“They have your blood on Matt’s clothing. When they searched your apartment, they took a lot of clothing. They may well have his blood on something of yours. They took the receipts you used to buy the equipment you used on the island. You can bet they have got a knife identical to the one you bought and matched it with the wound in Matt’s chest. It’s possible you left something else there which they can tie back to you. They may have more.”
“But what about motive? What would my motive be for killing him?” I can hear the anxiety in my voice.
“By your own admission, you were there spying on his boss, looking for evidence the girl was there. In court they will imply you killed Santiago and Perot. They’ll say he found you and you decided to silence him too.”
“But he shot me; doesn’t that prove self-defence?”
“Without your partner’s evidence about the sequence of the shots and his conversation with Matt on the walkie-talkies, there’s no proof he shot first. As you didn’t check into a hospital, there is no proof he shot you at all.”
He’s right. “How do you rate my chances if Nick doesn’t testify?”
“Not better than fifty-fifty. I don’t know what other evidence they may have dredged up. On top of that I’m wondering—and I don’t want you to comment on what I’m about to say—but I’m wondering if during their searches they found any evidence, at either your’s or Nick Stammo’s home. If so, it could implicate you in the murders of Santiago and Perot and if that were the case, you could be re-charged with committing those murders and Nick could be charged with conspiracy to commit. If that happened and if he had a lawyer with any brains at all, Nick would turn Queen’s evidence against you. That would not be good.”
I can feel the blood drain from my face.
I tell myself I’m here because I like the food and I need to treat myself to a late dinner. But the truth is the location itself. The Pourhouse Pub is on Water Street in Gastown and although the beer and the food there are wonderful, it’s just a couple of blocks from that strip of Hastings between Main and Abbott; the jungle where just about any drug known to man is available.
I’ve been sitting in my car at a parking meter, balancing on the edge of a decision for almost half an hour. I’m held immobile by the perfectly balanced forces of my need for heroin and my fear of the consequences. Three and a half years back when I was still using regularly, fentanyl was an exception. Now it’s a different story.
I watch the cars on Water Street, a distraction from the need to make a decision. The sidewalks are teeming with people heading to and from restaurants and bars to celebrate the approach of the weekend, less than twenty-four hours away. I long to be part of that throng, to share the camaraderie of old friends or fellow workers or lovers on a date. I miss it all. Especially being on a date with a lover. It is a long time since I had an actual date. Although Sam and I were reunited for a brief instant a couple of weeks ago, we never found time to actually go out together alone; just for a meal; just to sit in a restaurant; just to hold hands across a table and read the world in each other’s eyes.
How can I live without thee, how forego
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined,
To live again in these wild woods forlorn?
I think my paradise with Sam is lost to me for ever. The thought sharpens the longing for the sweet oblivion. Just a quick hit to soothe my troubled breast, to erase for an instant the loss I feel. I can hear the Beast inside. He’s telling me I won’t feel so alone, that sadness can be banished, that I can just take one hit. One hit isn’t going to get me hooked again. It’ll just be a one-off. Let’s go.
Then the longing is tinged with an anger, an anger at myself. Get over yourself Rogan. Your life isn’t over yet. Sam is maybe lost but perhaps there will be other lovers. As I mull over the thought, I can’t help thinking of Em. She has a nice quality to her. She uses her Southern accent to give a tantalizing mocking tone to what she says, a tone that mocks herself as well as me. Maybe there is hope for me with Sam or if the fates decide, with someone else.
Maybe.
I can’t decide. What the hell, why not?
Then a voice rings in my head. The voice is Ellie’s. Words spoken three and a half years ago. A junkie’s a good thing, right Daddy?
And so I decide. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow but not tonight.
I get out of the Healey and lock the door, not that it is a deterrent to any half-competent thief but just to stop any street person from rummaging inside for whatever he or she might forage. I walk west on Water Street in the direction of the pub, thinking of the Welsh rarebit, steak and frites or house burger I will have to choose between. And will I have the Jongleur Wit or the Rye Stout?
