The gangs, assault, narcotics, and guns unit was a special unit that had been established to combat the rise in gang related activity. Detective sergeant Ken Raines had been with the unit since its inception and he had chosen each of the team members himself. Woody and Os met him in his office at eight thirty. He had kept them waiting outside while he was on the phone. Woody guessed it was with someone upstairs. When they finally got into the office, they each took a chair in front of the detective sergeant’s desk. Raines had three empty Styrofoam cups around his desk like wayward satellites.
“Up all night, Ken?”
Raines rubbed his chin. He had a thin layer of stubble under his nose, and his eyes were red—not crying red, tired red. Raines looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy. His eyes were large and his nose small. His ears stuck out like butterfly wings and he sported a haircut that would suit a five-year-old boy. “I hear Julie was good police,” Woody said.
“She was on the job eight months pregnant and refused to take a desk. She was great police.”
“She wasn’t riding a desk?” Os sounded angry about it.
Ken turned his head and looked Os in the eye, showing no sign of being intimidated by the much-bigger man.
“Back in the day we would have had her typing reports and getting us coffee, but things are different now. Everything is up to the woman. Julie didn’t spend any more time behind a desk than she had to. Truth be told, I didn’t want her to. Julie is one of the most knowledgeable cops I have. Fuck. Had. She knew it too. She wasn’t slowing down because she was pregnant. Hell, she was speeding up because she knew she’d be off for a while. She was trying to get her cases closed so she could go off with a clear plate.”
“So she was working a lot of hours recently?”
Ken nodded. “She left for doctor’s appointments, but she always came right back after. One of the guys had to bring in a mini-fridge so we could keep enough food around here for her.”
Woody nodded. “That was nice, Ken. So the guys liked her then?”
“She was a little sister to all of them. A mother too—when they needed it.”
“She close to any of them?”
“Her and Ramirez were tight. They were partners.”
“Anyone else?”
“What do you mean, Woody?” Ken asked.
“Was she . . . close with anyone else?”
The red eyes looked hard at Woody.
“No.”
“Reason I ask is because we don’t know who the father is, and we need to know because right now we could use a motive. Girl lived alone, only one living relative, baby missing. Not many friends that we can find yet. The job seems to have been her life.”
“It was,” Ken agreed. “At least as far as I could tell.”
“Alright, so who was she tight with on the unit?”
“Ramirez is the one you should talk to.”
“Fine,” Woody said. “Nothing meant by it, Ken.”
“What was she working on?” Os inserted himself in the conversation as gently as a square peg being crammed into a round hole. Usually, he let Woody talk while he intimidated. The unexpected question destroyed the back and forth Woody was trying to build with Ken.
“You said she was trying to clear her plate before she had the baby. What was for dinner?”
It was sooner than Woody wanted, but the question was what Woody would have gotten to eventually.
“She had been building a case against a Vietnamese street gang.”
“Since when did we have a Vietnamese gang problem?” Woody asked.
“Been building up in the core for a while now. They came on our radar a few years back when a bunch of gang bangers attacked a rival street gang with machetes.”
“Machetes?” Os said.
“Weapon of choice,” Ken said.
Os looked at Woody and an idea was passed back and forth. A gang that was into machetes might be the kind of people who would cut a woman up.
If Ken saw the look, he didn’t say anything; he just went on. “Ethnic gangs are hard to follow. Most ethnic communities are tight lipped, especially to the cops, so the gangs go unnoticed until they do something splashy.”
“Machetes are splashy,” Woody said.
“We need to see Ramirez,” Os said. It didn’t sound like a request. He was again moving the conversation faster than Woody liked. He wanted to know more about the Vietnamese gang problem.
“I’ll set it up and give you a call.”
“Thanks, Ken,” Woody said.
Ken pulled the Styrofoam cups towards the edge of the desk and stacked them. “Catch this guy, Woody. She was good cop.”
Woody saw Ken’s red eyes get a little wet, and he turned his back so that Ken could cry without an audience. He got into the hallway and said, “You were chatty in there, Os,” when he suddenly noticed that he was alone. Os hadn’t left the office. Inside, he was talking in that low way he always did, and Woody couldn’t hear a word. He could tell from Ken’s posture that the detective sergeant wasn’t happy. The little man was rigid and his hands were on his hips. Woody saw Ken nod and point to the door. Os gave a nod of his own and left.
“What the hell was that?”
“I wasn’t finished,” Os said.
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Usually don’t have to.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Os took a step down the hall and indicated with his head that he wanted Woody to follow. Woody walked after his partner. The room used by the GANG unit was the same as every other room used by cops. Uniform, catalogue-ordered desks—the kind that were obviously the least expensive—surrounded by movable partitions. The partitions made five-foot-high cubicles around each set of desks. The desks were set up back to back so partners would be able to talk in private. All it really meant was that you could throw shit at anyone in the room from a foxhole and rarely get caught. Each of the cubicles was full of crime-scene photos tacked to the soft fabric walls. The desks were reserved for file folders and pictures of the wife or kids. Rarely did a cop have both posted.
Os walked into a cubicle containing two desks and stopped.
