by Warren Court
“No, we were planning on going to Europe. Spain and Portugal. I was getting the brochures collected. It was going to be a second honeymoon.”
“Uh huh,” Temple said.
“We were going to renew our vows. It was my idea, wedding anniversary present to her.”
“Really?” Temple said. Something clicked in his brain. No, he couldn’t go there. He remembered what Sylvia had said, how Tim had laughed at the idea of going to Europe. What Temple was thinking was evil but not totally beyond the realm of possibility. Who better to commit murder than a homicide detective?
“What have you been up to?” Wozniak said to Temple. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm. Did Tim know about him and Sylvia or was he playing it super-cool?
“You know, working around the house.” Had he forgotten that Temple was suspended?
“This whole thing will work out. Don’t worry. Just let the smoke clear and you’ll be back to work. Homicide will always need a good cop like you.”
“Our team is in tatters,” Temple said.
“Don’t worry about that. You’ll land on your feet.”
“I’m going back to uniform,” Dalupan said.
Both senior detectives looked at him. “That’s too bad, man,” Temple said. “Sorry about that.”
“Shit happens.” Dalupan rarely swore. Both men laughed and then Dalupan did too.
“Anyway, we just wanted to come by, show our support,” Temple said.
“I appreciate it, John, Francis, I really do.”
“She was special. A real nice lady. Hang in there,” Temple said. He had to fight an overpowering urge to probe his friend, draw the circumstances of the suicide out of him. Start to get him to lock into a story that could be demolished by inconsistencies. It was that investigator’s inquisitiveness. Was there something there? Could Tim have taken a handful of pills and shoved them down his wife’s throat? A happy couple, my ass, he thought. Sylvia had told him about their multiple cracks at marriage counselling. The arguments. And now the possibility that Tim knew full well what he and Sylvia had been getting up to. More than enough motive to push a husband over the edge. Wozniak saw someone else come up the stairs and went to greet them.
“Let’s go, pal,” Temple said to Dalupan. Their duty done, they were glad to depart the depressing scene.
Temple slammed the door on his car and stared at the dash. He sat there for a while thinking of Sylvia. He could remember the touch of her skin. It had a slightly rough feel to it that grabbed at his fingers and slowed down his caress, generating heat.
“No!” Temple shouted in the confines of his car. Focus on the case, he told himself. On the Nairs, that little girl in the trunk. Her father. The other daughter. Don’t get caught up in Tim Wozniak’s bullshit and Sylvia Wozniak’s head games from beyond the grave.
Temple took a deep, cleansing breath. He remembered what Bill Rush had told him when they’d first worked together six years before, just after he made Detective; when a case stalls, you go back to the beginning. You look for a crack, any crack, and you smash that fucker with a hammer until it splits wide open. He still remembered Rush’s password for PowerCase. He would use that when the time came, but for now he had his notes. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. Even though he was suspended, stripped of his badge and gun, he carried that. The last piece of the police holy trinity he still possessed. He flipped through the pages to the Solomon Quinte interrogation.
Suspect indicates he saw Sidduth Nair with two men. One with a beard and neck tattoo of a flower…
That was Coconis. The neck tattoo was a fake, already washed off. Clever idea. He must have had to have that touched up regularly. But seriously, what undercover cop would get a neck tattoo?
… and another man, big and burly like a biker type but not quite. The man with the neck tattoo seemed to be in charge.
Who the hell is that? Temple thought.
It didn’t take long for Temple to locate Solomon Quinte. The drug dealer was still going to the high school that the Nair girls had attended. Son of a bitch. At least it gave Temple a legitimate excuse for being rough on the kid. And he knew that was all that Solomon Quinte understood or respected.
The school bell rang and Temple, parked across the street from the school, watched Solomon come out the same side door he’d used to get away from them the first time. This time, though, he was casual and cool. A pair of teenage girls came up to him and there was a quick exchange that Temple could not see. Quinte stuffed something in his pocket. He was still dealing; one more thing to get over on him. The justice system had turned this kid back out on to the streets to continue selling drugs to their sons and daughters.
Temple started his car and cruised slowly behind Solomon Quinte as he walked away from the school. He kept a couple of blocks’ distance. Solomon was with a friend, another black kid, younger and skinnier than him—his apprentice, maybe. Then the second kid peeled off and waved goodbye. Temple sped up. Just as Solomon Quinte was crossing a street, Temple swerved in behind him and doored him, sending the nineteen-year-old drug dealer to the ground in pain, just like he had the first time. Temple slammed on the brakes hard, blocking the intersection. He sprang out of the car and grabbed the squirming and moaning Quinte.
“Surprise!” Temple yelled in his ear. “We’re going for a drive, motherfucker.”
Temple picked the kid up and pushed him into his car through the open door, across the console, and stuffed him in the foot well of the passenger seat. Quinte could hardly fight it; he was winded.
“Come on, man. What the fuck is this?” he finally managed to sputter.
Temple slammed his door closed just as two neighbours were coming out of their houses to watch the outrage. Would they still be outraged if they knew the damage this kid was doing to their neighbourhood? Probably not. He floored it and left before they could get his plates.
