by J C Paulson
“So who’s the killer?”
“I have no idea. I have a pretty good description, but he’s in some kind of disguise. And his name is Charles Best — George Best’s dead son’s name. An alias.”
“Terrific,” the chief said, sarcasm dripping from the word. “That makes it easier. What’s next, then?”
“I have James setting up Tom Allbright with a sketch artist, hopefully by tomorrow morning. We’ll take that sketch and hit the streets with it; Tom told us the guy found him when he was roaming the west side, stoned on meth. Maybe someone will recognize him, I don’t know. Meanwhile, we find George Best.”
“Okay. Glad you have a plan. Good work, Adam. And I’ll take care of Pearson. Looks like you were right about getting Simpson and Allbright out of Meadow Lake and into our cells, by the way. It would have worked if it wasn’t for Pearson. Fuckhead. And for the record, I did keep him informed, when I could find him.”
“Thanks, Chief, for that. I’ll keep you posted.”
Charlotte and James were waiting for Adam in the incident room when he returned to the squad’s third-floor home.
“I’ve found George Best, sort of,” Charlotte began.
“Sort of?”
“He lives and owns a couple of businesses in the Saskatoon area. Both are numbered companies, but I got the provincial registry to search for his name.”
“Saskatoon area?”
“He’s on an acreage south of town, and I gather it’s adjacent to the businesses.”
“Like Al Simpson’s mother’s place. And what are the businesses?”
“He runs a turf-growing company and a paintball place down on Valley Road,” Charlotte said, flipping the pages of her notebook. “Um. Green Summer Turf and Paintball Palace.”
“The turf place won’t be open right now; it’s too late in the season. What about, uh, Paintball Palace?” Adam asked, grinning over the ridiculous name despite the seriousness of the circumstances.
“It’s open. I called, but they said the owner was away. They wouldn’t confirm his name, either.”
“Have you tried calling Best directly?”
“I did. No answer.”
“Hell. James, do we have the sketch artist lined up?”
“Yes. Tom has agreed to describe the guy; he’s definitely scared. He couldn’t miss the shit hitting the fan in cells this morning. I think we’re going to have full co-operation from now on.”
“Okay. The sketch is job one. When we find Best, I want to shove it under his nose, and possibly up his ass. With Howard Rampling’s information, we know for certain he’s involved. I’ll tell you about that later.
“As soon as the sketch is done, we’ll need to organize another canvass for tomorrow morning. Let’s call it a day.”
So much for that, Adam thought, as his cellphone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, to see that the call was coming from Royal University Hospital. Had to be Ashern.
“Hey, Brian,” Adam greeted the doctor, hesitancy in his voice.
“Adam,” Ashern responded. “It was strychnine, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Adam. Al Simpson didn’t make it.”
Adam had worried about Al all day, but he found it hard to believe that his colleague, witness and prisoner would actually die. Shocked and sorry, Adam also felt frustration and anger rise. He would get no more information from him. Worse, Al was poisoned in the police station.
“Damn,” he said quietly. “Were you able to test for the dose, Brian?”
“It was a big one, Adam. Could have killed a colony of rats. And definitely — obviously — lethal to one man. They weren’t kidding around, buddy. They meant for him to die.”
*****
Adam finally made it home two hours later after revisiting the chief, knowing the investigation into Al’s poisoning would have to ramp up immediately now that the man was dead. He had seldom seen McIvor so angry.
An enticing aroma greeted him — casserole? he wondered, sniffing the redolent air — but no Grace. His heart thumped. Too many things had happened for Adam to assume all was well . . . but there was the food in the oven. Calm down, he told himself.
“Hey, love, I’m home,” he called.
“I’m in the bedroom, Adam.”
Relieved to hear her voice, he walked down the hall and found Grace at her computer, scanning online news stories from Somalia. He peered over her shoulder as he kissed her neck.
“No news, yet?”
“Nothing further, no. It’s only been a few hours since I called the European agencies, though.”
Grace snapped down the screen of her laptop and stood up to kiss Adam on the mouth, then gazed at him.
“What’s up?” she said, taking his tense face between her hands. “Hard day?”
“Al Simpson died in hospital today.”
“Oh, God, Adam. I’m so sorry,” Grace said, tugging him in and holding him close. After a few moments, Adam could feel his whipcord muscles begin to release.
“Thank God for you, Babe,” he said. “No matter what happens at work, everything seems all right when you touch me.”
Grace seemed to be rendered speechless, as she tightened her grip on Adam’s waist and shoulders. He felt something wet on his neck.
“Are you all right, Grace? Are you crying?” He tried to look into her face, but it was buried next to his cheek.
“Yes,” she said, gulping back a small sob. “Thank you for saying that. Are you hungry?”
“I wasn’t until I smelled whatever you’re cooking. I wish I’d been home to help. I’m sorry about these late hours, Grace. I don’t know when that will change, though. Can you put up with it?”
“Don’t worry about that, Adam. We’ll cope. One day we might even get a holiday.” She gave him a small, crooked smile that told him more than her words.
“As soon as this case is solved. You’re right; we need a break. Okay?”
