“Thanks Em, I’ll call him there right away.”
“But not before you ask me for dinner, I hope.”
Oops. “Oh… no… Sorry, well—”
The tinkle of her laughter comes over the phone. “Why don’t I make it easy for you. Cal Rogan would you honour me with the presence of your company for dinner tonight?”
“Thank you Em, I would like that very much.”
“Eight o’clock at Tojo’s on Broadway; I’ll meet you there. My treat.”
“Thank you, I’ll see you then.” There’s a broad grin on my face as I hang up. Stammo picks up on it. “Another date with the client eh, Rogan?” I can’t tell if he approves or disapproves.
“Yeah, no big deal.”
To cover further questioning, I dial the number of Em’s shared office space. Voicemail. The warm feelings of my interaction with Em are pushed out by my worry for the safety of Sean O’Day.
The drive from our office to West Broadway has helped a little. The frustration in the office has been high all afternoon. Despite trying all ways he knows how, Stammo has been unable to find out anything about the twenty-thirteen.com website. He even contacted a hacker he knows, a miscreant who goes by the name Drake. When Stammo was back east working for the OPP, he busted Drake—whose real name, believe it or not, is Justin Tyme—for hacking into the Royal Bank’s servers. After he’d served his time, Stammo helped get him a job. Drake is one of the many who owe Stammo a favour However, even he was unable to find anything useful. The site is hosted on a Russian server, which means that not even a warrant will be of any use in finding out who owns the site. After he had found out everything he could, he turned the details over to VPD and went home in disgust.
My efforts to track down Sean O’Day have been equally stymied. Maybe Em will have heard from him.
The only bright spot in the afternoon was that the device I smuggled into the Church of the Pure Divine Light worked like a charm. I spent a couple of hours downloading the recordings and ended up with everything on a cheap digital recorder. I used some editing software to overlay some recorded tracks and got just what I needed. It will make an interesting item for dinner conversation with Em.
I luck into a parking meter right in front of Tojo’s. I’m looking forward to eating here; it’s the best—even if the most expensive—Japanese restaurant in Canada and the owner, Tojo, is a great character. My mouth has been watering all afternoon thinking about his signature dish, Tojo’s Tuna.
As I get out of the car, I see Em is standing on the sidewalk by the front door. She looks amazing. The expensive Cordovan leather jacket makes her short blond hair look stunning. She’s wearing a beige roll-neck sweater with tight beige pants and boots to match the jacket. She smiles and walks over and my heart skips a beat.
As I step onto the sidewalk, she stands on tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. “I messed up,” she chuckles. “Tojo’s is closed on Sundays.” My disappointment at the loss of Tojo’s Tuna is more than compensated for by the kiss.
“I’ll take a rain-check,” I say. “There’s a good Indian restaurant in this block. My treat.”
“Well, alright.” She takes my arm and we walk the fifty yards to Raga.
As soon as we are seated and have ordered the food, she asks, “Did you manage to get hold of Sean? I tried but he didn’t answer.”
“No,” I admit, “I’m afraid not.”
“What did you want to ask him? Maybe I might know.”
I can’t tell her that I want to tell him that as Dale’s lover he might be in danger but fortunately, I’m prepared for the question. “He had a drink with Dale and some of his colleagues on the Friday evening before Dale’s death; he may have been the last person to talk to Dale. I was wondering if Dale had said anything that might give some sort of clue or if Sean remembers anything unusual about Dale’s colleagues.”
“Oh, I see. Why don’t you bring me up-to-date on the case, that way you can claim this meal as a business expense.”
For a moment, I had forgotten she was a client and that I need to keep her informed. “Yes, I’m sorry, I should have given you an update yesterday. Quite a lot has happened in the last forty-eight hours.” I pause to take a draft of my Kingfisher then tell her about the significance of twenty-thirteen and the website Stammo unearthed.
“Can you track down who owns the website?” she asks.
“No. My partner tried and even had an expert hacker take a shot at it but no luck.”
She mulls it over and I keep quiet, enjoying watching her.
“It seems to me there are two possibilities here: either someone who knew Dale killed him and then created the website to draw attention away from himself, or…” She pauses for a second. “There’s a religious group who have taken to killing gay men.”
I just nod. She’s a very smart woman, if I let her think it through without interruption, maybe she can come up with something Stammo and I haven’t thought of.
“If it’s the latter, why would a religious group choose Dale? I knew Dale fairly well and I had no idea he was gay. I’m sure he was deep in the closet. How would they even know about him? Unless…” she pauses again. “Unless both possibilities are true.”
“Hold that thought,” I say. “My partner, Nick, went out this morning to the Baptist Church of the Savior where Dale Summers’ brother, Luke, is a lay preacher. He described them as a fire and brimstone type of church. Although there was no reference to gays during the service, homophobia is never far from the surface with fundamentalists.”
“So you suspect Luke Summers?” she asks.
“Well that’s just it, I don’t. There’s no way Luke would kill his brother and then create a website to out him to the world. Luke was, and is, all about treating Dale’s orientation as a family secret. Plus when I talked to him about it, he seemed more liberal than I expected.”
