Fic: T.O., Russell/ Alan, AU
Feb. 2nd, 2007 02:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
under_hatchesT.O.
12,467 words
This story started out as a Russell Crowe/ Alan Doyle detective AU set in Toronto (hence the title, which is a nickname for the city), but I think it turned out as a decent if cliché-d cop story. I didn't write enough about the case to call it a decent crime story, but there you go. It's one of those things I wrote mostly for myself, maybe that's why I love it as much.
Since 12,467 words seems to be too much for LJ, I'll post it in two parts.
Chapter 1: Milne Park
October had been uncharacteristically cold, and Alan found himself thankful for that. He was kneeling in the dirt between long silvery grasses that made rustling sounds as he moved around carefully. Fugitively trying to keep his coat from dragging through the mud, he crouched close to a little pointer that the first officers at the scene had placed for the photographer. Alan examined the shoe print. He tugged a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, already comparing this crime to another that happened maybe a month ago.
The body was still here, close to the bank of the pond, exactly in the same position as it had been discovered by the first visitors of Milne Park. They were interviewed right now, but Alan could already guess their statements: they had planned to go for a morning walk, maybe a little bird watching which was always best in the early mornings and evenings. The couple had wondered about a bluish tint in the misty grey of the long whistling grass, and the husband had walked over to investigate under the fearful shrieks of his wife. It was always the man who went and caught a first glimpse of the body, stumbling back a little paler and mumbling about the police. If it was a couple that is. Séan was probably interviewing a shaken single girl right now, who wanted to go for a run before work. Ah, clichés, Alan had come to love them. More often than not, they pointed in the right direction.
Due to the chill air, flies were few. Crime Scene had been over the site already, so Alan did not worry about the deep footprints he left in the muddy soil. So far everything pointed to a hit and run, most probably deliberate and not a robbery gone wrong; The victim’s wallet had been found inside his jacket. Single shot, lack of blood suggested the site was only a drop off and not the murder site.
It was not even far from the public parking site, so at least there was hope that someone had noticed a car coming in the small hours and leaving shortly after.
“Yes, right,” Alan thought grimly, “And maybe they even noticed the licence plate.”
At the station, Séan came over with the statements just as Alan sat down at his desk, pulling his hair free from the rubber band he wore while on duty.
“The usual birdwatcher couple,” Séan said. Alan smirked and reached for the reports.
“Any results from the scene back in?”
“Nah.”
“I think it’s connected to the other body we found five weeks ago.”
“I hope not. Serial killers in Toronto?”
“Drug trade related, maybe?”
Séan made a face.
“Leave it to Narcotics then. And don’t give me that look.”
“What look, I’m not giving you any look.”
“The “it’s my case and I want to do that undercover thing and I’m way too stubborn to let anyone else handle it” look.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that.”
Alan paused and looked at Séan.
“I haven’t filed the application yet.”
“You better not.”
“Look, if it’s about my last…”
“No,” Séan interrupted him, “It’s not about the Martins case. It’s about you going solo again.”
Séan gave a nod and turned, ending the conversation.
Alan sighed. He took out the file from a few weeks ago, unsolved murder case with not much to go on. He quickly scanned the important details again. .22 bullet removed from the skull of Mr. Christopher Lankin, small time criminal specialised in drug distribution. He had the drugs still on his body when he was found in a non descript back alley in a suburban neighbourhood. None of the residents had heard a shot, and with all the crime awareness groups formed and still forming, they would have heard it, if there had been one.
Two dead, both being dropped off at a site that ensured that the body was found, both with valuables still in their pockets. Both could have easily been covered as robberies, but weren’t. There were rumours, people were talking about executions.
Alan had moved to Toronto because crime rates were low. You could walk the streets at night, any time of day really or night, even the bad neighbourhoods improving over the recent years. Car theft was a problem, bikes got stolen quickly, but other than that, especially for a city its size, T.O. was more than well behaved.
And now Alan knew he was looking at a series of kills connected to the recent change in power in the drug trade. Alan had heard about the new guy running the business along the transaction line crossing Toronto from the North. He had also heard a name come up again and again. Digging through his notes, he found the number of a former colleague from Narcotics, Browne, who had given him the tip regarding the new organisational structure.
Alan knew that if he tapped into this particular possibility, he would go much further too. Hesitatingly, he picked up the phone and dialled the number from his dog-eared notebook.
“Yeah, this is Doyle. Browne, that you? Good, listen, I need some info on that Crowe guy you were chatting about a few months ago. Yeah, that’s right. Can you fax it? Great!”
He hung up to find Séan looking at him across the room. Maybe he was reading things into it, but Séan seemed to roll his eyes and shrug a little as if to say: “Like you’d ever listen to me.”
Chapter 2: The Park Hyatt
Being undercover wasn’t as glamorous as the movies wanted to make you believe. Most of the time you spent waiting, or hiding, or trying to be unsuspicious. Or you tried to get the attention. Most of the time Alan tried to be confident. He figured a little cheerfulness wouldn’t hurt his alter ego.
There was a furnished one room apartment rented in his alias name, a shabby little hole with ratty curtains he would come back to at the end of the day. He hadn’t bothered putting up his name at the door, figuring that if the suspect wanted to talk to him, he’d find Alan.
Being undercover also meant having no days off, and after three long months, much much longer than he had expected when he had accepted the job, he felt exhausted. He was bone tired by now, but close to making the first real contact. He sat down on the bed in his hideout. As long as he had been flying under the radar he had been able to drive back to his own flat in the evening. To Séan.
He eyed his mobile, wondering about making a quick call to see if everything was all right at home. Unregistered prepaid card, where’s the damage? But then again, Séan had been at him when Alan had last called. He considered writing a card with no return address or name on it; something he had been told they used to do. Maybe before anyone had access to mobile services that easily. Alan smiled.
The phone rang. Alan counted. He let it ring 4 times before picking up. Couldn’t be the station then.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Crowe wants to see you. Roof top bar, Park Hyatt. You have an hour.”
The caller hung up and Alan groaned. Meeting in a public place? The Hyatt was fashionable, to say at least. The rooms came 300 a night, and the bar on the 18th floor had a wraparound terrace. Alan prayed that Crowe wouldn’t want to sit outside; the weather wasn’t exactly friendly.
After a moment of consideration he pulled off the shirt he wore and grabbed a black sweater. That, and a black suit jacket would gain him entrance to the Hyatt. He kept the jeans and the worn sneakers. There was no need to pretend to play by all the rules.
The Park Hyatt itself was impressive, but Alan didn’t stop to look at the marble brilliance of the lobby; he went straight for the elevators. On his way up, he mused at the presence of the service personnel. Crowe couldn’t possibly want to conduct business here.
The doors of the lift opened with a gentle ping, and Alan stepped out. The bar was much smaller than he had thought, and a helpful waiter approached him almost immediately.
“Table for one, Sir?”
“No, I’m meeting someone, thank you.”
Alan scanned the guests, noticing a man with dark hair sitting with his back towards Alan. Alan walked towards the table.
“Mr. Crowe?”
The man smiled at him. He was wearing a dark suit, Italian shoes, Alan noticed, and an expensive coat hung folded over the empty chair next to him. His hair was slightly wet, and Alan glanced outside at the clouds.
“Mr. Pike, right?” Crowe rose from his seat, shaking hands with Alan over the table, before motioning for him to sit down. “So, finally we meet.”
