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

by Robert P. French

  “Don’t be too sure. I’ve seen too many ugly murders by jealous spouses.”

  I shrug. “What about the second half of the job her pet shark described? What did he say? Something like ‘find out any evidence the police have got against her and report back to me.’ We can’t agree to that. He probably went along with hiring us because he knows we’re both ex-VPD members and assumes we have an ‘in’ with the Department. If we did learn anything from Steve about what they’ve got against Marly, there’s no way we’d be able to share it with her or with him.”

  Stammo nods slowly and then smiles. “For now, let’s make them think we’re taking the case and find out what happened when Steve and his partner interviewed her.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We cross the office and go back into the conference room. There is a tension in the air. Is it because we left the room or is there something else going on? Oh. I wonder if—

  Stammo breaks my chain of thought. “Tell us about the interview with the VPD,” he says. “You said Steve Waters was the senior officer, we both know Steve well. We were both partners with him at different times.” Bob Pridmore nods and gives the shadow of a smile. Good move Nick, get the lawyer on side. “Do you remember the name of the other officer?” Good. Easy question. Get her talking freely.

  “Yes, I think so. I think his name was Detective Street.”

  We both try and cover our surprise. Detective Eric Street is a very ambitious young cop who screwed me over badly when I was back in the Department. I’m surprised he’s still with the VPD, let alone Steve’s partner. I guess the scum, like the cream, rises to the top.

  “Can you remember the questions they asked you?” Stammo continues.

  “Well yes, first they asked me where I was at the time of Dale’s murder.”

  “His body was found at midday yesterday,” I say, wondering if she knows it was me who found him. “Did they tell you the time of death?”

  “Between six and midnight of the previous evening,” she says.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I was home in bed… alone.” She puts an emphasis on the last word.

  “What else did they ask?”

  “They asked why I was angry at my husband. I don’t know why they thought I was angry at him. I told them that and added I was just worried because he had gone missing. They didn’t seem to accept it. The younger one asked if I had threatened Dale.”

  “Had you?” Stammo asks.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Did he say why he thought you had?”

  “No, but he kept asking me in different ways.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “I have no idea.” She looks like she’s close to tears. I believe her. Maybe Stammo can find out from Steve why they thought that. “Then they asked me when was I last at the townhouse where Dale was found. I told them I’d never been there, that I didn’t even know it existed. That was when they accused me of lying, they said they had DNA evidence I had been there. The younger one was really nasty about it. So when they asked me if I had a lover, I was scared to deny it. I didn’t want to be caught in an actual lie in case they thought I was lying about never having been to the house too.”

  “Did you tell them the name of your lover?”

  “No I refused and don’t ask me again because I won’t tell you either,” she says defiantly.

  “Did they say they found your DNA in the townhouse?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  Stammo and I exchange looks. We’re both thinking the same thing.

  “Did they say where or what type of DNA evidence?”

  “No. When I told them I’d never been there, they just said they didn’t believe me and that DNA didn’t lie.”

  Bob Pridmore chips in, “I’ve asked my client not to meet with the police without me being present.”

  Stammo and I both nod. “What else did they interrogate you about?” he asks.

  “They wanted to know how much money I would be inheriting.”

  “And how much is that?”

  “I don’t know. I won’t get to know until I meet with his lawyers.”

  Now to get to the question I wanted to ask last night. “Marly you said that you and Dale got married six years ago; that would be twenty-thirteen, right?”

  “Yes, April twenty-eighth. The police asked me that too.”

  “Did you know Dale had twenty-thirteen branded on his stomach?”

  Her eyes go wide. “No. Who would do such a thing?” Then she realizes. “Is that why they think I did it?”

  “That, and the DNA evidence, and the fact that you have a lover.”

  Now she looks scared. “Mr. Rogan, Mr. Stammo, you have to find out who did this.” She rummages in her purse and pulls out a cheque and pushes it across the table to Stammo. “Please, take this and say you’ll take the case.”

  Any thought of not taking the case dissipates. I look at my partner and he says, “Sure. We’ll do everything we can to find out who killed your husband.” I note he makes no reference to handing over to her lawyer any of the VPD’s evidence which we might find. And, surprisingly, Bob Pridmore doesn’t bring up the subject.

  I wonder why.

  “What if he’s her lover?” Stammo is wondering the same thing that occurred to me in the conference room. The way she kept looking at Bob Pridmore might not have been to check for a lawyer’s approval but for a lover’s. I nod my agreement. He takes a bite of his beloved chocolate digestive cookie and I sense there’s more to come. “I didn’t really think it before, but what if we’re being played? I didn’t think she could have killed her husband, I still don’t, but he’s big enough and ugly enough to have done it. Maybe they’re just hiring us for cover. Using us to find holes in their stories, holes they can fill in later. Or finding other possible suspects who their lawyers can point a jury at. It makes perfect sense.” He’s warming to his theme now. “For some reason we can’t think of, a year ago Dale stops boinking her. Finally, out of frustration, she starts an affair with her lawyer, big Bob. They hit it off and decide they’d like to make it permanent. If she divorces him, at best she’ll get half his money, a lot less if there’s a prenup. So they decide to off him.”

