The telephone rang and Motley looked at me.
“Have you heard of a group called the RACE?” I asked.
He shook his head.
I thanked him and let him answer the phone.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I went home. I turned on the TV and flopped on the couch. I flipped through the channels. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Crappy show. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Weather channeclass="underline" chance of everything. Flip. Flip. Flip. Shopping channeclass="underline" a butt sculpture was on sale. I made a mental note of the item number. Flip. Reruns. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Sports: nothing good on, only figure skating. Flip. Cartoons: seen this episode but will watch it again.
In the middle of the episode where the anvil was falling on the helpless coyote I fell asleep.
My cell phone rang.
I opened my eyes and checked the time. It was after 6:30 p.m. “Jon Rupret,” I answered.
“Officer Rupret.” It was Beadsworth. “Am I disturbing you?”
I lowered the volume. “No, driving my car.”
“I thought I heard the television.”
“No. I’m in my car. It’s probably noise from outside. Let me roll up my windows.” I paused. “Yeah, now that’s better. Everything okay?”
“Noel, my son, he broke his arm during a soccer game. He’ll be all right. Thank you.”
“Good.” I was actually glad to hear from him.
“Where are you right now?”
“Um…sorry?”
“What part of the city are you in right now?” He meant where I was driving.
“I’m almost near my house.” That was roughly the truth.
“You live on Gerrard Street. Correct?”
“Yes…”
“I’ll be there in a short time.”
“Where you coming from?” I asked.
“Forest Hill.” He hung up.
Forest Hill? Didn’t the rich live there?
I shook my head and quickly washed up.
The doorbell rang and I rushed down to the main floor. I took Beadsworth upstairs to my apartment.
“Hi, Mike,” I said, passing Michael Jordan, but then stopped.
Beadsworth looked at me oddly.
“It’s a family tradition,” I began. “Never mind.”
I offered him something to drink but he declined.
“Do you live alone?” he asked.
“For now,” I said, as if I was in a serious relationship.
Beadsworth didn’t take a seat. “On my way I made a search of Max Vernon and Vernon Max through CPIC and it came up empty.”
The Canadian Police Information Centre is a database used by the police, corrections and immigration officials, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, to track dangerous criminals. As a PEO, I had used CPIC to track stolen vehicles. The problem with CPIC is that it does not record summary offences-minor crimes that range from fines to six months in jail, crimes that do not require fingerprinting or mug shots.
“This guy is clean,” I said.
“Not quite,” Beadsworth said. “I then did a search on the Criminal Information Processing System, alternating between the two sets of names. I managed a hit. Max Vernon had a collision on Highway 427 in 1999. From there I was able to acquire his address.”
“So we go and pay him a visit,” I said.
“Tomorrow. Right now we have to meet Detective Nemdharry and Constable Terries.”
We were rushing down the stairs when my landlady popped her head out her door.
I stopped and introduced her to my new partner. Living alone and having no alarm system, she was my only security. If an unknown person ever came into our building I had instructed her to call the police. She was my first and last line of defence against would-be thieves and robbers. My partner gave a small courteous bow. She smiled back.
We drove to Scarborough and parked in the back of a coffee shop. We found Nemdharry and Terries sitting near the front windows.
Nemdharry spoke first. “Thanks for coming,” he said.
We satopposite them.
Terries smiled-at me-and I smiled back.
“Phil,” Nemdharry started. “I think we’re on to something.”
Nemdharry’s grayish hair was gelled back, and his light brown skin was smooth and without a blemish. He looked much younger than his age, around Beadsworth’s.
He looked out the window. There was a huge white building across from the coffee shop. It had a wide sign that read: OFFICE SPACE FOR LEASE.
“I think there’s something going on in there,” Nemdharry said. “A tip from our informant gave this address. The owner of the coffee shop says he’s seen some peculiar people come in. Not too friendly. Couple of days ago he saw a moving van in front of the building. I spoke to the company that manages the building and they say it’s an export company.”
“What do they export?” Beadsworth asked.
“Clothes.”
“To where?”
“Southeast Asia,” Nemdharry said.
“What’s the name of the company?”
“LLPM Imports amp; Exports.”
“What does LLPM stand for?”
“Don’t know.”
I caught Terries staring at me. Her cheeks flushed. I turned back to Nemdharry as if it happened all the time.
“You think it could be RACE?” Beadsworth asked.
Terries spoke, “I paid the company a visit. I told them I was looking for some cheap space to rent. I was willing to share space with someone, maybe a quarter of the portion. The receptionist was very polite but said they needed all the space.” As Terries spoke I realized I was staring at her. Her long hair slid down her back, her tiny nose moved up and down while she spoke, her eyes, full of excitement…I blinked and then blinked again…focus, Jon…She was saying, “The floor space is huge about-two thousand square feet. But there’s a large divider in the middle.”
“How do they operate?” Beadsworth said.
“They purchase used clothes in bulk from places like the Goodwill and the Salvation Army and they sell it to countries like Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia.”
That didn’t make sense so I interrupted. “Don’t we import clothes from these countries because it’s cheaper to produce there?”
“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” she said with admiration.
I felt smart.
“What could be behind the divider?” Beadsworth asked.
Terries replied, “It could be a production lab for Nex.”
We all thought about it.
“Can’t be a clandestine lab,” Nemdharry said. “Too risky.”
“Too many people,” Beadsworth concurred.
“Should we go in?” Nemdharry said.
Beadsworth shook his head, “No. Let’s not jump the gun. It could be something or it could be nothing.”
***
He walked out of Mount Sinai Hospital with a heavy bandage wrapped around his head. He was well over six-feet-four and close to three hundred pounds. He made his way to the parking lot. With his fat fingers he rummaged through his pockets searching for the keys. He pulled out the set, but being on medication he was unsteady and uncoordinated. The keys fell to the ground.
He cursed.
Huffing and puffing, he knelt down on one knee and retrieved them.
“Mr. Burrows,” said a voice from behind.
He turned.
A man in a nice suit stood holding a briefcase. “My name is Martin. My last name is not important, but I am a representative and business advisor to someone who is interested in you.”
Ed Burrows was not interested in anyone right now. He was getting a massive headache and all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. “Buzz off,” he said.
“Sir, if you hear me out I promise you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”
“I said buzz off.” Burrows was on his feet now. He was gigantic but that didn’t bother Martin. Someone sitting in a car not far away was much bigger and more menacing than Burrows.
“You used to work for Bantam Pharmaceuticals.”
“Those rat bastards,” Burrows cursed.
“You were working on a painkiller, model P147, until your unfortunate departure.”