Lethal Rage (3 page)

You're a prick, Sy,
Jack thought as Lisa sidled up to him. He busied himself taking down Bob's and Lisa's information. Lisa made sure he wrote down her cell phone number correctly.

Minutes later — long minutes — Sy and Jack followed Bob and Lisa through the metal double doors into Street City with the ambulance crew and their stretcher bringing up the rear. The building was indeed an old warehouse and the roof rose an easy twenty feet or so above them. The vast interior had been laid out in “streets” with rows of single-room apartments lining both sides. Each simple wood structure had its own entrance and front window looking out onto the street. Potted plants and trees decorated the laneways.

The streets were wide, about a dozen feet across and laid out in an H pattern; the double front doors were at the bottom left corner of the H. The office was right next to the doors, with a large window so staff could see everyone coming and going. The common room was on the short centre street that connected the two long streets. A mismatched collection of couches, chairs and tables formed a social setting. An old TV blared static and a picture not much better.

Bob stopped, pointing to a man near the TV, and Lisa spoke for him. “That's Lloyd there.”

There were several people in the common room, but there was a definite no man's land surrounding the lone resident watching TV.

“The one on the couch at the other end?” Sy asked, wanting to be sure.

“Yeah, that's him.” Lisa bobbed her head in confirmation and Jack winced as her neck vertebrae pushed sharply against her skin.

“Is Lloyd known to carry any weapons — knives, stuff like that?” Sy was talking to both staff members, but his eyes never left Lloyd.

Lisa cocked her head in thought. “Don't think so. Bob?”

Bob shrugged.

“Bob, Lisa. Why don't you go show the paramedics where Mohammed is while we talk to Lloyd?”

As he worked his way through the maze of furniture toward the man slumped on the couch, all Jack could see was the back of Lloyd's head. He and Sy split up to circle the ends of the sofa and cut off Lloyd's escape routes.

Jack approached from the left and got his first clear look at Lloyd. He was a bulk of a human, his legs apart so his enormous gut could hang down between his thighs. His greasy hair was a rat's nest and the remains of breakfast, or possibly last night's dinner, clung to the stubble on his multiple chins. He wore old grey sweatpants and a T-shirt that probably had once been white.

The sharp smell of bleach hung in the air but did little to cover the stale odour coming from Lloyd.

“Morning, Lloyd,” Sy began, positioning himself to Lloyd's right. Jack stood to the left. Lloyd couldn't see them both without turning his head. Jack watched the man's hands, which were resting limply in his lap. “Guess you know why we're here. You're under arrest for assault with a weapon, so why don't you stand up for me and put your hands behind your back?”

Lloyd rocked forward and braced his hands on his knees. He wheezed, then heaved himself up, but his ass had barely pulled free of the cushion before his left hand slipped off his knee and he thumped back down. He grinned foolishly and held out his right hand to Sy.

“You need a hand up, buddy?”

Sy was stepping forward, hand extended, when Jack saw Lloyd's left hand sneak under his thigh. His grin no longer looked foolish.

“Sy. . . .”

Lloyd grabbed Sy's hand and gripped it tightly. His left forearm flexed, as if gripping something hidden under his leg. His grin was cunning.

“Knife!”

Lloyd suddenly pulled Sy off balance and his left hand flashed a blade toward Sy's neck. Jack dove after the knife hand and rammed into Sy, knocking him onto the couch. Jack landed across Lloyd's lap, the knife arm pinned between them. There was muscle under Lloyd's bulk and he shoved Jack away, swinging the blade backhanded. Jack sprawled on the floor, hoping Lloyd's size would slow him down so he could get his Glock out of its holster.

“Drop it or die, fucker!” Sy was kneeling on the couch with his gun hard against Lloyd's temple. The fat man froze, his hands in front of him, but he didn't drop the knife.

“One twitch and I splatter your brains across the floor.”

If this was a movie and Sy had a revolver, this is where he would cock it,
Jack thought and wondered why he would think something stupid like that when he had his own gun aimed at Lloyd's chest. He smiled; he didn't remember drawing the gun.

Whether it was Jack's smile or Sy's calm, emotionless words, Lloyd decided to drop the knife. His left hand opened and the blade bounced off the sofa cushion to clatter onto the concrete floor.

Jack got to his feet, his aim on Lloyd never wavering; where there was one knife, there could be another.

Sy ordered Lloyd to lie face down on the floor. The fat man had no trouble getting off the couch this time. Sy cuffed and searched him — one knife hidden in each sock — and Jack felt his hands trembling slightly.

Sy noticed. “Just the adrenalin dump, Jack. It'll pass in a couple of minutes. Let's get this piece of shit out to the car.”

