Diamond Run Read online

  I needed to take a leak, but couldn’t leave. A long line of people waited to buy tickets for that bus. We had ident pictures of four guys, but only one was expected to get on the bus. So far none of the four had appeared. But if the carrier already had a ticket, and I left, even for a minute, he could board without lining up, and I would miss him. I had a radio handset in my jacket pocket. We used them when we were away from the car, or if we were working with a surveillance crew and were out on foot, or in an undercover vehicle that hadn’t been equipped with a radio. My handset was turned off. As a member of the project Zephyr team, I was dressed down. Zephyr was classified as an “old clothes” detail. But, no matter how casually I was dressed, any static or transmissions on the radio would have given the game away.

  I’m Phil Mahood, a Toronto cop, a sergeant who works organized crime investigations. I was on assignment to the Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit, CFSEU for short. I’d been there for almost a year. The CFSEU operated out of RCMP “O” Division, on Jarvis Street in downtown Toronto. I loved the work. After seven years of working from a divisional detective office, sifting through stacks of files, and having only enough time to chase down the fresh cases or promising leads on older ones, I hoped I could stay with the CFSEU for a few more years. They handled investigations that you really got your teeth into.

  I’d left my regular partner, Sergeant Ernie Smyth. Holed up in a tenth-floor apartment on Wood Street, not far from the bus terminal. A few hours earlier, after a tip from an informant, we’d made an arrest and recovered a haul of stolen jewelry. Now I was out with the team hoping to nab at least one other suspect from the same score.

  On arrival at the Wood Street apartment building, Ernie and I had shown the building’s super our search warrant. He’d happily given us the key. It was a decent building in a trendy part of the city, and he’d had lots of problems with that apartment.

  It would have been nice if the idiot had warned us there was a damned dog. It wouldn’t have changed much. But in a job full of surprises, heads-up are appreciated, especially in a situation that could cause bowel accidents. As soon as we put the key in the door, that dog went crazy. It sounded huge.

  We went in with our guns drawn. A German Shepherd on a long chain, secured through the open balcony door to an outside railing, had the run of most of the front room. It took one look at us coming through the door and lunged for our nuts. The chain stopped the dog about three feet short of us. It flew backwards, choppers flashing. We dodged right, guns trained. My hands were shaking like a paint mixer. That’s not great for accuracy, even at close quarters. I love dogs, but if that chain hadn’t held, I would have squeezed the trigger as many times as it took to take him down.

  The dog’s chain gave us a small margin of safety. We moved with our backs pressed to the wall, inching towards the protection of the bathroom. We left the door ajar enough to see some of the apartment without the dog seeing us.

  Ring-and bracelet-sized boxes and jewelry display trays were piled on what we could see of the kitchen table and countertops. In just that area, I guessed there were well over two hundred of them. More boxes and trays filled small shopping bags lined up along both sides of a hallway off the kitchen. But with the dog there, we weren’t able to get a close look at any of the goods, or check the rest of the apartment.

  Based on information I had, the loot came from a jewelry store robbery in the east end of Toronto. My informant didn’t know which store had been hit, but he knew the two guys who lived in the apartment were in on the job. He’d told me that a guy named Clifford would be back to the apartment first, and that Clifford’s partner, a kid he knew only as Shaky, would be back later.

  Ernie and I got settled in the bathroom. The dog eventually quietened down, and we started our wait for Clifford. Just over an hour later, we heard a key in the front door. The dog started up again.

  We slipped out of the bathroom and moved quickly, this time our faces tight to the wall. The tethered dog snapped at our backsides, but the chain held. We charged through the opening apartment door and right into a guy’s face. Ernie moved like a linebacker. He slammed the kid up against the hallway wall, the business end of his snub-nose pushed hard into one of his nostrils. It split like a grape.

  “Clifford?” I asked.

  He nodded, his eyes like saucers. Blood poured from his nose. But more than his nose leaked; a hot stream splashed out of his pantlegs, over his shoes and onto the hallway carpet. Clifford had pissed himself.

