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

by Robert P. French

  “Bullshit!” I say.

  All three of them look at me. “You don’t have jurisdiction,” I say. “If Nick’s call to Ottawa, to try and find Sally Hyde had raised any red flags, it would be the Mounties knocking on our door, not you. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” is all she says.

  A flash of intuition hits.

  “And you’re here off the books aren’t you? That was why you didn’t want us to call your office this morning and confirm your identity.”

  “Correct again.”

  “I think you’d better come clean and tell us what this is all about.”

  She purses her lips and looks very vulnerable. Finally, she says, “OK. But I am dying for a cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll get some for all of us,” says Adry and goes to the little kitchen area at the back of the office.

  Having made her decision, Jennifer Halley looks a lot more relaxed. “Yesterday afternoon, I told my boss I had a bad migraine and wouldn’t be in work today. I took the red-eye flight here from Ottawa and after I talked to you guys this morning, I was all set to get a flight back and be home in time for work tomorrow morning. But the more I thought about the fact that Annie’s brother was murdered on the same day as her, the more I knew that it was another coincidence I couldn’t swallow. So here I am again.”

  “I was sure you didn’t intend to come back, so I was right, Rogan.”

  “Except that she did come back,” says Adry as she sets the coffee cups down.

  Halley takes a couple of sips and sighs. She sits straight in her chair. “I meant what I said before: this information must never be discussed outside this room, OK?” She looks around and we all nod. “Let’s start over. It was Mr. Stammo’s attempt to track down Sally Hyde that got me here.”

  “If we’re partners in crime, you might as well use our first names,” I say.

  “Thanks, Cal. You guys can call me Jen.”

  “So what’s the story on Sally Hyde?” Nick asks.

  “She was a CSIS intelligence officer and a good friend of mine. As I said this morning, I met Annie through her.”

  “Was?” I ask.

  “Yes she was also killed by the bomber. She was meeting Annie for lunch. We got some CCTV footage from a security camera on a building on the other side of the Rideau Canal from where they were killed. Sally must have realized what was happening, she ran at the bomber but just wasn’t quick enough. Her name was never released to the public.” She wipes away a tear from her left eye. “The thing is, I was due to have lunch with Sally that day. She told me she had to cancel, that she was having lunch with Annie. She said Annie wanted to talk to her about a national security issue she was very worried about; she said it was terrorist related and that she had documents to prove it. I asked Sally if she wanted me to come but she thought it would be better one-on-one. If I had gone…”

  She takes some more coffee.

  “I thought it was just too big a coincidence that they were meeting about a terrorist threat and then were both killed by a terrorist. I was interviewed by the team investigating the bombing and they were all over it for about a day and a half. Apparently, they were told by the Department of National Defence that they knew what it was that Annie was concerned about and it wasn’t related to the bombing. The team dropped it and I was told not to talk about it.

  “I thought it was bullshit. It feels like a big cover up by DND. Sally was my best friend in the world. I promised myself I’d find out what Annie was going to tell Sally, even if it cost me my job. Your call to the Public Service Commission to try and find Sally was flagged and the details came across my desk. In addition, I checked with Annie’s personal assistant at DND; I asked her if there had been any unusual calls to Annie just before or anytime after her death. She told me of your call. That was too big to ignore; I thought, who is this Stammo guy in Vancouver who’s called for both Sally and Annie? It was what made me decide to come out here and ask you why. This morning, I was convinced you didn’t know anything but when you told me about Denis being killed on the same day, it was just one coincidence too far. I can’t go to the Vancouver Police Department to inquire about his murder because my bosses in Ottawa might learn about it and then I’d be in real trouble. I was hoping you guys could help me out.”

  A silence settles on us. Adry looks like she wants to say something but she keeps quiet. Finally Nick says, “The Denis Lamarche case was a pro bono. Who’s going to pay our bill?”

