Bingo!
“Thank you Minister and maybe we can also talk about another very incriminating document. One about a specific shipment. Number seventeen, I think.”
This time he has a real struggle to keep it together.
35
Nick
When I see her face, tears start to well up. I’ve got to get a hold of myself. There’s a small Band Aid on her face, smaller than I expected. That’s good. Then she’s right beside the bed and putting her arms around me. I just hug her even though it makes the pains in my gut go through the roof. “Thank God you’re alright, Luce,” I whisper in her ear as I feel the tears running down my cheeks. So much for getting hold of myself, still, who cares? Over Lucy’s shoulder I see Adry smiling. She’s going to remind me of these tears sometime and I’m betting she’s going to do it in front of Rogan. I just hug Lucy until the pain gets too bad. Lucy pulls back and kisses me on the cheek.
Adry pulls over a couple of chairs.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” I tell her.
“I just did what you told me. I just wish I could have got there with the cops a little earlier, before he slashed at Lucy.”
“It’s no prob,” Lucy chimes in. “When he pulled back his hand holding the knife, I knew he was going to slash at my throat, so I just rolled over fast and his knife only made a tiny nick on my cheek. I rolled right off the bed and then slid myself under it. The sirens from the cops’ car were getting loud and I knew he wouldn’t try and get to me under the bed, he couldn’t waste the time. He just ran off. Next thing I knew, the cops were in Cal’s apartment and I was safe. All thanks to Adry.” She reaches over and gives Adry’s arm a squeeze.
“I didn’t know it at the time,” Adry says, “But when you described him to the cops, I realized it was the hot guy I saw leaving the building just before the cops arrived.
“Yes, the cops got us both doing pictures of him using their computers, then we compared them and finally came up with a pretty good likeness.”
“How bad’s the scar on your cheek?” I ask. Lucy gets her good looks from Brenda. I don’t want to see her lovely face ruined.
“It’s nothing. The cops made a big fuss and took me to VGH but the doctor didn’t even need to give me stitches and he said he didn’t think there would be much of a scar at all.”
“Did the police have any idea who he might be?” I ask.
“No, they said they were going to get their computers to try and identify the guy using facial recognition.”
“They won’t find a match. The guy’s not a criminal. His mugshot’s not going to be in the system.”
“You’re probably right. I think he was a soldier,” Lucy says.
“I think so too,” says Adry. “When he came out of Cal’s apartment building, there was something in the way he walked that made me think that.”
Adry’s got good instincts, cop instincts, she’s probably right.
“What made you think he was a soldier, Luce?” I ask.
“I was in the apartment and I’d just got into bed when suddenly the bedroom door opened and he was there. He told me to keep completely quiet or he’d kill me.”
“There’s your first mistake,” I say. “When someone like that tells you to do something, always do the opposite. If he says be quiet, you scream; if he tells you stay where you are, you run.”
“I’ll remember that next time I see him,” she says with a grin. “Anyway, he wanted to know where Cal was. I told him Cal was staying with his girlfriend and that I didn’t know where that was. He thought about that for a bit then he called someone on his cell and he asked to speak to 'the General’. Then when the guy came on the line he called him 'sir’. That’s what made me think he was a soldier.”
“What did he say to this general?” Adry asks.
“He said Cal wasn’t there and what should he do now. Then my phone rang and it was you Adry.”
She tells me about the phone call with Adry and how she told her there was a problem by calling her Kate. That’s my girl, smart as a whip. It’s nice to have her around. I wonder if I can persuade her to move out here. Mrs. V has another bedroom in the house, maybe Lucy could—
Adry breaks into my thoughts. “If he is a soldier, his picture will be in a government database somewhere. I batted my eyes at the cop who did the composite sketch thing and asked him to print me off a copy. I’m going to do a high-resolution scan of it and send it to Jen; maybe she can feed it into her computer and find out who he is.” Jeez, I’m in a room with two women who are as smart as whips.
If Jen can put a name to the soldier who tried to kill my little girl, we may have another clue as to what the hell is going on. My gut tells me this general may be another piece of the puzzle. I wonder who the hell he is.
36
Cal
We have some time to kill until our meeting with Neil Harris. We’ve already killed a very pleasant hour back at the Chateau Laurier, our hotel. Now for another, but different, pleasant time. As I wait for the connection, I run through in my head my plans for tonight’s meeting; the Minister of National Defence is going to be in for a big surprise!
FaceTime connects. “Hey, Dad. You’re early. Well actually, you’re late. You were supposed to call me on Sunday, so you’re two days late.”
That means today’s Tuesday. The last few days have been a blur. “I’m sorry about that sweetie, on Sunday I was…” I have to think it through. “I was saving a friend from a killer and yesterday, I flew in a private jet.”
“A private jet. That is so sick!” I grimace at her use of the word 'sick’ to mean cool. But I guess language evolves, even if I don’t like it. Her face is lit up. “And you saved your friend too. Who was the killer? Did you put him in jail?”