  Ernie wasn’t impressed. With all the commotion at the door, the dog was going ballistic. “If you don’t settle that dog down, son, I’m going shove this damned gun up your other nostril.”

  I cuffed one of Clifford’s wrists and held the other loop of the handcuffs, keeping Clifford between us and the dog as it was shooed onto the balcony. Clifford shouldered the balcony door closed. The other cuff applied, I shackled his hands behind his back. We called for the uniforms: a two-man car to transport our prisoner to 52 Division, and a beat man to wait with Ernie.

  Ernie and the beat man holed up in the washroom as well, with their weapons drawn. Although the dog couldn’t get at them, they needed to stay out of its sight. It could see though the glass of the balcony door, but not to the bathroom. Too much barking might scare off Shaky.

  I’D LEFT THE APARTMENT and found a payphone two blocks away on Yonge Street, opposite a go-go bar. I watched a neon sign of a dancing girl gyrating on top of a neon drum as I placed the call. My informant, a kid named Zip, was staying at a flophouse on Sackville Street in old Cabbagetown, about eight blocks away.

  They call him Zip because he’d come off a motorcycle at high speed and split his skull. That was a few years back. There’s a jagged scar, back to front on his head. It runs down one eyebrow, all the way to his chin. The cross stiches across the scar gave birth to his nickname. Zip has some problems with his speech, and people get the impression that he’s slow. He isn’t. Zip gets around just fine, and he doesn’t miss much.

  He’d tipped me off about the jewelry because he used to live in that apartment with Clifford and Shaky. He paid a little rent to Clifford. When the other two became an item, they kicked Zip out. They kept his stereo, a cassette player, and his collection of cassettes. He was over there arguing with Clifford, trying to get his things back when he saw all the display boxes and bags. Zip played the slow card and pretended to buy Clifford’s story about getting a job selling costume jewelry and t-shirts from the sidewalk. Zip never mentioned the dog to me either. I’ll give him shit for that.

  A dopey male voice answered my call to the flophouse. I asked for Zip.

  “Zip’s not here. He said if anyone called, they could find him at the Crescent.”

  That’s the Crescent Moon. It’s a bathhouse and steam room around the corner from the flophouse. Zip did odd jobs there, like putting out fresh towels and keeping the juice pitchers full. He also hung around there when he wasn’t working.

  “He’ll be there all day,” said Dopey.

  I decided to catch up with Zip later. I wanted to check in at the office and see if we had any fresh info that would pinpoint which jewelry store robbery this haul came from. There’d been a few lately.

  I drove our city-issued beater, a ’72 K car back to “O” Division. On the fifth floor, I checked in with the guys in the tape room. Nothing new over the wires. Next stop, the project coordinator’s desk. It was manned by Staff Sergeant Stan Logan, a good guy on loan from the Metro Homicide Bureau. He’d loved homicide investigations but took the transfer and the desk assignment hoping to lighten the load of court commitments as he approached retirement. He was almost ready to pull the pin, but still liked to get involved as much as he could. You could always count on Stan.

  “Any word, Staff?”

  “A jewelry store in Don Mills was hit before opening this morning. The owner lives in a Rosedale penthouse. He always leaves early for his breakfast at Katz’s Deli. Got jumped at his underground park
ing spot at five forty-five a.m. They tied and gagged him, shoved him in the trunk of his Lincoln, and drove him to the store, then threated to slit his throat unless he deactivated the alarm. When they got inside, the pricks split his head open with a gun butt, and left him gagged and tied in the storeroom. His staff found him when they opened at eight thirty.

  “Place was cleaned out. Big haul, lots of high end stuff. The third like that in a month. We’re running all the reports.”

  “Probably the stuff we found on Wood Street,” I said. “Whenever animal control gets the dog out of there, we’ll be able to verify that. Ernie’s still there, waiting for another player to show up. So, we don’t want animal control there just yet.”