  “Makes sense up to a point,” I agree with him. “Except she said that at the time of Dale’s death, she was home, in bed, alone. If they did it together she would have admitted he was her lover and that they were both in bed, thus giving each other an alibi.”

  Stammo grunts and I continue, “We need to find out about the prenup. It only makes sense if there was one. With no prenup, she could get half his money in a divorce, it would be enough to satisfy anyone. As an heir to the Summers’ fortune, it would be millions.”

  “There’s no accounting for greed,” he says round another mouthful of cookie.

  “True.” I worry the idea for a bit. “There’s another angle: what if big Bob did the murder without her knowing?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Makes sense. I can’t imagine her doing it.”

  “There’s just one thing bothering me,” I say. “Why brand him with twenty-thirteen, the year they got married? Isn’t that a giveaway?”

  “Good point. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Unless…” I mull the idea for a bit.

  “Unless what?”

  “Well it’s a bit convoluted but think about this. Big Bob starts an affair with Marly. It’s going great and she falls in love with him. But he’s got his beady eyes on the Summers’ fortune. So he kills Dale, plants her DNA at the scene and brands him. Now he’s got a hold over her. He can give her an alibi for the time of the murder just by saying they were together but he can threaten to recant the alibi at any time if she doesn’t do exactly what he says and then the evidence is stacked against her.” When I’ve said it, it doesn’t sound as credible as when I thought it up.

  “Convoluted is right,” Stammo says, taking another cookie. “S’more like an episode of La
w and Order.” He thinks for a moment. “Actually it’s more like CSI,” he says. “You found Dale’s body yesterday afternoon and VPD have DNA evidence this morning? Come on!”

  “Yeah, I was thinking that too. I suppose it’s possible. But why would she lie about it?” Stammo shrugs. “Anyway,” I continue, “I’m still going to check out whether or not she and Dale had a prenup.”

  “Right. But if she or big Bob didn’t do it, who the hell did?”

  I think it over and suddenly it hits me. There’s an obvious question we’ve only asked once but never really looked into.

  19

  Cal

  I can kill several birds with one stone here. I’m surprised and suspicious at the same time. Surprised he agreed to see me again at such short notice especially on the day after the death of his brother. Suspicious as to why he’s at work at all; shouldn’t he be mourning or dealing with his brother’s affairs? But then again, it won’t be the first time I have failed to understand the motives and thinking of the very rich.

  “Come in Mr. Rogan, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Summers. May I say how sorry I am at the loss of your brother.”

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  I decline his offer of coffee—it’s getting a bit late in the day for a shot of caffeine from his fancy espresso machine—and sink into one of the deep leather armchairs. He does the same.

  “I was surprised to get your call. I thought your assignment to find my brother was a closed case at this point.”

  “Well it is, but I just want to tie up some loose ends.”

  “You can take the man out of the police force but not out of the policeman,” he says.

  I don’t know if I manage to conceal my shock that he must have checked me out fairly thoroughly since our last meeting. I wonder if he uses a private investigator. Maybe we should go after the business; Stammo would love that. “How may I help you?” he adds.

  I take a breath and start the questioning I rehearsed in the car coming over here. “First, thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I was surprised.” He just gives a nod of the head. “I’d like to ask you just a few questions. First, you indicated when we spoke on Tuesday that you ran some checks on Marly.” He nods again. “Might I ask how extensive they were?”

  “Very.”

  “Would you be prepared to give me a summary?”

  He looks at me without blinking. It’s uncomfortable but I can stare with the best of them. My phone rings. Without taking my eyes from his, I reach down and through the fabric of my pants, press the button that sends it to voicemail. We continue for a while until a small smile creases his face. “Yes.” Seems I passed some sort of test. “We were suspicious of her at first. She was paying her way through medical school as a waitress at a nightclub. Her job was to encourage the patrons to maximize their spending on the house champagne. Nothing sleazy, you understand. It wasn’t that kind of nightclub.” He makes air-quotes around the last word. “That was where Dale met her. She obviously fit what he was looking for and I’m sure she was delighted to land him. They were married three months after they met.”

  “You think she was a gold-digger?” I ask.

  “No. Not really. I’m sure she was delighted to be married to a rich man but I don’t think money was her primary motive. I think she really loved him.”

  “You said you had never met her…” I leave the question hanging.

  “True but the investigators I used got to know her well enough to make the judgement.”

  “When they got married was there a prenup?”

  “No. I tried to convince Dale over the phone that he was crazy to marry without one but he wouldn’t hear of it. That call did not go well.”

  Without a legal prenuptial agreement, Marly would almost certainly have got fifty percent of Dale’s fortune in a divorce. Was he worth murdering for the other fifty percent? Likely not. It blows the Marly and/or big Bob scenario out of the water.

  “In the event, it didn’t matter,” he continues. “My father was still alive at the time and altered the terms of Dale’s trust fund so that it would not revert to his wife on his death or divorce unless they had been married for seven years.”

