The Unlucky (4 page)

All that mattered now was collecting what was owed.

He shook one last hand as the mourners slipped away silently and trudged across the well-kept lawn of the cemetery. He lingered by the hole in the ground, the body of his daughter at the bottom. The sky was cloudless, not a blemish to be seen. The air smelled of pine needles and freshly cut grass. It took him back to the summer when he met his wife. The summer of love, they once called it. Carefree, young, at the start of their lives, ready to take on the world.

Then she got pregnant.

Vanessa was on her way and eighteen years ago March, she was born, killing her mother in the process, giving Tim only three short years with the woman of his dreams.

It ruined him for women after that. He raised Vanessa as best he could, never blaming her for the death of his wife, not even subconsciously. He made sure to do right by Vanessa, to lead by example and raise her to be the woman his wife would be proud of. He made mistakes along the way, but who didn’t? Overall, Vanessa was the apple of his eye, the love of his life, the life jacket in the ocean of crime he seemed to be always drowning in. Her love kept him afloat when the world threatened to take him down.

But now she was dead. She was gone. That left him alone, in the vast ocean, preparing to go under. Yet there was something comforting about that. He was in the unique position to bring down a lot of people with him.

He pulled his sunglasses from atop his head over his eyes and scanned the area. Most of the mourners had left. He had detected nothing untoward from them. No one seemed to be spying on the funeral from a distance as far as he could tell. Who could keep an eye on the event with Marina Diner here? She had a small team of officers acting like sentries, watching, guarding the area. No one could have been observing his daughter’s funeral unless from far away with a high-powered telescope.

Marina Diner leaned against his car, waiting for him. Without hope of getting any information out of her, and unwilling to offer any himself, Tim started for his car.

She watched as he traversed the gravestones, stepping over flat ones, meandering around tall ones. He felt her eyes on him and could almost taste her self-righteousness. She was one of the few on the force who drove the rest of them mad with her military discipline and dogged determination to cross every T and dot every I. The do-gooder. The goody two shoes. Adam Ant once belted out a song about her.

“Detective Diner,” Tim addressed her as he approached. “You’re not all in black.”

“Black pants and jacket,” she replied, not a hint of a smile or a pleasing gesture on her face.

“White shirt.” Tim stopped short of her. He avoided her eyes. If she could see past the shaded lens of his sunglasses, he didn’t want her to see what was in his. She was good at figuring people out. She was one of the best detectives on the force.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

A silence descended between them. Tim shuffled his feet, kicked at a pebble. He waited for her to state why she came. After a moment, she pushed off the car and stepped closer.

Her hand dropped on his shoulder. “Sorry to hear you broke your hand.”

He blinked and pulled his head back in surprise.

“What?” Marina asked. “Why the surprised look, Tim?”

“The hand? My broken hand? Really? That’s why you’re sorry?”

“Yeah, you broke it. Must’ve hurt like a bitch.”

Why no mention of Vanessa? Where’s the
I’m sorry about your loss?
Or the proverbial,
My condolences?
Did she know something he didn’t? How many cops were involved with the consortium that protected his associates? Did any of them know of his involvement? Or was she pushing, prodding, waiting for a crack to appear? Was she trying to trip him up or wind him up?

“Whatever,” Tim mumbled under his breath. He shambled away, her hand dropping from his shoulder.

“Tim?”

He grasped the door handle and looked up. Her face was shrouded in the light of the falling sun. Even with sunglasses, he had to look away.

“We’ll find who did this,” she said.

“I know.”

“
I’ll
find who did this.”

He raised a hand to ward off the sun. “Not if I find them first.” He dropped into the car and slammed the door.

After a pause, she headed to her own car, an unmarked cruiser, and got in. He waited until her vehicle disappeared down the lane before he allowed the tears. He wept in silence, alone, thoughts of Vanessa growing up, her dreams of being in show business, and lately her teenage angst. He’d do anything to have her beside him. Anything. But even he had to pay what was due and someone thought he owed a lot.

That someone thought wrong.

A car approached from the same lane that Marina had just disappeared down. As the white Dodge Charger eased up beside him, a lone female driving, he opened the center console and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his gun. Weapon in hand, he studied the driver’s face as the vehicle slowed. He couldn’t escape the fact that she resembled a girl he thought was dead. Some Eastern European girl he met once at a meeting. An Elizabeth, or Erzabet or something Eastern European bloc sounding. She had Laura Ingalls braids like on
Little House on the Prairie
. The kind that are somewhat out of fashion but come back once in a while.

She hadn’t looked at him yet as her window eased down. He wiped at his face to clear the moisture from his cheeks, then pushed the window button on the car door with the baby finger of his broken left hand. His right hand squeezed the butt of the gun still hidden in the console between the seats, his palm sweaty, the handle slipping a bit.

It had been widely reported that a lone female, mid-twenties, long hair and in shape, had shot his daughter. Who was to say this wasn’t the same girl?

“I can help,” the girl said, her face aimed straight ahead, features unmoving. She still hadn’t glanced his way.

His gut instinct triggered a warning as adrenaline filled his stomach. Something about this woman’s calm, austere manner warned him to be cautious around her.

He eased the gun out of the console and placed it on his lap.

“Who are you?” he asked. “And how can you help
me
?” Whoever she was, this woman had bad timing and if she really wanted to help, why wait until the funeral, four days since Vanessa had been shot, to approach him?

