The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (4 page)

Nastos went to the guy on the phone and waited. He was stocky, maybe late thirties, with traces of grey in his black goatee. Nastos made note of the name tag: Katounis. It was a Greek name just like his own.

The cop hung up the phone and took a breath. “Are you two together?”

Carscadden replied, “We get asked that all the time but we're just friends.”

Officer Katounis didn't laugh. Instead he appeared annoyed. “Okay, what is it then?”

Nastos rested both of his hands on the counter. “Listen, my name is Steve Nastos, I used to be a detective with Toronto. I retired and now I'm a private investigator. You get a hold of anyone who worked with me and they will tell you they hate me, I was a bit of an asshole, but when it came to the thin blue line, I was the most solid guy in the police service.”

The cop's eyes moved from Carscadden to Nastos, like he was wondering if another stupid joke was coming his way, then a flash of recognition appeared on his face. “Hey, are you the guy that punched the —”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I can't really get into that. If I said anything it would make you a witness to a spontaneous utterance and I doubt you want to spend any time in a witness box.”

Katounis pursed his lips as he thought. “So you two investigated that missing girl case.”

“Yeah, Lindsay Bannerman.”

“So whatever happened to that psychic guy?”

Nastos shrugged. “No offence, but thinking about that drives me crazy.” The other officer at the counter left and Nastos felt more comfortable talking. “We're here on business, unfortunately. This is the deal. My client is some half-crazy, rich old lady. She was driving home the other day and was struck from behind by a car load of morons. They jumped out of the car and started yelling at her, made her feel like it was her fault. Two
other
guys were driving by, and offered to help, they said they were cops. They were young, she says, good looking, didn't seem like druggies to her, but they were in plain clothes and didn't show her the tin. Like she'd know a real badge if she ever saw one. Anyways, like I said, she has cash. She wants to give them a reward for helping her out, a few hundred bucks each. I don't want their names from you. I understand the rules.”

“So you want me to figure out who they are?”

“All I want is confirmation that they work here and the name of their supervisor. Then I can go through him to get their identity and they get their cash, maybe even a stupid plaque from the Superintendent that they can use to impress women at the bar.”

Katounis wasn't convinced. “No offence, but this sounds like total bullshit. I'm just saying.”

Nastos glanced over to Carscadden, feeling embarrassed for trying such a pathetic ploy.

Carscadden nodded his approval to him and he turned back to Katounis. “Okay. Well, we're looking for two guys who could work here and they may have witnessed something that they are embarrassed to admit to. We want this to go away. And they might not even be cops anyways.”

The phone began to ring but Katounis ignored it. “Okay, so what do they look like?”

Carscadden slid a sheet of paper over with the descriptions for him to read. Nastos said, “Two guys. One white, five eight,
140
, crewcut, the other black, six foot even,
190
. They work together a lot. I guess in street crime, or some plainclothes unit?”

Katounis was staring at the sheet, reading it over. “No shit,” he muttered to himself.

Carscadden and Nastos exchanged glances. Carscadden asked, “They sound familiar?”

“There's a few hundred guys working out of this station. Street Crime — like you said — drug guys, Intel. These can only be two guys. Now I can't give you their names but these two guys work together all the time. They may as well get married. And they are always getting involved in stuff. They even go looking for it on their days off.” Katounis leaned forward and typed into the computer screen. He found what he was looking for and wrote something down.

“Here's the name of their staff sergeant. Fraser. Maybe she can help you out.”

“Fraser, when's she in next?”

“They're on evenings tonight. Trust me, she'll know exactly who you're talking about. Some serious cases of rookie syndrome.”

Carscadden asked, “So these guys are going to be in too?”

“Yeah, they should be.”

Nastos offered his hand to Katounis, who took it. “Thanks, officer. Hopefully your colleagues give you a cut of the action.”

Katounis shook his head. “I don't know what they were up to, I don't know why you really want to talk to them, but if there's cash involved I don't want my name anywhere near it.”

