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

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Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 69

by Robert P. French


  Now is not the time. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell.

  And so we wait.

  Again.

  After what feels like about an hour, the old woman appears in the doorway through which she exited. She says a couple of words and turns back into her room. Steroids and Fats get to their feet and the latter gestures to me to do the same. I struggle out of the deep seat. What now?

  Fats waggles the gun at another door I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Clean,” he says, gesturing again.

  As I step towards the door, Steroids stops me. He takes my injured hand and removes the bandage. It’s not a pretty sight: purple and yellow bruises and fingers like sausages about to burst through their skins. I go through the door and find myself in a tiny bathroom with a tiny shower. The walls are decorated with black patches of mold. I’m not sure why they want me cleaned up but it works for me, I guess. I turn on the water, which gushes out of the shower head. No low-flow shower here. To my surprise it is warm and I step inside. On the floor of the shower is a bar of soap. I pick it up and lather my head and body. A second surprise: the soap smells good; it’s a lot like the soap in the Kerry Hotel. It feels good to wash off the stale sweat and urine from today’s imprisonment in the truck.

  When I step out of shower, there is a towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It’s small but it does the job. Clean and dry, I step back into the apartment’s living room, feeling a lot better.

  The scene has changed. Steroids has gone but Fats is still here and he trains his silenced weapon on me again. There is a short, bespectacled man standing in the centre of the room, holding a paper bag, which I don’t think holds take-out food. And the old woman is back. My clothes, clean, pressed and folded are in her arms. She hands them to me in silence and scuttles out by the door through which we entered.

  Gratefully, I put my clothes back on. They feel slightly damp.

  As I dress, the new character in the scene walks across the room and pours the contents of his paper bag onto the rickety table.

  I recognize the items that clatter down.

  Now I understand why the shower and why the clean clothes.

  What I don’t understand is why they decided on this way to kill me.

  35

  Zelena

  They did the auction again today. This time it was online, which I guess is better than being in that star room, but it was the only thing that was better. They drove me to the guy’s house and he was a pig. He made me do things I don’t even want to think about.

  And now Leo is standing over me watching while I post on Instagram. But the worst thing of all is that there is no reply to my last message to 'Matt Standing.’ This morning Leo made me post about calling off a private detective so I’m guessing Matt Standing is the private detective. So why hasn’t he messaged me? He can’t have given up on trying to find me so soon, can he? I can’t keep this up much longer. If I don’t hear from him tomorrow, I’m going back to Plan A. Being dead is definitely preferable to living another day like this.

  36

  Nick

  I feel as twitchy as a crack addict right now. With any luck by the end of the day tomorrow, Bob Pridmore will be off our backs. But what’s making me twitchy is all the things that could go wrong. Everything depends on Big Bob’s greed being greater than his caution. He may be disbarred now but when he was practicing law he was pretty good at it. He’s no fool. Connor McCoy is a smart cookie for sure but has he really fooled Big Bob? Adry’s sure it’s all going to go down OK but I’ve got my doubts.

  But what’s really making me twitchy is Rogan. He’s been out of touch too long. My gut tells me he’s back on the drugs but nevertheless, I shouldn’t have told Phil Jiang about Rogan’s history. Phil was really sympathetic and encouraging and I just felt I needed to share the information with him. But now I feel like I’ve betrayed Rogan’s trust. Hopefully the subject will never come up and he’ll never know I told Phil.

  Adry breaks into my thoughts. “Zelena just made an Instagram post.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Just the usual stuff, how much fun she’s having blah-blah-blah. But she did message Matt Standing. She said, 'Are you OK? Haven’t heard from you?’ Cal hasn’t done any posts as Matt. I think we need to do one and let her know we’re still trying to find her.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Though with Rogan out of the loop, we’re going to have to rely on Phil Jiang to find her.” I check my watch; it’s after midnight in Hong Kong. “When I spoke to him early this morning, I didn’t think to tell him we are communicating with Zelena via Instagram. I’ll call him in eight hours and let him know, it’ll be morning his time. Maybe he can think about some questions we could ask her that might pinpoint where she’s being held.”

  “How about I message her something to give her some hope. Something like 'we’re getting closer’ but not so obvious. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, I guess we should. But I wonder if she has any idea where she is.”

  “If she did, I’m sure she’d have given us some sort of clue.” She thinks for a second. “She said she was worried she hadn’t heard from Matt. How about I say 'Sorry, I was out of cell range but I’m closer now.’”

  “That should work. Do it.”

  She taps away at her phone. “Done.”

  “I hope we’re not giving her false hope,” I sigh.

  “If it’s enough to get her through another day, it’s worth it,” she says.

  My cell rings.

  I don’t recognize the calling number. Probably one of those friggin’ telemarketers or scam artists. Some asshole’s going to say, 'This is the Canada Revenue Agency, we have a warrant for your arrest, blah-blah-blah.’

  I let it ring.

  Screw ’em.