  Without missing a beat, Jen says, “I have some savings put by. I’ll cover your fees and expenses.”

  He looks at her long and hard. “S’OK,” he says. “We won’t take your money, right Rogan?”

  “Right,” I agree, too stunned by his unexpected offer.

  “Adry?” he says.

  Adry looks pleased to be included in the decision making. “Sure, right,” she says.

  Stammo extends his hand towards Jen. “Deal,” he says.

  She leans over and shakes his hand. “Deal,” she says, then gets up, shakes my hand and gives Adry a hug.

  “OK, Rogan,” Stammo says. “Tell her everything we know about Denis Lamarche.”

  I give her a full briefing on the case. As I speak, I can see she is taking in every detail of what I say and weighing it against what she knows. Nothing seems to surprise her until I get to the part about the discovery of the files on the memory card and the word garter. I tell her about my meeting with Damien and his attempts to decrypt the file.

  “So ‘garter’ wasn’t the decryption key?”

  “No. We tried it in French too but neither of the translations worked. He said he’d get back to me if they cracked it. Damien’s pretty good. If he can’t crack it I doubt anyone can.” My words stir a memory. “I don’t know why it’s bugging me but Annalise’s father was British and yet her last name was French. Do you know what that’s about?”

  Jen nods. “Yes I do. Her mother divorced her father when Annalise was about ten and she changed all their names back to Lamarche, which was the mother’s maiden name. But after her mother’s death she contacted her father and he got involved in her’s and Denis’ lives for a few years, until he died suddenly of a heart attack a few years ago.”

  “Was she close to her father?”

  “Not really, but apparently Denis was quite close to him until his schizophrenia got so bad that he lost his job and started living on the streets. Annie tried to help him but he refused to take his meds because he felt they blunted his intellect. Denis was very bright; he had two Ph.Ds, one in math and the other in philosophy. Before he went over the top he was working on developing artificial intelligence at UBC.”

  “Tell us what you know about Annie,” says Stammo.

  Jen smiles fondly. “Annie was lovely. I didn’t know her that well, but she and Sally and I would often hang out together. Although her job title wouldn’t have indicated it, she was in a fairly senior position with the Ministry of Defence and was involved in the purchase of armaments, specifically guns. She didn’t have two Ph.Ds like her brother, but she was as smart as a whip.”

  “Was she married?”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  Jen bites her lip. “Not as such.” She takes a deep breath. “One night we were all out for dinner and after a glass of Chardonnay too many, she let it slip that she was having an affair with someone at work. I don’t know who. She never told us his name but said that he was married. She made us swear to keep it a secret.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter now of course but I feel like I’m betraying a confidence by sharing it with you guys.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Stammo. “We’re good at keeping secrets. Anyway, I don’t see how it could have any bearing on the case.”

  Jen shrugs. “You said that the last time Denis’ friends saw him, he was leaving with someone?”

  “Yes, they said he was a big, well-dressed guy.”

  “Well, if we’re going to try and find a connection betw
een the two deaths, the big guy’s the place to start. Why don’t we go and interview his friends.”

  “We can give it a try but these guys are… drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk.”

  Jen gives me a puzzled frown.

  “Don’t mind him,” says Stammo. “If he doesn’t quote Shakespeare three times a day, I call the ambulance for him.”

  As I start to dial Ghost’s mobile, I wonder just how sober he and Tommy are going to be.

  It must have been one of those entirely drunk days. Ghost was incoherent on the phone and when I asked him to give the phone to Tommy, he slurred, “Ole Tommy’s too pisshed to talk,” and hung up with an unholy cackle.

  As I enter the apartment, the withdrawal pains mesh with the frustration of not being able to interrogate Ghost. Not only that, in one hour I’m meeting Susan Grey and not looking forward to what I’m going to hear. The more I think of it, the more I fear I’m going to learn something that, ethically, I’ll have to report back to her husband, thus betraying the trust of a woman I once loved and still like. It’s all knotting in my gut. However, I know there is one thing that hath charms to sooth the savage breast and it’s not music; and that’s not even Shakespeare. I haven’t done it in three long days and I need it right now.