5

Nastos sent a text message to Jacques, his old partner, keeping the phone in hand as he expected a quick reply. Midday traffic kept the streets busy. Carscadden turned onto Shaw Street passing Trinity Bellwoods Park. Nastos began scrolling through his ongoing conversation with Jacques but paused when he noticed that he could see between the trees to the Trinity Park Rec Centre where Walker had been shot to death. Kids were playing, elderly people were sitting on benches, life had barely paused for a few hours where Walker was photographed and taken out in a body bag to be burned with the other unclaimed dead. If there were monuments or roadside memorials where every person had died in Toronto there would be no room for the living.

Carscadden asked, “How long's it going to take for Jacques to get the
ID
for the two cops?”

“He says less than an hour. He's going to get their pictures and send them to us in a text with their addresses and other information.”

“He trusts you. The trouble he could get in for giving you the information . . .”

“He's smart. He knows what he can get away with.”

Carscadden moved into the right lane to avoid a left-turning vehicle. “Katounis said rookie syndrome. A lot of rookie cops are out killing people?”

“Well, I doubt it started like that.” Nastos reached over and turned on the air conditioning. “Considering the thousands of mall cops, wannabes and general psychos that apply, I think we do a good job of weeding out the worst of them. I doubt even five percent are hiring mistakes but they wreak so much havoc. Cocky, flash the tin everywhere trying to get a deal, movie theatres, electronic stores, car dealerships. I've heard of guys wearing their police shirts while they drive around town, hoping people notice. Some drop the fact that they are a cop in every possible conversation, meet girls in bars and give them the police business card. Mostly it's pathetic pleas for attention and approval. But some guys have it worse. Some guys watch drug houses on their days off and record licence plates to investigate when they're back on duty. I've heard of guys writing tickets while they are off-duty. Nothing anywhere says you can't, but holy shit, who could be bothered?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“These are the dweebs who make it through. Let's remember that this is a small percentage, they usually don't make it past probation, thank god.” Nastos shook his head and continued. “Sounds like our guys here have it bad. Maybe they were doing something like watching drug deals in the park but things took an ugly turn. If Falconer is in any way credible maybe they were doing a fake drug buy.”

Carscadden chewed his lower lip for a moment. “I'm trying to remember any shootings with off-duty police involved. Can they carry their guns around when not at work?”

“Some police services,
OPP
, Toronto, maybe some others can carry the work guns home if you have the safe and everything. But no. You don't go banking or take the kids to daycare with it just to feel like a hotshot. These guys were doing about a million things wrong. About ten years ago a group of Peel cops got busted for doing violent home invasions. An
OPP
Tac Team once got disbanded for trashing a Native man's house they were searching. I've even heard of a Toronto copper who killed his wife and buried her in the basement. But shooting a guy in a park during a drug rip-off? We should call Professional Standards and let them take it from here. Job done.”

Carscadden took his phone out and checked the screen. “Umm. Hopkins says some guy just came into the office wanting to hire me for an impaired. There's a quick five grand.” He put the phone away. “So what about the
ID
on Walker, then? What's the point of doing that now?”

Nastos didn't have an answer. He wasn't sure at first why he was bothering. “Well, we told Karen we would.” He pondered it more. “If we get the name, it would get her a good story. She might get some journalism award out of this.”

Carscadden turned the radio down. “Could be good for business when she tells her boss at the paper that we did some of the background work. Might get the company name in print a few times commenting on cases. Hell, I could jack up my rates and start paying you a fair wage. You could afford to stop dressing like a chump and maybe buy yourself a stick or two of deodorant.”

“Hey, there's nothing wrong with this suit, it's my birth certificate that's the problem.”

Carscadden parked tight to the curb in front of the Travel Lodge Motel on King Street. Carscadden exited the car, smoothing out his suit before running his fingers through his hair. Nastos opened the trunk and lifted out a small tool box that was his fingerprint kit. Clear tape, print cards, a few brushes and, among other things, metal filings, or “dust,”
to spread around in case they found anything that Walker might have touched with his hands.

