Savage Rage (26 page)

Manny nodded. “Joey Horner. Let's hope he's still there.”

There was a convenience store at the corner of Oak and River and the little park was nestled in behind it, bordered by a townhouse complex on the east and Cornwall Street on the south. A small playground and benches shaded by trees made it a family-friendly spot in warmer weather, but only if the crackheads and dealers weren't around.

The drug trade was quiet in the park today, but that could have been due to the scout cars parked around the corner. There was no one in the park and no dog.

“Damn. This is what? The third time we've missed this prick?”

Manny nodded. “Something like that. Where to?”

“Let's take a quick look down Cornwall, then check inside the store. Something tells me James here isn't all that anxious to get to the station.”

“You sure it was him? The cop with the scar?” Jesse dragged a finger through his eyebrow to illustrate in case Lisa was too stupid or cracked out to know what he meant.

“Yeah, the one with the scar,” she snapped. “Now get the fuck off my back, asshole!”

“That's him. That's fucking him.” Jesse rubbed his hands together gleefully. The Grinch had nothing on him for sheer evil expressions.

“What about him?” Kayne was propped against the couch, his long legs sprawled out before him.

After nipping at Jesse, Lisa rested her head on Kayne's thigh, the faithful crack poodle. Kayne absently stroked her filthy green hair.

“He's the one I told you about.” Jesse was too wound up to sit still, no matter how much grass he had just smoked. He paced the floor of the one-room apartment, flicking his fingers as thoughts came to him. “The cop who iced that dealer. The one everyone was afraid of.”

That caught Kayne's interest. Jesse watched, irritated and worried, as Kayne tried to focus his eyes. Jesse studied Kayne closely. He still wore the same sleeveless sweatshirt — fuck, how it stank! — and his arms were still thick with muscle despite all the crack and weed he'd smoked since Jesse had met him. But how long would Kayne last before the crack burned the muscle from him? Not long, since he was smoking more than he ate.

Kayne's pet bitch was looking pretty bad. Her face was nothing but sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Where Kayne's face was all sharp angles and tight skin, Lisa's was slack and sickly looking. How Kayne could stand to have her touch him, let alone fuck him, was beyond Jesse. That Kayne was keeping her to himself and not letting Jesse fuck her was fine by him. Jesse wouldn't even stick his dick in her mouth for fear of what he might catch.

“The cop's name is Warren. Jack fucking Warren.”

“I don't give a fuck what his name is,” Kayne laughed and his crack poodle cackled along with him. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he peered at Jesse suspiciously. “How come you know his name? What's he to you?”

Oh, fuck.
“Nothing, man. Nothing.” Jesse back-pedalled frantically. If Kayne figured out that Jesse was trying to use him to exact his own revenge — although Kayne wasn't the brightest, he had a predator's natural cunning and Jesse had to make sure not to dismiss it — then he would be in shit and sinking fast. At the least, Kayne would cast him aside and the free ride would be over. More likely, though, Jesse would end up bearing one of Kayne's marks for the rest of his life. And the length of that life would definitely be in question.

“So how come you know his name?” Kayne asked again, the shrewd look never leaving his eyes.

“His name was all over the place when he iced the dealer, that's all. I got nothing against him personally.” Jesse fingered his broken nose unconsciously, the one Warren had smashed into Jesse's breakfast.

Jesse heaved a sigh when Kayne waved the thought of the cop aside. Jesse still had to push forward with his plan if he didn't want to start all over again once Kayne was straight. If he planted the idea while Kayne was baked, Kayne would need just a little nudging in the right direction later. Hell, he might even think the whole thing was his idea.

Jesse squatted between Kayne's legs. He balanced himself with a hand on Lisa's grungy head. Lisa didn't mind; the crack poodle had passed out.

“This is how we can set it up. . . .”

0658 hours

Staff Sergeant Greene sat stiffly in his chair, but his thoughts were not on the parade sheet before him. He had arrived at work by ten to five and by five — half an hour early, as usual — he had been sitting in the staff sergeants' office, the memo books of his officers stacked neatly on the desk before him. Every day, regardless of the shift, Greene was at the station and behind the front desk thirty minutes early. The staff sergeants he relieved were overjoyed at first, thinking they could head home early, but they quickly learned otherwise; Greene was there in order to review his officers' work from the previous day.

He examined each book to ensure they were completed in accordance with the service's rules and regulations. The date had to be underlined, the twenty-four-hour clock had to be used, the daily activity stamp — he determined that the ink pad must be running dry as most of the stamps were faint and made a mental note to have it replaced — had to be properly and fully completed and, of course, every entry had to be in black ink.

Each day he selected one memo book at random and read through it entirely, from the day's date and “Commence Duty” line to “Report off Duty” and the officer's signature. Greene assured himself he was showing no bias in the selection, but surprisingly, his hand frequently landed on Constable Armsman's book. He was appalled at the sloppy note-taking skills some of the officers displayed and had offered numerous suggestions on how those skills could and should be improved.