They each grabbed an arm and hauled Lloyd to his feet, fast-walked him out to the scout car and were none too gentle stuffing him into the back seat. Sy got the bottle of sanitizer gel from the front seat, squirted some into his hands and held the bottle out for Jack.

“Nice job in there, Jack. I think you saved me a trip to the hospital,” Sy admitted. “Or worse. Thanks.”

“I'm just glad we didn't get hurt.” Jack started washing his hands with the gel and hissed when pain stabbed through his right hand.

“What is it? You hurt?”

Jack held up his hand. On the edge of his palm, just below the last knuckle of his little finger, was a short but deep cut. “Bastard got me after all. That'll teach me not to wear my gloves.”

“Son of a fucking whore,” Sy breathed. “That's going to need a couple of stitches.”

“I guess. Why don't we get the medics to tape it up for now? We can take buddy into the station and head to the hospital later. Besides, we'll have to get pictures of the cut before it's stitched up.”

Jack's hand was wrapped, Bob's and Lisa's statements taken and Mohammed transported to hospital. There was still no sign of Borovski.

“See? Completely unreliable.”

“Yup. I get your point,” Jack conceded, then advised the dispatcher they were “heading into the station with one.” After a brief pause, he keyed the mike again. “5109 on the air?”

Borovski came back right away. “Sorry, guys. I got tied up. You need a hand with anything?”

“Fucking unreal,” Sy muttered.

“No thanks, '09. We took care of everything. You can disregard . . .” Jack paused to look at his bandaged hand “. . . Boris.”

“You know, Jack, you could have taken the rest of the day off IOD. Hell, no one would say anything if you waited until the stitches came out before coming back.”

“Yeah, I know, Sy, but what can I say? I'd miss your cheery smile.”

They had booked Lloyd into the station, briefed the detectives, photographed Jack's cut and then headed to the hospital. All in all, Jack was surprised they were ready to clear so soon. He knew some senior guys, and unfortunately some not so senior guys, who would have milked that arrest for the whole day.

“How would it have looked if I went off injured on duty my second week here? Besides, it's only two stitches.”

“Your choice.” Sy started up the car. “An open cut on your hand down here is a serious risk. There's too many fucking diseases floating around out there. Make sure you have plenty of latex gloves on you for the rest of the week.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Sy grimaced. “Just because I'm old enough to be your father doesn't mean I can't kick your ass. I saw how Lloyd tossed you around. We'd better get you into the gym and put some muscle on you.” He stuck out his arm and flexed an impressive bicep. “Get you some guns like these.”

“Hey, I work out,” Jack said, mildly offended. “My wife likes to say I'm built like Russell Crowe in
Gladiator
.”

Sy appraised him. “Hm. More like Kirk Douglas in
Spartacus
.”

“I just run more than I lift. I figure, what good are big muscles if you can't catch the bad guy?”

“What good is catching him if you can't hold on to him?” Sy countered.

“Touché. Tell you what. I'll chase them and somehow hold on to them until you get there and thump them.”

“Ah, the makings of a classic tag team. Speed and power. Like the Hart Foundation.”

“The what?”

Sy lifted his hands beseechingly. “Oh, Lord, I'm working with one of those.” He pulled out of the lot and headed north on Parliament. “Seriously, though, Jack. Thanks. I owe you one.”

Jack shrugged it off. “You would have done the same for me. Coffee?”

“Damn straight. See what happens when I don't get to have my morning cup?”

But coffee would have to wait again and this time it was Jack's fault.

They were heading up Sherbourne to get Sy's long-overdue caffeine when Jack twisted in his seat. “Hang on, Sy.”

“What did you see?” Sy was already throwing the car into a U-turn, bouncing the wheels over the curb.

“Out front of 310 Dundas. I caught a glimpse of a hand-to-hand exchange. Some money, not sure what else.”

“Could be innocent, could be not.” Sy eased the car up to the corner of Sherbourne and Dundas. Jack leaned forward to see past Sy along Dundas.

“Those two there. The black guy passed some money to the skinny white guy in the blue tank top.”

In front of the short apartment building on the northeast corner of the intersection, two men had just parted company. The black guy Jack had pointed out, wearing the typical baggy white T-shirt and blue jeans, took a couple of steps in their direction but staggered when he caught sight of the police car. Recovering quickly, he dropped his eyes to the sidewalk, made an abrupt turn and started to walk up Sherbourne.

“Subtle, buddy. Real subtle.” Sy unclipped his seat belt. “You make the black guy the buyer?”

“Yup.” Jack freed himself of his belt. Neither of them had taken their eyes off their prey.