“Well, as you know, I’m from Georgia,” with a broad grin she emphasizes her southern accent, “and down there we know a thing or two about religion.” Her face becomes more serious. “Don’t rule out Luke Summers just yet.”
Maybe she’s right.
“Then again,” she adds. “Maybe there’s some crazy out there who has decided he likes killing gay men. Maybe there will be more pictures appearing on that website before too long.”
Her words lance a frisson of fear through me. I remember Leviticus ‘They are to be put to death’ and wonder again where Sean O’Day is right now.
“You look worried, Cal,” she says softly.
Feeling guilty I can’t tell her about my fears for O’Day, I say, “Just the thought that we may be seeing the genesis of a serial killer.” For a moment, I want to come clean about O’Day; I realize that I don’t want to lie to this woman, not even with a lie of omission. I look into her eyes and smile. “Let’s change the subject,” I say. “I went to church this morning.”
I tell her about my visit to the Church of the Pure Divine Light and my plans to get back the money for Phil and Florrie Franks. It lightens the mood and she’s delighted with my plan; she even claps her hands when I tell her about the device I took to the ‘church’ this morning and how it works.
We continue our meal swapping stories about various con-men famous and not so famous. She tells me about one who scammed Southbrook for over a million dollars. From there we go on to talk about friends and former lovers. As she tells me about her first high-school boyfriend, I feel a little pang of jealousy worm it’s way into my consciousness.
She reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Tell me about Sam.”
I try to hide the turmoil of emotions which are stirred up at the mention of Sam’s name. “She told me it’s over between us.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them but, to my surprise, saying them makes me feel better for some reason. She doesn’t say anything but just nods and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I bring my other hand over to cover hers.
I look into her eyes and in them I s
ee warmth and understanding. I feel the prickle of tears in my eyes. I don’t know if they are tears of loss or of relief.
39
Cal
Monday
Big Bob Pridmore’s office is reflective of its tenant: flashy and ugly. It’s downtown but in one of the older and slightly shabbier buildings. As Nick and I exit the elevator, I look round the walls at the garish pieces of art interspersed with photos of the great man posed with a slimy grin beside various supposed dignitaries, only two of whom do I recognize as minor city officials. Even the receptionist looks like she has retired from a less than lucrative career selling her favours on the streets of the downtown east side. Stammo wheels up to her desk and gives her a cheery smile. I remember back when Stammo’s smiles were mostly creepy.
“Dick Butcher to see Mr. Pridmore,” he says. I grin. When Stammo made the appointment, we borrowed the pseudonym from Henry VI Part II after the character who says, The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers. I think it’s appropriate.
We have spent the last few hours preparing for this meeting with the help of Marly. She’s waiting back at our office with a promise that if this works, she’s going to take Stammo, Adry and me out for the best lunch we’ve ever had.
The receptionist asks us to take a seat and rings through to announce us.
“He’ll be with you in a moment,” she says in what sounds like a Russian accent. She doesn’t offer us coffee.
The ‘moment’ passes, followed by a further ten minutes worth of moments.
I feel the buzz of my phone.
“Cal Rogan.”
“It’s Sean O’Day. Em said you wanted to talk to me.”
I breath a sign of relief. “Where are you?”
“At work.”
“I need to meet with you as soon as possible.”
“OK.” He says it slowly, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“It would be better if we spoke face-to-face.”
After a brief pause, he agrees to meet this afternoon and we hang up.
As I give Nick the good news that Sean O’Day is still breathing, Big Bob Pridmore lumbers into the reception area. He takes a look at us and his eyes narrow. He flashes an angry glance at the receptionist then turns back to us. “What the hell are you two doing here?”
“We didn’t think you’d see us if we gave our own names,” Stammo says cheerily.
“You’re damned right. What makes you think I’ll see you now?”
“Because if you don’t, our next stop will be the Law Society offices. When they see what we have, these charming offices will be closed before the end of the day.” Stammo’s in fine form.
“What do you mean?” he snarls.
“I don’t think you want to discuss that here.” Stammo says and inclines his head toward the reception desk. “Let’s talk in your office.”
Bob stands there and stares at us, the enmity flowing off him. Finally, “OK.”
He turns, heads down the corridor and takes the first office on the right. We follow and I take the precaution of closing the door behind us.
His office has all the charm of a mortuary. He flops down in his oversized faux-leather chair behind his oversized faux-teak desk. “So what the fuck do you want?” he growls.
I make a point of standing by the door but Stammo wheels up to the desk and nods toward the computer on the credenza behind it. “Go to stammorogan.com slash pridmore.”
For the first time a sliver of uncertainty appears in his eye. He rotates his chair, opens a browser window and enters the URL, taking three tries to get it right. The page is empty but for a video. He clicks the start icon.