A yellow cab passes me and splashes water from a puddle a few feet in front of me. I’m about to cross the street but get distracted by the laughter of an early spring party of Japanese tourists standing beside the steam clock. As I look toward them the cab pulls over to the curb and a man approaches it. A man I know. It’s Sean O’Day, the Irishman from Galway who is Southbrook’s project manager. He opens the cab door and an elegant leg emerges and places itself on the sidewalk. I feel two conflicting emotions: a heart-skip of pleasure that I’m about to run into Emily Audley and a wrench of jealousy that she is here with O’Day. Perhaps they’re an item. Her slim hand emerges from the cab and O’Day takes it, helping her out. Except it’s not Em. My pleasure and jealousy evaporate and are replaced by puzzlement and shock.
What is Marly Summers doing here with her late husband’s client?
20
Tomás
“I talked to our lawyer, Javier. He has a good contact in the VPD. It seems Rogan was on the island when my father was killed. Whoever we killed in that boat may or may not have been involved in their deaths. They are sure Rogan was the assassin but have no evidence.”
“Do you want me to take him Patrón? Our people are following him. He just went into a restaurant in Gastown.” I like the eagerness in Javier’s eyes.
“Not yet. I want to take the wife and daughter first, then his partner and then him. I want him to witness their deaths before I put a bullet between his eyes.” I savour the thought. “I think we will kill the partner first. Then I want you to enjoy yourself with the wife while he looks on.” Javier likes that. It is a fitting reward for him. “Then I will kill the wife.”
“What about the daughter?” he asks, his eyes gleaming.
“How old is she?”
“Eight or nine.” Javier licks his lips and looks intently at me. Uh-ha. So… Javier shares Perot’s perversion. Good to know.
“Maybe we’ll bring her to say goodbye to her father and then you can lead her away. Before I kill him, I’ll tell him what you are going to do to her. We’ll let him think on that for a while before I finish him.”
“Thank you Patrón.”
Javier is fully motivated now.
“But first we need to find them,” I tell him. “And I know you won’t let me down.”
21
Cal
My choices are different from my expectations, rather than Welsh rarebit, steak or burger I’m having to choose between osso buco, veal saltimbocca and rack of lamb. I have followed Marly and Sean O’Day into Al Porto, a very fine Italian restaurant which has been a Vancouver landmark for decades. I was lucky enough to walk in a few minutes after them and it’s late enough that I got a table without a reservation. It’s not the best table in the place but it serves my purpose; it is beside the pillar of one of the terracotta-coloured archways and partially conceals me. However, by leaning a little to my right I can see their table well. I can see most of her face but have only a quarter view of his.
I’m trying to read the dynamic. She looks relaxed and he is leaning forward and seems to be doing most of the talking. As he talks, I can see a small smile playing on her lips. I wonder what he has to say to her that she finds amusing.
“Can I bring you a cocktail, sir?” My wai
ter is tall and cadaverous with the frostiest of smiles. He reminds me of a restaurant manager I once had a disagreement with at the Lift.
“A glass of Chianti would be nice.”
“Certainly sir.” As he walks away, I focus my attention back. At their table the waiter has brought a bottle and is pouring glasses of white wine. He puts the bottle in a cooler on their table. They lift their glasses to each other, clink them and she smiles. I wish I could see more of his face. Do they look like lovers? Is Sean O’Day the man whose name she refused to reveal either to Stammo and me or to the VPD? And if so, why? Is it because she was seeing him, her husband’s client, behind her husband’s back?
