Savage Rage (16 page)

“I remember meeting this gentleman.” Manny shook Phil's hand. “I came out to take the photos when you were assaulted.”

“Whatever happened to that prick?” Last year, while Jack was working with Sy —
Was it the first day we worked together?
— they had responded to an assault call at a rundown rooming house on George Street. Phil, eighty-odd years old, had been punched and knocked to the ground by a much younger and bigger resident for the crime of being black. The asshole had called him a nigger. Jack and Sy had taught the asshole a lesson in respect. Before dragging his ass off to jail.

Manny shrugged. “Pled guilty, far as I know.”

“Has he been around, Phil?”

The old man carefully shook his head. “Ain't seen 'im since you and Officer Simon busted down 'is door. That was good t'see!” Phil laughed his way into a coughing fit. Jack and Manny waited patiently for the old guy to get his lungs under control. “Sorry 'bout that,” he apologized, wiping away a tear. Whether from laughing or coughing or both, Jack couldn't tell. “Damn cig'rettes gonna kill me yet.”

“You kicked down his door?” Manny inquired innocently.

“He didn't want to be arrested. Nothing big.” Jack knelt down. “And how is Bear?” Jack held out his hand to the little guy who was trying to hide behind his owner's legs.

“Gettin' old, like me, but he's doin' good. Go on, Bear. Say hello.”

Bear, a tiny Heinz 57 of a dog with a bit of a paunch, hesitantly stretched his nose out from between Phil's legs to sniff at Jack's offered hand. After a few investigative sniffs, Bear waddled stiffly out from hiding, his stub of a tail twitching happily. He butted his head into Jack's palm, seeking an ear scratch.

“Damn if he don' like you, Officer Jack. But then, he took to you that day, too.”

“Bear and I understand each other. Don't we, Bear? And it's just Jack, Phil. None of that officer crap.”

Bear, moving slowly and deliberately, eased down onto his belly, then tried to roll onto his back, but he lacked the flexibility. He settled for lying on his side and lifting his front leg while whining. Jack knew a tummy rub request when he saw it.

“I'll be damned,” Phil wheezed as Bear's tail thumped ecstatically on the sidewalk while Jack's fingers scratched his belly. “You certainly got a way with 'im. Maybe I was meant to meet up wit' you t'day.”

“Why's that, Phil?” Jack looked up but didn't stop the tummy rub. Bear's back leg had joined his tail in a happy dance.

“Been seein' this guy 'round. Got a pup with 'im. Beautiful shepherd, 'tis. And he beats 'im som'thin' bad.”

Jack stood up. Bear lay where he was, his tail and leg slowly winding down, a dopey doggy grin on his face.

“What's this guy look like? White, black, Asian?” Like most cops, Jack could endure violence against adults, at times even partake of it himself — Eric really didn't know how lucky he was — but hurt a child or an animal and it got personal.

Phil nodded, seeing the change in Jack's attitude and approving. “Little white guy. Red hair. Got a nose on 'im looks like it's been busted up a few times.”

“Joey Horner,” Manny said without hesitation. “He's a little shit. Hangs around the Seaton House. Didn't know he had a dog, though.”

“We'll keep an eye out for him, Phil. Thanks.”

A muffled cry came from the scout car. It might have been
I want muh beer.

“Manny, go shut him up.”

“No problem.”

“Where you headed, Phil? You need a ride home? We can always make that mumblee ride in the trunk.”

Phil smiled his thanks but declined. “Jes' 'eading to the beer store. Gonna pick me som'thin' to sip on.”

Jack smiled as a very nasty idea came to mind. “Hang on a sec, Phil.” Still smiling, Jack stepped over to Eric's twelve-pack, careful not to step in any puddles and scooped the beer up.

“That's right, motherfucker! I better get muh beer back when I get out! Where the fuck you going?”

Jack waved at Eric before handing the beer to Phil. “There you go, Phil. Compliments of the Toronto police.”

Phil smiled and it was as evil as Jack's. “Why, thank you, Officer. I really 'preciate that.”

“No problem, sir. You have a good night. You, too, Bear.”

