Red Rover, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  “Tell me everything you know,” she said curtly.

  He frowned.

  She patted the seat beside her on the leather sofa. “Don’t lie. I know you. You’ve spoken to your police friends and read the investigation reports. Tell me everything.”

  By the time he’d finished, her coffee and toast were gone.

  “I have to tell you something,” she said. “I didn’t tell you before because I wanted you to form your own impression. Regardless, because you’re so anal over honesty, you’re going to consider it a lie.”

  “You had a relationship with Roger Peterson and bought the house in Cabbagetown with him,” he stated.

  She looked stunned. “He told you?”

  “No. I figured it out a couple of days after I went to his house to help him with a deck he didn’t have any intention of building.”

  “How?”

  “Because the decor is the same as in here. Roger told me he bought the place six years ago but only decorated the den. You designed this loft three years ago, but you finished your master’s degree six years ago. You never said where you lived for the other three years, and since you loathe your mother, I figured it wasn’t with her and Harvey.”

  “Well, look at you, Sherlock Holmes. Still, that’s not much to go on,” she said. “You must have had other clues.”

  He laughed and it felt wonderful. He was enjoying the admiration on her face. Sam herself was a damn fine investigator.

  “Have I ever mentioned how impressive the stain is on the hemlock flooring?” Reece crossed his legs and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I took a picture and a contractor told me it’s tough to get this shade of grey without the red in the wood ruining it. He said it was a remarkable feat.” He chuckled at her expression. “Roger’s floor is the same custom colour.”

  Reece gestured to the L-shaped kitchen in the northeast corner of the open space. “Your glass and stainless backsplash is unique. Art, in fact. It’s your design. The one in his kitchen isn’t identical, but it’s close. Then there’s the Carrara marble. Marble isn’t practical in a heavily used kitchen. It doesn’t hold up well under rigorous chopping. You didn’t care. Remember last year when I moved in and you told me it was a ‘decoration to be appreciated but never used’?”

  Her smile widened and she flopped against the back of the sofa. “And Roger thinks he’s a gourmet chef. He’d never pick marble. Is that it?”

  “Also the way Roger kept one-upping me when I was over and the condescending way he tried to put the country bumpkin in his place. Based on his posturing alpha behaviour, I assume you left him.”

  He raised his eyebrow, knowing her well enough not to ask for details. After coming close to breaking up last year because she’d lied about her past, he’d learned to give her space. People had different comfort zones.

  “Oh yeah.” Her nose crinkled with dislike. “It was the day after I killed the Crips gang member who shot my partner. You know about that.”

  He did. The shooter had been fifteen and supported by gangbangers, but the public outcry that followed a Toronto police officer killing a boy wasn’t pretty.

  “The Internal Affairs investigation wrecked me,” she said. “I went home in tears and found Roger in bed with a patient. We had a terrible fight. I left, resigned from Police Services, and the rest is history.”

  “A patient?” he sputtered.

  She nodded. “Yup. From his point of view, it wasn’t a breach of ethics because he’d referred her to another psychiatrist.”

  “That’s ridiculous and self-serving,” Reece said. “He should have lost his licence to practise medicine.”

  “Well, I reported him to the College of Physicians, but it was his first complaint and they didn’t rule it as an ethics breach. They felt Roger suffered from burnout and mandated counselling. It took him a long time to forgive me for making an official complaint that could have destroyed his career. In hindsight, I reacted the way I did because I was angry. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments.”

  Reece didn’t care if personal reasons had motivated her complaint. A doctor who took advantage of a patient didn’t deserve to hold a medical licence. Period.

  “What happened to the woman?” he asked.

  “Her name was Heather. They dated for about four months. She was a chef and went to France.” She paused and looked away. “That was after she attempted suicide twice.”

  A question had been weighing on him since reading Abigail’s letter. “Roger treated Abigail for a while, correct?”

  Her eyes were grim. “Yes, and I wondered the same thing but it doesn’t make sense.” The music had stopped and she glanced at the audio system. “Can you pick another CD?”

