Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  I grab a notepad and pen off the table. “What’s his full name?” I ask.

  She hesitates for a moment, knowing this is the point of no return. She takes a deep breath. “Matthew Dale Summers, but he goes by Dale.” I pull the notepad onto my lap and start to take notes. “He’s a manager at Beloff and Plasker,” she continues. He must be good. They’re one of the big five accounting firms, a detail I never knew as a cop but have learned about since Rogan and me started the agency. She gives me all the usual details: addresses, there are three, a West Van house on the waterfront, must be five million at least, weekend places in Whistler and on Salt Spring Island, two prime destinations for Vancouver’s rich and famous; date of birth; email addresses and phone numbers; Social Insurance Number; social media handles; cars and license plates, a Merc and a Lamborghini, both with personalized plates, must be nice; favourite restaurants and bars which I know are all expensive hangouts.

  I’m going to ask the obvious question but I need to word it just right. “You seem to be uh… quite wealthy, so I need to ask you this because it could be important and I hope you won’t take offence How do you afford all this when your husband earns what, a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty grand a year?”

  She gives an awkward little smile but there’s no humour in it. “Dale’s from the Summers family who own the hotels.”

  Enough said. Everyone in the world knows the Summers hotel chain. “So why the hell does he work for a CA firm?” It’s out of my mouth before I even think about it. “Sorry, I hope that wasn’t…”

  “No problem Mr. Stammo, it’s a fair question.” She smiles and I feel something I haven’t felt for a long while. It makes me doubt everything; doubt my reason for finally leaving my ex; doubt my reason for quitting the OPP in Toronto and coming out to Vancouver; doubt the fact that… She rescues me from my thoughts. “Dale’s money comes from a trust which his late father set up. However, Dale does not get on with the rest of his family, especially his older brother Luke, who’s CEO of Summers Holdings. He won’t have anything to do with them and he feels he has to make his own mark in the world and decided being a partner in a CA firm would be a good first step.”

  “That makes sense.” I don’t know if it does but it’s the only thing I can think to say.

  “Is there anything else you need to know?”

  “I don’t think…” I start to say then realize I almost forgot the obvious question; I must be losing it. “Why is he estranged from his family?”

  She pauses and the smooth skin of her forehead wrinkles. “You know, it may sound strange but I don’t really know. He says things like ‘we never got on’ or ‘I was always the odd one out’ but he’s never really discussed it with me. I’ve never met any of them. He’s really very private. It’s why I need you to find out what’s going on with him.”

  It does sound strange. Surely if you met and fell in love with someone like her you’d tell her everything. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something very big and very wrong in Dale Summers’ relationship with his family. Maybe it’s at the bottom of his problem.

  I take a business card from the breast pocket of my jacket and slide it across the table to her. “Please call me as soon as he returns home. I promise we’ll find out what’s going on with him.” Another rule broken: never promise anything to a client except best efforts. What the hell, it’s the least of the rules we’ve broken in the last couple of weeks. “Oh, and please can you email me a recent photo?”

  She puts my card in her purse and removes two items which she slides across the table to me. “Your retainer as outlined in your email and a recent photo of Dale.”

  “Thank you.” I resist the temptation to look at the cheque. I just put both items on the notepad on my lap and put the pen on top.

  As she stands, I wrangle the conference room door open. It’s one of the tricks I’ve learned to do in a wheelchair but I can only do it from inside the room.

  She walks through the door and as I follow, I almost run into the back of her. She’s stopped in the hallway face to face with Rogan. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Matt’s funeral. A perfect storm of emotions starts to boil up inside me.

  3

  Cal

  My continent of beauty. Shakespeare must have been thinking of this woman when he penned those words. But for all that, I wish she weren’t here; it’s Stammo I need to talk to right now. I force my eyes from hers to Stammo’s. I can’t get a read on him.

  He looks up at her. “Ms. Summers, this is my partner Cal Rogan.”

  She extends her hand. I take it and enjoy the firmness of her shake, which is over more quickly than I would have liked.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. It sounds inane. I wanted to leave a better first impression.

  She just smiles. Wow!

  She turns and looks down at Stammo. “Thank you so much for being such a good listener.”

  Stammo grins like a kid. “My pleasure, we’ll be in touch very soon. And don’t worry I’m sure it’s gonna be OK.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was blushing.

  She touches him gently on the shoulder, says, “Thank you Nick,” gives me another smile, smiles at Adriana—our new receptionist, office manager and all-round factotum—and lets herself out the main door.

  I kick myself for not thinking faster and opening the door for her.

  The silence left by her departure is broken by Adriana. “Nice to have you back Cal.”

  “Yes, thanks, it’s nice to be back.” Nice is a huge understatement. A week in a jail cell at the Surrey Pretrial Centre seems to have robbed me of my vocabulary.

  “Let’s talk.” Stammo wheels his chair into the main office area and parks himself behind his desk. I sit at mine.

