3 Blood Lines (30 page)

. . . then the day took him.

 

“When he wakes up, I’m going to grab him and shake him and he’s going to tell me everything he knows and we’re going to go over what happened second by second.” Vicki stuffed another handful of cheese balls into her mouth. “This is what comes of letting your hormones interfere with your caseload,” she muttered savagely, but indistinctly to an uninterested pigeon. Because she’d been so worried about Henry, first she’d babbled then she’d let him babble and nothing, absolutely nothing of any use had been passed on before he’d passed out.

“If I’d ever done anything half so stupid with a witness while I was on the force I’d have been up on charges of gross incompetence.” Sucking the virulent orange stain from her fingers, she shook her head, growling around them, “And they wonder why I won’t get mushy romantic.” All right, that was unfair. Neither of them wondered. Celluci understood and Henry accepted. This screwup she could lay at no one’s door but her own.

“Good lord. Celluci.” She shoved the half-eaten package of cheese balls into her shoulder bag and checked her watch. He’d be going into headquarters for eleven and he’d told her to call him before he left. Vicki figured she owed him that much; not, given her lack of relevant information, that she was looking forward to it. To her surprise it was only eight fifty-three. Why did she feel like it should be later?
Time flies when you’re having fits. . . .

With Henry safely and infuriatingly tucked away, she’d roused Tony, reassured him, and popped him onto a subway heading toward his current job site, shoving five bucks into his hand so he could buy breakfast when he got there. Then she’d taken transit in the other direction, paused only long enough to pick up a snack and a short lecture on nutrition from Mrs. Kopolous at the store, and had just rounded the comer onto Huron Street and home. They left Henry’s condo at ten to eight, it was now ten to nine. An hour seemed about right . . .

“Daylight savings time. My body thinks it’s ten to ten.” She sighed. “My body is an idiot. My emotional state is completely unreliable. Damn, but it’s a good thing I’m so smart.”

The legal side of Huron Street was, as usual, parked solid, so Vicki paid less than no attention to the brown sedan that had pulled over illegally in front of her building. She moved onto the walk, heard a car door open behind her, and froze when a familiar voice called out, “Good morning, Nelson.”

“Good morning, Staff-Sergeant Gowan.” She pivoted around to face him, the smile she wore completely unconvincing. Staff-Sergeant Gowan had resented everything about her while she’d been on the force, his resentment growing with every promotion, every citation, every bit of praise she got until it had festered into hate. To be fair, she despised him in turn. “Oh, and I see you brought Constable Mallard.” She’d once turned Mallard into the Police Review Board for conduct unbecoming a human being. As far as she was concerned, the uniform meant responsibility; it didn’t excuse the lack of it.

Her palms began to sweat. They were both out of uniform. Whatever was going to happen, it didn’t look good.

“So, what unexpected pleasure brings you two out so early in the morning?”

Gowan’s smile spread all over his face. It was the happiest she’d ever seen him. “Oh, a pleasure indeed. . . . We have a warrant for your arrest, Nelson.”

“A what?”

“I knew if I waited long enough, you’d go one step too far and piss off the wrong person.”

She backed away as Mallard approached.

“Looks like resisting arrest to me,” he murmured and swung out with the nightstick he’d been holding, hidden, behind his leg.

The blow came too fast to avoid. It hit her hard across the solar plexus and she folded, gasping for breath.
He always was a fucking hotshot with that thing.
Each man grabbed an arm and the next thing she knew, she’d been tossed across the back seat of the car. Mallard climbed in with her. Gowan scurried around to the front.

The whole operation, from the time Gowan had first spoke, had taken less than a minute.

Vicki, her face pressed hard against musty upholstery, struggled to breathe. As the car began to move, Mallard yanked her arms back and forced the cuffs around her wrists, closing them so tightly the metal edges dug into the bone. The pain jerked her head up and his fist slammed it down.

“Go ahead, fight.” He snickered and she felt him drive his forearm across the small of her back, immobilizing her with his weight.