  Instead, he found her iPod and put it on the docking station. Alter Bridge’s album Blackbird was first in the queue, and Myles Kennedy’s voice streamed through the wireless speakers.

  When he sat back on the sofa, Sam was chewing on the corner of her lip, tapping her fingertips against her knee. “Roger treated Abigail as a little sister. A broken little sister, after what happened when she was sixteen.”

  Reece knew Abigail had been a victim of a violent crime. He assumed it involved a man—sadistic crimes against women usually did—but he didn’t know the details. “What happened to her?”

  Sam lowered her eyes and her lips thinned. After a few moments, she looked up. “It was summer fourteen years ago. There was a street party,” she said. “Our families all lived on Vero Beach. It’s sort of a boot-shaped boulevard along the Humber River and a cliquey little community. Everyone attended the party—Jim’s and Lisa’s families, my folks, Talia, and her parents and brother. Jim, Roger, his older sister, and my sister were all home from university. You know that Jim and Roger are six years older than us, right?”

  Reece nodded. At first, it had excited him that Roger and Jim were the same age as he was. He figured they’d have a lot in common. That was before he had gotten to know Roger.

  Her voice was wistful when she continued. “The girls and I were sixteen, and we wanted to drink. Roger and Jim were twenty-two and could have gone to the liquor store, but Roger coaxed Abigail into sneaking home to steal a bottle of vodka from her parents’ bar. Around the same time, although none of us knew it yet, a group of men had been breaking into houses. Five men. They were in her house.” She gazed into the distance and fiddled with her empty coffee mug. “They raped her. All of them.”

  Reece had figured it was something along those lines, but the depravity of gang rape shocked him. “Did they catch them?”

  She nodded. “Dad swore he’d never stop hunting and he didn’t. He caught the last one a month before he died. Abby had just turned twenty-one.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Reece pulled her into his arms.

  “Talia never left her side. Abby stayed in hospital for three months. They beat her, raped her, and sodomized her.” Sam’s voice filled with hate. “Broken bones and internal injuries. Excruciating operations and cosmetic surgeries. Doctors said she’d never dance again. But she did. The pain must have been unbearable.” She lowered her eyes and picked at a thread on her jeans. “I always felt she wanted the physical pain as punishment because she’d planned to steal the booze. Her parents and their rabbi couldn’t get her to understand that what happened wasn’t her fault.”

  “Were Abigail and Talia a couple back then?” Reece asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean I knew they were gay, but they never said anything so I never talked to them about it. None of my business. After high school, Abigail stayed in Toronto to study dance and Talia attended Royal Military College in Kingston. When the military posted her to CFB Petawawa, an hour outside Ottawa, Abigail moved in with her. Truth is I don’t know much about Talia’s military career. She was a sniper at one time, but not now. I know she’s with the Canadian Special Operations Regiment. Abby told me Talia’s goal is to get to Syria. She has extremely strong feelings around stopping ISIS.”

  Reece kn
ew enough about the armed forces to know that CANSOFCOM were highly trained military personnel responsible for responding to terrorism and threats to Canadians. Talia would have to be one hell of a soldier to be part of the regiment. How was he supposed to help a woman like that deal with her lover’s suicide?

  “How’d they end up with the condo downtown?” he asked.

  “Abigail came home when Talia was deployed overseas about five years ago. Last year, The National Ballet accepted her, and Talia wanted her to be close to the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts.” She looked sad. “It bothered Abigail that they were separated so much.”

  Reece saw the many layers of Abigail’s life that could have driven her to such a desperate choice as suicide. What he couldn’t see was how to honour her wish and help Talia, a woman he’d never even met before the party.

  He put his elbows on his knees and rubbed the palms of his hands against his face. “I don’t know what to do about that.” He looked up and pointed at the letter on the kitchen table. “How can I possibly help Talia?”

  Sam squeezed his hand and stood. “By asking her what she needs. We’re going to show her the letter.”

