10-33 Assist PC: A Mike O'Shea Novel

By Desmond P Ryan

D/C Mike O'Shea, a young cop with a knack for working hard and following hunches, is on the verge of cracking a prostitution ring when an undercover from another unit burns him. With only days left before their pimps shuttle the girls out of the country, Mike pushes his team into overdrive. Hours later

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685122539

Desmond P Ryan

For almost thirty years, Desmond P. Ryan worked as a cop in the back alleys, poorly-lit laneways, and forgotten neighbourhoods in Toronto, the city where he grew up. Murder, mayhem, and sexual violations intended to demean, shame, and haunt the victims were all in a day's work. Whether as a beat cop or a plainclothes detective, Desmond dealt with good people who did bad things and bad people who followed their instincts. And now, as a retired detective, he writes crime fiction. Desmond now resides in Cabbagetown, a neighbourhood in Toronto where he is currently working on The Mike O'Shea Series and Pint of Trouble, a more traditional mystery series, both published by Level Best Books.

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Desmond P. Ryan

10-33 ASSIST PC

A Mike O’Shea Novel

First published by Level Best Books 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Desmond P. Ryan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Desmond P. Ryan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Second edition

ISBN: 978-1-68512-253-9

Cover art by Level Best Designs

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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To my children, Sam and Ben, one who grew up as a cop’s kid, the other who has never known me to have had a job.

Praise for 10-33 ASSIST PC

Desmond Ryan’s decades on the force show through on every page of this acerbic, gripping read. Astute observations that can only come from a long-time officer, witty cop-to-cop banter you know is cribbed from a career of cruiser chit-chat, and a portrait of the bond between fellow officers represented via only way that rings true: from experience.— Wendy Gillis, Toronto Star Crime Reporter

Desmond P. Ryan’s first book manages to uncover a truth about what it means to be a Toronto cop. Mr. Ryan’s narrative is searing, unapologetic, engaging and truthful in honor of the men and women who do undercover police work; all under the shadow of Canada’s largest metropolis. Skillfully navigating his flawed and sometimes broken characters, Mr. Ryan leads the reader through wins and losses and choices that are as much analogous to real life as it is to policing. Even minor characters jump to life, bringing with them humour and pathos to people that we barely glance at in real life. The making of Mr. Ryan’s storytelling, marrying experience with fiction, compels our all-too-human heroes to an explosive ending - kudos, for the first Ryan novel to line my shelf.—Henry Alessandroni, author of Inizar: The Complete Trilogy

"People on the front lines of policing, cops and dispatchers, all know how it feels to go home after a shift and stare into space, wondering when memories will soften so sleep can come. Policing exposes its people to the gamut of human experience, including cruel realities like human trafficking. This experience can be hard to bear, especially over a decades-long career.

Desmond P. Ryan has captured the gritty and heartbreaking situations street cops face. He has done so in a way that underscores the humanity not only of victims, but also of those sworn to protect them, and who will risk their lives for them. He has also reflected the unique combination of humor, wit, profanity, brilliance, and occasionally panic, that characterizes the ways cops work together. Like the situations it exposes and the policing vocation it describes, 10-33 Assist PC is not for the faint of heart."—Pete Lennox, Retired Police Superintendent, trainer, consultant

Desmond P. Ryan brilliantly pours his experience as a police detective into this hard hitting, compassionate story that reveals the human side of law enforcement. Through his no-nonsense approach, Detective Constable Mike O’Shea will do anything to stop human traffickers working on his streets, even if it means making it personal. The author clearly shows his experience as a law enforcement officer and does a wonderful job in bringing the characters to life. You will ride along shotgun as Detective Constable Mike O’Shea hunts down all his leads in search of a young girl and does whatever it takes to bring a violent human trafficker to justice. Giving up is not an option.—Donato Sinisi, CAPP Public Safety Professional, Instructor, Author

"10-33 Assist PC will grip you immediately on the first page, and will hold your attention until the last word on the last page.Desmond P. Ryan’s book, for me, is all of the best examples of crime fiction writing! I was right in the story from the beginning, and could not put this down until I had devoured every single word. A highly talented storyteller, he takes his years of experience as a Toronto police officer and creates incredibly fascinating stories for his readers. Buy this book, find a comfortable spot, and be prepared to not put it down until you reach the end of this story. The best writers and books always have the same effect: I want more, and I cannot wait for more stories of Mike O’Shea and his colleagues."—Christine Newman Author, Educator, and Speaker.

