The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (24 page)

Nastos lifted his hands. “Here, you need help.”

Vince closed his left eye to get a better sight on Nastos. It was going to be a chest shot. It was going to hurt. Vince croaked, “I thought I was going to make it.”

“You did make it. Help is just outside.”

Vince spat out a clump of blood. With the door open Nastos could see smoke from Vince's breath as he spoke, as if the spirit inside him was already leaving. Clumsily, with his left hand, Vince reached around the dead woman into his jacket pocket and took out a picture. The dead girl's head sagged onto his own and he had to push it back with his gun hand before putting the sights back on Nastos. Vince studied the picture, his mouth opening slightly. Nastos thought that he sighed.

It was while he stared at the picture that he began to lower the gun. He said, “I had dreams of starting over, of getting away from the violence. All the beautiful places in the world I wanted to see. It's all gone now.”

The gun sank further until it dropped to the ground. Nastos felt something approaching and turned to see it was Carscadden, followed by Morrison. When he looked back at Vince he saw that he had died.

Through the open door there were flashes of blue and red emergency lights, the sounds of cops shouting and approaching sirens. Nastos paused to take a last look inside the bar. There were dozens of dead and dying. He approached Vince and picked the photograph from his hand. The image was of a woman wearing a bikini. She was up to her waist in a blue ocean, holding a baby up to her radiant face. The picture was taken from the sand, the straw brim of a hat encroaching along the top of the frame.

Nastos tucked the picture back into Vince's hand, then with Carscadden and Morrison following he stepped out the door.

31

At his specially assigned vantage point, Nastos stood with Carscadden on Yonge Street, across from the Metro Convention Centre. Columns of police officers lined the streets with uniforms from everywhere in the country — the red tunics of the RCMP, the Newfoundland Constabulary's royal blue, the black coats of the OPP. While the uniforms were different colours, two things were the same: the shoulder badges that said
police
and the heartbroken faces. Nastos would be able to hold it together until either the bagpipes started or until he saw the grieving family make their entrance. With both of Radix's parents already dead, Nastos didn't know what to expect for immediate family. His entire family line might now be wiped out, all from violence.

Morrison stood on the other side of the road. Since he was only a few years in the service, his tunic still fit perfectly. He looked sharp and angular and a little gaunt. He probably hadn't eaten since the shootout. He stood in place as Radix's casket was led into the Convention Centre by a lone piper, his girlfriend among the people who did not bear a strong resemblance to Radix. Most might have seen Morrison as stoic, but not Nastos. He studied him from across the street, and even at that distance he read something more sinister, something resembling dread.

The funeral director, in his black suit and black tie, came out of the Convention Centre and gave the word to the protocol officer standing guard with the hearse. He pumped the sword twice and gave the command for the officers to begin funnelling for the ceremony. Nastos left Carscadden with the other mourners and crossed the street to Morrison.

There was shade on this side. Out of the glare of the direct sun it was noticeably cooler, the air more crisp. Morrison acknowledged him only by dropping a shoulder back so Nastos could squeeze through the opening it created between him and the man beside him. Instead Nastos stopped next to him, watching him, waiting for Morrison to turn and face him.

“You chose to stay out with the troops, Morrison?”

“Yeah. Gave my spot to his little brother,” Morrison said without meeting his gaze.

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine, fine.” Morrison looked skyward and blinked away tears.

Nastos tried again. “This wasn't your fault, Morrison. I just wanted you to know that. This wasn't your fault.”

Morrison began to crack slightly. His lower lip drew in and he blinked more. Nastos continued, “If there is one thing I learned when my wife died last year, it's that the critical decision is not the one you make in the moment of crisis. It's a decision that you already made a few moves ago that led you to the moment of crisis. It's something that you did because of your basic personality. You and Radix were young and hungry. There's nothing wrong with that. But you ended up in the sights of some dangerous people. You didn't have a lot of choices once it started rolling, but I think you did as good as anyone could have.”