  37

  Cal

  I stare at the items lying on the rickety table. The baggie looks like it has enough heroin in it to kill a bull. If they inject just half of it into me I’m going to go out in one last burst of ecstasy. The thought rouses the Beast inside of me. He’s lain dormant for half a year and as my love for Tina has grown, I dared to think he was gone for good. But he’s back. He wants that hit even if it will kill both of us. I wonder if a hit that big will match the bliss of the very first time I used.

  But the big questions are: why would they change the method of execution at the last moment? And how did they know? Maybe Leo asked his buddy Inspector Ho to look into my background? If Leo and his thugs know I was a user, it would be a smarter way to kill me. They shoot me up to the moon and leave my body on the street somewhere with the syringe beside me. It means everyone will think I just backslid. No one will think I was murdered by the people holding Zelena. What will Tina think? Will she grieve for me or will she have contempt? And Ellie, how will she handle it?

  Thinking of Ellie and Tina gives me an inner boost of strength.

  I take stock of the room.

  People: Steroids and the old lady are gone. Fats is still sitting cradling his silenced gun in his lap. The man in the glasses is sorting through the paraphernalia on the table, diligently preparing the execution cocktail. He knows what he’s doing. Maybe he’s a user too.

  Potential weapons: Fats’ gun is the obvious one but he has a firm grip on it and he’s shown he can move quickly when he needs to. He’s two metres from me and with my broken fingers I don’t rate my chances too highly. I can’t see any obvious weapons in the shabby apartment. I look at the man with the glasses. He’s standing on the other side of the table, bent over, shaking the white powder onto the tablespoon. It won’t be long before he’s ready. Then I see it.

  Calculate: Step one will take maybe two seconds, two-and-a-half tops. Fats knows I’m not supposed to die by bullet; a half second of indecision on his part may give me the advantage I need. Step two, another couple of seconds.

  I run the sequence in my head and check for any impediments that could slow me down.

  Looks good.
/>
  A quick glance towards Fats and…

  Go!

  I take a quick step forward and take the only wooden chair still pushed up to the table. I grab it with both hands, pull it towards me and spin towards Fats.

  Everything goes slo-mo.

  Realization comes into his piggy eyes. I make the first step with my right foot and bunch up my shoulder muscles. Is that indecision in his eyes? I flow forward and start my swing. No indecision now. The gun comes up off his lap. The extra weight of the silencer may slow its trajectory. With all I have, I complete the swing. The chair hits him full force before he can level his weapon.

  Unlike in the movies, the chair doesn’t shatter into a number of pieces but there is a sharp crack, which may be wood or bone. I’m hoping the latter. Either way, Fats and his chair topple over onto the floor and lie still.

  I spin towards drug man.

  Behind his glasses, his eyes are like saucers. He drops the spoonful of heroin as I drop the chair. I take two fast steps forward and push the table with every ounce of strength I have left. It hits him in the upper thighs, toppling him backwards and I follow through, tipping the table onto his chest and slamming my body down on top of it. That crack was definitely bone.

  I straighten up and the world returns to normal speed.

  Man, that was a loooong five seconds.

  I stand in the centre of the room, drained, the broken bones in my hand throbbing. Now to sneak—

  The apartment door flies open and Steroids fills the doorway.

  We both take stock. He smiles. I don’t.

  I glance at Fats. He is lying on top of the gun with just the tip of the silencer protruding beneath his belly. Steroids eyes follow mine and his grin disappears. I dive toward Fats and land on the floor beside him. I get as good a grip as I can on the silencer and pull. It only moves about a centimetre. His hand must be underneath him too, still gripped around the stock. I slide my hand further up the silencer and get a better grip. I pull and this time it starts to move more freely. Another pull and—

  Oooof!

  Steroids’ boot connects with my chest. I roll away and look up at him. His foot is raised and he stamps down on my hand holding the gun. Just in time, I let go and whip it away. He moves his size twelve off the gun and makes a rookie mistake: instead of kicking the living snot out of me first, he reaches down for the gun.

  Just before his hand grabs the prize, my hand snakes out and grabs his wrist. My foot comes up and with everything I’ve got I kick him under the chin, snapping his head back.

  Any normal man would be out cold after a kick like that but Steroids just shakes his head a couple of times. However, it gives me enough time to take hold of the gun. I manage to yank it out from under Fats’ gut but before I can take the stock with my other hand, he roars and throws his body down on top of mine. Every millilitre of air whooshes out of me and I start to see stars. His face ends up an inch from mine. I remember my Scottish instructor at the Justice Institute. Always be on the offensive, laddie. I make the only attack I can. I push my mouth into his face and bite down hard on his nose. It tastes foul. He bellows, filling the air with the smell of garlic and the ravages of poor dental hygiene. I bite down extra hard and then let go. Still howling, he rolls off me, hands over his injured part.

  It gives me just enough time to manoeuvre the gun into my good hand, stick it into his belly and pull the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  The safety must still be on.

  I roll onto my hands and knees and jump to my feet.

