Lethal Rage (23 page)

The man pointed down Sackville Place. “Back on Flagler. He was near some cars when I came out with Jasper. He waved at me like he knew me, but I didn't recognize him. Is that who you're after?”

“Could be,” Jack replied indifferently. “I'll pass the info along. Thank you, sir.”

Jasper led his owner off into the rain. Jack reached for his radio but paused. He stared down the tiny street and the flashes of red rain became a spray of blood in a dark alley.

Nice and civilized.
Sy's blood, hot and flowing between his fingers, stealing his friend's life away.

Better than he deserves.

Jack's hand fell away from his radio. He drew his Glock and slipped away from the flashing police lights.

Flagler Street was a driveway with a superiority complex. It ventured north from Sackville Place for a hundred feet or so before ending at a tall wood fence. A solid row of townhouses lined the west side, the front steps of each home touching down on the street. There were no yards, no trees, no parked cars. Nothing to hide behind.

Halfway up the east side, another driveway branched off to the east, running behind the houses that sat on the north side of Sackville Place. Those houses also grew right up to the street. No street parking; was there parking behind the houses?

Jack stood by the first townhouse, searching the rain-soaked night for Charles. He could only see a slice of the driveway leading east from Flagler Street. If he wanted Charles, he would have to go down its throat.

He stepped from cover, gun in front of him, angled down. He knew what he was doing was wrong, dangerous. He moved up Flagler anyway.

The house to his right had an SUV parked nose in beneath a second-floor deck at the rear, creating an open-sided car port. Jack moved up to the SUV, then squatted by a rear tire. The north side of the driveway was lined with flat-roofed garages; the only illumination came from the streetlight on Sackville Place.

But it was enough light to see Charles.

He had his back to Jack, not thirty feet from him, tucked into a tiny niche made by the first garage and a wood fence that jutted out a foot or two past the garage. Charles was trying to climb the fence, but the rain-soaked wood and sodden ivy along its top defied his fingers. His leather-clad fingers.

Smart. Climb to the flat roof of a garage. The dogs can't follow and cops forget to look up. Wait for them to pass, make a break for Regent Park. Robin Hood lives to embarrass the police again.

Jack smiled grimly in the rain.

Not this time.

He stepped away from the SUV and quietly cut the distance between him and Charles, staying under the edge of the connected carports. He wiped rain from his eyes and forehead. Charles had been too lucky for too long.

Jack stopped when less than fifteen feet separated them. He could hear Charles cursing softly as his hands slipped on the fence. Jack raised his gun. The basketball logo on Charles's jacket made an ideal target.

But that would be too easy for Charles.

Keeping his gun levelled, Jack whispered a word into the rain.
“Charles.”

Charles froze, his arms stretched above him. Slowly he turned around. He looked surprised when he saw only Jack, a lone officer. He smirked. Water washed down his angular face, dripped from his unconcerned brow.

“Are you going to arrest me now, officer?” He kept his hands raised, still smirking. “How you going to do that on your own?”

Jack stared at him down the sights of his gun. He was taller than Jack remembered, but he wasn't cowering behind a human shield this time and Jack could picture that hard face taunting him from behind Sy's shoulder.

“What're you going to do if I decide to run away, officer?” He took a step to his right. Jack followed with his Glock. “You going to shoot an unarmed man in the back?”

“Like I should have the night you killed my partner?” Jack's voice was soft, but at his words Charles halted. “You don't remember me, do you?”

Charles stared at Jack, the smirk gone. Jack saw a trace of fear in his features. “I didn't kill your partner. I didn't kill any cop.”

“Lies,” Jack snarled, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You slit his throat and laughed.”

Charles's face showed real fear as the importance of Jack's words sank into him. His hands, which had begun to fall, darted skyward again. “I didn't kill your partner!”

“Then die with that lie on your lips,” Jack hissed. Then, louder, “Drop it! Drop it now!”

Charles thrust his hands out, begging, pleading. “I give up! I give up!” he screamed, but Jack roared over him, ordering him to
Drop it, drop it now.

Jack's finger slid onto the trigger and he saw the realization of death in Charles's eyes. Jack smiled.

When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you.
Sy's words sounded clearly in Jack's head, as clearly as if Sy were standing next to him.

This is for you, Sy.
But Jack could picture his partner, his friend, shaking his head in sorrow. Sorrow for Jack.

Charles stood frozen, his hands above his head, his lies and pleas silent in his throat. Jack stared at the monster who had so unfeelingly ended a good man's life. He deserved to die. Imprisoned, he would be a hero, admired. Dead, justice would be done.

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.
Jack's words back to Sy.

Charles stared at him, rigid with fear. A perfect target. A simple squeeze of the trigger, once, twice. Done.

This isn't justice, it's murder.
Sy's voice or his own?

I don't know who you are anymore.
Karen.

