The Specter (8 page)

“What about the strip club? People are wondering what’s really going on now that Aaron showed up and demanded answers. They’re scared. When Nancy’s death goes live on the news tonight, the people at the club will run scared. They may talk.”

Clive waited for a heartbeat and pondered his decision. Things were unfolding like a ball of yarn rolling down a hill. He had to contain this mess swiftly and completely.

“Clean it up. You are my clean-up crew, so clean it up.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes, no survivors. I want absolutely zero trace leading me back to Frank, Gary, and the rest of them. That means the waitress, the bouncers, the dancers, everyone. Take them all out and burn the
fucking
strip club down. Do it tonight. Leave nothing. We can’t have left a speck of dust behind. With the brother, find out what he knows and make him suffer for causing us further cleanup. Make him truly suffer.”

“Understood. It’ll happen tonight.”

“Then get on a plane and meet me back in Moscow.”

Clive ended the call. Jackson was a competent man, as was Hugh. He had hired Jackson to head his private army and so far he had surpassed all his expectations.

And no one will ever find out that it was all about vodka, always was and always will be.

He walked away from the conference table as the 747 flew through mild turbulence. He opened the door to the adjoining bedroom and saw his prize.

Joey Riley.

He was lying in the bed on his stomach, ankles tied, legs splayed open.

“Hello?” Joey asked, his voice laden with the effect of the drugs.

Clive was instantly hard as he stared at the soft hair just starting to grow on the back of Joey’s young legs and ass.

“Hello, Joey. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good. A little lightheaded. Strange-like …”

“That’s good, Joey,” Clive said as he removed his shorts.

A moment later, he climbed in the bed and did things that Joey would never remember because Joey wouldn’t live through the night.

Chapter 8

Hugh stared out the windshield as Jackson got off the phone and hopped back in the van. Hugh hadn’t talked much since the airport incident. Jackson was sure it wasn’t because of any damage to his throat. The hit Hugh took damaged his ego, and now that they got the order to not only take Aaron Stevens out, but that they could torture him first, Hugh would be happy.

Jackson started the van and pulled away.

“We got the go ahead.”

Hugh grunted.

“The club is to be cleaned up … completely. We got the okay to locate the brother, learn what he knows and clean him up, too.”

“I clean the brother,” Hugh said. “No one else.”

Jackson entered the QEW en route to the strip club. “Understood. He’s yours. But not before we find out what he knows.”

Hugh smiled. “That’ll be the fun part.”

“We’ll go to the club after dinner and clean it up around nine tonight. Then we’ll go to the brother’s home and ask him what we need to know. In the morning, our plane takes us to Moscow. Everything seems to be coming together after all.”

Hugh didn’t respond. He clenched his hands and stared out the passenger window.

“Don’t worry. The brother will have his due.”

“Don’t mother me. I fucked up. It was unexpected. He got the jump. It won’t happen again.”

Jackson nodded at him.

“Fair enough. Just don’t lose your cool and kill him too fast. We need to talk to him.”

Hugh didn’t respond. It was so infuriating to talk to Hugh when he got in one of his moods.

“You heard me?”

“Yeah,” Hugh whispered.

Jackson drove toward the House of Lancaster. He considered how many people he would have to kill that night and then wondered what he would have for dinner first.

Chapter 9

Folley turned up the north end of Spadina Road and entered the parking area of Casa Loma where half a dozen police cruisers blocked the entrance of the public. He showed his badge to a uniformed officer and was waved in. He parked his car near the front.

Casa Loma, in a unique spot, overlooks Toronto off Davenport Hill. It was built in a gothic revival style over a three-year period in the early 1900s for the exorbitant cost, in those days, of more than three million dollars. It came complete with massive stables and a hunting lodge. At the time of its construction, with almost a hundred rooms, it was the largest residence in Canada.

Folley had toured Casa Loma with three different girlfriends over a five-year period. He’d also investigated two different missing persons cases that involved sightings at the castle.

In 1933, the City of Toronto seized the rundown, unkempt Casa Loma for non-payment of back taxes. The city then called for its demolition, but that never happened. In 1937, the city leased it to the Kiwanis Club of Toronto, later to become known as the Kiwanis Club of Casa Loma, who opened it to the public as a tourist attraction. It was the first time the general public could walk its halls. Recently, Detective Folley heard the City of Toronto was to take over management from the Kiwanis Club.

Folley also knew that over the years it had been used as film locations for
X-Men
,
Strange Brew
, and Jackie Chan’s
The Tuxedo
. It remains one of Toronto’s most popular tourist attractions.

Not after tonight,
Folley thought as he got out of his car. He closed the car door and breathed in the evening air, fearing what he would find inside the castle’s walls.

At the main, door he showed his badge again and walked past the uniform guarding the front entrance. He entered the main foyer and was pointed toward the staircase on his right by another uniformed Toronto police officer.

“The Scottish Tower, sir,” the uniform said.

“I’ve been here before, but I don’t know the rooms or the towers by name.”

“Just follow the trail of uniforms,” the cop said. “They’ll direct you, sir.”

Folley lifted his index finger in the air. “Got it.” He started up the steps, marveling at their size as he always did. Each time he visited, he was always taken aback at the massive building, originally built to house one family.

“A different era, a different era
,”
he mumbled under his breath. To live in something as big as Casa Loma today, would require a huge income just for the taxes.