“Yeah. And it’s Alan.”
“All right. Alan.”
Crowe quickly scanned him, as if trying to decide whether or not to trust him.
“The Hyatt, huh?” Alan said. “Quite an address. Almost didn’t make it in time. You know, the traffic.”
“Yeah. Traffic is a killer.” He waved to the waiter. “Could we get another glass please? And I’d like a bottle of this red one, thank you.”
He took a sip from his glass while Alan pretended not to analyse Crowe’s every move.
“You like red, right?”
Alan gave a shrug, “Yeah, sure.”
Actually, he loved red wine. He never bought any of the really expensive bottles, but there was some very nice wine out there.
“This one’s a French one. Very fruity, slight oak note.” He held out his glass.
Alan looked at him, confused about the protocol.
“Take a sip,” Crowe said. His voice sounded hushed, and Alan felt tested. He took the glass from the other man and sipped. When he handed it back, Crowe grinned. Passed.
“Currant,” Alan said, almost to himself and without thinking.
“Very good.”
“Mr. Crowe…”
“It’s Russell.”
So Alan had indeed passed whatever test there was. They talked for two hours about nonsense, emptying the excellent bottle of wine. Not a word about business, Alan thought with a pang of frustration.
“Meet me tomorrow, Alan. Down in the lobby. We’ll talk some more then.”
The next day, Alan waited in the lobby, staring at the rosewood décor. He had called the station from his mobile as soon as he had been back in his apartment. Without his files, he had only been able to give a brief update. Now he was more nervous then he should have been.
Crowe was punctual. He came from the direction of the elevators, hair wet again.
He gave a bemused smile when he saw Alan’s look.
“I use the spa here,” Russell explained. “Let’s go get the car, won’t we?”
In the car, Crowe’s friendly demeanour changed immediately.
“I want you to be my new carrier. I take it that you have experience in that field of business?”
“Yeah, I have.” Alan did not offer any background. Most of the time it was wiser not to.
“Good. A shipment will arrive tonight. Are you in for late work too?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
“No family that misses you?”
The personal question almost threw Alan off.
“No.”
“What about your boyfriend?” Russell gave him a side glance.
“Uh, what?”
“You’ve been seen with a man, Alan. Dark blonde, nice looking fellow. He won’t miss you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Russell stopped the car.
“I want you to pick up a parcel at the main station. Locker 28. Bring it to the address on the card. Don’t look inside the parcel, don’t take any detours. Just pick up the thing and bring it. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now get out.”
Narcotics would have a field day with this bit of information, Alan thought. Too bad they didn’t want Crowe for import. Alan took a bus back and then his car to the station. He went straight up to his partner.
“Hey, Séan. We have a problem.”
“Yeah, you showing up like that.”
“No. Crowe thinks you’re my boyfriend.”
“Not that wrong, is he?”
“That’s not the point.”
Séan sighed.
“Yeah, I know.”
Alan was thoroughly pissed. No personal information could leak, ever, especially not about family.
“Just be careful, all right?” Alan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Does that mean you made it in?”
Alan nodded, not in the mood for celebration. When he looked up, he saw the Chief standing in the open door to his office.
“Doyle, my office,” Chief Adair said briskly.
“Got to go.”
Chapter 3: Bruce’s Mill
Chief Adair was tall, almost lanky, with a soft voice. He hardly ever raised his voice, but when he shouted everyone shook. Not necessarily from the volume, but from the anger that was almost palpable. He was not your average TV series chief, who always seemed a bit too old for the field, a bit too conservative for the office. Now that Alan thought about it, Walkers seemed awfully young for the job. He was only a few years older than Alan. Suddenly, Alan felt very depressed. Unconsciously, he put one hand on his belly, frowning at the roundness.
“Report,” Chief Adair demanded.
“All according to plan. No mentioning of anything but deliveries yet, Sir.”
“Just make sure you keep a good record of them. And keep us updated, no solo attempts.”
“I will, Sir. And I won’t.”
“Can’t have you accused of actively participating distributing drugs. Make sure no delivery is unaccounted for.”
“So far, I seem to be only a carrier.”
Adair looked at him.
“I want a weekly update. If you can’t give one for whatever reason at least get back to us. To McCann the least.”
“I will.”
“Good. That’s good. Just make sure we get you out of there as soon as possible. Understood?”
“Understood.”
When Alan came back out, rolling his eyes, he saw Séan hunched over his desk. He had his phone pressed close to his ear, scribbling down notes.
“What is it?” Alan asked when Séan had hung up.
“Another body in Rouge Park, this time more concealed. I need to go, Alan.” Séan grabbed his jacket
“Where did they find it?”
“Up at Bruce’s Mill, half buried under soil and leaves. I’ll call you from the site.”
“Bruce’s Mill? That area has lots of light woods, right?”
“Alan. I’ll call you.”
Séan turned, this time not looking back, and walked out of the door.
When he tried Alan’s cell phone an hour later, scene already swarming with Crime Scene people, Alan was not answering. Séan sighed and tried Alan’s phone at the station. It got snatched up after two rings.
“What the fuck are you still doing at the station,” Séan shouted, not caring about half a dozen people looking up. “You’re not supposed to be there!”
Alan sounded nonchalant.
“I’d rather have the police talk with you while I’m still at the station, Séan. What have you got?”
“One male body, hidden under a bed of leaves and soil and then some more leaves. Looks like some animals were at the corpse. We’re missing at least some smaller bones. Doesn’t look like anything has been cut off though.”
“Wait. Leaves, soil, leaves? What’s the time of death?”
“Coroner can’t say. Doesn’t look too fresh though.”
“Maybe the body wasn’t hidden, Séan. What if, by freak accident, no one discovered the body until now? Maybe it was dropped before autumn. Make them check that.”
“Yeah, sure, I will. That would make this one our first murder, right?”
“Yeah. And it would fit with the MO of the other murders because the body would have been dropped within plain sight again.”
“I’ll make them check it, all right?” Séan rubbed his eyes, hearing the excitement in his partner’s voice. “It might take a while, you know how they are.”
“Is the wallet still there?”
Séan huffed. “I don’t know, okay? I’ll let you know as soon as I know. I promise.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”
“Look, I got to go. Get out of the station. I don’t want to see you when I’m back, you got that?”
“Yeah, I love you too, Séan.”
Séan rolled his eyes and hung up. He made a mental note of calling Alan later on his mobile. He rubbed his eyes again and tried to focus on the scene, tried to remember what kind of notes Alan would want. When he turned and saw the other officers, he wanted to get to his car and leave. It did not feel right.
He was being swamped by paper work while Alan was doing God knows what.
Alan packed a few things into a folder, taking a handful of notes before sneaking out of the station again. He had left the folder on Séan’s desk, hoping Séan would contribute the missing pieces about today’s case once the results were in. He had even pinned a post it to the folder. Call me when you know anything, it said. He had not been able to resist the gentle poke.
He went straight home, if you could call it home. Ever since he started to work for Crowe in earnest he had had to refrain from visiting Séan too often. Between his own suspiciousness and Séan’s fear of him getting discovered, it ended in them meeting once a month if Alan was lucky. Mostly it was run ins like today.
He called Séan once a week from his cell phone. Twice if he felt adventurous.
Today, it was Séan who called him.
“Hey.”
“Hey. So where’s my update?”
