“You said you got the plate number.”
“Yeah,” he says with a rueful chuckle. “If I hadn’t’ve asked you for extra money, I wouldn’t’ve been in the park waiting for you and I wouldn’t’ve had that fall.” He chuckles again. “It was The insatiate greediness of my desires. ”
“Shakespeare Dougie?” I laugh, amazed.
“Yeah. Richard the Third.” He laughs back. “I used to be an actor. I was the Duke of Buckingham when Bard on the Beach did it. It was quite a few years back now. Good time of day unto your royal grace! That was my first line.”
Every day I see homeless people on the streets—and I was one of them a few years back—but I can still forget that so many of them had normal, productive, often successful lives before they were unlucky enough to take that first hit, or to have been unlucky enough to have a genetic pre-disposition to alcoholism or schizophrenia.
He gives a sigh. “That’s all in the past now but it’s nice to remember it now and then.” He sits a little more upright in the bed. “Anyway Rocky that licence plate you wanted, I wouldn’t normally have remembered but it was RAJ 1961.”
“You’re sure Dougie?” I ask.
“Yeah. I remembered it because R A J stands for Romeo and Juliet and nineteen sixty-one was the last upside-down year.” He looks at me and then at Adry and smiles at our puzzled looks. “One, nine, six, one: if you turn it upside down it still reads nineteen sixty-one. There’s not another upside-down year until six thousand and nine.” He breaks into laughter. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Adry and I both laugh with him. It feels wonderful. Then I remember Nick down there in the operating room fighting for his life.
“Thanks Dougie, you’re a marvel but we’ve got to go. And remember, you’re still going to get that bonus.” I hand him my card. “When you get out of here, come by my office. You can pick up your cart and we’ll give you the money then.”
“Thanks, Rocky. You always were one of the good ones.” He looks at Adry, “’Bye Miss, I was very pleased to meet you.”
She takes his hand, leans forward and kisses him on the cheek.
“’Bye Dougie. See you soon.”
He’s grinning like a Jack-o-Lantern now.
“You definitely will; you’ve made my day,” he says.
We can still hear him chuckling when we are halfway down the corridor.
There are two new people in the waiting room and I am delighted to see them both, for quite different reasons. As soon as she sees us, Tina gets up, comes over and gives me a big hug. I hold on for as long as I can without making it feel weird. Which turns out to be quite a long time. It feels good. She takes my hand and looks up at me. “How is he?” she asks.
“I’ll go find out,” says Adry. She extends her hand. “I’m Adry, by the way.” They shake. “They think I’m Nick’s daughter,” she adds in a whisper, before heading for the nurses’ station.
We walk over to where Steve is sitting. Tina is still holding my hand. When the introductions are over, Adry gets back. “Still in surgery, no news,” she says.
We lapse into an awkward silence.
I wonder how we’re going to manage Stammo Rogan Investigations if there’s no Stammo.
Steve speaks first. “I’ve got some good news. In David Fox’s office, there were no paper records, but in a desk drawer there was a sticky note with a user ID and password. We logged onto Fox’s system and there was all sorts of stuff. We and the RCMP are going to be arresting people for months to come.”
“What was the user ID?” I ask.
“Sooze1977. Why?”
“You can thank our informant for leaving that there for you.”
“Thank her for me,” he says.
“There’s one way you can thank her,” I say.
“Anything,” he says.
“Tell me who owns a grey sedan with registration RAJ 1961.”
He looks at me askance. “How will that help her?”
“Come on Steve, cut me some slack here.”
He gives me a long look, followed by a half smile, a shake of the head and a deep breath. Then he takes out his phone, does a few taps and asks, “What was that number again?”
I give it to him.
After several long seconds he looks up at me and says, “What’s going on here Cal?” There is no smile on his face any longer.
“I’m looking into the murder of a homeless man, I think he might be implicated.”
“Are you out of your mind? I know this guy. He’s RCMP.”
My thoughts go spinning out of control. Ghost and Freddie must have got it all wrong. The big guy wasn’t there to kill Wily, aka Denis Lamarche, he was probably there to inform him of his sister’s death in the bombing that day. Maybe he and Jen were colleagues. Maybe he was giving her a lift to the airport. Except she said that after she had checked out, she was going to come back to our offices and say goodbye. Then again maybe she was able to book an earlier flight and had to rush off. There are too many maybes but there’s one thing I know for sure… and it doesn’t fit. “Are you sure?” is all I can think to say.
“Yes I’m sure,” he says.
“I’d really like to talk to him. He was the last person to see our victim alive. Can you give us his name and contact information?”
“His name’s Harvey Clegg.” Steve taps his phone a few times and turns it towards me. I enter the guy’s details into my contacts.
“Thanks, Steve.”
Before he can reply, my stomach sinks. I see Dr. Duffus walking towards us. His face is set in a way I have seen before. Not a good omen.
He is not the bearer of good news.
