City of Crime

by Warren Court

  Solomon said that six months ago he had run into Sidduth downtown near King and John, near the clubs. She was with two hard types; one had a neck tattoo. That was Coconis. Solomon said there was another male, white, stocky. Beard. Big guy. He weighed that description with the person he saw running from the hotel room at the Marriott. It could fit. There was no beard but the guy could have shaved it off. Then again, the shooter could have been Coconis. He sat back and thought about it.

  He really should be giving this information to Marinelli to help with his investigation. There was a dead hooker in the morgue and a shot-up cop in ICU. Temple logged out and closed his laptop. He transferred his Glock to a hip holster, made sure his sweater could cover it, and put on a tan work coat before leaving his house.

  Temple switched off his satellite radio and put on a local AM station so he could catch the traffic on the highway. The traffic reporter came on and gave the all-clear—relatively easy driving. Then the broadcaster came back on and introduced his next segment, an in-person interview with Mayor Allen.

  “Mr. Mayor…”

  Temple went to turn it then hesitated and decided to listen to the interview.

  “Hi, Omar.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I’ll get right to the heart of the matter. Your office is under pressure from various groups over allegations of misappropriation of funds. Trips, expensive dinners, hotels.”

  “…hookers, coke,” Temple said out loud, and he laughed.

  “…Hold it right there, Omar. Yes there are allegations. These people, who incidentally represent the opposition, want to see the books. I’m an open person, so of course I’ll allow this. The books have always been made available. For the first time in a long time, this city’s budget is balanced. Jobs are pouring into the city. Investments are coming in, and we’ve even managed to get more funding out of the provincial and federal governments for our infrastructure projects.”

  “But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the loose spending that apparently is going on down at City Hall. The wanton disregard for the taxpayers’ money. The allegations of sexual…”

  For a second Temple pondered the idea of calling in to the show, then he laughed and turned the program off. The bullshit was piling up so high in the city Temple thought that he would drown in it. The average citizen had no clue what was going on, how far the corruption reached. Definitely to the deputy chief’s office. Kindness had broken the law, although the confidential information about the operation against the mayor was verbal and could easily be denied. Temple should have worn a wire, but things had happened too fast. He was carrying too many secrets, and he realized that was a dangerous position to be in. He switched the radio back on, but this time to an FM channel just in time to hear the tail end of one of the mayor’s radio commercials for his ball-park hot dogs. That’s good eatin’!

  Temple wanted to catch Zurawska before she went to work. He was tired of fucking around. If he was lucky, Coconis or that stocky biker dude he was looking for might be there and he could put an end to this now. If Coconis didn’t freeze into an ice sculpture when Temple pointed his Glock at him, he was going to catch a full magazine.

  Her car was in the driveway. He drove a block past and put his Buick up against the curb. The streets were full of slush and a winter’s worth of salt, and he could feel the spikes of muck being thrown up against the back of his trouser legs. He pounded on Zurawska’s door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Police. Open the door.” He saw the curtain next to the door sway but couldn’t see in.

  “You got a warrant?”

  “Yes,” Temple lied. There was a scrabbling of metal locks and she opened the door a crack. Temple put his hand on the door and pushed his way in. He didn’t even bother flashing his tin.

  “What the…?” she said. “You can’t do this.”

  Temple pushed her into a chair in the living room and put an index finger to his mouth. “Is he here?”

  “Who?”

  “Coconis. Is he here?”

  “No,” she said, and looked at the floor.

  “What about the other guy? The stocky fuck that shot my partner?”

  “There’s no one here.”

  Temple stepped quickly into the kitchen and then looked up the stairs to the second floor. It was tight up there; he could see the roof angling in. Probably enough room for a single bedroom. He went back into the living room and sat in a chair. He took his Glock out, put it on his thigh, and looked at her. She was in a dirty powder-blue bathrobe. Her hair was wet. Somehow she looked better than when she was all dolled up down at the cheque-cashing place. Honest, vulnerable. He just sat there staring at her until she broke.

  “What?”

  “Who were you going to see yesterday, up in that apartment?” That shocked her. “We were on your ass the whole way. Who was it?”

  “A girlfriend of mine.”

  “Bullshit. I spooked you with those pictures and you ran. You’re at work less than ten minutes and then you take off and go across town to see a girlfriend? What’s this girlfriend’s name?”

  “Alexis. I don’t know the last name.”

  “Some girlfriend. You two go shopping together, get your hair done and all that crap and you don’t know her last name?”

  “I only met her once.”

  “So you lied to me. Not a good start. Why her?”

  “I was told if anyone comes around asking about that girl, go see her and tell her. Don’t phone.”

  No records, nothing over the phone or email, Temple thought. Professional.

  “What apartment?”

  “512,” Zurawska said.

  Temple realized he had not gotten the printout on that tower on Lincoln Place. He could have checked 512 to see if it matched any known criminal types in that building. He was finding it difficult now, investigating this crime and having to do things through the back door.

