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

close to three p.m. now. The afternoon sun was on the other side of her building. She sipped from her bottle watching the building’s shadow slowly stretching out. The phone began to ping that she had new messages. She pressed a button to wake the screen and saw that Nastos had sent an email. She opened the attachments and saw two pictures of young men wearing brand new police uniforms. She noticed that it had been forwarded from Jacques Lapierre.
    A feeling came over her that took time to decipher. She decided it was the payoff. Her instincts had been right. Falconer had watched cops shoot Walker, which meant that she was going to break the biggest news story in Toronto. She had the sole witness living with her, and hours and hours of exclusive interviews. Falconer still needed to see the pictures but these guys matched the description perfectly. She returned to the balcony to wait for the pizza, this time with her laptop, and began writing, mostly questions, quick observations. She typed a few sample intros and headlines, nothing more than brainstorming. The real work would begin tomorrow. After Falconer gave the positive ID , it would be enough to go to the editor. Plus it would be enough to get Falconer other accommodations, with another babysitter while Karen could write the story.

7
    Dave Morrison was running faster than the threshold of pain. With each stride he stretched forward, his mid-foot striking the ground, then the momentum of his body rolled the centre of gravity forward to the ball of his foot then his hamstrings flexed and like a slingshot launched his body forward again for another stride. This was happening with a blinding speed, his legs a blur. It was just a matter of time before the lactic acid weighed his legs down, making the sidewalk feel like wet cement, so he never took his eyes from Terry McLeish, the man who was trying to escape.
    Running at that speed for that long had all but silenced the cluttered monologue in his head and everything had become simple for Morrison.
If he gets away, I’ll just kill myself.
    Off duty, in street clothes, this was another one of Radix’s great ideas on how to scrounge money. McLeish was a mid-market pot dealer supplying his co-workers at the nuclear plant where he worked in maintenance. He was a fit, professional drug dealer who didn’t smoke his own product. Away from work and the blue overalls, he was the kind of guy with the perfect smile and sweater wrapped around his neck that no one would suspect of doing anything more criminal than wearing white pants after Labour Day.
    The traditional behavioural profiling had kept him out of trouble with the police. Getting tipped off to this guy’s hobby job was a godsend to Morrison and Radix, considering their financial pressures.
    Radix had said this would be an easy one, a quick surprise takedown, then they’d hit a park to count the money.
He could have mentioned that this kid runs like Donovan Bailey and can smell a cop as easily as he can smell bacon sizzling on a campfire.
And ripping off pot dealers wasn’t a long-term solution to their problems. It barely bought time until they came up with a better option.
    Morrison tripped over his own two feet taking a corner around a building, sprawling to the ground and clambering back up. He was oblivious to the road rash on his hands and knees. Pain could wait until later. Nearly up to full speed again, he hurdled a trash can, landing too heavily and knocking a teen girl flying into a parking meter, her iPod flying into traffic.
    He’s a legit target. Be solid. Run solid.
    Morrison took exaggerated long breaths. Except for McLeish, the entire world disappeared. McLeish led Morrison south on Jarvis Street, under the Gardiner Expressway, deking through traffic. Cars locked up their brakes, drivers hit their horns. McLeish tore through a parking lot crossing over to Queens Quay on an angle. It was here that Morrison detected McLeish’s