Stammo’s at the GAMMA meeting. I dial his number. After five excruciating rings it goes to voicemail. I retry. Same thing. “Nick, it’s Cal. Call me as soon as you get this. Sean O’Day is the killer. I’m just reading an article in the Sun about Southbrook.” I grab the paper, “It says, ‘Over the last fifteen months, Ms. Audley’s team have opened stores in Tallahassee and Minneapolis.’ They’re the cities where the other murders happened.” Then another thought hits; I worry it for a few seconds and then I know I’m right. “Oh my God Nick, one of the reasons we ruled O’Day out as a suspect was because he was Dale’s lover. But we only have his word for it. When I followed him to Celebrities, maybe he was there looking for his next victim. Telling me he was Dale’s lover was probably the first thing that came into his head. Wait! It was me who suggested it. He just agreed.” I stop to think about this. It fits. And… “He probably told Marly Summers the same thing. On top of that, he was insistent I didn’t tell Em he was gay. It must be because she almost certainly knows he’s not.” I stop, take a couple of deep breaths and make a snap decision. “I’m going after him before he kills again.” I hang up.
Boring cases may feel good for a while but this is what I live for.
55
Stammo
I turn off the sound at the first ring and do a guilty check of the caller ID. Rogan. He can wait until the break. This speaker’s interesting. He’s one of the guys who was here on Wednesday in a business suit but today he’s dressed for casual Friday. His story’s a bit like mine: married, kids, macho job—although his is in the Stock Exchange, not law enforcement—still in the closet. Except that I’m not any more, telling Rogan and Adry was a lot easier than I thought it would be; maybe I’ll tell this guy about it.
He comes to the end of his talk and one of the bikers called Noah, who’s running the meeting today, says, “Thanks Jeff, good share. We’ll take a break now. After the break, yours truly will talk about how he broke the news to the wife and kids and the people at work.” Good. I’ll be interested to hear about that.
Noah seems like he’s been coming here regularly for a while, so I wheel over to him at the coffee table. I introduce myself and say, “Paul’s not here tonight.” It’s an OK opening remark, I suppose.
“No, he usually comes to all the meetings.” His voice is either Irish or Newfie. “He’s in a real difficult situation with his wife and I think it helps him a lot.” He hands me a coffee and chuckles. “He had a date Wednesday night. Maybe he hasn’t recovered yet.”
“With anyone here?”
“No idea. But he was pretty excited about it, I can tell you.”
I think I’ll work the Irish angle. “Is that an Irish accent?”
“No. I’m from the Rock.” Ah, Newfoundland.
“I was asking because I wondered if you knew a friend of mine, he’s Irish, name of Sean. In his thirties, dark hair, blue eyes. I think he comes to the meetings here. I was hoping to see him.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells with me.”
We chat for a while and then I wheel over to another guy who was here on Wednesday, the one who looks like he’s close to homeless. He’s wearing an oversize black coat and the cop part of me wonders if he uses it for shoplifting. I ask him the same questions but get the same answers.
Noah rings a little hand bell which sits on the podium. “Starting again in five.”
The bell reminds me of Rogan’s call. I check. He’s left a voicemail. As I listen to him I can feel the blood drain from my face. He’s going after a killer without backup. Idiot! Why the fuck does he do things like that?
“Anyone got a copy of today’s Sun?” I ask the room in general.
“Got one here.” Mr. Maybe Homeless pulls a dog-eared copy out of the pocket of his oversize black coat.
I snatch it from him and look at the article about Southbrook.
The shock’s so great I shout out, “Nooooo!”
That dumb-ass Rogan has got one detail wrong.
56
Cal
I hand the Healey’s keys to the valet with a quick, “Take good care of her,” and start toward the revolving doors. As I get inside, it hits me. How do I find out O’Day’s room number? Hotels are very picky about guest privacy, they’re never going to tell me what room he’s in. I stop and think. Maybe I should call Steve. Get him to send a couple of detectives. Except that old need’s driving me; it may be better to wait for the VPD to arrive but I need to be the one making the collar. Beat the VPD to the punch. But how? Without his room number I’m hooped.
