Savage Rage (2 page)

But, not surprisingly, the police were not greeted with heartfelt hospitality. The doorway was blocked by a university-aged kid dressed in boxer shorts, T-shirt and socks. He had a mean scowl on his face, but Jack thought,
It's hard to be intimidating when you're wearing just your undies.

“You Eric?” Brett growled.

The scowl became a sneer. “No.”

“Then get him.”

Brett's growl was better than the kid's sneer, but Jack gave the kid marks for balls; he didn't back down.

“He's busy. He says you can go away.”

It wasn't often Brett had to look up when talking to someone. That must have been why the kid had been appointed door guardian. Again, Jack gave the kid points for balls.
But balls without brains will only get you hurt. Ask the beer-drinking moron in the driveway.
Door Guardian might have been taller than Brett, but Jack doubted he was half Brett's weight.

“Move,” Brett said, stepping forward.

That's when Door Guardian went from ballsy and stupid to just plain stupid. “You can't come in here,” he declared and straight-armed Brett in the chest. He might as well have punched an oak tree. A moving oak tree.

Brett kept going forward and when he shoved, the kid flew a good three feet. The only reason he didn't go farther was that he hit a wall. He hit hard enough to rattle the shelves above him, then slid to his butt, a dazed, what-the-hell-just-happened expression on his face.

Brett stepped into the kitchen and Jack was right behind him, giving Door Guardian a cautionary “Stay down” as he walked past.

The kitchen was a crowded mess. Pizza boxes and empty bottles littered every available surface: table, countertops, island. Someone had put a lot of money into upgrading the kitchen and was going to be royally pissed when he or she saw it. One cupboard door had a fist-sized hole in it and another two were hanging from broken hinges. The stainless-steel fridge sported several dents in its door and the pot rack that should have been hanging above the island was a metallic garbage pile on the floor.

Brett stopped in the middle of the room, commanding the attention of the dozen or so teens present. Most of them looked nervous and darted glances at Door Guardian, who had yet to regain his feet. Brett didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. The party was still in full stride outside the kitchen, but in here it was dead and everyone knew it.

“I want Eric in front of me in the next ten seconds. I won't ask twice.”

Two kids bolted from the room and another took a more direct approach. He leaned into the next room and yelled, “Eric! Someone get Eric in here, right fucking now!”

Moments later — it might have been more than ten seconds but not by much — a very frightened yet relieved-looking Eric scampered into the kitchen. His sock feet slid in a puddle of something and he would have ended up planting his ass in the puddle had Brett not grabbed him by the arm. Brett hauled him upright, none too gently and planted him on his feet.

Eric was the type of person who had “Kick Me” permanently taped to his back. Small, scrawny and pimpled, wearing glasses, he was natural bully fodder.

Could this kid be any more of a stereotypical geek?
Jack felt pity, remembering his pudgy high school years.

“Are you Eric?” Brett asked, fixing the trembling teen with a steeled stare.

The kid gulped audibly. “Yes, sir.”

The music cut off in mid-blare and its sudden absence left a hollow feeling in the air. It was as if the party was sitting on the electric chair, waiting to see if the last-minute reprieve would come through.

“Did you call the police, Eric?”

“Yes, sir.” Strike one.

“Did you invite all these people into your house?”

“No, sir.” Strike two.

Brett lifted his gaze to take in everyone in the kitchen or peering in from the living room. “And do you want us to remove all these people?”

Eric hesitated, no doubt weighing the wrath of his parents against the ostracism he would face at school. He glanced at the group behind him, then at Brett. He licked dry lips. “Yes, sir.” Strike three. Throw the switch, boys.

“Good call.”

Brett and Jack waded into the living room, the crowd parting before them almost magically. The living room had fared better than the kitchen, but the carpet was shot to hell. No amount of steam cleaning would remove the spilled drinks, mashed food and mud from what Jack was willing to bet had previously been a pristine white carpet.

“Listen up!” Brett announced. “This party is over. Put your drinks down and leave by the front door. And I mean now.”

There were quiet grumbles and protests, but soon a reluctant but steady stream of kids snaked out the front door.

