While he waited Raybould took a small address book out of his pocket and found a number. He dialed it on Bev’s phone, letting it ring. Four times, five…
* * *
Elwood Smith rolled onto his side, ignoring the phone, trying to hang onto the dream he’d been having. He should’ve turned on the goddam answering machine. He’d had a snifter of brandy before retiring and had drifted into the sweetest dream… What had it been? Ah, yes, he and his son, Eric, sailing in Guadeloupe, the thirty-eight footer slicing the whitecaps… That had been three years ago, a month before Elwood was called to identify Eric’s body in the city morgue, riddled with bullets from a drug pusher’s gun.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Elwood thought, still half asleep. Eric had been clean for six months, a half-year’s distance on a brutal heroin addiction. The father and son trip had been in commemoration of that milestone. And what a time they’d had, sailing, girl-watching together, scuba diving off the yacht, eating like pigs. What had made him start using again? Get mixed up with that crowd again? Questions without answers, questions that would hound him to the grave.
Goddamn phone…
Elwood switched on the bedside lamp, squinting at the digital alarm clock: ten after twelve. The last call he’d gotten after midnight had been from his wife, telling him it was over between them. “Eric is dead, Elwood,” she’d said. “When it happened it tore my heart out. But that was a long time ago. You and I, we’re still alive. You go to the bank, to your job, the only thing that matters to you anymore. You come home, you drink, you go to sleep. There’s no room in your life for me anymore. Well, I’m sorry, El, but I can’t live that way any longer…”
He picked up the receiver and said hello.
“Elwood. It’s Al Raybould. Sorry to wake you.”
That cool, cadenced voice triggered a swell of emotion in Elwood, dredged up from the last time he’d spoken to this man on the phone. That call too had come in the night, only two words spoken, two sweet syllables that had satisfied a need in Elwood so powerful he wouldn’t have believed it possible had he not experienced it first hand. Those words had been simply, “It’s done.”
“Detective Raybould,” Elwood said. “Nonsense. It’s good to hear your voice.” A framed photograph of his son stood on the night table in front of the lamp, Eric at twelve, posing on the ice in his hockey gear. Elwood turned it to face him, saying, “It’s been a long time.”
“Three years. And call me Al. Remember?”
“Sure, Al. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t like calling in favors unless I’m really strapped. But, you remember after I shot the guy who killed your boy, you said if I ever needed anything…”
“And I meant it. Every word. That savage fucker deserved to die and you made it happen. Name it, Al, and it’s done.”
It’s done.
“Well, here’s the thing. I’m about to come into some money. Quite a lot of money, as a matter of fact. My girl and I, we won the lottery—”
“That’s fantastic,” Elwood said, wide awake now. “How much?”
“Ten million.”
“Nice number.”
“Yeah, that it is. She’ll be coming in to see you in the morning with the check. My girl. We’d like to get this done quick and quiet, if you know what I mean. Zero fanfare.”
“I read you.”
“Okay. Here’s what I’d like you to set up…”
* * *
Raybould made one more call, a quick one, then hung up the phone. When he looked up Bev was standing in the archway with some first-aid supplies, waiting for him to finish. She approached him now, kneeling on the floor between his legs. She’d done a hasty make-up job on her face and Raybould had the sudden urge to kick it in for her.
She said, “Who’s Archie?” and Raybould told her to mind her own business. Huffing, she came at him with a loaded insulin syringe. Raybould caught her by the wrist, twisting hard enough to make her cry out.
“What’s that?” he said, letting her go.
“Demerol. It’ll mellow you out, ease the pain.” Massaging his thighs now. “But I’ll need money for some more.”
“Get it over with.”
She snugged a rubber tourniquet around his arm, rubbed a vein with an alcohol swab and injected the Demerol in a big warm bolus. Raybould closed his eyes and let his head drift back, the drug pumping through him like an orgasm. He could feel Bev’s hands on him again, grabby and hot, working their way up his thighs to his belt.
“Just patch the hole,” he said.
Then he drifted a while.
* * *
Rodney Hicks lay in a St. James hospital bed with an IV in his arm and a surgical dressing on his leg, listening to the guy in the next bed snore. Bad enough, but he’d rather listen to the guy snore than talk. Jesus Christ. The guy’d practically chewed his ear off earlier, on and on about his prostate operation, the goddam anesthetist who stuck forty needles in his back, the crummy hospital food that’d make a goat puke.
