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Overview
Until recently, Steve Nastos was a respected Toronto detective, part of the sexual assault unit. Now he’s in custody—accused of killing his young daughter’s dentist after learning of the man’s unspeakable crimes against children.
Freed on bail, he has one hope: to track down the actual killer, in a town where laws are seen more as guidelines and law enforcement agents adhere to their own moral relativism. Handicapped by a recovering alcoholic lawyer, a rogue cop, and a two-faced judge, Nastos has the cards stacked against him. Then his estranged but still beloved wife inadvertently becomes involved in the case, and the stakes become even higher.
He has to protect his family—but first he has to save himself . . .
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781554909773 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ECW Press |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2018 |
| Series: | The Steve Nastos Mysteries , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 244 |
| Sales rank: | 831,861 |
| File size: | 747 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Cherry Beach Express
A Steve Nastos Mystery
By Richard D. Cain
ECW PRESS
Copyright © 2011 Richard CainAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77041-005-3
CHAPTER 1
September 6, 2011
BEHIND THE FAÇADE OF THE crisp, dark suit, under a sharp haircut and behind pale blue eyes, was a place of anguish. Steve Nastos walked down the street, avoiding eye contact with various lawyers, court clerks and police officers in the court district of downtown Toronto. Not long ago, he had been a respected detective in the Sexual Assault Unit, a father to a seven-year-old girl and a husband to a beautiful wife. He now wondered what kind of a father or husband he could be in jail.
Nastos was flanked by two uniformed officers a step or two behind him. The shorter, older officer had his hand on Nastos' elbow and had a good grip, the way cops always seemed to. Nastos knew why, of course: if someone in custody was about to run for it, he would unconsciously become rigid in his upper body, and a good cop paid attention for any sign of tenseness in the arm or any other sign that the officer needed to wrench the handcuffs or slam the guy into a wall. Of course, Nastos was thinking of doing no such thing.
Despite his best efforts, his smile eroded at times as the natural walker's sway of his arms was constricted and squeezed from the handcuffs digging into his wrists behind him. His shoulders, aching for relief, burned from the weight of his increasingly heavy arms. The last time he had worn cuffs was in training at Police College, twenty-five years and thirty pounds ago; they were a little tighter and heavier now.
Nastos observed the court building, stone and marble coming together in an imposing, rigid and cold shell. Engraved on an archway was something written in Latin, probably a courtesy warning from the lawyers to have one's wallet ready if one wanted anything even resembling justice. And it was just like a lawyer to post it in a dead language. He wasn't sure he had ever noticed it before.
With a cool September wind behind him, he pushed a dream of freedom aside and walked up the steps, past an archway into the court building, transforming from a free man, a man of the law, to a man accused of a crime. He hoped for an imaginary wall to surround him, rendering him invisible to the crowd. With it he would drift into the back of bail court, anonymous in the audience. He'd say a few yes sirs and no sirs when called upon, then just float back out, unnoticed and unremembered. For that brief amount of time, he would just try to become someone else, a figment of his own imagination. No more perceptible than a ghost drifting through a thick, still fog.
His shoes hardly made a sound as he walked up the marble steps to the landing, past the pillars, through the turnstile and through security. He turned down the left hallway, weaving around and through the crowd. Years of pacing this very building, waiting for verdicts, allowed him to arrive at Courtroom 101 — the bail court — having rarely had to raise his eyes to anyone.
He made it as far as the double doors when he heard a voice from the side call out, "That's him there, roll the camera. Detective Nastos?"
In that moment, Nastos relinquished his hopes of anonymity, took a deep breath and braced for impact. His body became heavy. He was aware that his heart was racing, his cold hands were sweaty and his wrists were aching from the cuffs gnawing into him like an old dog's dulled teeth. He saw reporters and camera crews permeating through a deteriorating wall of courtroom derelicts as the media swarmed in around him.
"Detective Nastos? Detective Nastos, do you having any comments before you enter court?" a reporter asked.
He said nothing.
"Did he deserve what he got, Detective?" another tried.
Nastos thought it would be best to shut down. It was easier just to abandon a part of his humanity, to give up his sentient, communicative being and accept his fate. Questions came in a wall of noise from the dozen men and women wanting their quote for the day. Just shut down, let it all go. What could have gone on for an eternity ended when one of the police officers behind Nastos grabbed the door handle and directed him to the temporary safety of the courtroom.
Long immune to the odours, filth and scum of courts, Nastos stood still, looking for a place to sit with his small entourage of officers. The older of the two officers pointed to the defense lawyers' desk and without a word Nastos headed directly for it. Looks like I move to the front of the line.
On his way down the walkway, he passed a young white man dressed like a black gangster. With a quick glance, Nastos saw the real gangsters in the back of court. They were probably here for aggravated assaults, attempted murders — real violence. For the white kid, dressing up like them was about as authentic as a Walmart Halloween costume, and more than a little insulting. Hopefully for this kid they'd see the humour in it rather than feel the need to stick a knife in his throat.