I

10-33 Assist PC

Chapter One

Saturday, October 29th, 2005 - 2:30 p.m

Detective Constable Mike O’Shea casually drove the unmarked scout car around the corner. He felt good. Maybe it was the bright October sunlight reflecting off the crushed beer cans scattered on the overgrown lawns. Maybe it was the police-issued snubby holstered in the small of his back. Or maybe it was the anticipation of a successful end to a long project. Whatever the reason, it made him smile.

Mike! Left! Sal grabbed the dashboard with one hand while instinctively reaching for his gun with the other.

The clang of metal rang in their ears as a streak of green flashed in front of them.

Someone bounced off the hood of the car.

Mike slammed the brakes, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching for the snubby. Despite their ratty sweatshirts, stained jeans, and unshaved faces, neither cop looked quite as rough as the scrappy man who popped up from the pavement next to Mike’s door. They watched, hands on their still-holstered guns, as the scruffy man yanked a battered bike from under the front tire of the car. Without a word, he wobbled away, apparently none the worse for wear.

Hey! Mike hollered after the cyclist, who responded with a suggestive finger in the air.

Bike’s stolen and he’s drunk. Or stoned. Let him go, Sal said, spitting sunflower seed shells on the floor of the car before settling back into his seat.

Unbelievable, Mike mumbled, shaking his head.

No shit, Sal agreed, stuffing another handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth.

I’m talking about you, asshole. You’re not spitting those shells in the car, are you?

Yeah.

Use the fucking window.

Sal spat a shell at Mike’s feet.

Mike continued towards the boarded-up shithole that was their target, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as he considered how close they were to a successful end to this project.

He knew this neighbourhood like the back of his hand. Old houses with good bones that had now fallen into disrepair lined the streets. The sidewalks that used to overflow with women with three and four children in tow during the daytime and old men eking out a living on their meagre pensions in the evenings had changed, too. Now the only people outside, day or night, were homeless addicts who had chosen to live rough rather than face the violence inside the shelters that had popped up in the neighbourhood over the past ten years.

During the past few weeks, Mike and Sal had been gathering bits of intel from those same eyes and ears on the street in exchange for a smoke or a couple of bucks. They’d spent days shoving a photo of the girl who had sparked the investigation under the nose of anyone who would look. Some of their leads were good; most, though, were bullshit.

The girl in the photo was Chelsea Hendricks: barely sixteen, missing since fourteen, and an apparent runaway. She’d been spotted in several security videos from a reasonably upscale hotel lobby in Niagara Falls over a five-day span in February of this year, always with different men, sometimes with one or two other girls.

Mike knew a couple of the guys who monitored the equipment and would drop a dime on the down-low whenever a new girl appeared. When Chelsea surfaced, he’d got the tip. It was during an ice storm, and after a precarious drive down to the Falls and several drinks with his boys, he had boxes of security videos and a pounding head. It took his team three sleepless days to positively identify Chelsea and sixteen other girls who had been reported missing from Toronto in the preceding two years. But by the time Mike got the search warrant written and signed by the judge, the girls were long gone.

A couple of months later, Chelsea Hendricks was back in Toronto on the stroll. Someone had called the police about condoms in their laneway. A neighbour had a decent security video and had turned the footage over to the divisional detectives, who, after looking at hours of footage of cars driving by, saw an emaciated girl getting fucked in the back seat of a car. She looked pretty young, so they called Mike.

It didn’t take much work for him to identify the girl as Chelsea Hendricks. He and Sal set up on the stroll for two weeks but had no luck finding her.

In the middle of May, after a call from his counterpart in Buffalo regarding an unrelated project, some instinct told Mike to ask for the names, dates of birth, and photographs of any of their known prostitutes who even remotely matched Chelsea Hendricks’s description. It turned out that a girl known to them as twenty-year-old Tracey Henderson was really his sixteen-year-old Chelsea Hendricks. She had been investigated several times on a strip known for its younger girls, and each time, she’d had no ID and gave a false name and date of birth that put her over the age of concern for underaged street hookers. On top of that, the bogus name didn’t raise any flags regarding her missing status in Canada.

