The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (8 page)

“Not for long,” Carscadden said.

Randon never took his eyes from the microscope while he adjusted the focus on the image. “Oh yeah, it's just a matter of time until the machines take over.” He stepped back and squinted. “There, take a look at that.”

Nastos saw that Randon had put one image directly over another. They were perfect matches. “So our guy Rob Walker is in
AFIS
. I had a friend run him on
CPIC
but nothing came up.”

“Well,” Randon reached behind the counter and produced a stack of papers, “Here's his original booking information and here's his mug shot.”

Carscadden took the papers. “Kevin Lauder.” He began reading. “So who the hell is he?”

Randon pointed to a place on the page. “Kevin Lauder. Accountant turned informant against a cocaine smuggling ring.”

Nastos and Carscadden glanced at each other then turned back to Gus. Nastos said, “So it might have been a hit. People would pay to have him dead. And what's an accountant and informant doing buying drugs at Trinity Park? Somehow they lured him there and shot him.”

Carscadden closed the file. “Let's get this to Grant, she can take it from here. Once she puts it out there, the Attorney General will start an investigation and we can back out of this.”

Nastos didn't answer as he thought through how far the investigation might go.

Carscadden read the expression on Nastos' face. “What?”

“Yeah, the
SIU
should take this one now. They could invoke their mandate over something like this if they wanted to. And the more reason to get clear, if you ask me.”

Randon said, “It's insane that we have mall cops, university security guards investigating police officers whenever a civilian gets hurt. Special Investigations Unit? Yeah, they're
special,
all right.”

Carscadden lifted the papers up. “Gus, do you mind if we keep these, just to close the file?”

“Sure thing. You guys want to see the other print?”

Nastos said, “Pardon?”

“Yeah, the second one. You might know her as Ann Falconer. You should check out what she had going on.” He offered up a few sheets of paper in each hand. He handed the first one to Carscadden. “This is her story.”

He handed the bigger stack to Nastos. “This is the guy she was going to testify against. Angelo Moretti, the president of the Devil Dogs Motorcycle Club. Apparently she personally watched him murder three people. She's the star witness. You run her real name, you'll see that Moretti is looking at twenty-five years in jail based on her testimony. At his age that would be the rest of his life.”

Nastos and Carscadden stared at each other, mouths hanging open.

Randon continued, “Which would you rather do, hold the policy for her life insurance or be standing anywhere near her when she starts her car in the morning?”

Nastos put his hands on his head. “Jesus, Karen, you're in some serious trouble.”

10

Nastos and Carscadden sat idling in traffic on the Overlea Boulevard bridge. An ambulance, fire truck and a few police cars were blocking the right eastbound lane. Nastos noticed that no one was in a rush. The paramedics weren't even out of their truck. Eventually a cop walked up to the ambulance on the passenger side, said something and the big truck pulled away. Soon the fire truck left, leaving just two police cars.

Traffic eventually began moving when a cop decided to shut down a westbound lane and clear out the backlog of eastbound traffic. Nastos had paid little attention to any of this until they were going by the accident scene and Carscadden said, “Looks like a pedestrian got hit.”

Nastos glanced over. She was under a yellow tarp, white platform shoes protruding at the far end near the sidewalk. A hand stuck out on one side. “Humm. Wonder if it was a suicide.”

“Don't they normally jump off the bridge?”

“Maybe she was scared of heights, decided to take
the better way
.”

Carscadden groaned. “Funny, the
TTC
's motto. The world is not a happy place for everyone.”

They parked in the visitor lot at
701
Don Mills Road, Grant's condo. Nastos gave her cellphone another try then hung up. “Straight to answering machine.” It was nearly one in the afternoon and the sun had begun its dip into the western sky, burning the west face of the pale brick building. He sent a text,
We're here,
and
put his phone away.

Nastos knocked on the door then tried the handle. The door swung open but there was no one inside. “Karen? Delivery guy, anyone home?”

