The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery Read Online Free Page A

dissipated, replaced by a sobering worry. He was teetering between getting arrested and taken to jail for the rest of his life or successfully buying time until, by some miracle, a solution appeared.
    He felt a buzz in his front pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. A text message read
East side.
    He wanted to look around to see who was watching but fought the urge, not wanting to appear anything less than cool under pressure, though it was probably obvious to anyone that he was ready to shit his pants. As he marched up to the east side of the building he received another text.
First washroom.
    He saw the sign for it and turned in. No one was inside. There was a bank of urinals on the right, four stalls on the left surrounded by brown particleboard walls. The doors, except for one, sagged half-open, their silver slide locks rusted and tilted at useless angles. Morrison saw the triple-sink counter and placed the bag on it. The last text read
Drop it. Now fuck off.
    â€œYeah, no shit,” he said out loud.
    Morrison peeked under the stalls, seeing no one, eyeing the end one with the shut door more closely. Nothing. He gripped the bag by the handle again, heaved his arm back then slid it toward the closed stall. The plastic corner tabs on the bottom of the bag made a fingernail-on-chalkboard scraping noise as it slid across the tile floor before it slowly rotated and stopped like a curling stone. Saying nothing, he walked back out. Wary of who might be watching — the Police Services Professional Standards Unit, federal cops, whoever — he scanned the parking lots, seeing nothing suspicious in his peripheral vision. Back at the truck, he pried open the vehicle door, dropped into his seat and turned the radio off mid-song.
    Radix bolted up. “That was fast. You didn’t accidentally shoot anyone in there did you?”
    â€œGo screw yourself, Radix.”
    â€œCome on, Princess, we’re on evenings tonight and we’ve got a woman to find.”

    Nastos led the way into the office of Carscadden Law. This place had been many things to him over the years: a place of salvation when he was on trial for murder, and a place of rebirth and excitement when he first began doing private investigation work with Carscadden, the last-chance lawyer. Then it all changed and became a place he associated with the loss of his wife, Madeleine. Seeing the excitement of new love between Carscadden and his receptionist, Tara Hopkins, while his wife was torn away from him had smothered any positive feelings he had for the office.
    Stepping inside he noticed Hopkins wasn’t at her desk. He looked into the luncheonette as he took off his coat. “Hello?”
    He hung his coat on the rack and held his hand out for Karen’s. “Here, I’ll get that.”
    She stepped forward to offer her coat, resting her hand on his forearm. “We home alone?” she asked. She wasn’t disappointed. She smiled and moved closer.
    Nastos heard footsteps coming from the office and saw Hopkins’ face, flushed red as she stepped through the door, her hair a mess.
    Nastos said, “I hope we interrupted something?”
    She smiled. “I wish. I’m bagged. I was napping on the couch.”
    Nastos shook his head. “Lies. Carscadden in there?”
    â€œActually yes. Yes he’s here, he was —”
    â€œNapping
on
you?”
    Hopkins didn’t answer directly, instead she blushed. “He asked me to buy some time. I’m sure you can go in now.” To Karen she extended a hand. “Have we met? Tara Hopkins.”
    â€œKaren Grant. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
    â€œRight.” Hopkins glanced from Karen to Nastos and back, hopeful excitement in her eyes.
    Nastos wanted to set Hopkins straight — and for that matter, Karen again too — but it wasn’t the right time. “We might have a case here. We have a video to watch with you and the