Lethal Rage (14 page)

They headed inside. Boris helpfully held open the door for the others, which — surprise, surprise! — allowed him to fall in at the back of the group.

It'd serve him right if we got ambushed from the rear.

The old stairs creaked their annoyance as the four cops trudged upward.

“How do you want to handle the call, Sy?” Boris asked between gasps. He let everyone know that climbing stairs was an occupational hazard as far as he was concerned. He had been known to have the dispatcher instruct some complainants to meet him in the lobby if their building lacked an elevator. “You and Warren want to speak with the couple while Manny and me check the rest of the apartment to make sure they're not hiding evidence of an assault or something?”

That lazy sack of —

Manny cut Jack's thoughts off abruptly. “Forget it, Borovski,” he snapped, turning on him so suddenly that Boris was forced to stop in mid-step on the stairs. He teetered on the edge of imbalance, not used to such a strenuous position. He took a hasty step down. “This is our call. They volunteered to back us up and we are not going to dump our work on them. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure. I was just making a suggestion, that's all.” From the way Boris acquiesced to Manny, it was hard to believe he had twelve years on the job to Manny's three. But that was just the way he was.

Manny — properly known as William Armsman — was the type of guy you either loved or hated. His strong convictions about what was right and what was wrong had led to numerous clashes on the platoon, with both pcs and supervisors. Jack had once heard Sy tell Manny, “There is no such thing as ‘off the record' with a staff sergeant.”

Despite a reputation as a fuck-up — from those who fell into the “hate Manny” side of things — Jack thought Manny was a solid guy, the type who, when he gave his friendship, gave it without reservations or conditions.

And, from what Jack had heard around the change room, Manny was also near the top of the list of coppers you wanted at your side during a punch-up. Manny was a big guy. Standing about six-two, he was . . . beefy would be an apt description. He was a regular in the Bullpen and didn't slack off when it came to lifting heavy, but he was also a regular at the vending machines in the lunchroom.

They lined up by 302, a set of partners on either side. Or, in this case, one set of partners and Manny with his assigned escort. Sure enough, they could hear a male voice, not yelling but certainly sounding pissed, and a female crying in the background.

Manny turned the knob and pushed on the door. Locked. He shrugged and banged on the door. No polite knocking required. “Well, if no one answers, at least I get to kick a door in.”

“Who is it?” the male voice barked through the door.

“Police!” Manny barked back. “Open the door!”

Locks rattled and the door opened, but not in invitation. The owner of the voice stood in the gap between door and jamb. Mid-twenties, five-ten with an average build and both hands out of sight, one beyond the frame, the other behind the door. His face was flushed and carried a thin sheen of sweat.

“What do you want?” He looked left and right. “Four of you. Jesus Christ!”

The crying was louder with the door open.

“Got a complaint of a domestic,” Manny stated as he stepped forward. “Got to check to make sure everyone's okay.” Manny pushed past the man and into the apartment.

Jack was right behind him and made sure the man's hands were empty when they came into view.

The apartment was a neat one-bedroom with old wood floors, tastefully decorated but lacking what Karen would call a “feminine influence.” There was a young woman sitting on the black leather couch crying softly but trying to stifle her tears as she viewed the police with a mixture of relief and apprehension. Manny took the male off to the side to speak with him and Jack headed toward the woman.

Sy stopped him. “It's their call, Jack. Let Boris talk to her.”

Boris waddled over to her with a greasy smile on his face. “Come on into the kitchen with me, sweetheart, so we can have a private chat.” Smooth as congealed margarine.

Sy motioned Jack down the apartment's short hall. While Sy checked the bedroom, Jack poked his head into the bathroom to make sure no one was hiding.

Sy tapped Jack on the shoulder and crooked a finger for him to come into the bedroom. Grinning, Sy quietly slid open a drawer in the dresser and reached into it. He came up with a small bag of white powder. He put a finger to his lips and waved Jack out of the room.

“No one else in the apartment,” Sy announced when they got back to the living room.

“I could have fucking told you that.” The man didn't seem happy about having four cops in his home.

“Hey, you're talking to me.” Manny rapped his memo book on the man's head to gain his attention. “And there's no need to use foul language.”

The man opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He glared at Manny and rubbed his forehead.

As if Manny hit him that hard.

“Now, Mr. Thompson, who is this woman?”

