City of Crime

by Warren Court

  “Okay, let’s call some chicks.” Mendoza went to the phone and dialled the first girl’s digits.

  “Hi. Yes, Crystal, I’d like to book a visit with you. An hour,” he said. “Sure. I’m at the Sheraton, across from City Hall. Room 412. Right away. Half hour sounds great. See you soon.” He hung up. “Done.”

  Temple sat on the edge of the bed. “Take your coat off and fold it on the chair. Put your piece under that. If the escort goes to look at it then we question them both. Keep your back to the window. Something goes wrong, you yell my name and I come running. Don’t worry.”

  “Hey, I worked sex crimes for six months. I know the score.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “Hated it. All those filthy whores.”

  Temple thought about his sister. Had she become one of these girls? He might be tempted to show the girls that would be showing up that age-enhanced picture of Dawn. He had it on his phone. After fifteen minutes, Temple left, went down the hall, and ducked around the corner where the pop and ice machine were. He leaned up against the wall and dialled Mendoza.

  “Yeah,” Mendoza said.

  “Remember, keep your phone on. Go to the desk and give me a level test.”

  Mendoza went there and spoke. “One, two, three, four.” Temple could hear him fine. “Okay, you hear the knock you call me first. I’ve got my phone on vibrate.”

  It took over an hour for the first girl to show up. Temple wasn’t surprised. These girls could be at home halfway across the city. They’d get a call and then call their man to pick them up. Temple’s phone buzzed and he opened the connection.

  “I’m on,” Mendoza said.

  He peered around the corner and saw a guy in a jean jacket behind a woman in a black full length winter coat. She had blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The guy was Dennis Wade. Even from that distance and angle Temple could tell. He watched the two of them enter the room and then turned his attention to his phone.

  “Hey, hun.” the woman said. There was a popping sound, like she was chewing gum.

  “Hey.” Mendoza said.

  “This is Bud.” She meant Wade.

  There was some shuffling in the room.

  “What’s he doing?” Mendoza asked.

  “Just looking around,” the woman said. “Making sure you don’t have anyone else in here. I gotta protect myself.”

  “Right. I understand.”

  “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “No.” Mendoza laughed. “Do I look like a cop?”

  “Not really.” She said. Temple smiled. “But if you are a cop, this is entrapment.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not. I’m from Niagara Falls, here on business.”

  Temple heard the door close, counted to ten, and looked around the corner just in time to see Wade step into an elevator. Temple ended the call with Mendoza and went to room 412, quietly slipped his key in, and entered. The girl heard the click and spun around quickly. She was in the middle of the room. Her jacket was laying on the bed. She had on a white blouse and a black mini skirt. Temple had the door closed before she could do anything.

  “You motherfuckers,” she said. She went hard in the face real fast and reached into her purse.

  Temple wiped the tail of his coat off his hip and slapped his hand on his Glock but didn’t pull it. “Whoa. We’re cops,” he said. He had his badge in his other hand and he held it up. Mendoza, behind her, retrieved his Glock from under his coat and held it behind his back.

  “Relax, sweetheart,” Temple said. “We’re not here to arrest you. Take a seat on the bed.”

  “What do you want?” the girl said.

  “Your name is Crystal?” Temple said, knowing it was a made-up name.

  She nodded. She sat on the edge of the bed, took out a cigarette, and lit up even though it was a no-smoking room.

  “Crystal, we just want to find a colleague of yours. One of the girls on TO Vixens.” He put his badge away, pulled out the picture of Sidduth, and showed it to her.

  “Have you ever seen this girl?” Crystal barely glanced at the photo and then stared out the window. She was young, probably not even twenty, but hooking had put ten hard years on. She crossed her legs and kicked one in the air. She wasn’t used to getting roused by the cops. The streetwalkers knew the beat cops by name. They never got upset unless they wanted to get upset or were high on drugs. These call girls were shielded from that for the most part. Temple wondered what she’d been reaching for in her purse. Mace, probably.

