by Warren Court
“He’s just standing there. There’s another one,” Mendoza said. He used the mouse to click on another thumbnail image. Same shot, but with two different cars visible.
Mendoza sped this second video up and again the security guard came back and just stood there. For seven minutes this time. There was more snow on the ground and the camera shook slightly with the wind. “He does this every shift.” Mendoza picked up a red plastic-covered file. “This is his duty log, where he records his breaks. He takes a break and goes out and looks at the car.”
“What do you think he’s doing?”
“He’s watching the snow melt. Getting his rocks off. Only he knows what’s in it.”
Temple raised his eyebrows. “Could be,” he said. “I was going to go see him next. You’re coming along, I presume?”
Mendoza nodded.
11
On the drive out to see the security guard, Mendoza took a call from Sara in forensics.
“The bodies check out. Dental records match,” Mendoza said after he put his phone away. Temple gritted his teeth. Sara should have called him. She was letting their brief affair affect her professionalism. He knew it was a mistake to have started something with her.
“Cause of death, gunshot wound to the head, through and through for the male. Powder burns on the skin—shot up close. The girl was shot twice, once in the chest, once in the shoulder. No contact wounds. No powder burns or anything. And get this—the father had four thousand bucks in his pocket. Cash, all twenties. Four thousand exactly.”
“So the father gets it up close. The daughter from far away. Why?” Temple said. “It’s not robbery.”
“Get the father done quick. He’s a threat. Then take the girl. The killer isn’t thinking of going through pockets. Professional hit.”
“Sloppy one, though. Any slugs found?”
“One in the girl. It hit a rib. It’s smashed a bit but useful.”
“Good. This security guard lives off O’Connor. What’s the best way?”
“You ever use your GPS?” Mendoza said.
“Nope,” Temple said.
“Do you know how? Mendoza said. “I could show you.”
“Could you?” Temple said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“You should keep up to date with your computer skills.”
“Don’t need to. We have a steady crop of young DCs like yourself who rotate through the team.” Temple put the emphasis on rotate.
Mendoza grinned. “I’m here to stay.”
“Pretty cocky.”
“Ain’t I doing good?”
“Just keep your mind on the cases, not your career.”
Curt Kelowski lived in the basement apartment of a four-story building. Temple pounded on the metal door twice before he heard some scuffling inside. The detectives moved to either side of the door. It was metal but hollow. A shotgun round or a nine-millimetre would go right through it.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Kelowski, it’s the police. We want to talk about the missing car you found at the Sobeys,” Temple said.
There was a sound of several bolts being drawn and the door opened. Temple palmed him his tin so Kelowski could see, then the door closed for a second and the final chain was removed. Kelowski opened the door and let both officers in.
“Can’t be too careful, huh?” Temple said, indicating the extensive array of locks on the door.
“No, you can’t.” Kelowski wore a threadbare red Japanese-style bathing robe with a large golden dragon on the back. Classy. There was a flash of the man’s genitals as he collapsed into a brown leather overstuffed chair.
“Guys, have a seat,” he said. Both detectives remained standing. The only other chair was covered in used takeout containers.
“Mr. Kelowski, we just need a bit more of your time.”
“Sure. Anything to help.” This was the attitude they’d expected. Cop wannabes like Kelowski always wanted to help.
“I understand you were in the auxiliary,” Temple said. He was jovial about it. Just making conversation with the man, but really, he wanted to see if Kelowski would lie.
“Yeah, for two years. It was okay. Training sucked. No guns.”
“Yeah, we’re not like the States. Their auxiliary carry guns, make arrests. We’re a little more uptight.”
“Not the OPP,” Kelowski said. “They let their guys ride with the real cops. They do shotgun training. Everything. I’ve applied there; haven’t heard anything.”
“OPP,” Mendoza said, getting in on the act. “You join them, you get posted to polar bear country. No thanks.”
