The Unlucky Read online

  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.

  Nothing less for Vanessa.

  Nothing less.

  He opened the door of The Office Pub and entered.

  Chapter 4

  Aaron Stevens stretched out his arms on his apartment’s balcony, yawning and moaning. It had been another long night of worry.

  Where was Sarah?

  He had thought this was over for him. He loved her deeply. But being with someone who was kidnapped, shot at, and constantly on the edge of death had become a bit overwhelming. Sarah had painted a permanent bull’s-eye on her forehead by willingly leading the life she led, and she wasn’t prepared to wash it off.

  In California, Aaron had broken down. Ashamed to admit it, ashamed to face her, he’d left California and came home to Toronto. Previously he had planned to take a break so he could focus on his business, his dojo. They had agreed that he would go back to teaching Shotokan Karate. He needed to give his overworked instructors time off. Sarah had understood and actually pushed him to go.

  But leaving when she had been kidnapped by Cole Lincoln was probably bad timing.

  Didn’t she always prevail, though?

  Dressed only in track pants, he stretched once more, anticipating his hour-long yoga session, and stepped back inside his apartment. A French press sat on the counter in the kitchen, his coffee steeping. After pouring a cup, he moved to the sofa, powered up his MacBook Air and began his daily search for Sarah.

  When the Toronto Sun newspaper picked up the story of a murder on the CN Tower a few days ago—the death of a Toronto police officer’s daughter—images of the shooter were vague, grainy. One video popped up on YouTube, but authorities were trying to suppress any more leaks and imposed a publication ban within twenty-four hours of the incident.

  Why a publication ban?

  From the grainy photo, Aaron was sure the shooter was Sarah.

  He had called Caleb and Amelia, Sarah’s parents. Last they heard, Sarah had flown to Toronto to see him after stopping off to do a little something for Vivian.

  A little something for Vivian?

  That didn’t sound good.

  Aaron had called Parkman. All Parkman knew was that Sarah wanted to talk to Aaron. Parkman was concerned that Aaron hadn’t heard from her yet. Her plane had landed four days before.

  Aaron discouraged Parkman from coming to Toronto.

  “We can’t always drop and run when Sarah goes underground,” Aaron had said. “She has to get used to that. We’ve all talked about this before.”

  “I understand, Aaron,” Parkman said. “But if that was Sarah who shot a cop’s daughter in front of all those witnesses—and don’t forget that police officers witnessed the shooting, too—then she’s going to need all the help we can offer.”

  “Come when she turns up, then. Come when she calls. My suggestion is to leave it be for now. I’m here. I’ll locate her. Once I do, I’ll get back to you.”

  They had ended the call with the understanding that Aaron would stay in touch daily and apprise Parkman of any and all developments. Aaron would keep her parents in the loop as well.

  Since then, nothing had surfaced. No word from her, no message, no sightings and no one talking at the police department. Parkman had friends in Toronto from a case he helped with back when a group of fanatics called The Rapturites roamed the streets. The Rapturites killed a lot of cops in a mall food court. Parkman’s help, along with Sarah, gave him a lot of credit with the Toronto police, but even he couldn’t get anything from them when he called to inquire about the case. All he got were two names. Detectives Niles Mason and Marina Diner. Neither were returning Parkman’s calls, nor Aaron’s.

  According to the news website, the cop’s daughter, Vanessa Simmons, was being buried today. Her funeral would’ve taken place already in a small ceremony in a downtown cemetery.

  His coffee cup empty, each news site scrutinized for any mention of Sarah but finding nothing of value, Aaron got up from the couch to jump in the shower.

  The phone rang while he was toweling off.

  He dropped the towel and ran for the bedroom phone.

  “Hello?” he gasped into the receiver, hoping it was Sarah or at least Parkman with news.

  “Hello, Aaron.”

  Sarah!

  He’d know that voice anywhere.

  “Are you okay?” He paused at the sound of exterior noise coming through the phone. “I hear wind. Are you in a car?”

  “I’m downtown. John Street. I need you.” She cleared her throat. “I came to Toronto to see you. We need to get together. But something has come up that I have to deal with first. I didn’t want to involve you, but …”

  “What do you need?” he blurted out, happy she was asking him to step up and be there for her.

  “Come to Hooters on John Street. No questions right now. I’ll tell you everything as soon as this is over. Deal?”

  “Fair enough. As long as you tell me you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine.” She cleared her throat again. “There’s a white Dodge Charger parked out front of Hooters. It’s my rental. I left the keys in it. They’re under the mat. Get in. Drive to the large shopping mall on Yonge Street. You know the one where all those cops died in the food court. Use the Shuter Street entrance to access the parking garage. Find somewhere to park on the second level. I’ll meet you there within an hour or so.”

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Come and take the car now. There’s no more time to talk. You have ten minutes, maybe more. Move the car as soon as you get here. Don’t look for me. It’s too dangerous. If the authorities are standing around the car, leave. Just keep walking. I’ll be in touch. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the mall’s parking garage in an hour or so.”

  “How will you know how to find me in the mall?”

  “Vivian.”

  “Right.”

  “Gotta go. Move the car. Now.”

  The line died.

  Aaron checked the time on the wall clock over his TV. Relieved to have heard her voice and be in a position to help, Aaron dressed while calling a taxi, and bolted from the apartment in under two minutes, his hair still wet, wavy and unkempt.

