands there looking at our car. I’ll speed it up.” The time stamp at the bottom of the screen scrolled by quicker and five minutes zoomed by. The security guard just stood there staring at the car.