“Just a friend,” the man muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Manny muttered back, completely unconvinced. “And her name is . . . ?”

Thompson didn't answer. He glanced about his apartment as if he hoped to find an exit he was previously unaware of. There wasn't one, just four cops, and the big one in front of him had a
Don't fuck with me
expression on his face.

“I don't know her name,” he confessed. “She's just some fu — a hooker I just picked up. I don't care what she says, I didn't lay a hand on her.”

“Then why is she crying?”

“I don't know.” He sounded defensive. “We had a disagreement about the price, that's all.”

“And that red mark I saw on her cheek? You wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that, would you?” Manny put his book away and his expression had progressed to
You're pissing me off.
Most coppers had a special loathing for men who beat on women and unfortunately for Thompson the three facing him — like most but not all — considered prostitutes women.

“I don't care what she says,” Thompson repeated. “I didn't do anything. You going to take some skanky whore's word over mine?”

“That skanky whore is somebody's daughter, buddy, and my mother would be disgusted with me if I let some gutless coward get away with hitting a woman.” Manny appeared ready to mete out his version of justice right there and then.

Apparently, Thompson could read body language and wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. He checked the room once more for that misplaced exit. Still just the one, and Jack and Sy were between him and it, Jack standing with arms folded and Sy in a casual parade rest stance, his hands — and the baggy of white powder — behind his back.

Boris and the woman came out of the little kitchen. Her tears had stopped, but her red, puffy eyes matched the fading mark — it looked like a handprint to Jack — on her left cheek.

“She doesn't want to proceed with charges,” Boris announced and managed to look disappointed.

“Uh-huh,” Sy grunted with little conviction. “I'm sure you did your best to convince her to.”

“Hey, not my fault if she doesn't want to.” Boris shrugged, rippling the fat in his jowls.

The woman had her head down and edged past Sy and Jack to escape the apartment. Sy gently placed a hand on her arm. “Miss, are you sure you don't want to charge him?”

She nodded, a sharp little head bob. “I'm sure.” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

“All right, then.” Sy stepped aside and she fled into the hall.

Jack darted after her, catching up to her just outside the door. “Excuse me, miss. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

The woman — more of a girl now that he saw her up close — stopped but kept casting distressed looks down the hall to the stairs. Her hair was a reddish blond, cut short to frame her gentle face. Her clothes — short shorts and a white tee tied beneath her breasts — were clean and new.

“You're new at . . . the profession, aren't you?”

His tone held no accusation or threat and she must have taken this as a good sign. She stopped eyeing the stairs with desperate hope and faced him, not quite meeting his eyes. She nodded.

“Look, I'm not going to give you a lecture or any grief, okay? Just some advice. There are guys out there who will spot you as new and take advantage of that, like this piece of shit did. Never go back to a john's place. It's too dangerous; you don't know what you're walking into. All right?”

She nodded again, this time meeting his eyes. “Sure.”

“What's your name?” He smiled disarmingly, then raised his hands when she gave him a suspicious look. “Just asking, that's all.”

“Star.” She hesitated, then, “Cindy.”

“Well, Cindy, there are some hotels in the area that'll rent out rooms by the hour. There's also a sex workers' phone number you can call. They can probably give you better advice than I can. And that's it.”

“Thanks.” She turned to go, then stopped. “What's going to happen to him?”

Jack smiled again. “Oh, I'm pretty sure he's not going to get off all that lightly.”

She touched her cheek and winced. “Good.” She took a few steps, then stopped once more. “Can I ask your name?”

“Jack. Nice and simple. The name, that is.”

She smiled and the sight of it saddened him. He figured her smile wouldn't be that open and innocent for long. “Thank you, Jack,” she said and walked away.

Jack went into the apartment.

“So, you're saying she never left the living room, not even to use the bathroom?” Sy had taken over questioning Thompson. Manny looked interested; he knew Sy was up to something. Boris looked bored.

“No, never,” Thompson answered irritably. With Cindy out of the apartment and the chances of assault charges gone with her, he must have been feeling pretty secure and impatient to get back to whatever it was he did when he wasn't beating on hookers. “What difference does it make?”

Sy shrugged, just a good-old-boy, not-too-bright copper. “Seems strange to me, that's all. You didn't take her into the bedroom? That's what you brought her here for, wasn't it?”

