Dirty Sweet

A Mystery

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• Publisher: Ecw Press Digital
• Year: 2006
• ISBN:
  9781554902620
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Literatura de crímenes y misterio

In the middle of the afternoon on a busy downtown Toronto street a man is shot in the head behind the wheel of his SUV. The killer drives away before the light changes. It could be road rage, or it could be a random act of violence. It could be, but it isn t. What it is, is opportunity. For everyone involved. The witness, Roxanne Keyes, a real estate agent trying desperately to lease out space in unwanted office space, recognizes the killer a man who had once looked to rent with her. She figures with this kind of leverage he ll be a lot more interested now. Except he s Boris

CHAPTER
ONE

“THE CARS WERE STOPPED on King, right there, waiting for the light to change.”

Roxanne Keyes lit another cigarette and told the detectives exactly what she saw happen then. “A guy got out of the Volvo, the passenger side, walked back to this one, and shot that guy in the head. Then he walked back to the car, got in, and it drove away.”

She didn’t tell them she was pretty sure she knew the driver of the Volvo.

“He just walked?”

She was about to say, no, he swaggered like you guys, but she said, “Yeah, he just walked.”

That was half an hour ago. Since then, the uniformed cops had closed off the street, the crime scene guys had taken thousands of pictures and thrown a tarp over the corpse in the SUV. The crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk was already starting to drift away. People on the Starbucks patio, the witnesses who’d given their driver’s license information to the uniformed cops, were restless waiting for the detectives. Half an hour, and the feeling of being part of a special event, a big deal in Toronto, was gone. They were complaining about places they had to be, even though they hadn’t been there much longer than it would have taken them to drink their coffees.

Roxanne had made one more phone call to Maurice Abernathy, lowering the price again, Jesus, to seventeen-fifty a square foot for a lousy 20,500 square feet in the only listing she had, a half-empty reno they called the Toy Works. He still wouldn’t take it, but he wouldn’t turn her down, either. Just wasting her time. She told him what she’d seen, right there in front of her, and he’d said, “That’s a great scene.” Maurice produced cheap action movies, using Toronto to look like some American city, but his business was going down steadily as the Canadian dollar was rising.

He’d said, “I might be able to use that,” and Roxanne was going to tell him about the driver, about how she thought she knew the guy, but then she started to think maybe she could use it, too.

What she’d wanted to do was reach into her purse, get one of the joints out of her tampon case, and fire it up. Get lost in the moment, all this activity. Let everything going on all around her turn into one dull hum and just float on the buzz. Forget about the deep, deep shit she’d gotten herself into. But she never was very good at just letting things happen. So she wondered, how could she make this work for her?

But the detectives arrived and now she was telling them everything.

Almost everything.

“They weren’t arguing, shouting at each other?” The younger good-looking detective was asking all the questions. He looked to be early-thirties, the same as Roxanne, and he looked like he went to the gym a little more often than she did. The other one, the black one with the shaved head who looked like a football player whose name Roxanne couldn’t remember, didn’t seem too interested.

“No, not that I noticed. I was just sitting down.”

“Did they seem to know each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, for no reason, this guy just got out of his car, walked to the next one in line, and blew some guy’s head all over King Street?”

“Most of it hit that bike courier,” Roxanne said. Then, “I’m sure he had a reason, detective. People have all kinds of reasons for what they do.” Like Roxanne had a reason for not mentioning that she was pretty sure she knew the guy driving the car. Maybe if she could remember where she knew him from.

“Yeah, we’ll ask him.”

“Did he say anything in another language?”

“Now that you mention it.” She looked at the black guy; she’d almost forgotten he was there. “He might have.”

The younger detective said, “This is Detective Price. I’m Sergeant Loewen.”

Price said, “Russian maybe?”

Roxanne took a drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Just one word, or more?”

“I wasn’t really listening. I was on the phone.” She motioned to her Blackberry on the table. She was still wearing the ear bud.

“Okay, thanks very much,” Loewen said closing his notebook. They’d already been through this with the other witnesses. No one knew anything, really. Some people thought the driver was the shooter. Some people thought the guy was walking on the sidewalk, pulled the trigger, and then jumped into a moving car. Loewen said, “We really appreciate it.”

But Price wasn’t going anywhere. “Did the other guy say anything?”

“If he did, I didn’t hear it.”

Price glanced over his shoulder at the car under the tarp only a few feet away. “So they weren’t shouting at each other?”

“Not at each other.”

“Each other?”

“The guy who got shot was yelling. It might have been Russian or something, when I came out of the café. By the time I got to the table and sat down, he’d stopped and that’s when the other guy walked back and shot him.”

“But the other guy, the shooter, he didn’t say anything.”

“Not that I heard.”

“Can you describe the man with the gun?”

She took another deep drag and exhaled smoke. “Older, maybe mid-fifties, black hair — I remember thinking it was probably a dye — broad shoulders, cheap blue sports coat. Walked with a bit of a limp.”

Loewen had his notebook open again and was writing as fast as he could. “This is great, thanks. Anything else.”

“He was wearing sunglasses.”

“You mean glasses like those?” He pointed to the trendy optometrist shop behind Roxanne, next to the Starbucks.

She barely glanced at the display and pushed her own D&G’s further up on her nose. “No one would put these in the window. They must have been ten years old, and they weren’t exactly stylish when they were new.”