Her glasses were hanging off one ear and losing them frightened her more than anything Mallard or Gowan could do. Although it wasn’t going to be fun . . . she’d seen prisoners both men had released into holding cells. Apparently, they’d fallen down a lot.

When he started fumbling with the waistband of her jeans, she got one leg free and attempted to drive the heel of her sneaker through his ear. He grabbed her foot and twisted.

The pain gave her something new to think about for a few seconds and the lesser pain of the needle almost got lost in it.

Oh, shit
. . .

The drug worked quickly.

“Nelson Investigations. No one is available to take your call, but if you leave your name and number as well as a brief outline of your problem . . . ”

“You’re
my problem, Nelson,” Celluci growled as he dropped the receiver back into the cradle. He glared at the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten twenty-five. Even at this hour of the morning, theoretically well past rush hour, driving from Downsview to the center of town was going to take just about all of that thirty-five minutes. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer; Cantree had an understandable objection to his detectives wandering in to work when it suited them.

Of course, there was another number he could call. Fitzroy himself would have long ago crawled back into his coffin for the day, but Vicki might still be at his apartment.

Celluci snorted. “No, at his
condominium.”
God, that was such a yuppie word. People who lived in condominiums ate raw fish, drank lite beer, and collected baseball cards for their investment potential. Granted Fitzroy did none of those things, but he still played at the lifestyle. And romance novels? Bad enough for a man to write the asinine things but for a . . . a . . . for what Fitzroy was . . .

No. He wasn’t calling Fitzroy’s place. It was a big city, Vicki could be anywhere. Very likely she was taking young Tony home and tucking him in. The thought of Vicki in such a maternal role brought a sardonic smile and the thought that followed lifted his eyebrows almost to his hairline.

Tucking Tony in?

No. Celluci shook his head emphatically. Thinking about Fitzroy was driving his mind right into the gutter. He shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his keys up off the kitchen table, and headed for the door. Vicki no doubt had a good reason for not calling. He trusted her. Maybe Tony’s fears hadn’t been completely unfounded—Fitzroy
had
been hurt facing the mummy, and she’d taken him wherever one took a hurt . . . romance writer. He trusted her innate good sense not to have used the information Fitzroy may have brought back and gone out after the mummy herself. . . .

“And if there isn’t a message waiting for me at the office, I’m going to take her innate good sense and beat her to death with it.”

The phone rang.

“Great timing, Vicki, I was just on my way out the door. And where the hell have you been anyway? I told you to call me first thing!”

“Celluci, shut up for a minute and listen.”

Celluci blinked. “Dave?” His partner didn’t sound like a happy man. “What’s wrong. It’s not the baby, is it?”

“No, no, she’s fine.” On the other end of the line, Dave Graham took a deep breath. “Look, Mike, you’re going to have to lay low for a while. Cantree wants you picked up and brought in.”

“Say what?”

“He’s got a warrant for your arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“There doesn’t appear to be one. It’s a special . . .”

“It’s a fucking setup.” Celluci grinned, suddenly relieved. “You didn’t actually believe it, did you?”

“Yeah. I believed it. And you’d better, too.” Something in Dave’s voice wiped the grin off his face. “I don’t know what’s going on around here today, but they’ve shuffled a couple of departments around, no warning, and that warrant’ ll stand. I’ve never seen Cantree so serious about anything.”

“Shit.” It was more of an observation than an expletive.

“You can say that again, buddy-boy. I’m not sure I should ask, but just what have you done?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I found out something I shouldn’t have.” Celluci considered what Vicki had told him about the Solicitor General’s Halloween party.
Cantree. God damn it! The son of a bitch has subverted one of the few honest cops in the city.
He had to assume that Fitzroy had been an accurate witness, but the thought of Cantree, of all people, blindly dancing to another man’s tune made him feel physically ill.
And
he’s dancing
right over me. The next time I think there’s a mummy on the rampage in Toronto, I’ll keep my fucking mouth shut.
“Are you calling from headquarters?”

“Do I look like an idiot?” Dave’s voice was dry. “I’m at the Taco Bell around on Yonge Street.”