As I watch them, I can’t decide. I think back to my meeting with O’Day. He’s one of those people whom it’s difficult to read but Marly’s another story. As I watch, she reminds me of my meeting at her house last night. She seems to be talking slowly and deliberately and she seems to be giving him the look she gave me just before running her fingers up my thigh. Although I can hardly see his face, I sense he’s as uncomfortable as I was or maybe I’m just projecting that. She smiles at him and pulls a cellphone from her purse. Her face loses it’s smile and takes on a look of puzzlement. She hangs up and says something to him. He leans forward, gets up from the table, says no more than three words to her and heads toward the men’s room. Unfortunately, it brings him past my table. I put my nose down into the menu and massage my temples with my hand concealing my face as well as I can, but not before I get a glimpse of his face.
The stoicism has gone. Right now it’s showing a mixture of confusion and fear.
When he’s past me, I look back up toward their table. Marly doesn’t look completely at ease and certainly not an iota like someone who can instill such fear into a grown man. There’s something serious going on here and I’m betting it has something to do with her husband’s murder. A part of me wants to go over and confront her but the sensible part tells me to hold back and watch things unfold.
The waiter places a glass of wine in front of me. “Have you decided what you would like to eat sir?” he asks.
“The saltimbocca, please,” I say without being aware of consciously deciding.
“No appetizer, sir?” It sounds more like an accusation than a question.
Having checked the prices on the menu, I have no difficulty in saying “No, thank you.”
I drink some of my Chianti and focus back on Marly, she has finished her first glass and is pouring herself a second. She looks up and I can’t read her emotion but then her face lights up with a simulacrum of that amazing smile I first saw in our offices on Monday afternoon. I follow her gaze. She’s looking at Bob Pridmore, her linebacker-sized lawyer. He’s handing his coat to the hostess and is surveying the room. Before I can react, his eyes lock with mine. I can see the wheels turning. He knows it’s not a coincidence I’m here and I can see he wants to know why and how.
He walks over to my table. “Mr. Rogan, what are you doing here?” he asks.
I could tell him it’s just a coincidence I happened to see Marly and Sean O’Day and that curiosity got the better of me, but instead I say, “My job.” I lift my glass and take a sip.
“What part of your job is following my client?” he asks.
“I wasn’t following her,” I say with some flippancy.
I can see the anger now. Mr. Pridmore is not a happy camper. I look over to the other table and lock eyes with Marly. Her smile has changed. Her face is fixed in a mask. It evokes the image of a Roman patrician watching a Christian and a lion with me cast as the former. It’s not a pretty sight. I look back at her lawyer and see that Sean O’Day is standing behind him. If I saw fear in his blue eyes before, it’s doubled now. It’s naked and unadulterated. He turns and heads for the door. Pridmore follows my gaze, takes a step toward O’Day, thinks better of it, turns back to me and after a momentary confusion stalks toward the table where Marly is still sitting with her wine and her smile.
Decision time… after a second, decision made. Staying and watching Marly and Big Bob is a losing game now they know I’m here. Talking to Sean O’Day is a much better plan. I get to my feet, pull out my wallet, reluctantly drop two twenties on the table—to partly cover the half drunk wine and the saltimbocca I ordered but will never get to see—and head for the door.
Out on the street, a drizzle of rain has started to fall. I look left and then right. Sean O’Day is waving. I follow his gaze and see a yellow cab, one of the many which cruise Water Street. I’m held by a momentary indecision. Should I run up and try to speak to him? I weigh the options and decide. I turn my back on him and run east toward my car. Right now he’s probably still in the grip of his fear. If I try and talk to him now, he’ll panic and force his way into the cab and will be lost. Better that I follow him so that I can try and approach him when he’s far from the aura of Marly and Big Bob. That’s the plan anyway.
I make it to the Healey in record time. It starts on the first try, thank heavens, and the puny windshield wipers whisk the film of rain away. A second cab, a blue one bearing the Maclure’s logo passes me and way up ahead I can see Sean’s cab take off. It’s a good two hundred meters ahead. I pull away from the curb and follow the blue cab up Water street; it’s dawdling along looking for a fare and the street is just too narrow for me to pass. I have to hold myself back from hitting my horn; that would likely trigger his cussedness gene and make him slow down even more.
