Anton took her arm and directed her down a small narrow alley where the restaurant was located. The place was packed with a large group outside the door waiting for their reservations. Bernadette wondered how long they’d have to wait for a table; Anton had told her he didn’t have a reservation. Hunger was making itself known with a small growl in her stomach.
Anton smiled, “Let me see what I can do.” He waded in amongst the people at the entrance, and began talking quietly with the maître de.
Bernadette looked up and down the alley and wondered if they shouldn’t just go to one of the pubs they’d passed on the way.
Anton was suddenly taking her by the arm. “They can seat us right away.”
“How did you do that?” Bernadette’s eyes were wide with both amazement and amusement at Anton’s talents.
Anton smiled. “Hey, the maître de is from Sicily, and I’m from Sicily . . . and just like that . . . what can I say . . . we’re in.”
They walked past the other people waiting at the front door. A wave of mutterings and rumblings made its way through the waiting diners. Anton flashed his smile in their direction. A lady in a sequence track suit, with a tour label that proclaimed her as Agnes said, “You know I’ve seen him before . . . he’s from one of those crime dramas . . . like CSI or maybe that True Suspect thing.”
A women beside Agnes, dressed in a purple velour suit with a name tag that stated she was Grace, “Na, I’ve seen that guy, he’s been on that cooking show from Europe, the Italian Chef or something.”
“You think that’s him,” Agnes said.
“Oh yeah,” Grace said. She stood watching Anton disappear with Bernadette into the crowded restaurant. “What a doll.”
Bernadette overheard the conversation as they walked by. “You know, Anton, you do seem to have an effect on women. You ever think of taking up acting?”
Anton waited as Bernadette was seated. “There are too many good-looking Italians looking for acting jobs.” He took his chair across from Bernadette. “But how many have their chance to protect their country?”
A waiter filled their glasses with water; another dropped a basket of bread on the table and then filled a small bowl with olive oil and balsamic vinegar to dip the bread into. Bernadette took a piece of still warm bread and began tearing off chunks. “Anton, I don’t believe in all the time we’ve known each other that you’ve told me your reasons for joining the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service.”
Anton’s face took on a frown. “Bernadette, to most people who ask, I give them the stock answer . . . but to you . . . I’ll give you the truth.”
Bernadette was about to place a morsel of bread into her mouth, freshly dipped into the olive oil and balsamic mixture. Instead, she put the bread on her bread plate, “I’m all ears, Anton.”
“You know how I’m always joking with you about being Sicilian, but it’s also a badge of honor to me and to my family. Sicilians are very proud and determined people who take their traditions seriously,” Anton said.
“Yes, I always gathered that. I’ve seen the Godfather at least three times.”
Anton allowed a small chuckle, “Yes, well, I think the Godfather set us back a few centuries, but you’re not far off on my own history.”
Bernadette leaned forward and whispered. “Your family is in the mob.”
Anton’s one eyebrow went up, and he looked to see if anyone was within hearing distance. “Well it wasn’t my whole family, it was my uncle.”
The waiter came by and dropped off menus, told them the specials, and they were out of the scallops. They ordered the Zuppa di Pesce and Insalata Mista, and Anton ordered the seared venison while Bernadette chose the Beef Tenderloin with Gorgonzola cheese. Anton chose a Chianti to go with the dinner.
As the waiter left, Bernadette leaned forward again. “Is your Uncle still alive?”
Anton picked up some bread, dipped it into the olive oil, and placed it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before answering. “No, he’s been dead for ten years now, taken out by a rival gang back in Sicily. The only good thing about him was he stayed in Sicily.”
Their waiter came by with wine glasses, uncorked the wine, poured some for Anton to taste, and then filled their glasses. Bernadette let the wine swill in her glass, breathed in its earthy nose and said, “So luckily none of his actions over there affected you over here.”
Anton took a sip of his wine and put the glass down. It was if a cloud had passed over his face. “You know I wish that statement were true, but my uncle did something that did affect my family . . . it affected them to their very core . . . he murdered a priest.”