Slowly, with countless years of practice, he thumbed the safety off and brought the weapon into firing position, just below the edge of the door. One sudden move and an extremely fast bullet would enter this braided girl’s head near the temple. Or maybe he would go for the cheek. Better yet, the throat. Yeah, a bullet to the throat for his daughter’s murderer.

“I know who ordered the kill,” the girl said.

That stunned him. He reared back a notch, the gun dipping until it rested on his left thigh.

“Who?” escaped his lips, almost as if he croaked the word from the back of his throat.

“Not here. They’re probably watching.”

It was maddening how she stared straight ahead, unmoving except her lips, and barely at that. She was so stock-still, images of a Roman statue popped into his head from the time he vacationed in Rome.

“Then where?”

“The Office.”

“What? My office?”

“No,
The
Office. The restaurant on John Street where you used to go for Tuesday night wings in the ’90s with your fellow officers. Before you made detective.”

Stunned again, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open. A subtle shake of his head dislodged the sludge in his thinking. He gathered himself, the grip on the handle of the service weapon tightening, his palm slick with moisture.

“What are you, twenty-two years old? How would someone so young know that about me?”

“I know more than I want to know.”

“Who are you?” he asked again, this time with more pleading in his voice.

“My name is Erzabet. We almost met once before. You may remember me from a party.”

This had to be a cruel joke. Her words were spoken as if she could read his mind from moments before.

“You don’t have an accent.”

“I lost it.”

He stared at her profile longer, taking her in, considering his options. If she was serious, then he had to hear her out. If she was the murderer, then he would have to take her out. If he failed, at least he had a face and a name, providing it really was her name.

“When?” he asked.

“Now.”

He shrugged. “Why not.”

“Follow me.” Her engine revved and she sped away.

He tossed the gun into the passenger seat and waited until she performed a U-turn behind him, watching her every move in the mirror. Then she passed his vehicle heading the way Marina had gone only ten minutes before.

After checking his mirrors and seeing no one, he followed the strange girl in braids. Out on the open road she sped up, but he stayed close.

He considered calling this in, just in case. Maybe having a cop at the restaurant in another booth would help if this Erzabet was psychotic. But the nature of the information could compromise him with the consortium.

No, he had to do this alone and damn the consequences. He would hear her out and decide what to do next.

It was moments like these that he wished he hadn’t broken his hand. He might need it. If she turned out to be his daughter’s murderer, then killing her in a restaurant was out of the question. Kidnapping her and dragging her body to an abandoned building or a dump site would be taxing with one hand.

None of that mattered, though. What were the odds that the murderer would approach him at the funeral and offer help? That was utterly insane. And how could she know what he did over fifteen years ago? She would have been ten years old then.

At worst, she knew someone who knew a lot about him and that someone had a message for him. At best, that message would aid in the apprehension of Vanessa’s murderer.

And Timothy Simmons intended to hear that message because everyone had to pay what was due.

Eventually every debt came due, some just had more interest tacked on than others.

Compound interest.

Chapter 3

The Office had changed a lot since he was here last. He had heard it was renovated recently and was often confused with the one that used to be in another part of Toronto called Etobicoke. But he hadn’t been inside it in over seven years. Long time considering it was one of his drinking spots on a weekly basis back in the day.

He had stayed on the Charger’s tail quite well, having been with the force going on twenty years. Following people was one of the job descriptions. Add to that knowledge of the streets of Toronto, equal or better than any taxi driver, and you’ve got a tail that’s hard to slip.

He had recorded the Charger’s license plate number. Even considered calling it in on his cell phone as he wasn’t in his unmarked cruiser and didn’t have access to his police computer and database. The problem though was it would link back to him if he had to shoot the girl. So he recorded the license number in case she got away. At least then they’d know who they were looking for.

It was probably a rented car. Enterprise Rent-A-Car brought in 2014 Dodge Chargers. In his job, it was good to stay on top of what agency rented what makes and models of cars. If it was a rental, the woman probably used a fake name, fake ID.

Again, he came back to the conclusion that it was best to hear her out and then decide what to do.

The woman angled into a spot on the street in front of Hooters, the restaurant across from The Office. He drove past her and turned into an underground parking garage. Once he had parked and turned off the car, he secured his service weapon in the console, popped the trunk and got out.

He glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to see what he was doing, then opened the spare tire cover and retrieved a small metal box. From it, he withdrew a tiny unregistered handgun. The serial number had been shaved off by a punk he busted down in the Beaches area for petty theft a few years back. The asshole was so high he didn’t even know if he had a gun on him or not. When he sobered up, the perp was smart enough to not bring up the subject of the weapon to avoid incriminating himself.

After checking to make sure it was loaded and ready to be used, Tim slipped it in his suit jacket pocket. Then he slammed the trunk and started for the street.

No one followed them on the drive from the cemetery and he couldn’t see anyone lingering in a car or watching his approach from behind a tree or the corner of a building.

The Charger hadn’t moved. He knew the risk he took by going into the parking garage, momentarily being out of sight. But the girl wouldn’t have approached him at the funeral, driven this far and then taken off when he wasn’t looking. No, this meeting was about to take place and he suspected he would learn something he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear. But, like a lemming staring over the edge, he knew he would jump. With both feet.