“Ouch. Don’t you miss me?”
“You know I do.”
Alan could hear the couch creak when Séan sat down.
“You know what I miss too,” Alan asked, grinning.
“You’re going to tell me.”
“That wobbly couch table you’re currently using as a foot stool.”
Séan laughed. “All right, I’m putting them on the couch. Better?”
Alan laughed too, enjoying the familiar image of Séan laying on the couch in their living room, legs slightly curled, head propped up on one pillow. He listened to the update Séan gave him. It was not much to go on, but the wallet had been found close to the body, money still inside. No results yet from forensic, but Alan was not expecting anything before the end of the week.
“I think we need to revaluate Crowe as a suspect,” he finally said.
“Succumbing to his charms?”
“No. Not at all.”
Alan smiled.
“You better hang up now. I love you.”
“I love you too, Séan. Bye.”
Three months and counting. Alan flopped down on his bed, suddenly weary. The body found today did not fit the profile they had been working at. The time frame had slipped. And between deliveries, drop offs and the odd party Crowe attended, Alan could not detect anything that would have helped the three murder cases in his desk at the station. He had asked, discreetly, pretending to be curious about the organisation. Not a single hit since Alan was part of Crowe’s business. He was beginning to think they were wrong.
Chapter 4: Dance Hall
When Alan noticed the slim man was following him, he left his usual route home. Crisscrossing through the small streets and back alleys, he hoped the guy would lose interest and leave. When he turned at a corner he tried to get a glimpse of him; dirty red hooded sweater, tattered jeans, slim pointy face. He wore his hood, successfully hiding almost half his face.
Alan walked around a corner and saw a crowd of people in front of a Dance Hall. He casually tried to blend into the crowd, slipping into the theatre. He leaned behind a pillar, waiting whether or not the man would appear. Alan thought he saw him for a split second, and moved further into the building. He ended up in the ground floor of what seemed to be an old fashioned theatre with balconies and red plush seating. There was a dance floor, but it was not the usual dance hall with everyone dancing. It seemed to be a show dance of some sort, maybe a competition or a performance of a local dancing school. People were dressed up and chatting excitingly. Due to the casualness, Alan did not feel out of place in his beat up weather coat. He was not exactly dressed for the occasion but he did not get any glares for not blending in properly. Though this would have been an advantage, he thought. The lights around the dance floor dimmed when the music started and the first dancers came in. The crowd clapped and Alan spotted a now uncomfortably familiar face behind a row of spectators.
Alan ducked behind a row of dancers that were swooping over the dance floor; women in long dresses, with bouncing feathers at the hems, and men in tailored tuxes, not the usual never fitting rented version Alan knew. He didn't dare to draw his gun. There was no reason to alarm the guests, and as long as their eyes were fixed on the professional dancers in the middle of the hall he was save to sneak around. Besides, he could not say for sure whether or not the other guy had a weapon.
Alan held close to the wall, creeping along the sides. He moved slowly, surveying the guests, scanning the crowd for the guy who had followed him around. With the constant swirl of colours in the room it was hard to focus. Whenever he thought he caught some movement out of the corner of his eyes, and consequently turned, it was only one of the pairs dancing. For a moment he looked at the numbers on their back, wondering how any jury could focus long enough on one pair to evaluate them. He saw someone move on the other side of the room. When Alan looked over, the man quickly vanished into the crowd. Alan moved through the audience, mumbling excuses along the way.
When he reached the other side of the establishment, the man obviously was gone, and Alan could have smacked himself for hoping to at least get a better look of his persecutor. One dance ended, the audience dutifully clapping in the short interval, and almost instantly the pairs rushed off, leaving the stage to different dancers in shorter costumes.
Alan stormed into Crowe’s office not much later. Crowe had rented a floor in one of the non descript warehouses in the industrial area; houses that were mostly rent out to computer firms, or shops that merely operated over the internet. He had set up two representative rooms as offices, even had a front desk. Alan had rushed by the guy sitting at said front desk, the one that was supposed to provide some security – John something. Evans? He had to look it up. They all went by some stupid nickname anyway around here. Alan pushed open the door, not even waiting until it had closed again before he shouted at the man sitting at the desk.
“What the fuck was that about?”
Russell looked up. He looked at Alan over the brim of his glasses and lay down the pen he was holding.
“What was what about?”
“If you want to know anything about me, just ask.”
Alan was shouting at the top of his lungs, but he could not bring himself to care. Especially not while the other man looked at him somewhat curiously and calm.
“Care to explain why you’re angry?” Despite his raised voice, Russell still sounded composed.
“Don’t give me that psychologist crap.” Alan slammed his hands down on the desk, causing Russell to flinch slightly. “I saw the guy who followed me.”
Russell stood up, his face red.
“I had no one following you,” he finally shouted, “I don’t need to resort to something like that.”
Both men stared at each other. Alan was breathing hard, whether from the run here or the anger he had felt pending up ever since the thought occurred to him that it might have been one of Russell’s informants that had kept following him to God knows where. Maybe even to Séan. He slammed his fist down on the table again.
“Just ask, all right,” he managed through clenched teeth and turned to leave.
“Alan.”
Something in Russell’s voice almost made Alan turn again. He told himself that he did not want to fuck it up, desperately not to fuck up, since that would mean half a year for nothing. But he felt a little stubborn, and it appeared to him that he had boundaries to make clear. So he did not turn, the grovelling that he knew was in order simply not happening. He left without turning, never seeing the smile on Russell’s face.
Russell walked around his desk again, quickly packing up the books he had been updating. He put them in the upper drawer, locking the compartment before picking up the phone. No ten minutes later a man came in, unshaven and unwashed. His eyes were too small behind too stylish glasses. He had a long neck, and his Adam’s apple bopped nervously. He brushed his nose with one sleeve of a red sweater that had seen better times.
Russell waved him closer, leaning in before purring out: “You need to be more careful.”
The man nodded, opening his mouth.
“Save your apology. I don’t want to hear it,” Russell said.
Chapter 5: Industrial Area
The scene on Bruce’s Mill turned out clean. No prints, no leads, no nothing. Séan threw the file on his desk, wondering if they had missed something. The coroner confirmed what they had suspected; the body had been out there quite some time. The rain had washed away the evidence, and among all the animal bites it turned out to be impossible to find possible defensive wounds. Bullet type and marks were a match to the other crime scenes though, so Séan picked up the phone to brief Alan.
He let it rang, counting, then hanging up and letting it ring again. There was no answer.
Russell sat in his office, reading through the file he had just received in the mail. There was a knock on the door, and for a moment Russell thought that maybe Rat had finally learned not to barge in. But it was Alan who came in after Russell’s call.
“Hey. Just wanted to let you know that the drop off went fine.”
Russell closed the file and stuffed it back into the envelop it came from.
“Close the door. We need to talk.”
Alan closed the door, and Russell could see Alan’s shoulders shake a little as he obviously breathed out deeply before turning to face Russell. In the months he had been here, Russell had never called him inside his office for a talk; it had to felt like a visit to the principal. The question What did I do wrong? was clearly visible in Alan’s face. Over the months Russell had come to read him quite easily. It was easy to imagine the knot in Alan’s stomach when he sat down in the chair in front of Russell’s desk.
“So?” Alan said.
“Few of the guys worry, Alan.”
“Really? What about?”
“Loyalty.”