They’d fixed Hicks’ leg under local anesthesia. He’d insisted. He wanted to stay sharp. This thing wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. What he needed now was time to think. Three years partnered with Raybould, he knew how the man’s mind worked. But damn, it was hard to concentrate, the old coot sawing logs, Bryan shot dead. He still couldn’t believe it, Bryan like a brother to him, staging these great debates all the time about the dumbest shit, stuffing down junk food like there was no tomorrow. Bryan had trusted him, against his own better judgment, and now he was dead.
“Hey,” Hicks said, raising his voice. “Shut it.”
The old guy snorted and changed positions, quiet a few seconds, then started snoring again. Hicks grabbed the spring-loaded arm that supported the tiny TV and swung it around in front of him. He fit the earphone into his ear and turned the thing on, quickly scanning the channels. News everywhere. Or commercials. This was why he hated television—
Something…
He flipped back a couple of stations and saw a young woman on the steps of the North York Trauma Center, talking about a stolen lottery ticket.
“Son of a bitch.”
When the spot was done he pushed the TV aside and got out of bed, gingerly, testing the leg. The doctor told him the local he’d injected should control the worst of the pain for about eight hours and so far it seemed to be working. The leg felt solid under him, only a dull ache when he put his weight on it.
He untaped the IV and pulled it out of his arm. Then he found his clothes. He was on the street five minutes later, hailing a cab, surprised no one had tried to stop him. His pants were a mess, crusted with blood, one leg hacked to hell by the orderly who’d taken a pair of scissors to it to get at the wound. The cabbie took one look at him and almost drove off, but Hicks showed him his badge. He gave the guy his home address and told him to gun it.
* * *
Raybould surfaced through a warm fog. He opened his eyes and saw Bev wrapping his wound with gauze. In spite of how low the poor broad had sunk, she was still a pretty good nurse.
When she was done she looked up at him, giving him a moist, pouty look that might’ve sold twenty years ago but tonight just made her look dopey. She started rubbing his thighs again, saying, “Now, baby, what’ve you got for me?”
Raybould stood up, almost knocking her over. “Some advice,” he said. “Get off the shit.”
He got his coat on and left, feeling fine.
* * *
Hicks had the cab driver wait while he went inside for a change of clothes and his other gun, a .45 Smith semi-auto he used for target shooting. They’d taken his service pistol at the scene. He had some Dilaudids in the medicine cabinet for the migraines he sometimes got and he brought these, too, along with a pocket flask of Chivas Royal Salut, the last of a bottle Bryan had given him for his birthday last year.
He had the cabbie drive him downtown, ignoring the guy when he tried to get a conversation going, asking about his leg. Hicks had a hard time getting out of the car, the leg beginning to stiffen up on him, and on his way into headquarters he swallowed a couple of the pain pills. He took the elevator to the garage level and limped over to the vehicle supervisor’s window. Bob Grimard was on tonight, beergut straining against the buttons on his regulation blue shirt. He turned down the TV in there and said, “Rodney. I heard you got shot.”
“Flesh wound,” Hicks said. “They patched me up and threw me out. Couldn’t even wangle a free meal out of them.”
Bob grunted and said, “Socialized medicine.” He poked two fingers into a gap between the buttons on his shirt and scratched his belly. “Sorry to hear about Bryan,” he said. “He was a good shit.”
“Yeah, Grim, thanks. He was. Look, I need the keys to the van.”
“Sure thing.” Grim got the keys and handed them out. “You’re not working tonight.”
“No, Just some things in there I need.”
Five minutes later Hicks pulled the van onto College Street, ignoring Grimard’s surprised look as he sped past the window, the stout aluminum case containing Mayer’s surveillance gear open on the seat beside him. He took the Don Valley to the 401 and got off at North York, just a short hop from there to the trauma center. He pulled into the parking lot of a fast food joint across the street from the hospital and shut off the engine. The dash clock said 1:02 AM. He’d give it a couple of hours.
He adjusted his seat all the way back and straightened the leg as much as he could. The sucker was really pounding now, keeping time with his heartbeat. He shook out a couple more pills and washed them down with a mouthful of Chivas. Shit burned all the way down, but man, it hit the spot.