Bernadette put down her wine glass and swallowed hard. “Oh my God, I felt a shadow pass over my mother’s grave just then.” She made the sign of the cross before she could stop herself. “So you entered the service for . . .”
“Atonement. Is that what you were about to say? Because that is exactly what it is.” Anton took a large swallow of wine. “My mother wanted me to enter the priesthood to make atonement for the sins of the De Luca family, and I chose to be an analyst in the Canadian Intelligence and Security Service instead.” Anton leaned forward. “And you know what is funny, Bernadette, is that I hate guns. I can hardly fire one without my hands shaking.”
Bernadette placed her hand on Anton’s. “Don’t worry . . . I’m a freaking marksman when it comes to guns . . . I got your back, kid.” There was a tear in her eye, as she looked at the handsome young man who had become serious with the revelations about his past.
The soups arrived, and Anton sat back visibly relieved, like he had been to confession. “So, Bernadette, I’ve just given you my sordid family history. What’s yours?”
Bernadette put down her spoon and patted her lips with her napkin. “Mine is simple. My mom, a good-looking country girl who sang like an angel, meets an Irishman who plays music in a bar. They sing together, get married, have six children, and the Irishman goes back to playing music in the bars while my mother pines for him.”
“How did he end up here in Victoria and dead?” Anton asked after a pause. The clatter of the restaurant became audible again.
“My dad, the famous Dominic Callahan, at least in his own mind, could never give up the party scene. He’d come back to my mom, stay awhile, leave her pregnant again, and off on the road he went again. The booze got to him, then the crack cocaine. I think he came to Victoria like a lot of addicts do because it’s the warmest place in Canada to live on the streets.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s never a pretty story. My mother died shortly after news of my dad’s death. The two were welded at the hip in sorrow.” Bernadette let out a sigh. “God, look at us . . . two Catholic kids doing a confessional over wine.”
They let the conversation rest as they dug into their soup of fresh mussels, tiger prawns and chunks of halibut in a tomato sauce and sprigs of cilantro. The waiter came back, filled their wine glasses, and Bernadette looked to Anton. “Well, has anything developed in the case?”
Anton rested his spoon in his bowl, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, “The FBI has a close watch on Talbert Hensley, who bought the vials of Bio Bugs from Popowich. They told Patterson he’s in Missoula, Montana, right now, and they think he’s headed for some of the big pipelines that cross from Alberta into Montana.”
“Would that be the pipelines that bring oil from the oil sands?”
Anton sat back as the waiter removed the soup bowl, “Uh-huh, that would be the big fish they think the eco terrorists are after.” He looked down at his wine glass, twirling the glass and watching it swirl. “There are two major rivers the pipeline crosses, the Missouri, and the Yellowstone. If they hit that pipeline with the Bio Bugs, we would have a major catastrophe.”
“Why can’t the big oil companies just shut that pipeline down?” Bernadette asked.
Anton looked up from his wine glass. “It’s not as simple as that. If they shut the pipeline
down, then the eco terrorists might get wind of it, and know the FBI is on to them. Besides, it’s just a guess; there is another pipeline in North Dakota they could hit as well.”
The waiter placed the Insalata Mista in front of them and wished them a hearty, “Enjoy!” and left. “Is the FBI confident they can stop this Talbert before he injects the bio bugs into the pipelines?”
Anton poised his fork over his salad. “I was told that the FBI agent travelling with Talbert is posing as his girlfriend, and is keeping close watch on him . . . hopefully they have it under control.”
Bernadette lowered her fork, and put it on the table, “Oh my god, you mean a female FBI agent in deep cover is actually sleeping with this guy?” She took a sip of her wine, “You know, I understand the Americans are serious about defending themselves from terrorists, but man, sleeping with the guy . . .”
“You find that objectionable for deep cover . . .”
“— I find it objectionable for any kind of cover.” Bernadette picked up her fork again, and toyed with some of the greens in the salad.
