The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery by Richard Cain Page A

yanking it open when Karen caught up to her and pressed her against the wall. But Falconer was scrawny and lithe and wiggled by, and Grant found herself chasing her out the door and down the hallway.

    Carscadden put the car in park and took out the key. “Did Karen say what it’s about?”
    Nastos twisted to one side to secure his BlackBerry back on his hip. “No. And now she’s not answering. I asked if she wanted us to bring lunch. There’s a sitting area at the top of her building with tables, it would be a great place to eat. Great view of the city.”
    â€œSounds good.”
    They exited the car. Carscadden pressed the remote to lock the doors, causing the horn to beep.
    Nastos smiled, “You realize we’re at the Toronto Police forensics lab. I don’t think anyone is going to steal your car.”
    Carscadden shrugged. “We’re on Jane Street in Thirty-One Division.”
    â€œYeah, I don’t think the kids in this neighbourhood are going to bother with your Kenny Loggins CD s.”
    The receptionist was well dressed, with long dark hair. “Can I help you?”
    â€œWe’re looking for Gus Randon. He asked us to drop by. He has something for us to pick up.”
    She picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “Two men at the counter for you, Gus. Okay, sure.” She put the phone down, grabbed two temporary ID cards from a stack and began recording the serial numbers on a clipboard. There was a slot in the glass screen and she slid two visitor tags under it. She said, “He’ll be right down,” then and pressed a button on the counter. The side door to the left popped open and Carscadden instinctively pulled it back partway.
    Gus Randon arrived with a warm smile. “Nastos, good to see you.” Randon was a short, bald thick man, his skin tone Mediterranean. He turned to Carscadden. “You must be Kevin Carscadden. Nice to meet you.”
    Carscadden reached his hand out, “Nice to meet you too.”
    To Nastos, Randon asked, “Have time for me to give your friend a tour?”
    â€œNo, we have a lunch appointment with a client. But thanks, next time.”
    Gus waved a hand. “Follow me back to my office.”
    Grey carpet, white walls with framed crime-scene pictures and newspaper covers of various historic crimes were hung among plaques and awards. From the pictures and plaques it appeared as if Randon had worked every major homicide, abduction and rape in the city for the past ten years. He led them back to a large bright room that was probably a photo lab before everything evolved to digital. Nastos noted the tracks from curtain railings were still on the ceiling, the curtains now gone. A high white-topped counter against the south wall held a microscope and various slides. Randon flicked a switch on the microscope and an image appeared on the TV screen above it.
    â€œCheck this out.” Nastos and Carscadden watched the screen while Randon moved the images on the microscope. “We score the fingerprint samples that get submitted — yours was a good lift, Nastos — then we check out the returns we get from AFIS . Three types of patterns — arches, whorls and loops — and variations of each. Anyway, the computer shows us likely matches but it still takes a person to verify it.”
    â€œNot for long,” Carscadden said.
    Randon never took his eyes from the microscope while he adjusted the focus on the image. “Oh yeah, it’s just a matter of time until the machines take over.” He stepped back and squinted. “There, take a look at that.”
    Nastos saw that Randon had put one image directly over another. They were perfect matches. “So our guy Rob Walker is in AFIS . I had a friend run him on CPIC but nothing came up.”
    â€œWell,” Randon reached behind the counter and produced a stack of papers, “Here’s his original booking information and