  Logan nodded. “We know where some of it may be going. I just got a call from one of the guys at hold-up. They had a productive chat with that kid Clifford. Could be a hand-off at the bus terminal. Clifford and his pals sorted out some bigger pieces in the car before hauling the rest of the stuff into the apartment.

  “Some asshole from Quebec is having the choice stuff delivered to him. He’s staying in a hotel near Montreal. A kid is running it down on a bus and stashing it in a locker at the Montreal end, likely the bus depot or the train station. The boys are still working on Clifford for more details.

  “Apparently, Clifford and his boys are scared of this guy, so he’s a little slow with the info.” Stan handed me an envelope. “We ran the names of the four other kids Clifford coughed up. Maybe bullshit, but we got their pictures from Ident.”

  “Ok, Stan. I’ll round up some bodies and we’ll cover the bus terminal.”

  AND THERE I WAS, AT the terminal. I’d rounded up enough guys and headed over. We had all the entrances covered and people watching the street. Everyone was suitably scruffy and well experienced at this kind of stakeout.

  I’d been watching the bus and driver since I got there. I saw him get aboard and start the engine. The lineup for tickets was gone, looked like everyone was aboard. There was no sign of a target. But who knows, people change their plans all the time, especially scumbags. Even though Clifford was in tough against the hold-up guys, he could have thrown some decoy crap out about the possible courier, just to cover his ass with the jerk in Montreal.

  I took a chance and carefully badged a ticket agent and slipped into a room behind the counter where I could watch the passenger area.

  I got out my handset and broke radio silence for less than a minute. Nobody else was in the room and I doubted anyone could hear me from the ticket desk. “Monaghan, you got any plans for the next twenty-four?”

  “Nothing I can’t change, and I’m up for a ride. if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Good. Get aboard. Leave your handset with one of the guys. If our guy is on or gets on, you may as well see where he goes, and who’s waiting for him at the end of the trip. Keep in touch with Logan at each stop. He’ll keep you up to date. No matter what, call in at the last stop before Montreal. If nothing’s happening there, Logan will make arrangements for your trip back.”

  A few minutes later I saw Monaghan carrying a can of Coke, a sandwich he’d bought from a dispenser, and a small overnight case from the terminal’s lost and found box. It had been given to him by the ticket agent who I’d badged, an old guy who’d seen it all and was happy to help us out. Monaghan climbed aboard the bus just before it rolled out of the terminal.

  Back at the car, one of the guys gave me a heads up. “While you were in there, Phil, Stan Logan called. Wants you to get in touch ASAP. He’s got a handset in his office.”

  Logan answered right away. “Phil, that crew you’re working on, they’re steam bath regulars, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Homicide is at a place not far from here. Quite a mess. Victim stabbed and shot multiple times. They have to wait for the coroner’s report, but there guessing twenty to twenty-five punctures. He was probably dead from a bullet wound before the stabbing. No shots heard, so likely the killer used a silencer and then went to work with a blade. Here’s the thing, Phil. The victim had your card in his wallet.”

  I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway. Which steam bath?”

  “The Crescent Moon.”

  “Shit. I wanted to throw something. The victim had to be Zip. All because of what he saw when he tried to get his stuff back. Zip wasn’t a bad kid, just someone trying to find his way in life. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he liked helping me out. He wanted to play a small part in a cop’s world.”

  “You know who it is, Phil?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure... Goddamn it, Stan.” I slammed my fist on the dash. “That poor kid.”

  “Looks like we’re wading into a damned cesspool. Are you going to hook up with Ernie?”

  “Listen, Stan, I just put Monaghan on a bus to Montreal. This handoff probably won’t happen now. Will you fill him in when he calls?”

  “Will do. Are you going back to that apartment?”

  “No, when you hear from Ernie, bring him up to date? I’m dropping by the Crescent Moon.”

