“She retired, honey,” she says. “I’m Sue. What can I get you?”
Just as I’m ordering a Lucky Lager—Rogan’s trying to get me to love his craft ales and they’re OK but I still like a regular beer—Steve walks in. He exchanges waves with one of the uniforms and makes his way over to my table. Seeing him brings back all the old memories. We were teamed up years ago just after Rogan was originally thrown out of the VPD and we worked well together right up until I ended up in this damn chair. Steve looks well; his promotion to Sergeant looks good on him. He’s a bright guy, I’d be surprised if he didn’t make Inspector in a couple of years.
We shake hands, he orders a Lucky, sits down and drops an envelope on the table.
His “How’s it going Nick,” gets us chatting about what we’re each working on and he tells a couple of funny stories about guys in the Department we both know. I laugh but, to tell the truth, it just brings home the pain of losing out on not being a member any more.
I think he senses how I’m feeling and changes the subject. “Anyway, you wanted some info on the Dale Summers murder,” he says.
“Yeah, how’s the investigation going?”
“Not great. It was a pretty brutal murder so we don’t think the wife did it but who knows? I guess Rogan told you about the brand on his stomach: two, oh one three. It was the year they got married, so it could be her or someone trying to frame her. She was having an affair but she refuses to tell us who with.”
“Yeah, she won’t tell us either,” I say. “She says it’s not possible for her lover to have been the killer but before we could press her on it, her lawyer shut us up and said to move on to something else.”
“Ah yes, Bob Pridmore. What do you think about him? Do you think he might be the lover and/or killer?” he asks.
“It’s possible. Only thing is, if he was her lover and he wanted Dale out of the picture, why would he brand Dale with the year of their marriage? It would just implicate her. On the other hand, he’s big enough to be the killer. He could easily have subdued Dale and he feels to me like he’s mean enough to have branded him.”
“Size isn’t a factor. Dale had been given a roofie. Anyone could have subdued him, tied him up and gagged him.”
“Anything else come up in the autopsy?” I ask.
“Not a lot. COD was sharp force trauma from the dagger in his chest. They think he was alive when he was branded.” He shakes his head and continues, “He was gagged with a wad of J-cloths and tied with regular duct tape. The only thing odd was the dagger.”
He opens the envelope and slides out a photo. The dagger has an ornate handle with what look like coloured jewels embedded in it. The blade’s thirteen inches long according to the ruler placed beside it in the photo but only the bottom five inches are bloodied. It doesn’t look like the sort of thing you could buy in a store. “It looks old fashioned, like something Robin Hood might have used,” I say.
“Yeah, we had an expert on medieval weapons look at it and he said it was a style of dagger used by the Crusaders but it’s a cheap knock-off.”
“Weird.”
“We’ve contacted a bunch of businesses which supply weapons for movie, TV and stage productions. Most of them have got back to us but none of them recognize it. One guy said he thought there was a manufacturer in the States who he thinks might have made it. He couldn’t remember the name but said he would get back to us.”
As he pauses I ask, “Marly Summers said you had DNA evidence that she was at the townhouse. What was it?”
“It was a bluff. I was with Eric Street and he thought it was a good idea to try and rattle her. He’s an idiot.”
“I didn’t think you could get the DNA done that fast, nor did Rogan. She also told us he kept on about whether she had threatened her husband.”
“Like I said, he’s an idiot.”
I let it drop but can’t help wondering if he’s being straight with me.
The waitress comes over with the beers and takes our food orders. When she leaves the table Steve takes a big drink of his beer and says, “We’re getting a lot of pressure from on high about this case. The Summers family are a powerful bunch and they want answers, so anything you and Rogan can do to help out on this one would be great. In the envelope are copies of the autopsy, the key interviews and all the crime scene photos. Why don’t you look over them while I go to the john.” He gets up and heads toward the bamboo awning over the entrance to the washrooms and I envy his ability to just get up and go to the bathroom without thinking about it. As he passes the table with the VPD members, he stops and puts his hand on the shoulder of one of them. “Thanks for your help with that arrest on Monday Jed, you did a great job.” Cops try and act casual about compliments but I can see he’s pleased. Steve’s a natural leader and it boosts my belief he’s going to make Inspector soon.