Alan managed to keep his face neutral. He probably told himself that it could mean anything and not necessarily his loyalty to the organisation, which frankly was shaky at best. Russell was aware of Alan’s contributions. Drop offs went just fine and always did. There weren’t any complains. Alan had proved even better at personal security, with a remarkable sense for both places and people.
“What did they say?” Alan asked now, sounding just a tiny bit shaky.
Russell looked at him. He thought of the file in the envelope in front of him.
“Nothing you need to know. I want to keep you closer though. Just in case. No more drop offs.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re promoted to escorting. I can’t have you wandering the streets at night anymore.”
“Did somebody…”
“No one complained. I have my reasons,” Russell interrupted, aware that Alan might have wanted to ask a different question.
Alan looked at him a little peculiar. Then he blinked and nodded, accepting the offer. Russell slowly counted to ten before asking the last question.
“Do you know how to fire a gun?”
Alan came home late. He kicked off his shoes and loosened the silver tie that he had been wearing all evening. He had not expected having to escort Russell right away. He was even more surprised when he realised Crowe had been invited to a high society gathering. Some art show or other, with women in fancy dresses and men in tuxes and suits. Russell had provided him with a black suit, close enough to his size to be a good fit, and Alan had done his best to ensure a certain security and privacy at the event. It had neither been difficult nor felt too unfamiliar, but he could not help being bothered by the circumstances of his job change.
He called Séan from his mobile. He only wanted to inform him, Alan told himself. When Séan picked up, he sounded upset.
“Where have you been? I tried to reach you all day.”
“Gallery opening. And no, not for fun. I’m escorting Crowe now.”
“That’s not the kind of news I wanted to hear.”
“I know. Better tell our trigger happy colleagues to keep their guns in their holsters when they see Crowe.”
“So you’re working as a bodyguard now?” Séan’s tone was slightly mocking. “Seems as if you’re spending a lot of time with him in the future.”
Séan gave him a short report on the forensic results. Alan could hear the disappointment in Séan’s voice. They did not have much to go on, so maybe this new job was a blessing.
Chapter 6: Highway 400 to Barrie
The wind was howling through the streets and around the buildings. It sounded slow and not unlike wailing. As a dog began to bark - doubtlessly at nothing at all or maybe the shadows in the family's yard - Alan thought that if everything has a soundtrack, the soundtrack for tonight would be Bad Moon Rising. Ever since Russell called to tell him to come over, which obviously meant that he had to leave the hideout, he had the feeling that trouble was on the way. He could not say what made him uneasy, but gut feeling was something he had come to trust over the years. It was not a good night to be caught outside in. Even the city seemed to acknowledge it, and the rain was doing its best to keep people off the streets.
Alan wore his issued gun tonight in a holster around his right ankle. It was a risk to take it along; especially after Russell had told him his thoughts about guns. He had sounded as if he had been joking but his eyes had been serious. A pacifist who was a weapons trader - it sounded like a joke. Yet Russell had a very strict policy about guns within his vicinity. Alan was certain that Russell carried one himself, even though he had never seen it. Never underestimate your opponent, his chief had warned him. Even a normally peaceful man could carry a gun. So Alan packed his .22 standard issue, dismissing spare bullets. If he had to shoot, he would not have the time to reload anyway. Alan slipped into his thigh long coat and checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure you couldn't see the holster under his heavy jeans. He gave a long sigh, and bent down to open the Velcro fastening of his holster. He threw the gun into the top drawer of his nightstand, slamming it shut.
Walking into the night without a gun may be dangerous, he thought, but getting caught with a gun would be fatal in any case.
"I hear hurricanes ablowing," Alan sang quietly as he locked his door, "I know the end is coming soon."
A chilling wind blew. The dried leaves rustled on the branches and each gust of wind ripped more leaves away, hurling them along the road Alan was walking. Alan thought about the last call to the station, which had been fruitless except for a quick check up of names. Ever since the incident back in April he had taken notes of any name he had come across. He now knew the rap sheet of almost every one of Crowe’s little gang, mostly petty crimes with the occasional mixed in wanna be full time criminal. So far Alan had made out three men to look out for. Not much, considering the kind of business Crowe was running. Surprisingly, the number of violent crimes was low, no overall aggressive behaviour, no history of domestic violence. Alan suspected a few guys to be smarter than getting caught every time, and the three he had picked for further investigation had almost blank sheets. Their only conspicuity being their association with Russell. That was exactly what made Alan nervous.
He huffed a little. Maybe he had to look somewhere outside the organisation. He was starting to suspect a lone runner. Even worse, he suspected Russell did not know anything about it. For some reason he was feeling uneasy about it. Maybe he would talk to Russell later.
When the shot rang through the darkness, Alan whirled around. The bullet whizzed by his body, burning a hole into his coat. Alan went down with the realisation that he had been shot at. It was mostly nerves and the hope that the shooter would think that he had hit his mark.
While lying in the street, Alan could smell the gun powder residue. He tried to analyse the situation, knowing he could not send Crime Scene over to collect evidence. His senses went high wire and he knew he should not trust the burned smell he seemed to notice. That it might be only memory, unbidden but still rising up and poking at the outer realm of his consciousness. If not, the shooter had to be close. Maybe close enough to check on him. Along with his memory of gun powder and burnt flesh came the memory of pain, and Alan curled up. Bullets are hot. Alan had not forgotten the searing pain, the way he had thought he could tell where exactly the bullet had been lodged in his body, the way it had shattered one rib before slowing down enough to get stuck in soft tissue. Unconsciously, he rubbed his side, forever referring to it as his bad side now.
He still lay curled up, not daring to move, when a car screeched to a halt next to the curve he was lying in. The passenger door was opened and he heard Russell shout.
“Get in, get into the car!”
Alan climbed in, suddenly able to move again, but still more crawling than walking. He slammed the door shut and Russell sped off. He was driving as if someone was still firing round after round at them.
“You didn’t come to our meeting place, so I came looking,” Russell said. He finally slowed down, driving within the speed limit again.
Alan sat hunched over in his seat, adrenaline wearing off and leaving him feel hollow and scared.
“Are you all right?” Russell asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Alan answered, looking out of the window. “Where are we going?”
The city whizzed by. All Alan could tell was the main direction Russell was driving. He almost told Russell that if he would take a sharp left at the next cross roads they would be driving by his home. His real home. He was not on guard anymore. Russell reached over and gently padded Alan’s side.
“Someplace safe, I hope,” Russell finally said when he passed by Alan’s turn and kept straight ahead at the cross roads.
“We’re going north, aren’t we?”
Alan was aware of how tired he sounded. He pulled his coat closer around himself and, remembering to buckle up, fiddled with his belt.
“Yeah.”
“Are you going on the highway?”
“Yeah, we’re talking the 400 north.” Russell sounded as if he was smiling.
“That’s good,” Alan said, not knowing why it seemed to him that way.
They drove in silence, Alan so lost in thoughts that he lost the time. Russell reached over once in a while, gently nudging Alan to see if he was awake, or pushing away some hair to get a look at Alan’s face.
Alan could easily imagine Russell as the head of a small family, playing around in the garden with his children, concerned about a scraped knee. He had a tenderness about him that seemed ill fitting for his line of business.
“D’you have children?” Alan mumbled.
“No. No children. Why are you asking?”
“Just because.”
