The Unlucky (11 page)

With four stairs left to descend, Sarah stopped. What she hadn’t seen—couldn’t have seen from the top of the stairs—were the two girls tied up in the far corner, legs splayed out on the floor.

Bile rose in the back of her throat.

Oh Vivian, no …

She wondered why Vivian would bring her here and not simply supply the address to the police. Only Vivian knew what motivated Vivian, and Sarah was sure there was a reason—a greater reason. It was moments like this that made her wonder if she could go on living in the same world as people like Belinda and Joel. Even in the face of the repulsive abuse that huddled in the corner of the basement, Sarah took another step forward. Then another, wondering from where she drew the strength.

Oh please God,
Sarah thought.
Have mercy on them. Please allow them to be dead already.

“What’s the matter?” Belinda asked. “Frightened by our dolls? Is that why you killed Joel? Now this whore will not live long enough to be our plaything. Sad really.”

Sarah raised the gun and aimed it through watering eyes at Belinda from ten feet away. Belinda was mostly hidden behind the crying young girl. Odds of hitting Belinda were extremely low.

Vivian, you controlled my hand with Vanessa on the tower. Control it now. Make a sure shot. Don’t fucking miss.

“Go ahead,” Belinda shouted. “Shoot. But I’ll take this one with me.”

Belinda’s arm moved.

Sarah’s hand numbed, the gun wavered.

The blade started across the tender flesh of the girl’s neck.

The gun righted itself and locked into position.

Sarah watched as Vivian squeezed her finger on the trigger, the barrel holding true.

Then the screaming really started.

Chapter 12

Detective Timothy Simmons entered his office and dropped into his chair, exhausted. It spun in a half circle until he faced out the window. Outside, the busy street was littered with lunch traffic, people walking left and right without a care about the criminals amongst them. Cars scurried by, racing around illegally parked couriers, horns blaring, drivers shouting.

Tim ran a hand through his hair. It had been a long night interviewing Aaron Stevens, but in the end they got nowhere, no closer to locating Sarah. Aaron knew nothing. The last he’d seen Sarah was in California. She called and asked for a favor. He moved her car to a rendezvous point. That was it. That was all he knew. And there was nothing illegal about that.

Between interviews, Tim had taken a break to pull Aaron’s file and to suck back a coffee with four painkillers for his aching broken hand. Reading the file, he discovered Aaron’s history with a Detective Folley regarding Aaron’s missing sister, Joanne Stevens. Maybe it was Aaron’s vigilante side that first attracted Sarah to him.

Aaron’s case was unusual. He had not only investigated his sister’s disappearance on his own, he ended up being kidnapped, flown to Greece and shot multiple times in an ancient stone prison called Palamidi.

Aaron, the trained fighter, had balls. But he was stupid, too. Investigating his sister’s disappearance could have cost him his life. Aaron would be dead right now if his friends hadn’t shown up in Greece to stop his murder. Life wasn’t something you left up to luck. Especially someone as calculated and disciplined as Aaron. But he had raced after his sister’s killer like a blind rodent wandering aimlessly into the mouth of its predator.

Tim rose from his chair and headed for the door. They couldn’t hold Aaron. They had nothing on him. His story checked out. They had no leads and no Sarah Roberts.

And Tim’s police issue weapon was still missing.

At the door, his phone rang. He stopped, his hand on the knob. On the third ring, he decided to take the call.

Behind his desk again, he picked up the phone.

“Detective Simmons here.”

“Detective,” a male voice said softly.

“Who’s this?” Tim leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk.

“Tim Sim. It’s been too long.”

Tim Sim?

He hadn’t been called that in a long time. The play on his name was something common in high school and later on, police college. The people he knew since making detective never called him that.

“Who is this?” he asked again.

“We’ve met once before.”

“And …”

“Look, I’ll get to the point. You’ve got a little mess that needs cleaning up.”

“Listen asshole, I’m going to hang up now. Not interested in what you’re selling.”

“A lot of people will die if you hang up.”

The silence that followed allowed Tim to hear the caller’s breathing. A distant memory was surfacing. The voice was recognizable, but he couldn’t place it.

“You’ve got my attention.”

“Good.”

Papers shuffled on the other end of the line.

“Why is Sarah Roberts in Toronto?”

“No idea.”

“Is she of interest to you?”

“What’s your stake in this?” Tim asked.

The caller’s name was close. An old school friend, a neighbor, an associate. He had to keep him talking.

“I’ll ask the questions. That agreeable?”

“This kind of mysterious phone call only happens in the movies. Unless you’ve recently escaped a rubber room. Are you for real?”

“That was your last question. Understood?”

When he said
understood
in a deeper, more pronounced voice, the caller’s name popped into Tim’s head.

Toronto City Councilor Marshall Machiavelli.

He had worked close with Marshall during the last Toronto mayoral elections. Security detail had been compromised and detectives without a large case load were assigned to locate the insiders. Some believed there was an old boys’ club that Marshall spearheaded. The media mentioned multiple councilors in the past decade as members of this club. Harold Hoffenburg, Fletcher Aldrich, Omar Howe who represented Hamilton and the Turner brothers, Ruben and Shawn. Ever since Toronto amalgamated and became the GTA, the Greater Toronto Area, the rumors of the old boys’ club thrived.

So why is Marshall calling me?

“What have you learned from Sarah’s boyfriend, Aaron?” Marshall asked.

