The Unlucky Page 5

  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.

  Mrs. Jennings had parked on the third level. Once she was settled in her car, her bags neatly packed in the trunk, he said his goodbyes, accepted her two-dollar tip—had to, even though it wasn’t allowed, because she wouldn’t entertain protest—and watched as she backed up three times in order to exit the parking space. A moment later she was headed down the spiral exit toward Yonge Street.

  Instead of reentering the mall, Jamie decided walk to the main floor through the garage. Maybe he would get lucky and find the Charger.

  On the second floor he stopped and counted over a dozen white car roofs. He wasn’t up on car makes and models yet. That was what notebooks were for.

  He opened his and reread the plate number.

  Then he started toward the first white roof.

  A Challenger. The next one, a four-door BMW. It wasn’t until the seventh vehicle that he stopped and stared at it from a distance.

  Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. He appeared to be looking at something in his lap. Could be texting on a phone or playing a game while waiting for his wife or girlfriend.

  Jamie approached with caution. He stayed two rows over, making sure to remain behind SUVs and larger vehicles. Before walking out into the open and exposing his position, he dropped behind the bumper of a car and lay flat. Then he rolled behind another car and peered between the two at the plate number of the suspect vehicle.

  It was like winning a lottery. He couldn’t believe his luck. The plate was an exact match. From where he lay, he could read the word Charger on the right side of the trunk.

  He had done it. He had solved a crime. Maybe he could put it on his resumé. Durham Regional Police would love to have diligent, intrepid, brave men on their team. He fist pumped the air and almost punched the exhaust pipe of the car he hid behind.

  His radio crackled and he jumped, smacking the top of his head on the bumper of the car in front of him.

  He rolled away until he was behind a van and got to his feet.

  He radioed in his position and reported he had found the White Dodge Charger that the police were seeking. The patrol supervisor told him to hold his position while he informed the authorities. No congratulations, no offer of a pat on the back.

  Jealousy. That’s all that was.

  Jamie was going to go places. One day he would make detective while his patrol supervisor would still be a patrol supervisor. Then he would see who gets the pat on the back.

  Then he would see.

  Chapter 7

  Tim winced as the paramedic examining him prodded his injured hand on the back bumper of an ambulance while Niles and Marina watched.

  “You always carry your piece in your personal car?” Niles asked.

  He had one of those thick Magnum P.I. mustaches from the seventies or eighties. Behind Niles’ back, the guys at the station called it a seventies porn ’stache. Tim couldn’t help but look at it when Niles talked. It was like a small rodent had died and now lay under Niles’ nose.

  “Just run the plate number,” Tim said. “If we get a hit, we can find the girl and get my gun back.”

  “I called it in when we got here.” Marina cleared her throat and wiped something off her lips. “Certain people upstairs are going to be pissed you had your piece stolen. That kinda shit goes on your record.”

  Tim winced as the paramedic pushed at another sensitive spot.

  “You almost done?” he asked.

  “You’re fine,” the medic said. “Nothing new broken. Pain’ll subside soon. You have something for the pain?”

  “Yeah,” Tim said as he pushed off the back of the ambulance and walked away.

  Officers were taking statements from the waitress and the two women who watched the whole thing. People stood outside businesses across the street; others watched from windows. It was a regular peep show happening on John Street.

  John Street.

  The irony of the name never hit him before. Imagine a hooker walking John Street.

  He laughed to himself.

  “Something funny?” Marina asked from behind him. “After burying your daughter this morning, you’re down here having a covert meeting and then—”

  He stopped and spun around to look at her as a phone rang. She turned away from him, her cell up to her ear. She appeared to be listening. She nodded, then dropped her phone in a pocket.

  “Plates came back. A rental. Enterprise.”

  “I knew it,” Tim said.

  Marina frowned and put a hand on her hip. “How did you know?”

  “Instinct. Can you get the name off the rental agreement?”

  Marina nodded. “Already got it. But it can’t be right.”

  Now it was Tim’s turn to frown. “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t add up. Someone’s using a fake name.”

  Tim stepped toward her, eager to hear the name. “Tell me. Who rented the car?”

  “You might remember her. Saved a lot of people in this city a few years in a row.”

  “Huh?”

  “That American psychic girl, Sarah Roberts. Any chance you screwed the number up?”

  Tim mumbled, “No chance,” as he stumbled away.

  “It fits with the shooting,” Marina said to her partner Niles. “At least that’s what we’re working with.”

  Sarah Roberts?

  Not
Erzabet. Of course. That’s why he recognized her. The braids threw him off. She even used a name that he would match with the braids. She knew his past. His name. She knew about the consortium. She spoke with Vanessa. All because she was psychic or something.