Thompson was disgusted at the suggestion. “I didn't want her in my bed.” He sighed melodramatically and lifted his eyes skyward as if to ask what he had done to be plagued by such stupid cops. “No,” he stated definitively. “She never went into the kitchen, bathroom or bedroom.”

“So, I guess that means this is yours.” Sy produced the bag of powder from behind his back and Thompson's face went sickly pale beneath his fashionable tan. “I'll take that as a yes. Manny, would you do the honours?”

“You bet.” A grin split Manny's face as he popped open his handcuff pouch.

“You can't do this!” Thompson protested even as Manny snapped on the cuffs. Realization dawned in his eyes. “You fucking prick! You didn't have a warrant. That's illegal.”

Sy got into Thompson's face and Manny had to hold him so he couldn't backpedal. “So's hitting a woman,” he snarled. “Count yourself lucky you don't have to go to the hospital first.”

Jack didn't know if Thompson considered himself lucky or not, but he didn't utter a single word on the way to the station.

“That little crybaby cokehead you brought in says you searched his place without a warrant.” Sergeant Johanson blew cigarette smoke into a lavender sky.

Summer twilight in Toronto could linger so long it sometimes felt like it was going to stay around to watch the sun come up. Tonight the sun had burnt the western sky a fiery gold and the underbellies of the clouds were deepening from indigo to purple. It was a beautiful colour, somehow comforting and serene.

“Probably because I did.” Sy had joined the sergeant for a smoke, enjoying one of his infrequent cigarillos. He didn't seem concerned that he had just confessed to committing an illegal search and arrest to a supervisor.

But on the other hand, Johanson didn't seem at all surprised by the admission. “How come?” he asked after another drag.

“The little fuck brought a young hooker home and smacked her around. She just wanted to get the fuck out, so we couldn't charge him for the assault. I found the coke, so . . .” He shrugged.
Business as usual.

“Figured it was something like that.” Johanson crushed out his cigarette. “Take it easy, Sy. Warren, you listen to what this mutt says and you'll do okay. 'Night, guys.”

“That's the friendliest I've ever seen him,” Jack commented after the door had closed behind Johanson.

“Darcy's okay, just a man of few words. You can trust him.”

“I gather.”

Sy snorted. “Don't go thinking I tell every sergeant when I cut some corners. Hell, as far as Boris knows, the coke was sitting on Thompson's dresser like he planned to have some after doing the hooker. I don't trust that fat fucker as far as I can piss.” He gazed at the darkening sky. “Going to be a nice night. Darcy and I worked together down here before he transferred out. When he got his stripes, they shipped him back to the old homestead. Normally, I wouldn't tell you to go to a sergeant if you fuck up, but you can go to Darcy. Just be honest and he'll try to help you. Try to con him. . . . Well, there's worse ways to die, but I can't think of any right now.”

Jack belched out some Diet Coke while Sy blew smoke.

“You know, all that artificial sweetener crap isn't good for you.”

“And those things are?”

Sy studied the cigarillo smoking between his fingers. “Probably not, but who gives a fuck, right? You only live once, so you might as well enjoy it.”

“Cheers to that.”

A few moments later, in the car and cruising up Jarvis Street, Sy had to clear something with Jack. “You know how I mentioned during the workout about 51 changing people?”

“Uh-huh. Whoa, she's nice.”

Sy followed his partner's lead and copped a stare at the prostitute working at the corner of Gerrard. The tall blonde in a miniskirt and halter top twiddled her fingers at them. Jack waved back.

“Yeah, she's one of the better ones,” Sy agreed. “In the winter, she'll wear a full-length fur coat with just a bikini on underneath and flash you as you drive by.”

“Cool. That's one reason to look forward to winter. What were you saying about 51 changing guys?”

“Oh, right. Fuck, I see a nice pair of legs and I forget what I'm saying.”

“It happens to people your age.”

“Fuck you, grasshopper. What I was saying was that 51 can change you. I don't know if the division attracts this type of copper or creates it, but a lot of guys see all the shit that goes on down here and take the attitude that, since the criminals don't have to follow any rules, why should we? Now, I'm the first one to admit that sometimes you have to cut corners, bend the rules, however you want to say it, in order to get the job done.”

“Like today with the cocaine,” Jack suggested.

Sy nodded. “Exactly. Are you okay with that?”