  “She’s missing. We want to bring her home to her mother,” Temple said. That sparked something in Crystal. She turned and looked up at Temple. Temple could see his sister in her, looking up. Wanting to go home but knowing that was an impossibility. Home was gone.

  She looked at the photo again. “Never seen her.”

  “How long have you been working for the Villains?”

  “Who?”

  “The biker gang that runs TO Vixens. We know all about them.”

  “You don’t know anything. It’s just a couple of guys. They think they’re this tough biker gang.”

  “They’re almost busted up, aren’t they?” Temple said. “Maybe this is a good time to get out, if you wanted too.”

  “And do what?”

  “Go back to school. How old are you, Crystal?” Temple put an emphasis on the girl’s name. This was the girl who reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t place her.

  “Have you and I ever met?” Temple said.

  “Nope. Not unless you called me for a date.”

  Temple smiled. “No, I don’t mean that way. Have I ever arrested you? Have I ever talked to you about a crime that you may have witnessed, someone you may know?”

  “No. I’ve never seen you before. Or him,” she said, and she smirked at Mendoza. “He’s kind of cute, though. Don’t you think?”

  “He’s a real cupcake,” Temple said. He saw a look of quick anger come over Mendoza’s face, and then it was gone. “Speaking of people you know, what about a guy named Coconis? He’s one of the Villains.”

  “Yeah, I know him. Ain’t seen him in a while. Bad dude,” Crystal said. “He beat up a girlfriend of mine. Not the one you’re asking about—I don’t know her.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “New Year’s, I think. They threw a party. Look, I gotta get going. This guy doesn’t look like he would last five minutes with me. I’d already be out of here by now.” Mendoza blushed.

  “Sure, okay,” Temple said.

  “The money,” Crystal said. “If I don’t give my guy something he’s going to take it out of my wallet. Then he’s going to take it out on me.”

  “We thought of that.” Temple pulled out some money from his pocket, handed Crystal a hundred bucks, and she left.

  “Open the window. Air this place out,” Temple said. Mendoza slid the narrow window open and turned on the air conditioning.

  “Call the next one.”

  “What if the same guy shows up?”

  “We’ll roll the dice.” Temple didn’t think it would be a problem if Wade showed up again. He could have a chat with both of them. Mendoza picked up the hotel phone and began to dial the second number. Temple’s BlackBerry buzzed and he retrieved it from its holster on his belt. Updates? H., the text message said. It was from Horowitz, his bookie. Temple realized he had been putting off contacting Horowitz about Operation Carnivore.

  Horowitz had his hooks in him. Temple owed him ten thousand and had no real way of paying him back. If he worked in narcotics, it would be easy—a few grand here and there pilfered from drug dealers would see Horowitz paid. Homicide cops never had those opportunities. Crime scenes were photographed and documented. If there was anything to take, he never got a chance: there were always uniforms at homicide scenes who would notice him taking a victim’s wallet. Not that he would do that in a million years.

  “I gotta take this,” he said to Mendoza, who was talking to the s
econd call girl. He stepped out of the room and when the door had clicked behind him he dialled one of Horowitz’s numbers that he knew by heart.

  “Johnathan. So nice to hear from you,” Horowitz said.

  “I got it,” Temple said.

  “Not over the phone,” Horowitz said, and Temple rolled his eyes. Like he was about to do that. “Besides, it’s not me who’s asking for the information. Where are you?”

  “The Sheraton, across from City Hall.”

  “That’s perfect. I’ll have my contact meet you in the hotel bar there. Say in about half an hour?”

  “Can’t right now. Working a case.”

  “Johnathan, this is important. I think you can carve out thirty minutes, can’t you?”

  “Who’s your contact—Black Tommy?”

  “No, but they’ll know you. Just be at the bar in the lobby.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes for ten minutes only, then I’m gone. You tell him that.”

  “I will.”