Once the memo books had been inspected, he checked the Morning Report to learn what had occurred in his division since he had reported off duty the previous day. On the first day of each shift, he allotted himself extra time for this task as he went through the reports for each day he had been off duty. Finally, he spoke with the staff sergeant he was relieving in order to be up to date on what was happening inside the station and out on the roads. It was disgusting how lax some of the staff sergeants were, letting the sergeants handle the running of the platoons and station, but these supervisors had learned early on that Greene would only receive his briefing from the senior supervisor and not an underling.

Once he was fully informed and prepared to assume command of the station, Staff Sergeant Greene sat at the sergeant's desk to await the arrival of his inside people. Their haphazard approach to the shift's start time had ceased soon enough. It irked him somewhat that he could not seat himself at his desk to observe them, but the cramped, windowless office allocated for the staff sergeants had no view of the front desk area. The office's size and placement — tucked off to the side, it was used predominantly for passage from behind the front desk to the hallway leading to the lunchroom and he had put an abrupt end to that habit — had been one of many items he'd raised at his first management meeting. To date, there were no plans to relocate the office or install windows.

In his forty-two years on the job, Greene had never seen such shoddy discipline, on both station and personal levels. No wonder he had been transferred from his position at the Duty Desk at Headquarters to 51 Division. He knew, well in advance of his arrival, the reputation this division held: to those outside its boundaries, 51 was seen as a penalty box, a place where problem officers were sent for punishment. To the officers patrolling its streets, 51 was a testing ground where only the strong survived and to be able to “get the job done” with its limited resources and manpower was a badge of pride.

Both versions were true to an extent, but neither of them excused the slack discipline Greene had seen from the moment he had set foot in the station's cramped quarters but, in fact, was reason enough for tighter control. Both on an individual level and on a platoon level.

What had happened to the Service or, more correctly, the Force? When Greene had proudly joined the ranks of the Toronto Police, it had been a Force, not a Service, and there, he firmly believed, lay the root of the problem. Once the name and image had been changed to Toronto Police Service, the public's perception had changed as well. Wherever you went in the world, policing was about enforcing the laws and maintaining order, not “getting to know the community” or “establishing communication and understanding” between the police and those deviant, fringe sectors of society.

Back in his street-patrolling days, on foot, not by car, although he did admit the need for the faster response the cars allowed, the law was the law, regardless of your background, religion or whom you had sex with. As a male of average height, had he screamed for special treatment and consideration when the much larger officers who made up the majority of the rank and file back then shoved him about or teased him about his shortness? Hell, no. The greater the torment they threw at him, the greater his determination to succeed. He had carried himself with unyielding resolve and had triumphed over his adversaries, winning their respect if not their friendship.

“Slack, slack, slack,” Greene muttered to himself as he collected the sergeant's clipboard in preparation for parading the late half of the day shift. Sergeant Johanson would normally join him as it was the sergeant's duty and not the staff sergeant's, to read out the day's assignments, but he was occupied releasing a prisoner from custody in order to cut down on the amount of overtime the arresting officers from the night shift would be claiming. Greene was amazed at how infrequently the staff sergeants of the other platoons actually attended the parades. No discipline whatsoever.

He trotted down the stairs to the basement, his polished shoes flashing brightly in the fluorescent lights. He paused at the base of the stairs to quickly study his reflection in the door's glass. His grey hair — iron grey, he liked to call it — was cut precisely to regulation, as it had been for more than the last four decades, his moustache was trimmed, waxed and symmetrically curled and his white shirt — he had praised the initiative to change the shirts of senior officers, staff sergeants and above to white from the black of the lower ranks — was pressed to within an inch of its life.

Every day Greene set a prime example for his platoon of how an officer should present himself. Or herself, he amended with reluctance. Allowing female officers was one of the initiatives he had not embraced wholeheartedly. Or at all.

But regardless of his example, in spite of his recommendations and assistance, the officers on his platoon failed to improve. They continued to perform as individuals, shunning the cohesive unity he desired them to adopt. In unity lay strength. If they worked the same, performed the same, then errors would diminish and, in time, disappear altogether. And unity began with appearance, hence the stand-up parades. And from those inspections came discipline and from discipline came cohesiveness.

But to this date, they had rebuked his efforts.

Don't they understand?
he asked himself. If they all wrote their notes and prepared their reports the same, handled calls and situations in similar fashion, then they would work as a team and a well-functioning team was always stronger than a group of individuals.

Greene watched very little television, did not own one himself; he was of the firm opinion that television rotted the mind and stunted intelligence. Prior to his assumption of command of B platoon, a television had broadcasted its mind-numbing trash constantly behind the front desk. It sat dark and unwatched now. But on occasion he had observed some of the “entertainment” it had to offer and had once viewed an entire episode of what was referred to as a situational comedy. In this case,
M*A*S*H
.

The show had initially appealed to him, or at least had failed to immediately disgust him, as it was based in a military setting. One of the characters had spoken a line intended as a joke, but Greene believed it to be an absolute truth: individuality is fine as long as we all do it together.

