City of Crime

by Warren Court

  “I’m a homicide detective assigned to the case. Detective Tasnady is helping me. He suggested I call you.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Anyway—” A wave of crackling came over the line and Temple waited for it to clear.

  “Hello?” Krishnan said.

  “I’m still here. I have a set of prints that I want to send you. Could you run them for me?”

  “Of course, of course. When will you send? Tomorrow, please?”

  “Yes. You’re at home now?”

  “Yes. I was sleeping.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. It is our job, yes?”

  “Yes, it is. Are you homicide?”

  “I am a sub-inspector for the Bengaluru police, yes.”

  “I see. Sounds like I’m speaking to the right man.”

  “You send the prints. I’ll run them through our computers.”

  “That would be great. I’m going to send you a text to your phone. Can you respond with a fax number?”

  “Fax number? Can’t you send them by email? Encrypted, of course.”

  “Um, no, we’re not that advanced.”

  “Ha ha.” Krishnan laughed. “Very well. Send your text. I will have to send the fax message to you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, and I apologize for waking you and your wife.”

  “No problem, no problem. Good night.”

  Temple hung up. “Largest street gang in the world,” he said out loud. It was something Bill Rush had said to him once. That they were all brothers in blue around the world. Some of them corrupt, sure, but underneath it all they were there for each other.

  Even ones who fucked their partners’ wives? Temple thought.

  30

  Temple texted Krishnan the fax number. It would take at least eight hours before he could get a response and send in those prints. Zurawska was drawing a blank on Coconis. Maybe she was lying, maybe not. He wanted to check out her story about Coconis disappearing.

  Temple drove by Dennis Wade’s small house and saw his Acura in the driveway. He turned left at the top of the street and left again into the laneway that ran behind the row of bungalows. Each house had a narrow rectangle of back yard. Most of them were sectioned off with wood fences. Wade’s was chain link. Temple parked his car, hopped the fence easily, and moved quickly to the back of the house. There was a concrete slab with some dirty and brittle plastic lawn furniture and a rusted-out barbeque. He tried the back door. It was locked. He pulled out a leather case, unzipped it, and took out his lock-picking tools. He had picked up the kit at a security conference years before. They’d had a lock-picking table set up with dozens of different types of locks, and experts showed you how to master it. He’d spent an hour there, missing talks he was supposed to be attending, while he learned how to manipulate locks, how their inner mechanisms worked. They had been selling kits and books on the subject, and he’d picked up a few of those too. Temple figured it was knowledge more useful than anything those lectures would ever have given him.

  He had the lock picked in a minute and smiled when the door opened. He put his kit away, pulled his gun, and entered the back of the house. There was a TV playing, probably the large flat-screen in the front room. Temple moved inside and closed the door slowly until the latch clicked, then waited. All he could hear was the television. It sounded like Maury Povich doing one of his endless cheating husband shows. Maybe he, Tim, and Sylvia could go on there one day.

  Enough of this shit: concentrate. This guy is going to be fucking pissed, you breaking into his home. He might be armed. Temple shook his head and focused. This kid was weak but Temple knew if he pushed Wade into a fight-or-flight scenario one too many times, it might go bad.

  There was a half flight of three steps up to the main floor; he could see into the kitchen. It looked unclean but was empty. There was a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and he could smell something rotting. There was a bag of rye bread on the counter and he could see the pale green mould spots through the plastic. He looked out into the hallway and saw the pool of black liquid. Blood. It was coming from the front room and he knew what he was going to find before he got there.

  Dennis Wade lay on the carpet, his throat slit ear to ear, a sickly grin on his grey face. Temple swept through the living room, gun up and ready. He checked out a small den. There was still the basement but his thought was that the killer or killers were long gone. The blood had already coagulated into a thick syrupy mess. He pulled out his phone and dialled 911.

  Temple pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pockets and started working the scene. He unlatched the main door and pushed it open so the uniforms could come in. They showed up without sirens. He moved to the door, his badge out, and flashed them. Two youngsters, big beefy guys all jacked about responding to a murder scene. They were a little deflated when they saw Temple standing there, and were slow to take their hands off their guns.

  “I’m Temple, homicide,” he said, and they relaxed some more. He didn’t want to get shot by his own guys on Wade’s porch.

  “I got one male, dead in the living room. I need you guys to block off the front here and the rear.”

  “Can we see it?” one of them said.

  “What?”

  “We’ve never responded to a murder. Can we see it?”

  “Sure, come on in. You had lunch yet?”

  “No.”

  “Good. It’s not so bad. It’s a good scene to cut your teeth on.” He allowed the two uniforms into the front foyer of the house. He showed them his ID again. “Mark this down in your logs,” he told them. “Everything. The time, me being here. My badge and name. Take a look.” He stepped back so they could both see Wade lying there, arms spread out, his throat a crimson slit. The pool of blood.

  “Holy shit,” one of them said.

  “Just like the movies, eh?” Temple said. “Now, please contain the scene. I want one of you in the back, one out here. Go outside and around the back. Don’t touch anything—we got enough prints to go after. I’m going to sweep the rest of the house and come back up here. You call it in. Tell them I’m here and there’s a dead guy for real. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” they both said in unison.