“Good. Look, Dave, this is bigger than just me. Watch your back and, for the next little while, keep a very, very low profile.”

“Hey, you don’t need to tell me. There’s something majorly weird going down around here and I’ve never been keen on being strip searched. How do I stay in touch?”

“Uh . . . good question.” He could access messages off his machine by remote and as long as the messages were short enough there wouldn’t be time to trace the line back; but they’d be monitoring and that would put Dave right in the toilet with him. Odds were good they’d also be monitoring Vicki’s line. Cantree was well aware how close the two of them had been and how close they’d stayed. Best to keep away from Vicki’s place completely and that included keeping Dave away from Vicki’s answering machine.

“You could call me.”

“No. Even if they don’t suspect you warned me, they’ll be monitoring your lines. You’re the logical person for me to call. Damn it all to hell anyway!” He slapped his palm against the table and stared at the scrap of pink memo paper that fluttered down to the floor. Fitzroy? Why not. “I’ve got a number you can leave a message at. I can’t guarantee I’ll get it until after dark, but it should be safe. Memorize it, don’t write it down, and use . . .”

“A public phone line. Mike, I know the drill.” Dave repeated the number three times to be sure he had it, then warned, “You better get out of there. Cantree might not have wanted to wait until you came in. He may have sent a car up.”

“I’m gone. And Dave? Thanks.” Partners who could be depended on when the chips were down—or sideways—had saved the lives of more cops than a thousand fancy pieces of equipment. “I owe you one.”

“One? You still owe me for a half a dozen meals, not to mention getting that asswipe from accounting off your back. Anyway, be careful.” He hung up before Celluci could reply.

Accompanied by a fine libretto of Italian swearing, Celluci threw a few clothes, some papers, and a box of ammunition in a cheap Blue Jays’ gym bag. He had no time to change out of his suit, but the moment he could he’d ditch it for the uniform of the city—jeans and a black leather jacket worked better around Toronto than a cloak of invisibility. Not counting a pocket load of change, he had twenty-seven bucks in his wallet and another hundred in emergency money taped under the seat of the car. He’d take the money; he’d have to leave the car.

On his way out the door, he stopped and glanced back at the phone. Should he leave a message on Fitzroy’s machine for Vicki? A second thought decided him against it. Cantree was likely to have a check run on all the numbers he’d called in the last couple of days and if Fitzroy’s number showed up on the list . . .

“Good thing I didn’t call it earlier.” It appeared his ego was looking out for him.

He slipped the chain on, pulled the door closed, and heard the deadbolt click. His security system had been designed by one of the best break and enter boys in the city. Cantree would probably have the door smashed—the police were of ten less subtle than those they arrested—but it ought to slow the bastards down.

Very faintly, through the steel-reinforced oak, he heard the phone ring. It might be Vicki. He couldn’t afford the time it would take to go back and answer it. If it was Vicki . . . well, Vicki had always been able to take care of herself and besides, she was safe enough for now; Cantree wanted him, not her.

 

The holding cell smelled of vomit and urine and cheap booze sweated out through polyester layered over years of too many desperate people and far too little money. A half dozen tired looking whores, waiting for their morning trip to court, huddled in one corner and watched Vicki forced down on the bench.

“What’s she in for?” asked a tall brunette, adjusting what was either a very wide belt or a very short skirt.

“None of your damned business,” grunted Mallard struggling with the cuffs, his shoulder pressing Vicki hard against the wall.

The hooker rolled her eyes. The other nodded.

“What was that?” Gowan asked. His position outside the cage had allowed him to see the expression Mallard had missed. “You got a problem with the officer’s answer?”

“No.” Her voice dropped just to one side of servile. “No problem.”

Gowan smiled. “Glad to hear it, ladies.”

Her expression supplicating, she gave him the finger, the gesture carefully hidden behind one of her companions. Working girls learned fast that cops came in two basic varieties. Almost all of them were just regular guys doing a job, but a nasty few would like nothing more than an excuse to pull out their sticks and apply a personal judgment. If fate threw them the latter, maintaining the merchandise dictated ass-kissing as hard and as fast as necessary.