“He used to be a policeman, he killed someone I knew.” I avoid answering the second question. I am not going to tell her about the demise of Harvey Clegg.
“I’m sorry about your friend Daddy, the one he killed, was he— Wait a minute. Where did you go in the private jet?”
“Ottawa.”
“Ottawa?!” She screams. “That’s in Ontario. We’re in the same province. Why don’t you drive over here?”
“Ottawa’s four hundred and fifty kilometres from Toronto, sweetie, it takes over four hours to drive. But when I’ve finished my work here, I’ll ask Mommy if it’s OK for me to start our Christmas visit a few days early.”
Sick!” she grins. Then a new idea sprouts from her fertile mind. “Ottawa’s where they had the bombing. While you’re there, maybe you could find the bad man who did it.”
That’s way above my pay grade. Through my chuckle, I say, “I don’t think that’s going to happen. The man who did it was blown up in the explosion.”
“Oh… Why?”
I take refuge in a parental favourite. “It’s complicated, sweetie.” Time to change the subject. “How’s your boyfriend Ethan?”
“He’s NOT my boyfriend. He’s a boy who’s a friend, OK? But you’ll never guess what he did today.”
Her happy prattle soothes me and I just bask in it. I look over at Tina and she has a broad ginger-cat smile. She and Ellie are going to love each other.
And I am abruptly aware of how important that is to me.
Ottawa is strange in some ways: on a drive through the city, the view often changes several times from beautiful to ugly and back again to beautiful. Right now we are in a beautiful part. Neil Harris’ Ottawa abode is three floors high and wider than your average townhouse. In Vancouver it would cost a couple of million.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” I say.
“Absolutely.”
“We end up in jail if things go wrong,” I remind her.
“Bring it on!”
I lean over and kiss her before we get out of the car. I pull the canvas bag from the back seat and we cross the street.
The front doors of the townhouses are all painted in different, bright colours
. Harris’ door is lime green. It harks back to a memory of Roy; he used to sing a song from his youth called Behind the Green Door. One of the lines of the song was: Green door, what’s that secret you’re keepin’. Hopefully I’m going to find out.
We go through the gate, take the four steps up and Tina stretches out her hand towards the bell.
I grab it just in time and pull it back.
She frowns and is about to speak when she sees the look on my face. I put my index finger to my lips and nod my head towards the door. She follows my line of sight and sees it.
The door is ajar.
I gently push it open.
The entryway is in darkness.
I step inside.
It’s eerily quiet.
I run my hand along the wall until I find the light switch. When I press it nothing happens. I slide my hand further. There are three switches on the switch plate; I press the other two.
Nothing.
Signalling Tina to stay where she is, I take two steps further. “Minister,” I call.
More nothing.
As my eyes become accustomed to the dark, I see that there are three doors leading off the entranceway. One is open. I put the bag on the floor, step through and inch forward, rubbing my hand along the wall as I feel for a light switch. I don’t feel one. I feel some more.
Stop!
Some primitive sense clicks in and I leap backwards.
Inches from my nose, I see a blur and feel the rush of air. There is a clunk at floor level and I feel the vibration through my feet. Whoever attacked is behind the door. With every ounce of muscle I can muster, I explode my whole body into the door and am rewarded with an “Ooof!” from the other side.
I pivot and slam the door closed. He’s silhouetted in the light from a side window. I see what looks like a baseball bat on it’s upswing. I step in close, grab his lapels, arch my back then propel my head forward into his face.
His groan is followed by the clatter of the bat on the hardwood floor. Still holding on to him, my leg jerks upward and I get an exhalation of breath in my face as my knee connects, right on target.
I step back and bring an elbow down hard on the crown of his descending head.
His body hits the floor with a satisfying thump and I suppress a yell at the pain in my elbow.
Two and a half seconds of action and I am gulping air into my lungs. Time to start using that gym membership, Rogan.
Then the thought hits: maybe he has a partner.
Tina!
I turn and open the door. I find myself looking into the barrel of a gun.
I freeze.
37
Damien
There are three of them. That in itself is strange. Two of them look like veteran officers and the third guy looks more like he works for me. I make a point of checking the credentials of all three. I’ve seen enough of them to know that if these are not genuine, they’re excellent forgeries. Normally, I would welcome the appearance of members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I would love to have them as a client. However, clients don’t show up without an appointment. I have an uncomfortable feeling that I know why they are here.
I address the oldest one. His credentials identified him as a Superintendent. That’s a very high rank to just drop in for a visit. He’s the number one guy here. “How can I help the RCMP?” I ask him.
He looks at his number two and nods.
Number two says, “I believe that you have in your possession some documents that are the property of the federal government.” His voice sounds like the voice of a life-long smoker.
“Of course we do. We do a lot of government business.”
“These particular documents were not given to you by someone from the federal government. They were given to you by a private detective named Cal Rogan.”
I was right. “That’s correct.”
