Shake Off The Ghosts

PROLOGUE

The fact that the guy had hung himself by using a child’s bedsheet wasn’t the strangest thing—no—the strangest thing was that he was wearing a ball cap.

Who the hell kills himself while wearing a ball cap? Matt thought to himself.

Matt Palcich had told his partner in their small contracting company that he was going to take a run over to the Palmer house. He wanted to put the finishing touches on the deck they’d pretty much completed the day before. The Palmers had told Matt yesterday that they were taking their eight-year old twin boys and heading up to their cottage near Goderich, but to feel free to come around if they needed to do any more work on the massive deck they’d built for the family. Matt had stopped at Home Depot and picked up the copper caps for the deck posts on his way home last night. Armed with his small tool box and the shiny pyramidal-shaped pieces of copper, he was ready to finish the job. He’d come around the back corner of the house and stopped in his tracks, his eyes drawn instantly to the unmoving body hanging before him. He recognized the young man immediately. It was the Palmer’s grown son who still lived at home.

Brandon Palmer was hanging there, a child’s flannelette sheet fastened to one of the beams of the new portico, the other end wrapped around his neck. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his running-shoe-clad feet were touching the new deckboards beneath the pergola, his legs partially bent at the knees. Just behind him was a concrete block standing on end.

Seeing the guy’s feet touching the surface of the deck, Matt’s first thought was that the guy was screwing with him, that he was going to stand up and start laughing, having pulled a good one over on him. That initial thought quickly vanished when Matt took in the greyish pallor of the young man’s face, his skin the colour of bilge water. His next thought was to run. Take off!

Jesus, Matt, you’re not eight, he scolded himself. You’ve got to do something. With his heart racing, he stepped across to the slumped body. He reached out and touched the young man’s neck, the skin cold beneath his fingertips. Nothing. He pressed his fingers harder into the other side of the guy’s neck, his own breathing now ragged, his heart hammering away in his chest. Again, nothing.

Fuck me, he muttered under his breath as he stepped back, drawing in deep breaths in order to calm himself. His hand was shaking as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone and called 9-1-1, giving the address and a quick report to the dispatcher. With that call ended, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he wanted, his eyes focussed on the Palmer boy’s slack grey skin, the youthful face partially in shadow beneath that perplexing ball cap perched on his head.

Pepper, the familiar voice of his brother-in-law came through the phone.

Tee, it’s me, Matt. I’ve come across something I think you need to see.

PART ONE

CRUEL SUMMER

Bananarama

Chapter 1

The dream was always the same. Pepper couldn’t move, his arms and legs bound to the bed. Shauna, his red-haired girlfriend, lay naked on the bed across from him—conscious, but so full of drugs she couldn’t move either, let alone make a sound. Standing over her was The Sandman, an enormous syringe full of bleach in his hand, the noxious fumes filled the room as a steady drip fell from the tip of the needle. The Sandman’s nostrils flexed as he breathed in the pungent odour. Throughout the dream, the eerie sound of the Echo and the Bunnymen song, ‘The Killing Moon’, droned on hauntingly in the background.

This is my favourite part, The Sandman would always say as he inserted the tip of the needle into the heparin lock in Shauna’s foot.

NO! NO! Pepper could hear himself scream, but in the dream he knew they couldn’t hear him. The Sandman just looked calmly over at Pepper. He slowly pushed down on the plunger.

NO! PLEASE NO! Pepper yelled again. The words echoed hollowly in his mind. No sound came from his open mouth.

Pepper jerked awake in bed, gasping for air, his heart pounding. He reached over and turned on the light on his bedside table. He sat on the side of the bed, leaned forward, elbows on his knees and tried to calm himself, breathing deeply in order to slow his racing heart.

Jesus Christ, he muttered under his breath. He wiped his hands on his t-shirt, now soaked in sweat. He rose from the bed and pulled off his sodden t-shirt and the flannel boxers he was wearing. He tossed them into the laundry basket before making his way into the bathroom.

Get ahold of yourself man, he said to himself as he started the shower and looked in the mirror. He leaned on the sink and studied the face looking back at him. The bags under his eyes were what he noticed first. The dark shadows made him look gaunt. Never in his 33-plus years had he ever had trouble sleeping like this. But then again, what had happened a short time back had never happened to him either. Never in all his time as a policeman had he encountered someone like The Sandman.

When the first girl’s body had been found, he and his partner, Rupert Wallace, had been assigned as primaries on the case. The shock was that the Sandman was one of their own; Detective Elizabeth Chin’s partner.

Now almost two months had gone by since The Sandman had been apprehended. The serial killer now sat in his cell in the Exeter Road Detention Centre awaiting his day in court.

