The Unlucky (6 page)

That was how his associates disposed of their victims when they were used up. He didn’t know where they did it, but he had heard about it. Fire removes all evidence. Dead body disposal was often credited to chemicals. Others chopped body parts into bite-sized portions and fed them to pigs, but his associates simply cremated the bodies.

He didn’t need to know where they did it. In fact, he didn’t need to know much about their business activities. For the princely sum of a few thousand dollars per month—which always depended upon the quality of the product determined by them—all he needed to do was offer one girl’s name and location per month. A hooker. A drug user. Someone with teeth and a few looks, but without local family or connections. The prettier they were, with the least amount of attachments, netted him larger sums of money. He had to make sure the choice was from the dregs of society, though, then he was in the clear. No one really cared when a prostitute went missing. They looked around, some stapled posters on street lights, people read about it in the news, but search parties are only formed for children and politicians’ kids. Unless the parents of the hooker formed a search party themselves. People disappeared all the time. He saw it as easy money while he was doing his job of helping society out. Why not? Taking shit off the streets was a form of police work, after all.
 

Once he had fucked up, though. They withheld three month’s worth of payments. A runaway he sent them was traced back to a small town in northern Saskatchewan. Her parents were deceased, no siblings. But that ID was fake. She was the daughter of a Toronto businessman. When she turned up missing, the heat was unbearable. The mayor, crack smoker himself, all the way down to the average grocery store clerk, wanted this girl found. A lot of fingers were pointed. Accusations flew. The police department took a hit as that girl was never found. A jar with her ashes were delivered to him with a note attached. It said business would stay the same minus three months’ payments as he owed them for his mistake. The next mistake would carry more severe consequences.

Shock settled in over his system as the woman across from him glared intensely into his eyes. He felt the blood leave his face as he blanched. Could Vanessa’s murder be a result of another mistake he unwittingly made? If it was, whether he spent the rest of his life in jail or died for his efforts, he would expose the consortium. He would shed light on everyone involved, at least as much as he could discover before they stopped him. His contact was a phone number that was texted to him on the first of each month in conjunction with the drop of the money in cash in an envelope at his residence. The text always asked for a name. Prepared, he would text back the one he had chosen for that month.

Once, he traced the number and discovered it was a prepaid phone that was never used before and never again. The only other time this organization came up in conversation was when one of his colleagues at work drank too much at the yearly Christmas party. He remembered it like it was yesterday. Mark Hemmings. Four in the morning. Whiskey in hand, staggering drunk, crying, and asking if he would be forgiven. When Tim asked what he was talking about, Mark ranted on about the group that whores women out to the right customer at the right price. Men who want to torture a woman, shit on her, or beat the shit out of her, anything to help deal with their mommy issues, was all for the taking at the right price. Some women were simply tied to a bed and offered for free, like an hors d’oeuvre at a costume party to the waiting customers. Mark had paid a sum to gain entry. Once inside you
have
to taste the wares or you never leave the place. He saw what was available and did something unspeakable that he wouldn’t voice at that Christmas party, but it was obvious he was struggling to live with his indiscretion.

He repeated over and over that no girl ever leaves their control. The only way it ends is in cremation. It all ends in death, he had said.

That was the last Tim ever saw of Mark Hemmings. The officer disappeared a week later. There was still a missing persons file with his name on it. The case had gone cold.

An innocuous name popped into his head. The Club. As far as he could remember, Mark had called the place The Club or something like that. Maybe that was the consortium, the group Tim sent women to. If so, he wanted no part in it. The Club was dangerous and catered to the elite, the rich. There was a reason the place wasn’t closed down.

Tim tried to breathe, to collect himself. He looped his fingers around the glass of water, brought it to his mouth and drank, spilling some over his lips. It dripped onto his chest. He steadied himself and set the glass down.

While he thought back to what he knew about the consortium and whether he had made another mistake or not, he considered the girl sitting across from him. Obviously a professional. If she’s with them and she had a message for him, he would hear it and kill her where she sat. At least he would save her the trouble of being cremated. If she wasn’t with them, then who was she? And why was she here?

“You’ve lost color,” she said. “You’re shaking, sweating. It appears you know what cremation means and why Vanessa would fear it.”

“No, I mean yes, but I don’t see how it’s connected to …”

“You’re not making sense.”

The waitress started toward them. Erzabet waved her off.

“There’s no rational reason for Vanessa to fear it,” he said.

“Then why did you nearly shit yourself when I said cremation?”

“How did you come by this information? How did you know Vanessa? And how do you know about me and what pub I used to go to? Out at the cemetery, you said, ‘I know who ordered the kill.’ Tell me then, who was it? Who ordered the murder of my daughter?”

Erzabet’s eyes seemed to glaze over. He waited, each second torture. He wanted to rip the answers out of her throat, but knew he needed to stay calm and wait.

The girl opened her mouth. Closed it, then opened it and said, “The last thing Vanessa said to me was, ‘It all ends in death. I refuse to be cremated.’ What do you think that means?”

Tim slammed his fist onto the table loud enough for the two women behind him to eke out a startled yip.

“This isn’t a fucking game.” He leaned across the table, eyes watering. “Tell me how you’re connected. When was the last time you saw Vanessa? Were you the last one to see her alive?”

Ignoring his outburst, as if his temper was a child’s tantrum, Erzabet leaned closer to his face. “Vanessa said that her death would stop the raping, the degradation, humiliation, and the torture. What could that mean?”

He leaned back in his seat and pulled his weapon. Once she had seen it, he lowered it below the table.

