The Filthy Few (A Steve Nastos Mystery) - Softcover

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1770410074 ISBN 13: 9781770410077

Verlag: ECW PR, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

Whether cops or gang bangers, every organization has its filthy few, the people willing and able to do anything to forward their cause. Rookie police officers David Morrison and Jake Radix are determined to advance their careers in the drug squad by any means necessary.

No longer on the force, Karen Grant is now working as a journalist and one of her two sources has just been murdered in what police have written off as a drug deal gone bad. When Grant and witness Ann Falconer become hunted themselves, Grant can think of only one person to turn to: ex-partner and disgraced detective Steve Nastos and his lawyer friend Kevin Carscadden. When the rookie cops, outlaw bikers, and Nastos meet in an inevitable confrontation, only those willing to cross any line are going to survive.

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Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

R. D. Cain has worked for the last 19 years in emergency services as a paramedic, firefighter, and police officer. He is the author of Cherry Beach Express and Dark Matter. He lives in Trenton, Ontario.

R.D. Cain has worked for the last 19 years in the emergency services as a paramedic, a firefighter, and currently a Canadian police officer. He is the author of Cherry Beach Express (2011) and Dark Matter (2012), the first two novels in the Steve Nastos mystery series. He lives in Trenton, Ontario.

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The Filthy Few

A Steve Nastos Mystery

By R.D. Cain

ECW PRESS

Copyright © 2013 Richard Cain
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-77041-007-7

CHAPTER 1

Constables Jake Radix and David Morrison wore regular street clothes when they entered the Toronto Police Central Property Unit through the main front doors. Morrison's back and hands were soaked with sweat, his fingers cold and pale. A glance at Radix showed he looked just as scared, except he had an expression of determination on his face. Radix was going to push through this, he always did. Morrison forced himself to breathe out deeply. He knew he was pale from fear. Any paler, people would take him for white. I'm not nervous, Morrison said to himself, as he had a dozen times on the drive over. This is either going to work or it isn't. Nervous is just a waste of time.

Radix caught him staring and said, "Just do what I say and we'll get through this, I promise."

Morrison was unconvinced but lacked better options. This had better work.

There was a constable working the counter. His name tag read Moulton, and he was a big guy with his right wrist in a cast. This entire unit had grown over the decades by warehousing the sick, lame and lazy, the walking wounded. The big man was keeping himself busy fiddling with his iPhone, scrolling through pictures, barely amusing himself.

Radix began, "Hey pal, we're from fourteen. We need to pick up some property." He held out a property slip with a case number and forged inspector's signature written on it.

Moulton pulled glasses out of his pocket and held it at arm's length, then gave it a quick scan. "Sure," he said. He pressed a button and the door buzzer sounded.

Morrison reached for the handle, pulling it open, and Radix led the way inside. They were headed to the drug lockers at the back of the building. Moulton's lame arm hung from his shoulder like a heavy slab of meat.

Radix asked, "What happened to you?"

"Slipped on nothing, fell backward." He held the cast up for Radix to see, a look of disgust on his face. "And that's my drinking wrist."

Moulton opened the door with a magnetic swipe key. The grey metal door slowly scraped its way to a locked-open position, its wire lattice rattling until Moulton silenced it with his thick hand.

Morrison had never been in here. The walls, like the top half of the doors, were lattice; any person inside the drug locker was visible to anyone who cared to look in. And if no one bothered looking, there were the video cameras hidden behind tinted domes that hung from the ceiling just like the kind in department stores.

The warehouse was packed to the rafters. Labeled bankers boxes, pending cases, matters under appeal or review, cold cases and the forgotten or misfiled for whatever the reason, all was evidence that had to be stored until the official word came to destroy it, return it to someone or send it to auction. Despite the recently polished floors and faint scent of bleach, what Morrison noticed was the smell of musty forgotten boxes and the walking wounded like Moulton guarding them. He felt himself begin to relax.

Moulton checked the information on the property slip again and searched the rows of storage. He must have felt like being the helpful type. "Yeah, down this way." He trudged down the corridor, holding up his casted wrist.

Morrison cleared his throat. "You should keep that thing elevated or it's going to ache. I busted my wrist when I was fifteen."

"Oh, yeah?" Moulton turned, interested. "What happened to you? Fall down?"

"Hell, no," Morrison replied. "The doctors called mine a repetitive strain injury."

Moulton's

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: ECW PR
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2013
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1770410074
• ISBN 13: 9781770410077
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 250
• Herausgeber: Cain R. D.
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar