“What’s up?”
She looked at Alex. She was grim.
“Phineas Rhodes,” said Alex, reading the highlighted name.
“VPD … Sweet Jesus,” said Jeri. She rummaged through Carey’s file until she found what she was looking for: the single page report that Ignace had given her two days ago. She handed it to Alex.
“1996. Two Indigenous girls seen getting into a car behind the Clarendon?”
“It was Rhodes who did the follow-up?”
“Detective Sergeant Phineas Rhodes now. Adam Ignace from my section remembered the story being told in his community and went looking for that. He spoke with Rhodes. His story was that a call came in, someone did a call log sheet and he did the follow up. According to him, there was nothing to follow up. He couldn’t reach the woman who called it in—number not in service. He wrote it off as a prank call!”
Alex, instantly livid with rage, got up and started to pace. It was a few minutes before he got himself under control.
“Rhodes works in my Section—Special Investigations—he’s in Sex Crimes.” She looked at the sheet she was holding. “He’s been to 18 dinners that Batlan has hosted and that’s since May of this year. Shit. I work with the bastard! I would never have guessed. Never. Not in a million years!”
Alex sat back down and drew heavy square boxes around the Prince George RCMP and VPD with the same colour. They read in silence for a few minutes.
“Okay. Back to Batlan,” said Alex. He’s connected to another person: Marvin Roche, a club employee. According to Bolton, it’s a well-known fact that Roche supplies some of the members with drugs. Even more interesting, the description of Marvin Roche given by Bolton matches that of a guy named Mark, last name unknown, who’s well-known as a drug dealer at SFU. Amelia and her friend George Evans described Mark this morning—a perfect match for Bolton’s description of Marvin Roche. It seems that Mark and Marvin are the same person.”
Jeri picked up the functions list. “Marvin Roche works a lot of the parties that Batlan hosts.”
“If he’s dealing at the club and SFU, we could have our SFU connection,” said Alex.
“Mark wanted to interview the tweeter.”
“That’s right. The call to Stacie Smith. George Evans told me this morning he’s sure Mark is Gary Sulzberger’s dealer. Gary’s the other film student who got a text message from Stacie Smith about the truck tweet.”
“Sulzberger could have shared that information with Mark,” said Jeri.
“And Mark gave it to Batlan, or MacLeish.”
“And one or the other of them told Mark to call Stacie.”
“We’re going to need backup, but who?” said Alex, as he drew connecting lines between the VPD and Prince George RCMP, the Clarendon, SFU and Seabreeze.
“That’s the million-dollar question. Let’s have a look at the photos. Maybe they’ll tell us something. I’d like you to watch the video on the flash drive. It’s hard to watch.” They opened the photo files. Alex inserted the flash drive and waited for the video to load.
“You said there were three copies of the pictures?” Jeri asked.
“We have two of them. The third is in a safe deposit box.”
“Jesus Alex! These are hard to look at.”
The video had started playing. Alex watched it to the end. “Shit.” A lot coming from Alex, who rarely swore. “It’s definitely MacLeish. This was left for us to find.” He opened the photo folder.
Jeri was clicking through the pictures. “One thing does jump out. These weren’t taken by an amateur. They’re using a professional photographer—the lighting, the different settings. Some look like they were taken in a home environment.”
“If they’re still using hard copy for distribution, it means they’ve been doing business for a long time.”
“Before the internet,” said Jeri. “They must have a website by now.”
They were silent as they clicked through the pictures.
“I’ve identified fourteen children, boys and girls,” said Jeri, “and I’m not finished. These poor kids, Alex. Where are they from? Where are their homes—their families?” She closed the folder.
“Something interesting came back from the forensic analysis we did on O’Meara’s clothing. I sent you the link late Thursday night, when I got back from PG,” said Alex.
“I saw that.”
“The techs found fibreglass fibres on her running pants and hoodie.”