He gave Sy one of his own snorts. “Absolutely. That guy deserved it. I mean, I wouldn't be doing that all the time, but I guess sometimes the ends do justify the means.”

“The problem is some guys start to handle every call, every arrest, that way. Some are lazy and don't want to bother with all the paperwork and some just work that way. As far as I'm concerned, there's a huge difference between snooping around some asshole's room and planting the evidence.”

“You've seen guys do that?”

Sy was quiet for a while, then said, “There was a time, Jack, when I was one of those guys.”

He fell silent again and Jack didn't push him. If he wanted to talk, he would. Eventually, he did.

“I let the division and the work change me. I didn't know it at the time, though. I thought I was just being efficient at policing. Why spend hours, days or even weeks building a case against a dealer just to have it fall apart in court because he didn't happen to have the crack on him when you pinched him? So much easier to make sure the evidence is going to be there. And while you're at it, might as well give the asshole a bit of a tune-up 'cause the courts sure as hell aren't going to punish him enough.”

Jack didn't know what to say. This was a new side to his partner and he wasn't sure what to make of it.

“Yeah, I know,” Sy said, catching Jack's look. He shook his head sadly. “I ended up in a pretty bad place. As far as I was concerned, if you weren't a cop, you were an asshole. I'm not sure if that attitude cost me my first marriage, but I'm damn sure it killed the second.” He laughed bitterly. “Made a shitload of money, though, in overtime and court. I was in court constantly; every arrest I made went to trial 'cause I had a reputation for . . . fabrication. Trust me, Jack, once you lose your credibility in court, it's almost impossible to get it back.”

Sy glanced at him and Jack still didn't know what to say. What could he say?

Sy seemed to understand. “All I'm saying is keep an eye on yourself. If you get to the point where you have more in common with the assholes than the cops, it's time to get out. ‘When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you,'” he quoted.

“‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.'”

Sy smiled at Jack. “I'm impressed.”

Jack shrugged. “I took a philosophy course in university.”

“You get what I'm trying to say, though?”

“I do, Sy, and thanks. So endeth the lesson?”

“So endeth the lesson.”

And just in time.
“5106, 5108, I need you to head over to 52 Division to help out with a stabbing on Richmond east of John. 52 has cars attending the scene, but they need units to check the area for the suspect. Time, 2204.”

Sy hit the lights and swung through a red light onto Wellesley before Jack had time to answer the dispatcher. “10-4, dispatch. Can we get a description?”

“Suspect is a male, black, shaved head, wearing a silver shirt and black pants. Last seen running southbound through the parking lot. Suspect possibly armed with a knife. Use caution.”

“A silver shirt? Sounds like the guy was out clubbing.”

“Yup. Probably an argument over a girl.” Sy sped down Church, roof lights bouncing off store windows, freezing pedestrians in brief flashes of illumination. Just after ten, traffic was still heavy and Sy wove nonchalantly around cars when the drivers were too stupid to get out of the way.

“C'mon, move!” Jack shouted at the driver of a BMW who figured making his left turn was more important than giving room to a police car. “Can't these morons see the lights or hear the siren?”

“Ah, grasshopper. You're assuming the drivers are intelligent enough to be driving in the first place.” He braked hard and laid on the air horn as a pedestrian bopping along to whatever was on his iPod stepped in front of the scout car. The pedestrian — buffed, tanned and wearing a mesh tank top to display his buffness — let out a girlish scream Jack could hear over the siren. Mr. Buffness dove to the sidewalk; Sy was on the gas instantly and as the scout car accelerated, Jack made eye contact with the man and shook his head at his idiocy.

“A buddy of mine once made history's greatest proclamation,” Sy cited offhandedly, unperturbed he had almost flattened Mr. Buffness. “Kevin said, ‘Never underestimate the stupidity of the general public.'”

“Your friend may have been on to something.”

Sy snorted. “Someone proves him right every day.”

“Units attending the stabbing in 52, please see the text of the call for an update.”

Jack pulled up the call and scrolled through the details. “Looks like it's been upgraded to a homicide. Victim had his throat cut open and bled out at the scene.”

“Nothing like too much alcohol and testosterone to ruin someone's evening. Where on Richmond was it?”

“In the parking lot on the south side just east of John. Suspect was last seen running south through the parking lot.”

Sy squealed around the corner onto Richmond and goosed the car along the four-lane, one-way street. “If you had just offed someone and needed to disappear, where would you go? Assuming you didn't have a car parked somewhere.”