The little dog had made it back to his feet. Jack stooped to give him a final ear scratch.

“That was nasty, dude. Nasty.” Manny beamed approval over the car roof.

“It was, wasn't it?”

Inside the car, Eric's scream was loud and long. Sometimes a trip to the hospital just wasn't necessary.

0700 hours

“Hey, Jack. Good to see you. I'd heard you were back. Couldn't stay away, could you?”

Jack gripped the offered hand. “Hey, Rick. Yeah, I'm back. This place kind of grows on you, I guess.”

“That it does, that it does.” Rick Mason was the detective in charge of 51's Major Crime, an old-clothes unit that targeted the drugs, violence and serious property crimes in the division. In other words, most of what happened in 51.

Mason was a big, solid man, with forearms the size of most people's legs. He kept his greying hair cropped short, but his goatee, as grey as his hair, scraped at his chest as he talked. Together, he and Jack had orchestrated the arrest of a vicious drug dealer, Anthony Charles, the man responsible for Sy's murder. If the details of Jack's identification of Charles ever became public, the two of them and members of Mason's inner circle could lose their jobs or end up in jail. But with Charles dead — killed by Jack after he had taken Karen hostage — the secret could rest easy.

“Seems like 53 didn't treat you all that well.” Mason touched the fresh scar running through Jack's eyebrow.

“It was my own fault; I got careless.”

Mason nodded. “Quiet divisions can make a copper rusty.”

“You don't look like you've been suffering.” Jack tapped Mason's belly, which was protruding more than it had in the fall.

Mason grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, well, after you took out Charles, the rest of the dealers spent the winter fighting each other for turf and I was able to go home some days.”

Jack glanced at his watch. Almost seven. “You got something for us, or did you just come down to say hello?”

They were standing in the hallway outside the parade room. Inside, the platoon was grumbling as officers lined up for inspection. Mason cocked his head at them. “Your staff really does stand-up parades?”

“Just for inspection,” Jack told him dryly. “He lets us sit down after that.”

Mason whistled softly. He was about to say something when Staff Sergeant Greene, followed by an unhappy-looking Sergeant Johanson, came down the stairs, senior officer's white shirt pressed and starched, handlebar moustache waxed and curled. Greene stopped, almost stepping between Jack and Mason, a small man made smaller by standing next to the burly Major Crime D.

But his attention was on Jack, not Mason. “Constable Warren,” he clipped. “It is seven o'clock and by standing here you are late for parade.”

“My fault, Staff,” Mason jumped in. Did he know Greene hated to be called Staff and not Staff Sergeant? Jack expected so; there was little that happened in the division, let alone the station, that Mason didn't know about. “I was just catching up with Jack, welcoming him back to the division.”

Greene turned his intimidating gaze — at least Jack thought it was supposed to be intimidating — on the big detective. “Constable Warren is on my time now. And he is late.” He snapped his head back to Jack. “And you can consider yourself officially cautioned for being late. If this happens again, you will be documented. Is that understood?”

For the second day in a row, Jack wanted to give Greene a hearty
Jawohl
. “Yes, sir. Perfectly.”
Prick.

Jack fell into line and Greene spent extra time going over him and, yes, he did a sock check. As he was bent over examining the colour of Jack's socks, Manny caught Jack's eye and gave an exaggerated eye roll. Jack had the smirk gone from his face by the time Greene straightened up.

Jack could feel Greene's eyes on him, daring him to meet his stare, but he kept his eyes focused on the wall above Greene's head. He was not about to be suckered into anything that could be construed as insubordination.

At last Greene snorted, in disgust or satisfaction Jack couldn't tell and really didn't care. But if he thought he had received a detailed scrutiny, it was nothing compared to the attention given to Manny. Greene checked his socks and asked him to remove his magazines so Greene could count the number of rounds in each one. Greene checked his memo book to see if he had underlined the date.

Jack had to give Manny credit; he kept still and quiet throughout the examination. Jack had no idea what it was costing his friend to remain silent. At least Mason was enjoying the show. He was at the front of the room with Johanson, leaning comfortably against the chalkboard, his meaty arms folded casually across his chest. He gave Jack a wink and a disbelieving head shake.

