Jack heard the car doors slam shut and knew he was trapped. He had left it too late and now they had him cornered, the Honda in the driveway proclaiming he was inside and at their mercy.
Karen and her parents were home from lunch.
At least Karen had let him sleep in instead of insisting he join them. Now that extra sleep was biting him in the ass. If only he had gotten up even ten minutes earlier. . . .
“Son of a whore,” he muttered, smiling.
If Karen or her mother heard him, he would be admonished for his language and Her Highness Hawthorn would no doubt tack on a lecture about how his vulgar expressions were a clear indication he was missing far too many Sunday mornings in church.
“Son of a fucking whore,” he said, louder.
“What was that, hon?” Karen called from downstairs.
Oops. Stifling a sudden fit of giggles, Jack shouted, “Nothing. Be down in a minute.”
Karen and her mother were in the kitchen preparing a pot of tea — Earl Grey, undoubtedly; for Evelyn Hawthorn, any family meal was not complete until, regardless of weather, circumstances or illness, tea was poured — when Jack reluctantly made his way downstairs. Small blessing, her dad was out on the back deck, probably inspecting the quality of workmanship. Jack gave Karen a quick kiss and his mother-in-law an even quicker hello on the way to grabbing his lunch and post-workout shake from the fridge.
“Gotta go, hon. Duty calls.” He planted another kiss on her lips and was heading down the hall to the front door, thinking he had made good his escape, when Karen called after him.
“Jack, wait. I want to talk to you about something.”
Damn! He turned but held his ground, the perfect picture of a man with places to go. Any place, actually, where his in-laws weren’t.
Karen was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking as anxious as he felt.
“Can it wait, hon? I’m running late as it is.” Don’t do this to me, Karen. You know I don’t want to be here.
“I thought Karen said you didn’t start work until four. Surely it can’t take you four hours to drive into the city.” Karen’s mother had moved beside her, a united front he had little hope of defeating.
“Actually, on the last day of evenings we start at two and I promised my partner I’d meet him for a workout first.” It was the truth and the only excuse he had, but he knew it wasn’t enough. When the Hawthorn women wanted to talk, you talked. Or, more rightly, listened.
“This is important, Jack, and I’m sure your little gym routine can wait a few minutes.” Mrs. Hawthorn — no “Please call me Evelyn” today — withdrew to the kitchen without waiting to see if he was following. Obedience was expected.
Jack hated it when she did that. He was tempted to give Mrs. High and Mighty a taste of her own medicine and announce that his “little gym routine” could not, in fact, wait a few minutes and get the hell out of there, but Karen’s expression stopped him. She looked worried and upset. About what? Ever since the night of the search warrant, she had been rather frisky and even the news of Reynolds’s murder — minus the backup shooter in the car — hadn’t upset her that much because she’d felt he had never been in danger. All that had happened between then and now was . . . her parents.
Son of a whore.
“Where the fuck are you getting this energy? You’re not stealing Tank’s ’roids, are you?” Sy joked.
“Who needs steroids when you have in-laws?”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“After your set, old man. Quit stalling.”
“Bastard.” Grumbling obscenities, Sy dipped his shoulders under the barbell and hoisted it off the rack.
“Eight reps, no less,” Jack ordered.
“Eight?” Sy squawked. “You trying to kill me?”
“Shut up and squat.”
Still protesting, Sy squatted with the 185-pound barbell resting on his thick shoulders. By the third repetition, he had no breath left for protesting. By the sixth, his face was red and on the eighth and final push his knees were quivering and Jack could see his scalp turning purple through his cropped hair.
After the final rep, Sy took a wobbly step forward and let his legs buckle, dropping the barbell onto the rack. He hung from the bar, supporting himself more with his arms than his legs, heaving great gasps of air.
When he could stand without support and had his breathing under control, he glared accusingly at Jack. “You’re just doing this to me ’cause I embarrassed you bench-pressing yesterday. Spitefulness does not become you, Jack.”
“What can I say? In many ways, I’m a petty man.”
