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    Kingston: Confidential
    Kingston: Confidential
    Kingston: Confidential
    Ebook87 pages1 hour

    Kingston: Confidential

    By Richard Schwindt

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    About this ebook

    Thirty years of social work at the Silver Birch housing project in Scarborough come to an abrupt end for Tony Price after he rescues a woman and child from an armed dope fiend. Burnt out and vodka-soaked, he is forced into retirement. During the hot summer of 2016 he moves with his wife, Brenda, to historic Kingston, Ontario. Though closer to their twins who attend Queens University, Tony is bored and at loose ends. Then a homicidal madman appears in town; a sociopathic enigma who effortlessly evades capture. Tony investigates and discovers the answer may lie with their mysterious neighbor; a saintly doctor with a dark secret. Once again, he becomes the key to stopping a monster. But this time he's not alone as he discovers his daughter, Ashley, has inherited his gift for fighting evil. A fast paced thriller from one of the most innovative indie authors writing today, featuring horror, hilarity, social work and vodka; this is the final entry in the Tony Price: Confidential trilogy.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateOct 24, 2016
    ISBN9780995259102
    Kingston: Confidential

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      Book preview

      Kingston - Richard Schwindt

      Copyright 2016, Richard Schwindt

      All rights reserved

      ISBN 978-0-9952591-0-2

      All characters in Kingston: Confidential are fictional. They are not based on, or intended to resemble anyone, living or dead

      Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.

      Mark Twain

      Table of Contents

      Cover

      Title

      Copyright

      Kingston: Confidential

      Postscript

      About the Author

      December 2015,

      Silver Birch Housing Project, Scarborough, Ontario

      Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

      Mary Shelley

      I knew the byways of the Silver Birch Housing Project well enough to stay out of sight for short periods of time. The maze of alleys behind the town houses delighted drug dealers and bewildered newcomers, but I had been in and out of them for thirty years on my way to visit clients. Now I waited for Maree Patel and her 8 year old son to appear from the back door of their townhouse.

      The temperature dropped during the day and now a raw wind whipped around the alley, blowing garbage and newspapers in tight circles. I pressed into a corner with my collar up. My cigarette hand trembled in the cold.

      Suni Patel was a good enough dude when he was straight but once he got into the Methamphetamines he changed – a lot. He became violent and agitated. He took this out on his wife and son and behaved like a major asshole. I had arranged for Maree and the boy to have a short stay at the Women’s Shelter while Suni’s addiction ran its course. Now they needed to show up before I froze to death.

      The world was changing around me and I knew I would have to retire soon. But events made that difficult. Six months ago I watched my long-time boss, Fuckwad, dragged out the door by police officers, raving and grinning like a man in the throes of delirium. Amusing as this was, the upshot was a small disaster.

      Old Fuckwad had a problem with recreational gaming and he fed this addiction for years from the group pension plan. A surprise audit revealed that our retirement dollars were dispersed among Atlantic City gambling venues.

      Fuckwad died of cancer before conviction but that didn’t explain how I would pay for vodka through my dotage. Brenda’s pension was solid but the twins had entered first year at Queens University in Kingston and we couldn’t afford to live on the cheap.

      To make things worse, someone new turned up in Fuckwads office: Barfette, a grim technocrat with an ill-concealed loathing for all things human and humane. She didn’t like me.

      In fact, she dedicated herself to seeing me to the door. Many unproductive meetings had resulted in a tense stand-off; as she tried to figure out how to intimidate me. A typical exchange:

      Barfette: Your participation in accountability measures is not meeting metric benchmarks. Nor are you observing best practises for marginal communities, SMART goals or provincially recognized evidence-based practises.

      Me: I don’t give a flying fuck about those things, Barfette. I prefer to spend my time helping clients.

      Barfette (astonished): Is that a cigarette you are lighting?

      Me: Want one? If you’re lucky it might be laced with Hash oil.

      A siren sounded in the near distance and I woke from my reverie. Not an unusual sound in this neighborhood but it came from the other side of the Patel townhouse. Tires screeched and strobe lights appeared over the roof. What the fuck?

      I dialed a familiar number on my Blackberry; a back door line into Forty-one division of the Metro Police. Sergeant Bianco answered on the first ring.

      Hi, it’s Tony Price.

      Hey Tony, how the hell are you? Dad was asking about you the other day.

      Tell him from me to go fuck himself for being able to retire. She took a moment to chuckle but I interrupted, Gina, I’m at the project. Are there cops here for any reason? The clicking of her computer punctuated a short silence.

      Yeah, a guy named Suni Patel is on a domestic rampage and we think he has a gun. We’ve got a whole team there to lock down the neighborhood and try to talk him into letting his family go. If you’re close by – get the fuck away…  I heard a sharp click and looked up.

      The back door of the townhouse opened and a woman and a child ran out. I threw the cell in my pocket and ran towards them; took both by the hand and guided them to the corner.

      Keep running, I said, my car is at the end of the alley.

      They disappeared and I was about to follow when someone yelled.

      Hey fucking Tony Price, the fucking social worker. I turned and faced him. Police intelligence was correct. Suni Patel had armed himself. He stood in the doorway wearing a t-shirt and boxers. The pistol shook at the end of a trembling arm. He pointed it at me. What did you fucking do with my wife and son?

      "Let them hang for a few days at the shelter while the ice gets out of your

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