The Ambitious City (45 page)

The bike tore out of the lane with a terrifying squeal. The rider—whom he’d never seen without a helmet—paused there to line it up on the road before launching. “Ah,” the old man said under his breath, “the silver helmet today—he’s got an appointment. I hope he gets smacked by a semi.” He saw the helmet snap towards him as if the rider had heard him—a ridiculous thought, given the racket—but he looked down at his
Hockey News
just in case. Glancing above the pages, he noticed that the bike had changed colour. It sounded the same but it was now silver and black, not orange, and the rider was wearing jeans and a checked shirt instead of his fancy biker jumpsuit. The engine rose to an ear-piercing whine, the front wheel lifted off the ground and the bike screamed away on its rear wheel, first gear carrying it to the intersection in less time than it took to sneeze. As it had since the guy moved in six months before, the sound of it faded when it tore up to the highway.

The old man went back to sipping his coffee and reading about the latest trades, hoping that someone would eventually complain or a mishap would solve the problem for everyone.

Uptown, the new carpool Chevy rumbled heavily out of the parking lot close behind Williams’s car. As it bounced from the driveway ramp onto the street, MacNeice heard Aziz groan. She was draped over the driveshaft hump and had taken the impact in the ribs. “Sorry,” he said. “Not used to this car yet.”

“No problem. I wasn’t prepared for it, that’s all. Does it have a CD player?”

“No.”

“Is it okay to sit up now?”

“Stay put if you don’t mind. I’ll warn you if I’m going to hit another bump.” MacNeice maintained a space of about twenty feet behind Williams.

“I know I’m pushing him, Mac, but I’m trying to save lives.”

“We’re almost there. We’ll do this as a team.” MacNeice slowed to a stop behind Williams. “Wait till I open the door for you.”

The television station’s street-front entrance in a quiet neighbourhood made it possible to drive right up to the front doors. Williams got out quickly and appeared at the side of MacNeice’s car as he opened the door for Aziz. “Nothing unusual on the way over—didn’t see a Camry, and no motorcycles.”

“Good. Make sure the hallway’s clear.” After Aziz got out, MacNeice did a slow three-sixty around the entrance, watching for anything or anyone that appeared out of place.

“We’re clear,” Williams said when he returned.

MacNeice casually released the harness on his weapon. “Okay, straight in. You’ll go into makeup, do the show and we’re on our way in an hour.”

J
ANE
T
IERNEY’S FIRST
questions were about the bikers. Aziz offered no further details than what had been revealed by the Deputy Chief the night before, and reiterated that every effort had been taken to avoid a firefight. Then up on the studio monitors came a video recounting the two slasher murders and the attempted murder of Lea Nam. The question that MacNeice knew would be coming was the first one asked. Sounding infinitely compassionate, Jane Tierney leaned forward in her chair and asked Aziz, “As a detective, a criminologist and a Muslim female, are you at all concerned that speaking out as you have, puts you at risk?”

Aziz had been told to look for the light on the camera to know which was active, the close-up or the wide-angle shot. It was to the close-up lens that she addressed her answer, in a steady and measured voice: “I believe, having studied his previous attacks, that this individual isolates his victims so that they are vulnerable to him. He attacks without warning, and he’s not a man who wants to be
confronted by someone with a weapon—someone who’s an equal in combat.”

“Are you suggesting there’s something cowardly about these attacks?”

“Without doubt. A man in black who hides his face, slashes young women and flees on a motorcycle? Yes, he’s a coward, but that’s typically the case. Stand-and-fight serial killers are rare to non-existent.”

“
Coward
. That’s something I believe we’re hearing for the first time.”

“I use the word advisedly, Jane. He will likely attack again, and it’s all about power—that’s his mission.”

“I’m sorry to press you on this, Detective Aziz, but would you not say—as a professional young woman of colour, a Muslim immigrant—that you are a perfect target for this man? And that speaking out only makes you more vulnerable?”

“If I’d taken to heart every instance in my life where my faith, sex, education or chosen field have made me vulnerable, I’d never leave my home. I’m not a victim.”