  He would make it close to ten minutes, but inside fifteen for sure.

  Maybe he was wrong about Sarah. A man can make mistakes. Life had been quiet, almost boring without her. Or was this love he felt? The yearning for her, the need—not just need, desire—to do whatever she wanted him to do on a moment’s notice. It was like a calling, one that made him feel good
simply by answering. Her voice, the supple resonance, the melodic quality that gave him goosebumps. Everything about her just oozed love.

  Maybe it was love that made him walk away from her in California. Maybe he loved her too much. It hurt that bad to see her tormented, her life in peril.

  But if this was love, what’s next? How far would he go for her and could he continue to be by her side regardless of what she does for Vivian?

  The better question was if she loved him back. Was she in Toronto to meet with him to let him go? Or was she just working for Vivian?

  All in good time. All in good time.

  First, move the car.

  Then they would have a coffee, maybe dinner, and see where things went from there.

  If he had a choice, they’d be back together like before, but no one decided that kind of thing for Sarah.

  Only Sarah decided for Sarah.

  And that was what scared him.

  Chapter 5

  Detective Timothy Simmons entered The Office and scanned the small pub. The woman in braids from the cemetery sat in the back corner, the last table. It looked like she was texting someone on her cell phone, or she had just ended a call.

  To his left, one table was occupied by a young couple. On his right, two women chatted quietly, red wine in front of them. The rest of the patrons were out on the patio, enjoying the nice weather. Someone had turned the air conditioner up high in the heat of the early afternoon and hadn’t adjusted it as the sun moved behind the skyscrapers. He shivered with the temperature contrast from the outside.

  He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it to vibrate as he made his way to the back to join Erzabet, if that was her real name.

  At the table, he gestured for her to stand. Without looking at him, she rose and thrust her arms out.

  He frisked her, looking for concealed weapons or a listening device. She was clean except for the cell phone. No purse, no wallet. Nothing in her pockets except for two twenty-dollar bills. Not even car keys.

  Where the hell is she hiding those?

  She didn’t protest when he grabbed her cell phone.

  He paused at a glimmer of something in her eye when he grabbed her phone. He’d seen that look before in eyes of hardened criminals, gang bangers, serial killers. A look of hatred, violence. Like she could rip his eyes out with her bare hands and stomp on his throat just because she thought it was what was needed.

  He cautioned himself to be extra careful around her, wary of her actions and who she had for backup, if backup existed. But the look in this girl’s eyes told him she didn’t need backup. She could handle whatever came at her with ease.

  Quickly, so as not to escalate the tension further, he scanned through her previous calls and text messages, but there was nothing to see. She must have sent something, or called someone and then erased it as he walked in. Asking her about it was fruitless so he handed her phone back.

  They sat in the booth at the same time.

  He adjusted his jacket so the side with the gun was open, ready.

  “Talk,” he said.

  “Questions first,” she replied.

  Her eyes moved. They stopped on his lower face, rose and met his eyes. They had a power of their own. In the dim light at the back of the restaurant, her eyes had an elliptical feel to them, cunning like cat’s eyes. He reminded himself to be cool, to play this right.

  “You’re a detective. Correct?” she asked.

  Tim nodded. He placed his hands on the table.

  “What have you detected about your daughter’s case?”

  A waitress approached from behind the bar.

  “What can I get ya?” she asked.

  Her name tag read Gigi.

  “Water for now, Gigi,” Tim said. “Give us ten minutes to talk after that. Then we’ll order.”

  They waited in silence until Gigi returned with water. When she started away, Tim leaned into the table.

  “Why bring me here to ask about a case I’m not assigned to? You know a lot about me. I’m sure you know they wouldn’t let me investigate the murder of my own daughter.”

  Against his will, not wanting to show weakness, his eyes watered at the thought of Vanessa.

  “I think I know who ordered the hit,” she said.

  “It was a hit?” he asked, incredulity in his voice. “Why? What had Vanessa done?”

  Erzabet studied his face. He waited as she scrutinized him like she was attempting to determine the last time he shaved.

  “What?” he finally said.

  “You’re not lying.”

  His heart raced in his chest like a broken-winged bird. If he checked his blood pressure, he was sure it would be off the charts. Everything about this girl was such a mystery. Was she a friend or foe? Could she help him or not?

  She acted calm and relaxed, like this was some kind of game to her.

  “Of course I’m not lying,” he said. “How could I be? You haven’t asked me anything I can lie about.”

  “You didn’t know what Vanessa was into,” she said, more a statement than a question.

  He sat back in his seat and pressed his unbroken palm against the table’s edge.

  “Then tell me. What has my daughter been doing?”

  The girl searched his face once more, then said, “No.”

  “And why not? Isn’t this why we’re here?”

  She shook her head slowly, resolutely. “It isn’t. I needed to learn how much you know. Now I know.”

  It was his turn to shake his head. He sputtered when he said, “What?”

  “Tell me something.”

  He waved his hand for her to go ahead. Since they began talking, Erzabet had brought her arms up and rested them on the top of the table, spread out.

  “Why would she be afraid of cremation?”

  “Who? Vanessa?”

  Erzabet nodded.

  “I have no idea why she would be afraid of cremation—” he stopped himself as a cold snake slithered down his spine, forcing a cool sheen of sweat to bead up on his forehead. His stomach felt like someone placed a block of ice in it and his legs suddenly weakened.

  Cremation.

  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 wi
th 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.