Morrison turned to him and spoke for the first time. His eyes were the colour of blood. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I think so. It took nerve, strength. I can't imagine the burden you've been living with. I just hope you can trust someone to talk to, to unburden yourself. I think if you can get it all out, you'll find people understand why it had to go down the way it did.”

Morrison eyed him suspiciously then shook his head. “You have no idea, man.”

Nastos shrugged. “You think I don't? Look at all of these cops, Morrison.” Stride after stride, officers marched past, clean-shaven young men, bearded grizzled veterans, all with sad faces that they showed only at the funerals of other officers. “You think each and every one of them doesn't have a secret? Something that went down wrong and they had to get their hands a little dirty to clean it up? I was a cop for twenty-five years. I was arrested and on trial for murder. You think maybe I might have a secret or two?”

Morrison didn't answer but he did relax. He let out a breath and Nastos could tell that his guard was dropping.

“Listen, Morrison, I was there, I know how it went down with Radix, and to be honest, I'm cool with that.”

Morrison's eyes became wide. Nastos could practically hear his heart beating. “But before I can trust you totally, I'm just curious about the woman, Falconer. Why her?”

Morrison scanned from left to right, viewing the sea of officers marching by, turning in front of the Convention Centre and taking their place to celebrate the life of an officer they had never met.

Nastos didn't think Morrison was going to explain himself, and the mystery would never be solved. It would be just another investigation gone cold and filed pending new information that would never arrive.

“It was Radix,” Morrison said quietly. “The bikers called it in and he punched her ticket. Simple as that.”

Nastos shook his head. “Look at all of these cops, Morrison. Self-made men and women, standing in no one's shadow, living on their wits, living and dying by the code.”

“Code.” Morrison scoffed. “I don't know what —”

“The code, Morrison.” Nastos turned to face him, pulling on Morrison's shoulder, torqueing him around. “The code is simple. You do whatever you can to back up your partner, whatever it takes to keep him safe. But when it comes down to it, you're willing to stand on your own and take your lumps, you don't —” Nastos abruptly stopped. He felt his arm begin to ache and took a breath.

“Finish, Nastos,” Morrison barked. “You don't what? Throw them under the bus? Is that what you're saying I did to Ann?”

“I'm not judging you, Morrison. If she had to go, she had to go. Doctors make life-and-death decisions every single day. Even if they only get it wrong one in a thousand times, they are still hurting or killing people every year and that's doctors. How many judges and lawyers make mistakes and set dangerous people free or wrong men to jail? It's the same thing for us, Morrison. It's the dirty little secret of law enforcement. We make life-and-death decisions in the blink of an eye and risk months of scrutiny over slivers of time that we can never take back. Doctors don't lose their licences, lawyers don't get disbarred. Cops? We have to learn to cover our asses. Look at all those cops marching past, Morrison. Some might see the brotherhood of law enforcement, some might see unity, strength. I see stories and secrets. I see people called to this profession who come to live and work in the belly of the snake and do their best to clean themselves off when it's time to go home.”

Morrison stared at nothing, his eyes misting over.

“Come clean, Morrison. I know Radix had nothing to do with it.”

Morrison slumped forward. He turned and found an alcove between buildings and pointed for Nastos to join him there. Nastos agreed reluctantly, knowing he'd be leaving Carscadden's field of vision.

Morrison stopped in a dark place and Nastos followed his lead. “You want the truth, Nastos, here it is. The bikers called it in and I did it. Radix would have stopped me so I didn't tell him.”

“You're saying he had no idea. I should believe that?”

“Yeah. We talked about what to do, whether we should find her, but he assumed it was the bikers and I just let him go on thinking it was. I thought it would free us both, me
and
him
.
He spent all his time trying to protect me. I wish I did it to protect him but that wasn't it. I was trying to protect myself. I got scared and I flinched.”

“You pushed her in front of a bus, in broad daylight?”

“I just meant to follow her, to find a way out. Then she stopped at the
TTC
stop and I saw the bus coming. All I had to do was bump her. She was wearing these high heels, she fell at the right time.”