  “Move!” Temple said, shaking them out of the death trance they were in.

  When they were gone, Temple went down into the basement. It was unfinished, consisting of one large cinderblock and cement-floor area with wooden beams where rooms could go. He came back up to the living room and searched the two bedrooms and small den on the main floor, but found nothing of interest. He went back to the entranceway and looked in at the murder scene. Several guests were running off Maury Povich’s show into the back like they did every episode. He reached down and felt in Wade’s pockets, and came up with an iPhone. He pocketed it and went out to the porch to wait for Marinelli’s team. On the porch, he turned and peered through the glass window in the door. He could clearly see the pool of blood. Good.

  More troops arrived—half a dozen marked cars including a sergeant. Then the unmarked detective cars showed up, filling the quiet street. What few citizens were home came out to watch the spectacle. Temple was sitting in a wicker chair on the porch when he saw Detective Marinelli come up the weedy concrete path.

  “John,” Detective Marinelli said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Witness in that case I’m working, the Indians-in-the-trunk thing.”

  “What do we have?”

  “Dead witness. Throat cut. Looks like a garrote.” The cut was even and deep; that was usually done by a wire cutting through the flesh with the same pressure throughout, as opposed to a knife, which would have to be drawn. It would take a strong man to make a cut like that with a knife.

  “Let’s take a look,” Marinelli said. He gloved up, opened the screen door, and peered into the living room. “You better stay out here, John.”

  “Right,” Temple said. It was Marinelli’s scene now; he didn’t want to contami
nate it further. Wade’s iPhone burned like a hot stone in his coat pocket. If he handed it in for evidence he would never see who Wade had been in contact with. He was hoping he could use it to find this Alexis or her boyfriend, or even Coconis if he was still alive. Marinelli came back out. He took out his notebook and took down the name and badge of the constable on the porch, then dismissed him. Others would take his place.

  “There’s one out back too,” Temple said.

  “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

  “I showed up about half an hour ago to talk to this guy.”

  “His name?”

  “Dennis Wade.”

  “Go on.”

  “Anyway, I knocked. No answer. Could see the pool of blood stretching into the hallway.”

  Marinelli looked at the door, noticed it was intact.

  “I used this.” Temple pulled out his lock-pick kit. “Getting handy with it. Got in no problem.”

  Marinelli chuckled. “Amazing,” he said.

  “Not really, you just have to have the knack.”

  “No, I mean you. Why not call it in to dispatch from the porch and leave it alone?” Marinelli said.

  “Didn’t know if he was dead or not. Might have needed help.”

  “So why not kick it down?”

  “I don’t know,” Temple said, getting annoyed now.

  “You know SIU is going to ask that question,” Marinelli said. “You better come up with a better answer.”

  “Why would SIU ask me about this? I didn’t shoot the lock off the door.”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “Fuck,” Temple said. “Anyway, found him dead and then I called it in.”

  “You clear the house?”

  “Yep. After the boys showed up, I had them guard the scene, then swept the house. Basement is unfinished. Wanted to be safe, you know.”

  “Alright, I’m going to need a statement. Can you do that toot-sweet?”

  “Yeah, you know it. Can I go now?”

  “Sure, John. Get that report to me soon as you can.”

  “Right,” Temple said, getting to his feet. He could feel Marinelli watching him all the way to the curb. He turned and nodded at his colleague, who smiled and

  then went back inside. Good thing. He was glad that Marinelli hadn’t noticed that his car was not out in front. No one paid him any attention as he walked south down to the corner and around the block to his car.

  As Temple unlocked his car door, he saw a couple of new PCs at the rear of Wade’s house. They didn’t see him. When he was in his car, his phone rang through the speakers. It was Dalupan.

  “Hey, John,” Dalupan said.

  “Buddy, whaddaya got?”

  “That apartment was rented by a Sergei Yakarov but he vacated it a couple of days ago.”

  Temple said, “You just talk to the super?”

  “Yup.”

  “You didn’t search it online, one of our databases?”

  “No, just got the info on the internet. Why?”

  Temple said, “Just want to know how you work is all, kid.”

  Dalupan laughed. “I learned all my stuff from you.” Temple didn’t want to tell Dalupan that everything about that apartment and this case and its ties to the Villains was being watched. It was good that Dalupan had not registered a search on the building in the computer.

  “How’d you get the superintendent’s name?”

  “Ad off the internet. They’ve got places to rent.”

  “Okay. Thanks, pal. Where are you?”

  “Forty College. I’m heading out, though. Back to Etobicoke. Wozniak has me working three cases all by myself.”

  “Ain’t grunt work fun?”

  “It is. I’m not complaining. John, there’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “They were asking a lot of questions about you.”

  “Who?” Temple hated a cop who didn’t have the balls to tell the tough stuff, but he liked Dalupan.

  “Wozniak, Munshin. They pulled me into the office. Wanted to know what you were up to.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “What I knew—that you were pursuing the Nair case. Going hard as always.” Temple didn’t tell Dalupan that he was supposed to be on vacation. Better off that way: he didn’t want to drag the young detective constable into the bad books with him. Temple ended the call.