The yellow cab has no such impediment and is accelerating away. I made the wrong decision; I should have approached O’Day when I had the chance. For an instant I get a whisper of hope as I see the traffic lights at Cordova are red but that slim hope is dashed as they change and the cab follows the green arrow on to Richards and out of my field of view.
I slam the wooden steering wheel with the palm of my hand and curse the driver of the blue cab. As if on cue, a young woman in the mini-est of miniskirts flags him down and he pulls over. I jab my foot down on the gas pedal and the Healey leaps forward, the three litre engine responding by doing what it loves best. I don’t have much time. A frisson of worry bites me: I’m already going way too fast; the Healey’s a bit skittish in the rain and if a careless pedestrian… The green arrow of the traffic signal blinks out and for a nanosecond I consider accelerating and jumping the lights but sense prevails and I hit the brakes bringing the car to a slippery halt.
I’ve lost him.
22
Stammo
The Two Parrots is a cop hangout. Most mornings you’ll see a line of Vancouver Police Department motorbikes parked on the sidewalk outside. The food’s good, cheap and plentiful. It was Steve’s idea to meet here this evening and it works for me. I was surprised he suggested getting together. He could have given me the info over the phone but face-to-face is always better; he’s more likely to tell me more than I asked for.
I roll up to the door and meet the first obstacle. There’s a small step up to a tiled area in front of the door. I don’t remember it being there. All the times I’ve been here were before the accident; I probably never noticed it, why would I? Fortunately the step’s only a couple of inches high and I easily back the wheelchair up it. I gotta say I’m getting pretty good with the chair. Then the sign on the door: ‘Pull.’ It’s like the conference room door back at the office. I grab the door handle with my right hand and wheel backwards with my left and, of course, the door bangs up against the front wheels of the chair. I lean forward and a voice says, “Dj’a wanna hand?” Anger stirs. I turn to tell the good Samaritan I can do this myself goddamnit and see the speaker. Old, dirty, ragged and homeless, he smells of too many nights in shelters and too much cheap vodka. All the anger blows away. I’m a million times better off than this old guy but he’s taking the time to help a fellow human.
I swallow my pride. “Thanks man, I appreciate it.” I let go of the door and wheel back a foot. He drops his bulging garbage bag on the floor and opens the door for me. After I wheel forward
far enough to keep the door open, I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. “Have one on me,” I say as I hand him a twenty.
He runs a finger over his lips and takes the money. “I d’int do it fer money,” he says, “but thanks anyway.” The bill disappears into the pocket of his coat.
He starts to wander off but I call him back. “Don’t forget your stuff.” He turns and shrugs, walks back and grabs the garbage bag, which probably contains everything he owns in the world. He hoists it up onto his shoulder and walks off into the rain. Rogan always says giving money to the homeless doesn’t do any good because they’re just going to spend it on drugs or booze. He’s right about this one. My twenty will almost certainly go to buying him some cheap vodka but what the heck, it’ll numb the reality of his life for a few hours.
I roll into the Parrots. There’s a group of uniforms over by the giant air conditioning unit, catching a couple of innings of a Blue Jay’s game before they go back out onto the streets. I recognize a few of them but they’re focused on the game and don’t see me which is as well because I can’t stand the pity I see in the eyes of former colleagues.
There are a few tables occupied by civilians enjoying a Thursday night out. My favourite table by the window’s empty and I wheel over and grab the menu which I’m pleased to see hasn’t changed since I used to come here regularly a few years back. The way Vancouver is growing, I wonder how long the Parrots will be able to stay in business; this location on Granville and Davie has gotta be primo real estate. The other great breakfast place down the street has just closed down, not that I would ever have gone there with my cop friends but that’s another story.
The waitress comes over with a menu. She’s a new face, well actually an old face but she’s new to me. “Hi,” I say. “Where’s Jeannie?”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 8