Once the crowd was moving, Jack headed for the stairs to flush out the second floor. He rousted two couples out of bedrooms then made his way to the master bedroom. The parents' — the soon to be very surprised parents' — bedroom was a grand affair dominated by a huge four-poster bed. Sliding glass doors, one of them cracked — Jack was willing to bet the damage was pretty damn recent — led to the rooftop patio. He didn't have to open the doors; one of them was already wide open and letting in one hell of a draft.
Next heating bill's going to be a bitch.
He stepped onto the deck.

“Party's over, everyone. Get out.”

“Fuck that, we don't have to leave.”

Jack was startled by the voice behind him but tried not to let it show as he looked over his shoulder. A guy definitely too old to be in high school was coming into the bedroom, buttoning his fly.

Didn't check the bathroom, Jack. Getting sloppy.

The newcomer was wearing a University of Toronto leather jacket open over a bare chest. The muscle on display and the perfected swagger screamed jock; the graduation date on the jacket sleeve was from two years earlier and suggested either a grad still hanging out with the university crowd or an idiot who didn't spend enough time studying. Jack was willing to bet on the idiot explanation.

“Sorry, bud, the party's over and everyone has to leave. You first.” Jack pointed to the door.

Jockhead screwed his face up and dismissed Jack with a flick of the fingers as he brushed by.

Jack clamped a hand onto his right arm and pulled him back. “I said, you have to —”

Jockhead ripped his arm free and then proved how stupid he really was: he spat in Jack's face. “Fuck you, pig!” He turned to the partygoers while giving Jack the finger.

Jack's anger blazed hot and sudden. Better had the kid just punched Jack: assaulting a cop got you arrested, spitting on one landed you in the hospital. Jack reached for Jockhead, the rest of the party people forgotten.

“All right, fuckhead, you're under —”

The jock spun and Jack saw the fist coming. He jerked his head at the last instant and took a glancing blow to the cheek. Jockhead was cocking his right arm for a haymaker when Jack dug his hands into the jacket collar and pulled the kid forward into a crushing head butt. Jack's forehead smashed squarely into Jockhead's nose. Bone cracked, blood erupted.

The watching crowd
oohed
at the brutal impact and gasped as Jockhead fell limp in Jack's hands. Jack looked into Jockhead's unfocusing eyes. “You're under arrest.”

Satisfied he wasn't going to get any immediate resistance from his prisoner, Jack faced the crowd. “Get out. Now.”

He stood impassively as the partiers, considerably sobered up after what they had witnessed, scurried past him. Some even mumbled apologies. It wasn't long before the patio belonged to Jack and the still-dazed Jockhead.

Brett came into the bedroom, glancing back as the last of the partiers hurried down the stairs. Then he looked at the bloodied man sagging in Jack's grip. Unfazed, he simply said, “I bet that's going to be a complaint.”

“I'll say that's going to be a complaint,” Manny laughed, munching on a cookie then washing it down with hot chocolate. “Lawsuit, too, probably.”

“Gee, thanks for the support.”

“C'mon, dude. This just proves what I've been saying since you started up here: putting a 51 copper in 53 is like putting a shark in the guppy tank.”

Jack snickered. “I don't think it's quite that bad.”

The scout cars were parked driver's side to driver's side — the universal position for a police coffee meet — in the Loblaws parking lot at the top of the Bayview Avenue hill, just a stone's throw inside 53 Division.

“The man has a point, Jack. You belong in 51.” Paul Townsend was one of the biggest and blackest men in 51.

“Ah, the sleeping giant awakes.”

“Had court all day, Jack. Have to get my beauty sleep sometime. Might as well get paid for it.” Paul stretched massively muscular arms — although wrapped in the bulky uniform parka they simply seemed massive — and cracked his neck from side to side.

“I don't think anyone will blame you for napping all of ten minutes, dude. Did you get any sleep after court?”

Paul shook his head and flashed an amazingly white smile at the same time. “Was gonna, but the old lady wanted to have some fun. If you know what I mean.” He playfully nudged Manny and knocked him into the driver's door. Paul was an inch shorter than Brett and had a physique most professional bodybuilders would kill for. He was also stupidly strong, as Manny could attest to.