“Hey, man, this ain’t cool,” Quinte said, and he squirmed to right himself in the seat.
“Just sit still. I want to talk to you.”
Quinte straightened his shirt and sat back, rubbing his elbow. Temple made sure the doors were locked.
“I ain’t going to arrest you so don’t bolt, motherfucker. I know where you live.”
“So? You think I’d go there? I ain’t stupid.”
“No, but your mother has two bench warrants out on her. She could get deported. You want that?”
Quinte went silent. Temple was bluffing, but it worked. He had no idea what warrants this kid’s mother might have on her, if any.
“I just want to talk to you about Sidduth Nair.” He pulled into a side street and turned his car off.
“I already told you. I ain’t seen her since last summer.”
“Yeah, downtown. You ran into her. She was strung out.”
“Sure she was.”
“But not on your shit.”
Quinte laughed. “No. My stuff puts a smile on yo’ face.”
“Give it here,” Temple said, and snapped his fingers.
“Give you what?”
“Your stash, bro. Come on.”
“You said you wasn’t going to arrest me.”
“I’m not, but I’m a cop and you ain’t holding today. Not on my watch.”
Quinte dug down into his underwear and brought up a Ziploc bag with about twenty red capsules in it. “I got more, you know,” he said.
“I’m sure you do. And I’m going to let you keep the cash that you took off those two girls.”
Quinte grinned.
“I thought I told you to stop this shit at that school.”
“I’m almost graduated. Got exams coming up and then I’m done.”
“Yeah, right. Off to college?”
“Maybe. Thinking of taking a business course.”
Temple threw the baggie in the back seat. He’d throw it down the sewer after he was finished with Solomon. “Sidduth Nair,” he said.
“Can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Yeah, motherfucker has that tattoo on his neck. Who would do that? That shit hurt.”
“You’re damn right it does,” Temple said. He didn’t let on that he knew the tattoo was painted on.
“The other guy. Who was it?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“But you know him.”
“He’s a big man. You know. Looked like he could tear my arms off and beat me to death with them. And now he’s going around in a suit. Those blacked-out shades like some kind of secret service type.”
“What are you talking about? What suit? You’ve seen him recently?”
“He’s in the paper.”
“What paper?”
“Today’s paper. I don’t know which one, but I saw him. Maybe he’s in all of them. There’s a picture of him.”
“In today’s paper? There’s a pic of the second guy? You’re kidding me.”
“Yeah, I saw it this morning when I went to the store. I always stop and read the headlines. There he was. Knew it was him. Scary dude.”
“Get the fuck out of here. Show me.” Temple started his car. It took him five minutes to find a convenience store. He went around to the passenger side of his car, opened the door, and took Quinte out.
“Don’t run, man,” he said again.
Temple and Quinte went in the store. At the entrance were stacks of the daily newspapers, the Sun, the Star, the Globe and Mail.
“Which one?” Temple studied the front pages.
“There,” Quinte said and he pointed to the Toronto Sun, a right-of-centre, working-class tabloid. On the cover was a picture of the mayor walking into City Hall. The headline said something about budget expenditures coming into question.
“The mayor—that’s who you saw with Sidduth? You expect me to believe that?”
“Hey, you buy, you no read!” a Chinese man behind the counter yelled.
Temple dug in his pocket, came out with a toonie, and flipped the coin at the guy. He grabbed the Sun in one hand and hustled Quinte out of the store with the other.
“The mayor? What game you trying to play, Solomon?”
“No, not the mayor, motherfucker.”
Temple hauled Quinte to his car and pushed him across the hood. Quinte saw the rage in Temple’s eyes and he put his hands up.
“Yo, chill, man. I don’t mean the mayor. Look at the photo.” Temple eased off and Solomon tried to straighten up. “There.” He pointed a finger at the photo, not at the mayor but at the man coming up behind him. “That’s him. That’s the guy I saw.”
Temple recognized the man but didn’t know the name. “Who is that?” There was no name in the photo caption.
Solomon kept jabbering. “That guy. That’s the other guy I saw with my Sid. Big guy. Look at him. Looks like a bodyguard.”
Temple looked up at the sky and slapped the paper down on his thigh. The bodyguard. The driver. The guy Temple had seen go to a meeting with a known drug dealer, all the while in the company of an OPP surveillance team.
“Fucking fantastic,” Temple said.
“Can I go now? “
“What?”
“Can I go? I showed you the photo. Ain’t even going to ask for my stash back.”
“You ain’t getting it.”
“So…?”
“No, I need a favour. There’s one more thing you can do for me.”
Temple waited in the stairwell between the fifth and sixth floors of the apartment block where Solomon Quinte lived. The stairs were dirty and stank of urine. The walls were covered in graffiti, some of it in big, classic, bouncy letters, others just squiggly lines. All of it gang-related and a mixture of swear words and gang tags. He checked his watch. Solomon had been gone twenty minutes now. On the way there they’d stopped at a bank machine where Temple had withdrawn five hundred bucks, keeping one eye on Solomon in the car. When they arrived at Quinte’s apartment block, Temple had told him what he wanted. To his amazement, the request had not fazed the young man at all, not in the slightest.