Shauna had suffered no physical injuries, but the thought of what might have happened was on his mind at all times. She had asked Pepper to give her some time, and some space, to sort things out. He’d agreed, knowing it was something she had to resolve within herself.

They still saw each other, but not as often—and when they did, things seemed stilted, awkward at times. Pepper knew he needed the time too. Needed to wrap his head around what had happened and how he was going to move forward, to get his life back to normal—whatever the hell normal was.

And then the dreams started. They didn’t happen every night, but far too often for his liking. He didn’t know how to make them stop.

He looked into the mirror, thinking about Shauna. He missed her terribly. Shauna, the beautiful Irish girl with the gorgeous red hair and emerald eyes that set his heart on fire. He saw the sadness in his own eyes as he thought about her. He knew he was already falling in love with her, and the thought of what might have happened to her at the hands of The Sandman chilled him to the bone. She was on his mind every minute of every day. He would do anything to make things right with her. She knew he felt that way—they’d talked about it—and she had nodded softly as he told her how he felt. But he knew she needed to work this out on her own, to decide whether she could be with a cop. He understood that, but he still missed her like hell. He missed those secret glances they’d share when others were in the room. He missed the smell of her hair, the smoothness of her skin. But most of all, he missed the way just being near her made him feel about himself—a feeling of completeness, of purpose.

Pepper stepped into the shower, rinsing off the sweat before leaning against the wall and letting the stinging pellets pound down on his skull, trying to wash away the remnants of the dream.

He dried himself and donned another one of his old t-shirts and flannel boxers. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while so he headed to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and surveyed his supply of Diet Pepsi and Diet 7-Up. Not wanting any caffeine, he popped open a bottle of Diet 7 and took a big gulp.

He stopped at his sound system next. He wanted to hear something soothing. From his plethora of 80’s music, he chose ‘Gentlemen Take Polaroids’ by the group Japan.

The music filtered through the various speakers Pepper had placed throughout his townhouse. He made his way into the spare room at the front, the room he used more as an office and a catch-all storage space than a spare bedroom. He fired up his computer and took another slug of his drink as the computer booted up.

He smiled to himself as he looked at the picture he had up for his wallpaper on his computer. It was a picture of he and Shauna sitting together at the Vegas Night fundraiser the department had had at the Western Fair Casino. Wallace had taken the picture from across the table and sent it to Pepper, saying he thought it was a terrific shot of the two of them. Which it was. Pepper loved it. He and Shauna were looking at each other, and you could feel the blossoming love they had for each other coming right off the screen. But that was before The Sandman entered their lives. Things had changed, and Pepper wondered if they would ever be the same again.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Pepper slid his hand over the mouse and opened up the icon for the Internet Chess Club. He loved the challenge of the discipline and patience required to be proficient at chess. He had risen to the level of ‘Candidate Master’, but with his school and then police work becoming more of a priority in his life, the time and energy required to go higher in the chess world was just not within his grasp. He was happy to accept that this was about as good as he was going to get, and he was content with that. Although he rarely had the time to play ‘over the board’ against real people nowadays, he usually found a little time every day to play over the internet, on a pay site that drew strong players from all over the world.

Pepper clicked on the button showing the number ‘5’, requesting a blitz game with five minutes for each side. The site’s computer would pair him with an opponent of relatively similar strength to his own. The two-dimensional chess board flashed onto the screen seconds later. He noticed his opponent went by the handle ‘Galileo’, with an Italian flag next to his name.

The computer on the site had given Galileo the white pieces and as he moved his Queen’s pawn forward two squares, Pepper responded almost immediately and brought out his King’s knight. He became quickly engrossed in the game, the countdown clocks for each player counting down the seconds. While trying to sort out the complexities of a sacrificial attack that had his opponent on the ropes, Pepper ran out of time—chalk up another one in the loss column.

He took another slug of his drink, and as his playlist launched into one of Pepper’s favourite Japan songs, ‘Still Life in Mobile Homes’, he clicked on the same button to request another game. He played for close to an hour, winning some and losing some before shutting down his computer and returning to bed. Most people found it surprising that he used these rapid-fire blitz games as a way to relax, but for Pepper, it worked. He knew it was because when he used all his brainpower to concentrate on the game, everything else that troubled him just melted away.

He looked at the alarm clock next to his bed. It was only 2:17. The dream had come early tonight. He turned off the light and pulled the sheet over him, praying the dream would not return. It was close to half an hour later before he finally drifted off into a restless sleep.