22
Jen
At the very edges of my awareness, I can hear a murmur of conversation. No, not conversation. The murmur is too consistent. One voice. Then again maybe it’s an hallucination. My arms hurt now. For at least an hour I have been holding the rusty iron rings, to which I am handcuffed, and scraping them against the plastic ties that bind them to the bed frame. The right-hand one is making the most progress. One of the ties has worn through and the others are looking frailer than they were but my muscles are screaming at me, telling me I can’t keep it up for much longer.
I stop for a fifteen second break. I hear the murmur more clearly. Then it stops. I continue my efforts for what seems like an age and I feel another tie breaking on the right. Only two more on that side. I work harder on the right-hand side. If I can break my right arm free it will be easier to work on the left.
Stop!
The door at the top of the stairs is opening. Footsteps down. I look to my left and see the door open. He looks at me and steps into the basement. His demeanour has changed. There is no sign of the taunting humour he originally exhibited.
He picks up the pruning shears. “What exactly, do they know?” he asks.
“Who?”
“Stammo and Rogan.”
They say the truth will set you free. I’m guessing not in this case but he is too good for me to risk lying. The thought of those pruning shears disfiguring me is too raw. “Rogan used to be a junkie, living on the streets. One of the street people he knew asked him to look into Denis Lamarche’s murder.”
“They know his sister died in the bombing?”
“Yes.”
“And they know about Sally Hyde?”
“They know she was my friend and that she died in the bombing with Annalise.”
“Nothing else?”
What else is there? Maybe there’s something I don’t know. Or something I do know that I don’t know the importance of. I look puzzled and shake my head.
“Did they say anything about finding some files?”
“Files? No.” I say it fast enough to mask the lie. I think. I hope.
He thinks for a moment. Has he spotted the lie? In my mind I can feel the pruning shears slicing through my flesh. “What do they know about the murder?” he asks. The relief floods in but I try not to show it. No m
ore lies from now on.
Feeling a deep sense of betrayal, I say. “They think you killed Lamarche.”
His eyes go wide for a moment then I think he realizes it might be a tell. He relaxes his face. “Why do they think I killed him?”
I tell him about the composite sketch.
“Do they know who I am?”
“No. Just what you look like.”
He looks hard at me.
And smiles. “Good. Now I’m going to do you a small favour.” The false urbane manner is back. “My orders are to kill you now.” He watches the fear which I can’t keep from flooding my face. “However, I’m going to break… no… bend would be a better word; I’m going to bend those orders so we can have a little fun first.”
He reaches down and grabs my breast in his meaty hand.
“Mmmm,” I say. I bend my right knee and place my foot flat on the bed and with every ounce of my strength, I push down with my right leg, arch my back and pull up on the iron ring. The ties part and I smash my hand and the ring towards his head.
He lets go of my breast and his hand darts up to block the blow. He’s not fast enough and my hand arrives at the side of his face and drives the ring onto his skull. He staggers back and slams into the door. He’s still conscious but dazed. I swing my legs off the bed and push myself upright. I look down at my left wrist. One of the plastic ties has parted. I pull and twist them. Once, twice, three times. Another tie parts and my world explodes in bright white light.
Then darkness.
Throbbing in my head. It’s all there is. It’s dark. Just the throbbing. I reach up. My hands won’t move. And it all comes rushing back in. As consciousness returns the pain ramps up. I take a deep breath but it all comes in through my nose. I try and move my lips. I can’t. I can’t open my mouth. My legs won’t move either.
I breath in again and the smell is familiar. Adhesive. It’s the smell of duct tape. I am completely immobilized.
Harvey’s not taking any chances this time. Damn it. I moved too soon. If I’d just waited…
Listen.
Nothing but the sound of rain.
Then a sound.
Shoes walking on hardwood floors.
I wait for the sound of the door to the stairway opening.
It doesn’t come.
Silence.
Rain.
A door closes.
More silence.
More rain.
A car starts and the sound of a garage door opening is very clear. A pause and then it closes.
Silence.
Rain.
This is my last chance right here. I have to work out how to free myself. My hands are duct taped to my thighs. If I can just free them enough. I wriggle them side to side. They move a little and I realize that my thighs are bare. I move my legs, the tape pulls at my skin. When I squirm my arms about they rub my sides, skin on skin. The bastard stripped me naked. I feel the rush of embarrassment and the violation of being undressed while unconscious.
Oh no! Oh God! Did he also…?
I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like it. I can’t tell.
Maybe he took off my clothes to make the duct tape more effective.
I have to get free before he comes back.
I try and roll my hands. They move part way but the tape is really tight. I roll them back and forth. Is the tape easing or is it just my imagination? I increase the speed. Nothing. I squirm my body but it’s too painful. I want to scream in rage but—
Ding dong dong dong.
The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
It’s the doorbell.
“Mmmmngh.” My scream for help is futile. I try it again. “Mmmmmmmnnnnngh.” It’s not loud enough to wake a napping mouse.
There has to be a way I can attract the attention of the caller.
I try and buck up and down in the bed but the tape is too tight. Maybe I can topple the bed over. I shake my body from side to side, ignoring the pain of the tape tearing at my skin. Still no effect.
Ding dong dong dong.