“What? You want to go through her files? That’s why I want to see her partner. He’ll know anything worth knowing. It’ll save us time,” Woody said.
Os shook his head. “Something was bothering me. You heard Raines. Good cop, tons of gang knowledge. What are the odds a banger gets into her apartment without him getting shot?”
Woody shrugged. “No gun on scene. I had them check twice.”
Os opened the top drawer and pulled out a police-issue 9mm Glock. She never took the gun home.
“She’s not the first person to forget their gun,” Woody said. It was true; many cops took the gun off at their desk. It was heavy and it dug into your side when you sat. Plenty of cops made it to the car only to remember the gun was still upstairs.
“Do your thing,” Os said.
“What?”
“Just Columbo the space so we can get out of here.”
Woody sat in Julie’s chair and leaned back like he would in his own cubicle. There were reports on the desk in stained police folders. Photos on the fabric wall behind the desk were of gang tattoos on various body parts. The skin on the people in the photos was dark enough to be Asian. The characters inked into the flesh didn’t look like the standard Asian tattoos Woody had seen before on the lower backs and ankles of women. The desk itself was organized; the folders were neatly stacked dead centre with their corners aligned. There was a cup made of stainless steel that looked like it was bought for that purpose of holding pens, not for drinking. None of the pens were chewed, and there were several of each colour. There was an air freshener on the far left corner and a photo on the far right. The picture had been generated by an ultrasound machine. Os picked up the picture and squinted.
Woody watched him rotate the picture a few times before he pointed and said, “It’s right there, you big ox.”
Os nodded and looked closer at the image.
“What do you think?” Os said.
“I think it’s a good thing we’re going to talk to Ramirez.”
“Why?”
“If she had a serious boyfriend, he’d be in here,” Woody said waving his arm over the desk. “If she had a life, it would be in here. All I see is one picture. The picture isn’t even framed; it’s propped up against the corner. Look at the desk behind you, Os.”
Os turned and gave the desk a top-to-bottom scan. “Messy,” he said. “No photos here either.”
Woody nodded. “But look at the shit on the desk. There’s a Ti-Cats mug, a Leafs hockey puck, the calendar beside the desk is a Leafs one and beside that is a hockey schedule—looks like a beer-league kind of thing. Ramirez has a life. You can get the scent of it here. Julie has one picture from a few months ago.”
“Maybe she’s just neat. You saw her apartment.”
“Exactly,” Woody said. “You saw her apartment. That’s where that picture should be. It should be on the fridge or in her bedroom. People put that kind of picture where people will see it. She put it here because no one at home would see it. She worked so much, her desk made the best place for the sonogram picture. Think about her place. No pictures anywhere besides the ancient ones in the bedroom, bare bones cutlery, not a lot of food. There’s wasn’t much of anything there, just enough to get by. This girl ate and breathed the job. If she had any friends, they’d be work friends. I’ll bet you lunch the father of the baby is a cop.”
Os gave the sonogram picture another look. “Where did you put your picture?”
Woody closed his eyes and remembered the picture. Natasha kept it on her bedside table. She and Woody used to look at it every night. The picture was put in a frame after it got so dog-eared, Natasha worried it would get ruined. “Beside the bed,” Woody said.
Os nodded.
“You think Julie’s baby is alive?”
Woody pinched the bridge of his nose hard. He knew every centimetre of that picture. He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Amber Alert turned up nothing,” he said. “She was looking into a bunch of gang bangers who like to play with big knives. Doesn’t look good. What do you think?”
“I think it’s good she at least had this picture.”
It was Woody’s turn to nod. He doubted the kid was alive, but he felt like saying it would make it true. “If the father is a cop,” Woody said, changing topics, “Ramirez will be the most likely person to know.”
Os didn’t answer—his phone buzzed and he gently put the sonogram back exactly where he found it like he was releasing a butterfly. He looked at the cell display and said, “Jerry. He was blowing up my phone while I was driving over.”
“What did he want?”
“Didn’t answer. What am I going to tell him that he doesn’t already know?”
Woody opened the second desk drawer and pulled out a mug. The mug was a radio station giveaway. The station didn’t exist anymore. The all-rock format changed to light hits and then the station went under. Had to have happened at least five years ago. The mug was just another hint that Julie was a workaholic. “Jerry probably wants to do an update meeting so he can take something upstairs.”
Under his breath, Os said, “Fucking asshole’s meetings just slow us down.” He shook his head and then jabbed the screen with his thumb.
Woody laughed as he went through more of the drawer. Os grunted a hello and then began communicating in monosyllables. The drawer was full of teabags and office supplies. The supplies were from the department and all of them were bottom of the line. Pens that you had to circle on the page until they decided to give up ink, Post-it notes that never stuck, and pads of paper full of the thin pages used in bibles. Woody had written through that paper more than once.
Os hung up the phone and said, “Jerry wants to see me.”
Woody stood and arched his back. Through a yawn, he said, “Let’s go. We’ll call Dennis and put him on speaker phone.”
“No,” Os said.
“Fuck, Os. We have to keep him in the loop. He’s on the case with us, like it or not.”
“The meeting isn’t about the case. Jerry wants to talk to me.”
The way Os said it told Woody that something was about to hit the fan.