Kelowski laughed. “Still, it’s the job right? Nobody can fuck with you up there.” Realizing he had cursed, Kelowski sucked his lips in and went red-faced. He looked nervously from Temple to Mendoza and back again.
“Are you trying to get on with Toronto? For real, I mean—not auxiliary,” Temple said.
“Yup. Couldn’t make it past the interview. And the physical. . . didn’t have the best scores.”
“You pass it?” Temple asked.
“Just missed it last time I took it. On account of my asthma. I got a personal trainer now.”
“Well, keep trying. Why’d you leave the auxiliary?” Temple asked.
“Difference of opinions with my sergeant. The guy was a dickhead. You know what I mean?” Kelowski said.
“Right. Why did you stand in the parking lot of the Sobeys and look at that Nair’s Lincoln Town Car every time you take a break?” Temple said. His face was still jovial. The curveball worked.
“I don’t—what do you mean?” Kelowski stammered.
“Yes, you do. We have tape of you standing out there looking at the Nairs’ car every night you’re on shift. For five or six even ten minutes one time. You don’t smoke. At least you’re not smoking in the video.”
“No, on account of my asthma.”
“So why are you out there?” Temple said.
“I don’t know. Nothing else to do with my break. Cold air wakes me up. Evening shifts are hard, you know. Especially in the winter—no action.”
“You still talking to the checkout girls too much?” Temple said. Kelowski’s face went as red as his robe.
“Mr. Kelowski? Curt?” Temple said. “You spend too much time talking to the girls. Your manager, Mr. Mallik, he spoke to you about it. Plus you roughed up a couple of kids last year in the parking lot.”
“Yeah. Those kids were up to no good. They attacked me, man,” Kelowski said, his voice starting to rise. “What’s this got to do with the car?”
“We’re just trying to clear anyone associated with it so we can move down the list. Do you own any firearms, Mr. Kelowski?”
Kelowski hesitated. “Um, yeah,” he said. Temple already knew that he did. He’d had Mendoza do a full workup on the guy and knew he had two registered long guns and a target pistol. He had no criminal record.
“Can we see them?”
“Sure. They’re in the bedroom.”
Kelowski’s bedroom was a nightmare. It made the rest of the apartment, which was dark, cluttered, and mouldy, look like a palace. There were clothes strewn everywhere and Temple spotted a stack of porn magazines under one pile. He caught a glimpse of a naked old woman on the top one, her cleavage a contour map of wrinkles. At least it wasn’t kiddy porn but still it wasn’t right, not by a long shot. The guns were in a locker in the closet.
“What you got there, an AR-15?” Temple asked. Mendoza stood at the entrance to the bedroom, his hand on the butt of his Glock as he watched his partner’s back. Kelowski moved in closer to Temple.
“You bet. Nice little weapon. You ever fire one?”
“Just at Aylmer. What’s the other one?”
“Over-under twelve gauge. Brand new. Cost a thousand bucks. Got it for 400 off a guy on Kijiji.”
“I bought a barbecue off that site last year.”
“Dude, you can get everything on there,” Kelowski said.
“Wh
at about the handgun?”
“It’s in there, in the drawer.” Kelowski went to open the drawer and Temple put a hand on his arm to stop him.
“Better let me. Don’t want to contaminate evidence.”
“Evidence? Hey, I didn’t do anything. All I did was call in that missing car.”
“I know, I know,” Temple said calmly. “We just need to verify your gun. See, we pulled a slug out of one of the victims and I know it won’t match. You know it won’t match, but I don’t want to let the attorney of the guy who did the killings to point the finger at you. Throw the jury in another direction. Reasonable doubt, you know?” Kelowski seemed satisfied with Temple’s cop show mumbo-jumbo.
“Right, I get it. Go ahead.”
Temple took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked the weapon up. It was light and had a fluted barrel that tapered at the end. The sight on it was oversized and looked complicated.