  Zurawska had said she didn’t know where Coconis was. Maybe it was bullshit, maybe not. Wade might have known, but he was dead. There wasn’t many leads left to follow up. Just one, in an apartment building on the city’s outskirts, surrounded, apparently, by surveillance. He weaved his way through East York towards the DVP, got on it, and headed north. No radio, no music, no interviews from a corrupt mayor to distract him. Just a burning desire to put this matter to rest.

  31

  Temple parked in a strip mall across from Lincoln Place Terrace and sat there for an hour watching cars come and go, trying to spot the surveillance. Eyeballing anyone who looked like a cop. He saw nothing conclusive. Maybe they were just good? If there was a surveillance team set up on this building and they’d gone to ground and had people on foot, in nearby shops, they’d be harder to spot. Running into that spin team working the mayor’s driver was just luck.

  He popped the trunk of his car. In it he had a duffel bag with various beat-up bits of street clothes he used when he wanted to blend into an area. He pulled out a navy blue hoodie and a faded-out jean jacket. It was his “hood” outfit and he swapped out his sport coat for these items. He still had on his dress pants but at least the top half fitted his surroundings. The apartment buildings were in a fairly rough area. Temple had worked a few cases out of this part of town and knew that there were competing Asian gangs trying to establish dominance in the drugs and pussy trade up here.

  He felt the bulge of the Glock through the jean jacket and hoodie as he shuffled across the street with his hands in his pockets. Just another tough guy walking around town. The air was cold, the sky a dull grey. It made sense to have the hoodie up. It was large and he had it closed over his face so that he could just see through a slit. No one could spot his face, especially the two cameras he knew were jutting out in front of the semicircle entrance to the apartment building.

  He followed an old lady into the building, holding the door open for her while she pulled in her grocery cart. She thanked him and he followed her into an elevator, repeating the friendly gesture with the elevator car door. She gave him a funny look. There were no cameras in the elevator and he took the hoodie off and smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. “Getting cold again,” he said. She smiled and nodded. He pushed the five button. The woman chose seven and she seemed to relax more.

  Apartment 512 was of course locked. He listened at the door for any signs of people but could hear nothing through the thick metal door. The hallway was like an echo chamber and there was an overpowering smell of Indian cooking. He pulled out his lock-pick kit and inside of a minute had the door open.

  He closed and locked it behind him. The apartment was still furnished. Couches, a La-Z-Boy chair, and a flat screen on a stand. Someone left all this behind? It didn’t make sense, unless they’d been told to move, got wind of the operation. Maybe Zurawska had broken protocol and phoned them, told them about the cops who visited her work.

  He called out, “Hello?” There was no one home.

  The furniture and decorations were rather gender-neutral, pointing to neither a female nor a male occupant. Not pointing to anything, really; there was no indication of the kind of people who lived there. He went into the small apartment’s only bedroom. The dressers were empty; the occupants had at least had time to take their clothes before legging it. But the big bulky furniture would have required movers, several trips up and down the elevator, and that would have drawn attention. Now all this stuff would become property of the superintendent, who would sell it to try and recoup some of the rent he’d lost. Temple had done a run
ner or two on landlords in his time, before he’d gotten his act together with his money.

  The bathroom, like the dressers, was cleared out. He checked the medicine cabinet and found nothing. He opened the shower; all the shampoos were gone. There was just a half-used bar of white soap. This place should be fingerprinted, he thought. That would be great, but he couldn’t call in forensics: he wasn’t supposed to be in here. He put on a pair of latex gloves and then realized the apartment was super clean. He went back out into the bedroom and bent down so that he was eye level with the top of the dresser. There was a bit of dust on it but no smudges.

  He went back out into the main room and into the small kitchen. There were no smudges anywhere, no proof of contact with human hands. The place had been wiped down good. There was a two-piece phone connected to a land line and he picked up the handset. He pushed the outcall button and cycled through the last calls made; most of them were to the same number. He wrote them down in his book, along with the times of each call, and replaced the receiver. He checked in the cupboards, under the couch, on the coffee table. There was nothing.

  With the hoodie back up, he left the building and walked two blocks down the street to a Mac’s convenience, where he bought a Coke, all the time looking for a tail. Basic counter-surveillance. He saw none, so he crossed the street and, in a roundabout, lazy way, he circled back to his Buick. He glanced in his rear-view as he left the scene; there was still no spin team in sight.

  He headed down to the lakeshore, pulled into the parking lot of a sheet metal fabricators, and drove around to the back. He pulled out his phone, opened the redialler app, and started punching in the numbers that he’d copied down from the phone in 512 .

  “Hey, who’s this?” he said when someone answered at the first number.

  Whoever it was hung up without replying. Fine; he could have Dalupan do a reverse lookup.

  He tried the next number and got an answering machine. A woman’s voice said to leave his name and number.

  The last number had been called seven times from 512’s land line over the past three days. It was a downtown exchange. He dialled it.