Loewen nodded and looked at Price.

“Did you happen to notice what kind of car he was driving?”

“Well, he wasn’t driving, but it was a Volvo. S80.”

Loewen nodded, wrote it down. “You sure?” It was at least the third make of car offered by the witnesses.

Roxanne took another drag on her cigarette and said, “I’m thinking about getting one.”

“What colour?”

“I don’t know yet, I’m not even sure I’m going to get one. They have a new SUV I’m looking at, too, but SUV’s are kind of out these days. They’ve got a convertible, too.”

“I mean the car the shooter got into.”

“Oh, blue. They call it ‘midnight blue.’”

Price said, “Can you describe the driver?”

Yeah, the driver. Roxanne looked like she was thinking about it for a second, then shook her head. “Not really. He didn’t get out of the car.” She could picture him sitting in the car. From a different angle, from the front, where she could see his face.

Loewen looked at his notebook, read something. “Was he about the same age as the shooter?”

No, Roxanne thought, he was at least twenty years younger. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really see him.”

“Well, anyway, I gotta say, Miss Keyes, you’re very observant, especially under the circumstances.”

“It was eerily quiet, Detective,” Roxanne said. She looked past him at the tarp-covered Navigator. “And slow. He seemed to raise his gun and fire in slow motion, but when I went to move, to turn my head, it was like I was in slow motion, too.”

“It’s a shocking thing to see,” Loewen said and Roxanne nodded slowly, but that wasn’t it. It wasn’t the shooting or the guy’s head exploding all over the bike courier at all. It really should have been a lot more for her, more to get involved in, get lost in, but she was still thinking what she could do with it.

She said, “So, this wasn’t road rage, was it? Is it like some Russian Mafia hit?”

Loewen smiled and didn’t mean for it to be so patronizing, but after talking to so many witnesses who watched too much Law and Order, that’s the way it looked. “It’s a little early to say what it is.”

“Of course.”

“Well,” Loewen said, “you’ve been very helpful.” Shaking his hand, she squeezed it a little too hard. “If there’s anything else.”

Loewen said, “Yeah, we might need to do some follow-up.”

Roxanne reached into her purse and pulled out her little leather folder. She handed him her business card from Downtown Real Estate, the one with her picture on it, with her longer hair before she got it cut for the summer. “You can always reach me on my cell, detective.”

“Commercial Services?”

“Leasing. We have a few renos in the neighbourhood. Old factories and warehouses turned into office space. This neighbourhood is really taking off.”

“All right. If we think of anything else.”

“That’d be fine.”

• • •

Some days, you just can’t believe your luck. Once Boris decided there was just no way to deal with Anzor and that they were going to have to kill him, he brought his “Uncle” Khozha up from Brighton Beach. They went over half a dozen different ways to get to the guy, and then on their way to his office to check it out, who should pull up behind them but the man himself?

Idling at the red light on King Street West, Boris watched the tall, good-looking woman in the business suit, the one with the skirt a little too short and the heels a little too high, come out of the Starbucks with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other, wire going right into her ear. He was pretty sure he knew her, but he wasn’t sure from where. Something about her was different. Her hair was shorter? He almost turned completely around to watch her find a seat on the patio, and when he did, he saw Anzor in the Navigator behind him.

He said, “I don’t fucking believe it,” and Khozha said, “So, go through the fucking light, who cares?”

“No, I mean I don’t fucking believe that prick bastard Anzor is right behind us.” Boris hadn’t spoken this much Russian in a couple of years, and even then it was diplomatic school Russian. He couldn’t talk like that in front of Uncle Khozha.

Khozha turned right around in the leather seat of the Volvo S80 — brand new and a nice car, great stereo and one of those computer map things — and looked at the guy stopped behind them. The light changed to green and Anzor started to yell right away, waving his hands. With the tinted windows, he couldn’t see into the Volvo.

“Fuck him,” Khozha said, and got out of the car.

Boris wanted to wait, to follow him, do it quiet someplace. He wanted to hear Anzor beg for his life after the trouble he’d caused, flaunting it in front of everyone, making Boris look weak. And he really wanted it to be more dramatic, more like in a movie. But what happened was so matter-of-fact and straightforward. Khozha walked back to the car, both front windows were down, raised his gun and fired, pop, pop, pop. Anzor’s head exploded. Then Khozha walked back to the Volvo, got in and said, “What are you waiting for, it’s still green.” The fucking light hadn’t even changed. Boris stepped on the gas and they went through the intersection.

“Now I’m going to have to get a new fucking car.”

“So, it’s what you do, isn’t it, steal cars?” Making it sound like he was some Jamaican kid sneaking around in the middle of the night.

“I like this car.”

“So keep it, who gives a shit?”

“She saw you.”

Khozha took a pack of Camels out of his sports-coat pocket and lit one. “Who?”

“That woman at the coffee shop, she watched you shoot him and walk back and get into my car.”

He...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen
• Chapter Fifteen
• Chapter Sixteen
• Chapter Seventeen
• Chapter Eighteen
• Chapter Nineteen
• Chapter Twenty
• Chapter Twenty-One
• Chapter Twenty-Two
• Chapter Twenty-Three
• Chapter Twenty-Four
• Chapter Twenty-Five
• Sneak Peek of Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere
• About the Author
• Copyright