Chapter 2

It was late when Curtis Wolf Riggins left the strip club. He lumbered out, with two other club members in his wake. The biker ambled towards his Harley. The black gas tank and chrome pipes glistened under the shine from the lights perched high on the walls of the old cinder block building. His boots rang heavy on the tarmac. His muscular frame cast an ominous shadow.

Kresge and Sutherland waved their goodbyes as they hopped on their bikes and roared off into the summer night. Riggins wiped his brow. The humidity was still heavy in the air. Without a breath of wind, the intense heat lingered. Inside the bar, smoldering embers had been flicking at everyone’s temper all night long. Riggins had been called upon to break up three fights, all of them amongst his own club members. He spat to the side, tasting the last beer of the night. As usual, he’d monitored his intake over the numerous hours he’d been at the club. He knew the cops would just love to pull him over and arrest him for a DUI. He was just about to reach for his helmet when he heard the closing of a car door on the other side of the parking lot.

Riggins, a voice called out as he looked over. A silhouetted figure stood next to the car. Riggins stopped. His hand automatically went to the hunting knife he wore strapped to his hip. His hand slid over the hilt of the blade, but as he looked across the deserted lot, he didn’t feel any threatening vibe coming from the stranger. He squinted, refusing to wear the glasses he kept at home in the drawer next to his bed.

Riggins. I want to talk to you. The head of the silhouette tilted to the side and motioned towards the car, beckoning the biker to come over.

The voice was teasingly familiar to Riggins, but he couldn’t nail it down, and again, the sound of the voice didn’t raise any hackles. By habit, he kept his hand near his hip. He lumbered over, his eyes peering at the stranger. As he got closer, the silhouette moved. The stranger reached for the door of the car. In that instant, Riggins saw the stranger’s face as it partially turned towards the straining light from the other side of the parking lot. He recognized the face immediately and his hand dropped from his hip.

Get in, the voice said, nodding towards the other side of the car before opening the driver’s door.

Riggins followed and slid into the car. The driver turned on the car and cranked up the AC. Cool air poured from the vents. The interior lights on the dashboard came on. Riggins noticed the time: 2:17.

In the filtered light that flickered off the hoop earrings dangling from each of Riggins’ ears, the visitor spotted the distinctive tattoo at the corner of the biker’s left eye, a chain of three teardrops that ended in a Celtic cross. Besides the multiple tats that covered the biker’s arms and one side of his neck, he also sported two other distinctive tattoos on the knuckles of his big hands, the letters ‘L-O-N-E’ on his right hand, ‘W-O-L-F’ on his left. Unlike most bikers who seemed to favour long hair and full beards, Riggins kept his dark hair cropped short and bristly, and always seemed to be sporting a two or three day’s growth of beard on his rugged angular face. The man’s nose had been broken more than once, and his right eyebrow appeared broken by a scar that ran down from a point near his hairline.

Riggins angled his big body sideways in the seat before speaking. I heard what happened with those girls. That was tough, man, really tough. I’m sorry that happened. The deep rumble of his voice filled the car. His visitor nodded, but said nothing. In the silence, Riggins felt the weight the stranger was carrying. What are you doing here? He gestured towards the strip club. You shouldn’t be seen here, especially talking to me. It’s not good for either of us.

I knew I’d find you here. The visitor paused as Riggins waited. Remember when you told me you owed me after what I did for you, and to let you know if I needed anything?

Of course I remember.

Well, now I need your help. And I think it’s possible we might be able to help each other.

How’s that?

It depends on your answer to a question. There was a pause as Riggins looked over, their eyes meeting. Do you know a guy named Brandon Palmer?

The biker paused, the search engine in his head spun around, but it never came to a stop on Palmer, Brandon. He shook his head. Nope. Who is he?

The dealer that sold the suckers to the girls. Everybody knows The Ghosts control most of the drug trade in this city. Are you sure he’s not associated with one of your people?

I’ve never heard that name. And trust me, we’ve been looking—just like the cops. What happened there has been bad for business, and we’ve been trying to nail those fuckers too. Riggins looked over as his companion nodded. Are you sure that’s where they came from, this Brandon Palmer guy?

I know he’s the one that sold them to the girls, but I’m sure he’s just a small-time punk making a few bucks selling the stuff. He’s a spoiled rich kid who has this sense of entitlement and thinks he can get away with fucking around his whole life. He still lives at home with his parents.

Then he’s just a douche-bag at the end of the chain. The stuff has to be coming from someone bigger. That’s who we’re looking for. We’re sure it’s coming from the west coast, with probably an Asian or Russian connection. We want the assholes that are bringing this shit into our territory.

That’s what I figured. So that’s why I’m here. I think we each have our reasons to pay a visit to this little prick.

