by Warren Court
“How about the Elephant and Castle?”
“It’s kind of crappy out,” she said. “I gotta walk all the way down there?”
“Come on. I’ll buy you a hot toddy.”
“Okay, John, you’re on. Where are you?”
“I’m already there. Come on down.”
“Fine. See you in about five minutes.” He stepped back into the shadows under the winding staircase and waited for her to come down. Come on. He glanced at his watch again. He had to get into that elevator before five. After that, you needed a special access card to get up to the seventh. She exited at four fifty-seven and walked quickly to the front entrance of 40 College. She looked good. Temple’s guilt punched him softly in the ribs but he had to get up to the seventh.
He didn’t even wait until she exited. He quickly crossed the floor, swiped in, pushed through the security bars, and got to the elevator at four fifty-nine. He pushed the seventh-floor button; it lit up and the doors closed. That was too close. They hadn’t yet removed his access to 40 College. He had a right to meet with his Police Association rep in the building.
He stepped out onto the seventh floor of 40 College like he belonged there, like he was there for a meeting, in case he ran into Kindness, the other deputy chief, or the big man himself. He knew that Care and Kindness, Marjorie’s new boss, was at a fundraiser for Sick Kids Hospital that evening, and he was pretty sure she would be out of the office now. He was right.
There was an expansive lobby on the floor with a mahogany circular desk facing the elevators. Behind the desk on either side of the room were the doors to the offices. The desk was empty; the Command offices were all closed. At least this part of TPS had called it a day.
They had already installed Karen in her new office. Her name was on the door, listing her as Deputy Chief, Community Safety Command. Temple tried the door, knowing it would be locked. He pulled out his lock-pick and in record time was in, just as the elevator chimed. He closed the door quietly and listened. There were two voices speaking Spanish. He heard a vacuum start up. He stepped back out, relocked the outer door, and crossed the room to the door to the deputy chief’s inner office. It was locked as well. Another quick job with his picks—he was getting really good at it—and he was in.
Temple didn’t bother turning on the lights. He tapped at her keyboard and Kindness’s monitor came to life, casting enough light to type by. It prompted him for a user name and password. He typed in Brush and Wentworth. It worked; he was in. He recognized the icon for PowerCase and clicked it. He heard the outer door open and he poked his head out. It was one of the cleaners.
“Uno momento, por favor,” he said, and smiled.
The cleaner was startled. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, and closed the door.
He would not be bothered by them and he doubted she would report him. He pulled out his cell phone and dialled Marjorie’s number. He still had it from when he’d taken her home after a TPS Christmas ball two years before. She was still on the street, making her way down the three blocks to the Elephant and Castle.
“Hey, Marjorie, something’s come up. I had to take off.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m right across the street.”
“Yeah, I’m already gone. A case I’m working just took a turn for the worse.”
“Thought you were suspended.”
“No, that was all a mistake. Anyway, rain cheque?”
“I guess, John. I wasn’t feeling that great anyway.”
“Next week sometime then? Message me.” He clicked off and went back to Kindness’s computer. Temple brought up a search function within the application and typed in Mendoza’s name. PowerCase loaded every file it could find and when it was done it beeped. Temple started clicking on the files. There were 276 of them; this was going to take a while. Thankfully the elevators didn’t require users to swipe a special pass card to descend. He could spend all night in here if need be. Rain pelted the window and the city had started to descend into darkness. He could see the lighted tower on the Manulife building. The blinking lights ascended from the roof up to the tower’s peak, indicating rising temperature, and the light on top glowed white, indicating rain.
The best course of action was to start with the latest entry and work backwards. By the time it took him to review 200 entries, skimming through the details on each one, the cleaners had departed the floor. It was 6:30. So far he had covered off Mendoza’s time in homicide, the two dozen cases he had worked as part of Team Two. Those files were extensive; they included all of Mendoza’s notes from the murders they’d worked, plus linkages where he was referenced in other people’s notations, including Temple’s.