Carscadden peeked in. “Nice place.” His opinion changed when he was in far enough to notice the broken patio door and the signs of a struggle.

Nastos pushed his way past. He dropped the takeout on the kitchen counter. “Hey, you home?” He barged into the family room then checked down the hallway to the bedrooms. Empty. He came back to the kitchen and saw the cellphone on the microwave, charging. He picked it up and checked for messages. She hadn't answered a message for two hours. All of the calls were his except one from her work. There was broken glass everywhere. “I'll call Jacques —”

He felt his cell vibrate. The screen said unknown caller. “Hello?”

“Nastos, it's Karen. Where are you?”

Nastos spoke loud so Carscadden wouldn't miss it. “Karen. I'm in your kitchen, what the hell happened here?”

He heard street traffic through the phone. “I'm at a pay phone at the Science Centre. Come pick me up.”

“Jesus Christ, Karen —”

He heard her suck in a breath. “Ann's dead. Somebody killed her.”

He cupped the phone and repeated to Carscadden, “Ann's dead.”

“What? How?”

Nastos turned back to the phone. “What happened? What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

“Steve, just get over here, would ya?”

He hung up the phone and said to Carscadden, “See? This is out of control.”

Nastos drove the circle of the parking lot to the Ontario Science Centre. When Grant recognized them she ran over and slid into the back seat. She was pale, her eyes red. She brushed her hair back and leaned between the front two seats. “The cops must have found her. They must have been looking for her.”

Nastos tried to torque around but was thwarted by the seat belt. Instead he rotated his ass on the seat to glance back at her while he drove. “Was that Falconer who managed to wander in front of traffic and get herself hit by the city bus on Overlea?”

“Yeah.” She read the expression on his face. “She was
pushed
. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Jesus, Karen, I had to ask. You don't think that maybe she might have been a little depressed and hopeless?”

“It was murder, Nastos. She was murdered by cops. That's where we're at here. If you want to turn your back on me, go right ahead. But let's not pretend that what happened didn't happen.”

Part of him felt that she wasn't taking about Falconer anymore; she was talking about her and him. “I'm not saying that, Karen. Listen, I'll give Jacques a call. Let's meet up with him and see what he can do for us.” He took out a phone and started dialing.

Carscadden said, “You okay with this? You okay with investigating cops for murder after what happened to you?”

Nastos thought back to what it felt like sitting in an interrogation room, wasting his time declaring his innocence to a cop who, blinded by personal motivation, had already made up his mind. Nastos recalled what it felt like to be told that he was under arrest for murder when he knew he was innocent. Feeling the cuffs click into place around his wrists, the cold steel gouging into his skin, the disbelief of what he was up against — it was all surreal. Two years ago felt like two days. Now he was in the position of investigating two police officers for the same crime. He wanted to be sure. “The only thing we are looking for is the truth. If they did it, they deserve what's coming.”

Unfortunately he didn't feel as determined as he sounded. He still found it hard to believe that two rookie cops could get into so much trouble. “We'll be slow and careful.”
And what the hell have we gotten ourselves into?

Karen signed and leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck. “Thank you. I can't do this without you, both of you.”

As he pulled the car to a stop, Nastos saw that Jacques was waiting for them, leaning against a black unmarked police car. Jacques was lean with a military haircut. When he retrieved a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket his movements appeared sharp and choreographed.

The Chester Hill Lookout offered a panoramic view of the city's skyline. To the southwest the
CN
Tower stood head and shoulders above the
BMO
, Bank of Nova Scotia and
TD
buildings — nearly tall enough to gouge into the lowest of the ragged grey clouds that scrolled across the blue sky.

Nastos felt that something just as sharp was gouging into him. Something about this case was maddening, affecting him on a subconscious level that he could not quite bring to the surface of understanding. Karen sat in the back seat, dabbing a tissue to her eyes. As much as he wanted to blame the feeling of unease on her, he knew it was something else, something less obvious.