Manny slowly straightened up, rubbing his left shoulder. “Easy, dude, I need that arm to shoot.”

“Baby,” Paul scoffed.

Jack grinned at the banter. God, how he missed working with these guys. Paul was one of the nicest people to ever wear the uniform and could quiet a room just by walking into it. If he and Brett paired up, they'd be their own two-man riot squad.

At six feet, Manny carried his own share of muscle but disguised it beneath good eating. As he explained it, he had washboard abs like Paul but had a load of towels in the wash. His shaved head disguised a retreating hairline; his non-regulation goatee was made legal by a thin strip of hair along his jaw. Manny was not your average-looking cop. But then, he was a unique individual.

Manny — William Armsman to most supervisors — was an excitable puppy on a leash. He and Jack had shared a strong partnership until Jack ended up in snoozeville, a.k.a. 53 Division. They hadn't worked together long but had gone through some definite shit and Jack knew he could always trust Manny to have his back. Manny had a huge heart and a huge mouth — the mouth seemed to get him in the sergeants' sights too often when it worked without consulting his brain — and threw himself into the job with a childlike enthusiasm.

“You okay, Brett? Did I get your coffee wrong?” Manny asked Jack's passenger.

Brett started as if Manny had roused him from a deep sleep. “Um, no. Sorry. Coffee's fine.”

“Cool. Just checking.”

“Is there a
SOCO
on the air in 51?”

The call came over the radio and Manny promptly snatched up the mike. “5105, talk to me,” he said, using his best film noir voice.

“I need you at a B and E for prints and photos.”

“10-4, on the way. Dispatch, could you put us on that call?” Manny revved the engine then dropped the car into drive. “Sorry, dudes. Duty calls. I'm off to solve another crime. Later.”

Watching the tail lights disappear down Bayview, Brett asked, “How can a guy that hyper stay still long enough to dust for fingerprints?”

“I've often wondered that myself.” Jack started up the car. “Well, it's four a.m. in 53. Do you want to cruise the quiet neighbourhoods or the quiet commercial areas?”

Once the bars closed for the night, all activity in 53 generally vanished. Jack sighed. This had always been his favourite time in 51: except for the odd one or two, radio calls were pretty much done for the night and it would be time to play. And playtime in 51 meant chasing the drug dealers. In 53, the second half of any night shift was a struggle to stay awake.

“I miss 51,” he muttered as he pulled out of the lot.

“How you holding up, hon?” Karen eased in beside Jack and he slipped an arm around her waist.

Smiling for the other guests, he turned to her and whispered in her ear, “I'm freaking dying.”

From one house party to another. And this one was nowhere near as fun as the one he and Brett had broken up the night before.

No, this morning. Today, I think. It's still Tuesday, right?
Ah, the joys of shift work.

After busting up the party and leaving poor Eric to clean up as best he could while contemplating his future — if it had been a teenaged Jack and his dad, death would have been a definite possibility — they had taken Jockhead, also known as Matthew Covingston, to the station. After a stopover at Sunnybrook Hospital, that was. Jockhead's nose had indeed been broken and by the time he was released from the station hours later, he had two beautiful shiners bracketing his nose splint.

As he had left the station, Jockhead had sworn revenge, screaming an all too familiar refrain in 53 Division: “I'll sue your ass! My mom's a lawyer!”

Jack rarely slept well on night shift anymore. Seven years ago, as a squeaky-clean rookie, he was able to sleep anywhere, anytime, but not anymore. Now, after a poor day's sleep, he was at his in-laws' house in Stouffville pretending to enjoy himself while all he wanted was to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Karen's dad, good old George Hawthorn Sr. —
Oops, forgot the Doctor, sorry, George
— had published yet another book and was throwing a Congratulations to Me party. He and the missus, Evelyn Hawthorn — no pretentious “doctor” or “senior” attached to her name — had invited several dozen of their closest friends to help Hawthorn stroke his ego. At least that's how Jack saw it.