Look, if you’re sure he’s the dealer who sold those girls the suckers, The Ghosts can take care of this from here. I know this is personal, but you shouldn’t take that chance. Your career… Riggins held up his hand and snapped his fingers. It could be over like that.

I’m sure it’s him. I’ve seen the text message arranging the buy. But as far as not being there—forget it. You can do the talking, and do whatever you need to do to find out who he got the shit from, but I want to see the look in that punk’s eyes while you’re doing it. Either I’m there or I turn him over to the cops right now.

The determination in the voice made Riggins pause. It was obvious his companion had thought this through, and likely had a plan. From their previous encounter, Riggins had no doubt about that. All right, all right. What did you have in mind? You said the kid still lives at home?

Yeah. They live on Chantry Place, where the old Labatt estate used to be.

I know where it is. Ritzy part of town.

There was a nod towards the glove compartment. Open that up. There’s a phone in there for you.

Riggins opened the compartment and took out the phone. Is it clean?

Of course it’s clean, his visitor said, holding up a matching phone. They’re burners, and can’t be traced. This is how we communicate. Don’t use it for anything else. I’ve already programmed our two numbers into them. I’ve been monitoring this kid and his parents. The parents and their two younger kids are supposed to be going away to their cottage this week. They’re leaving the older boy at home.

How old is he?

He’s twenty-six. He’s actually the father’s kid from a previous marriage. The dad remarried and now has eight-year old twins. I want to move on the kid while they’re away.

Riggins nodded as he looked over. What’s your plan?

Chapter 3

Brandon Palmer was feeling good. His dad and the Step-Bitch had gone to the cottage, taking the Pest Twins with them. He loved having the house to himself.

Brandon knew his ambition level left much to be desired, but as long as Pops kept making a mint, he was fine to just chillax and live at home. After his mother had died of cancer, Brandon could never warm up to his father’s new bride, and it pissed him off even more when the twins followed not too long after. The rift between him and his step-mother grew by the day. Whenever the Step-Bitch got on his back about getting a job and moving out, all he had to do was play the Poor, poor me card. His dad would feel guilty about having put both him and the Step-Bitch in an awkward situation, and try to smooth things over. This would happen every time and Brandon knew how to play his dad like a fiddle.

And that was fine with Brandon. He could continue living in this nice big house, have all the up-to-date toys and electronics he wanted, sleep in, go to the gym, and just basically live off Dad. Selling a little dope, along with a few pills, on the side gave him the extra pocket money Big Daddy and the SB never knew about.

Yeah, life for Brandon Palmer was pretty sweet, until the shit had hit the fan when those five girls had OD’d. The one girl had asked him if he could score some goods for them. They wanted to make their last party together something to remember. He’d provided her with some weed, a few valium tablets, and the new suckers his guy had given him to start selling. He had no idea the red lollipops were so deadly. And then all of them had turned up dead. The fentanyl-laced candies had left their respiratory systems totally fucked. Now he felt like he might be the one about to be fucked.

The first day after was the worst, constantly expecting the cops to come knocking at his dad’s door, cuffs in their hands, ready to take him away. All day long he was sweaty, and jumpy as a flea on a snare drum. That first day went by, and then the next, and the one after that. As time passed, he was able to relax more and more, and his heart didn’t kick into overdrive every time the phone rang.

He’d called his guy, who hadn’t answered his messages or texts for a number of days. The guy had finally responded a few days ago and told Brandon to Chill the fuck down. If the cops haven’t been to see you yet, you’re in the clear. But just to be safe, stow the rest of those fucking suckers away and don’t let them see the light of day until I tell you.

Now a few weeks had passed, and there’d been no visit from anybody from Cop Central. Brandon felt like he could breathe again and the vice-like shroud of fear lifted off his chest. He’d gone back to the gym, hung with his friend, Nick, played video games in Daddy’s big house, sold some weed and pills to his usual customers, and felt like his life was back to normal.

And now he had the house to himself for a few days, the way he liked it. He’d gotten Big Daddy to leave him some ‘petty cash’, enough to buy him a couple of pizzas and some beer. Nick had come over and they’d shared an extra-large from Soprano’s while shooting the shit and playing video games.

Nick had finally packed it in and gone home, to his own parents’ house where he lived a life much like Brandon’s. Nick constantly rubbed it in that at least he had a part-time job, as if working a few shifts a week at Home Depot was a big deal.

Brandon had gone to his room and turned on his computer. He watched some Japanese porn for a while, and lit up a joint afterwards as he listened to some music and surfed the net. His phone pinged and he looked at a text from Nick.