  Temple hung up and used his room key to get back in. Mendoza was off the phone.

  “The girl, Linda, is going to be here in an hour,” Mendoza said.

  “Probably more like two, then,” Temple said.

  “Yeah, for sure.” Mendoza had clicked on the television. CP24 News was on.

  “Holy shit—look at that,” he said. Temple was studying his phone and looked at the TV. On it was Karen Kindness shaking hands with the mayor. The chief of police was standing behind her, beaming a smile and clapping.

  “Turn it up,” Temple said, and Mendoza complied.

  “…becomes the first female deputy chief in Toronto Police Service history.”

  “They did it. They got their woman. First their black chief, now a woman deputy chief,” Mendoza said.

  “I heard she was in the running. Guess she’s got the right juice,” Temple said. “At least it gets her out of our hair.”

  “How so?”

  “Deputy chief runs the political game as much as the chief. She’ll be involved with the white shirts from Command, and little guys like us will never see her.”

  The story flipped to a movie set where they saw Karen Kindness in civilian clothes having a cup of coffee with Brad Pitt. The story said that all of her money gained by working as a technical director was going to a charity she had set up to encourage underprivileged kids to get into the arts.

  The story went on to something else and Mendoza turned the channel to TSN.

  “Listen, kid, I gotta step out for a minute. Just going down to the bar.”

  “For a drink?”

  “No. Confidential informant I have to meet.”

  “You’re leaving me alone?”

  “Just for a few minutes. Like you said, the next girl won’t be here for at least an hour. I’ll be back well before then.”

  “Okay, John. If you hear the bed creaking when you come back just wait until I finish, okay?”

  “Use two condoms just to be safe,” Temple said, and he left.

  24

  Seeing as it was between lunch and dinner, the hotel bar had only a few patrons in it. It was dark and cool and it took several seconds for Temple’s eyes to adjust. Several TV screens were showing sports and world news. One was turned to CP24 and Temple caught the end of the Karen Kindness story; it was on repeat. Temple made his way to the bar, took a stool at the far end of it, and ordered a ginger ale. He sat there sipping it, waiting.

  “John, is that you? I can’t see my hand in front of my face in here.”

  Temple turned. Karen Kindness was standing twenty feet from him. She was dressed in a black suit jacket and short pencil skirt. She had a blue ribbon on her lapel. In the news item on TV she had been in full dress uniform. She must have changed. She came up to him, smiling like she was genuinely pleased to see him. Unusual. In this poor light Temple couldn’t help but think how good she looked.

  “May I?” she asked, and took an empty stool next to him, flicking her hair over her shoulders. She ordered a Cutty Sark and water. Temple was impressed. He bet she could hold her own in a drinking session with Bill Rush.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not on duty,” she said.

  “Congratulations on your appointment,” Temple said.

  “Thanks, John,” she said. “We had the reception here at the hotel.” They clinked glasses.

  Temple looked around to see if anyone was looking his way. This was going to complicate things. Temple wanted her to clear out before Horowitz’s lackey showed up.

  “What brings you down here?” she said.

  “Working. I got Mendoza up in a hotel room. We’re working the ladies of the evening,” Temple said, and he chuckled. Kindness laughed too.

  “Sorry—whore didn’t seem like the right word to say in such a nice place,” he said.

  “We’re all whores, John. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “I’ve heard that.” Then it hit him, and he turned to her.

  “So,” she said. “What do you have to tell me… about Operation Carnivore?”

  “You have got to be kidding me. You just made deputy chief.”

  “It’s just a game, John. You have some info for me, so I can get the hell out of here?”

  “With your connections, why did you need to drag me into it?” Then he had the second revelation. She was a target of the investigation, too. They must have gotten wind something was up and they were trying to find out how far the special investigators had gotten.

  “Operation Carnivore,” he said.

  “Not so loud. We’re just two pals having a drink,” she said. She smirked and sipped her Cutty and water.

  “I thought I was dirty, but Jesus Christ.”