Anton swallowed a mouthful of salad, “I agree with you, but these are dangerous times. I’m sure the Americans thought this was the only way to get close to the guy. We heard the guy won’t carry a cell phone, moves around a lot, and trusts few people.” Anton looked sideways for a second to see if any of the diners could hear them. “I just heard he got into some kind of altercation at the border, and he and the FBI agent are lying low until he recovers.”
Bernadette dropped her fork, “What kind of an altercation?”
“Something to do with road rage just off the Car Ferry from Victoria. Three guys in a van laid a serious beating on Talbert, and get this . . . the FBI agent had to defend him.”
Bernadette leaned back. “And that doesn’t seem odd to you?”
Anton said, “How should this be odd? The report from the FBI agent was that the vials were still intact in the car after the fight, and these guys gave Talbert a pretty serious beating . . . I know, I know . . .” Anton raised his hand, “You’re thinking it was a diversion of some kind . . . the FBI already considered that.”
Bernadette shook her head. “When will we ever learn to go with our instincts? If it looks like a diversion . . . it’s probably a diversion.”
Anton smiled. “Hey, Bernadette, relax, it’s just road rage, happens all the time in America, and Canada has it too. My god, look at Vancouver, the traffic there . . .”
“Okay. Anton,” Bernadette said. “Road rage, that’s what the FBI and Canadian Intelligence have decided . . . works for me.” She picked up her wine glass, and raised it in a salutation. “Here’s to catching the nasty terrorists.”
By the time they returned to the Hotel it was just past 11 p.m. Bernadette gave Anton a hug, wished him well with the case and headed to her room. She slipped out of her clothes and into a t-shirt, found a Pellegrino in the mini-bar, and watched the Harbor shimmer and twinkle with the lights from small boats.
A thought was tugging at her consciousness. The thought was about the man she was supposed to call. If she had called Chris Christakos, the RCMP officer she’d been having a relationship with even last week, it would have been fine. Now it was three weeks since she said she’d call.
She’d met the handsome Greek-Canadian constable while on the case chasing Professor McAllen. Christos, or Chris as he liked to be called, helped her locate McAllen. He’d been living on Galliano Island as the lone officer of the RCMP detachment. That island was 2 hours and 26 minutes away, with a ferry ride. She checked a Google map before she left home.
She was supposed to call him. Wasn’t that the way they left it, to give an answer to a question he’d asked her? It was simple. “Do you love me?” He’d left it at that, in their last phone call.
She could have called him. She should have called him. But what could she say? Yes, I’m madly in love with you, but I’d have to leave the RCMP to be with you. To become what? Was the thought bouncing around in her head. The Island Chris lived on was full of artists in winter and tourists in summer. She’d have nothing else to do there, but be his wife . . . and whatever else she could find to occupy her time.
Bernadette couldn’t paint worth a damn, could barely write legible case reports, and most people annoyed her, so running a bed and breakfast was not a consideration. And then there was the other thing. Most relationships came with baggage. The handsome Constable Chris had a Greek Mother who hated Bernadette—she didn’t even try to hide it.
Then there was Chris’s sister, Lenia. She’d kept asking Bernadette about the life span of RCMP detectives, and how often they were killed or injured in their line of work. The inference was obvious. Lenia, wanted Bernadette very dead or at least maimed and away from her brother.
Bernadette hugged herself, let out a deep sigh, and crawled into bed. Her love life was long distance both in geography, and the span of culture between Chris and herself. She didn’t know if she wanted love to find a way—or a way out. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.
12
Bernadette caught the Airport shuttle bus on Sunday morning. She didn’t want to bother either Anton or Samantha for a ride. They were deep into the case, and she was not. She welcomed the opportunity of the two-hour plane ride back to Calgary with just her thoughts for company.
The plane landed in a perfect blue sky morning and she was in her Jeep in the airport parking lot when her cell phone rang. Bernadette smiled when she saw the caller ID. “Anton, you missed me. How nice.”
“Hey Bernadette, of course, if my mother would agree, you’d be the one for me—you know that.”
“Okay Anton, you smooth Sicilian, what’s up? What’d you need?”