There was a reason the military and police wore uniforms. When were the fools under his command going to realize they could achieve more working together? Greene had entertained hope when Constable Warren had returned to the platoon. He was senior — in Greene's younger days, seven years on the job meant you had just lost your rookie status — and seen as somewhat of a hero and Greene had hoped the platoon would cement under Warren's leadership, but so far there had been no improvement, especially in Constable Armsman. Greene smiled in anticipation of taking down that know-it-all pup a few pegs. Imagine, having the audacity to tell his staff sergeant that his approach to leadership was outdated.

Greene smiled as he mentally worded the documentation that would rid the division of the cancer that was William Armsman.

At precisely seven o'clock, Staff Sergeant Greene entered the parade room.

Jack and the other officers were lined up to the left of the parade room door. Morris and Goldman were there; even Boris was present, although not looking too happy. Manny, Jenny and Paul filled out the ranks.

If Greene wants unity, he's about to get an eyeful.

As if Jack's thought had summoned him, Greene strode into the room as the arms on the old clock above the door clunked to seven o'clock. If nothing else, the prick was punctual.

Greene strode to the podium, not sparing a glance for the officers lined up for inspection and completely oblivious to the hushed, expectant silence that hung in the air. Jack felt everyone in the line stiffen to attention as Greene slapped the clipboard on the podium, turned to face his officers . . . and froze.

The seven officers stood rigidly before him, hat brims and boots freshly polished, shirts crisp from the dry cleaners, socks pulled up, gun belts loaded up with the tools of the trade. And not much else. They all stood proudly at attention in their underwear. Boris's boxers hung almost to his knees, hiding his flabby thighs. Paul's muscular legs were on full display below a pair of tiny scarlet briefs. He had tucked his shirt up under his gun belt so his shirttails wouldn't obscure his undies. Not to be outdone, Jenny's panties were so high cut they disappeared under her belt and damn, her legs were amazing. Jenny had also tucked her shirt out of the way. Jack was wearing briefs that Karen had bought for him as a gag. They were decorated with crossed pistols and sheriff stars. Manny's snug boxer briefs were all Spider-Man.

Greene stared at them, dumbfounded.

You wanted unity, prick. Well, have an eyeful.
“B platoon,” Jack barked. “About-face!”

As one, the officers turned smartly — they had diligently practised the about-face before parade as none of them had marched since the college — and gave Greene their backsides.

Jack paused for a count of five then ordered another about-face. He hoped the underwear parade would shock or enrage Greene. When he faced the man, he was not disappointed.

Greene's eyes were wide in shock and his lips were pressed into a thin white line. The rest of his face was red and deepening to purple. Greene looked as if he was about to erupt. Or have a heart attack. While Jack didn't wish any ill luck on Greene, if he had a heart attack . . . Well, they'd cross that bridge if it happened.

Greene didn't have the big one, but it took him a full minute to regain a semblance of composure. “Wh . . . who's idea was this?” he sputtered.

As one, the seven officers stepped forward, even Boris.

Jack couldn't help it: he grinned.
Score one for the good guys.

“I will see all of you on charges for this,” Greene blustered, seeking safety in threats.

Do one of us, do us all and I'm sure the inspector will be interested in hearing why we felt we had to resort to such drastic measures.

The purple was not fading from Greene's face. He stormed out of the room, shoving past Johanson as the sergeant was stepping in.

Johanson stared after the fleeing staff sergeant, then turned to the platoon. “What hap — He broke into a huge grin. “Don't move. I'm getting my camera.”

“Hey, Jack. Did you arrest a guy yesterday? Something about a gun in an apartment?” The station operator was holding the phone with her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Yeah, Manny and I did.” Jack, fully clothed, was at the front desk grabbing car keys.

“Someone wants to talk to you.”

Probably his lawyer bragging his client got bail again.
“You sure they want me?”

The operator, a young woman who had been hit on by practically every cop in the station, both male and female, gave him a sour look. “Well, she didn't ask for you by name, but you're the only one I know with a scar through your eyebrow. Now, do you want to take the call or not?”

Building management, maybe?
“Sure. Put it through to the report room, please.”

In the report room, Jack propped his hip on the counter and snagged the phone on the first ring. “Warren, can I help you?”

There was a moment's pause and Jack was tempted to hang up. Then he heard a female voice. “Is this . . . is this the officer who was at Oak Street yesterday?” She sounded young. Young and nervous.

Definitely not management.
“I was one of the officers, yes,” he replied vaguely, not wanting to commit himself to anything until he knew who he was talking to.

Another pause. “Are you the one with the scar?”

Okay, enough of this.
“Yes, I'm the one with the scar. Now, what do you want?” Not exactly the nicest phone etiquette, but Jack felt this call was nothing but trouble and he didn't need trouble. After Operation Underwear, Greene had retreated to his office and hadn't stuck his nose out since.

Now all we have to do is sit back and wait for his response. I wonder how long it will take.

The woman's voice dropped to a whisper. “I . . . I was in the apartment.”

“And?” he asked, sounding unimpressed.