…DC Mendoza and myself questioned suspect on whereabouts date and time of the murder of Rory Haines.
Before homicide, Mendoza had worked in sex crimes under Detective Roger St. Denis. Temple figured that’s where he might find something juicy, something linking him to this whole thing with the Nairs and the killings, including his own shooting. But there was nothing. There were countless encounters between Mendoza and hookers, Mendoza and pimps, and of course the johns and other sleazebags involved in the sex business, but nothing that jumped out at him. No Sidduth Nair, no Coconis or Dennis Wade. Temple thought maybe it was best to step away and take a fresh look at the files, but first he wanted to make his way to the end of Mendoza’s career as a cop. That meant switching applications. And after all, he was in a place he was not supposed to be. Sooner or later he was going to have to vacate Kindness’s office.
He minimized PowerCase and opened up Unified Search, an application that had basically the same purpose as PowerCase but was used to handle the flood of information entered by police detailing their interactions with the public. The majority of these didn’t necessarily lead to an arrest. For years, cops in the TPS and almost every other major police force in the world had used a system called carding, though it was called by other names elsewhere. Every time a uniformed cop had an interaction with a member of the public they filled out a card that included the person’s name and driver’s licence, address, and other details. Whether the person was a criminal or not, as long as the interaction caused the cop to ask for identification a card was created. A traffic stop, a response to loud noise coming from someone’s house, etcetera. That interaction started the whole process. It was a controversial system, seen by minorities as unfairly targeting them. The TPS maintained that the practice of carding was beneficial, that it provided them with crucial intelligence into criminal activity, and that if a law-abiding citizen was carded they had nothing to fear from it.
Every card that Mendoza had filled out was entered into Unified Search. When he’d first started out as a cop, like every other cop that had gone before him, he was a regular constable driving a car, with or without a partner, and responding to calls, making arrests. There were fifteen hundred entries under Mendoza’s name in Unified Search. It made the listings in PowerCase seem trivial.
Temple started going through those fifteen hundred findings. It took just over an hour; though there were a lot of them, the details in each card were minimal. He was conscious of the time.
Suddenly something that caught his eye: Temple leaned in closer to the monitor. Eight years ago, Mendoza had pulled over a vehicle in 55 Division where he was posted. The plate number was strange, only four digits: 102D. Not a personalized licence plate—Mendoza would have, should have, made note of that. Temple thought for a moment, then grabbed his notebook. He flipped through to the page where he had written down Diminitrov’s licence plate number. The plate was four digits also—122F. All city vehicles used to transport dignitaries like the mayor and the provincial premier had this special tag. It was very similar to the tag a limousine would carry, but it was in red, indicating a government vehicle. The car in Mendoza’s report was a black SUV, not unlike the one he had seen Diminitrov, the mayor’s driver, handling the other day.
The entry was short. Pulled driver over for swerving across the lin
e into opposing traffic. ID’d driver as Alexi Zukov. Temple pushed back from Kindness’s desk. His jaw opened. The driver of that government vehicle could be his Alexi, the boyfriend of the girl who had rented the apartment on Lincoln Place. The one who was linked to the Villains and their prostitution racket. The synapses in Temple’s brain started firing: he had found it. This was the link.
The information in the file went on to say that the driver appeared to be intoxicated. The woman in the passenger seat had identified herself as Eva Zurawska. Temple let out a chuckle; he was giddy with excitement. Each name in the file in Unified Search was highlighted in blue, meaning Temple could click on them to see a criminal file. If a person who was carded and entered into the system had no record, the name would be unclickable. He was already familiar with Zurawska’s record, so he clicked on Alexi Zukov’s name first and up popped a picture of Diminitrov, the mayor’s driver.
“Of course,” Temple said out loud. “He’s working for the mayor under an assumed name. Or maybe Zukov is his real name and Diminitrov is the alias.” It didn’t matter. For all Temple knew, both names could be fake. It was quite easy to get legitimate government-issued ID under fake names.