“The North Vancouver boatyard is strictly wooden boat repair. I didn’t notice any fibreglass work being done when I was there. Unless O’Meara was held somewhere else.”
“Or it could mean one of the perps was involved in fibreglass work. Remember my description of the perp at Gustafsen Lake?”
“Red face … fibreglass allergy! Right.”
“We’re close,” said Alex.
“We are,” Jeri agreed.
“Looks like we have two important questions: Who can we trust and what do we do next?”
“It’s going to be a long night. Jas made a stew. Let’s eat while we strategize. As for who we can trust, I suggest we trust no one just yet.”
CHAPTER 32
I paced back and forth across the living room or tried to. Our cottage is small and that seriously cramped my style.
Beside Lucas now, I leaned over his shoulder. He was reading through the Member Functions list.
I sat down beside him, and he laid the pages on the table. We would be staying at the club tonight, as Michael’s guests—his cousin Yolanda Compton and her boyfriend Cedric Forno, in town for the weekend. Michael booked the Burrard Suite, directly across the hall from the Mackenzie—a corner suite and Ange Batlan’s regular booking. Batlan hosted a weekly dinner, usually on Saturday. Marvin Roche was booked to bartend.
“Michael’s meeting us at the back entrance. He’ll make sure the coast is clear, then we’ll take the elevator up to the fifth floor.”
I planned on wearing a curly, light-brown wig. The short curls dropped to my brows in front and would cover my stitches. Only traces of the bruising on my face remained; easy enough to cover with foundation.
“When are we going to tell Desocarras and Fernice?”
“I’ll call after we get there.”
“They’re going to be so pissed.”
Kate and Bart were coming at eight, posing as Michael’s clients—film producers from out of town. “I gave Kate a reddish-brown wig to hide her dark curls.”
“A guy named Ford MacLeish frequents Batlan’s dinner parties.”
I did an online search. “MacLeish is an RCMP Inspector. He’s in charge of the RCMP detachment in Prince George. Prince George is a thriving city and BC’s second capital, according to this.”
“He’s at the top of the ladder,” said Lucas. Prince George—that’s where Desocarras went to interview the mother of the missing boy.”
“Maybe MacLeish is the bad cop?”
“Here’s another frequent guest of Batlan, Ronald deReesen, small ‘d’. He’s a judge; an associate member.”
I googled the judge. “deReesen is a circuit court judge in Prince George.”
“He seems to host a lot of parties as well, for a guy who lives out of town. But when he’s here on Saturday nights, he’s in Batlan’s entourage.”
“You think that’s a coincidence?”
“No, I do not Morgan,” Lucas grumbled.
One of these days, I’ll remember there’s no such thing.
“Gregory Crothers had been present on Saturdays once a month, until late last year, when he started showing up bi-weekly.”
I googled Crothers but nothing significant came up.
“Sergeant Phineas Rhodes, VPD—he’s at the club a lot, often attends Batlan’s dinners,” said Lucas.
“VPD.”
“Uh huh,” he said, looking at me.
“RCMP. VPD. And Ange Batlan sure pops up a lot: He’s a c
lub member; he knows Marvin Roche at least in passing; he’s a friend of Carey’s uncle Geoff Boudreau; and Amelia. Batlan’s such a nice guy. It’s hard to believe that he’s mixed up in this.”
CHAPTER 33
Alex’s burner cell vibrated. It was Gwen. “Alex, Corporal Alfonse with the VPD just called here looking for you. I gave him your work cell number, told him about your uncle being so sick that you might not get right back to him. He said it’s important that he speak with you tonight.”
“Thanks Gwen,” said Alex and disconnected.
“Was that your wife?”
“Yes. Someone named Corporal Alfonse called from the VPD. He spoke with Gwen; wanted to talk to me.”
“Corporal Alfonse?”
“He told Gwen it was important that he speak with me tonight.”
“I don’t know anyone named Alfonse at VPD,” said Jeri. “Why would he call you?”
“Something’s up,” said Alex when his burner rang again. It was Gwen.