Again, there were five officers on parade and two on the early half. Seven cops for the division. Manpower was definitely tight. When Greene finished his inspection, he stomped his little feet all the way to the front of the room. Something had their steadfast leader in a snit.

Maybe he curled his moustache too tight.

Johanson stepped up to the podium to read out the assignments, but Greene brushed by him and seized the podium with a white-knuckled grip. He glared silently at the officers while he drew several deep breaths and Jack realized he was trying to calm himself. Something was unquestionably out of kilter in Greene's perfect, orderly world.

“I was going over your memo books this morning before parade,” Greene announced at last. He did not sound happy. “What I found was shoddy, unprofessional and unacceptable.” He paused, perhaps to let the officers ponder the heinous crime they had committed. “Officers are not filling out the duty stamps in their memo books at the end of shift prior to reporting off duty.” Greene's eyes burned with a fevered intensity.

Oh, for fuck's sake. This guy has got to get a life.

Muted murmurs floated up from the officers and Jack had to fight to keep a smirk off his face.

If rolling eyes had a sound . . .

Mason was having a hard time schooling his features. He finally cupped his chin in a thoughtful pose, but the points of a smile kept creeping out from behind his fingers.

Greene wasn't done. “Officers are not breaking down the hours spent at the station, on radio calls or on general patrol. Nor are they indicating the number of tickets issued during the tour of duty. By not providing this information, officers are contravening the service's regulations. I believe this is more than gross negligence and there is an ulterior motive behind this . . . this . . .” Greene's moustache twitched uncontrollably. A vein throbbed in his neck as his face darkened with anger. Finally, Greene found the word he wanted and spat it out like a cobra spitting venom. “Conspiracy!” He raked the parade room with frenzied eyes and clenched hands trembling at his sides. “I know this is a combined and determined effort to prevent me from evaluating this platoon on a daily basis and it . . . will . . . stop . . . now.”

There was silence in the squad room.
He's not a prick, he's a fucking loon.

Jack could hear Greene's ragged breathing. The staff sergeant glared at the officers, daring them to challenge him. When no one stepped forward, he blew out a final, huffing breath, his absolute authority intact. Jack watched as his tension visibly evaporated. The heated crimson drained from his face, the vein that looked ready to rupture with every surge of blood sank back into the side of his neck and his hands eased open.

“Then I shall consider this matter resolved. Sergeant Johanson, you may carry on.” Greene strode from the room, his spine ramrod straight.

Jack noticed a hint of unsteadiness in the staff's walk.
That man is seriously off balance.

“Not a word. Not a fucking word.” Johanson held up a forestalling hand as he took the podium. “I'll talk to the superintendent after parade. Now listen up.”

It didn't take long to get through the assignments. Coverage was thin; Jack and Manny were the only two-man car in a division where the majority of calls required two officers. Two men in each car would mean fewer cars and the public might clue in to how few officers there were on the streets.

Can't have the public — or the assholes, for that matter — learning how thin the thin blue line really is, can we?

“Rick, you have something for the troops?”

“Yeah.” Mason pushed off from the chalkboard and dropped a sheaf of papers in front of Jack. “Pass those along, would you?”

Jack took a sheet, slid the papers to Manny, then looked at what was important enough to get Mason out of his second-floor cave.

Speaking of assholes . . .
The face staring up from the officer safety bulletin had asshole written all over it. A hard face with sharp angles, stony eyes, eyes that, even when reproduced in black and white, held a thousand-yard stare.

“Take a look at our latest problem. Randall Kayne. Released last week and residing in our neighbourhood.” Mason studied the officers before him. “Most of you probably don't have enough time on to remember Kayne. He's 51 born and bred and has spent his whole waste of a life in and out of prison. He just finished a four-year stint for robbery and I can guarantee you he will reoffend.”