  Keeping my voice quiet so Adriana won’t hear, I say, “They dropped the first two murder charges, for the moment anyway. No evidence, thanks to your planning.” I look at him for a reaction. None. “We admitted I was on the island but just to find evidence that Ariel was actually there.” He just nods but gives nothing away. “The third charge still stands but Jim Garry, my lawyer, says that with your evidence, any judge will agree it was self-defence and find me not guilty.”

  He nods again but this time he says, “OK.”

  “Thanks for doing the affidavit, by the way. It was the thing that convinced the judge to give me bail.”

  He looks down at his desktop and nods for the third time.

  All the things I thought about while sitting in my cell start to bubble to the surface. “Listen Nick, about Matt, I just want to say—”

  “NO.” His tone of voice cuts me off. “I can’t talk about that right now.” I can see the emotions wrestling on his face but I can’t begin to read each one of them. All I can see is an overwhelming sadness.

  “I’m sorry Nick.” It’s little more than a whisper.

  He shakes his head. “Let’s talk about the new case.” He takes a notepad off his lap, puts it on his desk and looks at the cheque lying on top. “Remind me to tell Adry to deposit this.” We hired Adriana when her former boss went to jail awaiting trial on charges of child pornography and voyeurism offences During the week I was in jail, Stammo seems to have forged a good relationship with her. Just as I think it, she brings in two coffees and two plates of those half-chocolate digestive cookies Stammo loves.

  She takes the cheque and says, “If it’s OK with you guys, I’ll go down to the bank and deposit this before they close.” She leaves us alone.

  “Right,” says Stammo through a mouthful of cookie, “I’d better update you on what’s happened with our cases while you’ve been goofing off on vacation.”

  For the moment at least, it’s business as usual.

  I stand before the door undecided. I know the smell of jail is on me and on my clothing but this can’t wait. On the other side are the two people I love most in the world: my daughter Ellie and my ex-wife Sam. The last time I was here it was blissful. Now I have no idea of the
welcome I’ll get. Finally I summon up the courage to ring the doorbell. I can hear it ringing in the house but that’s all I can hear.

  I ring again.

  Silence.

  I should have called first but was afraid I might get rebuffed. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

  I press my nose to the stained glass semi-circle in the door. The distorted view of the hallway looks bare. It’s as if they don’t live here any more. My heart speeds at the thought. Is it my worst fear? Has Sam taken Ellie and just left? When I was taken into custody accused of killing three people, the look on Sam’s face was stricken and during my week at the pretrial centre she made no attempt to contact me, let alone visit. Could the knowledge that the man she fell back in love with is a stone cold killer have shattered any possibility of me being in her life?

  I walk across the verandah to the door of Sam’s neighbour I ring and it’s answered almost immediately.

  “Hello Detective Rogan. How are you?” Cora Hunt has either forgotten or never knew that I’m no longer a VPD detective.

  “I’m fine thank you Mrs. Hunt. I’m looking for Sam and Ellie, do you know if they will be gone long?”

  She look puzzled. “Didn’t you know?” she asks.

  I feel my heart sink into my gut. “Know what?”

  Her puzzlement morphs to confusion and then fluster. “Oh, dear! If she didn’t tell you it’s hardly my place to—”

  “Please Mrs. Hunt, I need to know where they are. Has something happened to one of them?” She can hear the note of panic in my voice.

  “Oh, dear!” her compassion is fighting with her loyalty. “Oh, dear!” Then compassion wins out. “Sam has some trouble. I don’t exactly know what it is but she left a few days ago saying she wouldn’t be back for a while. She asked me to take in any deliveries she might receive.”

  “Do you know what sort of trouble? Was it her MS?”

  “No nothing like that and nothing to do with Ellie so you don’t need to worry on her account. It was something else. She didn’t exactly say but I have a sneaking suspicion it might have been something to do with money.”

  This is not making sense to me. “When was this? When did they leave?”

  “Let me think… it was early last week, Monday or Tuesday.” She knits her brow. “Tuesday,” she decides. “Almost a week ago.” Three days after I was taken into custody. Now it’s making sense. The knowledge that I’m a killer is what has decided her to run away with Ellie. She took three days to get organized and now she’s gone.

  “Do you know where she went, Mrs. Hunt?”

  She blinks twice. “No.” She’s a poor liar but a good person and I hate to pressure her but I must.

  “Please I have to know she’s safe. I must know where she is.”

  “I’m sorry, if she hasn’t told you, I don’t feel I can.”

  My gut is in turmoil. “Please Mrs. Hunt.”

  “I’m sorry.” She closes the door and I hear the deadbolt click into place.

  I can feel rising panic but one thought keeps pushing to the fore: you’re a detective, if anyone can find them, you can.

  Cal

  Tuesday

  As I step off the elevator, I’m impressed by the silence. There’s a seating area with leather chairs, sofas and elegant coffee tables and a double reception desk backed by a black marble wall bearing the logo and name proclaiming to the world that this palace is the domain of Beloff and Plasker, Chartered Accountants. There’s a glass spiral staircase leading down to the floor below. A while back I would have felt intimidated by an office like this but in my last few cases, both in and out of the VPD, I sparred with some very sketchy criminals who inhabited such places.

  I’m wondering whether I will be able to find out anything useful from the gatekeepers.