“I must confess, when the idea of this interview came up at our production meeting, I was against it because I was certain we would be complicit if anything were to happen to you,” Tierney said. “But hearing you now, I feel assured that you are going to be fine.”

“Remember, I also have several experienced detectives—my partners—in my corner. I am seldom alone.”

“Well said. Have you anything further to add about this individual?”

“It’s possible, of course, that this individual is driven by a need for sexual fulfillment, but it’s more likely, I believe, that he’s so sexually repressed that that idea wouldn’t occur to him. The investigation is well under way, and with the wealth of experience we have in the Homicide Department and the latest forensics technology, every hour brings us closer to an arrest.”

“Do you believe there’s any chance he’ll surrender?”

“This is an extremely ill young man, and the best place for him is under psychiatric care. Yet, sadly, I think it unlikely that he’ll surrender. But I can hope.”

“Thank you for taking the time to come in, Detective Inspector Aziz. I know I speak for our audience across Canada when I say that I hope you and your colleagues in Dundurn bring this horror to a swift end.”

“Thank you.”

As Aziz waited for someone to unhook the lapel microphone, Jane Tierney said over the air, “Take care and stay safe.” The comment rattled Aziz because it was so personal. If Dance managed to kill her, he’d add national significance to his cause—whatever that was.

She and Tierney shook hands and said goodbye during the commercial break, then Aziz joined Williams and MacNeice and walked out to the car. She was to ride back with Williams. Hunkered down on the floor behind the passenger seat, she looked over the console and asked, “How’d I do, Montile?”

“Well, my honest opinion is you’re taking way too many risks.” He glanced quickly back at her as he swung into traffic on Main Street.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“You sure as fuck do know what I mean, Aziz. On air you said, ‘He’s not a man who wants to be confronted by someone with a weapon, an equal in combat’—end quote.
An equal in combat?
That’s medieval horseshit. What are you trying to prove?”

They drove on in silence for several minutes, Williams scanning the rear and side mirrors for any tailing vehicles. Finally, as they were approaching the division parking lot, she said, “I’m drawing fire away from innocent women. I think that’s my job.”

“No—your job, Aziz, is to stay alive, to continue to serve and
protect, not to sacrifice yourself. This cowboy shit is really pissing me off. You’ve seen what he’s capable of, goddammit, and he’s overdue.”

“Cowboy? Sure, a female Muslim cowboy … How do you come up with this stuff anyway?”

“You know what I mean.” He pulled in beside MacNeice’s car, shut down the engine and turned to her. “I’m not kidding. This guy is off his head, and you’re pushing too hard with this shit.”

As MacNeice get out of the Chevy, he said, “Okay, wait for the boss, and then straight in.”

As she climbed out, Aziz said, “Mac, Williams thinks I’m a cowboy for baiting Dance so directly. What do you think?”

“I agree with Montile.” MacNeice scanned the parking lot. “Professionally—I mean, clinically—you must know that. Okay, in we go.” They walked slowly across the lot towards the door. “If attacking you was irresistible to him before this interview, it’s now something on a grander scale—a mission, I think was the word you used.”

Still, she thought, she did not regret what she’d said.

As they approached the door, the lights and onboard sirens of both Chevys triggered. They stopped while both men tried to disarm the systems with their key fobs. “Get upstairs immediately,” MacNeice said, opening the door and pushing Aziz through it.

He and Williams had taken only a few steps towards their cars when MacNeice said, “Shit! It’s a diversion!” They ran to the door—it was locked.

Williams looked through the sidelight. “I think that thumbscrew lock has been turned. Christ, I didn’t even know the thing worked.”

“Can you see her?”

“No one there, boss. Maybe she’s already upstairs. I’ll call the front desk and get them to open it.”

“No time.” MacNeice ran to the first ground-floor window, pounding on it till someone came. Pointing to the door, he yelled, “The door’s locked! Open it—fast!” Within seconds a burly uniform appeared in the sidelight and opened the door.

“That’s never been locked before … sorry, sir.”

MacNeice scanned the stairwell. “We don’t have security cameras in here.”

“Someone probably thought a staff entrance to a police station that never closes—”

MacNeice interrupted him. “Check all the offices and hallways on this floor. You’re looking for Detective Aziz and an assailant. Williams, upstairs. Check floor by floor. Go!”