Exhaustion spread over Alan like a blanket and he could feel himself drift off to the steady sounds of the car.
12,467 words
This story started out as a Russell Crowe/ Alan Doyle detective AU set in Toronto (hence the title, which is a nickname for the city), but I think it turned out as a decent if cliché-d cop story. I didn't write enough about the case to call it a decent crime story, but there you go. It's one of those things I wrote mostly for myself, maybe that's why I love it as much.
Since 12,467 words seems to be too much for LJ, I'll post it in two parts.
Chapter 1: Milne Park
October had been uncharacteristically cold, and Alan found himself thankful for that. He was kneeling in the dirt between long silvery grasses that made rustling sounds as he moved around carefully. Fugitively trying to keep his coat from dragging through the mud, he crouched close to a little pointer that the first officers at the scene had placed for the photographer. Alan examined the shoe print. He tugged a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, already comparing this crime to another that happened maybe a month ago.
The body was still here, close to the bank of the pond, exactly in the same position as it had been discovered by the first visitors of Milne Park. They were interviewed right now, but Alan could already guess their statements: they had planned to go for a morning walk, maybe a little bird watching which was always best in the early mornings and evenings. The couple had wondered about a bluish tint in the misty grey of the long whistling grass, and the husband had walked over to investigate under the fearful shrieks of his wife. It was always the man who went and caught a first glimpse of the body, stumbling back a little paler and mumbling about the police. If it was a couple that is. Séan was probably interviewing a shaken single girl right now, who wanted to go for a run before work. Ah, clichés, Alan had come to love them. More often than not, they pointed in the right direction.
Due to the chill air, flies were few. Crime Scene had been over the site already, so Alan did not worry about the deep footprints he left in the muddy soil. So far everything pointed to a hit and run, most probably deliberate and not a robbery gone wrong; The victim’s wallet had been found inside his jacket. Single shot, lack of blood suggested the site was only a drop off and not the murder site.
It was not even far from the public parking site, so at least there was hope that someone had noticed a car coming in the small hours and leaving shortly after.
“Yes, right,” Alan thought grimly, “And maybe they even noticed the licence plate.”
At the station, Séan came over with the statements just as Alan sat down at his desk, pulling his hair free from the rubber band he wore while on duty.
“The usual birdwatcher couple,” Séan said. Alan smirked and reached for the reports.
“Any results from the scene back in?”
“Nah.”
“I think it’s connected to the other body we found five weeks ago.”
“I hope not. Serial killers in Toronto?”
“Drug trade related, maybe?”
Séan made a face.
“Leave it to Narcotics then. And don’t give me that look.”
“What look, I’m not giving you any look.”
“The “it’s my case and I want to do that undercover thing and I’m way too stubborn to let anyone else handle it” look.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that.”
Alan paused and looked at Séan.
“I haven’t filed the application yet.”
“You better not.”
“Look, if it’s about my last…”
“No,” Séan interrupted him, “It’s not about the Martins case. It’s about you going solo again.”
Séan gave a nod and turned, ending the conversation.
Alan sighed. He took out the file from a few weeks ago, unsolved murder case with not much to go on. He quickly scanned the important details again. .22 bullet removed from the skull of Mr. Christopher Lankin, small time criminal specialised in drug distribution. He had the drugs still on his body when he was found in a non descript back alley in a suburban neighbourhood. None of the residents had heard a shot, and with all the crime awareness groups formed and still forming, they would have heard it, if there had been one.
Two dead, both being dropped off at a site that ensured that the body was found, both with valuables still in their pockets. Both could have easily been covered as robberies, but weren’t. There were rumours, people were talking about executions.
Alan had moved to Toronto because crime rates were low. You could walk the streets at night, any time of day really or night, even the bad neighbourhoods improving over the recent years. Car theft was a problem, bikes got stolen quickly, but other than that, especially for a city its size, T.O. was more than well behaved.
And now Alan knew he was looking at a series of kills connected to the recent change in power in the drug trade. Alan had heard about the new guy running the business along the transaction line crossing Toronto from the North. He had also heard a name come up again and again. Digging through his notes, he found the number of a former colleague from Narcotics, Browne, who had given him the tip regarding the new organisational structure.
Alan knew that if he tapped into this particular possibility, he would go much further too. Hesitatingly, he picked up the phone and dialled the number from his dog-eared notebook.
“Yeah, this is Doyle. Browne, that you? Good, listen, I need some info on that Crowe guy you were chatting about a few months ago. Yeah, that’s right. Can you fax it? Great!”
He hung up to find Séan looking at him across the room. Maybe he was reading things into it, but Séan seemed to roll his eyes and shrug a little as if to say: “Like you’d ever listen to me.”
Chapter 2: The Park Hyatt
Being undercover wasn’t as glamorous as the movies wanted to make you believe. Most of the time you spent waiting, or hiding, or trying to be unsuspicious. Or you tried to get the attention. Most of the time Alan tried to be confident. He figured a little cheerfulness wouldn’t hurt his alter ego.
There was a furnished one room apartment rented in his alias name, a shabby little hole with ratty curtains he would come back to at the end of the day. He hadn’t bothered putting up his name at the door, figuring that if the suspect wanted to talk to him, he’d find Alan.
Being undercover also meant having no days off, and after three long months, much much longer than he had expected when he had accepted the job, he felt exhausted. He was bone tired by now, but close to making the first real contact. He sat down on the bed in his hideout. As long as he had been flying under the radar he had been able to drive back to his own flat in the evening. To Séan.
He eyed his mobile, wondering about making a quick call to see if everything was all right at home. Unregistered prepaid card, where’s the damage? But then again, Séan had been at him when Alan had last called. He considered writing a card with no return address or name on it; something he had been told they used to do. Maybe before anyone had access to mobile services that easily. Alan smiled.
The phone rang. Alan counted. He let it ring 4 times before picking up. Couldn’t be the station then.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Crowe wants to see you. Roof top bar, Park Hyatt. You have an hour.”
The caller hung up and Alan groaned. Meeting in a public place? The Hyatt was fashionable, to say at least. The rooms came 300 a night, and the bar on the 18th floor had a wraparound terrace. Alan prayed that Crowe wouldn’t want to sit outside; the weather wasn’t exactly friendly.
After a moment of consideration he pulled off the shirt he wore and grabbed a black sweater. That, and a black suit jacket would gain him entrance to the Hyatt. He kept the jeans and the worn sneakers. There was no need to pretend to play by all the rules.
The Park Hyatt itself was impressive, but Alan didn’t stop to look at the marble brilliance of the lobby; he went straight for the elevators. On his way up, he mused at the presence of the service personnel. Crowe couldn’t possibly want to conduct business here.
The doors of the lift opened with a gentle ping, and Alan stepped out. The bar was much smaller than he had thought, and a helpful waiter approached him almost immediately.
“Table for one, Sir?”
“No, I’m meeting someone, thank you.”
Alan scanned the guests, noticing a man with dark hair sitting with his back towards Alan. Alan walked towards the table.
“Mr. Crowe?”
The man smiled at him. He was wearing a dark suit, Italian shoes, Alan noticed, and an expensive coat hung folded over the empty chair next to him. His hair was slightly wet, and Alan glanced outside at the clouds.
“Mr. Pike, right?” Crowe rose from his seat, shaking hands with Alan over the table, before motioning for him to sit down. “So, finally we meet.”
“Yeah. And it’s Alan.”