A sudden, violent stench identified the white kid as the very epicentre of the vomit and stale sweat odours filling the cramped room. The feeling of it settling into his mouth and lungs was as offensive as if someone had stuffed a rag soaked in gasoline down his throat. He suppressed a gag and moved past, shaking his head. Pretty soon, when this makes it to the front page, people are going to see me in the same light.
Slowly pushing the gate that separated the general gallery from the front of the room, Nastos approached the defense desk. Three lawyers eyed each other, then slid over to create a space. The two officers who had escorted Nastos took seats directly behind him, but made no attempt to pull his chair back. Obviously, they hadn't been handcuffed in a while themselves or they might have known it was basically impossible for him to do it himself. Nastos shook his head, rolling his eyes, then began sliding a chair back with his foot. Quite surprisingly, the youngest of the three lawyers saw his efforts and reached a hand back to get the chair for him.
"Thanks," Nastos said.
"No problem," he replied without looking up, taking his own seat.
Nastos recognized him as Kevin Carscadden. He was barely thirty-five. Carscadden had only been in town for a few years. In that time, he had begun making a name for himself as a reluctant mob lawyer. How someone gets into that line of work was anyone's guess. It was a good way to wind up dead, in jail or to become the media go-to guy every time they needed a sound bite from someone who talks like he's spent the last ten years with his head up his ass. Of course, this seemed a little hypocritical in light of Nastos' current predicament.
An officer sitting behind Nastos surprisingly removed the handcuffs from him. Nastos began rubbing his wrists. The acidic burn slowly began to clear from his shoulders and arms when he rolled his upper body forward. He tried to raise his elbows to stretch his back, but his body was not ready for that one yet.
One of the other lawyers leaned forward, past Nastos to Carscadden and spoke. "Looks like your guy's up first." The man slid a copy of the court brief over to Carscadden, then he and the other lawyer took seats next to the two cops in the row behind, leaving Carscadden and Nastos alone in front.
Nastos watched the brief sliding along, past him to Carscadden.
"Are you the duty counsel for me today?" Nastos asked.
"Looks like it." Carscadden checked the other two lawyers. It was pretty obvious that he had just pulled the short straw. "Kevin Carscadden," he said, extending his hand. "And you are?"
"Nastos. Detective Nastos."
Carscadden appraised him directly for the first time. His eyebrows tightened when Nastos said "detective." And it was obvious that he saw the exhaustion on Nastos' face.
"You going to be okay?" Carscadden asked.
Nastos answered, "I just really hope to make bail. I'd like to see my family again before I go away."
"I can't promise you that one; all I can do is try." Carscadden wasn't too convincing. He kept eye contact until Nastos diverted his gaze down at the table. He was probably wondering what a detective was doing getting arrested and held for a bail hearing.
"Just do what you can," Nastos muttered, almost to himself.
Nastos' gaze fixed as if he were looking through the desk into nothingness, his body slumped forward and still. The table's wood-grain veneer was nearly imperceptibly pitted, capturing the fluorescent lights almost like a kaleidoscope. The din of voices in court allowed Carscadden to lean closer to Nastos and they shared a private exchange.
"Detective, did they question you all night?"
"Since nine last night."
"So you haven't slept?"
"No. I sat with my arms crossed reciting 'I want my lawyer' over and over again. They never got tired of hearing it."
The obvious question had to be asked. "Are you guilty, Detective?" Nastos didn't respond. Even thinking he'd answer that question, here in court was an insult to his intelligence.
He had gone twenty-four hours or so without sleep and it had brought him a certain mental fluidity, a tendency to drift off into daydreams and digressions as easily as a person passes from one nightmare to the next.
He was nowhere near the lawyer who was sitting right next to him in court. Nastos was leaving the front door of his house on a hot sunny morning in July. He, his daughter and wife were walking into furnace-orange sunshine that warmed their faces when they stepped from the shade on their driveway. Josie was swinging from his left arm, springing up and down with each step. His wife, Madeleine, was dressed for work, wearing a dark blazer and skirt. Her hair was back in a ponytail, making her appear younger than forty-two. She'd been a jogger since college and her habit still kept her thin.
The three of them walked to the minivan. Madeleine got in the back passenger seat next to Josie. Nastos took the driver's seat.
"Hey Jo, let's wipe the rest of the toothpaste off your face, okay?" Madeleine pulled out a Kleenex and started cleaning her daughter up.
"You're pressing too hard, Mom," Josie squawked.
Nastos spoke from the front seat. "Relax, Jo, we don't want the dentist thinking you have rabies." When he saw everyone was buckled up, he started driving. Traffic was light and through the length of the subdivision they were the only car on the road.
"Mom, is he going to freeze my face? I don't wanna talk like Grampa."
"Grampa only talks like that when he's tired, Josie." Madeleine glared right at Nastos through the mirror.
Oops. "What?" he asked, as if he had no idea that he had poisoned her mind.