  THE CRESCENT MOON OCCUPIED the basement and the first floor of a century-old, brick semi. It sat mid-block in a row of identical semis on the north side of Gerrard Street, a few blocks east of Jarvis, at the edge of Cabbagetown, an old Irish neighborhood. It wasn’t Irish anymore. My old man insisted that it got its name because the Irish, including some of my ancestors, grew cabbages on any space they could find on their lots.

  Most of the buildings on this stretch of Gerrard Street had upstairs rooms to rent at monthly and weekly rates. Some, like the one that housed the Crescent Moon had marginal businesses operating on the lower levels. I parked between a fortune-teller psychic and a sleazy rub-and-tug massage parlor. They were typical of the establishments in this part of Toronto. With so many cop cars parked on the street, I doubted that either place would have a banner day.

  The front and one side of the Crescent Moon were marked off by yellow crime tape. A uniform from 51 Division stood in front of a waist-high, wrought iron gate. The gate was rusty and hung from one hinge. I badged the uniform and asked which door to use. He pointed up the path to the side of the house at an indigo door with a quarter moon and some stars painted on it.

  The door was ajar. I walked in. The air was heavy with the smell of lavender, eucalyptus oil, and the underlying stink of blood and a body that had emptied its bowels. I was grateful for the eucalyptus and lavender; the further in I walked, the body smells got stronger.

  I heard voices down a hall to my right. I walked into a small room that was used as a lounge. The coroner was already there and the ident team was taking photographs, dusting for prints and bagging anything that needed to be analyzed. I recognized one of the Homicide guys, Frank Britton. He nodded at me and held up a small document preserver containing a business card.

  “Your card, Phil.”

  I nodded and looked towards the minced-up body at the foot of an old club chair.

  “A lot of damage from those head shots, “I said. “Anyone hear anything, or identified the body yet

  “No one heard shots, so a silencer’s likely... and the knifework was over the top... A staffer who’s been here all day identified the victim. Says it’s a kid who works here. We may get a hit on his prints if he’s on file, but the only name the people here know him by is Zip.”

  “Steven Lazeroff,” I said. “He’s on file. You’ll get a hit.”

  Britton put the document preserver and my card back into an aluminum brief case. “Your CI, Phil?”

  Britton figured right. The kid had my card. Cops don’t often give cards to informants. I don’t either, but Zip had asked for one. He really liked to sniff leads out for me, the card probably made him feel like he was part of something. I’d also shown up at the scene. Confidential informant was a good bet. There were other ways Zip could have got my card. But Britton had been around too long not to make the connection, or to ignore an opportunity to gain some insight from another investigat
or who knew the victim.

  “He was my CI, Frank...Have you taken a statement from that staffer yet?”

  “Not yet. He was really shaken up when we got here. Couldn’t make much sense of anything he said. I’m going to take it now. My partners tied up with the coroner and Forensics. Do you want to sit in?”

  “Yeah, if your partner’s ok with it.”

  “No problem with him, Phil. I already ran that possibility by him.”

  I raised my eyebrows at that.

  Britton noticed and explained. “I’d called your office and spoke to Stan Logan when I found your card. Stan said that one of your projects might be on the edges of this case. We’re glad to have your help. I’ve got to run the obvious questions first and see where it leads me. But if you want to pop any of your own in, go for it.”

  The staffer’s name was Tim Courtice. He had himself together, almost. He was clutching a can of Coke, squeezing it so tight that his fingertips blanched. The three of us sat around a small table in an exercise room behind the steam rooms.

  Britton worked through his line of questions. I knew his questions would quickly move from general to specific.

  One question indicated that he was just about there.

  “What else can you remember, Tim?”

  Courtice shrugged his shoulders and shifted on the chair. He let out his breath. “I think that about covers it, officers.”

  Now Britton started digging for details. “We need you to tell us about everyone who’s been in here since you opened for business today.”

  Courtice named the staffers who’d been working, and just one regular customer who’d shown up at his usual time.

  “Did anyone come in that you’d never seen before?”

  “Yeah, that happens from time to time... There was a guy today. Said he was here for a quick steam. Wasn’t here long.”

  “Did you see him leave?”