“For target shooting,” Kelowski said. “I’m trying to get on the team for the Olympics.” Temple had to force a laugh down.
“So you’re shooting it a lot.” Temple gave the barrel a sniff and could tell the gun had been fired the last couple of days.
“Whenever I can. Used to do it down at Union Station until the fucking politicians closed down the gun range.”
“I remember that,” Temple said. He knew what Kelowski was talking about. For some odd reason, for decades there had been a handgun shooting range located inside Toronto’s main train station, Union Station. A liberal mayor, not the incumbent, had gotten it removed in an effort to shore up his anti-crime image. Most of the city council didn’t even know the gun range existed and were too confused to object. It just made no sense, guns and trains.
“Where you do your shooting now?”
“Way out in Oshawa. Takes me two hours to get out there and back. Two hours for one hour of shooting.”
Temple turned slightly and held the gun out for Mendoza, who came over and let it drop into a large plastic bag.
“You’re taking that?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. Ballistics. You’ll get a receipt. Once it clears you’ll get it back.”
“I was going to go shooting this afternoon.”
“Take the AR-15.”
“Yeah, I guess. Ammo costs more.”
“Just don’t go waving it out in the street,” Temple said and grinned. Kelowski laughed too.
“No, no. I put it in a bag, lock it in the trunk of my car. Guy upstairs thinks I’m Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“You’re not, are you?”
Kelowski laughed. “No, I shoot better than he did.”
12
“So?” Mendoza said after they’d left Kelowski’s apartment, his target pistol in the trunk of Temple’s car.
“Not sure. But whatever happens with this case I’m going to get his gun licence revoked somehow.”
“We gonna spin him up?” Mendoza said.
“No, spin team resources are tight. You don’t want to pull the trigger too soon. If the gun matches then we don’t have to bother. I don’t think it’s going to match, though. Doesn’t make sense, not unless we can tie Kelowski to the Nairs.”
SPIN was the acronym for the police surveillance teams. Homicide had the lion’s-share use of Toronto Police’s spin, but a homicide detective who went to them once too often on the wrong suspects would fine his requests unanswered. It was a balancing act.
“Maybe he ate at their restaurant, got really sick, or they pissed him off. Bring him downtown. Maybe he’ll crack.”
“Too much television, Sergio. Stick to sports.”
“Where to next?”
“That list of licence plate numbers you ran. Let’s start with them.”
Mendoza pulled out the printout of the people who had recently visited the Nair household. He pointed to one name.
“This guy helped finance the restaurant. He’s the entrepreneur—several businesses. He looks clean, though.”
“On paper,” Temple said. “You write up that production order for the phone records?”
“Jesus, no.” Mendoza looked stricken. “Sorry, John. I stopped into technical services and saw the tape and then called you. Time flew by.”
“We need those records, Sergio. If Nair was arguing with someone a couple of days before he disappeared, I want to know who it was.”
“As soon as I get back to 40 College I’ll get to work on it.”
“Here’s the subway, I could drop you.”
“Like hell. Besides you ain’t supposed to be working these contacts alone.”
“You quoting departmental procedure to me, kid?”
“What if that guy had been our guy? He’s got three guns, a fucking assault rifle. Did you want to go in there alone?”
“If Kelowski was our shooter, he’d be bursting to tell us he did it. I didn’t get that read on him. That’s why I say I’m not sure of him.”
“But still, guy down there in that little apartment, three guns. He’s kind of nuts already.”
“You’re my guardian angel, kid. I couldn’t do it without you. Where we headed?”
“Hang a right here.”
Temple went quiet and laughed internally, he was sounding more and more like Detective Bill Rush. Christ help me he thought.
There were a dozen taxis decked out in the yellow and red livery of the Best Taxi company in front of a small two-story office building, so Temple and Mendoza figured they had the right place. They went into the office and were assaulted by loud, heavily Indian-accented English booming out over several speakers. Mixed into it was a cacophony of Indian music. A dispatcher was juggling the calls to the drivers and a couple of young girls sitting next to him were manning the phones and punching addresses into computers.