  Reece wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Abigail would have written it to her girlfriend had she wanted Talia to read it. He stood but didn’t move.

  Sam wrapped her arm around his waist. “I know why you’re concerned, but trust me on this. I know Talia well.”

  Releasing him, she picked up the letter and tucked it into the pocket of her hoodie. At the front door, she bent to tug on her sneakers.

  Reluctantly, he followed. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I know where she’ll be in an hour. I texted and asked her to meet us for an early dinner.”

  When she straightened and faced him, her green eyes blazed with anger and her expression was determined. “Talia thinks you’re the father. This letter proves you aren’t. And we’re going to find the son of a bitch who was.”

  Chapter Five

  Sam

  WHEN THEY ENTERED the restaurant in Greektown on Danforth Avenue at Pape, the owner rushed over with a huge smile.

  Sam raised her hand before he could engulf her in a bear hug, which—she knew from experience—he’d follow with wet smacks on each cheek.

  “So good to see you,” the man gushed, and the sincerity was genuine. He grasped her hand in both paws and smooched each of her cheeks.

  From her fifth birthday until his death nine years ago, her father had taken her to eat at the restaurant once a month. All her favourite childhood memories included the red bar with the hidden lights and the wood-beam, stucco walls of the quaint Greek restaurant.

  “I’m starved,” she told Obasi and was surprised to find it was true. Her appetite had returned.

  “Excellent.” He snagged the arm of a passing server. “Tirokafteri on table 15, please.” He turned back to Sam with a broad smile. “Dolmadakia to start, followed by Exohiko, yes?”

  Just like Pavlov’s dog, her mouth watered at the image of grape leaves stuffed with ground beef and rice, smothered in hot, whipped lemon sauce. Exohiko—chicken, peppers, tomatoes, feta and graviera cheese, wrapped in filo pastry—had been her go-to dish as a child.

  Obasi clapped Reece on the shoulder and spoke in rapid Greek, chuckling at the end and winking at Sam.

  Reece, who didn’t speak Greek, stood nodding with a bemused smile.

  They crossed the restaurant to the same table Sam had sat at with her father on the third Saturday of every month for sixteen years. Beside her Reece muttered, “Every time Obasi speaks to me in Greek, I fear I’m agreeing to something awful.”

  Sam laughed. “That’s why he does it.”

  “Not because he thinks I’m Greek?” He threw a baleful glance over his shoulder.

  She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Not with your baby blue eyes.”

  Sam took the seat in the corner so she could watch the door. Heads turned as Talia entered the restaurant, glanced around, and marched to their table. Everything about the military officer was intimidating. She was a five-foot-eleven, muscular Black woman with a regal posture and short-cropped hair that highlighted her elegant cheekbones. Today she was wearing a crisp white T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and short-heeled black boots. No makeup or jewelry, but the metal chain of her dog tags was visible around her neck. As usual, her face showed no discernible emotion.

  Talia pulled out a chair. “Why am I here?” Her tone was frosty.

  Without ceremony, Sam put the letter on the table. Unfolded, so Talia could see the handwriting.

  Her eyes widened, but her neutral expression remained in place. While she read her lover’s final words, a tiny vein throbbed in her smooth forehead.

  “Excuse me.” Talia stood, pushed in her chair, and walked to the front of the restaurant where stairs led up to the bathrooms.

  After ten minutes, Reece asked, “Think you should check on her?”

  “No.”

  The server brought platters with tendrils of steam rising from the fragrant food. Starved, Sam dug in without ceremony and grabbed a stuffed grape leave. She closed her eyes in pleasure as she chewed.

  Another ten minutes passed before Talia returned. Her eyes were dry, but bloodshot.

  “We ordered,” Sam said. “Help yourself.”

  “No thank you.” Talia’s face showed nothing but placid interest when she locked eyes with Reece and asked, “Why do you think she picked you to write to?”

  He finished his mouthful of food, put down his fork, and shrugged. Sam was proud that he held Talia’s eyes. “Because I’m not historically connected to your group is my guess.”

