Back at the Hastings office Brazuca finds Stevie Warsame sorting through his store of surveillance equipment and gadgets, putting some in the desk behind him and others in one of the two duffel bags at his feet.
Warsame was a cop, too, before turning to private investigations—though it had been his choice to leave the police department he served in Alberta. He never mentioned why, but Brazuca has a good idea that Warsame’s Somali heritage might not have gone down so well in certain circles. Not that you’d know from Warsame himself, who seemed to dwell on nothing but the condition of his surveillance equipment and the various gadgets he kept in what he called “resale ready” shape.
Brazuca sits at his desk and frowns at the opposite wall. He’s still trying to process the events of the day. He wants to be alone but can’t think of a polite way to ask Warsame to leave.
Warsame, sensing his mood, looks Brazuca over. “What’s up with you?”
“You notice anyone watching the office lately?”
“Should I be worried about something?”
“Don’t know just yet.”
“The way I remember it,” says Warsame, slowly, thoughtfully, “you ran into some trouble with a biker—what was his name? Wasn’t too long ago, either.”
“Curtis Parnell. According to my police guy, there’s a warrant out for his arrest, but he’s skipped town.”
Warsame finishes up with the equipment and zips the black duffel. “Or he’s here, just laying low.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him,” Brazuca says.
“Who are you worried about, then?”
“It’s nothing. Just a feeling. Probably need to get more sleep, is all.”
“Could be a feeling you listen to. You don’t mess with the bikers in this town, man. Even I know that.” Warsame reaches for his jacket. “You know where Krushnik’s been for the past few days? I’ve been trying to get him to sign off on an account. Been getting nothing but background checks these days. It’s been brutal out there.”
“He’s taking some personal time, I guess. Sign off on it yourself. You’re a partner.”
“This company is going to shit,” Warsame says on his way out, looking harassed. Brazuca doesn’t blame him. He’s never been one for paperwork, either.
Brazuca looks around the tiny office. He wonders if he should care that the company he’s spent the better part of a year working with is falling apart. But finds he doesn’t, really. He’s got other things to worry about.
Curtis Parnell, the biker, had snapped a photo of his face when Brazuca was looking into a drug case for a wealthy playboy who’d lost the love of his life to an overdose. Because of Brazuca’s intervention, Parnell’s house had been raided, a selection of drugs and weapons seized, and Parnell went into hiding.
Brazuca really shouldn’t be so invested in Nora’s hardship now that he’s got a fugitive enemy of his own, but there’s something about the danger she’s in that feels more real to him.
Years ago, back when he was on the force, the shrink they forced him to see after he’d been shot in the leg had told him he had a hero complex. Immediately after the session he went out with his cop buds, got wasted, as they were all borderline alcoholics, and then he chose to forget that unhelpful assessment. He’d been shot at, was an alcoholic with a bum leg. What kind of hero is that?
He logs into his bank account online and stares at the balance. His playboy client who he once thought was a friend, Bernard Lam, had paid him an obscene amount of money to look into the death of his mistress. At first he thought the number was a joke, but Lam had money to burn and this is how he wanted to do it. He could have bought a new yacht or luxury property in the Caribbean, but he chose to give it to Brazuca instead to run down some leads. And, in return, get details about the people involved in smuggling synthetic opiates into Vancouver.
Brazuca got the information, but the price had been high.
If this thing with Nora hadn’t cropped up, Brazuca would have left Vancouver weeks ago. Not out of fear of Parnell but because he’s tired of being here. He doesn’t particularly like this city. It’s cold. Not just the weather. The people are cold. Distant. Just because you’re from a place it doesn’t mean you’ve got to put up with it for the rest of your life. He’s stayed out of habit and a concern for a woman who’s most definitely in trouble. A woman who, like this city, doesn’t even really like him.
There’s nothing keeping him here but him and his hero complex.