Now it was October, and Mike, Sal, Julia Vendramini, and her partner, Fred ‘Hoagie’ Hogan, had been working the case for almost a year. Despite their best efforts, they always seemed to be a day late and a dollar short. Until, that is, about three weeks ago when the mailman noticed some activity at a house that had been empty for months and called the police.

Mike and Sal were in the area and got to the address before the uniforms arrived. They recognized a couple of guys having a smoke out front from another project they had worked on and convinced the attending officers to let them handle the call. Dozens of computer checks, around-the-clock surveillance on the house, and some other bits of intel were enough to give them a signed search warrant for the address.

Today, within the hour, they’d be kicking in the door and shutting down a sizable prostitution ring that ran underaged girls between Toronto, Niagara Falls, and Buffalo.

Mike was hoping that Chelsea Hendricks would be here. His jaw tightened whenever he considered that this girl—like all the girls whom they dealt with in his unit—had been barely out of childhood when these fuckers had got hold of her—and destroyed her. Now, at sixteen, she was likely their most senior offering, leaving her precariously close to her expiration date.

He could not lose this girl. Not now, not when he was so close to rescuing her.

Today, more by luck than design, the team’s timing was ideal. One of their more reliable sources had assured them that the handlers would be moving the girls on Monday, leaving the hold house relatively quiet this Saturday afternoon. Only the handlers, hustlers, and mid-level pimps looking to buy second-hand girls for their stable would be coming or going. No johns, no outside interests, just the vested players.

Clean. Easy. Round them up and shut them down.

Once he and Sal made sure everything was kosher out front, Mike would radio Julia and Hoagie, who would be parked just down the street. A quick door knock followed by a swift kick and they’d be in. If these assholes ran true to form, they would scatter like cockroaches when a light flicks on.

Mike’s team would be ready for them, though. They would grab the pimps, get the girls to a safe house, and that would be the end of it.

Whole thing should only take a couple of minutes, Mike figured. Maybe a scuffle or two, but nothing they hadn’t dealt with before. All these scrawny little fuckers were cowards full of some bullshit version of intimidation that might work on scared little girls, but not on Toronto cops. Besides, if things really got ugly, they’d put over a ‘10-33 Assist PC,’ a powerful all-call that would bring every cop in the city racing to help.

After wrapping up, they would call Robby, the suit in the unit who made sure the bosses were happy, and they’d all grab a few beers and some extra-hot wings at the shitty bar they always went to. And then they would start all over again next shift. Because that’s how it went in the Juvenile Prostitution Task Force where the never-ending demand for sex with young girls meant hopping from one project to the next, trying to save as many girls as possible before the dirty business ate them alive.

What the fuck? Sal suddenly said, spotting a lone woman standing in front of the dilapidated hold house they’d been doing surveillance on for the past week.

You’re kidding me, Mike groaned.

She’s gotta be an independent.

Or eyes for the place? She looks pretty clean, and those jeans she’s wearing aren’t cheap.

Pretty old fuckin’ eyes, Sal commented with a laugh as he looked the woman up and down before spitting a mouthful of shells on the floor between his legs. She’s gotta be, what? Thirty?

You fucking disgust me with those shells, you know that? Hang on. Roll down your window. Let’s have a little chat with her.

Sal gave a piercing whistle, then shouted, Hey, sister! Mike sighed, unsure which was more annoying: Sal whistling at women or his spitting sunflower seed shells inside the car.

Piss off, the woman called back, pivoting on her red stilettos.

That’s not very nice, Sal chuckled. We just want to talk.

And I’m telling you to piss off, copper, she yelled back over her shoulder.

We’re not cops, Mike said, leaning over his partner as he pulled up beside her. We just want to talk to you.

You’re either cops or born-agains because nobody just wants to talk on this corner. Now get the hell out of here.

Listen, we just—

Jesus! the woman huffed, turning quickly on her heel as she strode over to the car. She jammed her right hand into the red clutch slung over her left shoulder.

Keep your hands where I can see them! Mike ordered, reaching into the small of his back for the second time since he had turned onto this supposedly quiet street.

The hooker froze, then pulled something out of her purse.

I’m a cop, too, assholes. The woman shoved her badge through the passenger window, narrowly missing Sal’s face while almost imprinting the badge on Mike’s. Detective Constable Amanda Black. Morality. We’re doing a sweep, and you’ve just burned me. Thanks.