He climbed to the second floor and was directed down a hall to another set of stairs on his right. Areas were roped off, uniforms guarding everything so a stray member of the public or an employee wouldn’t enter the crime scene area.

He had gotten the call as he headed home for dinner. Dead bodies at Casa Loma. Come quick. Possible dead were his case files. As a professional courtesy, Angela Wheeler from homicide had called him. The same Angela that was too independent for a man, too determined to succeed. The same Angela that let men know in no uncertain terms that she was unavailable because work came first. The same Angela that was the hottest homicide detective this side of Nepal.

No one knew how the dead got up to the third floor when the castle was open to tourists. Folley knew there were secret passages throughout the building with numerous ones leading to and from the master bedroom, so the murderers would have been able to handle the task providing they had the blueprints. However it happened, a massive investigation was about to take place, keeping Casa Loma shut down for a long time.

He reached the third floor and started around a corner to access the steep metal stairs up to the Scottish Tower. With both hands on the thin metal railing, he negotiated the steps one at a time and lifted his head into the tower. It was filled with men in white coats and at least six other detectives milling around, talking, coffees in their hands.

For a second, he wondered if they were filming a scene for a reality cop show. Everyone dressed for the part.

The smell hit him. His stomach dropped. He caught a glimpse of the outside through one of the small windows. The Scottish Tower offered a panoramic view of Toronto. He approached a window for a breath of fresh air and could see the stone lion on the peak of the castle lit up in the floodlights outside. Tiny dots of lights, Toronto at night, spread out toward Lake Ontario like a bed of glistening diamonds on black velvet.

Inside, the walls were disgusting, covered with graffiti by a youth with no sense of respect.

Any adult who can deface such a gorgeous building is actually a child.

Detective Angela Wheeler wore a long overcoat for the evening, her hair done, makeup complete. Folley figured she had planned an evening out when she got the call. Or maybe she dressed up in heels to attend murder scenes. He just couldn’t be sure.

She held out a small uncapped bottle. “Here, take this.”

“What is it?”

“Vick’s Vapor Rub.”

He jabbed his thumb and forefinger into the container and applied the jelly liberally to the base of his nostrils. Instantly, the intense mint smell replaced the heady, horrible stench of gaseous bodies. The tip of his nose numbed as memories of childhood sicknesses flooded back, his mother applying Vick’s to his chest.

Angela sealed the jar. “Five bodies in total,” she said, straight to business.

“Do you have IDs yet?”

“Yes …”

“On all of them? Already?”

“Yeah. Whoever did this wanted us to ID them right away.”

“How?”

Angela gestured to the bodies lying in various spots on the floor, all covered in blankets. “Each victim was killed in a slightly different fashion, except the Weeks brothers. Each vic had their driver’s license stapled to their foreheads.” Angela coughed into her hand and opened a notepad she’d been holding. “Follow me.”

She leaned down at the closest body and lifted the edge of the blanket. “Jan Elliot, age twenty-eight. Appears to have been asphyxiated. Bruising around the neck indicates strangulation.” She stopped and referred to her notes. “She worked as a stripper at the House of Lancaster. Hasn’t been seen in three days.”

Folley noticed how flat the blanket was over her chest.

“If she was a dancer,” he pointed at her breasts, “I’m not trying to be a pig here, but …”

Angela nodded. “They were sliced off after she was killed.”

Folley’s face tightened. “
After
she was killed?”

“Yeah.” Angela walked over to the next body and exposed the face. “Frank Weeks, age forty-five. Stabbed in the heart at least five times. Worked at the Toronto Island Airport.”

Folley nodded. He was all too clear on Frank’s place of employment. He suspected Gary would also be among the dead, too. Angela moved to the next body without pulling the blanket up. She pointed down as she read from her notes. “Gary Weeks, age forty-eight. Also stabbed in the heart. Worked with his brother at the airport.”

Folley stepped back, his shoulder bumped the brick wall of the tower. “Wow.”

“You okay, Folley? You don’t look good.”

“It’s … this case just got a lot bigger.”

“How so?”

“I talked to a guy this morning that saw Gary get grabbed by two guys in a white van. He approached them, tried to stop it and reportedly got a gun shoved in his face for his trouble.”

“We’re going to need to talk to this guy. What’s his name?”

She poised a pen over her notebook. Folley knew the case just slipped through his fingers. No one challenged Angela. She made steel appear weak. But she did say,
We’re
going to need to talk to this guy
.

“Aaron Stevens.”

She stopped writing and looked at him, one eyebrow cocked high on her forehead.

“Stevens?” she asked.

Folley nodded. Then he connected it. “Don’t tell me Joanne is here.”

By the expression on Angela’s face, he knew that under one of the remaining two blankets lay Joanne Stevens, sister to Aaron Stevens. He wondered how Aaron would take the news. He remembered their conversation in his office that morning about how the system hadn’t worked for his family. Nobody ever stepped up to the plate for the Stevens’ family and now Joanne had been murdered. He didn’t want to be the one who told Aaron, but knew he would have no choice. It was his case. They would need a positive ID on the body from a family member.

Or maybe homicide will take it from me.

“You were working on the Stevens case.”

It wasn’t a question. She knew. That’s why she called Folley in.

“Yes. Aaron Stevens reported his sister missing a few days ago. He claimed to see Gary abducted at gunpoint this morning. He could even ID the perps. He said it was all connected. I guess he had no idea just how connected.”