Jack almost staggered from the force that whispered memory carried. She had asked him if he would kill Charles, given the chance, and he had sworn he would.
In a heartbeat.

I don't know who you are anymore.

Charles deserved to die, but not at the price of Jack's soul. Keeping Charles covered, Jack reached for his radio. “5108 to radio. I have Charles in custody.”

Jack quietly closed the front door. Slipping off his shoes and dropping his jacket, he tiptoed up the stairs, not bothering with the lights. He stood in the bedroom doorway, watching Karen sleep. She was wearing an old sweatshirt and had kicked off the covers. He smiled; he'd never had to complain about her hogging the sheets. He breathed in the sight of her, relishing the stillness of the moment and the love he felt for her.

He knew how close he had come to losing her since the night of Sy's murder. He had gone beyond grief and sorrow, had let the guilt consume him until there was nothing left in him but a mindless rage. Sy had warned him, tried to steer him away from that abyss, but in his need for vengeance Jack had become what he fought.

But tonight, thank God, he had stepped back from the abyss. He had to see if he'd turned aside in time.

He sat on the edge of the bed and laid the flowers — a poor selection of blooms from an all-night convenience store and already beginning to wilt, but where else could he get flowers at three in the morning? — next to Karen. She stirred, touched the flowers and looked up at him.

“Jack?” Sleep gave way to puzzlement. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” She reached up to touch his cheek and found it wet with tears. “Jack?”

“It's over, Karen.” He scooped her up in his arms and pulled her to him, laughing through his tears. “It's over.”

“5103 on the air?”

“Not even giving us time to sign on today.”

“Dude, you're a hero. People can't wait to talk to you. That's what you get for taking the weekend off, man. Your adoring public missed you.”

It was Jack's first day back since arresting Charles. He had been under strict orders from the Staff to “disappear for a few days and celebrate.” He and Karen had taken off for a three-day weekend at a spa resort. Although the trees had been spectacular with colour, they had rarely made it out of their room.

“This is '03, dispatch. We're just in the process of signing on.”

“10-4. Is this PC Warren?”

“See, dude? I told you.”

Jack made a
yeah, sure
face at Manny as he keyed the mike. “10-4 again, dispatch.”

“Detective Mason needs to see you in the Crown's office at College Park Courts as soon as possible. 10-4?”

“10-4. Mark us heading over.” Off radio, he asked, “Wonder what that's all about?”

The scout car roared to sluggish life. “Probably wants to discuss what type of award you're getting.”

“No need to be jealous, Manny. I'll be sure to point out that you were in the car that night.”

“Gee, dude, thanks.”

The courthouse at 444 Yonge Street was a bit of an oddity as far as courts went. First, it was on the second floor above retail stores, not in a building of its own, and there was no parking anywhere around it. Granted, parking at most of Toronto's courts sucked, but at least there was some. Manny parked on a side street that, during the day, was lined with police cars, both marked and unmarked. There were no police cars at this hour.

They dodged the rush-hour traffic crossing Yonge and made it inside unscathed. “I'm going to head downstairs for something to eat. Meet me there, okay?”

“Sure. I can't imagine I'll be long.” Jack punched the elevator button while Manny disappeared down the stairs to the basement food court.

The second floor featured metal detectors and a wide central corridor, which during the day was filled with criminals and cops, defence lawyers and Crown attorneys, mingling and hammering out plea bargains or stubbornly waiting for trial. It was neutral ground, a watering hole where an uneasy truce held sway over the natural adversaries.

In the late afternoon, only a few stragglers occupied the hard wooden benches lining the walls; justice was a nine-to-five — more like a ten-to-four, actually — job.

From the elevator, Jack headed down a side hallway to the police office, hoping someone knew where Mason was. It was fine to say to meet him in the Crown's office, but which one? Every Crown had his own. Mason saved him the trouble by meeting him in the hall; the detective did not look happy.

“Jack. Thank fuck you're here. We've got a problem.”

Jack didn't have time to ask before he was steered into the closest room, a library. Heavy tomes — legal texts, Jack assumed — filled the shelves lining much of the four walls. A small conference table was squeezed in between the shelves. Two men, one young, the other not, rose when Mason ushered Jack into the room.

“Officer Warren?” the younger one asked. He was a tiny fellow with metal-framed glasses and a receding hairline. He stuck out his hand. “I'm Daniel Stevens, head Crown attorney. This is Judge Warren. No relation, I trust?”

“No, none.” They all shook hands and took seats, an anxious-looking Mason next to Jack. The judge and lawyer sat opposite the two cops and Jack felt like he was sitting at a negotiating table between a union and the company employing its members, a union and a company with a history of bad blood.

“I'll get straight to the point, officer.” Stevens folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, fixing Jack with what he guessed was supposed to be an intimidating stare. “We have a problem with the case against Anthony Charles.”