  I head to the kitchen. There it is, the one thing that can give me some joy for a while.

  I press my thumb on it and tap the FaceTime icon.

  “Hi Dad!” The happiness on her face smooths the knots away.

  “Hi Sweetie. How was your day?”

  “Great!! Ethan’s here, do you want to say ‘Hi’?”

  Before I can respond. The image wobbles and a young man’s face appears. He looks as surprised as I am. “Oh, hello Mr. Cullen, how are you?” He gives me a cheeky smile and I instantly like him.

  “I’m fine Ethan. Are you having dinner with Ellie?”

  “Yes, but we already ate. My parents are coming over to pick me up in a minute. Nice to meet you Mr. Cullen.” The image wobbles again and Ellie is back. “I’ve got to go Dad. We’re playing a game and I want to beat Ethan before his mom and dad get here.”

  I try and keep the disappointment from my face. “OK sweetie. I’ll call you on Saturday. And tell Ethan my name’s Rogan, like yours.”

  Her smile slips and she bites her lip. She looks like she’s about to say something and my stomach knots itself back up again. Before I can ask her the question, she forces a smile onto her face and says, “OK. ’Bye Dad.” She waves and hangs up.

  The savage breast is not soothed. If anything it’s worse than it was five minutes ago.

  My Tylenol and Advil cocktail is doing little to stave off the withdrawal pains. It’s going to be a bad night. I remember detox. The pains reached a climax after about four to five days and then slowly started to ease. I’m praying that this is the climax but I’m not hopeful.

  Being here in the Hotel Vancouver is not helping matters. I am plagued with the memory of Em’s death in room six-thirteen of this very hotel. Susan’s law firm keeps a suite here and she suggested we meet there; I’m not sure why. I can think of a couple of reasons that don’t exactly thrill me.

  I knock on the door of the suite and I can’t help reliving that terrible night six months ago. No it was seven months ago, seven months to the day.

  The door opens.

  It’s Susan. I expect her to say, ‘Why Cal Rogan, I do declare. What are you doing here?’ But she doesn’t; she just opens the door and lets me in.

  The suite is beautiful, with all the charm of the bygone era in which the Hotel Van was built. She walks to the minibar. There is a half-full glass bearing a lipstick stain and two empty minibar bottles of scotch. “Don’t make me drink alone,” she says, the pleading in her voice palpable.

  “A black Russian would be great.” In truth I’d prefer a beer but hotel minibars have yet to catch up to the craft beer revolution.

  She takes out two vodka bottles and one Kahlua and mixes them in a glass. Without a word she hands it to me. I take a sip and a swallow and wonder how it’s going to react with the painkillers.

  She has moved two chairs so that they face the window, she takes the one on the left, I take the right. And we sit in silence. I drink some more and the warmth feels good. I know there’s no point in rushing her; she needs to get there by herself.

  So we sit.

  “Do you remember Cat Lake?” she says.

  The non sequitur catches me by surprise.

  “How could I forget?” I say. She doesn’t reply and in the silence I remember the spring weekend, just before the end of term, when we borrowed a friend’s car, an elderly Volvo station wagon, and went camping on the shores of the little lake just off the Sea-to-Sky highway. We were the only campers there and didn’t see another soul from Friday afternoon until we headed home late on Sunday night. We cooked over an open campfire, drank lots of wine, walked around naked, made love beside the lake, in the lake and in the surrounding woods. We had not a care in the world. I have thought of that weekend with happiness, and passion, many times over the years. I wonder why she mentioned it.

  She empties her glass, stands up and moves over to my chair. Without a word she sits on my lap, puts her arms around my neck and buries her face between my face and her arms; and she sobs. I hold her tightly and gently stroke her hair.