“Bernadette, if more of the RCMP was as sharp as you, criminals would give up—there’d be no money in it. Listen, I need a favor, all of our guys are tied up—you know budget cuts and that stuff.”
Bernadette started her Jeep and lowered her windows. The heat was rising from the asphalt. “Budget cuts sure, okay, cut the preamble and get to the point. You know I’m here for you.”
Anton laughed. “I always forget that buttering you up never works with you . . . so here it is. The coroner, Dr. Andrew, sent a sample of the Bio Bugs to the University of Calgary to the Biological Science Building.”
Bernadette rolled up her windows as a 747 took off. “What’s that, you want to me to check a university?”
“No Bernadette, I need you to see a Doctor David Lim at the Biological Sciences Centre. He has a sample of the Bio Bugs; he said he has something special to show us. I have no people to send, and since I knew you were around . . .”
“And off the case.”
Anton paused. “Okay, yes off the case . . . but I thought maybe you’d do me this favor and see what this Doctor has.”
Bernadette laughed. “You know Anton—I just love giving you a hard time—of course I’ll do it.”
Anton said, “Hey thanks, I’m sending a text of the address, and I’ll let Doctor Lim know you’re coming.”
“No sweat. I’ll let you know my impressions of the Doctor’s findings and call you later today.” Bernadette ended the call, and punched the address from Anton’s text into her Jeep’s GPS.
She had no plans for today, other than a run with Sprocket, and hope that her neighbor Harvey would invite her over for a barbeque. They had started a tradition of hanging out together on Sundays some months back. Harvey had knocked on her door; casually saying he had “way too many ribs, beans and potato salad for just himself . . . and if she wasn’t doing anything . . .”
Bernadette was glad to join Harvey. The three of them, Harvey, Bernadette and Sprocket, would hang out on Harvey’s back porch eating barbeque, and swapping stories. Harvey was the closest thing she had to family in her new city of Red Deer, and it felt good.
Traffic was light on Sunday morning, and Bernadette arrived at the Biological Sciences Building on the University of Calgary campus. It dawned on her
as she found parking close by the building that university would not start for another two weeks. She remembered her own university years in Criminal Justice; parking was always a problem . . . but then she’d never owned a car.
A security guard at the front of the building called Doctor Lim, and a tall, thin Asian man in a white lab coat came out of the elevator to meet her, “Detective Callahan,” He pumped her hand in efficient quick strokes, “delighted you could come on short notice.”
“Happy to be here,” Bernadette replied, but she was still puzzled as to what she was here to witness.
Dr. Lim’s thin eyebrows knitted into a frown. “You may not be so happy after my demonstration.”
Bernadette followed the doctor as he ushered her into his lab on the third floor. The lab was what Bernadette expected, glass tubes running in different directions and numerous machines that hummed and flashed green lights.
The doctor gave her a set of protective eyewear, and motioned for her to stand in front of a small plate glass window. Behind it was a stainless steel pipe. “I received these specimens from Dr. Andrew in Red Deer yesterday. The doctor and I once worked together in the Aberdeen Genetics Diagnostics Laboratory, and he was good enough to inform me of the abnormal biological life forms he discovered.”
Bernadette looked hard at Doctor Lim. He had either worked with Doctor Keith Andrew when Lim was very young, or Dr. Lim was much older than he looked. She stood transfixed over the glass looking into an opaque liquid. “What should I be looking at?”
The doctor looked somewhat dismayed. “Oh sorry, I haven’t released them yet.” He opened a heavy door on one end of the pipe, inserted a piece of iron, and then closed it using a heavy sealed latch mechanism. Bernadette thought a submarine door had less of a closure.
From a vault in the wall, Dr. Lim removed a tiny vial and dropped it into the opening of the pipe. Bernadette watched the vial open, and the iron start to glow. “I saw something similar in Red Deer. Dr. Andrew said the Bio Bugs were aggressive and ate the pipe . . . do you have anything new?” Bernadette looked up at the doctor.
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 8