  Keeping her attention fixed on Reece, Talia spoke in a robotic monotone that did little to hide the pain that radiated from her like the steam that had risen from the food. “You aren’t the father. Do you know who was?”

  He shook his head.

  “What did you and Abigail talk about when you went to the market and on those walks?”

  “Sometimes she’d talk about food and television series.” He took a sip of his beer, and Sam could tell he was struggling with his own grief. Under the table, she took his hand.

  “She liked Fortitude,” Reece said. “Thought the Arctic Circle scenery was amazing.” He cleared his throat and reached for his beer again.

  Talia continued to stare at him. “Will you honour her wish?”

  He answered without hesitation, but Sam detected a flicker of doubt in his eyes when they darted to her face. “Yes. What do you need?”

  Talia ignored him and turned to Sam. “Do you think Roger’s the father?” she asked directly. “He has a history of poor decisions when it comes to attractive patients. When I left for the Middle East, he was counselling Abigail twice a week.” There was no accusation in her tone, but the cold expression was probably the same as in the days when she’d peered through the scope of her sniper rifle.

  “I don’t think he would betray you and hurt Abigail that way,” Sam said.

  “Roger is an arrogant man,” Talia stated dispassionately. “Egotistical men do things for their own pleasure. Conquering a lesbian, as he would see it, would be quite an achievement for him.”

  “But Roger would have to face the consequences,” Sam said. “What you’re describing is someone who could walk away and never see Abigail again.”

  Talia held her eyes. “Remember what he did to his sister years ago. It isn’t unusual for Roger to act without considering the consequences.”

  Sam was aware of Roger’s low impulse control and bursts of anger. Still, that weakness had nothing to do with what happened to Abby. She just couldn’t see him seducing Abigail behind Talia’s back.

  “Could it be a man she met through ballet?” Sam asked. “Did she ever mention anyone?”

  Talia didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “Do you know Roger’s a person of interest in a police investigation?”

  Sam frowned. They hadn’t read the paper
s for a few days or watched the news. “Why?”

  “A man, Graham Harris, an ex-Argonauts player, died in what authorities first thought to be an accidental mishap.” Talia took out her phone, looked something up, and passed the device to Sam. “Now it’s a murder investigation.”

  Sam read the article and handed Reece the cell.

  Mr. Harris had died at home, trying to fix a faultily wired sump-pump in his flooded basement. Authorities believed his death had resulted from electrocution when he failed to kill the power to the receptacle, but the autopsy revealed suspicious circumstances. The article didn’t list the evidence. It only reported that York Regional Police were treating it as a homicide and that the wife was acquainted with Dr. Roger Peterson, the famous self-help author. Mrs. Harris was catatonic and hospitalized.

  “What’s Roger’s involvement?” Reece asked, handing Talia the phone.

  “Given the fact that Brenda Harris is catatonic, I suspect she suffers mental health issues. Roger is probably her psychiatrist.” Talia held Sam’s eyes. “Does Reece know about your past relationship with Roger and what happened with his patient a few years ago?”

  Sam nodded, annoyed that Talia asked in front of Reece.

  “We can agree that Dr. Peterson has a history of inappropriate behaviour with attractive female patients. Now, Abigail is dead and Brenda’s husband is dead,” Talia stated. “I want to know why the police are speaking with Roger.”

  Frankly, so did Sam. She was curious why Roger hadn’t called and sought her advice about being involved in a homicide. “The staff inspector of homicide is the brother of Reece’s friend.” She turned to him. “Can you talk to Bryce and see if he’ll show you any love?

  “Sam, I doubt he’ll speak to me about an active investigation, especially one outside his jurisdiction.” The look in Reece’s eyes was a silent plea to drop it.

  “Since he’s trying to recruit you for his squad, he might.” She didn’t like pushing him, but she liked the anger in her friend’s eyes less.

  Reece turned to Talia. “Can you tell me what you hope to accomplish?”