  “Did Marly know about this?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  I can’t help feeling relieved that if Marly knew about the terms of Dale’s trust fund, it puts her out of the running as her husband’s murderer. However, if she did know, maybe her lawyer didn’t.

  “Can you tell me more about the trust fund?” I ask.

  He gives me the steady stare again. It lasts a long five seconds. “How is that relevant to ‘tying up loose ends’? I think that’s what you said.”

  This guy is too astute for me to try and B.S. him. I smile. “OK, I’ll come clean. Marly has retained us to find out who killed Dale.”

  “Why is that? Doesn’t she trust the capabilities of Vancouver’s finest?” There is a joking tone in his voice.

  “It’s more that Vancouver’s finest don’t trust her.” I say it without thinking and it’s a major breach of client confidentiality. I have to watch myself with Luke Summers; not let myself be too charmed by his easy tone.

  “Oh. That’s the way the wind blows is it?”

  It may have been a gaff on my part but I can use it. “That’s why I wanted to know more about the details of the trust fund.”

  “OK.” He looks at his watch. “The trust was set up for myself and Dale with some minor shares to my father’s siblings and their progeny. The trust holds some dividend paying investments, the largest of which is Summers Holdings Inc. The beneficiaries of the trust draw a regular income from the trust and are able to draw on additional capital for major purchases, for example a purchase of property. In the event of the death of one of the beneficiaries, their share goes to their next of kin. It’s all pretty straight-forward.”

  I have a trust fund from the estate of Mr. Wallace as a thank you for solving his son’s murder so I understand the workings. “I have a couple of questions, the first one being what was Dale’s income from the trust?”

  He answers without hesitation, “Twenty-five thousand a month.”

  It’s a hell of a lot more than mine; I try not to show my surprise.

  “US dollars,” he appends. That adds another seven thousand Canadian. Definitely out of my league.

  “He had houses in West Van, Salt Spring and Whistler and a townhouse in Kits. Are they owned by the trust?”

  “Kitsilano?” he asks.

  “Yes, he owned the townhouse where his body was found.”

  “Hm?” There is a tone of surprise in the short grunt, from which he quickly recovers. “No, he was able to draw down on his capital allowance to buy the properties. They were his.”

  “So, Marly would inherit those?” Upward of fifteen million bucks worth of property is a fair enough motive for murder.

  “Depends on Dale’s will, I suppose.”

  Now to ask the question that might well open up a new line of questioning. “Dale and Marly were going through a bad patch in their marriage. They hadn’t been intimate in over a year. Do you happen to know if Dale was being unfaithful?”

  “No, I’m sure he wasn’t. Infidelity wasn’t Dale’s style. Our family has always held true to our religious convictions. Dale was no exception. He was still a regular attendee at church. He would no more be unfaithful than he would kill someone.”

  He says it quickly, with a deep and firm conviction.

  And I don’t believe a word of it.

  The Wedgewood is a boutique hotel on Hornby Street; its lounge looks out onto the Law Courts and it’s a favourite hangout for trial lawyers. With most trials recessed for the day, it is humming with activity.

  I’m trying to enjoy a Hophead IPA, a good old standby, while waiting for Jim Garry to appear. His voicemail did not sound very upbeat and I’m more than a little worried. It’s a worry that stirs the Beast, the craving for the blissful peace
only heroin can provide. As I progress in my recovery, the longing comes and goes but it’s rarely as strong as this. A tiny part of my mind is picturing me walking down to Hastings and Main to buy a flap of heroin. The longing is balanced by the fear of getting a fentanyl substitute which could kill me in one last blissful high. People ask why would a junkie run the risk with fentanyl. They have no idea. When the Beast takes over your mind, you lose all choice in the matter. Everything is subsumed by the need for the high. I try not to dwell on it but I can feel my muscles twitching, trying to force me to my feet, out the door, to my car and away to the east side dealers.

  “Hi Cal, sorry to keep you waiting.” Jim Garry drops into the chair opposite and signals the waiter over. He is still wearing his lawyer’s collar and short jacket, an anachronistic holdover from the English Courts which are the foundation of Canada’s justice system. Despite the formal attire, his warm smile and twinkling eye give me a respite from the calls of the Beast.

  He orders a Pinot Noir and leans forward. “We have a problem.” The four words nobody wants to hear from their lawyer or their doctor. The respite was fleeting. “I had a discussion with your partner this morning,” he says. Why didn’t Stammo tell me about this? Was that why he had a glass of whiskey in his hand when I walked in? “There is a possibility he won’t testify on your behalf.”

  A cold dread washes over me. “Did he say he wouldn’t testify?”

  “No. He just said he would have to think about it.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know for sure Cal, but you have to remember that no matter what the provocation, you did kill his son.”

  “They weren’t even that close. Nick hadn’t seen him in years.” As soon as I say it I realize how stupid that is. Matt was his son. Could I stand up for Stammo if he had killed Ellie, no matter how compelling the reason? I know the answer to that question.

  “If Nick won’t testify to his conversation with Matt on the walkie-talkie, what does that do to my defence?”