Like a lot of guys who worked out, Sy loved to train his upper body but neglected his legs. He could bench-press three plates a side for multiple reps and took childish joy in Jack’s efforts to press up 225. But now it was the day for training legs and although Jack overall was not as strong as Sy he did train his legs regularly.
They were in the station’s gym, a small L-shaped room crowded with racks of dumbbells — the 150-pound dumbbells bought specifically for Tank were on the floor — benches and assorted machines. A wood plaque proclaiming the space as BIFF’S BULLPEN hung in a place of honour on the wall. It was usually a busy place, regardless of the hour, but this afternoon Jack and his partner had the place to themselves and Sy had a CD with a mix of Guns ’N’ Roses, AC/DC, Metallica and Nightwish blaring out of the small stereo system. The acoustics were shit and he had the volume up to near-distortion level.
“So what did the in-laws do?”
“Karen wasn’t overjoyed about everything that happened at the search warrant and then on the street with Reynolds, but she was beginning to realize that shit happens and we’re careful about what we do.” Jack slid an additional forty-five-pound plate onto the bar. “And then she had brunch with her parents.” He rammed the plate into place. “She told them the whole story and by the time they finished eating —” another plate on the other end “— she was convinced that it’s only a matter of time before I die down here.” Slam!
“And?”
“Hang on, let me do my set.” Jack cinched up his weight belt and got under the bar.
“Need a spot?” Sy asked less than enthusiastically from his seat on a bench.
“Nah, I’m good.” Jack straightened up to free the bar from the rack and stepped back. He readied his stance, sucked in a couple of deep breaths, then started cranking out the reps. His quads were screaming at him by the eighth rep, but he ignored them and forced out another two, shouting out his frustration and anger loudly enough to challenge “Welcome to the Jungle.”
“You’re a fucking animal today,” Sy declared after Jack had racked the bar. “They must have pissed you off something fierce.”
Jack loosened his belt and dropped to his knees, wiped out by that final set. It had been an intense workout. Just what he needed after the little “discussion” in the kitchen.
“Part-way through the conversation — although it felt more like a fucking lecture to me — her father comes strolling in from the deck like he owns the place and adds his fucking two cents. After telling me, mind you, that my deck could use another coat or two of stain and not that cheap stuff I had obviously used.”
“You’re not going to ask me to help you bury a couple of bodies, are you? I mean, I will, but you should have told me before the workout so I could have saved some strength.”
Jack laughed. “No bodies, but I won’t tell you I didn’t think about it.” He stood up with a satisfied groan and began stretching his thighs. “You should stretch, Sy. It’ll cut down on the soreness.”
“I can’t fucking stand up, let alone stretch, right now. I’m good right where I am.” He patted the weight bench affectionately. “Keep going.”
“So, they’re all telling me it’s too dangerous down here and it’s selfish of me — unbelievably selfish of me — to stay here when I know Karen worries about me. Do I want to cause her a nervous breakdown? Fuck.” He switched legs, pulling his foot up behind his butt. “But, hey, let’s not stop there! While we’re at it, why don’t we ask Jack when he’s going to stop playing at work and get a real job? Something where I’m home in the evenings and Karen doesn’t have to wonder if tonight’s the night I don’t make it home.”
“Whoa, they really dumped on you. Did Karen agree with them?”
Jack shook his head. “Only about it being too dangerous here. She’d like to see me transfer back to 32 or maybe work behind a desk somewhere safe.”
“What did you say?”
“Unfortunately, I told her she was married to a 51 copper and better get used to it.” He wasn’t happy about what he had said and he knew his face showed it.
“Ouch. That’s going to take some smoothing over. Trust me, I know.”
“Yeah, you’re right. But I was just so fucking ticked off at her parents. First I’m not good enough for their daughter, then my job’s not good enough, the house isn’t good enough, the deck, the car. Then her mother starts in with the church crap. I’m missing too much church because of work, I’m falling away from my faith, I’m going to end up being one of those police officers who beats people just because of their skin colour, I’m heading to hell and I’m dragging her daughter with me. Fuck!”
“‘Sometimes even angels must do evil to fight evil,’” Sy quoted.