The question remained, though: why hadn’t Mendoza arrested Alexi Zukov for drunk driving? The only logical answer was the obvious: he had been influenced. Pressure had been applied. It would have had to be immediate, right then and there, because it was much more difficult to quash a DUI after the person was booked, although it could be done. So who would have had the power to persuade Mendoza to let a drunk driver off? The mayor himself, if he was in the back seat? Temple knew that Mendoza had no ill-will towards Mayor Allen; quite the reverse—he thought he was a cool guy. But would he have put his career on the line for a cool guy? No, it was more likely to have been a cop, one who could have fucked Mendoza’s career if he’d brought in the mayor’s driver and purveyor of pussy. Karen Kindness worked in 55 Division. Had she been on shift that night? Had she ever been in charge of Mendoza? He could check into that.
Temple heard a key at the door. He pushed the power button on the monitor and went out into the front room, closing the door to Karen’s office as he went and automatically locking it. He heard a jangle as the bunch of keys hit the floor outside. There was a scraping sound and a thud against the door. Then the keys were back in the outer door lock and Karen came in. Temple was sitting on the plush leather chair next to her admin’s desk.
She jumped slightly when she saw him sitting there. “What the hell? What are you doing in here?”
“Your admin told me to wait, that you would be back.”
“Like hell,” she slurred. She was loaded.
“Marjorie just left for the day. She must have locked the door on the way out.”
“I want to know what you’re doing here.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“We have nothing to talk about.” She passed in front of him and tried the door to her own office. It was locked; the light was off. But Unified Search and PowerCase were still activated on her computer. The next time she sat down in front of it and brought it to life she would see that and know he had been in there.
“Karen, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Do you ever get off on the right one with a female officer? Or any woman for that matter?” she said. She dumped her purse on her assistant’s desk.
“You got anything to drink?” he asked.
She fished her keys out of her purse and went into her office. The lights came on and she was back in a couple of seconds with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses. Temple was surprised, but he figured maybe that was what she had come back to her office for in the first place. It certainly wasn’t to do any work, not in her condition, and she had a reputation for being a bit of a boozer. Able to hold her own with senior staff.”
“This is stupid,” she said as she poured two stiff ones. She put hers to her mouth quickly and took a long pull.
“You bring that bottle over from 55 Division?” he asked.
“No, it was a present from the chief. I just haven’t had time to bring it home.”
Temple knew that was a lie, many a cop had kept a bottle at their desk. “It’s against TPS policy to have liquor on premises.”
“Yeah, I might get suspended.”
“I don’t think they’ll suspend you, Karen,” Temple said and he picked up his glass. “You’re too smart for them.” She smiled and they clinked glasses.
She drank and sat on her admin’s desk. Temple had to admit she was looking mighty fine. No uniform, just a form-fitting black Armani suit with a skirt that ended mid-thigh. Temple wondered if she still carried her Glock under there. All she had on her to indicate her position was a small blue TPS lapel pin.
“No uniform tonight?”
“It’s a dinner dance thing,” she said. “I went home to change. Just wanted to stop in here first.”
Jesus, thought Temple. She’s off to a fundraiser and she’s already in the bag. “Right—the Sick Kids thing. Are those things any fun?”
“They can be. Free booze,” she said, and took a sip.
“Will the mayor be there?” he said.
She looked at him icily now for the first time. “Maybe,” she said. “He is invited but he is unreliable.”
“’Cause he’s always drunk or stoned, I would imagine.”
Kindness smirked. “How would you know?”
“Everyone knows. What they don’t know is his liking for the ladies of the evening, call girls. I’m investigating the Nair murders and uncovering some interesting things about His Worship. He likes them young. Sometimes things get out of hand.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Stand up,” she said.
“What?”
“I said stand the fuck up. Put that glass down.”