She nodded, sniffed. “Yes. Let’s eat, before the meat turns to leather.”
Adam helped Grace serve the chicken casserole, salad and wine, and finally broached the subject of Howard Rampling.
“I saw your uncle this afternoon. Are you sure you’re related to that guy?”
Grace laughed. “I know. He’s a bit of a pain, isn’t he? How did it go?”
“Well, I think he’s an opportunist who doesn’t much care if other people are hurt or displaced, as long as he gets what he wants. But I don’t think he’s directly involved in this mess. On the bright side, he confirmed that George Best is in this up to his neck. That part was helpful, especially on the premeditation side. George told him to reapply to the province for permission to build on the island. He didn’t say why, but it happened very shortly before the fire.”
“I didn’t know Howard knew George.”
“Apparently they know each other from the Legion. Your uncle was in the army, too.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten. He served for a few years before I was born, in the Gaza Strip as a peacekeeper, I think. Was he being a jerk?”
“At first, yeah, he was. Once I’d explained how serious this was, and how two people were dead — now three — he was a little more forthcoming.”
“Have you found George yet?”
“Not yet. We know where he lives, and that he owns two businesses on Valley Road. One of them is a paintball place. Makes a certain amount of sense, if he misses military action. But we couldn’t reach him by phone, and his employees say he’s away.”
“What will you do now?”
“Tomorrow, Tom Allbright will help us create a sketch of Charles Best, whoever the hell he is. And we keep looking for George.”
“I’ll pester the European news editors in the morning. Maybe they’ll have learned something by then.”
*****
Adam paced like a panther eyeing cornered prey as Tom Allbright directed the court artist’s pencil in his cell. How long was this going to take? Adam asked himself. He wanted to be back on the street, likeness i
n hand, right now.
Charlotte appeared bearing coffee, and instead of talking Adam down as she usually did, she joined him on his back-and-forth journey.
“How long is this going to take?” she asked.
“I was just asking myself that question. The artist said half an hour, forty-five minutes. He wants to make sure he’s got it right, and that Tom got it right, too.” Adam checked his watch. “It’s already been forty. Gah.”
When the artist, name of Ward Collins, finally appeared fifteen minutes later, he presented Adam with not one, but two sketches.
“What’s this?” Adam asked, as he took the sheets of paper. “Two?”
“Turns out your prisoner . . . ah, witness? . . . saw your fake chaplain for a couple of seconds through the window as he left. So, we’ve done two sketches, one of the baseball cap-wearing guy, and one of the dude in priestly garments. Not bad for an hour, eh?”
“Thank you. That’s fantastic. I sure appreciate your time and effort, Mr. Collins.”
“Don’t mention it, Sarge. Anything I can do.”
Adam shook his hand, turned, and with Charlotte right behind him, took the stairs two at a time to the incident room where James was already waiting. Adam put the two sketches side by side on the table, under the bright lights.
“It sure as hell is the same guy,” said Charlotte, looking intently at the two little works of art.
“It sure as hell is,” James agreed.
Looking back at them were two versions of the same man: dark, tall, lean but not thin. The man in the cap had a partial tattoo snaking out from under one sleeve; if it existed on the chaplain, fully clothed to the cuffs and collar, it could not be seen.
“But there is a difference,” Adam said, peering closely. “Look at the guy in the baseball cap. His shoulders look like they’ve been installed with rebar. The so-called chaplain’s don’t; he’s not stooped, but he’s also not on military parade. He knows how to change his body language. If it’s the same guy. And the nose . . . something different there . . . and he’s wearing glasses.”
“Right,” Charlotte said. “Brothers, maybe?”
“Twins, more like,” James suggested. “Apart from the posture. Of course, we can’t see the top of the first guy’s head. We don’t know if the hair’s the same.”
Adam stared at the sketches, trying to get his brain to release a small thought lurking in a groggy cell. He knew he had not seen the man in the cap before. Why was an alarm ringing in his head?
“Okay, let’s get these copied and hit the street. Char, if you would, keep looking for George Best. James and I will take the same canvass we did last time, and I’ll see if I can get Fisher and Jones to help.”
James took the sketches out for copying, as Charlotte nodded and returned to her desk. Ten minutes later, James and Adam were back on the street.
They started, as they had the last time, at Harbour House; but no one answered to the bell nor a vigorous pounding on the front door. Adam tried to peer inside, but the shades were snugly drawn.
“We’ll come back later,” he said. “They may be out on a rescue.”
“What’s next?” James asked. “It might be a bit too early for the bar. Even the Barry.”
“I guess it is a little early. Let’s try the Sally Ann first, see who’s around.”
The Salvation Army men’s residence was only two blocks away. Five minutes later, Adam was greeting the captain at the front desk.
“Hello, Andrew. How’s it going?
“Not bad, Adam. Hi, James. Haven’t seen you two in a while. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for this man,” Adam said, pushing the sketch of the cap-wearing man across the high counter. “He was in contact with another man, a meth addict, named Tom Allbright, who was a regular on the street. I think you recognized him during our last canvass, when Joan and Lorne came by?” Adam asked, producing the photo of Tom.