  I know that if the weight of her body on mine wasn’t exacerbating the withdrawal pains, my body would be wildly reacting to the closeness of hers.

  Finally she stops. She is still for a minute or two and then stands up. She rummages in her purse, which is on the coffee table in front of us, pulls out a package of tissues, wipes her tears and blows her nose.

  She gives me a wan smile and says. “Thank you Cal.”

  She sits back down on the chair on my left.

  “I’m going to tell you everything. Just don’t look at me while I’m talking. OK?”

  “OK.”

  She takes a big breath in and the words tumble out. “I love my husband. You were my first love, Cal, and there have been many in between, but he is my last love. I’ll never love anyone the way I love him. I would die rather than see him hurt.”

  I just nod, he’s a lucky man.

  “A few months ago, a friend from law school called me up. She has her own practice in Toronto and said she had a client whose partner in Vancouver was looking for a good lawyer. When I asked who the client was, she just said, ‘He’ll contact you and mention my name.’ I should have smelled a rat but I was just intrigued. My friend told me he would be a very lucrative client and you know how we lawyers love that.” The words drip with bitterness and I have difficulty in following her wish not to look at her.

  “Three days later I received a phone call from the client, he said his name was David Fox and would I meet him for dinner. I agreed and we met at the Yew restaurant.”

  She pauses and I fill the silence. “I had a first meeting with a client there. Her daughter was missing. It didn’t work out that well for everybody concerned.” I wonder how young Ariel Bradbury is faring now, nine months after her ordeal?

  Susan grunts. “Well… I felt uncomfortable with him from the get-go. He was very charming but I could sense an undercurrent of, I don’t know, if I had to put it into words, I would say sexual menace. The first thing he did was take a ten dollar bill and push it across the table. ‘Put this in your purse,’ he said. I wondered what the hell he was doing but before I could question him he said, ‘Go on, put it in your purse.’ I felt mesmerized by him and took the money. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s your retainer. You’re now my lawyer and this conversation is covered by lawyer-client confidentiality.’

  “I should have handed him back his ten dollars and walked away right then. But I didn’t and, in any event, it didn’t matter. Although I didn’t know it, he had his hooks into me. Despite the client confidentiality thing he was very vague about his business. He said he wanted me to set up a network of companies in
Canada, the US and several offshore tax havens: Panama, the Caymans, Luxembourg. He said he wanted me to be the designated shareholder in some of the companies and arrange banking facilities. All my instincts were screaming for me to get out of there as fast as possible. He said that all this was for import/export transactions but to me it felt like money laundering. At the end of the meal, I left as soon as I could and told him I would think it over and get back to him.

  “I immediately went back to the office and wrote down every detail of the meeting I could remember. I saved it in an encrypted file on the firm’s servers and went home.”

  “Did you tell your husband about the meeting?” I ask.

  “No. We make a point of not discussing each other’s clients. Anyway, the next day I called the client at the number he had called me from and there was no reply, not even voice mail. Then later in the day he called me from a different number. I told him that I didn’t think we were the right firm for him, that our offshore experience was limited—which definitely isn’t true—and that the senior partners didn’t approve of us taking shareholder positions in client companies. He just said, ‘I see,’ and hung up on me. The next morning I got an envelope addressed to me personally, marked Highly confidential to be opened only by Susan Grey.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her squirm in her seat and hear her take a gulp of scotch. “This is the part where I don’t want you to look at me,” she says. “You remember why we had to break up?”

  I don’t reply, wondering why the change in subject.

  “Because I decided to switch to U of T to do my law degree,” she says.

  I remember that her parents, who lived in Toronto, wanted her to move back there. I was so in love with her back then, I would have followed in a heart beat if I’d been able to. Although my mother had sacrificed so much to save thirty-five thousand dollars for my education, I still had to work part-time to make ends meet. There was no way I could have afforded to go and study in Toronto.