“All right. Alan.”
Crowe quickly scanned him, as if trying to decide whether or not to trust him.
“The Hyatt, huh?” Alan said. “Quite an address. Almost didn’t make it in time. You know, the traffic.”
“Yeah. Traffic is a killer.” He waved to the waiter. “Could we get another glass please? And I’d like a bottle of this red one, thank you.”
He took a sip from his glass while Alan pretended not to analyse Crowe’s every move.
“You like red, right?”
Alan gave a shrug, “Yeah, sure.”
Actually, he loved red wine. He never bought any of the really expensive bottles, but there was some very nice wine out there.
“This one’s a French one. Very fruity, slight oak note.” He held out his glass.
Alan looked at him, confused about the protocol.
“Take a sip,” Crowe said. His voice sounded hushed, and Alan felt tested. He took the glass from the other man and sipped. When he handed it back, Crowe grinned. Passed.
“Currant,” Alan said, almost to himself and without thinking.
“Very good.”
“Mr. Crowe…”
“It’s Russell.”
So Alan had indeed passed whatever test there was. They talked for two hours about nonsense, emptying the excellent bottle of wine. Not a word about business, Alan thought with a pang of frustration.
“Meet me tomorrow, Alan. Down in the lobby. We’ll talk some more then.”
The next day, Alan waited in the lobby, staring at the rosewood décor. He had called the station from his mobile as soon as he had been back in his apartment. Without his files, he had only been able to give a brief update. Now he was more nervous then he should have been.
Crowe was punctual. He came from the direction of the elevators, hair wet again.
He gave a bemused smile when he saw Alan’s look.
“I use the spa here,” Russell explained. “Let’s go get the car, won’t we?”
In the car, Crowe’s friendly demeanour changed immediately.
“I want you to be my new carrier. I take it that you have experience in that field of business?”
“Yeah, I have.” Alan did not offer any background. Most of the time it was wiser not to.
“Good. A shipment will arrive tonight. Are you in for late work too?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
“No family that misses you?”
The personal question almost threw Alan off.
“No.”
“What about your boyfriend?” Russell gave him a side glance.
“Uh, what?”
“You’ve been seen with a man, Alan. Dark blonde, nice looking fellow. He won’t miss you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Russell stopped the car.
“I want you to pick up a parcel at the main station. Locker 28. Bring it to the address on the card. Don’t look inside the parcel, don’t take any detours. Just pick up the thing and bring it. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now get out.”
Narcotics would have a field day with this bit of information, Alan thought. Too bad they didn’t want Crowe for import. Alan took a bus back and then his car to the station. He went straight up to his partner.
“Hey, Séan. We have a problem.”
“Yeah, you showing up like that.”
“No. Crowe thinks you’re my boyfriend.”
“Not that wrong, is he?”
“That’s not the point.”
Séan sighed.
“Yeah, I know.”
Alan was thoroughly pissed. No personal information could leak, ever, especially not about family.
“Just be careful, all right?” Alan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Does that mean you made it in?”
Alan nodded, not in the mood for celebration. When he looked up, he saw the Chief standing in the open door to his office.
“Doyle, my office,” Chief Adair said briskly.
“Got to go.”
Chapter 3: Bruce’s Mill
Chief Adair was tall, almost lanky, with a soft voice. He hardly ever raised his voice, but when he shouted everyone shook. Not necessarily from the volume, but from the anger that was almost palpable. He was not your average TV series chief, who always seemed a bit too old for the field, a bit too conservative for the office. Now that Alan thought about it, Walkers seemed awfully young for the job. He was only a few years older than Alan. Suddenly, Alan felt very depressed. Unconsciously, he put one hand on his belly, frowning at the roundness.
“Report,” Chief Adair demanded.
“All according to plan. No mentioning of anything but deliveries yet, Sir.”
“Just make sure you keep a good record of them. And keep us updated, no solo attempts.”
“I will, Sir. And I won’t.”
“Can’t have you accused of actively participating distributing drugs. Make sure no delivery is unaccounted for.”
“So far, I seem to be only a carrier.”
Adair looked at him.
“I want a weekly update. If you can’t give one for whatever reason at least get back to us. To McCann the least.”
“I will.”
“Good. That’s good. Just make sure we get you out of there as soon as possible. Understood?”
“Understood.”
When Alan came back out, rolling his eyes, he saw Séan hunched over his desk. He had his phone pressed close to his ear, scribbling down notes.
“What is it?” Alan asked when Séan had hung up.
“Another body in Rouge Park, this time more concealed. I need to go, Alan.” Séan grabbed his jacket
“Where did they find it?”
“Up at Bruce’s Mill, half buried under soil and leaves. I’ll call you from the site.”
“Bruce’s Mill? That area has lots of light woods, right?”
“Alan. I’ll call you.”
Séan turned, this time not looking back, and walked out of the door.
When he tried Alan’s cell phone an hour later, scene already swarming with Crime Scene people, Alan was not answering. Séan sighed and tried Alan’s phone at the station. It got snatched up after two rings.
“What the fuck are you still doing at the station,” Séan shouted, not caring about half a dozen people looking up. “You’re not supposed to be there!”
Alan sounded nonchalant.
“I’d rather have the police talk with you while I’m still at the station, Séan. What have you got?”
“One male body, hidden under a bed of leaves and soil and then some more leaves. Looks like some animals were at the corpse. We’re missing at least some smaller bones. Doesn’t look like anything has been cut off though.”
“Wait. Leaves, soil, leaves? What’s the time of death?”
“Coroner can’t say. Doesn’t look too fresh though.”
“Maybe the body wasn’t hidden, Séan. What if, by freak accident, no one discovered the body until now? Maybe it was dropped before autumn. Make them check that.”
“Yeah, sure, I will. That would make this one our first murder, right?”
“Yeah. And it would fit with the MO of the other murders because the body would have been dropped within plain sight again.”
“I’ll make them check it, all right?” Séan rubbed his eyes, hearing the excitement in his partner’s voice. “It might take a while, you know how they are.”
“Is the wallet still there?”
Séan huffed. “I don’t know, okay? I’ll let you know as soon as I know. I promise.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”
“Look, I got to go. Get out of the station. I don’t want to see you when I’m back, you got that?”
“Yeah, I love you too, Séan.”
Séan rolled his eyes and hung up. He made a mental note of calling Alan later on his mobile. He rubbed his eyes again and tried to focus on the scene, tried to remember what kind of notes Alan would want. When he turned and saw the other officers, he wanted to get to his car and leave. It did not feel right.
He was being swamped by paper work while Alan was doing God knows what.
Alan packed a few things into a folder, taking a handful of notes before sneaking out of the station again. He had left the folder on Séan’s desk, hoping Séan would contribute the missing pieces about today’s case once the results were in. He had even pinned a post it to the folder. Call me when you know anything, it said. He had not been able to resist the gentle poke.
He went straight home, if you could call it home. Ever since he started to work for Crowe in earnest he had had to refrain from visiting Séan too often. Between his own suspiciousness and Séan’s fear of him getting discovered, it ended in them meeting once a month if Alan was lucky. Mostly it was run ins like today.
He called Séan once a week from his cell phone. Twice if he felt adventurous.
Today, it was Séan who called him.
“Hey.”
“Hey. So where’s my update?”
“Ouch. Don’t you miss me?”
“You know I do.”