Settling in, Hicks fixed his gaze on the main entrance. He jerked awake forty minutes later, wincing in pain. A spot of blood had soaked through the dressing to stain his pants. He looked through the windshield and saw Raybould climbing the hospital steps.
“Prick,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’re an open book.”
He switched on the surveillance gear and had a look, trying to remember what Bryan had told him about it, wishing he’d paid more attention.
* * *
Raybould showed the receptionist his shield. “I need to see a patient,” he told her. “Name of Whipple.”
The receptionist pecked away at her keyboard. “Keith Whipple?” she said and Raybould nodded. “He’s in Stepdown, officer. Bed six. Take the elevator to level three and turn right, follow the signs.”
He kept his badge out, showing it to the nurse who intercepted him at the doors to the Stepdown Unit. “Detective Sergeant Raybould,” he said. “It’s urgent that I speak with Kate Whipple. Is she here tonight by any chance?”
“Actually, no,” the nurse said. “But she left a number where she can be reached.”
“Can I have it?”
“Certainly. Come with me.”
Raybould followed her into the unit, waiting at the desk while she got the number off Whipple’s chart and handed it over. He glanced at it saying, “Would you have any idea where this is?”
“I’m afraid not,” the nurse said, “but her father might be able to help you. I brought him some juice just a short while ago. He’s probably still awake.”
She gave him a perky little smile and told him to follow her. Nice fanny, working it for him as she walked. She left him at the cubicle door, saying, “Let me know if I can be of any further help.”
The old man was wide awake, sitting up in bed with his reading glasses on, flipping through a copy of
Premiere
magazine. He looked like he’d been hit by a train.
Raybould got right into it, knowing it was best to hit them right away, shake them hard before they had time to think.
“Mister Whipple,” he said, “Detective Sergeant Raybould. I don’t mean to alarm you, sir, but it’s urgent that I speak with your daughter. We have reason to believe she’s in danger.”
That was the look he was going for, shocked, afraid, ready to do anything to help.
“My God, Detective, what’s going on?”
“It’s got to do with the lottery ticket,” Raybould said. “It’s changed hands a number of times since it was stolen from you. Right now it’s in the possession of a renegade cop by the name of Hicks. The thing is, Mister Whipple, I know this guy; he’s a desperate, brutal man. And he’s after your daughter.”
“But, why?”
The ticket, sir. The sting you set up with the Lottery Corporation. Hicks found out about it, so now the only way he can get to the money is through your daughter. Or yourself, but your daughter’s the more likely target. Now, I have officers waiting outside, ready to transfer her to protective custody, but we’ve got to get to her first. There’s really no time to lose.”
Keith pointed to Kate’s note on the bedside table. “She’s out with a young police officer she’s become friendly with. His address and phone number are on that note.”
Raybould picked up the note and read the address: 1123 Pine Street. Ten minute drive. He glanced at the name, Steve Seger, and smiled to himself, thinking,
Small world
. “Can I keep this?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, let me go out to the desk and try this number.” He glanced again at the piece of paper, a concerned cop on the job. “Then I’ll be back with a couple more questions.”
He left the old man with his mouth hanging open, pale as a ghost. He asked the nurse with the perky smile for the use of a phone and she led him to a doctors’ dictating booth, nice and private. He closed the door and dialed Steve’s number, got the answering machine and hung up. Two in the morning they were either out at a club, screening their calls or fast asleep. Not that it mattered. He’d catch up to them soon enough.
He leaned back in the chair, still glowing from the Demerol, and lit a smoke. Let the old boy squirm a bit, then finish the job. He smoked the Lucky Strike to the filter, his mind idling comfortably, then dropped the butt to the floor and crushed it under his heel. For fun he tried the number again—answering machine—then went back to Keith’s room. The old guy’d been crying, busy wiping at the tears now, trying to show he was a man.
“No answer at this number, Mister Whipple,” Raybould said. He gave Keith’s shoulder a pat. “But I’ve dispatched a cruiser to Constable Seger’s address.”
“Kate said they’d be going out to a club…a blues club,” Keith said. He gazed vacantly into space, searching his memory. “For the life of me I can’t recall if she told me the name of the place…”