Mason paused, levelling his unyielding gaze on the young coppers. His stare carried weight and demanded attention. “Kayne has a history of going to the pen wasted on crack and coming out pumped up and jacked up. He'll get back on the crack and wither away soon enough, but until then do not —” he rapped the podium with solid knuckles for emphasis “— do
not
try to arrest him on your own. I am not fucking around. He's a hard-ass and will hurt you. I wouldn't try him on my own. Neither would Tank.”

That caught everyone's attention. If the division's one-man riot squad took this guy seriously, he must be a hard-ass.

“He's already back in business, or so we believe.”

Mason passed out more sheets of paper. There were two photos. One showed a black male reclining in a hospital bed with an injury to his forehead; the second was a close-up of the injury. Just as the intensity of Kayne's eyes came across in a stark picture, so did the brutality of the wound. It filled the centre of the man's forehead from hairline to eyebrows. The cuts were deep, jagged and wide and Jack was willing to bet they went down to the skull.

“Is that. . . ?” Manny was holding the photo up, turning it this way and that, trying to make sense of it.

“A letter K, yes,” Mason confirmed. “K for Kayne.”

“The mark of Kayne? Oh, fuck me.” Paul said it for all of them.

“Exactly,” Mason agreed. “We believe he's carved his initial into at least three people since getting out, as well as his cellmate before he was released.”

“Whoa. He does this while he's inside and still gets out?” Manny was still rotating the picture.

“No one's talking to us. Most of them just clam up when we talk to them.” Mason chuckled. “That guy in the picture claimed to have fallen on some broken glass.”

Jack spoke. “They don't want to report the guy who's scarred them for life?”

Mason shook his head, his goatee swinging like a tiny, furry pendulum. “They're either scared shitless of him, or they're planning on taking care of it themselves.”

“No one's talking to us?” Jack was puzzled. “Is he only targeting other assholes?”

“Yup. Dealers, small-time hoods. Whoever he runs into, by the sound of it.” The Major Crime boss rapped the podium again. More emphasis. “There's a rumour going around on the streets that Kayne's out to prove he's the toughest badass on the streets. I imagine it would go a long way in cementing that rep if he managed to carve that K into a copper's face. And I sure as fuck don't want to see that happen.”

Sombre nods all around.

“This picture recent, then?” Paul was folding the photo, slimming it down to fit on the car's visor.

“Except for his hair. Fuck, I'm getting old. Starting to forget things. He's sporting a mohawk now. A wide strip down the middle of his head, cut short. That's it.”

“Thanks, Rick.” Johanson added his two cents' worth. “I've dealt with Kayne before. He's asshole to the core and won't hesitate to kill you. You see him, you get as much backup as you can before you arrest him.”

“I thought he wasn't wanted for anything yet,” Borovski pointed out.

Johanson stilled his objection with a simple “Find something.”

Knife call. An anonymous complainant had called 911 saying there was a male on the second floor of a rooming house threatening people with a knife. Jack and Manny were guarding the bottom of the staircase while Paul and Jenny cleared the first floor.

“Just one resident and he hasn't heard anything,” Jenny reported quietly.

Jack nodded, whispered, “Okay, up we go. By height.”

They slowly ascended the stairs in order of height so everyone could see ahead, Paul at six-five bringing up the rear behind Manny. Jack and Jenny were about the same height, but Jack could see around her thinner frame, so she went first. Paul had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders in the narrow stairway. Guns out and pointed down in two-handed grips, they crept up the stairs as quietly as they could, but the old wood steps creaked under their feet and groaned in agony when Paul shifted his weight.

The landing was as tiny and cramped as the stairs. A doorway on the left opened onto the second-floor hall. Jenny crouched on the landing and Jack straddled her back; the rude comments and suggestions would come later. The hall dead-ended to the right. To the left, it ran to the front of the house, parallel to the staircase.

Jenny leaned around the door frame and darted head and gun into the hall. After a moment's pause, she muttered, “Oh, fuck me.”

Still astride her — after that “fuck me” comment, the crude comments were going to be a lot cruder — Jack leaned past the door frame, taking the hall. It was almost as narrow as the stairs and had three doors, two closed and one open. Unfortunately. The closed doors were on the opposite side and were probably bedroom doors. The open door was at the end of the hall and Jack wished it was closed too. And barred.