Traffic was as busy as expected for two p.m., pedestrians fiddling with their iPods and BlackBerrys,
TTC
drivers slaloming their buses between cabs and stunned tourists. The hot city air bore the weight of car exhaust, this time accented by flavours of Polish street meat from a nearby vendor. They stood at the curb examining the building.

It was a two-storey motel with the office at the west end of the building, a staircase, then two rows of identical windows and rooms. Red brick with a pinkish mortar,
1970
s sliding Florida windows and slim green doors with the iron room numbers attached. Nastos could almost smell the mould. A group of Sri Lankan men were watching them from the balcony, leaning over the railing smoking. A Native woman walked by them, two kids in tow.

Carscadden shook his head. “Nice place to raise your kids.”

“Makes me want to take Josie out of school just to give her a hug.”

“Yeah, give her one for me too.”

Carscadden had brought his brown leather lawyer's bag with him. The kind of questions they were going to be asking, they'd rather come across as lawyers than cops. Inside the office the atmosphere and smells changed. If it had been muggy outside, it was nothing compared to this. The air was thick from the smell of burnt marijuana and curried foods. A leather strip of bear bells jangled as the door banged into its crooked frame. A tall Sikh man appeared from the back room. He had red heavy eyes and offered a sedated smile; though half-baked, it took him less than a second to figure out that they weren't there to rent a room. Nastos read the name tag: Sandhu.

The man chuckled to himself. “We don't offer hourly rates.”

Carscadden opened his bag and slid fifty dollars to the man. “Mr. Sandhu, we're just looking for information.”

In one smooth motion Sandhu curled the fifty and put it in his shirt pocket then braced both of his hands on the counter that separated him from them. Like he had done it a hundred times before. He was a professional blabbermouth. “How can I help you fine gentlemen?”

Nastos asked, “You used to rent a room to a guy named Rob Walker.”

Sandhu blinked slowly. “I remember him well.”

Nastos wasn't convinced Sandhu remembered him at all but he definitely remembered what a fifty-dollar bill looked like. “Did he leave any personal effects here?”

Sandhu turned to face the key board that was mounted on the wall. There were copies of all of the room keys, each key in its place, a Post-It note wrapped around the white string that was tied to it. “He may have. I haven't cleaned his room since he left.”

Carscadden's face twisted up slightly, and Nastos noticed it. “Mr. Sandhu, that was over a week ago.”

He shrugged. “When we get busier it might be worth it to hire a maid.” Sandhu turned to the key rack and dropped one on the counter. “There, room
103
.”

Carscadden took the key and turned to go but Nastos stopped him when he asked, “Has anyone else been here asking about Walker?”

Sandhu didn't hesitate. “That depends.” He glanced to Carscadden's bag.

Carscadden sighed and took out two twenties. “There.”

Sandhu swept the bills up in his hand like he was raking in a poker win. “Four men have come. Two groups of two. You two make it three groups of two. Mr. Walker's past apparently caught up to him.”

Nastos asked, “What do you know about his past?”

“Just that he had one. With men like those looking for him, he didn't seem to have much of a future.”

Nastos considered the irony of Sandhu remarking that Walker didn't have much of a future living here. Like Sandhu had the world by the balls as he managed this place for minimum wage and sold drugs to get by. “The other guys looking for him, were they cops?”

Sandhu shook his head. “I don't think so. And not you two either.”

Carscadden said, “Just to be clear, they came around after he died?”

Sandhu's eyes flashed for a moment. “Dead? I thought maybe he just ran away.” He paused for a moment. “Yes, they came after he died.”

Nastos was beginning to get the feeling that anything said or done in front of Sandhu may as well be broadcast to the entire planet. He had to tread carefully.

“Did Walker have any friends here, anyone he talked to?”