  “How may I help you?” The younger of the two receptionists gives me a big smile.

  “Good morning, I’m John Falstaff.” I smile, partly at her and partly at my choice of the first pseudonym that popped into my mind. “I have an appointment with Dale Summers.”

  She examines her computer screen, taps a few keys and frowns. “You’re not in his calendar. Are you sure it was for today.”

  “Very sure. Maybe you could check with him.”

  “His calendar shows he’s in a meeting.” Her frown deepens. She turns to her more senior cohort. “Maddie, did you just see Mike Jarvis leave the office?”

  “Yes, he went to a client meeting.”

  “It says here he’s in a meeting with Dale.”

  Maddie clicks her mouse a few times. “Huh,” she announces, “He’s not logged into the system. Let me check with Janine.”

  “That’s Mr. Summers’ personal assistant,” the younger one informs me, sotto voce.

  Maddie’s slightly wrinkled brow becomes more puzzled as she speaks with Janine. “Well, there’s a Mr. John Falstaff here who says he has an appointment with him.”

  I see my chance. “I wonder if I might talk with Janine?” I ask.

  “Hold on Janine, the gentleman would like to speak to you.” She directs me to one of the coffee tables with a telephone on it. “I’ll put you through to her.”

  I stay put. “I’m afraid it’s rather a confidential matter, I wonder if I might speak with her in person.”

  Maddie clearly takes her job as gatekeeper seriously. She hesitates for a moment so I give her my best smile and she caves. “Could you come up to sixteenth floor reception and speak with him? He says it’s a confidential matter.” Her tone of voice puts the last two words in quotes but after a pause she says to me. “Take a seat, she’ll be right up.”

  Just out of orneriness I stay standing.

  I go through in my mind my initial attempts to try and track down Sam and Ellie. Sam’s step-father just flat wouldn’t tell me anything. He clearly knows something but he also knows I was accused of murder—a fact he revealed with some relish—and his advice before he hung up on me was, “Just stay out of their lives.” I can’t help wondering if they’re holed up with Sam’s parents. But the thought of staking out their place feels a bit too much like stalking. Maybe if I get desperate enough…

  I’ve received no response to my texts and emails and a search of Sam’s and Ellie’s social media accounts revealed nothing. There was nothing on Sam’s website to give any clue. I don’t relish the idea of getting Stammo involved but I will need his help trying to track Sam via her digital footprint.

  On top of my worry for Sam and Ellie, when I got home last night I found out my apartment had been searched. The place was a mess and there was a search warrant on the dining table. I wonder if—

  My thoughts are suspended as I see a woman of about my age come up the spiral staircase clutching a small spiral notebook and a pen. After we introduce ourselves, I ask if we might talk privately and she leads me into a small meeting room.

  “How may I help you Mr. Falstaff?” she asks without offering me a seat.

  I need to take charge of the conversation. I just look at her for a moment as if trying to make a decision about her. Just as she starts to look a little flustered, I ask her, “Has Mr. Summers gone missing?”

  “How do you—?” She cuts herself off quickly, then amends the question. “Why do you ask?”

  “Why don’t you sit down.” I suggest in a tone that says I might have some bad news for her. I feel a twinge of guilt. She seems like a nice person but I need to get to some truth about Dale Summers.

  She complies and I sit opposite her.

  “I’m a friend of Dale’s and I’m worried about him.” As always I wonder at how easy it is for me to lie to witnesses. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Friday afternoon.”

  I just nod and stay silent. People can’t stand silences, they just have to fill them.

  As does she. “He spent the afternoon in a meeting with one of our US clients. They left at about four and he told me the meeting went very well and that he was going to have
a celebratory after-work drink at the Railway Club. Quite often the managers meet there on Fridays.”

  Her words say it was all normal but there’s something in her face that belies it. I cock my head on one side and give her a slightly puzzled look.

  Again she fills the silence. “Well, the thing is, after client meetings, he would always come back to his office and review any notes he’d taken, maybe scan them and maybe email a summary of the meeting to the partner responsible for the client. But on Friday, he asked me to log him off his computer and he just left. He’s never done that before. Never.”

  I nod wisely and say, “That makes sense.” Now she has the puzzled look. “I’ve noticed recently Dale has been behaving a bit, how shall I say… erratically.” She nods unconsciously. “Has it been the same at work?”

  She leans forward and glances through the glass wall of the meeting room as if someone outside might be able to see what she was saying. “Well, yes. He has been rather moody which is not like him at all.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” I tell her. She nods and smiles at the validation.

  “Not only that,” she adds, “but recently he has left early some afternoons for outside meetings with clients but hasn’t logged the hours on his billing forms. When I questioned him about it he said it was a marketing meeting, or that he was dealing with a client problem which wasn’t billable. But even so, he should show that on the forms.” She looks crestfallen. “I marked them in as visits to the dentist.”

  “You’re a good friend to him,” I tell her.

  “I try to be.”

  “Was there anything else?” I ask.

  “Not that I can think of.”

  Well she’s not offering so I’m going to ask, “Change of mood is often an indicator of something specific. Do you think it’s possible there’s another woman in his life?”