Gym tomorrow?

They were members of the Tempo Gym on Wonderland Road, next to Angelo’s Italian deli. Brandon responded, Sure. What time? He sat and bobbed his head to the music as Nick typed his response.

Start work at 12. How about 10:30?

Brandon was just about to type a reply when his attention was diverted by movement behind him. He swivelled his desk chair around as two black-clad figures walked into his room. They were dressed from head to toe in black, their heads and faces masked by balaclavas, with only cut-outs in the ski masks at the eyes and mouths. Before Brandon could even react, the big guy in front grabbed him around the throat with a gloved hand and pushed his chair backwards until it slammed into the wall. Brandon’s heart was hammering in his chest as he looked up past the brim of his ball cap at the guy.

Good evening, Brandon. We need to have a little talk. Now, am I going to have to hold you like this? He squeezed Brandon’s throat, making him gasp as he fought for air. Or are you gonna be quiet and listen?

Unable to speak with the guy’s big mitt clamped around his throat, Brandon could only nod his head up and down in agreement.

Good. It’ll make things easier.

As the guy released his hand from around his neck, Brandon sat forward and coughed, his hand reaching up to check his throat. The big guy moved across the room and stood in front of Brandon’s desk. He unslung a black cloth bag from over his shoulder. Brandon looked past him to the second guy, standing in the shadows on the far side of the room, hands crossed.

Brandon’s attention was drawn back to the bigger guy as he watched him reach into his bag and set a pair of red-handled pliers out on the desk. Who…who are you? Brandon said, looking from one black-clad figure to the other.

Who are we? The big guy said as he looked over at Brandon from behind the cut-outs in his balaclava. We’re just a pair of law-abiding citizens intent on righting the wrongs we see in our community. You can call me Mr. White, and that over there is Mr. Pink. He reached into his bag and took out what looked like a big sock, knotted at one end and weighed down at the other. He dropped it on the desk with a resounding metallic clunk.

What’s that? Brandon croaked out, sweat running down his face as his heart pounded in his chest.

That’s what I like to call my ‘Nutty Buddy’. He’s very good at helping people who are having problems with their memories. You’re not having any problems with your memory, are you, Brandon?

No sir. Brandon sat up in his chair. What the fuck, he thought. Who were these guys? His eyes flicked down to the phone in his hand. His fingers moved quickly over the screen.

What the fuck is that in your hand? Mr. White said as he stepped in front of Brandon.

Uh, just my phone, Brandon replied, his thumb quickly pressing the off button as he showed it.

Give that to me, the guy said angrily as he swiped it out of Brandon’s hand. He slammed it down on the desk, next to the pliers and his Nutty Buddy.

As soon as Mr. White turned his head, Brandon bolted. His chair squeaked as he pivoted and shot forward. His baggy jeans caught on his legs and tripped him as he tried to run.

Mr. White was on him in a second, ramming him with his broad shoulder, slamming Brandon into the open door. Brandon’s head snapped back against the door, stunning him as his ball cap flew off.

Mr. White grabbed the dazed young man by his arm and thrust him back into the chair. Just sit the fuck down! And stay there. He turned to his partner. Mr. Pink?

Brandon watched as Mr. Pink reached behind him for a second. His hand came forward and tossed something metallic and shiny to Mr. White. The big man grabbed Brandon’s hand and slapped the metal ring of a pair of handcuffs around his wrist. He spun the chair around and pulled both arms painfully backwards. He swung the chair back. Brandon’s hands were now secured behind the chair. Mr. White reached down to the ground and picked up Brandon’s cap, jamming it back onto his head.

You shouldn’t have tried to run like that, Brandon. He reached behind his hip and drew his hand forward, slapping a deadly-looking hunting knife down on the desk next to his other supplies. We were hoping to have a nice friendly little chat.

What do you want? Brandon was finally able to buck up enough courage to ask.

We want to talk about the drugs.

I don’t know anything about any drugs.

Mr. White shook his head like a disappointed parent. Brandon…Brandon…Brandon, he said under his breath as he reached for his Nutty Buddy. The lug nut-filled sock swayed heavily as he lifted it off the desk.

No! Brandon said, his eyes flitting from Mr. White’s masked face to the dangerous-looking sock and back again. I…uh…okay. You don’t need to do that. So I do a little pot every now and then. Nearly everybody does. But I…I don’t know how I can help you.

I don’t give a shit about the weed you smoke. We want to talk about the suckers. The red suckers.

As soon as the big guy mentioned the suckers, Brandon could feel a cold sweat break out all over his body as his gut tightened up. He spoke, his voice quaking, I don’t know about any red suckers.