Temple set his drink on the coffee table in the middle of the room and complied, somewhat amused by her cop voice. She came over to him.
“Raise your arms.”
“What—you’re frisking me?”
Kindness’s hands went inside his jacket. Thankfully he had left the .357 in his car. Her hands went around his back.
“I’m not wearing a wire, for Christ’s sake, Karen.”
Her hands snaked down his legs and moved upwards to his midsection, around to his buttocks, and then she reached the front and grabbed his cock and balls. “Whoa,” she said, her eyes widening in appreciation. He immediately started to get hard. Her grip was firm but not painful.
“Wow,” he said.
“You like that?” She kissed him on the mouth, hard. He liked it, and the effect was complete as he stiffened in her hands. He could taste the Glenfiddich and other libations on her.
“I heard you were good,” she said, in between sticking her tongue in his mouth. She kept stroking him.
“Who from?”
“Sylvia Wozniak,” she said. Temple pulled back a bit.
“Yeah, she said you were a monster fuck. Is that why she killed herself, ’cause you cut her off?” Temple pulled back further and made to slap her across the face.
“Do it,” she said. “Hit me!” He let her have it, a full slap across the face, then a backhander.
“You’re going to mess my makeup,” she said, laughing. “That all you got, big boy?” she growled, never letting go of his package. Her office door was still open, and she dragged him into it by his cock. He couldn’t resist. She led him around behind the desk and sat up on it. He grabbed both her legs and lifted them up. She was chewing at him, scratching at him.
“Hit me,” she said. He didn’t. “I said hit me, you faggot.” He let her have it again across the mouth, and she squealed in ecstasy. He reached up under her short skirt and tore at her panties. She fumbled at his belt and released him. She was warm and wet as hell inside, and he rammed into her. She squealed again.
She hit her keyboard with her hand and Unified Search came back up on the screen but she had her back to the m
onitor. With a smile on his face, he pressed his thumb on the power button of the computer until it shut off. She was oblivious, writhing against him. There would be an electronic record that someone in her office had logged into her workstation and accessed information, but that someone was Bill Rush, Mr. Untouchable. He let out a chuckle.
“You think this is funny?” she said, and ground against him harder. He turned his full attention to the business at hand and gave her a good seeing-to. When she finally yelled with pleasure, he let his mind take him to the place he wanted to be and finished inside of her with one final flurry of thrusting. She let him take two deep breaths before pushing him away. She started straightening herself, and Temple pulled up his pants and started doing his shirt. He reeked of sex, Chanel No. Five, and single malt.
“Now why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
“You know why. I’m following the Nair murders—”
“Even though you’re suspended?”
“—and I wanted to talk to you. I can’t back off it, Karen. Not with my partner all shot up.”
“You’re a good cop, John. What am I going to do with you? Why won’t you lie down when you’re told to?”
“I don’t know. What makes it so easy for you to lie down?”
“Fuck you,” she said.
Temple looked at the photo of her daughter again, the ponytail. It was up high on the girl’s head. He always liked it when women did their hair like that. Something clicked in his memory.
“I am a good cop, Karen. So good I see things other cops don’t.”
“Right. You’re the Amazing Kreskin.”
“Yeah, sometimes. You have that video on your computer, the one of me going to meet you at the hotel bar?”
“Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
He laughed. “Afraid of bugs, Karen? Just pull up the video. Something I want to show you. That’s why I’m here.”
They were both more or less dressed again, and she turned around and rebooted her computer and logged into it. She gave no indication she knew that Temple had been on it only minutes before. She clicked on a video file on the desktop and the grainy black and white video of the Marriott lobby loaded. She hit play. Both of them watched John Temple cross from right to left in the middle of the shot, headed for the bar, the time stamp clicking away down in the corner. There were the other people in the shot. Two pairs of legs up at the check-in counter. A girl’s head bobbed up and down briefly in the bottom of the shot. A blonde ponytail bouncing up and down.