"Nice one, Nastos" was all she could say, shaking her head.
Let's try a subject change, he thought. "Should we pick you up afterwards and go for lunch? We can try Italian, Frankie's place."
"I wish you had asked me yesterday; today I have to list Jackie's house, take a few pictures and do some running around. How about tomorrow instead?" She already had her BlackBerry in her hand, opening up the calendar.
"It's a date, with the two cutest girls on the planet."
* * *
HE LED JOSIE INTO THE dental office's reception area. there was a waiting room with a wall of kids' toys and books. A video game system — probably a Wii — was running on the big-screen tv with no one playing. Three moms flipped through magazines while awaiting their children's return and Nastos' nose was invaded by that dental smell. Baking soda and antiseptic odour filled the suite. Josie realized that she had all of the toys to herself and, not waiting for a personal invitation, she dove for the video game. Nastos went to the reception desk and the next time he saw Josie, she was boxing the computer.
The receptionist was an older woman, who, despite working bankers' hours and though her most critical decision was to make a cancellation for an appointment, still found some reason to be cranky. The dental assistants and hygienists seemed welcoming enough while they grabbed or dropped off files on the reception desk or picked up equipment from the storage cabinets, but not this woman.
"Name?" she snarked.
"For Josie Nastos, please, nine o'clock." He tried to sound upbeat.
"Nothing for Mazitoze, are you sure —"
Nastos pointed to the scheduling book on the desk. "No, it's Nastos, it's written right there in front of you, for nine o'clock."
The receptionist didn't sound much happier when she replied, "Well, you can have a seat, it won't be long."
"Thank you." Some people were just always pissed about something. This was the first time Nastos had brought Josie here, though she had been seeing Dr. Irons for three years. He hoped to make it his last and let Madeleine deal with this bridge troll from now on; she was in sales and had a knack for it. He turned and walked into the waiting room, took a seat and went through a Reader's Digest magazine. He found one with a cover story about a trekker lost in the winter woods for a few days. It was sure to be a real page-turner. Josie was totally engrossed in her boxing match. She had the footwork going and her arms swinging. Somewhere, Oscar De La Hoya had the cold sweats.
Soon enough, Dr. Irons came out from the hallway. He was tall and lean, with short, greying hair. He had a slightly reddened tan, likely from the business next door. Irons was wearing a t-shirt–style scrub shirt, like the kind seen on every medical show. Nastos noticed Irons' veins and muscle tone; he was clearly a fit guy.
As Irons came into reception, a smile broke over his face. He stepped past Nastos, glancing from him to Josie on his way by, and it was the strangest thing for Nastos. Something struck the detective right away as being out of place, but he couldn't think of what it was at the time.
We may not always remember what people say, but no matter how much time passes, we always remember how people make us feel. Despite Irons' pleasant mannerisms, smile and polite request for Josie to accompany him — despite these things, Nastos felt uneasy. A feeling he later wished he had listened to.
"Josie Nastos?" Irons asked.
The future lightweight champion turned around, smiling and ready to go. "Hi," she said.
Irons reached out his hand and Josie took it. He smiled again to Nastos. "I can't imagine I'll take over half an hour, but sometimes it takes a while to get all the edges of those tiny little teeth during the cleaning."
"Great, thanks," Nastos said. He glanced at the moms in the room. They were appraising Irons. Nastos could see why they liked him: good looks, fitness, money.
* * *
AS HE REMEMBERED WATCHING HIS little girl skipping behind Dr. Irons, hopping from place to place in an imaginary hopscotch game, he felt that nagging feeling that he had left the house and had forgotten something, or like there was a merry-go-round in his stomach that he just noticed had begun to go too fast. He should've stood up and shouted Stop or taken his daughter out of the spinning room. But he did nothing. He told himself that there was nothing to worry about, that little Josie was as safe as she could be. And by doing so he made the biggest mistake of his life.
Nastos returned to the reality of the courtroom. He was discreet when he wiped his eyes dry. He was aware that his shoulders and wrists felt raw, then noticed that everyone else in the room was standing.
Nastos stood up next to Carscadden who eyed him as if to say, It's about time. The judge was just taking his seat with a sucked-in lower lip, a little put off that Nastos was slow to stand. The judge shook his head and for just a second glared at both Nastos and Carscadden. His Honour slid forward in his chair, smiling broadly for the court and gallery to see. He was an older man in his sixties with grey hair. His smile was practised, insincere and not particularly comforting.
"Good morning, everyone. Madam Prosecutor, are you ready to proceed?"
Nastos didn't hear the court officer ask everyone to rise or say the judge's name. He glanced to his left and saw the prosecutor standing to address the court. Seeing that it was Angela Dewar almost made Nastos smile, in spite of everything. No matter how overworked and frazzled she was, her effortless rigid posture and sharp facial features made looking elegant come natural to her. She was dark-skinned and spoke with a refined Indian accent.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Cherry Beach Express by Richard D. Cain. Copyright © 2011 Richard Cain. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
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