“Inspector MacLeish just called here looking for you. I told him you were visiting your Uncle Norm. He left a number where he can be reached.”
“Thanks Gwen, I’ll call him back. You okay?”
“I’m okay. Worried sick about you.” She didn’t usually tell him that.
“No need to be, Gwen. I’m taking every precaution.”
“I know you are, but I can’t help worrying.” Alex talked with Gwen a little longer, his personal voice of reason in a sea of chaos. His work cell buzzed. As soon as he hung up with her, he checked it. MacLeish had just called. He pointed to the video, then to his cell.
“MacLeish,” he said quietly.
“Shit,” was all Jeri said.
“Gwen told him I was visiting my sick uncle.”
Alex called his Uncle Norm first. He was watching the news on APTN.
“Uncle, are you okay.”
“I’m fine Alex.
“I thought you were going to cultural night?”
“I did. I just got in. I’m getting old and I let the young ones keep the late hours.”
“Uncle, if anyone calls for me, tell them I’m having a nap and take a message. If you need to call me, use the new cell number I gave you.”
“I’ve got it right here beside me, nephew. Don’t worry.”
“Remember uncle. You’re not feeling so well, you think it’s the flu and if you’re not feeling better by tomorrow morning, I’m going to take you to the hospital.”
“I remember,” Norm said, and then, in a deep, throaty voice, “I’m half dead.” He was clearly delighted with his role.
“Love you, uncle. I’ll keep you posted.” He ended the call. “I’m going to call MacLeish now.”
Jeri nodded and shut her laptop and made sure her phone was on silent. He turned on his work cell and dialed the number Gwen had given him. It had a 250 exchange, which is used everywhere in BC except for Vancouver and the lower mainland. MacLeish answered on the second ring.
“Inspector MacLeish,” Alex said, making no effort to stifle a big yawn. Sorry I didn’t get back to you right away. I turned off my cell so I could get a little shut-eye.”
“Where exactly are you, sergeant?”
“With an Uncle. he’s sick with the flu, vomiting, diarrhea. I may have to take him to the hospital tomorrow morning to get him re-hydrated. We’ll see how it goes tonight.”
“Sergeant, where exactly are you?”
“I’m just a little east of Mission.”
“You’re not at home?”
“Wish I was,” made its way through another big yawn. “My wife and I felt it best that I come down and check on the old guy. Very independent, wouldn’t ask for help if he was on his death bed. You know how they are when they’re getting on. I’m the only family he has left.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I assume you have permission,” he said in a snotty, aggrieved tone.
Alex was livid on the other end of the phone, and it wasn’t easy to keep his voice even. MacLeish must not suspect a thing.
“I notified the office, of course.”
“Well, attend to your personal business and give me a call when you’re back in 100 Mile House. It’s nothing important and can wait till you return.” MacLeish hung up abruptly.
“Ass,” Alex muttered softly. “Something’s up, but MacLeish didn’t share. I think he bought my story.”
“Maybe they’re on to us.”
“I was looking at Boyce’s file,” said Alex, “at least the little that was online. MacLeish could have got wind of that.” He was interrupted by the buzz of his burner cell.
“Alex, it’s Morgan. You told me to call on this line if anything should come up.” He put her on speaker.
“I wanted to let you know we’re at the club.”
Jeri leaned in. “You’re where?”
“We’re at the Clarendon and so is Michael Bolton. Bart and Kate are joining us. They’ll be here soon.”
“Morgan, why are you at the club?” asked Alex.
“Well, we were going over the lists and we noticed that a few men always show up when Ange Batlan hosts his parties. Michael checked and Batlan was having one tonight, so he rented accommodation, across the hall from the suite Batlan always rents. We just want to observe.”
Jeri and Alex shared an alarmed glance. Alex shook his head.
“What suite are you in?”
“We’re in the Burrard Suite. Lucas and I are staying here, so we won’t be spotted.”
