“I did. I quit when I got out of the pen. But I started up again two months ago.” Harry looked pale, sickly white, under the parking lot lights. He was sweating profusely, nerved up for his revenge.
“Relax, man,” said BJ, in an easy tone. “I never seen you like this before.”
Harry threw his half-smoked cigarette out onto the pavement. “I hate summer. Too hot and humid. I used to like it, when I had the kids.” And in the same bitter tone he repeated Crosby’s name several times.
BJ had heard the whole story from Harry while they were bunking in prison together, heard it so many times he knew it all by heart. Knew all the details and could play it back in his head like it was a movie he’d seen. How Harry’s family, his wife, four-year-old daughter, and a seven-month-old baby son had all been taken away from him. Killed by a drunk driver. Harry was depressed, living in no-man’s land. All his life, he’d told BJ, he just wanted to be a good citizen. His expectations weren’t so high: a house, a wife, and kids running around the back yard.
BJ had heard all about the accident. It had happened on Highway 40 outside Troy. Harry couldn’t remember the impact, but he did recall being thrown clear out of the car, then blacking out. The next thing he knew he was lying in a hospital bed with several broken ribs, broken shoulders and arms and a punctured lung. And his wife and little children were dead. After his release from the hospital, he tried to commit suicide in his empty farmhouse, but he was saved by the neighbour down the road.
The driver who had destroyed Harry’s family and his life had escaped criminal charges on a technicality because the police investigating the accident had screwed up on the evidence-gathering process. Harry tracked him down, broke into his house and shot him to death with a .44. If a victims’ support group hadn’t taken up his legal defence, he would have been convicted of murder and jailed for life. Instead, he served time for manslaughter, and while he was in prison, with plenty of time on his hands, he had enlisted BJ’s help and done some research. That’s when they had learned that the renegade driver who had killed Harry’s entire family had been slated for deportation from the country. But it had all been overturned in immigration court by Mark Crosby. In other words, Mark Crosby had signed the death warrant on his wife and kids.
BJ had been given early release for good behaviour. A few months later, Harry got out too and came looking for his prison bunkmate. He’d asked BJ to help track down Mark Crosby, because he wanted to kill the guy. BJ had no problem with that.
They watched a tour bus disgorge over a hundred seniors through the revolving doors.
“That’s his plane,” said BJ, directing Harry’s attention to the Air Canada flight circling for a landing.
Harry said in a hoarse, strained voice, “Stay here. Give Judge Crosby time to collect his bags.”
Harry and BJ tried their best to look unobtrusive in the crowd. That wasn’t easy since Harry was a big guy, tall and wide-shouldered.
“Did you put enough money in the parking meter?” Harry asked. “The last thing we need is a parking ticket from some stupid cop. Or to have our van towed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” snapped BJ. “Quit worrying.”
“That’s him. There, he’s moving through the queue,” said Harry, a few minutes later. They watched as Crosby collected a suitcase. Now he was ordering a limousine. Only the best for a jerk like him, thought BJ bitterly.
“You’re sure it’s him. The guy we saw last time had glasses. I don’t want to be following the wrong guy.”
“It’s our guy,” replied Harry. “Go get the van. If it’s not him, then we go straight to Crosby’s address and wait.”
As the limousine pulled away from the curb, BJ edged the rusty white van with the tinted mirrors out of the parking lot. Harry jumped in, and they followed the limousine, not too close, but not more than five car lengths behind either.
“We don’t want to lose him.” Harry was still chainsmoking.
“Relax. I know this city like the back of my hand,” said BJ. They hadn’t spent good money on long distance calls to Crosby’s office to learn his travel itinerary, and driven all the way to Ottawa, to lose sight of their prey.
“He’s changed a bit. Gotten fatter,” said Harry.
“The good life, man. Eating, drinking, and chicks.” BJ grinned, rubbing his hands together.
“Keep your eyes on the road, and your hands on the steering wheel,” ordered Harry. “I don’t want to lose him.”
For the remainder of the drive Harry clammed up, keeping his eyes on the limousine ahead of them. That was okay with BJ. There was no need to go over the details of the job.
Trailing at a safe distance, they observed the limo pulling up in front of the townhouse. They watched the judge getting out and paying the driver. When the limo pulled away from the curb the van moved forward to take its place, parking right in front of the victim’s door.
As Crosby was pushing open his front door, BJ and Harry walked quickly and quietly up behind him.
“Are you Mark Crosby?” Harry asked in his hoarse voice.
“Why do you ask?” asked Mark Crosby, turning around. His mouth fell open as he stood staring at the gun pointed at his chest.
“Get into the house,” ordered BJ.
Crosby didn’t get the chance to ask how they knew his name or his address. Meekly, he obeyed their instructions.
BJ closed the door behind them.
chapter eight
The following morning, Kappolis showed up bright and early in Nick’s office with two large cups of Costa Rican coffee. The Mandarin Club owner had a nine o’clock interview with Nick in his office.
If first impressions are what counts, Sun Sui blew it right off the top by arriving late for his interview with Nick and insulting him.
“You’re over an hour late.” Nick made a show of looking at his watch.
“So? You’re a public servant. Aren’t you here to serve the public?”
Nick inwardly cursed Sun. Arrogant son of a bitch! Looking him over, Nick came to the opinion that Sui didn’t come across as someone victimized for protection money by Asian triads. He looked like what he was: a successful investor immigrant, the kind Australia, Canada and the United States were all trying to woo. He was dressed in an expensive grey silk suit, designer suspenders and European brogues.
At the sight of Sui’s lawyer trailing behind, Nick knew for sure the interview was headed downhill. Of all the immigration and refugee lawyers Nick knew, Don Verster was the one he admired the least. The two men took each other in with hostile looks.
“Good morning, Mr. Slovak. I see we meet again. How long has it been since the Ibrahim deportation case?”
“Not long enough,” replied Nick.
Kappolis glanced curiously from one man to the other, but he kept his thoughts to himself. As if reading his mind, Verster threw him a suspicious glance.
Nick explained the detective’s presence. “Detective Kappolis and I frequently work together on immigration cases. It’s usual practice for him to sit in on my interviews and assessments. You could say he keeps me in check. Makes sure that I’m not violating anybody’s constitutional rights.”
Verster gave Kappolis the once-over. Kappolis gave him a friendly smile and handshake. From Verster’s expression it was hard to tell if he had bought Nick’s bullshit or not.
The real reason Kappolis was present was because Nick needed a witness, or nothing Sui said could be used as evidence. The interview wasn’t