I’m not thinking straight. Take a pause for the cause Cal. Three deep breaths and let it all run out of me. Drop all the tension, all the urgency, all the thoughts pinging into my brain; focus on the breath, the sensations in my body, the sounds around me; examine each thought as it arises. Then, as if by magic, the solution appears. The Hotel Vancouver is owned by the same people who own the Waterfront where I’ve got a friend in high places except I don’t know her last name.
I scan the lobby for a courtesy phone. Only one is free and I get to it just ahead of an elderly man. I pick up the phone and a voice says, “Good evening how may I help you?”
“Hello, I need to speak to one of your staff urgently.”
“Certainly sir, who is it you need to talk to?”
“Her name’s Alexis and she’s with the conferences department at the Waterfront.”
“Let me call her for you.” I feel my impatience ramping up as I listen to Vivaldi for a full minute. “I’m afraid she’s gone for the day sir.”
Stifling the groan which springs to my lips, I say, “It’s really important I speak to her, it’s literally a life and death emergency.”
“I understand sir, please hold.” More Vivaldi fails to soothe the savage beast for a full two minutes. My cell rings but I ignore it. Finally, “I’ve contacted her sir. She’s on her cell. I’ll connect her to you. Silence, a click and, “Alexis here, how can I help you.” Thank heavens for five star hotels.
“Hi Alexis, this is Cal Rogan, we met last month at the Waterfront. I was part of the security team for the debate between Larry Corliss and Edward Perot.”
“Oh yes. I remember. I told you about the man in the boots having been in the corridor. You escorted him off the premises.” Thank heaven for five star hotels who hire wonderful people. “How can I help you this evening?”
“I’m dealing with a potentially very dangerous situation. I’m at the Hotel Van and there’s a guest I need to approach. His name’s Sean O’Day and I need to know his room number. I know it’s against hotel policy but it really is critically important.”
Silence on the line. If this doesn’t work I’m going to have to give up and call Steve. I relax my shoulders and take a breath. “Just hold for a second.” It doesn’t sound good; she’s going to ask her boss who’s going to ask more questions. I check my watch. Less than twenty minutes have elapsed since I saw the news article. Feels like a lifetime. “I’m not really supposed to do this but Mr. O’Day is in room six-thirteen.”
“Thank you, thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?”
“No you’ve done more than enough. I owe you a bottle of champagne. Make that two bottles.”
I hang up and run for the elevator.
57
Max
He’s secured to the bed and is just starting to come round. Number three in Tallahassee was in a hotel room but that was anonymous. I’m paying for this room. When this number three is done, I’m going to have to disappear. It’s a shame really; working for Southbrook has been good cover. Not too long in each city. Do three and move on. But I think a change is going to be nice. Start over in a new city with a new name and a new job. I need a new M.O. too. Pretending to be gay makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t stand it when they touch me, try to kiss me. Pretending to like it is way too much work. So away I must fly.
His eyes open.
“Why hello.”
He focuses in on me. At first he doesn’t recognize me in the crime scene suit. Then it hits: confusion.
“Let me tell you why you’re here.” I’ve decided to tell him before I start the procedure. Number two couldn’t really concentrate after I’d done the amputation, so he didn’t get the full impact of why he was one of the chosen three. I was just too hasty there. This one will be just like number one. He’ll know before I start.
“Let me tell you a little story,” I begin. I open my backpack and take out the tailor’s shears. I start to cut off his clothes. “Once upon a time,” I take a leisurely cut from right wrist to collar, then left wrist to collar, “there was a very happy family.” I yank the shirt off him. “There was a daddy.” I cut from left ankle to waist, then from right ankle to waist. “There was a mommy.” I pull off the tatters of his jeans and underwear. His disgusting thing’s all shrivelled up in fear. It looks like a mushroom. I open the shears and place them on his belly one blade each side of the mushroom. “And there were two lovely little girls.”