“Which suite does Batlan rent?” asked Alex.
“The Mackenzie at the end of the hall and furthest from the elevator, on the left. We’re right across the hall.”
“Morgan, which men are you referring to, when you say the ones that always show up?” Jeri asked.
“Ange Batlan, Ford MacLeish, he’s RCMP from Williams Lake, Ron deReesen, he’s a judge, Sergeant Phineas Rhodes, VPD, a guy named Crothers.”
“What exactly do you intend to do?” Jeri asked.”
“We don’t intend to do anything, honest. We’re just going to observe.”
“Observe?” she repeated.
“Morgan, you of all people know how desperate these men are,” Alex cut in. He flashed back to her struggling, hands taped behind her, wading into the water of Gustafsen Lake. Gwen and him screaming at the guy.
“Lucas and I are staying in the suite. When Kate and Bart get here, they’re having drinks and dinner downstairs with Michael.”
“So not much happening there at the moment?”
“Nothing.”
“Just a minute Morgan,” Alex said, taking her off speaker.
“We could park in the underground lot beside the club. That way, we’d be moments away if there’s trouble. But first, I want to check out the boat yard. Do you think we have time? And how far is it from the club?”
“About fifteen minutes. We could visit the yard and be back at the club by 9:30 pm and that still gives us lots of time to check it out.”
Alex put Morgan back on speaker and told her they would call when they arrived at the club, around 9:30 pm.
“Morgan, if you need us for any reason before 9:30 pm, call me on my burner cell and we’ll come running.”
“Got that,” said Morgan.
“Do you intend to stay the night?” he asked.
“Probably not.” Which was a lie. They all had overnight bags.
“Please be careful. We’ll be close by.” Fernice said, ending the call. “Let’s get going. They grabbed what they would need and left the house.
“It’s going to be a long night,” said Alex, as they climbed into his rental.
Lucas and I would eat dinner in the suite and keep a watch on the comings and goings across the hall. We were both frustrated that we couldn’t be out and about. I reminded myself that it’d only been 10 days since my return from 100 Mile House. It didn’t help. Michael went downstairs to wait for Kate and Bart.
They were posing as Trish and Brendan Moreland, producers of a new Canadian sitcom that was in the works.
The Morelands arrived about 8:15 pm. Kate, as Trish, was stunning in a midnight blue, off the shoulder silk dress. Her abundant black curls were hiding under a straight, silky cut wig. She’d darkened her eyebrows and went with theatrical makeup. Bart was delighted.
“You do know that I married you because of your great beauty,” Bart said as they walked up the steps to the club.
“Ah, but I should have told you. It won’t last,” she countered. “The women in my family age very poorly,” she added, with great relish, flashing him a beatific smile.
“Fortunately for me, intelligence and wit never grow old.”
She squeezed his arm a little tighter. “I’m scared,” she whispered in his ear.
“Me too,” said Bart.
They’d parked in the underground lot beside the club. When they walked up the steps of the front entrance, Michael was waiting for them and signed them in. They took an elevator up to the suite.
“We’re in luck,” said Michael once everyone was gathered. “Batlan’s dinner party is in the Hamilton Room tonight. It’s close to where we’re eating, and it’ll be easy to keep an eye on them.”
“Where is the Hamilton Room?” Kate asked.
“On the second floor. It’s a sub floor of sorts, tucked away and very private.”
“I wish I could get a look at these guys?” said Lucas.
“Marvin Roche is serving. He’d be able to identify you and Morgan.”
“What about me?” Kate asked.
“Absolutely not!” said Bart, surprising us all. “They know who you are, and these guys are dangerous, Kate. Besides, you’re wearing stilettos. You wouldn’t be able to run.”
“I’ve got my sneakers with me!” said Kate indignantly.
“You can’t wear sneakers with that beautiful dress.”
“Sneakers would be a dead giveaway,” she said, laughing. It was good to hear her laugh. The last few weeks had been a great strain on my normally ebullient friend.
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