“Some place where my silver disco shirt wouldn't stand out. Another club?”

Sy nodded agreement. “Or at least down to a club area where I could blend in with a crowd as I got the hell out of the area.”

“King Street?”

Sy agreed. “King Street.”

Richmond to University, University to King. Sy killed the lights and siren and merged with the other cars. The street and sidewalks were heavy with traffic, people enjoying a night of partying in the city's entertainment district. The area was a money-making hodgepodge of theatres, dance clubs and restaurants. Traffic was moving at a crawl, giving Jack and Sy ample opportunity to scan the hordes for their suspect. Sirens wailed to the north of them, but to the masses on King Street that was a world away.

“The patios are packed tonight,” Sy observed. “Ah, to be sitting outside, enjoying a beer.” He sounded wistful.

“Are you saying you'd rather be drinking on a patio than in a smelly police car searching fruitlessly for a murderer?”

“Hm. Let me think. . . .”

“Holy shit, Sy. I think we just passed him.”

“Where?” Sy took his foot off the accelerator and cranked the rearview mirror to scan the north sidewalk. “I don't see a silver shirt.”

“It's black now.” Jack was hunching down in the seat and using the side mirror. “He's walking east and he just shoulder-checked us. It's a black short-sleeved dress shirt, but when we passed him it flapped open and the inside is bright silver. The rest matches: shaved head, black pants.”

“Definitely worth a look. Good eyes, Jack.”

At John Street, Sy pulled a quick U-turn without using his lights, earning him more than a few rich expletives from other drivers. They backtracked on King, watching both sides of the road in case their man had crossed over. Jack pulled on his Kevlar gloves and dropped the seat belt. His heart was thumping and he found himself grinning with excitement.

Getting to be quite the adrenalin junkie.

“That him?” Sy pointed to the left and ahead of them.

“Yup,” Jack confirmed. “Walking a bit faster now, too. What do you think?”

“I think it's a shitty place to confront someone armed with a knife. Too many fucking people around.”

Traffic ground to a sudden halt. The Princess of Wales Theatre had just let out, dumping its mass of patrons into the street. The sidewalk ahead of their suspect was clogged with people.

“Fuck it,” Sy snarled, jamming the car into park. “Let's take him on foot. See if we can nab him while the crowd's holding him up.”

They jumped out of the car and dodged around cars to the sidewalk. Jack was on the portable, advising radio of their situation.

“We just walk up quickly, each take an arm and it's done. Nice and neat. No one gets hurt and if it's not our man, no harm done.”

“No problem,” Jack agreed as they closed the distance.

Their target was about forty feet ahead of them, trying to work his way through the crowd, and his efforts seemed a little too anxious for someone just trying to pass through. The throng slowed the cops, as well, but not as much; people tended to move for a police officer a bit more quickly than just another face in the crowd. It also helped that they weren't being all that gentle in their efforts to move people.

They were within twenty feet when the suspect glanced over his shoulder. And bolted. He plowed through the crowd like a running back breaking sloppy tackles. Jack and Sy were right after him, moving fast in the wake of displaced bodies.

“Move! Move!” Jack shoved people out of his way as he tried to close the gap.

The suspect didn't look back again; he knew the police were close. He kept his head tucked between his hunched shoulders and simply bulled his way through the crowds. Then, suddenly, like that determined running back, he broke free.

Jack was right behind him, lunging free of the clinging mob. His gloved fingers swiped the back of the suspect's shirt — he noticed the raised seams of the inside-out shirt — and then the suspect was sprinting away from him. Jack lurched forward several steps, pinwheeling his arms to save his balance, and managed not to go down, but the suspect built a lead. Jack righted himself and took off in chase.

“Get him, Jack! I'll put it over!”

Cool.
With Sy alerting the dispatcher, Jack could forget about the radio and concentrate on the chase. His legs were already starting to burn, the muscles protesting a sprint so soon after a heavy leg workout. He was going to need all he had.

The suspect widened the gap.

Damn it, I'm losing him!

Jack didn't hear any sirens, the copper's modern version of the cavalry bugle, and wondered if Sy still had his radio on 51 band. If he did, then any information he gave had to be passed over to this division's dispatcher before it got to the cars. It would slow things down; it could prove dangerous.