“On it.” Drawing his weapon, Williams took the stairs three at a time.

The uniform was already through the door when MacNeice called after him, “What’s down these stairs?”

“Dunno, sir. The holding cells are in the basement on the other side, but there’s a concrete wall between them. Maybe the furnace room?”

“Okay, get going. Alert the desk sergeant. Lock down the building. Get people out on the perimeter, looking for a Yamaha two-stroke motorcycle.”

“Fuck, the Dance kid! Right away, sir.” He disappeared.

MacNeice listened for sounds of a struggle but heard nothing. He looked at the floor: no drag marks or blood. Moving down the stairs, he checked the hinged shackle on the fire door to the basement. The padlock lay on the step below. MacNeice drew his weapon, released the safety and pushed the door open.

Reaching into the dark, he felt for the light switch and flicked it—nothing. He considered bringing the entire division down to the basement, but that would only further unhinge Dance. He reached for his Maglite and realized it was in the glove compartment of his
car, which he could still hear blaring in unison with Williams’s. He closed the fire door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust. The glow from a red exit light gave faint definition to his surroundings as he quietly stepped into the narrow corridor and stood still to listen again. Nothing.

He could see four doors, two on either side, and all of them steel. Light spilled from under each. He moved slowly to the one on the right and listened, ear to the door. Nothing. He rotated the handle and felt the latch give way—opening it quickly, he stepped into the division’s storage room. Towers of toilet paper and paper towels in corrugated boxes, liquid soap, hand sanitizers and industrial cleaning supplies, all neatly arranged on grey metal shelving. He leaned into the adjoining wall and held his breath, listening for any sound from the next room. Nothing. MacNeice used a box of soap bottles to prop the door open, and with the added light surveyed the corridor again.
Three doors to go, and still not a sound
.

He moved further down the corridor. Listening again and hearing nothing, he gently released the latch of the next door—it was the office supply storeroom. The booking forms were neatly stacked alongside the stationery, interview pads, file folders, pens and pencils that together kept the bureaucracy of the city’s largest division running. He stood in the doorway and listened. He heard a muffled cry but couldn’t tell which of the two remaining doors it had come from. Stepping quietly across the corridor, he raised his weapon and tried the doorknob—locked. He moved towards the last door.

The sudden flashing lights and blaring of sirens had made Aziz jump. At first she was frightened, and then, feeling somewhat foolish, she was curious as to why both car alarms had fired at the same time. MacNeice had pushed her inside the door. A bike courier was there with his back to her, speaking on a cellphone, a helmet under his arm.

“Yeah, yeah, just finished here. I’m heading up to Mohawk … Yeah.” It was the voice of someone accustomed to taking orders for a living, flat and monotonous.

Aziz was turning to look out the sidelight when he hit her and everything went black. She gasped, and a strange smell filled her mouth and nostrils. She was trying to reach for her Glock when her knees gave out and she pitched forward. She felt vaguely, and not unpleasantly, as if she were floating away.

Billie Dance had slammed his motorcycle helmet backwards onto her head to ensure that the chloroform-soaked sanitary pad inside would be most effective. As her knees folded, he hoisted her onto his shoulder and headed for the basement stairs.

The boiler room had two doors, dating back to when the heating and cooling systems for the city’s largest division had been separate mechanical behemoths. Large galvanized ducts still spread across the ceiling before disappearing up to the floors above. Discovering the room on his scouting trip, he had admired the recently installed modern industrial heat pump, which took up a fraction of the room’s real estate and gave him more than enough space for his purposes. On one side were four green lockers like those he remembered from high school, and on the other a small table with four mismatched chairs. The table was trimmed in chrome and had a worn imitation marble surface. Neatly arranged along the side against the wall were a deck of cards, a cribbage board—with matchsticks for pegs—and a metal jar top that served as an ashtray.

Billie laid the unconscious detective on the floor with her hands in front of her and tightened a plastic tie around her wrists. Then he threw a bungee cord from his backpack over the pipe of the sprinkler system and hoisted her up, looping the J-hooks of the bungee around the plastic tie that held her wrists.