  “Just tell me what you have.”

  “So you can run back to the mayor? The chief?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “I don’t know what to think,”

  “Well?” she said.

  “Operation Carnivore. Government-run investigation of the mayor. And I presume you too.”

  Kindness said nothing, just kept staring straight ahead.

  “How far are they?” she said.

  “I don’t have those details. But the feds are involved. RCMP. Crown attorney’s office. Probably TPS internal affairs if they can be trusted. OPP is lead on it.”

  “That all you have?”

  “Yep. That’s all you’re going to get out of me. They’re going to nail you, Kindness. Whatever it is you and that fat bastard of a mayor we have are up to, you’re going down.”

  Kindness smirked again. She pulled a twenty out of her pocket and put it on the bar.

  “We never met.”

  “I wish to hell we never had,” he said. “Ever.” He didn’t watch her leave but sat there and sipped his ginger ale. He put down a powerful urge to order a whiskey and water of his own. He felt sick.

  25

  Temple downed his drink and looked at his watch. It had been almost forty-five minutes. He moved his glass onto the twenty. Then he had a thought and he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down his glass. In an instant, he had become hyper-aware of his surroundings. Had he inadvertently thrown himself into the jaws of Operation Carnivore? He looked at every person on the way out of the bar and tried as best he could to memorize their faces. If he saw any of them again, he would know he was being tailed.

  Temple scanned the lobby of the hotel as he moved to the elevators and saw no one suspicious. If Karen had had a luncheon here at the hotel following her appointment as deputy chief, then there would have been a lot of media cameras on her today. Anyone rolling a surveillance operation against her probably would have not preferred to have their people caught on camera. They would reacquire her this evening and go from there. At least that was what Temple was hoping.

  He went back up to the fourth floor. When he stepped out of the elevator he heard two quick shots coming from the hall. The floor was a T shape with the elevators coming out on the stem o
f the T. He pulled out his Glock and ran to the long hallway where the rooms were. With his back up against the wall, he first checked the hallway to the east. Their room was to the west. He spun around and checked west and saw a man running from their room.

  “Stop! Police!” Temple screamed.

  The man hit the door to the stairs, turned, and fired off two shots. They whizzed past Temple’s head and hit the opposite wall, cracking into the frame of some boring hotel art. Temple returned fire, two shots of his own, but they pinged off the closing metal door to the stairs. Then he moved quickly, never taking his gun off the door even after it slammed shut. He reached room 412, where Mendoza was. The door was slightly ajar. It was not heavy enough to close completely on its own.

  “Sergio, talk to me,” Temple yelled. The door to room 415 opened and a woman poked her head out.

  “Police. Get back inside,” Temple said. She quickly shut the door. He booted in the door to 412 and entered the room, scanning and clearing the bathroom. He saw a woman in a tight orange skirt with a fur coat lying prone on the floor. There was a wound in the back of her head and the green carpet was dyeing black as blood ran out of her. Under her was Mendoza. Temple went to the woman, grabbed her foot, and dragged her off. She was dead. Mendoza was breathing. Temple holstered his weapon, ran to the phone, and dialled 911. It was quicker than fiddling with his BlackBerry.

  “This is Detective John Temple. I have an officer down. The Sheraton downtown, room 412. Gunshot wounds,” he said methodically.

  Temple then went on to describe the male he had seen fleeing the scene. “Suspect with handgun. Fleeing hotel via stairs. White male approximately six foot tall. Tan overcoat.” Temple had no other description. The lighting had been poor in the hallway and the man had been sixty feet away and moving quickly. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to identify him in a lineup.

  Temple looked down at Mendoza and dragged the phone to his stricken partner and left the receiver off, the connection with 911 open so they could accurately trace the location of the call. He pulled a sheet off the bed. Mendoza was hit in the abdomen and the neck. Blood was gushing from both wounds but he didn’t think the carotid artery was hit. He ripped the sheet in two.