I bring the poker and blowtorch out of my backpack and rest the former on its homemade stand. “The older little girl went off to college but the younger one stayed at home.” I take out the lighter and light the blowtorch. I move it into position and the flame caresses the end of the poker. “The little girl who stayed home met a boy and fell in love so she decided not to join her sister in college. Her older sister was very sad.”
I look into his eyes and I can feel his terror. It starts the tingling in my belly. Oh, yes.
“When she got married the older sister was happy for her but sad for herself.” I take the knife out and lay it on his chest and I shudder. Oooh. It feels nice. “But the little sister’s husband was a very bad man, a degenerate man, a disgusting man. He told her he couldn’t be with her. That he wanted to be with men, do things with men he said he couldn’t do with her. He left her and went to live in Tallahassee.”
I rotate the poker. The end’s starting to take on a roseate hue.
“The younger sister was very sad but the older sister was happy because she knew that now they could go to college together. Do great things in the big wild world.”
His eyes are gigantic now. Oooooh. I know what I can add. After the branding and the amputation. I can take his eyes too. No, no. Just one eye. He must watch the coup de grâce with the other eye. Yes, that feels right.
“But the younger sister could not live with her grief and the poor darling killed herself. All because of a degenerate like you.”
I take the poker and rotate it one more time. Nice and orangey now. Almost there.
“So the older sister worked hard and made something of her life. But she was always planning to avenge her lovely sister. As luck would have it, she found herself working for a few months in Tallahassee. She tracked down her erstwhile brother-in-law and took her sweet, sweet revenge. But it just wasn’t enough. She thought of all the other poor girls who were being betrayed by their degenerate husbands, so she, shall we say, killed two birds with one stone. By killing two more, it covered up the killing of the brother-in-law. And it felt so, so good. In fact it was so good, she made it her life’s work to kill all those bad men who left their sweet, innocent wives to be with other degenerates.”
He’s shaking his head now. “I know Sean, I know. You didn’t leave a wife did you?” He shakes his head faster. “But you were the one who lured Dale away from his poor Marly. You were the corrupter in their sad little story. The snake in their garden.”
“You’re Irish, you’ll appreciate the irony here.” I can’t resist a little laugh. “The Friday before last, I dressed up like a man and went to that den of degenerates to find a candidate for punishment because he had broken his vows. I pulled up in my car and who should I see entering the church basement but your lover Dale. Although it wasn’t my plan to kill someone I already knew, I felt that a bountiful Providence had dropped Dale into my lap. I called him and told him there was an emergency and I needed to meet him as soon as possible. He invited me over to his condo; the little love nest for his extra-curricular activities. During his punishment, I, mmm, shall we say, persuaded him to reveal the name of his lover and imagine my surprise when I learned it was you.”
The poker’s bright orange.
I pull on the insulated gloves.
“This is for my sister.”
He’s thrashing around on the bed. And the tingling in my belly spreads up… and down. Yes, that feels good. I think this will be the best yet. Ooooooh, yes.
58
Cal
I’m outside his room and suddenly I don’t know what to do. Should I try and kick the door down or just knock? I notice the peephole in the door. If he sees me, how will he react? I put my ear to the door. It sounds like the murmur of conversation but I can’t be certain; might be the television. We’ll see.
I knock and resist the cliché of saying ‘Room Service.’ I’ll leave that for the movies.
Nothing.
I wait thirty seconds or so.
I put my eye to the peephole but there is just blurry light. What I need is one of those lenses which reverses the effect of the peephole; ERT teams have them. I see movement. Then nothing. I move back and knock again. Louder. A triple knock. He can’t miss that.
Nothing.
Another long thirty seconds.