“Mmmmmmmnnnnngh.” I try again. Maybe if I could bite through the tape. I try to force my mouth open. I can force my teeth apart but my lips are firmly taped. I try to force them apart with my tongue but I don’t have enough time.
I listen.
Silence.
Rain.
Time passes.
The caller has left.
Silence.
Rain.
Even my sobs can’t be heard.
23
Cal
We all turn towards Dr. Duffus. I feel Tina’s grip on my hand tighten. A stab of pain courses through. Heroin would take that away and maybe help me through the next moments. He addresses Adry. “Your father is out of surgery now but I’m afraid the prognosis is not good. He lost so much blood that he had a stroke and we are not yet sure how severely it will affect him. In addition the bullet went through his liver and it must have ricocheted off a rib, because it nicked his transverse colon. We don’t know if he’ll make it through the night.”
“Can we see him?” Adry asks.
“I’m afraid not. He’s in the ICU and we can’t take any risk of infection. We’ll come and tell you if there’s any change in his condition.” He pats her gently on the arm and leaves.
We just stand in stunned silence for about a minute.
Steve is the first to speak. “I’m going to have to go. Call me if there’s anything I can do, anything at all. And Cal, let me know when there’s any news.” He nods to Adry and Tina and leaves.
“Why don’t you guys take a break,” Adry says. “I’ll stay here and wait for news and I’ll call you immediately if they tell me anything, I promise. And Cal, you should try and get some sleep, it’s been a long day.”
She’s right. It seems like an age since this morning when I was sitting in the Ovaltine with Jen asking Ghost and Tommy how Wily got his mail. I yawn and nod. Sleep would be great right now. But there’s one more thing I have to do. And I need to go to the office first.
“You certainly know how to show a girl a good time Cal.” We are sitting in the Healey, eating McDonald’s take-out and watching the small house on east Eighteenth Avenue, just off Main, owned by RCMP Corporal Harvey Clegg. It’s dropping a cold December rain and the occasional drip finds its way between the soft-top and the windshield and drops on the console between us.
“I’m usually a better date than this,” I grin.
“I don’t know. This is the second one sitting in your car on a stakeout.” She takes the last, noisy slurp of her chocolate milkshake. “But I do admit it’s kind of fun.”
I take all the leftover containers, stuff them back in the paper bag they came in and put them on the back seat. I peer through the rain at the house. No change. One light is on, on the main floor.
“How have you been feeling?” Her voice is more serious now, and concerned.
“It’s strange. The withdrawal pains have just disappeared. I thought it was all because of all the adrenaline that’s been pulsing through me for the last, what?…” I check my watch, “five hours but, except for a twinge at the hospital, right now I’m pain free.”
We lapse into a warm silence in a cold car. I check the house and, yet again, there’s no change.
I hear Tina move in her seat beside me and, as I turn, she puts her hand behind my neck and places a feather-light kiss on my lips. It sets my spine tingling. The next three kisses are each a little firmer and I respond… the fifth one is passionate and I lose myself in it.
When we finally break apart she sits back in her seat and smiles. “Thank God for that,” she says. “I would have been so disappointed if you hadn’t been a great kisser.”
I start to laugh and find I can’t stop. The pent-up emotions of the day flood out of me in laughter. Tina looks at me and realizes what is happening and leans over again, this time to hold me in her arms. I feel as if the laughter is starting to turn into tears. I’m not ready
for that. I open my eyes and blink… and see a grey BMW sedan, RAJ 1961, pulling out of the driveway beside the house. The hysterical laughter snaps off.
The car turns away from us and, in the rain, I can’t tell if Harvey Clegg is driving and whether or not Jen is with him.
“He’s on the move,” I say.
Tina slides back into her seat. “Are we going to follow him?” she asks. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. No.”
“You haven’t disappointed me yet.” A quick grin. “What are we going to do?”
“We, nothing. Not yet anyway. I’m going to go into his house and see what I can find. It may be that he’s a regular up-and-up RCMP member but my gut tells me he’s not. My gut says that he’s got something to do with the murder of a homeless man.”
“How are you going to get in?”
I pull out the items that I stopped off at the office to get: my trusty lock picks, taken from a burglar when I was still in uniform. I remember the last time I used them: on the garage door of a townhouse in Kitsilano where an accountant had been brutally murdered. Not a good omen. The second one this evening.
I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “Can you drive a stick shift?” I ask. She shakes her head. “OK, if that BMW comes back, call me.”
I pull a rain jacket from the back seat behind me and climb out of the Healey. I run across the road and up onto the porch of Clegg’s house. Before I even think about using the picks, I do the obvious first step.
I press the doorbell.
It teleports me back to ringing the bell at my late best friend’s townhouse. Dah, dah, dah, daaaah. The Eighteen-Twelve Overture. A third bad omen.
I listen for movement inside. I can hear nothing but the rain on the porch.
I wait a moment.
I press it again.
I get to fifteen Mississippis before pulling out my picks.
I’m inside in fifteen seconds and there’s no alarm. You’d think he’d have better security being a cop.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 36
