The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (7 page)

9

Karen woke up from the couch with a headache. Light from the patio door stung her eyes and her mouth was dry. She checked the time on her phone. It was ten a.m. Glancing at the boot rack near the door and the kitchen counter where Falconer dumped her purse, Karen saw no sign that she had returned.
Still out there. Great
.

Karen's stomach growled. The only thing she felt that she could eat was vanilla yogurt from the fridge. She pried the lid off the tub and poured in a combination of fresh fruit and Cheerios to fill the plastic container. She sat back down at the couch, rummaged around to find the
TV
remote then turned on the City News channel. Stock prices scrolled past on the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen. The weather was clear and warm. The current top story was about two teens who had shot each other the night before then both ended up walking into different hospitals seeking treatment. She was halfway through the yogurt, considering adding in a few lines of chocolate sauce, when there was a rattle at the door.

Her gun was secured in the closet. If she had been living alone and felt this much under threat she would have stored it in its rightful place, loaded in the cabinet over the microwave, but she would never do that with Falconer around. Karen exhaled. She wasn't too concerned about dying. Maybe she was becoming desensitized but Falconer was just becoming another hooker melodrama — just another girl with a story of witnessing a murder who felt more important if she truly believed that people wanted her dead. At least someone wanted her for something besides sex. Maybe she
had
witnessed a murder, but she was not exactly a reliable witness. The fear was just getting stale.

Rather than run to the bedroom for the gun — she had no time anyways — Karen decided to just sit there and eat.
I'm not going to get shot running like a coward. If they want me, here I am.

The door slowly opened and Falconer peeked in. “Oh, you're awake.” She was practically whispering. Her eyes slowly moved from side to side as she crept in from the hallway.

“It's almost ten o'clock, Ann. Most people are awake at this time.” Karen was wearing her fuzzy pink pyjamas and looked like she had combed her hair with a pillow. Business casual for the work-at-home set.

Falconer had been up all night. Her skin was pale, eyes sunken with dark circles and her hair, now back in a ponytail, had started to unravel. “I need a glass of water. Can I get you one?”

Karen wanted to say no but she was thirsty. “Sure.”

Falconer kicked her shoes off, picked up the two drinks and collapsed in the chair across from Karen. “My feet are killing me.”

“Yeah, I bet they are. Wearing those shoes all night.”

Karen had interviewed prostitutes many times and, not unlike the rest, Falconer seemed like she was coming down from a drug binge. “Ann, why do you do this to yourself?”

“A few days ago, the men who were looking for me found me, then I lost them. I need to get out of here before they find me again. You can't have a person like me living with you. You don't deserve it.” Ann's haggard face was emotionless.

“The guys who killed Walker. The guys who shot him?”

“No, the other ones who watched. But don't worry, I lost them.”

Karen recalled how upset Falconer had been when she left and frankly did not believe her. “They found you in a city of three million people but you managed to lose them. Okay, well that's great, Ann, good for you.”

Whether it was the language barrier or her exhaustion from hooking all night, Falconer missed the sarcasm.

Karen tried to lift the mood with no hints of pressure, no hint of acknowledging Falconer's reference to being found by the killers. “We can get you in a shelter, out of town, maybe by Niagara Falls, someplace beautiful.”

“You should know that I was followed to the building, but not to your condo. You are still safe.”

Karen resisted the urge to interrogate Falconer and focused on luring her away. “Shelters aren't bad places. They are clean, comfortable . . .”

“That would be nice.” If it were possible to cry with no tears Falconer was doing it. “I can't make myself do this anymore.” She took a sip of water. “You know I came to this country to be a nanny, because I love children and it was a chance to escape my life back home. I answered the ad in the paper and I had no idea it was a scam until I arrived in the airport. I was raped that day. I was taken to a strip bar and raped by the owner. They took my passport, my plane ticket home. I couldn't speak any English and they told me they'd kill me if I didn't dance. That was my first experience with sex that day. With a total stranger, who thought of me as garbage.”

Karen had heard it all from Falconer before and as much as she knew it was all true, she knew that she had to let her tell it again. While Falconer rambled Karen thought about how much easier it would be if she had been the one that died and if Walker had come to her. Falconer seemed to subconsciously thrive on the drama in her life as if the only thing giving her meaning was to be wanted dead by others.
Few men seek drama the same way.

“I lost thirty pounds in three months. I dropped to ninety-eight pounds. I had to become a whore if I wanted to eat. You can't imagine what that feels like, to be that hungry for so long that you'll have sex with filthy strangers for food. I thought when I was arrested and thrown in jail that it would be better, but look at me. I'm still doing it because it's all I know. It's like they won.”

She put the glass of water down and rubbed the palms of her hands into her eyes. She sobbed loudly, loud enough that Karen thought the neighbours would hear.

Karen grabbed a box of tissues from the mantel and brought them over. “Here. Don't worry. You don't ever have to do that again. I told you that. You can stay here as long as you need to, okay?”

Falconer didn't acknowledge her verbally but she did reach a hand out and take Karen's. Falconer squeezed but not too hard. “And Rob. He actually loved me but I refused to love him back. I refused to let him in. I treated him like garbage and now he's gone. He died trying to deal drugs so I wouldn't have to do this anymore.”

Karen wrapped an arm around her. “Here, take a nice warm bath. Between bottles of alcohol I actually managed to wash the bed sheets last night. Have a nice bath then get some sleep. When you wake up we'll put a plan together. There's all kinds of places that can help you get off of the drugs and start over.”