Mr. White looked at him coldly, and then slowly turned to Mr. Pink, who nodded silently. Mr. White turned back, once again picking up his Nutty Buddy. The heavy sock swayed menacingly in his grasp.

Brandon’s eyes flicked to the deadly sock and then back up to Mr. White’s mask-covered face. No, please, I don’t know any… The pain made Brandon scream out as Mr. White quickly swung his wrist and slammed the Nutty Buddy into the side of Brandon’s knee. The big man looked towards Brandon’s other leg, his arm starting to draw back.

NO! Okay…okay, Brandon yelled. The intense pain shot up from his knee, rocking his entire body. He could feel tears run down his cheeks as he looked at the big man standing over him. He knew this was no movie and he wasn’t going to be some tough guy and talk his way out of this. No, with pain and fear overwhelming him, Brandon knew he’d tell them whatever they wanted to know.

Are you done fucking around? Mr. White asked.

Yes…yes, Brandon said, his head bobbing up and down.

Mr. White dropped the sock onto the desktop. Good. If you lie to us again, I might just let one of my other friends here pay you a visit. He let his gloved hand slide over to the pliers, and then his fingertips traced lovingly over the pearl handle of the hunting knife.

Okay, I get it, Brandon replied hurriedly. Wha…what is it you want to know?

We know you sold those suckers to those girls, so don’t try and bullshit us anymore about that. You got it?

Brandon felt himself turning crimson, the guilt causing him to look down. He slowly lifted his gaze, his eyes flicking from Mr. White over to Mr. Pink, who remained standing in the shadows, watching intently. He brought his gaze back to Mr. White, his eyes pleading. Yes sir.

That’s good, Brandon. We’re making progress. Just a few more questions. Mr. White turned. He perched on the edge of Brandon’s desk and crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest. You just answer our questions and we’ll be on our merry way. How does that sound to you?

Okay.

All right then. Do you still have some of those suckers? His gloved hand dropped down onto the pair of needle-nose pliers.

Brandon cringed. Yes sir. I have some left.

Where are they?

Brandon nodded to the door beside Mr. Pink. In my closet. Up on the shelf there’s an old gym bag behind some boxes of CDs. They’re in there.

Mr. Pink remained steadfast, eyes on Brandon as Mr. White rummaged in the closet before stepping back into the room, gym bag in hand. He opened the bag and pulled out a towel and some small bags of pot and pills. Beneath those he found a ziplock bag with a small towel wrapped around it. He slipped off the towel, revealing about a dozen of the deadly red suckers inside the clear plastic bag. Mr. White looked up at Mr. Pink, who simply nodded.

Very good, Brandon, Mr. White said, dropping the suckers back into the gym bag and setting it on the floor of the closet. Now the important question. Where did you get them?

Brandon hesitated, but only for a second as Mr. White fixed him with another withering gaze. I got them from the guy I usually get my dope from. He said they were supposed to have a special kick.

A name, Brandon. We need a fucking name.

His name’s Andreas.

Does this Andreas have a last name?

I don’t know it. Honestly, I don’t. Brandon looked furtively between Mr. White and Mr. Pink, including both of them with his statement, hoping to make it more believable.

Do you know where he lives?

He lives in a townhouse just off Kipps Lane. That’s where I went when I got the suckers. I don’t remember the exact address but it’s the complex on the northwest corner of Kipps Lane and Belfield. He lives in unit number eight.

Do you know if he lives alone?

I think so. His place is a shithole, so I don’t think he has a wife or girlfriend or anything.

Has he been in contact with you since those girls died?

I tried to contact him, and after about a week he finally texted me back. He told me not to sell any more of the suckers until I heard from him.

So you think he’s still in town?

I…I think so, but I don’t know for sure.

Do you know where he gets his shit?

No. I don’t. I’m sure he’s not a big guy in the chain, but he gets me the weed and pills that I need. That’s all I care about.

What else can you tell us about this Andreas?

Uh, what do you mean?

Like how old he is? What does he look like, what kind of car does he drive? Is he likely to have any weapons? Anything.

Uh, he’s probably about thirty-five. He’s got dark hair that’s cut pretty short, but he’s got a big beard. He works out a lot. He drives a black Ford Escape. An older one. I don’t know about any weapons. I never saw anything at his house.

Any tattoos or piercings?

He’s got some tats on both arms. I’m not sure what they are. And he’s got a ring through one of his eyebrows and couple of earrings in one ear. I’m not sure which one.

Does he have a dog?

Brandon looked confused by that question. Wha…what?