  “What did you say to her?” Temple asked.

  “That two cops came in the shop, asked about that girl. That’s all I said. This Alexis said thanks. She didn’t even invite me in. Fucking Russian bitch,” Zurawska said.

  “She’s Russian?” Temple said.

  “Some sort of Eastern European. I don’t know,” Zurawska said.

  “What about Coconis? How do you get in touch with him? And no bullshit this time.”

  “I usually phone him but his phone is dead. He hasn’t answered it in a month.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “About two months ago. Just after New Year’s. At the bar.”

  “The Steely Dan?”

  “Yeah. They had a big party down there. One of their guys got out of jail.”

  The Villains, Temple said to himself. “What else goes on at that cheque-cashing place?”

  “What do you mean?” Zurawska said. Temple moved like he was going to come across the living room floor and smack her, and she flinched.

  “They run the girls out of there. The website is updated there, in the back. The phones. The money comes in. A lot of it,” Zurawska said.

  “How much?”

  “Thousands. Some guy comes in with a bundle and I make him a money order.”

  Money laundering. Probably washing a river of dirty money in a place like that.

  “What happens to the money?”

  “Goes in the back. I never see it.”

  “Who else works there?”

  “Bunch of guys. I don’t know them too well; not too friendly. I’m just supposed to work the counter.”

  “Before that you were one of Coconis’s girls?”

  Zurawska stuck her jaw out and closed her robe tighter. “I never worked for Steve. My time was through when he and I met. The guy I used to work the hotels for—he’s in jail. Aggravated assault. Steve has been good to me.”

  “But now he’s gone. Back to New Brunswick?”

 
“Not that I know of. He was at the party. Everything was great, then he was gone.”

  “Maybe gone for good?” Temple said. Temple meant dead.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Zurawska said.

  “Anyone else in the apartment with this Alexis?” Temple liked to switch gears with people he was interviewing, especially people who were taking a hostile attitude. It kept them off guard. He could read their tells better that way, the little indicators that told him when he was being fed a lie.

  “She has a boyfriend. I’ve never met him. Never seen him.”

  “The apartment in his name?”

  “Don’t know.”

  He took out his notebook and wrote down the apartment number, 512, and “Alexis” next to it. He put his book away and stood up.

  “My advice? Get out of the cheque-cashing business. Things are about to go bad down there—know what I’m saying?”

  She nodded. “What about Coconis? You going to find out what happened to him?”

  “If they did away with him, the Villains, his brothers, chances are no one will ever know. You’ll have to get used to not knowing.” Temple walked out the door.

  His BlackBerry buzzed as he was getting back in his car. It was Dalupan.

  “Hey, pal, what’s up?” Temple said.

  “John, they got a print. I was just talking to Sarah and she said Phil Bernard pulled three latents off the inside door—driver’s side door handle.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah. They had to take the whole door apart to get at it. We’re guessing the guy wiped the wheel and dash down but then forgot when he went to release himself. It’s not the owner’s prints. Preliminary has come back clean—no one with a record in our database—but we’re going to expand the search.”

  “So no hits yet.” Temple felt the elation of finding a print start to vanish as fast as it had come on. If the killer had never been printed... Or at least not in Canada. Then he had a thought.

  “Dalupan, you at your desk?”

  “Yup.”

  “Detective Tasnady’s phone number—get it for me real quick and text it to me. He’s in 55 Division.”

  “You got it.”

  “How’s Sergio?”

  “Awake but weak. I went over this morning. Just got back.”

  “I was there during the night. Who else was there?”

  “Couple of uniforms he knows.” Temple could hear Dalupan type as he talked.

  “Wozniak around?”

  “Nope, didn’t see him.”

  “Text me that number.”

  “Will do.” Temple hung up.

  A few minutes later he got Tasnady’s number and he called him.

  “Detective Tasnady, this is John Temple from homicide.”

  “Oh, right. How’s the Nair thing coming?”

  “We got a break. Well, maybe. Pulled some latents off the car but they came back clean on CPIC.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Yeah. But I was thinking—that detective you talked to over in India. I want to get them run over there too.”

  “Makes sense. The info is in PowerCase. Just search under…”

  “I know it is. I’m on the road and it would be real swell if you could pull that info up and text it to me.” Temple remembered Tasnady saying to call him if there was anything he needed. Well, this was a thing he needed doing. He could do it remotely but he wanted to lower his profile on the whole case. He still wasn’t sure there wasn’t a rat feeding Moonshine updates what he was up to through Wozniak.

  “Sure. I’ll see what I can do.” Tasnady said. Temple could tell that the seasoned detective was not happy being the lackey.

  “I sure would appreciate it. Hopefully we get a hit over there.”

  “Yeah. Anything else?” Temple could practically hear Tasnady’s eyeballs rolling around in their sockets.

  “Nope, that’s it for now.” Temple hung up, fingers crossed that Tasnady would do what was asked. He called Marinelli, who told him that he’d left the printout on his desk. Temple thanked him and called Dalupan back.