As he disappears into the washroom, my eyes catch the old advert for ‘Sailor Jerry Spiced Rum.’ There’s a good story behind that.
As I’m sliding the pictures out of the envelope, I hear a familiar sound. I look out the window. I was right. It’s the growl of Rogan’s English sports car, driving west on Davie. I wonder where he’s going? Hopefully following a lead on the case. Just hanging out with Steve and working on a case has let me forget for a moment the big issue between me and him. Now it’s back, front and centre in my mind and I just can’t decide what to do.
To distract my thought away from the decision I know I’m going to have to make sooner or later, I start to go through the photos; they’re all pretty gruesome. I’ll read the autopsy and interviews later. For now, I move the picture of the dagger to the top of the pile. There’s something familiar about it but I can’t quite pin it down. I just stare at it and try and think where I’ve seen it before or at least something like it. It’s going to bug me ’til I figure it out. I just keep staring.
Steve and the waitress arrive back at the same time.
When we’ve made some headway with our burgers Steve says, “So Nick. There’s another reason I wanted to talk to you.” His face is deadly serious. OK. Whatever it is, this is the real reason he wanted to meet face-to-face.
“Uh-huh,” I grunt.
“It’s to do with what happened on Samuel Island.”
Oh jeez, what’s he gonna say now?
“Go on,” I say. Even I can hear the wariness in my voice.
“There’s a lot of pressure to re-charge and prosecute Rogan for the killing of Perot and Santiago. It’s technically IHIT’s case of course but they have asked for our assistance on it. The thing is, they’ve got a forensics team going over that island with a fine tooth comb. So far they haven’t found any evidence there was a shooter on the island other than Rogan and they’re sure the shots came from where Rogan was hiding. They’re working hard to find something that connects him to the assassinations.” He pauses, looking at me. it’s a good interrogation technique to get me to fill the silence. I don’t fall for it. He continues, “I got a call from their lead investigator and he indicated they may have found something.”
I keep my poker face in place. Rogan’s sure he didn’t leave any evidence of the shooting on the island and even if one of Santiago’s gang told them about shooting up the decoy boat with all the evidence, there’s no way they would be able to find it under a hundred and fifty meters of the Georgia Strait. He’s bluffing, at least I hope he is.
“The thing is Nick, if Rogan goes down for the killings, you’ll be prosecuted for conspiracy to murder or at the very least aiding and abetting. Either way, you’ll serve time.” He stops to let that sink in and it does. A memory from my past with the Ontario Provincial Police jumps into my mind. I had to go interview a possible witness at the Millhaven Penitentiary. It scared the crap out of me. At the time, I swore to myself I would rather die than go there as a prisoner. Steve lets me chew on the thought for a bit before saying, “I’ve been authorized to offer you an assurance of immunity against future prosecution.”
&
nbsp; “Turn Queen’s evidence?”
“Yeah. If you co-operate and tell us how Rogan did it and provide any and all evidence you have, you can walk away scot-free. We’ll even make sure you get to keep your security business license so you can carry on working.”
I look across the table at him.
He gives a grim smile. “But you’ve got to decide quickly. If IHIT come up with any solid evidence against Rogan, they won’t need you anymore. They’ll arrest him and likely you too.” he says.
He can see the indecision on my face.
“It’s the smart choice Nick.”
And he’s right. God help me, he’s right.
23
Cal
After what seems an eon, the green filter light flicks on and I curve onto Richards Street. Way up ahead I see two yellow cabs. Mercifully the light at Pender is green and as I speed through it, it changes to red. It gives me a new hope; the traffic lights along Richards are synchronized and if I can keep up a steady sixty-five klicks I should be able to catch them.