The scene is a bedroom. Marly’s bedroom. “What the—” His expletive is deleted by the sound of his own voice. What the fuck d’you mean you stupid bitch. Into the frame of the video appears Bob dragging Marly by her arm. He pushes her toward the bed and she sits down on it awkwardly, her back toward the camera. Her voice has a catch in it, she’s frightened but she says the words Stammo wrote for her. I don’t want to be with you any more. He laughs. You know what will happen to you if you don’t. The catch is gone from her voice, What Bob? What will happen to me? She’s defiant but he just laughs again. I will send that video of you enthusiastically fucking me to prissy Mr. Luke Summers and tell him unless he cuts you off from your trust fund, I’ll post it online and I’ll send a link to everyone he knows and to everyone you know too. Marly plays her part to perfection. She says, Please Bob, please don’t do that. The excitement of the sadist shows on his face. He says, Take your clothes off, whore. As she unbuttons her blouse the Bob on the screen starts to tear off his clothes.
The Bob across the desk from us stops the video before we get to see the horrible sacrifice Marly Summers had to make to get this slime out of her life. He stands and turns toward us. The anger’s there but it’s diluted by fear. “What do you want?”
“As of right now,” Stammo says, “you never see or contact Marly Summers ever again, in any way. You pack all the files you have on her into a box and courier it to her home. You never do anything that would be detrimental to her or to the memory of her late husband. If you do anything, any little thing I don’t like, a link to this video will be sent to the Law Society of BC and the Vancouver Police Department and to every one of those big clients you used to brag to Marly about. And, as a little bonus, I know some pretty sketchy thugs, from when I was a cop. For a very reasonable fee, they will track you down and beat the snot out of you. Clear?”
Bob just stands there grinding his teeth, a vein throbbing in his temple. I feel myself switch into combat mode, up on the balls on my feet, ready to move in an instant. If he’s going to get physical, now’s the time.
But he doesn’t.
“I said, IS THAT CLEAR?” Stammo roars at him.
Options writhe over his face but he can’t see his way out.
He just deflates.
Then grunts.
“So… that’s clear?” Stammo says with a smile.
“YES,” he yells then deflates again. “Get out of my office.” The voice of a beaten man.
Without taking my eyes off him, I open the door for Nick who wheels out. I follow.
It’s not every morning I love my job, but this is definitely one of them. Plus we get to have an expensive lunch on Marly.
40
Sam
The day is brilliant. The rain’s gone and it’s the first truly hot day of the year. I don’t feel one bit of guilt about having taken the morning off from doing any work and just lounging in the sun in my most skimpy of bikinis. It’s so private here on Hardy that I don’t have to worry about anyone seeing me. I glance over at Ellie on the patio; she has finished the school work her teacher at St. Cecelia’s gave me for her to do every day. Now she has her nose in a book. She looks so cute in shorts and t-shirt, so much better than having to wear the school uniform.
My skin feels warm under the sunscreen; I’ve probably had enough sun. As a prelude to getting out of the lounger, I take a long, luxurious stretch. It feels good. I do it again. It makes me feel like a cat, a sexy cat. Unbidden, thoughts of Cal come to mind and thoughts of our lovemaking on the night before Matt Stammo’s funeral. It was unbelievably good. I indulge myself in a little bit of fantasy, reliving the moments: the gentle touches, the whispered words, the rising passion, the kisses, the joining and the incredible waves of bliss. It makes me aroused and I let the pent up feelings wash over me. I can feel my heart beat and the breath catch in my throat. I have an overwhelming need to—
“Mommy, can we have lunch?”
The words are the proverbial bucket of cold water. I clear my throat. “Good idea, sweetie. What would you like?”
“Well, I was thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches but then I remembered those oysters we got from the beach on Thursday. You remember? You fried them and they were yummy. Could we have those again? Please.”
I check to se
e if the tide’s out. “OK. Get the bucket and the screwdriver.” I push myself up and out of the lounger chuckling at my daughter’s sophisticated tastes.
As we walk down to our beach, she tells me about the book she’s reading, it’s about a Gecko who’s a detective, and as she chatters on, my thoughts turn to Cal. For the hundredth time I question my shouted words of Saturday night. My good sense tells me it’s over between us but I still have such powerful feelings for him; and not just the sexy ones, although they are pretty powerful.
“So that’s why I want to be a detective like Daddy,” she says.
“That’s good sweetie,” I say, having missed most of what she said. “But there are a lot of other jobs you should think about. For example, you would be a great—”
“Mommy, you know I’ve already decided. I want to be a policewoman.”
Rather than fight it—I really don’t want her in a job where she risks her life every day—I just say, “OK.”
We head for the big rock formation which stands like a sentinel in the middle of the beach; it’s covered in oysters. Putting on the work gloves, I pry off about ten big ones and drop them into the bucket showing her how to do it; then I spot one which is not too tightly attached and hand the gloves and screwdriver to Ellie. “Try that one sweetie.”
She jams the screwdriver between the oyster and the rock and pushes. It pops off the rock and onto the sand at her feet. As she bends down to pick it up, I sing, “Eleanor Rogan, Picks up the oyster than no one—”
“Mommeeeeee. You know I don’t like that,” she objects. She looks at me and gives me that you-think-you’re-so-funny-but-you’re-not look. I grin and point to another candidate, “Try that one… oh and that one right next to it.”
As she applies the screwdriver, I stretch up and look out to sea. “Oh, look El,” I say. She follows the direction of my finger.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 16