“Nothing I’m willing to discuss on this call.”

“Are you saying you still have no clue what Sarah is up to?”

“No comment.”

“You’re lying. You know something.”

“How’s that?” Tim asked. Then in a snarky, sarcastic voice, he said, “Or am I not allowed to ask
you
anything?”

“We all know who shot Vanessa.”

At the sound of his daughter’s name, Tim tightened his grip on the phone until the plastic whined under the strain.

“C’mon Tim Sim, I’ve seen the footage. Sarah Roberts brought a parachute, disguised as a backpack, to the roof of the CN Tower, shot your daughter and then jumped and disappeared. Suddenly, after the funeral of your daughter, you’re having a drink with her in the pub where you practically gave her your weapon. If you’re not involved, when the disciplinary actions come down the pipe, you’re going to have a hard time explaining that. Especially explaining your involvement with The Club.” He cleared his throat and coughed into the phone.

The Club?

There was that name again. A horrible place that every cop in the city left alone. They paid their taxes and no one ever complained about The Club. Ever. Tim knew of several members and a few who visited The Club, but it was always hush hush.

“Rumor has it Vanessa recently stayed at The Club’s warehouse, courtesy of The Club’s hospitality. But she left after a few nights. Somehow she escaped their welcoming arms. But we now know how she got out and it is being dealt with.”

Why is he telling me all this?

A thought struck Tim so hard he winced. To know anything about The Club was to be on the inside. Since Tim was on the
out
side, would he disappear like Officer Mark Hemmings did a week after that Christmas party? Was Marshall telling him this information because in the end it really didn’t matter what Tim knew as his days were numbered like Vanessa’s had been?

Vile anger, a seething fury, rose in a flash and then abated just as quickly. He clenched and unclenched the fist of his free hand. He couldn’t deal with this call, the loss of his daughter, and veiled threats from an asshole councilman, with anger. He would beat them by staying calm.

“If The Club was responsible for Vanessa wanting to kill herself—” His throat clenched with emotion. He swallowed and tried again. “If they hurt her, I will kill—”

“Easy, easy, Tim Sim. Your anger is misdirected.” Someone knocked on his office door. “I think you need to direct your anger where it matters.” They knocked again. Then his doorknob twisted. “It’s Sarah Roberts who hurt Vanessa, not The Club. We were kind to her. She enjoyed herself in our presence.”

The door opened and Detective Marina Diner stepped in. She mouthed the words,
You okay?

“Find Sarah,” Marshall said. “End this stupidity. Powerful people need this to be quelled. Consider your career. If you don’t end this, walk out of your office now and leave a note behind describing where you want your ashes to be strewn because it all ends in death, Detective Simmons, it all ends in death.”

The line went dead. Tim slammed the phone down. Marina flinched.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Telemarketer. What’s up?”

“You’re pale. Your eyes are red and you look like you just broke out in a sweat. Are you okay?”

“Pain in my hand. No sleep. We haven’t found Sarah and I have to go home now. Nothing is working out, is it, Diner?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Why are you here?”

“Came to tell you that we had to let Aaron Stevens go but we kept the Charger.”

“Fine. Fuck him. We’ll find Sarah without his help.”

Tim got up and stormed past Marina.

“I’m sure we will,” she said behind him.

He passed Detective Mason standing outside his office door.

“What are you looking at?” Tim asked.

“Death warmed over. A zombie. You’re looking bad, Detective Simmons. Maybe bereavement leave is in order.”

Tim turned to face Mason. He never really liked Mason or his straight-laced partner, Diner. And now they hung over this case and his office like he was a suspect.

“What gives you the fucking right to—”

“Detective Simmons!” Diner shouted as she exited his office. “Move along. Go home. Sleep. Don’t come back until you’re thinking straight.”

Doors opened along the corridor. Their colleagues stepped out to watch the fracas.

Tim wouldn’t give them the pleasure or the satisfaction of decking Mason. They weren’t worth it.

He spun around and strode for the exit. He would be back later in the day and when he returned, he would investigate The Club. Maybe he’d pay them a visit. Why had his daughter been there? They had to have picked her up for some reason because she would have never gone there voluntarily. Whatever the reason was, what Sarah said made more sense now. When she told him Vanessa feared cremation, he had thought of the consortium, The Club. That was how they dealt with the unfortunates that died while under their care. But there was no way Vanessa would know that.

But if she had been there …

It all ends in death and she didn’t want to be cremated.

He was sure now that it would end in death if they had taken Vanessa there. He suspected what really happened inside the walls of The Club’s warehouse. He knew what they did to young, clean, innocent girls and boys.

It looked more and more like this would all end in death.

The Club’s or his.

Chapter 13

Sarah’s bullet, guided by Vivian, made a clean entry into Belinda’s right eye. It left a gaping black hole beside her nose and a large red hole at the back of her head. The arm that had guided the blade across the young girl’s throat had faltered, stopped and slipped to Belinda’s lap.

The girl in Belinda’s clutches had screamed at the sound of the gun, but the gun’s report had drowned most of it out. The girl had also jumped in panic, jerking Belinda’s arm away from her enough that as the blade began to cross her flesh, it only nicked a small piece of skin below her jaw line. Other than the bruises on her face, being startled and going out of her mind at the sights in the macabre basement, the girl was physically fine.

“Get up,” Sarah said, amazed that she could find her voice.