I just make the green lights at Dunsmuir and then at Georgia and after another three blocks I’m behind the two yellow cabs. As they approach Davie the lights turn red. One cab moves into the right lane with his turn signal flashing. The other stays in the left lane. Which one to follow? Undecided I straddle the lanes earning an irritated honk from the driver behind me. I ignore it. Which way? In the rain I can just make out the backs of the heads of the passengers: both male, both hatless, both unidentifiable. As I look back and forth between them, I get a break. The passenger in the cab on the left turns his head so that it’s in profile, I can’t be sure about identifying him but don’t need to. There’s a second passenger with him. She was obscured from view by the back pillar of the cab but I can now see her clearly through the back window as she leans over and kisses her companion.
The cab on the right is the one containing Sean O’Day… probably.
The cab makes the right turn and I follow him along Davie, past the good old Two Parrots at Granville and for three more blocks until he crosses Burrard and pulls over beside the community gardens. I can’t stop behind him—it will be too obvious I’ve been following him—so I pass the cab and pull into a parking spot outside a computer store.
I get out of the car and stand under the awning outside the store. O’Day is just getting out of the taxi, at least I think it’s him but can’t be sure because he has turned away from me and is walking back toward Burrard. I start to follow but stop immediately. He has taken a right turn and is crossing to the south side of Davie. I pull out my phone and pretend to be texting while keeping an eye on him; on a rainy night he’s not likely to spot me but I don’t want to take that chance just yet. He turns right again and walks along the sidewalk then into the first building past the gas station. It’s a Vancouver icon: Celebrities Nightclub.
He has opened up a whole new vista of possibilities in the murder of Dale Summers.
I know I shouldn’t but I feel uncomfortable here. It’s not the loud music or the flashing blue, purple and pink lights shining down from the vaulted ceiling, itself alive with light. It’s not that I feel uncomfortable with the clientele. I just feel like a fraud, like I don’t belong here.
I make my way through the throng toward the longest bar I have ever seen. I find a gap between a man in the leathers of a biker and a tall, stunning brunette in a slinky red dress, with a blue martini and a large Adam’s apple. I order a Black Russian from one of the bartenders and while she’s making it I look to my right. Sean O’Day is a few feet away from me with what looks like a triple Bourbon on the rocks. It makes me think of Stammo; he would hate it here in Vancouver’s best known gay nightclub.
O’Day looks a lot more at ease than he did in Al Porto. His normally expressionless mask is gone and he looks like someone who has just got home from a stressful day at work and is washing away the last of the tension with a favourite beverage. I suspect he feels safe here, safe enough to talk to me perhaps. I take my drink from the bartender, ease away from the bar and go over to him.
“Hi Sean.”
He turns toward me and, for an instant, a volley of questions fire from his eyes until they are subsumed by his poker face. “What are you doing here?” he asks, neither aggressive nor pleasant.
“I followed you.”
“Might I ask why?” His Irish accent seems stronger.
“I want to find out who killed Dale.”
“And why are you following me then?”
Time for a little lie to get him on side. “Originally I wasn’t following you, I was following Marly Summers.”
A look of discomfort breaks through the poker face. “Marly?” he says. “Do you think she killed Dale?” There’s a tone of incredulity in his voice.
“Maybe. Or maybe someone close to her…” I leave it hanging. He mulls it over but says nothing. I remember my conversation with the barman at the Railway Club. “You and Dale were in the Railway Club last Friday.” I say.
Finally, he nods. “You know that’s correct, we’ve already talked about it.”
“After you left, did you come here together?”
There’s an even longer pause. He’s probably wondering how much he can trust me. I feel a quid pro quo coming.
“If I tell you…” There it is. “Would you keep the information private?”
“I can’t promise I won’t share something you tell me with the Vancouver Police Department but only them and only if it turns out to be relevant to Dale’s murder.”