Temple heard footsteps coming down now. Multiple pairs. Instinctively his hand moved to where his holstered Glock 9 should have been, and felt nothing but his rib cage. Quinte came into view with two other black youths. One looked like he was about fourteen. Temple recognized him: it was the punk from the other day, the one who had stepped up on Temple when he had Quinte on the ground in the underground parking garage of this building. Of course. It all made sense now. Temple had to stop from laughing at the absurdity of it.
“What you want, pig?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Temple said, and he nodded at Quinte. They stopped five steps above him. The kid pushed past Quinte and the other youth, who was older, bigger, and more menacing but clearly taking his lead from this little guy.
“Yeah, I don’t believe it. I get you chromed up you’re just going to punk my ass and put me in jail.”
Temple took his hands out of his pockets and showed them. “Nope. Honest Injun.”
“Honest what?”
“I got green.” Temple put one hand back in his coat pocket and saw the kid tense up.
“It’s true,” Quinte said. “I saw him take it out.”
Temple pulled out the wad of five hundred dollars, all of it in twenties. “Here’s five hundred.”
“That ain’t enough. Cop prices are higher.”
“It’s all I got. Are you afraid? Like you were in that garage?”
That worked. The kid’s eyes squinted, and he sucked his top lip in and came down two more steps.
“We’re doing this,” Temple said. “I need it. Take the cash.” He held it out but held on tightly. The kid reached for it.
“What do you have for me?” Temple said.
The kid snapped his fingers. A greasy paper bag was put in his hand and he handed it to Temple. Temple pulled out the oily black snub-nosed .357. It felt wonderful. Temple flipped the cylinder open. It was empty.
“You think I’m stupid enough to hand a loaded weapon to a motherfucking pig?” the kid said, and Temple laughed. The kid smirked and snapped his fingers again, and the muscle put a Ziploc bag containing a decent number of rounds for the revolver in his hand. “The money,” the kid said. He held out the rounds and Temple held out the money and they each grabbed at what they wanted. Transaction concluded.
“Nice doing business with you,” Temple said.
“Yeah. See you around, Jack,” the kid said.
Temple pushed bullets into the revolver’s chamber as he walked quickly to his car. Behind him a bottle, dropped from high up in the tower, exploded on impact. He casually looked around and saw a string of black and brown faces looking at him from one of the rust-coloured balconies.
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” he said quietly to himself. He snapped the cylinder shut and got in his car.
39
Temple fingered the revolver in his coat pocket as he drove home. When he was safely in his house and away from prying eyes, he inspected the weapon, wondering what crimes it had been used in, where it had come from. The serial number was filed off but there were sophisticated means of retrieving that. Ballistics from the weapon might be on file; he would have to make sure to ditch the weapon if he used it, even if it was in self defence. Self defence. He chuckled at the notion of deliberately using a firearm for anything other than self defence. How far he’d come. But how far was he to go before he gave up on this case? Now he was driving around with an illegal weapon, violating TPS orders and impersonating an active police officer. The slope was getting slippery, alright.
He retrieved a gun-cleaning kit from a desk drawer and went to work on the .357. It was a Rossi 461. Nice piece of kit. After cleaning, he dry-fired it several times. The sights mi
ght be off, he should assume that, but it was in perfect shape. A sweet little weapon that could put a man down with one slug. It wouldn’t fit his shoulder holster, so he resolved to carry it in his pocket or tucked in his belt around the small of his back.
Satisfied, he left the revolver on the coffee table, retrieved the police laptop from his leather computer bag, and opened it up. It took several minutes for it to boot. Temple used his RSA token to log in remotely to the TPS website. Access denied. Temple slammed the palm of his hand onto the coffee table so hard the laptop jumped up an inch. He grabbed the gun and stormed out of his house.
Tucked under a flight of stairs on the ground floor of 40 College, Temple used his cell phone to call Marjorie Corman, personal assistant to the Deputy Chief, Community Safety Command, Karen Kindness’s new gig. Marjorie had been a PowerCase chick in homicide before moving to her new role. She had confided to Temple one night, in bed alongside him, that she couldn’t handle crime any more. Entering the details—the interrogations, the crime scene photos, the confessions, of all those homicides—into the computer had scarred her, almost as much as it had Temple.
“Marjorie, it’s John Temple.”
“John? Really?” Temple could hear the excitement in her voice. It had been a while.
“Hey, I wanna buy you a drink. Maybe two.”
“I get off at five,” she said. She was up on the seventh floor where the chief’s and his deputies’ offices were.
“Can you make it any earlier? Need to talk to you about something.”
It’s been a while, John. You never called me. I thought…”
“I know. I apologize. I’m realizing my mistake. Thought we could grab a drink and maybe start over.”
“Hmmm,” she said.
“Come on. One drink.”
“Maybe two?” she said, and laughed.
“Whatever you want. I’m easy.”
“Well, I guess it’s okay. My boss isn’t here.” It was 4:49 in the afternoon. “Okay, where we meeting? Across the street at Pogue Mahone’s?”
“No. Too many cops there.”
“Right Smart thinking.”