Alan could hear the couch creak when Séan sat down.
“You know what I miss too,” Alan asked, grinning.
“You’re going to tell me.”
“That wobbly couch table you’re currently using as a foot stool.”
Séan laughed. “All right, I’m putting them on the couch. Better?”
Alan laughed too, enjoying the familiar image of Séan laying on the couch in their living room, legs slightly curled, head propped up on one pillow. He listened to the update Séan gave him. It was not much to go on, but the wallet had been found close to the body, money still inside. No results yet from forensic, but Alan was not expecting anything before the end of the week.
“I think we need to revaluate Crowe as a suspect,” he finally said.
“Succumbing to his charms?”
“No. Not at all.”
Alan smiled.
“You better hang up now. I love you.”
“I love you too, Séan. Bye.”
Three months and counting. Alan flopped down on his bed, suddenly weary. The body found today did not fit the profile they had been working at. The time frame had slipped. And between deliveries, drop offs and the odd party Crowe attended, Alan could not detect anything that would have helped the three murder cases in his desk at the station. He had asked, discreetly, pretending to be curious about the organisation. Not a single hit since Alan was part of Crowe’s business. He was beginning to think they were wrong.
Chapter 4: Dance Hall
When Alan noticed the slim man was following him, he left his usual route home. Crisscrossing through the small streets and back alleys, he hoped the guy would lose interest and leave. When he turned at a corner he tried to get a glimpse of him; dirty red hooded sweater, tattered jeans, slim pointy face. He wore his hood, successfully hiding almost half his face.
Alan walked around a corner and saw a crowd of people in front of a Dance Hall. He casually tried to blend into the crowd, slipping into the theatre. He leaned behind a pillar, waiting whether or not the man would appear. Alan thought he saw him for a split second, and moved further into the building. He ended up in the ground floor of what seemed to be an old fashioned theatre with balconies and red plush seating. There was a dance floor, but it was not the usual dance hall with everyone dancing. It seemed to be a show dance of some sort, maybe a competition or a performance of a local dancing school. People were dressed up and chatting excitingly. Due to the casualness, Alan did not feel out of place in his beat up weather coat. He was not exactly dressed for the occasion but he did not get any glares for not blending in properly. Though this would have been an advantage, he thought. The lights around the dance floor dimmed when the music started and the first dancers came in. The crowd clapped and Alan spotted a now uncomfortably familiar face behind a row of spectators.
Alan ducked behind a row of dancers that were swooping over the dance floor; women in long dresses, with bouncing feathers at the hems, and men in tailored tuxes, not the usual never fitting rented version Alan knew. He didn't dare to draw his gun. There was no reason to alarm the guests, and as long as their eyes were fixed on the professional dancers in the middle of the hall he was save to sneak around. Besides, he could not say for sure whether or not the other guy had a weapon.
Alan held close to the wall, creeping along the sides. He moved slowly, surveying the guests, scanning the crowd for the guy who had followed him around. With the constant swirl of colours in the room it was hard to focus. Whenever he thought he caught some movement out of the corner of his eyes, and consequently turned, it was only one of the pairs dancing. For a moment he looked at the numbers on their back, wondering how any jury could focus long enough on one pair to evaluate them. He saw someone move on the other side of the room. When Alan looked over, the man quickly vanished into the crowd. Alan moved through the audience, mumbling excuses along the way.
When he reached the other side of the establishment, the man obviously was gone, and Alan could have smacked himself for hoping to at least get a better look of his persecutor. One dance ended, the audience dutifully clapping in the short interval, and almost instantly the pairs rushed off, leaving the stage to different dancers in shorter costumes.
Alan stormed into Crowe’s office not much later. Crowe had rented a floor in one of the non descript warehouses in the industrial area; houses that were mostly rent out to computer firms, or shops that merely operated over the internet. He had set up two representative rooms as offices, even had a front desk. Alan had rushed by the guy sitting at said front desk, the one that was supposed to provide some security – John something. Evans? He had to look it up. They all went by some stupid nickname anyway around here. Alan pushed open the door, not even waiting until it had closed again before he shouted at the man sitting at the desk.
“What the fuck was that about?”
Russell looked up. He looked at Alan over the brim of his glasses and lay down the pen he was holding.
“What was what about?”
“If you want to know anything about me, just ask.”
Alan was shouting at the top of his lungs, but he could not bring himself to care. Especially not while the other man looked at him somewhat curiously and calm.
“Care to explain why you’re angry?” Despite his raised voice, Russell still sounded composed.
“Don’t give me that psychologist crap.” Alan slammed his hands down on the desk, causing Russell to flinch slightly. “I saw the guy who followed me.”
Russell stood up, his face red.
“I had no one following you,” he finally shouted, “I don’t need to resort to something like that.”
Both men stared at each other. Alan was breathing hard, whether from the run here or the anger he had felt pending up ever since the thought occurred to him that it might have been one of Russell’s informants that had kept following him to God knows where. Maybe even to Séan. He slammed his fist down on the table again.
“Just ask, all right,” he managed through clenched teeth and turned to leave.
“Alan.”
Something in Russell’s voice almost made Alan turn again. He told himself that he did not want to fuck it up, desperately not to fuck up, since that would mean half a year for nothing. But he felt a little stubborn, and it appeared to him that he had boundaries to make clear. So he did not turn, the grovelling that he knew was in order simply not happening. He left without turning, never seeing the smile on Russell’s face.
Russell walked around his desk again, quickly packing up the books he had been updating. He put them in the upper drawer, locking the compartment before picking up the phone. No ten minutes later a man came in, unshaven and unwashed. His eyes were too small behind too stylish glasses. He had a long neck, and his Adam’s apple bopped nervously. He brushed his nose with one sleeve of a red sweater that had seen better times.
Russell waved him closer, leaning in before purring out: “You need to be more careful.”
The man nodded, opening his mouth.
“Save your apology. I don’t want to hear it,” Russell said.
Chapter 5: Industrial Area
The scene on Bruce’s Mill turned out clean. No prints, no leads, no nothing. Séan threw the file on his desk, wondering if they had missed something. The coroner confirmed what they had suspected; the body had been out there quite some time. The rain had washed away the evidence, and among all the animal bites it turned out to be impossible to find possible defensive wounds. Bullet type and marks were a match to the other crime scenes though, so Séan picked up the phone to brief Alan.
He let it rang, counting, then hanging up and letting it ring again. There was no answer.
Russell sat in his office, reading through the file he had just received in the mail. There was a knock on the door, and for a moment Russell thought that maybe Rat had finally learned not to barge in. But it was Alan who came in after Russell’s call.
“Hey. Just wanted to let you know that the drop off went fine.”
Russell closed the file and stuffed it back into the envelop it came from.
“Close the door. We need to talk.”
Alan closed the door, and Russell could see Alan’s shoulders shake a little as he obviously breathed out deeply before turning to face Russell. In the months he had been here, Russell had never called him inside his office for a talk; it had to felt like a visit to the principal. The question What did I do wrong? was clearly visible in Alan’s face. Over the months Russell had come to read him quite easily. It was easy to imagine the knot in Alan’s stomach when he sat down in the chair in front of Russell’s desk.
“So?” Alan said.
“Few of the guys worry, Alan.”
“Really? What about?”
“Loyalty.”