Nastos sighed. “That's awful, man. Sorry it had to go like that.”

“Yeah, me too. I stood there for a while. Women screamed, the bus driver tried to call it in on the radio but he started to crack up. I almost grabbed the radio and did it myself but I snapped out of it and walked away. It was weird that no one noticed me. I just figured it was fate. It was fate that she died, not me.”

“You tell yourself that it was just her fate. It makes it easier to live with yourself?”

“Yeah, I guess. When I shot Walker it was because he scared me. He was so jittery. I thought he was peaking on crack. I thought he was going to try to rip us off or shoot me, so I reacted. I shot him first. Only he didn't have a gun. Falconer saw everything. She could have
ID
'd me. When the bikers called it in, part of me was grateful. It was their call. If I didn't do it they would rat me out on the mistake I made with Walker.”

“You were stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

“Exactly. I couldn't go to work. I'd lose the tin. I'd go to jail.”

Nastos nodded. He glanced across the street through the crowd to Carscadden, who stood waiting for him. Carscadden gave the signal. The microphone had picked it all up, loud and clear.

“Well, Morrison,” Nastos extended his hand for Morrison to shake. He accepted it. “I'm going to go in and pay my final respects to Radix.”

Morrison shook his hand, remaining silent. He stiffened when he noticed the two men standing behind Nastos. Black suits, stern faces. Morrison's face dropped. “You were wearing a wire?”

Nastos wanted to let it slide, just turn and let the process, for what it was, begin. Instead he said, “Morrison, you killed two totally innocent people, got your
partner
killed and put the citizens of the city in the middle of a biker war. You're goddamned right I'm wearing a wire. And you're going to jail.”

The two cops grabbed Morrison by the arms. Morrison tensed but didn't resist. Tears welled up in his eyes and his face went pale.

Nastos said, “Radix deserves this funeral. He gave his life trying to protect you while all you cared about was protecting yourself.”

Nastos took a recording device from his chest pocket and handed it to one of the officers. The cops stepped backward and led Morrison to a waiting black and tinted van. The side door slid shut and the last sight Nastos had of Morrison was his lost and scared face. When Nastos turned back to Carscadden he saw that his friend was already crossing the street.

“Good job, Nastos. You did that perfectly.”

Nastos noticed he still had the wires from the recording device running though his coat and tucked the exposed wire inside. “Thanks, I guess. With the video we downloaded from Christian's phone that should pretty much take care of everything.”

Nastos turned back to the sea of officers still marching into the Convention Centre. Carscadden stood next to him for a while solemnly observing the sad faces.

“A great cop I know once told me, the only justice we get is the justice we make. Any regrets?” Carscadden asked.

“Yes and no.” He looked up the sky. It was blue with thick, shapely clouds sliding past that created moments of light and shade. “How would my life be different if I had become a mortgage broker or a mechanic? This job puts you in the beating heart of humanity and it's sometimes a dark place.”

32

Nastos leaned on the hood of his car, the phone to his ear. Dimebag was saying, “It's a small service up north. They're looking to go outside for the next chief. They have a lot of internal problems. They want a chief who can investigate what's going on and keep it quiet. An investigator more than an administrator. They called me because Toronto is the biggest municipal service in the country. I recommend you and you get the job. Think about it, would ya?”

Nastos sighed. “So some of the cops are dirty? So after Morrison I'm a cop hunter?”

“With the lingering suspicions about you after Cherry Beach, this is a perfect new start for you. Get your daughter outta here and go. Three times a constable's salary for a five-year contract.”

“I'd be dealing with politicians all day. They make me itchy.” He switched ears with the phone.

The Chief continued, “Are you kidding me? Up there Police Services Board meetings take place in fishing huts or at the local gun range. You're basically getting paid to retire. Think of your daughter. Clean air, no drug robberies, small schools. You'll be the man about town. Steve, I'm trying to make things up to you.”

“I've lived in this city my entire life, Chief.”