“Yes, I’ve seen Tom around. He stayed here a couple of times. This guy, though . . . I don’t think I know him, no.”
“Okay. How about this man?” Adam brought out the second sketch of the chaplain.
The burly captain peered down again, adjusting his glasses. He looked up with his eyebrows meeting over his nose.
“Same guy? Brothers? What’s going on?”
“It might be the same guy. We’re not sure. That’s why we’re showing you two sketches.”
“Master of disguise?” Andrew looked again, back and forth between the two photocopies, and shook his head. “I don’t know. He does look familiar. The priest could be one of several who come here to counsel — or convert — our guests. They all look the same in their collars, given similar hair colour and stature.”
Adam’s eyes widened. It had never occurred to him that the impostor who poisoned Al Simpson might actually be a priest. It was unlikely, but he would have to check.
They all look the same. Why did that chime in his brain?
“Could I have the names and parishes of those priests?” Adam asked.
“Of course.”
Andrew scrabbled in a drawer for paper and pen, then brought out a slim black book. He wrote for a moment, checking back and forth.
“Phone numbers, too?”
“If you have them.”
Andrew finished scribbling and handed the paper to Adam. Reading it, Adam blinked in surprise. There actually was a David Smith on the list. He’d have to apologize to Duncan.
“You should ask Father Cey,” Andrew added. “He might know who you’re looking for.”
“We were just at Harbour House. It’s locked up. Do you know if he’s away, or out on a rescue?”
“No, I don’t. We didn’t call for a rescue, anyway. I’d heard the house was closed yesterday, but I didn’t think it would still be today . . . Adam? What?”
Adam had suddenly leaned forward, bracing his hands heavily on the counter before him, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.
Chapter Thirty
It had only been twenty-seven hours since Grace had contacted the European news agencies. Did she dare call again so soon, to see if there had been any progress in identifying the child’s bones in Somalia?
She chewed her lip, reached for the phone, drew her hand back. Five minutes later, she did it again.
“Oh, hell,” she muttered.
“What’s the matter, Grace?” asked Lacey McPhail, overhearing.
“I’m trying to keep myself from calling Reuters again. It’s only been about a day, but I can’t stand it. I want to know if they’ve learned anything, or at least if they’re on the story. Should I call again? Would they just be cranky at me?”
“I’d give it a few more hours. As you say, it’s only been a day or so. Want to grab a coffee? I could use a break.”
“I’m afraid to leave my desk, in case they phone.”
“Didn’t give them your cell number?”
“No. Too pricey. They’re using the trunk line.”
“I could bring you a cup.”
“That would be great. And a muffin? Here . . . take this,” Grace said, holding out a five.
“Nope. On me.” Lacey grabbed her wallet and headed for the stairs. “Milk no sugar, right?”
“You rock, McPhail.”
It was getting late in Europe. Grace checked the time again, as she had been obsessively doing all morning. It would be six p.m. in London, seven in Paris. How late would the editors she had spoken to be in their offices?
Trapped by the damned phone again, Grace thought. It wasn’t her favourite part of being a reporter.
And then, just as she spied Lacey through the glass door juggling two cups of coffee and two muffins, it rang. Grace looked at the area code and snatched up the receiver.
“Grace Rampling, StarPhoenix,” she answered, a touch breathlessly.
“It’s Colin Day from Reuters. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you,” Grace said, squirming with impatience. “And you?”
“Good, thanks. I have some information for you. We’re not quite there, but I do have something.
“They were unable to identify the youth by dental records. I gather a lot of the records were lost during the war — fires, and so forth — if the poor kid ever even had dental work done. So, we don’t have a definite ID yet.
“But the bones belonged to a Dualeh from that village. They’ve tested a surviving family member. Neither of his parents are alive, which would have made this a slam dunk. Still, this kid was a Dualeh in his teens when he died, even if we can’t say for sure it was Abukar.”
Grace exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath the entire time Colin Day was speaking.
“Is there any chance they’ll be able to identify him? What would that take?”
“I suppose the family could testify that he went missing that night, if he was the only family member that was lost. It wouldn’t be perfect, but that, with the DNA, should do it.”
Grace knew in her soul that this was Abukar Dualeh. She could move forward, and so could Adam, based on Day’s information.
“Could they determine how he died?” she asked.
“That’s pretty certain. The kid’s skull had a round hole in it. At the back. Definitely shot to death.”
Oh, God, thought Grace, a wave of nausea churning her stomach. So terrible. Just like Elias.
“No bullet, though,” she said.
“No.”
“Any response from the army?
“We have a call in to the Minister of Defence, but no, no response so far. I’m not all that surprised, though. As you know, it usually takes a while for the government to get back to you.”
“Thank you, Colin. I’m so grateful.”
“No, thank you, Grace. Hell of a story. Appreciate the tip.”
“When will you run something?”
“The reporter’s just finishing up the first file. We should have a full story tomorrow. I’ll send you the link when it lands online.”
“I’d appreciate that. Would you also let me know when you’ve interviewed the family?”
“Of course. Take care, Grace. Thanks again.”
Grace replaced the receiver, nausea forgotten, jumped from her chair and threw her arms over her head in a victory gesture.