It’s not a hard question. Does this asshole have a dog? Like a German Shepherd or a Pit Bull?

Uh, no. I never saw a dog anytime I was there.

That’s good, Brandon. You’re doing good. Mr. White looked over as Mr. Pink grunted and nodded towards the computer on the desk. The big man stood up and moved aside as Mr. Pink stepped forward and moved the mouse sitting next to the keyboard. A screensaver from Game of Thrones came up on the sleeping monitor.

Mr. White turned to Brandon. Mr. Pink needs to know your password.

Why? What do you need my computer for?

Just give me your fucking password, Brandon.

It’s uh…it’s ‘weedwhacker777’.

Mr. Pink’s gloved fingers flew over the keyboard and hit the enter button, the icons filling the screen as the computer came alive. Brandon watched as Mr. Pink opened the ‘settings’ control and disabled the password protection. Brandon’s e-mail account was brought up and showed the ‘inbox’ and ‘sent’ box, which Mr. Pink quickly looked through. Apparently satisfied, Mr. Pink nodded to Mr. White.

Mr. White turned to Brandon as Mr. Pink stepped back, once again in the shadows. Just a couple more questions, Brandon. How did those girls know to get the drugs from you?

The girl who I sold them to goes to the same gym I do. I sell to a few people there. That must have been how she found out about me, from one of those people.

She texted you, right?

Yes sir. She said she’d been given my number from one of my customers. When I asked what she was looking for, she asked if I could get them some weed and some valium, and then she said they were looking for something different for some special party they were having. She said she was looking for something for just five of them.

And you immediately thought of the red suckers.

I’d only just gotten them from Andreas a couple of days before. He told me people would be asking for them soon enough. I figured those young girls would love a kick from something shaped like a lollipop.

Did you tell them how dangerous they were?

No. Andreas had said they were powerful, so I told the girl to just give it a try. I figured they’d share one among the group of them. I didn’t know those bitches would be stupid enough to have one each.

The words were no sooner out of Brandon’s mouth than Mr. Pink strode purposefully across the room to a spot behind Brandon’s chair. Brandon craned his head around to look behind him. What, what did I say? he squeaked.

Mr. Pink’s hands came forward and gripped each side of Brandon’s head. Those girls weren’t stupid bitches, you fucking piece of shit! Mr. Pink flexed and Brandon’s head pivoted sharply, an abrupt SNAP! echoing in the room. Mr. Pink let go and stepped back as Brandon’s head fell to the side, his neck broken.

Mr. White bolted upright, looking from Mr. Pink to Brandon’s slumped body, and back to Mr. Pink again. What…what the fuck was that? What the fuck are you doing?

Taking from him what he took from me, Mr. Pink’s voice was calm, cold.

You said we were just going to scare the shit out of him to get his connection. You didn’t say anything about killing him. What the fuck are we going to do now?

Just calm down. Let me think for a second.

Mr. White looked down at Brandon, a damp stain appearing in the young man’s crotch as his bladder let go. Jesus Christ. I didn’t sign up for this shit. What the fuck were you thinking?

There’s probably a linen closet in the upstairs hallway. Go and find a sheet. Mr. Pink reached down and started unlocking the handcuffs behind Brandon’s back.

Wolf Riggins took a deep breath and stepped forward, ready to do as he was told. Riggins. He stopped as Mr. Pink called his name. We’re in this together now. Get your shit together and no screw-ups. Just do as I say. Now go and find that sheet, and make sure it’s sturdy.

Chapter 4

Pepper grabbed his morning coffee and strode across the detectives’ squad room, spotting his diminutive partner, Rupert Wallace, bent over his desk, engrossed in a book spread open before him. You’re actually reading a book? Pepper said, sitting down at his desk directly across from Wallace.

Wha…what’s that? Wallace asked, his attention diverted as he looked up from behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

You’re reading a book. The only thing I’ve ever seen you read is your Facebook page. What is it anyway? Wallace lifted the book off his desk, showing Pepper the cover. A Study in Scarlet, Pepper read aloud. You’ve never read that before?

Wallace shook his head and gestured to the book. No. They had a garage sale on our street this past weekend and my neighbour was trying to chisel me down for the twenty-five cents I wanted for an unopened pack of hockey cards. He said we should swing a deal, any of the old books on his table for the hockey cards. I snagged this one.

Wow, big time economics at work right here on the streets of London, Ontario.

This book is pretty good. I’ve seen the Sherlock Holmes movies—

I’m going to stop you right there. Pepper held up the flat of his hand. Please tell me you’re not talking about those ones with Robert Downey that were made recently?

Uh…yeah. There’s others?