“What’s that?”
“A line out of the Bible. Basically, it says sometimes even the good guys have to get their hands dirty in order to fight the good fight.”
“Cool.” A devious smile twitched Jack’s lips. “I’ll have to find out the chapter and verse so I can throw that at her mother next time she starts quoting scripture at me.”
“Don’t go picking fights for the sake of picking fights. Her mother might be right, in a roundabout way.”
Jack gaped at Sy, flabbergasted. “Now you’re agreeing with her?”
“Take it easy, Jack. All I’m saying is that you have to be careful down here. 51 has a way of affecting people. Changing them. I’ve seen guys who put saints to shame start working here and a few years later it’s hard to tell them apart from the criminals out on the street.”
“You think that’s happening to me?” Jack was getting defensive, not liking what Sy was saying.
“For fuck’s sake, man, relax. Listen, we had a great day yesterday, we just had a good workout and, if we’re lucky, we’ll get into a scrap or a pursuit tonight. All right?”
“Yeah, sorry. Guess I’m still pissed.”
“Understandable. But take it from a man who’s had three sets of in-laws —” Sy pushed himself upright, groaning as if he still had a barbell across his shoulders “— it ain’t worth it. Let it the fuck go.”
Jack nodded.
“We good?”
“We’re good,” Jack confirmed. “Come on, old man. We’ve got time for some calf work.”
“Oh, fucking joy.”
“5102, 138 Wellesley. Possible domestic in apartment 302. Complainant can hear a male and female yelling. Buzz 304 for entry. Time, 2037.”
“Something happening on Wellesley?” Sy asked.
“’02’s heading to a domestic by the sounds of it.”
They were walking to the car with coffees in hand. A light rain, no more than a drizzle, was steaming off the Baker’s Dozen parking lot.
“Who’s on it?”
“Hang on and I’ll tell you. Sheesh, relax, old man.” Jack settled in his seat and stored his coffee safely in the cup holder. “Whoever finally decided to equip police cars with cup holders was a genius. Too bad it took years of the computers getting spilled on before someone thought of it.” He pulled the call up on the screen. “Looks like Boris and Manny.”
“That’s just down the street. We could back them up.”
“I thought you didn’t like Boris.”
“I don’t. But Manny’s an okay guy,” Sy explained. “And working with Boris, it’s like he’s solo. Don’t volunteer us yet. If Boris is driving, he’ll make sure we get there first.”
Boris wasn’t driving and he and Manny were heading into the building when Jack and Sy pulled up. 138 Wellesley was in a row of old three-storey apartment buildings across the street from Jarvis Collegiate. Normally, not a great source of trouble. But domestics have a tendency to pop up wherever two or more people try to live together.
“Hey, guys. Thanks for the backup.”
“No problem, Manny. Wouldn’t want you going in there by yourself.” It was a casual remark. Sy looked at Boris when he said it.
Manny must have been the odd man out that day to get stuck working with Borovski and Jack couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Boris was everything Jack disliked about stereotypical cops, globbed into a fat, flabby, lazy, power-tripping asshole. Some heavy guys carried their extra weight in a firm, unrepulsive way, but Boris had loose folds of bulk hanging over in spongy bunches. Jack could imagine Boris as a child: fat, sullen and friendless, the type bullies dream of. He pictured that poor child harbouring a deep resentment toward society and vowing to be a police officer when he grew up “to show all of them.”
Well, here he was: a balding, friendless man who extracted his righteous revenge on society at large through his radar gun and ticket book, who gained sustenance through others’ suffering and solace in fast food. Supersized, no doubt. Some of that drive-thru food and its stains — many appearing well entrenched — decorated the front of his shirt. As bad as the black shirt was, Jack shuddered at the image Boris had presented to the public in the old light blue shirts.
Here’s your ticket, ma’am. Would you like to choose a snack from my shirt to go with that?
“What’s so funny?”
“Hm?” Jack realized he was biting his lip to keep from laughing. He schooled his features, not without an effort, and told Sy, “Nothing. Tell you later.”
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.