Battle Scars (8 page)

Stacy nodded. “I stand corrected, then. Let me run these by the staff and I’ll let you get back out on the street.” She stood up and walked out, taking the photographs.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. Not only was I dealing with a Felis family feud, I might be losing my mate to some psychological crisis.

First things first—find these damned kids and figure out what to do with them.

Then I’d deal with Angie Degas.

Stacy came back in. “I’ve showed them around to the staff. No hits but I told them to call me if they see them.”

I stood up. “Do you still have my business card?”

She chuckled. “You bet. Never hurts to have friends in strange places.”

“Thank you.” I hesitated, trying to find the right phrasing. “About what you said before—is there something I should do or shouldn’t do, in your opinion?”

Stacy shook her head. “I can’t say. It’s his life, his problem. We know about it because he wrote about it and his story was so heartfelt, so honest which is why it became so famous.” She tapped her chest, over her heart. “It hit all of us here, tugged on the right nerves to bring us into that world and let us know their struggles. But he paid a price for it, letting himself get too involved, and he couldn’t pull back.”

“Too much into the story.”

“Exactly. And no matter what you or I say or do we’re still on the outside looking in. He’s got to come to terms with his choices and their choices, both the living and the dead.” She straightened a stack of file folders. “If you need to talk give me a call.”

“Thanks.” I couldn’t think of what else to say so I headed for the door.

The morning commute was starting to ebb, the majority of employees already barricaded behind their glass walls. The streets were emptying out slowly, returning control to the tourists who gawked at the Eaton Centre and cheered at the Hockey Hall of Fame before dumping obscene amounts of money for mediocre food to say they’d eaten at this famous restaurant, paying for the sponsor’s name when they’d get just as good food from the hot dog carts.

The kids were out bright and early hustling for their brekka—the squeegee troop perched at almost every major intersection, ready to run out at a red light and clean windshields for spare change. Every once in a while the cops would come around, warn them to be careful and not block traffic. The kids would do their bobblehead impression and allow the police to feel listened to, holding back until the uniforms went out of sight before dodging cars again. The best the police could issue a ticket for impeding traffic but it’d be a waste of time between getting a real name from the offenders and believing the ticket would actually get paid. Their time was better spent hunting down real criminals who were doing more than just holding up the occasional car from shooting through the intersection.

It was dangerous work though. An angry commuter, a frightened tourist and a kid could find him or herself flying into traffic and, at the least, nursing bumps and bruises. Every few months there’d be an article in the paper about an accidental death when a kid didn’t move fast enough and bounced the wrong way.

They worked for their money, no doubt about that.

I watched one group at a street corner working their magic, the young women dashing out into traffic while their male counterparts kept close to the sidewalks, unable to get out of the way in time if the light changed before the work was done. It didn’t hurt that the two girls wore ripped wet T-shirts that stuck to their slender forms, giving drivers a good reason to slow down and get caught by the red light.

They slapped sloppy wet rags on windshields and followed up with a fast wipe, the chipped rubber leaving more water on the glass than it removed. It was still enough to earn them a handful of change, tossed into a pocket or into a plastic bottle strapped to their belts. The light went to green and they sprinted for the curb to catch their breath and ready for the next red.

They shrugged when I showed them the pictures, watching me warily when I offered cash for any tips and ran into traffic as soon as they could to escape me. Rebuffed I headed back onto Yonge Street to see if the main artery could cough up anything.

The older man I’d given money to yesterday was back on his stoop, coffee cup at the ready. I gave him a wan smile and nod as I passed him and twisted down one side street where the bike messengers congregated between runs. Maybe the runners could give me something.

I resisted heading for the Spot. If I found Bran there I’d be furious—and if I didn’t find him there I’d find Angie and that would lead to a whole lot of teeth-gnashing.

To start.