Oh my God, Rupe, are you kidding me? Have you never seen any of the old black and white Sherlock Holmes movies?

Wha…no.

Pepper could just shake his head. Oh man. You’ve got to see those if it’s the last thing you do on this earth. Nobody, but nobody, can play Sherlock Holmes like Basil Rathbone.

Basil?

Yeah! Basil Rathbone, you silly little man. All other actors who’ve played Sherlock Holmes in any movies or TV shows just pale in comparison. Basil Rathbone is the quintessential Holmes. Pepper raised his hand way above his head, and then lowered it as far as he could reach. Rathbone set the bar way up here, and everybody else is…well…way down here in comparison. Not even close. Those movies with Downey as Holmes—pathetic, just pathetic. I can’t believe they even made it to the screen.

Wallace had a big smile on his face at this point. Well, Tee, I can see you feel pretty strongly about this. Anything else you want to share about your bromance with this Basil Rat-bone?

It’s RATHBONE, you idiot, Pepper said as he smiled back at his friend.

Whatever. Like I started to say, I saw those movies with Robert Downey Jr., but it’s even better reading the original stuff. Wallace paused and looked over at Pepper nodding back at him. I take it you’ve read this?

Back when I was in high school. I read all of them, from ‘A Study in Scarlet’ all the way to ‘His Last Bow’. They’re great. I have to think they had some influence on me wanting to become a cop.

Yeah. I can see that. Wallace pointed down to the book in his hand. I can’t get over Holmes’ powers of observation, and deduction. It’s pretty cool. And like I said, much better in the book than the movies.

Yeah, some of that stuff should be ‘COP 101’. I think everybody should have to read all of the Holmes stories before they’re allowed into policing.

I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t put you in the HR department. None of these guys here would likely have been hired, including me.

I don’t think we’ve ever talked about this, but what would you have done if you hadn’t become a cop?

That’s easy, Wallace replied with a shrug of his shoulders. A male model.

Looking at his partner’s receding hairline and scruffy goatee, Pepper couldn’t keep from grinning. A male model?

Yeah. Just picture me riding down a tropical beach on a white horse, bare-chested with a gorgeous babe holding on behind me. I’d be a natural for commercials like that, or for the covers of those Harlequin Romances. You know, me dressed as some kind of swashbuckler on the deck of a pirate ship, a hot babe in a torn bodice reaching out to me. He paused and looked over at Pepper, who was nodding back at him in agreement.

Of course, I don’t know why I missed something so obvious.

I think it was one of those things that was preordained by a higher power. I thought about that lifestyle—you know, the women who want to be with me, the guys that want to be like me—I knew I could handle the pressure of that, but the other part of it—all the hassle of endorsing one product after another, the appearances I’d have to make at all those Red Carpet events, the paparazzi—I just didn’t think it was for me. You know me, I’m just a simple guy.

Oh, you’re a simple guy all right.

What about you? What would you be doing if you weren’t a cop?

Pepper sat pensively for a few seconds. Chicken farmer.

Wallace couldn’t help but chuckle. A chicken farmer?

What’s so hard to believe about that? Pepper paused as he smiled at his friend. Besides, it’s just as likely to happen as you becoming a male model.

Wallace continued with his interrogation. Tee, have you ever actually been on a farm, a farm of any kind?

Well, no—but I’ve driven past them.

So you have no idea what actually happens on a chicken farm?

How hard could it be? You feed them some corn or grain stuff, build them a chicken coop to live in—nothing to it.

Build them a chicken coop? You? You haven’t even been able to finish the basement of that condo of yours, and you’ve been working on that since you moved in four years ago. What makes you think you could build a chicken coop that wouldn’t blow down when the first big bad wolf comes around huffing and puffing?

I could do it if I had to. I’m sure there are videos on YouTube that would show you what to do.

Wallace had to nod at Pepper’s ingenuity. And why a chicken farm? Why not just a regular farm with all kinds of different animals and crops?

I like chicken, and I like eggs. It would be a self-sustaining farm. I’d have everything right there.

Nice to see you’ve got it all thought out. If you ever get drummed out of here, I’ll know where to come to buy my eggs.

Since you’re my pal, I’d even give you a deal—one and half dozen for the cost of a regular dozen. I know how important it is for male models to keep to a high protein diet. Pepper looked at Wallace, a scrutinizing look on his face. Maybe I should start calling you Brad Pitt, what do you think?

I was thinking more like that Fabio guy from the old days. Remember that long flowing hair of his, and those pecs? If I let my hair grow, I could have that look perfected in a year.

A huge smile broke out on Pepper’s face as gazed at Wallace’s receding hairline. "Let