“A problem? What kind of problem? Is he lodging some bullshit complaint about the arrest?”

“I'm afraid it's much bigger than that. It's regarding your identification of the accused. I was uncomfortable with it and that's why I've consulted with Judge Warren about it.”

“Uncomfortable with it? Detective Mason had a suspect, he went to Homicide with it and they had me view a photo lineup. What's the problem?”

Instead of answering, Stevens asked another question. “Did Detective Mason ever discuss the accused with you prior to the photo lineup?”

“Yeah,” Jack responded matter-of-factly. “He told me his office had a possible suspect and he wanted to know if I would be able to pick him out in a lineup. I said I didn't know. That's it.” Jack knew better than to look to Mason for confirmation.

“I see. Had you ever met Mr. Charles prior to the arrest?”

Mister Charles?
“Yeah —” again matter-of-factly “— on the night he slit open my partner's throat.”

Stevens blanched and the judge murmured, exchanging a knowing glance with Stevens.

“We've been over this already,” Mason interjected.

Whatever was going on, it sure as fuck didn't feel good to Jack. It was his turn to fold his hands and lean into the discussion. “Maybe you could skip the bullshit cross-examination and just tell me what the fuck the problem is.”

Stevens pursed his lips before settling back in his chair. “Your ID won't stand up in court.” He tossed a sheaf of stapled papers onto the table. Jack recognized them, even upside down, as photocopies of his memo book notes. “In your notes from the night of Officer Carter's homicide, you state you only saw part of the suspect's forehead and one eye. His right eye, if I remember correctly.”

“That's correct. That night I said I saw the
suspect's
eye, forehead and scalp. Now I can say that I saw
Charles's
eye, forehead and scalp. I don't see a problem.”

Mason gave him an approving thump on the shoulder.

But Stevens wasn't convinced. “In a dark alley, with poor lighting, after having just run for several minutes, you are confronted by a suspect in an extremely stressful situation. A good defence lawyer will pick that to pieces. And believe me when I say there is a lineup of good lawyers willing to take this case. Successfully defending an accused cop killer is one hell of a way to make your reputation.”

“Isn't it your job to see that doesn't happen?”

That hit a nerve. Stevens came up out of his chair to lean across the table.
I guess when you're that small, you rely on grand gestures to make up for the lack of size
. “It's also my job to see that the Crown's office doesn't get ass raped before the media. And this will be a media frenzy.”

Mason added his say to the argument. “Then it's your chance to make your reputation by successfully prosecuting an accused cop killer.”

Stevens glared at him, then looked at Jack. “And then there's the matter of the gloves. In your notes, you describe them as . . .” He picked up the photocopies and began searching through them.

“As black latex gloves. Don't bother; I know what I wrote.”

“All right, then,” Stevens challenged, throwing down the notes. “How do you explain the sudden change from latex to leather? A small point, I'm willing to admit, but a good defence lawyer will make a fucking mountain out of it. Do you remember the O.J. Simpson case?”

Instead of answering, Jack pulled on his search gloves. “Will you hit the lights, Rick?”

Nodding in approval, Mason got up and doused the lights, restricting the room's illumination to what came through the partially closed door. Jack made a fist and tucked it under his jaw. Next, he clicked on his flashlight and angled the beam across the back of the tightly stretched glove.

“Bad lighting, a foot chase and a stressful situation. You tell me: leather or latex?”

Mason hit the lights and Jack stowed his flashlight away.

“Thank you for the dramatic demonstration, officer. But all theatrics aside, it still won't fly. Charles has a solid alibi for the night of the murders.”

Jack scoffed. “And which one of his criminal friends is providing it?”

“He was seen by many people, several of them not associated with him, at a nightclub in Scarborough.” Stevens looked smug, the way a defence lawyer would probably look when producing the airtight alibi. Jack didn't think that expression should be on the face of the man assigned to prosecute the case.

Mason threw up his hands. “We've been over this. That nightclub is a major location for the sale of narcotics, including the Black that Charles sells. There are no video cameras to confirm he was there or what time he left, if it turns out he was actually there. And the witnesses? Come on. He's got enough money at his disposal to buy the Pope as a witness.”

Stevens shook his head in resignation. “Doesn't matter. The gloves, the ID, the alibi. There's no case.”

“That's bullshit and you know it!” Mason pounded the table and Stevens flinched. The judge watched the proceedings impassively. “If this was a cop accused of murder, this office would be turning itself inside fucking out to tear apart the witnesses and the alibi.”

“Got that right,” Jack agreed.

Stevens sighed. He studied them both for a moment, then looked to the judge for confirmation. Judge Warren nodded once, and once was enough.

“Like I said: the ID, the gloves, the alibi. There's no case and I'm withdrawing the charges against Anthony Charles.”