An expression crossed Falconer's face that Karen read as hope.

Falconer stood, turned her back and took a sip of water. She rested the glass on a table where condensation dripped down and began to pool. When she turned again it was like she had become a different person. “Have you not heard a thing I said?”

Karen asked, “Sorry?”

“You think this is all because of drugs? You think this is
about
drugs?” Her grip tightened on the glass and she lifted it up again.

Karen became concerned that Falconer was about to throw it at her. “Ann?”

“Do you not place any value upon what I
went
through, what they
did
to me?” Falconer's fingers clenched around the glass again. She raised her arm and tossed it through the air. It struck the patio door smashing it into a thousand pieces, the water and the glass itself disappearing in the explosion.

Karen expected a vacuum to suck everything out of the room like in the movies — instead it was just noisy as the fragments littered the floor. Before she could react she heard, “And I'm taking my life back.”

Karen glanced back to see Falconer gripping her laptop.

“Ann, put it down, I need that for work.” She took a step forward but Falconer moved back and lifted it over her heard.

“You think you can rewrite my life, tell my story better than I can?”

Any sympathy she had felt for Falconer was gone. She had crossed an invisible line and was no longer worth the aggravation. Karen lunged at her, kicking her in the stomach and knocking her backward. The laptop fell back with Falconer, who tossed it sideways. After she collapsed to the ground she sprang after it. She raced around to the dining room with Karen following. She stopped near the window and she tossed the computer over the balcony. All Karen could do was watch.

“You fucking bitch, you drug-addicted fucking psycho!”

She thought back to the interviews with Falconer, the rapes, the food-for-sex program that the traffickers had used on her before they upgraded to getting her hooked on OxyContin pills. It was the first time it occurred to Karen that it could all be an orchestrated lie, developed or more likely stolen and repeated until she thought it was true. Falconer was just a user who had turned her condo into a brothel and led her on some drug-induced stage show for little more than free food and lodging while she banged her way from one hit to the next.

Before Karen could lay into her, Falconer ran for the bedroom and locked herself in. Karen banged on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

“Getting my things.”

If anyone could help her get the bitch out of her life it was Nastos. She picked up her phone and sent him a text.
Nastos, I need your help fast. It's Ann. Come over now.

As she was hitting Send, the door swung open and Falconer charged out with a small bag bulging with stuff.

Karen forgot about the phone and blocked the hall. “You're not going anywhere.”

Falconer punched Karen in the face and charged past. Karen recoiled from the strike, feeling hot liquid pouring out of her nose and down the back of her throat. She raised both hands to her nose as she hunched forward and spat out a mouthful of blood that sprayed on the walls, her pants and the floor below. With her airway clear she lunged after Falconer, one hand plugging her nose. Falconer reached for the door and was yanking it open when Karen caught up to her and pressed her against the wall. But Falconer was scrawny and lithe and wiggled by, and Grant found herself chasing her out the door and down the hallway.

Carscadden put the car in park and took out the key. “Did Karen say what it's about?”

Nastos twisted to one side to secure his BlackBerry back on his hip. “No. And now she's not answering. I asked if she wanted us to bring lunch. There's a sitting area at the top of her building with tables, it would be a great place to eat. Great view of the city.”

“Sounds good.”

They exited the car. Carscadden pressed the remote to lock the doors, causing the horn to beep.

Nastos smiled, “You realize we're at the Toronto Police forensics lab. I don't think anyone is going to steal your car.”

Carscadden shrugged. “We're on Jane Street in Thirty-One Division.”

“Yeah, I don't think the kids in this neighbourhood are going to bother with your Kenny Loggins
CD
s.”

The receptionist was well dressed, with long dark hair. “Can I help you?”

“We're looking for Gus Randon. He asked us to drop by. He has something for us to pick up.”

She picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “Two men at the counter for you, Gus. Okay, sure.” She put the phone down, grabbed two temporary
ID
cards from a stack and began recording the serial numbers on a clipboard. There was a slot in the glass screen and she slid two visitor tags under it. She said, “He'll be right down,” then and pressed a button on the counter. The side door to the left popped open and Carscadden instinctively pulled it back partway.

Gus Randon arrived with a warm smile. “Nastos, good to see you.” Randon was a short, bald thick man, his skin tone Mediterranean. He turned to Carscadden. “You must be Kevin Carscadden. Nice to meet you.”

Carscadden reached his hand out, “Nice to meet you too.”

To Nastos, Randon asked, “Have time for me to give your friend a tour?”

“No, we have a lunch appointment with a client. But thanks, next time.”

Gus waved a hand. “Follow me back to my office.”

Grey carpet, white walls with framed crime-scene pictures and newspaper covers of various historic crimes were hung among plaques and awards. From the pictures and plaques it appeared as if Randon had worked every major homicide, abduction and rape in the city for the past ten years. He led them back to a large bright room that was probably a photo lab before everything evolved to digital. Nastos noted the tracks from curtain railings were still on the ceiling, the curtains now gone. A high white-topped counter against the south wall held a microscope and various slides. Randon flicked a switch on the microscope and an image appeared on the
TV
screen above it.

“Check this out.” Nastos and Carscadden watched the screen while Randon moved the images on the microscope. “We score the fingerprint samples that get submitted — yours was a good lift, Nastos — then we check out the returns we get from
AFIS
. Three types of patterns — arches, whorls and loops — and variations of each. Anyway, the computer shows us likely matches but it still takes a person to verify it.”