Mike’s Munchies was a small hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop catering almost exclusively to couriers who needed fast, portable food and didn’t care if it looked pretty or not. The fat buns wrapped in Mike’s signature wax paper were a familiar sight on the streets as the bikers hopped curbs with one hand and ate with the other, dodging cars in a frenzied rush to deliver papers and packages.

The first shift of morning deliveries had just gone out, the business world still demanding print copies despite all the computerized options available. The fellows gathering around the front of the shop were already chowing down on fried egg sandwiches while babbling about bad customers, slow taxi drivers and annoying bike thieves. The smells drifting out of the small shop had me drooling and it wasn’t long before I was sitting on the stoop with the rest of the riders, smearing egg yolk on my chin as I devoured one of the best hidden secrets of Toronto.

The couriers eyed me nervously, not willing to share their space with a civilian and a woman to boot. I ignored them and kept on eating, placing my business card down beside me on the step.

The curiosity was too much for one neon-green spandex-wearing young man who peered down at the card, almost falling into my lap.

“A private investigator? You got a gun?”

“Can’t afford the bullets.” I wiped my chin with a handful of napkins. “Looking for a pair of runaways. Dear old dad’s worried about his little girl.” I waved toward the street with the half-eaten sandwich. “Any of you boys know where I’d have some luck looking for her?”

Neon fell back to a defensive position and muttered to his buddy who muttered to the one next to him and so on. I watched the discussion spread out like ripples in a pond, some bouncing back close to me before stalling out.

“Over there.” An older rider, maybe in his mid-twenties and wearing a bright orange safety vest over his ripped leather jacket, jerked his thumb to the east. He rambled off instructions to find a parking garage off Church Street, where he claimed the street musicians warmed up before hitting the busking areas on Queen. “Ran into a few of them yesterday. Good music, good peeps running their own way.”

I nodded, staying silent. The sandwich helped.

“They hook up there, choose who they wanna be with for the work day, put together new sounds.” He pointed at the cars racing by with his sandwich. “You might find someone there.”

I handed him a ten and began walking, sandwich in hand. It’d take me a few minutes to walk the distance and I wasn’t going to waste good food.

My intention was to go to the parking garage.

My subconscious decided otherwise.

I stopped still and looked down at my feet, scowling through the last of the sandwich. We were nowhere near a parking garage.

I looked up to see the giant black dot swinging over my head.

I mashed up the foil in my hand and swiped at my mouth with my sleeve.

The door was open, a loud electronic blast announcing my entrance. Nothing subtle here.

A threadbare couch sat in the center of the front room with mismatched chairs. Bricks and thin planks against a wall created a bookshelf with tattered and worn volumes of the classics and a few more recent blockbusters waiting for attention.

Angie Degas flew out of a back room. She wore jeans and a tight T-shirt with a fat black spot obscuring most of the front.

I squinted, seeing it as a bull’s-eye.

She’d already opened her mouth to speak, probably ready to spew out whatever sales pitch she had to try and keep the kids there and convince them to take advantage of the Spot’s resources. I could almost see the wheels in her mind coming to a screeching halt, spokes flying everywhere and gears exploding as she processed who was standing in front of her.

“Oh. Hello.” She crossed her arms in front of her. “Rebecca, right?”

I nodded.

“I haven’t seen your kids. Put the pictures up on the inside wall for the staff but no takers yet.” She pulled a thick strand of blond hair over her shoulder and twirled it around her finger. “Can I do something else for you?”

I studied her before answering, trying to reconcile the mental image I’d been creating overnight with the reality.

She was thin, too thin. Possible result of bad nutrition in her earlier days. Her teeth weren’t falling out but they didn’t look like they were in great shape. Hair long and lush thanks to the conditioner I smelled. The fruity smell clogged the back of my throat.

An old scar over her left eye, right at the hairline, showed she’d been a brawler. Wasn’t that much of a surprise.

“Like what you see?” Angie snapped. She moved into my personal space. “Look, I know Brandon’s with you. I’m not stupid.”

I stayed silent.

