club that Marshall spearheaded. The media mentioned multiple councilors in the past decade as members of this club. Harold Hoffenburg, Fletcher Aldrich, Omar Howe who represented Hamilton and the Turner brothers, Ruben and Shawn. Ever since Toronto amalgamated and became the GTA, the Greater Toronto Area, the rumors of the old boys’ club thrived.
So why is Marshall calling me?
“What have you learned from Sarah’s boyfriend, Aaron?” Marshall asked.
“Nothing I’m willing to discuss on this call.”
“Are you saying you still have no clue what Sarah is up to?”
“No comment.”
“You’re lying. You know something.”
“How’s that?” Tim asked. Then in a snarky, sarcastic voice, he said, “Or am I not allowed to ask you anything?”
“We all know who shot Vanessa.”
At the sound of his daughter’s name, Tim tightened his grip on the phone until the plastic whined under the strain.
“C’mon Tim Sim, I’ve seen the footage. Sarah Roberts brought a parachute, disguised as a backpack, to the roof of the CN Tower, shot your daughter and then jumped and disappeared. Suddenly, after the funeral of your daughter, you’re having a drink with her in the pub where you practically gave her your weapon. If you’re not involved, when the disciplinary actions come down the pipe, you’re going to have a hard time explaining that. Especially explaining your involvement with The Club.” He cleared his throat and coughed into the phone.
The Club?
There was that name again. A horrible place that every cop in the city left alone. They paid their taxes and no one ever complained about The Club. Ever. Tim knew of several members and a few who visited The Club, but it was always hush hush.
“Rumor has it Vanessa recently stayed at The Club’s warehouse, courtesy of The Club’s hospitality. But she left after a few nights. Somehow she escaped their welcoming arms. But we now know how she got out and it is being dealt with.”
Why is he telling me all this?
A thought struck Tim so hard he winced. To know anything about The Club was to be on the inside. Since Tim was on the out side, would he disappear like Officer Mark Hemmings did a week after that Christmas party? Was Marshall telling him this information because in the end it really didn’t matter what Tim knew as his days were numbered like Vanessa’s had been?
Vile anger, a seething fury, rose in a flash and then abated just as quickly. He clenched and unclenched the fist of his free hand. He couldn’t deal with this call, the loss of his daughter, and veiled threats from an asshole councilman, with anger. He would beat them by staying calm.
“If The Club was responsible for Vanessa wanting to kill herself—” His throat clenched with emotion. He swallowed and tried again. “If they hurt her, I will kill—”
“Easy, easy, Tim Sim. Your anger is misdirected.” Someone knocked on his office door. “I think you need to direct your anger where it matters.” They knocked again. Then his doorknob twisted. “It’s Sarah Roberts who hurt Vanessa, not The Club. We were kind to her. She enjoyed herself in our presence.”
The door opened and Detective Marina Diner stepped in. She mouthed the words, You okay?
“Find Sarah,” Marshall said. “End this stupidity. Powerful people need this to be quelled. Consider your career. If you don’t end this, walk out of your office now and leave a note behind describing where you want your ashes to be strewn because it all ends in death, Detective Simmons, it all ends in death.”
The line went dead. Tim slammed the phone down. Marina flinched.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“Telemarketer. What’s up?”
“You’re pale. Your eyes are red and you look like you just broke out in a sweat. Are you okay?”
“Pain in my hand. No sleep. We haven’t found Sarah and I have to go home now.
So why is Marshall calling me?
“What have you learned from Sarah’s boyfriend, Aaron?” Marshall asked.
“Nothing I’m willing to discuss on this call.”
“Are you saying you still have no clue what Sarah is up to?”
“No comment.”
“You’re lying. You know something.”
“How’s that?” Tim asked. Then in a snarky, sarcastic voice, he said, “Or am I not allowed to ask you anything?”
“We all know who shot Vanessa.”
At the sound of his daughter’s name, Tim tightened his grip on the phone until the plastic whined under the strain.
“C’mon Tim Sim, I’ve seen the footage. Sarah Roberts brought a parachute, disguised as a backpack, to the roof of the CN Tower, shot your daughter and then jumped and disappeared. Suddenly, after the funeral of your daughter, you’re having a drink with her in the pub where you practically gave her your weapon. If you’re not involved, when the disciplinary actions come down the pipe, you’re going to have a hard time explaining that. Especially explaining your involvement with The Club.” He cleared his throat and coughed into the phone.
The Club?
There was that name again. A horrible place that every cop in the city left alone. They paid their taxes and no one ever complained about The Club. Ever. Tim knew of several members and a few who visited The Club, but it was always hush hush.
“Rumor has it Vanessa recently stayed at The Club’s warehouse, courtesy of The Club’s hospitality. But she left after a few nights. Somehow she escaped their welcoming arms. But we now know how she got out and it is being dealt with.”
Why is he telling me all this?
A thought struck Tim so hard he winced. To know anything about The Club was to be on the inside. Since Tim was on the out side, would he disappear like Officer Mark Hemmings did a week after that Christmas party? Was Marshall telling him this information because in the end it really didn’t matter what Tim knew as his days were numbered like Vanessa’s had been?
Vile anger, a seething fury, rose in a flash and then abated just as quickly. He clenched and unclenched the fist of his free hand. He couldn’t deal with this call, the loss of his daughter, and veiled threats from an asshole councilman, with anger. He would beat them by staying calm.
“If The Club was responsible for Vanessa wanting to kill herself—” His throat clenched with emotion. He swallowed and tried again. “If they hurt her, I will kill—”
“Easy, easy, Tim Sim. Your anger is misdirected.” Someone knocked on his office door. “I think you need to direct your anger where it matters.” They knocked again. Then his doorknob twisted. “It’s Sarah Roberts who hurt Vanessa, not The Club. We were kind to her. She enjoyed herself in our presence.”
The door opened and Detective Marina Diner stepped in. She mouthed the words, You okay?
“Find Sarah,” Marshall said. “End this stupidity. Powerful people need this to be quelled. Consider your career. If you don’t end this, walk out of your office now and leave a note behind describing where you want your ashes to be strewn because it all ends in death, Detective Simmons, it all ends in death.”
The line went dead. Tim slammed the phone down. Marina flinched.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“Telemarketer. What’s up?”
“You’re pale. Your eyes are red and you look like you just broke out in a sweat. Are you okay?”
“Pain in my hand. No sleep. We haven’t found Sarah and I have to go home now.
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