“I am going to leave this pub in a few minutes with answers. If I don’t, I will still leave, but you will have new holes in your body to help you think about how you fucked with the wrong guy.”

Her expression didn’t change. That was so unusual in his line of work. People always shitted themselves at the sight of a gun pointed at them, the holder of the weapon ready to use it. Her eyes were absent of fear, nor did he see an ounce of nervousness. She acted as if he was pointing a paper origami gun at her, folded nicely and painted a metallic grey.

“What are you mixed up in, Detective Timothy Simmons?”

In that moment he realized he had miscalculated her. She was another cop, maybe Special Investigations Unit. Could she be investigating the consortium? If so, was it possible that she had interviewed Vanessa and explained what the consortium was and how he received monthly payments for his involvement? Of course that would lead Vanessa to suicide, but murder … who would murder her? The consortium? But why?

He eased back in his seat, unclear on his next move.

Erzabet slipped sideways to get up from the table.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “We’re not done here.”

“As long as you’re pointing a weapon at me, we’re done.”

He counted two breaths before he aimed it at the ceiling and eased it back inside his jacket.

“Fine. Sit. We’ll talk. We may have a common goal.”

In a blur, the girl shot her fist across his face, knocking him sideways in his seat. Before he could recover and sit up, she jabbed open palmed at his broken left hand. He screamed and pulled his hand into his body, the pain incredible.

She grabbed his hair and yanked his head back until he was blinded by the lights in the ceiling of the pub.

Her lips caressed his ear as she whispered, “Don’t ever pull a gun on me again unless you intend to use it. I’m here to bring them all down. That means you, too. Prepare yourself for a shit storm. I’m all out of kid gloves. No more fucking around.”

She thrust his head forward so fast his forehead smashed into the table, bouncing once. When he righted himself and turned around, she was already walking out the door.

He wiped the spittle from his mouth, got out of his seat as best he could holding his broken hand, and ran for the door. Two chairs were in his way as he stumbled across the pub.

“Are you okay, Mister?” the waitress asked as he passed her.

Without saying a word, he crashed through the door, gun firmly in hand.

The Charger was gone. But that was impossible. He made it to the door in the time she would’ve needed to get across the street. No way she could’ve gotten in the car, turned it on—he hadn’t heard it start—and drive away. At this hour, John Street was busy. Car after car drove by. How did she pull that off?

“Mister, would you like me to call anyone for you?”

Tim let the door close behind him. He needed painkillers. That fucking girl probably broke his hand again. Lightheadedness swept over him. He staggered as he walked down the sidewalk toward the underground parking garage.

He would run her plate number when he got to the office. He would text questions when the consortium contacted him for a name and a location. He would come to the bottom of this and he would hurt that girl when he saw her again.

He stumbled down the access ramp into the parking garage and turned toward his car. The driver’s side window was busted in. Glass littered the cement by his car door, sparkling like little diamonds. He scanned the empty garage. Not even the sound of someone fleeing the area could be heard.

A common thug? Or the girl?

He trudged to his car, the pain in his hand intensifying, throbbing.

Glass covered the driver’s seat. He ambled around to the passenger side, unlocked and opened the door, plopping down into the seat. He took a deep, calming breath.

When he opened the glove box, he saw that nothing was disturbed. Whoever broke in must’ve just wanted to cause damage. Even the CD Player was still there. Nothing else seemed to have been touched.

Like a strobe light going off in his head, he thought of his police gun.

He opened the center console.

It was empty.

The gun was gone.

Who knew it was there? In his unmarked cruiser he wore the gun. In his personal vehicle he stored it in the console. Did Erzabet see him place it in there at the cemetery?

No way. She didn’t look at him once. She had stoically stared straight ahead the entire time. She didn’t look at him until they were seated across from each other in the pub.

Then who did this? And why?

He struggled with it for a full minute, but came back to the girl. It had to be her.

It was time to call it in.

He pulled out his phone and called Marina and told her to bring Niles. Meet him on John Street.

“Bring a lot of Advil,” he added before hanging up.

Chapter 6

Jamie Stratton called in his position as he performed a safe-walk with Mrs. Jennings. Mrs. Jennings, at least eighty years of age and fragile, shopped at Eaton’s Centre every week, filling her basket on wheels and asking security for a safe-walk to her car. Eaton’s Centre security offered safe-walks to anybody who requested one. Ever since the shooting in the food court in 2012, the requests for safe-walks had skyrocketed. Sometimes Jamie spent half a shift walking people to their cars.

Today was different, though. Not five minutes ago, Jamie’s patrol supervisor had radioed all security guards walking the garage levels to watch for a white Dodge Charger. The police scanner in the main office had announced that all units were to be on the lookout for that vehicle. Jamie had written the plate number down, committed it to memory and then went to meet Mrs. Jennings at the elevators.

She babbled on about the same things every week. How many kids and grandkids she had and how they never visited her. With disdain, she said one of them should at least take her shopping to help carry the bags. Once, she said she wished Jamie were her son. A good boy like him, always walking her to her car. His mother should be proud. Mrs. Jennings had no idea that Jamie’s mother was dead and his father was an alcoholic. Drunk driver killed his mother and his father became a drunk. Who would’ve figured?

But today, he tuned out Mrs. Jennings’ babbling. He wanted to be the one to find the Charger if it was in the parking garage. He had recently put in for a raise with Eaton’s Centre Security as he waited to hear back from the Durham Regional Police Force on his application. He’d graduated from Grade 12 and was about to start university, but thought he’d see if the force was willing to take him now. He figured there was nothing wrong with being overeager.