Shit! Sal threw his head back against the headrest and rolled his eyes. For a minute there, I thought you were gonna fuckin’ shoot me!

Yeah, well, maybe I should’ve because you’ve burned my cover, Amanda snarled, replacing her badge and pulling the purse strap up on her arm. I’m hoping you fucking plugs have a legit reason for being here.

What? You shittin’ us? You think you’re the kind of action we’d be trying to pick up if we were actually trying to pick up? Sal laughed.

Shut the fuck up, Sal, Mike snapped. And you, lady! I don’t care who the fuck you are or think you are. You’ve just fucked my entire project for the sake of some dipshit hooker sweep!

Ooh. The Big Man is mad, Sal smirked, flicking a sunflower seed shell off his seat onto the floor.

Fuck. Off. Sal. And, Mike turned his glare on Amanda, in answer to your question, I am Detective Constable Mike O’Shea, and this is my partner, D/C Sal Salvatore. Juvenile Prostitution Task Force. We’ve been doing obs on this place for the past three weeks. Figured it’s our fucking hold house, but now—

Right hand, meet left, Amanda sighed, gesturing with her hands. Never changes, does it? If my team had known, we would have given you the heads-up.

Yeah, well, if we’d have known that you guys were still wasting your time doing hooker sweeps, we would’ve put in a call to have you stay the fuck away from our play, Mike snapped again.

If it helps, Amanda offered, ignoring Mike’s dig at her unit’s main activity, nobody has come or gone from this place since I got here about half an hour ago.

Do you think maybe that lack of activity might have something to do with your goons chasing down johns right out front? Fuck, you’re upset you’ve been burned? That’s three weeks’ worth of intel gone. And this ring is going back underground. Fuck!

Mike slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

So how’s business, sister? Sal tried to break the tension, shoving yet another handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth.

Not bad. Three arrests since I got here. My backup, Amanda pointed to a beat-up old van parked down the street, is just over there, writing up.

Must be a good vantage spot, Mike said sarcastically, because our backup is in the sedan parked right behind yours.

Uh, aren’t you a bit… old… for this kinda work? Sal asked, spitting shells in her direction.

Fuck, Sal! Mike whispered, suppressing the urge to shake his partner.

No kidding. You think I want to be standing on the corner having assholes in Beemers with baby seats offer me ten bucks for a blowjob? Hardly. But this is what they have me doing, at least until I get cranked and they send me somewhere else.

On the list for promotion, eh? Mikey here is on the list, too, aren’t you, Mikey? Sal said, emptying the rest of the package of seeds into his mouth.

I’m just hoping they’ll let me stay in the unit when I get made.

Aww, you just like your partner. Sal puckered his lips in a kiss.

Listen, boys, Amanda interrupted. I’d love to stay and chat, but it’s a numbers game for me. Boss said ten arrests and we’re done for the shift. I may be old, but there’s gotta be at least seven lonely-hearts out there who’ll make up my ten. After that, I’m home to have a nice dinner with my babies for a change. Congrats on your promotion, Officer. Now get lost so I can do my work.

You’re fucking joking, right? Mike asked.

Do I look like I’m fucking joking?

"This is our corner. We’ve been on it for a month. And while you’ve probably already burned us, we’re not leaving. You are."

No, I’m n— Amanda began.

Yes, you are, Mike interrupted. We have some girls—no, make that children—to find. Real police work. Either take it somewhere else or…

Amanda gave Mike a look that would have killed a lesser man before strutting further along the street.

We spend weeks out here… Mike fumed, looking for another spot to park.

I dunno, Mikey, Sal sighed, spewing the last of the shells onto the floor of the car. Like she said: right hand, left hand.

Do you have to do that? Mike looked over at his partner with disgust. I mean, fuck, Sal—

Yep. Even when I’m driving. Look down.

No wonder the car always looks like the bottom of a bird cage. What is wrong with you?

At least, it doesn’t smell like a bird cage.

Don’t you ever fucking shut up? Mike said, watching Amanda smile at a car that had slowed down for her. And now we’ve got Morality fucking spinning the neighbourhood. Shit shit shit shit shit!

I don’t suppose you want any seeds? Sal chuckled, pulling another package out of his jacket pocket as he watched the driver of the targeted car pull over and Amanda pick up her strut as she approached it.

Get the fuck out, Mike said, not taking his eyes