  As I fumble for the safety, something pushes me forward and I stumble over Fats’ body. The floor comes up to meet me. I roll onto my back. Spectacles is there blinking down at me. I wait a split second for him to make his next move but he’s not a fighter. He just stands there. He looks to Steroids who is lumbering to his feet but now I have the time I need. My fingers find the safety, slide it to fire and point the gun at Steroids.

  “Freeze!” I say, smiling grimly at the cliché.

  He freezes.

  Wow. I never knew a nose could bleed like that.

  Holding the gun steady, I get gingerly to my feet.

  I look at my prisoners. There is fear in their eyes.

  I want to say, Think’st thou I am an executioner? But I think the quote might be wasted on them. However, it does beg the question of what to do with these mooks. The last fifteen seconds have been loud and may have attracted attention from the surrounding dwellings. I need to get out of here fast.

  “Turn around,” I say.

  Glasses understands and turns his back on me. Steroids looks at me blankly. He may be one of the few people in Hong Kong who doesn’t speak English but he looks at his companion and follows suit.

  When they are facing away from me. I look around and see what I need. The crack that resulted when I hit Fats with the chair, was one of its legs breaking. I pick up the broken leg and, with two swift blows, put my other two prisoners into the land of nod.

  I don’t want to take the gun with me. I’m not sure what Hong Kong law says about carrying guns but I’m pretty sure it won’t err on the liberal side of the equation. I take it into the bathroom, remove the silencer, wipe off my fingerprints and put both items into the toilet cistern.

  I return to the main room and wipe my prints off the chair leg. I don’t know why I’m bothering to clean off my prints, I doubt anyone is going to call the police. I chuckle at the thought. I scan the room and my eyes come to rest on the toppled table and what’s on the floor beside it.

  Pause.

  Why not?

  I take two paces and crouch down. In seconds, the heroin and paraphernalia are back in the paper bag and as I stand I stuff it into my pocket.

  Why did I do that?

  The Beast inside just chuckles as I head out of the apartment.

  Outside, I walk past the parked van and out of the alley. There are not a lot of people on the street. It must be well after midnight. That’s morning in Vancouver. I need to talk to Nick a.s.a.p. He must be worried sick. I look each way and to my right I can see bright lights. I make my way towards the lights and soon find myself on Nathan Road, Hong Kong’s big shopping street. I’m in Mongkok. Not too far from the Golden Dragon and Inspector Ho’s police station. With no phone and no money I feel naked. I see a nice-looking young couple approaching me.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” they say simultaneously.

  “I’ve lost my phone, could I borrow yours to make an emergency call?”

  They look at each other and a silent communication goes between them. “Certainly,” the man says. He unlocks his phone and hands it to me.

  I dredge up Nick’s cell number from my memory and dial. It rings… and rings… Maybe I’ve got his number wrong. I normally just tap his name or get Siri to call him. “This is Nick Stammo…”

  “Nick, it’s Cal—ˮ

  “…I’m not available right now…”

  Voicemail! I hang up. I’ll call the office. I smile apologetically at the couple and they seem OK with me using it a second time. I raise my finger to dial and then stand there like a complete idiot. I don’t know our office number. The only numbers I know are old ones from before the days of smart phones. I hand back the phone. “Which way is south?” I ask. I thank them and walk off in the direction they indicate. A brisk thirty minute walk should get me back to the Kerry where I can look up the office number and talk to Nick.

  I increase my pace and enjoy the fresh air.

  38

  Cal

  Thursday

  Fortunately, the front desk check-in clerk recognized me and was happy to give me a replacement card despite it being after one in the morning. She even remembered my name—ah, the joys of five-star hotels. When Leo’s thugs kidnapped me, they took all my stuff including my room’s keycard. They know where I’m staying. The Kerry is no longer a safe haven for me. It is not outside the bounds of possibi
lity that one of them is in my room right now, but unless Steroids and Co. have regained consciousness, I will have the element of surprise on my side.

  Taking a deep breath, I swipe the card over the lock and burst into my room.

  It’s empty. My open suitcase is on the little stand provided by the hotel and the rest of the room is immaculate. Everything looks undisturbed. In an excess of paranoia, I check the bathroom. It too is empty but hey, even paranoids have people out to get them.

  I open the safe and take out my passport, Vancouver keys, spare credit card and the remainder of the cash I withdrew in case I need to bribe someone. I must remember to cancel the card that was in my wallet. I pack my suitcase and carry-on bag as quickly as I can and head back to the lobby, dropping the keycard on the front desk and asking the clerk to check me out.

  As I head to the main door, I walk past the concierge desk. There is just one person there at this time of night, an older man with a kindly smile. I remember the first time I spoke to the concierges—all five of them—about Zelena and Steph. This must be Mr. Zhao, the night concierge; he was on duty the night Zelena went missing.

  I approach the desk and his smile broadens. He gives a slight bow, which I reciprocate. I fumble in my carry-on bag and pull out the photographs of Zelena and Steph. “Do you remember these guests?” I ask.

  “Yes sir, I do. Very nice ladies.”

  I indicate Zelena. “She went missing on…” I check the date on my new watch—the gang obviously didn’t think it was worth taking—and do the math. “…Friday night three weeks ago.”

 

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