“Those documents are classified sir. Your possession of them is a possible violation of the Official Secrets Act.”
“I have them on the authority of Jennifer Halley an intelligence officer with CSIS.” For a second I get a horrible feeling. I only have her’s and Cal’s word that she is actually a CSIS intelligence officer. If she’s a fraud, I’ve just put my entire business in jeopardy.
“Intelligence officer Halley overstepped her authority. We have been ordered to retrieve all copies of the documents and ensure that you delete all copies from your systems and from any backups you’ve made. Will you now comply with that request?”
It’s couched as a request, but it’s not a request.
“Yes, of course.”
Number two nods at number three.
Number three points to a laptop at the end of the conference table. “Can you access your servers from here?” His voice is a high-pitched counterpoint to his colleague’s rasp.
I nod.
We sit at the end of the conference table and I log on. He makes a big point of looking away when I enter my password. He hands me a USB drive. “Please copy the files onto here.” I do as he requests. “There’s a script on the drive, I want you to use it to delete the documents.” I look at the script. Smart. We both know deletion doesn’t actually delete the files. This script will scrub the files and any copies from the server. Again I do as he asks. “Now let’s access the backups and do the same there.” This takes a little longer. When I have finished he takes the USB drive, stands up and nods to number two.
Number two takes a sheet of paper from his briefcase and slides it across the table. It is a document confirming that, under pain of prosecution, I swear I have no other copies of the documents. I read it, sign it and slide it back. It’s returned to number two’s briefcase.
Number two looks to number one.
Number one speaks. “Thank you Mr. Crotty. Your co-operation has been noted.” He shakes my hand. He’s a bone crusher. I try not to wince.
I see them out and go back to my office.
As I sit down, my screen pops into life. There is a message box. No more valid files. The program that was attempting to decrypt the files has finished running. Deleting the files will do that. I click the OK button. Another box appears. Thirty-three files attempted, two files decrypted. Two files! During the time I stepped out of my office and the time I destroyed the files, the program decrypted a second file.
I am transported back to my time at Harvard. I remember taking a moral philosophy class; Professor Sandel frequently asked us to evaluate a moral dilemma. Now I have a real live one of my own.
Look at the decrypted file or delete it?
And if I look at it, what then?
38
Cal
The barrel of the gun is unwavering. It is not in the hands of an amateur. “Point the gun at the ground, Tina,” I say quietly. She does so and as she releases the trigger, I hear the click as the safeties reengage. My exhalation is distinctly audible.
She removes the magazine, ejects the chambered round, puts it back in the magazine and returns magazine and Glock to the canvas bag.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
She grins. “I did my Masters in Chicago, which is not the safest city in the world. I decided to make use of my second amendment rights and bought a handgun. But I made sure that I had a ton of hours of training and time on the range before I bought it.”
I gather my thoughts. “Do you know what a circuit-breaker box looks like?”
“That’s a bit of a sexist remark, Mr. Rogan. But yes.”
I take the flashlight out of the bag and hand it to her. “Find it and turn the lights back on.”
I take the duct tape out. We were going to use it to immobilize Neil Harris. I take it into the darkened room. My erstwhile assailant is still on the floor. For the first time I notice he’s wearing a Fed-Ex uniform; it makes sense, everyone opens the door for a Fed-ex delivery. By the time I have him trussed like the Christmas turkey, the lights come on.
The room is a study.
It has one wall f
ull of bookshelves, another wall full of trophy photos of Neil Harris in various prestige-boosting situations, a messy but expensive-looking antique desk, a computer with three screens… and a dead body on the floor.
I crouch beside the body. He has been beaten to death, probably with the baseball bat that is now lying by the door. Echoes of Denis Lamarche, a.k.a. Wily. But this time the face is recognizable as Neil Harris, Minister of National Defence.
“Is that who I think it is?” Tina says from behind me.
I nod.
“The best laid plans…” she says.
“Indeed. Neil Harris is the only person we know who was involved in this major-league, gun-running scheme.”
“Now what do we do?”
“Call the police, I guess.”
“Maybe we should call Jen,” she says.
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
I call her and tell her to get over here right away. She is not a happy camper.
I stand up from my crouching position beside the body and look at the desk. In my mind’s eye, I see Annalise Lamarche creeping in here, looking for something to relieve her headache, but disturbing the mouse and seeing the documents that got her brother killed. I remember something she said in her letter to Denis. Something about how Harris was lax about passwords. Maybe all is not lost with Harris’ death.
I sit down behind the desk and jiggle the mouse. The screen springs into life. Harris clearly didn’t learn his lesson. Even the operating system is an outdated version of Windows. There are two apps open. One is the file system. I click around but he has hundreds of folders and documents; it would take an age to go through them all. I silently curse myself. I should have brought a USB drive to copy his files. Maybe he has one. I pull open the desk drawers; they are full of the usual detritus of an office desk, including the Tylenol Annalise was looking for. There’s lots of stuff but no USB drive.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 42