He’s in there I’m sure. So maybe I’ll just camp out here and call Steve. He can make the arrangements for the hotel management to open the door. I squat down with my back to the wall and pull out my phone. Two missed calls from Stammo. I’ll call him back after I’ve spoken to Steve.
I scroll through my contacts and just as I get to Steve the door opens.
I stand up.
“Why Cal Rogan, I do declare. What are you doing here?”
The shock of her being here morphs quickly into worry.
“Is Sean O’Day in there?” I ask.
“He surely is. Come in.”
I hesitate for a moment. I put my finger to my lips, take hold of her hand and pull her gently out into the hallway.
I step past her into the room and into a small entranceway. I hear the door close behind me.
Then I see him.
“What the—”
And the world explodes.
“Mmmmmghhhh.” The shock of cold water snaps me awake. I open my eyes and it all comes back. Em’s dressed in a crime scene suit. She drops the ice bucket on the carpet. I try to speak. Something’s in my mouth and I can’t spit it out. There’s a hissing in my ears. I’m tied to a hotel chair with duct tape. It’s even more secure than Javier’s work on Hardy Island and this time there’s no RCMP ERT team waiting outside the window.
“Now don’t you worry none, Cal.” She says it like she’s talking to a kid. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s unfortunate you showed up when you did but it won’t change anything.” She looks at me, thinking. “I’m wondering why you did show up here. Did you work out that it was me?” Another pause. “No. You didn’t. But it was just a matter of time, I suspect.” Her accent’s much stronger now. “I hired you so I would know what was going on. The information you fed me was very helpful in sewing a false trail. I’m going to miss you Cal.”
She played me and I’m screwed. Despite what she says, she can’t just let me go. I’m a dead man.
“You can watch me work. I’ve become a true artisan at this. My daddy used to say, ‘Max, you’re too good with your hands to do a degree in business, you should be in the fine arts.’ Poor daddy, he’d always wanted his first-born to be a boy. They christened me Maxine but he always called me Max. I never liked it; always told people to call me Em. Even when I was a little one. But the name has been useful.
“Poor, poor, Daddy blamed himself for my sister’s death. He only outlived her by one year, seven months and three days. He deserted me too. Of course, he wasn’t to blame. It was the swine she married. A filthy degenerate
like this one.” She inclines her head toward O’Day.
As she talks I go through a litany of everything I learned at the BC Justice Institute. We had a class on hostage negotiation but it’s just a bit tricky to negotiate if you can’t talk. I move in the chair. One small chance. Maybe.
“Cal you’re an educated man, you must know the expression ‘strike while the iron’s hot.’” I nod, step one in negotiation: establish a connection. “Well did you know it dates back to the fifteen-hundreds? It was used in a play about two characters named Damon and Pithias.” I did know that and I nod enthusiastically.
She gives that laugh I was starting to love. “Look at you,” she says. “Trying to establish rapport.”
She moves to the credenza and my eyes follow. I can see the source of the hissing. There’s a blowtorch. It has heated the head of an old-fashioned poker to a bright orange. I shudder from the knowledge of how the digits were branded onto Dale’s stomach.
“You can watch Cal. I think having you watch me will heighten my pleasure. Yes, I think it will. It will take about half an hour. Then I’ll leave. By the time room service comes in the morning to make up the bed, I will be a long, long, long way away.
“But now… watch and learn.” A Stammo expression. I feel the vibration of my phone. It’s probably him.
She takes the poker and moves back toward the bed. She puts her head on one side and then the other as if trying to decide how best to proceed. Then she moves between me and the bed.
With every erg of energy I can summon I rock. Once. Twice. It’s working. If I can just topple over onto her. Three. She turns and smiles and pushes her free hand down on top of my head, stopping the rocking instantly. “Now Cal, I promised I wouldn’t hurt you because I know you’re not one of them. Do I ever know that! But if you distract me again, there will be a punishment.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 23