  “Yeah, boss,” he said. Dalupan called both Temple and Wozniak “boss,” but not in front of one another. Wozniak was the boss.

  “Hey Dal, that list of baddies who live in that apartment building in Richmond Hill. It’s on my desk. Can you find it?”

  “Hold on. Okay, got it.”

  “Is there someone named Alexis on it?”

  “Hmmm. Doesn’t appear to be.”

  “Damn,” Temple said. It was a long shot. “Read out the names, would you?”

  Dalupan read out fifteen names slowly. None of them jumped out at Temple as being connected with the Villains and the Nair killings, and none of them was listed as renting apartment 512.

  “Who’s the biggest hitter on the list?” Temple meant who had the longest rap sheet. The printout had codes next to each name, codes that could be translated into various crimes.

  “Guy named Miller. Five assaults. Did three years’ time. DUI four times. DOB is 02 02 ’57.

  “No one I know. Too old anyway.”

  “What’s it mean, John?”

  “There’s someone in that building connected to all this. Can you run an apartment for me? Five-twelve at the Lincoln Place Tower, the address in the middle of that search.” Temple had given Marinelli the addresses on either side of the building Zurawska had led him to.

  “Sure. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure thing,” Temple said, and closed the connection.

  His BlackBerry buzzed but it was a text. It was Sylvia. Call me.

  “Fuck. Not now,” Temple said out loud. He scrolled up through his recent texts from Sylvia. Something stirred down in him; he could not ignore it. This tension that was building between them would make for one hell of a good lay if he were to give into temptation. There was a knock on his window.

  “No parking zone. Move it or I’ll ticket you.” It was a large black woman in a TPS parking enforcement uniform. He looked in his mirror and saw her car.

  “Shit,” he said. He went into his jacket for his badge and he saw the woman tense and straighten up. They didn’t carry guns, just mace and a baton. It was a shit job, lots of abuse. People knew they could unload on parking enforcement without repercussions. It was only when they got physical with these poor souls, which happened frequently. “Relax,” Temple said. He flashed his tin. “I’m working.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m going in a second.”

  “Take your time,” she said.

  Temple put his window back up and started his car. He plugged his BlackBerry into the charger and drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. Where to next? Lunch. His stomach grumbled at the thought of some food. He stopped off at an A&W, got a cheeseburger, fries and a Coke, and swung around into the parking lot to eat and think. He was halfway through his burger when his phone rang. It was Tasnady.

  “Yeah,” Temple said, swallowing quickly.

  “Just texted you the guy’s details.”

  “What time is it over there?”

  “Fucked if I know. Late, I guess,” Tasnady said. “Good luck pronouncing his last name. I just called him Sir.”

  Temple laughed and food landed on his dashboard. “I know they can be tough. Look, I really want to thank you for this.”

  “This connected to your partner?”

  “Yeah. I think it all ties in with my case.”

  “Okay, well, when you get the guy, get a couple of shots in for us here at 55.”

  “Will do.” Tasnady meant punches to the guy’s face. Temple had a different idea on the type of shots he was going to dole out to Mendoza’s shooter.

  He checked the time. It was 11 in the morning. He figured it to be about twelve hours later in India. He checked his text and saw the note from Tasnady, and then clicked on the overseas number. The guy’s name was Lieutenant Krishnan Rao Prisaud Yandagoti. He put his phone on speaker and continued eati
ng. It took a long time before he heard a phone ringing. The tone was different and it was a double ring. Temple remembered Tasnady saying it was like talking to someone on the moon. A woman answered.

  “Hi, I’m calling for Lieutenant Krishnan,” Temple said, unsure if that was the guy’s last name or not.

  “Eh?” the woman said.

  “The Lieutenant. Please put him on.” There was some scrabbling over the line. Then a man’s voice snapped on. Temple could tell the man was upset. He was right, it was late. Temple had called the cell number Tasnady provided and maybe his wife had picked it up.

  “Sir, sorry for waking you. I’m Detective Temple with the Toronto Police Service. Canada.”

  “Eh?” the man said. Just like the woman.

  “Is this Lieutenant Krishnan Prasad Rao?” Temple stopped at the third name.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the man said. The man spoke very fast with a thick accent. “Who is this?”

  “I’m Detective Temple, with the Toronto police. Need to talk to you.”

  “It is very late, very late.”

  “I know. Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.”

  “Yes, yes. How can I help you?” The man still seemed agitated. He had a very clipped way of speaking but still seemed eager to assist.

  “Last year, in October, you spoke to a Detective Tasnady about the disappearance of a father and daughter. Indian nationality, Canadian immigrants from Bangalore.”

  “Yes, yes. I remember.”

  “Well, sir, they’ve turned up. Unfortunately they were murdered.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes, it was shocking. I’m assigned to the case.”

  “Where is Detective Tasnady?”

  Temple wasn’t going to go into the complexities of the TPS.