Free Race by Mobashar Qureshi

Rupret ,” I answered.
    “Officer Rupret .”   It was Beadsworth .   “Am I disturbing you?”
    I lowered the volume.   “No, driving my car.”
    “I thought I heard the television.”
    “No.   I’m in my car.   It’s probably noise from outside.   Let me roll up my windows.”   I paused.   “Yeah, now that’s better.   Everything okay?”
    “Noel, my son, he broke his arm during a soccer game.   He’ll be all right.    Thank you.”
    “Good.” I was actually glad to hear from him.
    “Where are you right now?”
    “Um…sorry?”
    “What part of the city are you in right now?”   He meant where I was driving.
    “I’m almost near my house.”   That was roughly the truth.
    “You live on Gerrard Street.   Correct?”
    “Yes…”
    “I’ll be there in a short time.”
    “Where you coming from?” I asked.
    “Forest Hill.”   He hung up.
    Forest Hill? Didn’t the rich live there?  
    I shook my head and quickly washed up.     
     
    ***
     
    The doorbell rang and I rushed down to the main floor.   I took Beadsworth upstairs to my apartment.
    “Hi, Mike,” I said, passing Michael Jordan, but then stopped.  
    Beadsworth looked at me oddly.  
    “It’s a family tradition,” I began.   “Never mind.”
    I offered him something to drink but he declined.
    “Do you live alone?” he asked.
    “For now,” I said, as if I was in a serious relationship.
    Beadsworth didn’t take a seat.   “On my way I made a search of Max Vernon and Vernon Max through CPIC and it came up empty.”
    The Canadian Police Information Centre is a database used by the police, corrections and immigration officials, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, to track dangerous criminals.   As a PEO, I had used CPIC to track stolen vehicles.   The problem with CPIC is that it does not record summary offences—minor crimes that range from fines to six months in jail, crimes that do not require fingerprinting or mug shots.   
    “This guy is clean,” I said.
    “Not quite,” Beadsworth said.   “I then did a search on the Criminal Information Processing System, alternating between the two sets of names.   I managed a hit.   Max Vernon had a collision on Highway 427 in 1999.   From there I was able to acquire his address.”
    “So we go and pay him a visit,” I said.
    “Tomorrow.   Right now we have to meet Detective Nemdharry and Constable Terries.”
    We were rushing down the stairs when my landlady popped her head out her door.
    I stopped and introduced her to my new partner.   Living alone and having no alarm system, she was my only security.   If an unknown person ever came into our building I had instructed her to call the police.   She was my first and last line of defence against would-be thieves and robbers.   My partner gave a small courteous bow.    She smiled back.
     
    ***
     
    We drove to Scarborough and parked in the back of a coffee shop.   We found Nemdharry and Terries sitting near the front windows.    
    Nemdharry spoke first. “Thanks for coming,” he said.
    We satopposite them.  
    Terries smiled—at me—and I smiled back.  
    “Phil,” Nemdharry started.   “I think we’re on to something.”
    Nemdharry’s grayish hair was gelled back, and his light brown skin was smooth and without a blemish.   He looked much younger than his age, around Beadsworth’s .  
    He looked out the window. There was a huge white building across from the coffee shop.   It had a wide sign that read: OFFICE SPACE FOR LEASE.  
    “I think there’s something going on in there,” Nemdharry said.   “A tip from our informant gave this address.   The owner of the coffee shop says he’s seen some peculiar people come in.   Not too friendly.   Couple of days ago he saw a moving van in front of the building.   I spoke to the company that manages the building and they say it’s an export company.”
    “What do they export?” Beadsworth asked.
    “Clothes.”
    “To