Alan managed to keep his face neutral. He probably told himself that it could mean anything and not necessarily his loyalty to the organisation, which frankly was shaky at best. Russell was aware of Alan’s contributions. Drop offs went just fine and always did. There weren’t any complains. Alan had proved even better at personal security, with a remarkable sense for both places and people.
“What did they say?” Alan asked now, sounding just a tiny bit shaky.
Russell looked at him. He thought of the file in the envelope in front of him.
“Nothing you need to know. I want to keep you closer though. Just in case. No more drop offs.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re promoted to escorting. I can’t have you wandering the streets at night anymore.”
“Did somebody…”
“No one complained. I have my reasons,” Russell interrupted, aware that Alan might have wanted to ask a different question.
Alan looked at him a little peculiar. Then he blinked and nodded, accepting the offer. Russell slowly counted to ten before asking the last question.
“Do you know how to fire a gun?”
Alan came home late. He kicked off his shoes and loosened the silver tie that he had been wearing all evening. He had not expected having to escort Russell right away. He was even more surprised when he realised Crowe had been invited to a high society gathering. Some art show or other, with women in fancy dresses and men in tuxes and suits. Russell had provided him with a black suit, close enough to his size to be a good fit, and Alan had done his best to ensure a certain security and privacy at the event. It had neither been difficult nor felt too unfamiliar, but he could not help being bothered by the circumstances of his job change.
He called Séan from his mobile. He only wanted to inform him, Alan told himself. When Séan picked up, he sounded upset.
“Where have you been? I tried to reach you all day.”
“Gallery opening. And no, not for fun. I’m escorting Crowe now.”
“That’s not the kind of news I wanted to hear.”
“I know. Better tell our trigger happy colleagues to keep their guns in their holsters when they see Crowe.”
“So you’re working as a bodyguard now?” Séan’s tone was slightly mocking. “Seems as if you’re spending a lot of time with him in the future.”
Séan gave him a short report on the forensic results. Alan could hear the disappointment in Séan’s voice. They did not have much to go on, so maybe this new job was a blessing.
Chapter 6: Highway 400 to Barrie
The wind was howling through the streets and around the buildings. It sounded slow and not unlike wailing. As a dog began to bark - doubtlessly at nothing at all or maybe the shadows in the family's yard - Alan thought that if everything has a soundtrack, the soundtrack for tonight would be Bad Moon Rising. Ever since Russell called to tell him to come over, which obviously meant that he had to leave the hideout, he had the feeling that trouble was on the way. He could not say what made him uneasy, but gut feeling was something he had come to trust over the years. It was not a good night to be caught outside in. Even the city seemed to acknowledge it, and the rain was doing its best to keep people off the streets.
Alan wore his issued gun tonight in a holster around his right ankle. It was a risk to take it along; especially after Russell had told him his thoughts about guns. He had sounded as if he had been joking but his eyes had been serious. A pacifist who was a weapons trader - it sounded like a joke. Yet Russell had a very strict policy about guns within his vicinity. Alan was certain that Russell carried one himself, even though he had never seen it. Never underestimate your opponent, his chief had warned him. Even a normally peaceful man could carry a gun. So Alan packed his .22 standard issue, dismissing spare bullets. If he had to shoot, he would not have the time to reload anyway. Alan slipped into his thigh long coat and checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure you couldn't see the holster under his heavy jeans. He gave a long sigh, and bent down to open the Velcro fastening of his holster. He threw the gun into the top drawer of his nightstand, slamming it shut.
Walking into the night without a gun may be dangerous, he thought, but getting caught with a gun would be fatal in any case.
"I hear hurricanes ablowing," Alan sang quietly as he locked his door, "I know the end is coming soon."
A chilling wind blew. The dried leaves rustled on the branches and each gust of wind ripped more leaves away, hurling them along the road Alan was walking. Alan thought about the last call to the station, which had been fruitless except for a quick check up of names. Ever since the incident back in April he had taken notes of any name he had come across. He now knew the rap sheet of almost every one of Crowe’s little gang, mostly petty crimes with the occasional mixed in wanna be full time criminal. So far Alan had made out three men to look out for. Not much, considering the kind of business Crowe was running. Surprisingly, the number of violent crimes was low, no overall aggressive behaviour, no history of domestic violence. Alan suspected a few guys to be smarter than getting caught every time, and the three he had picked for further investigation had almost blank sheets. Their only conspicuity being their association with Russell. That was exactly what made Alan nervous.
He huffed a little. Maybe he had to look somewhere outside the organisation. He was starting to suspect a lone runner. Even worse, he suspected Russell did not know anything about it. For some reason he was feeling uneasy about it. Maybe he would talk to Russell later.
When the shot rang through the darkness, Alan whirled around. The bullet whizzed by his body, burning a hole into his coat. Alan went down with the realisation that he had been shot at. It was mostly nerves and the hope that the shooter would think that he had hit his mark.
While lying in the street, Alan could smell the gun powder residue. He tried to analyse the situation, knowing he could not send Crime Scene over to collect evidence. His senses went high wire and he knew he should not trust the burned smell he seemed to notice. That it might be only memory, unbidden but still rising up and poking at the outer realm of his consciousness. If not, the shooter had to be close. Maybe close enough to check on him. Along with his memory of gun powder and burnt flesh came the memory of pain, and Alan curled up. Bullets are hot. Alan had not forgotten the searing pain, the way he had thought he could tell where exactly the bullet had been lodged in his body, the way it had shattered one rib before slowing down enough to get stuck in soft tissue. Unconsciously, he rubbed his side, forever referring to it as his bad side now.
He still lay curled up, not daring to move, when a car screeched to a halt next to the curve he was lying in. The passenger door was opened and he heard Russell shout.
“Get in, get into the car!”
Alan climbed in, suddenly able to move again, but still more crawling than walking. He slammed the door shut and Russell sped off. He was driving as if someone was still firing round after round at them.
“You didn’t come to our meeting place, so I came looking,” Russell said. He finally slowed down, driving within the speed limit again.
Alan sat hunched over in his seat, adrenaline wearing off and leaving him feel hollow and scared.
“Are you all right?” Russell asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Alan answered, looking out of the window. “Where are we going?”
The city whizzed by. All Alan could tell was the main direction Russell was driving. He almost told Russell that if he would take a sharp left at the next cross roads they would be driving by his home. His real home. He was not on guard anymore. Russell reached over and gently padded Alan’s side.
“Someplace safe, I hope,” Russell finally said when he passed by Alan’s turn and kept straight ahead at the cross roads.
“We’re going north, aren’t we?”
Alan was aware of how tired he sounded. He pulled his coat closer around himself and, remembering to buckle up, fiddled with his belt.
“Yeah.”
“Are you going on the highway?”
“Yeah, we’re talking the 400 north.” Russell sounded as if he was smiling.
“That’s good,” Alan said, not knowing why it seemed to him that way.
They drove in silence, Alan so lost in thoughts that he lost the time. Russell reached over once in a while, gently nudging Alan to see if he was awake, or pushing away some hair to get a look at Alan’s face.
Alan could easily imagine Russell as the head of a small family, playing around in the garden with his children, concerned about a scraped knee. He had a tenderness about him that seemed ill fitting for his line of business.
“D’you have children?” Alan mumbled.
“No. No children. Why are you asking?”
“Just because.”
Exhaustion spread over Alan like a blanket and he could feel himself drift off to the steady sounds of the car.