“Fair enough. But I really don’t want my boss to know, she wouldn’t approve.”
“You have my word,” I say. If what I suspect is true, maybe she wouldn’t. Then I realize I might have just walked into a conflict of interest. Maybe this is what Em meant about negative publicity. No. Being gay isn’t negative, not even in corporate America. What the hell. “Were you and Dale lovers?”
He just nods, not trusting himself to speak. Time for me to build some rapport. “I certainly won’t tell Em about your affair. I can understand any boss would disapprove of an employee sleeping with one of your company’s trusted advisors.”
He nods again. “If she knew, it could ruin my career. If Dale was still alive, maybe it wouldn’t matter so much but now my career’s all I have.”
The volume of the music ramps up a notch. “I’d like to talk to you some more. Do you think we could go somewhere quieter?”
He takes in a deep breath and exhales. “Sure,” he says with a shrug.
For the second time this evening, I see his raw emotions unhidden by his usual poker face. The first time was the fear when he saw Marly’s lawyer in Al Porto and this time it’s just an infinite sadness.
And I need to find out about both.
The place could not be more different. After the glitz and noise of Celebrities, Denny’s is an ocean of calm, an old-style, twenty-four hour diner in the same block. It’s the perfect place to sit in a booth and have a quiet chat. Sean O’Day, having taken the decision to trust me, is unburdening himself.
“In the first meeting we ever had, we both knew. Em had sent me up here to work with our CA firm Beloff and Plasker negotiating the lease on the building. Dale and his boss were in one of the meetings and he and I were tasked with working on some Canadian tax issues relating to the leasing of the building. After the meeting we went out to dinner and well, you know…”
“Did Marly know about the affair?”
“No. Dale never told her and we were really discreet. We would meet either at my hotel or at his townhouse in Kits. If we went out to dinner or for a drink, we would always act like it was a business meeting. That said, if she was suspicious, I suppose she could have found out.”
“Did you ever go to Celebrities together?”
“God, no. That would have been a dead giveaway,” he chuckles. “Dale was very much in the closet.”
“Why? It’s twenty-nineteen not nineteen-twenty.”
“His f
amily.”
“He didn’t want them to know?”
“Oh, they knew all right but they definitely did not approve. His ogre of a father put a rider on his trust fund that if his orientation ever became public, he would be cut off. When the old man died, Dale’s brother Luke took over the administration of the trust and told him in no uncertain terms he would rigorously enforce the rider. Dale begged him but he was completely intransigent. He said that having a known homosexual in the family would disgrace them all, can you imagine that?” His Irish accent is becoming stronger as his anger at Dale’s family shows though. “That was why he married Marly, to provide him cover; to help keep his secret. He always said when he made partner at Beloff and Plasker he’d tell the family to shove their bloody inheritance where the sun doesn’t shine.”
I don’t show the feeling of revulsion which is washing over me. Firstly at Dale’s father and brother for treating him like that and then at Dale himself for using Marly in that way.
“How’s it you know Marly?” I ask.
“I’d never met her before tonight,” he says. “Dale was very fond of her and he felt really bad about using her as cover. I wanted to tell her that.”
“I was watching you talk to her. She didn’t register the sort of surprise I’d expect when she learned her husband had a gay lover.”
“No she wouldn’t. When I made the appointment to see her I told her then, on the phone.”
“Did she seem surprised then?”
He bites his bottom lip and looks away. After a moment he says, “Not so much. It was difficult to read over the phone. I would have thought she’d be gobsmacked but no, she seemed to take it in her stride.” His Irish accent’s really strong right now. That may be a tell.
“Weren’t you worried that by telling her, it might get back to your employer. You said you wanted to avoid that.”
“I wasn’t worried about her talking. She had as big a reason as me to keep it secret because of the clause in his trust fund. If it becomes public that Dale was gay, his trust fund will be cancelled and she won’t inherit a penny of it.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 9