“Then that makes Whitey our dealer. Shall we?” Sy pulled away from the curb and hit the roof lights, then slipped through the intersection on the red light. Their possible dealer was ambling along the sidewalk, his back to the approaching cruiser. Like so many 51 residents, he was skinny to the point of scrawny and his dull blue tank top hung on him like a limp sail.

Sy accelerated, wanting to cut off the dealer before he reached the laneway that ran north from Dundas along the east side of the apartment building. But whether their man heard the revving engine or some instinctual predator awareness alerted him, he looked over his shoulder as Sy cut across oncoming traffic, mounted the curb and stopped the cruiser's front bumper inches from the skinny man's legs. The car was a hand's breadth from the building, cutting off access to the laneway.

Jack expected the dealer to bolt the way he had come. Instead, from a dead stop, he bounded onto the hood of the cruiser and over the car. He landed hard on the sidewalk and staggered a couple of steps but caught his balance and in seconds was up and running for all he was worth.

When Sy threw the cruiser into reverse, horns blared.

“Shit! Get out of my fucking way!” he bellowed at the cars behind him, but Jack barely heard it, jumping from the car and sprinting after the dealer.

Skinny or not, the guy could run. He flew along the sidewalk, elbows and knees pumping frantically, and Jack — suddenly thankful he had trained chest that morning and not legs — had to push himself to keep up. The heat wrapped itself around him. By the time he hit Seaton, a little residential side street not a hundred yards from the laneway, he was soaked in sweat and every breath felt like it came through a wet gag.

And the dealer kept running.

Son of a bitch, you ain't losing me,
Jack swore and doubled his efforts.

They crossed Ontario Street. Half a city block and Jack was dying. Running for exercise was one thing, but an all-out sprint in this heat wearing a black uniform — mostly polyester, thank you — a vest and a gun belt was simply hellish. He thought he might puke.

By the time they reached the next street, the dealer was starting to falter. He dropped from a sprint to a run and when he cut north on Berkeley he was down to a quick jog. Jack was right on his tail, but his legs were burning.

The dealer made it about three houses up the street before staggering to a halt, hands on his knees, labouring for breath. Jack stopped short of him, fighting the urge to double over as well.

“Get . . . get on . . . your knees,” he gasped.

The dealer raised his head, drawing deep breaths, and looked at Jack.

Jack wiped sweat from his eyes. “Get on — fuck!”

The dealer took off again and Jack forced his screaming legs back into a run.

The side streets in this area were all residential, with older homes, mature trees and well-travelled laneways. The dealer cut into the first lane, doubling back on himself. Jack was past the point of pain, running on anger and determination. Neither of them was moving very fast and Jack would be damned if he was the first one to give up.

The lane cut across Ontario, but the dealer never reached it. Sy screeched the cruiser to a halt across the lane, plugging the dealer's escape route. The dealer stumbled the last few steps to the cruiser and put his back to the passenger door. He started to squat down but jerked upright when he heard Jack's footsteps approaching. His running footsteps. The dealer's eyes widened in alarm and he raised his hands, whether in surrender or protection Jack didn't know and didn't care.

Jack plowed into the dealer. The man's body made a very satisfying thud against the door of the scout car and they tumbled to the ground, Jack landing on the dealer's back.

He wanted nothing more than to lie still and rest, but lying across a drug dealer's back was not the most professional position to be seen in and, besides, the guy stank like he hadn't showered since the start of the heat wave. As Jack straight-armed himself up, the dealer showed signs of wanting to get up. Jack dropped his knees on the dealer's back and the air woofed out of the man. His face made an agreeable smack on the asphalt.

“Stay . . . down . . . this time.”

Jack slowly climbed to his feet and collapsed against the car. Black dots swam across his vision and his head spun wildly. Gasping hot air, he fought the urge to heave.

If I do puke, I'll make sure I puke on him.

Sy sauntered around the rear of the car. “Nice tackle.” He squatted and dragged the dealer's unresisting arms behind his back. Snapping on the cuffs, he asked Jack, “He piss you off or something?”

Jack shook his head, still gasping. “First time . . . he stopped. . . .” He held up a hand and took several deep breaths. “Okay. First time he stopped I told him to get down and he took off again. I didn't want to have to chase him a third time.”

“Ah, I see. You tackled him because he was getting ready to run again.”

“I wasn't gonna run,” the dealer protested, trying to lift his face from the hot pavement.

“I wasn't talking to you, Mumblee.” Sy shoved the man's face down. “Damn, this guy's soaked. Jack, get the hand cleaner, would you?”