Karen was trying to pull herself together. Listening to her sob and talk to herself the entire way to the lookout had been distracting to his driving as well as emotionally draining. He was relieved to get out of the car and talk to Jacques, who would bring some positive energy.

Nastos opened Karen's door and helped her out. Carscadden exited the passenger seat and went over to Jacques' car. Jacques had taken the parking place closest to the lookout and was sipping a coffee while he enjoyed the view. Nastos brought Karen over, watching as Carscadden and Jacques reacquainted themselves.

Jacques extended his hand. “Nice to see you again, Carscadden.”

“You too, Jacques.”

It was the first time that Nastos had seen Jacques in person since Madeleine's funeral. He was grateful that Jacques didn't bring that point up. “Good to see you again. You remember Karen Grant.”

Jacques shook her hand. “Hey, Karen. Sorry about your friend.”

“Thanks, Jacques. I know.”

Jacques shook his head, in a way that conveyed how disappointed he was in what he had to say. “I wish I could say we're going to keep you safe, but with no proof it was anything but an accident, my bosses wouldn't sign off on protection for you. The best thing you can do is disappear. I'll feed you information from the inside, but that's all I can do for now.”

Carscadden asked, “Any witnesses to say one way or the other what happened to Falconer?”

Jacques finally lit his cigarette. He took a drag then crossed his arms and turned sideways to take in the view of the city.

Carscadden saw the Bloor Street Viaduct, the First Canadian Place skyscraper, the Don Valley trail system and the blue sky.

Jacques spoke. “Broad daylight, middle of the afternoon, on a busy bridge with unobstructed visibility for half a mile each way, a hundred people with a clear view, it should come as no surprise that no one saw a thing.” Jacques shook his head slightly with disgust.

Nastos asked, “What about the bus driver?”

“She told the cops at the scene that a woman was standing at the side of the road, a few other people there, next thing she knew the woman was on the road and she had no time to stop. She had no idea of the pedestrian's height, age, ethnicity, clothing, direction of travel, nothing. Not even sure it was a man. She didn't want to give a statement, wouldn't write anything down and when the cop asked her to at least sign what he wrote down in his notebook she says, ‘I should speak to my union rep before I sign anything.' Can you believe it?”

Karen wiped her nose. “And I'm next. If we don't
ID
these guys, one day it will be me pushed into a bus, a taxi. Run down by a drunk driver.”

Nastos found himself wrapping an arm around her. “This is not going to happen to you, Karen. We know their names, we know who to investigate.” He turned to Jacques. “Those two cops. We're going to follow them around for a few days.”

Jacques eventually said, “Be my guest. There's nowhere near enough evidence for us to start anything official. It would be an
SIU
investigation anyway, and as far as I know, they don't do surveillance.”

Nastos asked, “So how are you liking Homicide?”

“It's different. On the road you chase around the thugs, there's the thrill of the hunt, excitement. In Homicide you figure out who did it in the first five minutes. That's the easy part. In Homicide you chase witnesses. It's like herding cats. Then you have to browbeat, intimidate, sweet talk, beg, bribe, do whatever it takes to get them to actually testify in court. It's crazy.”

Carscadden said, “Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“It's aggravating. One percent of the population are assholes, the other ninety-nine percent, when it comes down to it, don't want to get involved. Doesn't leave much to work with.”

Nastos took a step closer to the edge of the lookout. The line between the strength of land and free fall of sky was imperceptibly small and something only clearly identified after you crossed it. He spoke with his back to them. “This is a point of no return. We're investigating two cops for two murders. Turning on cops is a stink that never goes away. If this backfires, Jacques, if we're wrong, you'll never be trusted again no matter what. You'll be a rat, a threat to the brotherhood.” He turned around.

Jacques met his gaze without a flinch. “If these guys did this, I don't want them carrying around the same tin in their back pocket that I have in mine.”

Jacques said to Karen, “You know I never heard back. The pictures of the two cops I sent, did Falconer give a positive
ID
that those were the guys who shot Rob Walker in Trinity Bellwood?”