“You think you’re so tough, you’re a badass detective hunting down kids.” She swept her arm around, encompassing the makeshift living room. “You don’t know what these kids have gone through, what I went through.”

“I read the article.”

She shook her head. “You and a lot of other people who figured they knew us, knew what world we lived in.” Her blond locks bounced over her shoulder. “We got so many social workers, do-gooders and flakes wanting to scoop us up and take us home. Problem was, home sucked for us in the first place. That’s how we got here.”

“You didn’t tell Bran how you got here.” I kept my tone neutral.

It was hard.

Angie swiped at her nose with her shirt sleeve. “Same old story—I fell in love. He said he loved me, would go anywhere and do anything with me as long as I was faithful.” She snorted. “Small town up north near Quebec, you wouldn’t know the name. Told me we’d come down here and build a new life, make me into a model and he’d be my manager. We were in town for a week before I caught him trying to pimp me out to some new friends of his, cutting a deal. My ass for a bag of weed. I punched him in the face and never looked back.”

I stayed silent.

“Brandon was the first man I met who was nice to me, nice without wanting anything from me.” She looked at the front window and out into the street. “I offered to do him a few times. You know, a thank you for being such a good guy.” Her lips twisted into a smile. “That didn’t make it into the article. I’ve done the therapy, I know all the medical terms and I know I’m screwed up in the head when it comes to relationships and knowing what’s healthy and what’s not. I’m still working on it. But when I spotted him last night I just—”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I just went back to that time, that place where he was the sane one in an insane world. He was my anchor and I loved him, still love him for being that. The rich little boy who saw past me and got the big picture, who tried to save all of us and not just who was giving him a blow job or a piece of ass.” Her eyes shot open and locked with mine. “He didn’t save us. But he sure as hell tried to understand us, more than anyone else I’ve ever met has. And I wouldn’t be where I am without him showing me people do care, can care and can change the world.”

I swallowed hard, feeling like a piece of gum stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

She jerked a thumb toward the back of the room. “You wanna fight we can go out back. But I can tell you he told me ‘no’ again last night. Figured I’d give it one more shot now that we’re older and all that. He still wouldn’t go for it.” She pulled on the scarlet thread of hair again. “He’s a good man.”

“Yes. Yes he is.” I leaned in until our noses almost touched. “And I thank God every day that I have him in my life.”

I spun around and left, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

* * *

It didn’t take me long to find the parking lot, tucked in behind a public library. The tiny asphalt square stood three levels high and had already been filled to capacity hours ago, the sole exit and entrance via a small booth with a sleepy, pudgy guard propped up on a stool inside. This was a locals-only lot—if you didn’t know where to look or to turn you’d zip on by it and end up paying twice at much at the louder, more vibrantly advertised lots.

I could hear the pounding of drums mixed in with the spirited voices of a make-shift choir and a variety of instruments from flute to guitar to some sort of didgeridoo. Every few minutes the levels would rise and fall, shifting as teams split off. I guessed the musicians ran in shifts, with the late risers coming in to tag team the early birds and keep the corners active.

I spotted a handful sliding out into the greenery beside the library, carrying a set of drums. The wind shifted and brought me a series of scents off the concrete walls, cutting through the motor oil and gasoline fumes.

Family.

One, two—I twisted around, trying to place the odors. Lisa’s father gave me some sort of a base scent for the Middleston family line but I couldn’t be sure until I met the kit face to face. The other Felis scents were foreign. They could be businessmen and women, street vendors or tourists off the beaten path.

I crept along the ground level until I could see the kids gathered in the far corner in the handful of empty handicapped parking spaces.

Five young men, two women. Drums, guitar and a flute player who kept stamping her feet and demanding something by the way she flung her arms around. Another man, a bit older than her, grabbed her forearm and snapped something in French.

I resisted the urge to charge. This was a street culture I knew nothing about and I had no place in. I reached into my pocket and touched my cell phone, making sure it was on and within easy reach.