Jack opened the car and grabbed the bottle of gel sanitizer that all cops carried in the car. He squirted some for Sy and then himself. Once their hands were clean, they both slipped on their search gloves.

“All right, buddy, up you get.” Each grabbing an arm, they hoisted the dealer to his feet. “What's your name, bud?”

“Uh, Mike.”

“Mike what?”

Pause. “Smith.”

“Mike Smith. How original. Now, Mike Smith, before I search you, do you have anything sharp on you that I might cut myself on? Knives, needles, razor blades. Anything like that?”

“No, nothing like that,” he answered quickly.

Too quickly for Sy's comfort, Jack noticed.

Sy gripped him by the neck, thumb and middle finger resting lightly on the nerve centres behind the jawbone. “Think before you answer. Do you have anything sharp on you?”

“No, man. Nothing. I swear —”

Sy squeezed the nerve centres briefly but long enough to cut off Smith's oath in midsentence. “Don't swear. Just think, then tell me. If I find anything sharp on you that you didn't tell me about, I'll put you in the fucking hospital. You understand me?”

“I have . . . I think I have a knife in my pocket. One of those box cutters. In my back pocket.”

“That's better. See what a little co-operation does? It keeps me happy and you healthy.” Sy patted the pocket before slipping his hand inside. He pulled out the utility knife and held it up for Jack, thumbing out the blade. “Not long enough to stab with, but it'll cut you to the bone or slash open your neck easily enough.” He retracted the blade and handed the knife to Jack. “Never take these pieces of shit at their word. Their word means less than nothing.” He turned his attention back to the dealer. “That everything? Remember, think before you answer.”

Smith was quiet, then, “Yeah, that's it,” he said, licking his lips.

“Uh-huh. Let's see, shall we?” Sy continued his search, slow and methodical. Except for a wad of cash — tens and twenties mostly — he came up empty-handed.

“See, man? I told you I didn't have anything on me.” Mike Smith had a tentative grin on his face.

“Then why'd you run?”

“I was scared, man. The way you pulled up, I thought you was gonna jump me or somethin'.”

“See, Jack? This whole misunderstanding was our fault.”

“Hey, man, no problem. You was just doing your job. I understand.” Smith was all but bouncing on his toes, eager to be out of the handcuffs and gone.

“Damn, stupid me,” Sy said with a silly grin. “I forgot to check one area.” Still holding the man by one arm, Sy reached for Smith's waist and the man tried to turn his hips away. Sy straightened him out. “Hold still, this won't take long.” He lifted the tank top and loosened the man's belt.

“Hey, man, what are you? Some kind of fag?”

“If I was, I'd have better taste than you.” Sy shoved his gloved hand down the front of the pants. “What's this, Mike?”

“My dick, man.”

“If that's your dick, you'd better see a doctor, 'cause that don't feel right. Oops, what's this?” Slowly, teasingly, he slipped his hand out, tugging a plastic bag, then holding it for Jack to see.

It was a small sandwich bag with about two dozen small pieces of crack. Jack may have been new to 51, but he had seen crack already. Hell, his first night here he'd made two arrests for the narcotic. Smith's crack looked like it was all twenty pieces — the size you could buy for twenty dollars — individually wrapped in plastic. And every piece was black.

“Yup, that's P for P, Mike. Time to go to jail.”

Mike cranked his head around to look at Jack. “What's that?”

“Possession for the purpose of trafficking.” Sy snorted. “Like you didn't know.” He opened the back door of the cruiser. “Get in, Mike. And by the way —” he paused before closing the door “— you may want to think of a new name before we get to the station.”

He slammed the door shut, then clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Nice pinch, Jack. Major Crime will be interested in talking with him.” Sy headed to the driver's side. Over the car's roof, he asked, “He pissed you off, didn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“But you tackled him 'cause he was going to run again.”

“Yeah.” Jack grinned.

Sy grinned back. “You're learning, Jack. You're learning.”

A brief but thunderous rain shower had done little to drag the humidity down. Now, just shy of four o'clock, the sun ruled once more in a cloudless sky and steam rose from the rapidly drying asphalt. Sy and Jack had conveniently missed the storm while processing their small-time drug dealer and were on the road again, hoping the last hour of the shift would be kind to them. From Jack's point of view, things were definitely looking good.

“Hm, nice legs.”

“Where?”

“You blind?” Jack asked. “Right there, on the bike.”

Two CRU officers were biking along the street, not hurrying, just cruising the crack area of Queen and Sherbourne. With Moss Park on the northwest corner of the intersection, the Sally Ann just up the street, a couple of run-down bars nearby and a rat's nest of laneways, the area was perfect for the sale and use of crack.