“Listen, Nastos, after everything that happened after you punched me, my wife, Beth, sat me down. She made me understand that you were still justifiably pissed. I know what I had meant to say to you, but I know now it came out wrong. You shouldn't have hit me, asshole, but I understand that you weren't thinking straight. She made me promise to make things up to you. Then this came along. Don't turn me down on account of ego. I'm trying to make things right.”

Nastos checked the time. He was late for Mills. “The Special Investigations Unit wants me. I got a call from the Canadian Secret Intelligence Service. I'll think about your offer. I'll let you know tomorrow.”

Nastos hung up the phone and walked into Mills' lobby. The clear blue sky meant it was going to be a warm afternoon. He thought back to when he and Carscadden had been fumbling in the dark basement of the peeler bar and how it now felt like an eternity ago.

He wished Jacques could have made it here but he had been called out to work. He sent a quick text message.
You sure you know what you're getting into with Karen? I love her but she's nuts.

Jacques replied
, I'm French, Nastos. We know how to satisfy our women so they don't go into love withdrawal.

Nastos didn't have anything witty to say. He replied,
Jacques, thanks for everything. If there is anything I can ever do for you, you know I will.

Nastos reached for the front door to No Frills Mills' lobby and pulled. He read Jacques' reply as he stepped inside.
You helped Karen get inside the biggest news story of the year. She's back at work. I'm officially full time in Homicide now. But don't worry, if I ever need anything, I'll call.

Instead of turning left and going into the office, Nastos walked back to the kitchen and opened the patio door to the deck. Carscadden was there with Hopkins, and Mills was sitting next to his girlfriend, a cold beer cupped in his hands. Viktor was cheffing at the barbecue and Monika Styles, a glass of red wine in one hand, was trying to coerce Viktor into pulling something off the grill to give her a quick taste. “On principle alone,” Viktor was refusing.

Mills stood up and extended a hand when he saw Nastos. Hopkins took a cold beer from the cooler and handed it to Carscadden, who held it out for him.

Viktor shouted over, “You decide what you're doing yet? I need to know if I have to replace you at the restaurant.” He turned back to the grill, smiling.

Nastos took a sip of the beer and leaned back in a creaky chair. Helping Viktor out at the restaurant by running the bar had basically been therapy for him for the past year. He wondered, though, if he was ready to move on. It was a near-perfect fall day, just warm enough if he stayed in the sun. He asked Hopkins, “Where did you put Josie?”

“She's inside washing her hands.”

Carscadden asked, “So was that the phone call you were waiting for? You going to tell us now, or wait until she gets here?”

“Or have you not decided?” Mills asked.

Nastos took another, longer sip of beer. “It's been a lot to think over. The Special Investigations Unit called, they want me to investigate cops for the rest of my life. Dime — Chief Dimech says I can either go back to the police service for a few years or there's that job up north.”

Styles took a seat next to Nastos while she chewed the last part of a barbecued shrimp she'd stolen from Viktor. She slid her chair close and leaned her head on Nastos' shoulder. He smelled the flowery scents in her hair. She had newer auburn highlights and was wearing it back in a loose ponytail.

“And the bank,” Carscadden added.

“Yeah, no thanks.” Nastos wrapped an arm around Monika. It would take some getting used to, having a woman in his life. It was something he had assumed would never happen at all, never mind in just a year. So far they were only companions, although he felt some stirrings to take things further.

“Working as a cop again. It was taken away from me. I'll admit part of me wishes I could rewrite my departure, but really, I'm okay with it now.”

Josie slid the patio door open. “Daddy!” She ran over, slinking around the table and giving him a hug.

Styles stood up. “Here, Jo, take my seat. I'll help Viktor serve lunch.” Josie smiled at her and climbed into the chair next to her dad.

“Well, we're all here,” said Carscadden. “Which job are you taking?”

Nastos looked around the table from Hopkins on the far left to Viktor on the right. “You'll have to get more alcohol into me if you want to get me to talk.”