“Sort of like 911 dispatch, ain’t it?” Mendoza said.
Temple nodded and waited until a woman in a purple sari came out of another room to talk to them.
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t do walk-ins. You’ll have to call us if you need a cab,” she said.
Temple flashed his badge. “I need to speak to Ravinder Nair,” he said.
“We need to speak to Ravinder Nair,” Mendoza said, and the woman smiled. Temple looked at his partner out of the corner of his eye and smirked. The woman went to a phone and punched in a three-digit number. She told whoever answered it that two policemen were here. She hung up and directed them to a flight of stairs that took them up to the second floor.
Ravinder Nair was there at the top of the stairs to greet them. He beamed a wide smile showing a row of dazzling white teeth. He barely glanced at their badges and instead thrust out his hand. Both policemen reluctantly shook it. Temple had a rule about shaking hands: only with other cops or friends; never with witnesses or suspects. He remembered one time after he had extracted a confession from a murderer of a fifteen-year-old girl. The guy had tried to lie his way out of it but hour after hour of Temple’s needling and cajoling had broken the guy down and he’d confessed. Afterwards the guy had seemed relieved, just like Temple had told him he would. The killer had stuck out his hand, clearly thinking that the rapport that Temple had built up with him over the hours in order to get him to confess was legitimate. Temple had stood up, looked at the hand, and resisted the urge to pummel the man’s face into hamburger. The man got it. His relief at confessing, his illusion of bonhomie with Temple, had drained from his face as the realization of what he had done and what he was facing set in.
“Mr. Nair, is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
“Sure, sure. In here, gentlemen.” Nair was shorter than the two detectives and thinner. His head was running thin of hair and black spots were visible on his scalp which was the colour of mahogany. He ushered the two men into his office where they took up chairs in front of his desk.
“This is about my cousin, isn’t it?” Ravinder Nair’s glee vanished in an instant to be replaced by a look of sadness and disbelief, a transformation that was not lost on Tem
ple.
“Yes, sir,” Temple said. “You were very close with the deceased, I take it.”
“Yes, we’re a close family. A big family but very close.”
“You helped him finance the restaurant he owns.”
“Yes. When Prajoth came to me, I was more than happy to help out. Family does not turn family away.” Ravinder smiled weakly.
“But you’re not involved in the day-to-day running of the restaurant?”
“I am still on the books but as a silent partner. Prajoth sent me a little money every year but I gave it back to him in the form of free taxis whenever his family called. He had an account here he didn’t even know about.”
“The restaurant doesn’t make a lot of money?”
“Name me one that does. I told him there were too many Indian restaurants already. That this city could only take so much of us. I said for him to come in with me—taxis, dry cleaning. Something that easily crosses cultural lines and is fairly recession-proof.”
“He didn’t listen to you?”
“No. Prajoth was always his own man. The restaurant is okay; good food. Farzana can cook well.”
“The restaurant is closed now?”
“Alas, yes, most likely for good. I don’t think she can make a go of it.”
“Any other business partners that your cousin might have had?”
“No. His own man, like I said.”
“Any enemies that you know of.”
“Not him.”
“What does that mean?”
Ravinder Nair looked down at his desk and fiddled with some paperwork. Temple waited.
“It is not my place to say.”
“Yes, it is. A homicide detective is asking you to.”
“His daughter fell in with the wrong crowd. At school. It was very bad. She brought great dishonour to his family.”
“Any names?” Both detectives instinctively moved forward in their seats, pens poised over their notebooks.
“No. I don’t know them. My sons go to a private school.”
“And Prajoth was getting involved in his daughter’s affairs? He confronted this wrong crowd?” How else would this man have known about this scandal if Prajoth had not told him?