Sandhu enthusiastically slapped the counter, laughing. “Right, the girl. They all asked about her also. I'll tell you what I told them. The woman raced back shortly after they had left that night. She was frantic. I thought maybe they had just forgotten something, then I never saw them again.”

“Were they paid up?”

“They lived together. They had paid for another week in advance.”

Carscadden asked, “Her name?”

“Ann Falconer. I only remember because everyone asks about her.”

Nastos wondered if at this point Sandhu was just exaggerating. “Everyone?”

“Well, a lot of men. Like all of the other women here, she was a whore. But she was white, and the prettiest one of the filthy things.”

Nastos asked, “Would you know where to find her?”

“I'd try on the internet, the prostitution sites.”

Nastos asked, “Can you describe the men who came looking for her?”

“Not really. They were white, like you two. If you want to look around the room you can.”

“Do you have video here?”

His only answer was another soft chuckle.

With the key, Nastos and Carscadden unlocked the door to room
103
and entered. It didn't smell as bad as Nastos anticipated. Carscadden spread out the two empty pizza boxes on the dresser as well as the candy wrappers scattered there. He mumbled to himself a Seinfeld quote, “A penchant for empty calories.”

The bed was left unmade, the sheets wrinkled and a paisley duvet lying in heap on the floor. The window had been left open, which helped with the smell. It wasn't like anyone had
recently
died in there. As Nastos stepped around the duvet he pointed to the blanket and said to Carscadden, “Watch out for the
DNA
toilet.” He crossed the room to the waste can near the bathroom door and found what he was hoping for. “We just struck solid gold.”

“Oh, yeah?” Carscadden was going through the dresser, examining the contents with his hands on his hips.

“Not really. But I found a pop can.” Nastos placed the tool box on the floor and unclipped the top. He removed the top tray and set it aside then pulled out a pen. He stuck the pen into the aluminum can and carefully lifted it out of the garbage and onto the bedside table. The partially crushed can teetered in place, balancing precariously. Nastos put on a pair of blue rubber gloves, turned on the bedside light and began dusting for prints. He opened a clear plastic tube and removed the brush. He twisted it in the tube of filings then began lightly twisting it over the can, carefully looking to see if they accumulated anywhere.

Carscadden stepped over the duvet and joined him, watching over his shoulder. “Anything?”

“Not yet. Check the bathroom, the mirror and garbage. Take a little flashlight and shine it offset so —”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Carscadden grabbed the flashlight and began his search. He barely looked in before coming back out. “Nothing.”

“Yeah,” Nastos said. “Nothing here either.”

“What's your best guess for who this guy was to have so many people looking for him?”

“No idea. To be honest I think that at face value, this makes no sense. And when that happens it means that there is no logic to it.”

Carscadden tried to open the closet door but it was stuck. He adjusted his grip and pulled harder. Glancing down he saw that the carpet wasn't smooth and it bunched up under the door. He shoved the door shut and pulled it open again, this time pressing the bulge down with his foot. “So you think Karen is holding something back? I thought she was your old partner?”

Nastos grunted. “We had a complicated relationship. She wished we could have been more than partners.” He tried to force himself to finish his thought. “Now that Maddy is gone, I just wonder what her game really is.”

Carscadden yanked the door most of the way open and turned on the closet light. “So you think she might be trying to get you back into her life? She's playing the damsel in distress? She could have just gone to the cops.”

Nastos carefully examined the pop can. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Hello. Here, check this out.”

Nastos turned to the closet that Carscadden had slid open. Inside was a recycle box filled with empty liquor bottles.

Nastos whistled. “We have to get something from there. Glass is perfect.”

After three bottles of vodka, Nastos had made four respectable lifts. Nastos sprinkled on the dust, pressed the clear tape over it, smoothed it out then transferred them to the white print cards. He labeled them, put them in the tool box then packed everything up.

Carscadden pointed to the remaining bottles in the box. “Are these of any use? We can take them with us just in case.”