The smaller man froze in fear. Daniel sized up the situation in a second. Should he interfere or keep on walking?
TWENTY-THREE
LARCH SCANNED FOR ANYONE who looked out of place in the Uncommon Grounds café. Two baristas, one a young man with a nose ring and a shaved head, the other a redhead in her early twenties with a tattoo on her right arm, scurried between the cash register and the espresso machine. Two jittery customers waited in line, anticipating their shot of caffeine. A young couple occupied a table in the far corner, trying to catch the faint heat of the sun while they studied. He couldn’t quite make out the subjects of the textbooks on the table; probably chemistry, or maybe economics. The other dozen or so tables were empty.
He placed his carry-on bag on a chair in front of a table next to the exit, just in case. He joined the line at the cash then placed his order. He returned to his seat, nursed his drink, and never stopped watching the room. He checked his watch and waited.
One latte and a cookie later his phone vibrated.
“Yes?”
He nodded to no one in particular as he listened to a short monologue from Ash. He said, “Well done,” before clicking the phone off and slipping it back into his shirt pocket. Ash, a member of his client’s group, the Alberta Independence Movement, had flown in a biker gang member to disrupt the demonstration a few blocks down the street. Judging from the whine of a police car, its siren blaring as it streaked past the café, Ash’s agent provocateur had been successful.
A moment later, an older gentleman opened the door. He looked as if he had money to spare. He was tall, stately looking, slightly overweight, with a balding head trimmed with grey around the edges. He wore the requisite red scarf tied loosely around his neck. As he approached the cash, his eyes darted nervously around. Larch kept his eyes down, nevertheless tracking the man.
The gentleman grabbed a coffee and a copy of the Coast tabloid, stood still, and scanned the room. He noticed Larch’s carry-on bag and approached his table.
“Larch?”
Larch nodded. “Birch?”
Larch motioned for Birch to take the seat facing him. Birch sat down and placed his coffee on the table.
Larch checked his watch. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Let’s get something straight. I don’t work for you. You work for him.”
“We don’t have much time.”
“And he’s a good friend.”
“You were his supervisor, he said.”
“That’s right. He did an MBA. When I was at the University of Calgary. I’m only doing this because he asked me for a personal favour.”
“Now that we have the excuses out of the way, what can you tell me about Mr. Ritter?”
Birch handed him a small piece of paper with writing on it. “Here’s his address.”
“I know that already.”
“Have you talked with him? Did you convince him?”
“Not exactly. I didn’t have the opportunity. But I will certainly try again.”
“And you’ll contact me to confirm that he agrees to our terms?”
Larch nodded slowly. “As soon as he agrees.”
“He’s smart and stubborn, so you’ll have to spell out the benefits for him.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem. I’ve convinced many others before.”
“So Patrick said. But he’s smart. He’ll ask a lot of questions.”
There was a short silence before Larch said, “How smart?”
“He did some work in the industry before he joined the university.”
“What kind of work?”
“Consulting.”
“What does consulting work mean?”
“Writing reports.”
Larch had just met Birch and already he didn’t like him. Birch was condescending, dumbing down his answers, and leaving out useful and important details. “So that’s good preparation for being a professor?”
Birch seemed to sneer as he answered. “He’s not a professor. He’s an assistant professor. More junior.”
Larch let it slide. A professional gets the needed information. “What else does he do?”
“How should I know? Oil painting? Bird watching? Macramé? I have no idea.”
Birch wasn’t telling him anything useful. He would have to scope out the target himself before trying again. “So we’re done?”
“I don’t want to be involved. That was my deal.”
Larch stood up and walked out of the café, leaving the door to slowly squeak shut.
TWENTY-FOUR
DANIEL CLOSED HIS EYES FOR A SECOND, trying to will himself out of the tense situation, as would a little boy, but the threat reappeared as soon as he opened them. He scanned the crowd but saw no police officer. He stopped, still holding his backpack over his left shoulder, and adjusted his glasses. “Excuse me. Can I get through?”
The continent of a man did not release his grip on the stick. He held it low, like a samurai sword. “You a cop?”
“No, just trying to get through.”
Small Man checked the top of his head for blood. Mr. Amoeba pivoted to face Daniel. “Then fuck off, old man!”
Another woman popped out from the crowd. “Brian, are you okay?”
Brian was definitely not okay, judging from the blood trickling down from a gash on his head.
“Not your fucking problem,” said the man.
“Are you all right?” Daniel spoke to Brian but kept his eyes fixed on the aggressor.
Brian mumbled something, incoherent with shock.
“If there’s a problem, I can call the police. They can help.” Daniel took out his cellphone. Before he could dial, the aggressor swatted it onto the road.
“Don’t need no fuckin’ police.”
Daniel sensed a crowd gathering, but he kept his focus on the mountain with two feet, two massive hands, and a bad attitude. He seemed to fit a familiar pattern.
“See, I can solve this right now.” The man switched his hold of the stick so that it resembled a baseball bat in his right hand and, without warning, swung and cracked Brian’s face.
Brian reeled and crumpled onto the ground. The man turned and swung again but missed, as Daniel anticipated the strike and swerved his head slightly to the right. The giant raised the stick high again and slashed downward. Daniel jerked back and dropped his backpack. He felt the breeze as the stick arced past his left ear. The man was fast and knew how to fight.
“Stand still,” the man barked.
Daniel took another short step back. Now, the backpack lay between Daniel and the assailant. The man took a step forward. He hadn’t noticed the bag. For a second, he was off balance. That’s when Daniel struck.
Daniel could not punch hard enough to hurt such a huge person. But he could stop him in ways that didn’t require so much force. He aimed for the giant’s Adam’s apple and jabbed it once with his fingers. Hard. He could hear cartilage creak. The man’s eyes bulged, while he grabbed his neck instinctively with his free hand.
But the man soon shook it off. The guy is tough, Daniel thought.
Daniel swerved to the man’s right, grabbed the wrist still holding the stick, and jammed his leg so it was behind the man’s knee. He pulled down on the wrist and twisted backward. The man grimaced and grunted as Daniel used his own weight against him. They slammed onto the sidewalk and snow, and the stick tumbled uselessly to the ground.
But he recovered quickly. He shoved Daniel aside as if he were a small child and sprung up without even using his hands to prop himself up. Like in martial arts movies. He was surprisingly strong.
Daniel used the momentum from the push to roll out of range. He stood up, fists in front, ready for the next assault. The man rushed again, swinging his enormous right hand with a roundhouse punch that Daniel could see coming. He stepped back, then in and to the left. His fist hammered the spot behind the man’s rib cage where the kidney should be. That should have caused indescribable pain and immo
bilized the man. It didn’t. He just grimaced and launched a short back-fist flick from his right hand that slammed into Daniel’s right temple. Daniel dropped to the pavement and couldn’t see for a moment. His vision returned only to see the man kicking the backpack out of the way and advancing to finish the job. The bag sailed in the air and crashed onto one of the steps in front of the pile of broken glass.
Daniel stood up, a bit wobbly, and took another step back and to the right. A crowd started to close in. He was losing manoeuvring room fast. The man advanced, enraged. Daniel, weakened, was now in mortal danger.
It was then that a small, red can clanged the man’s head from behind. The tin dropped to the sidewalk and rolled onto the curb beside Daniel’s foot. He saw the familiar red Campbell’s soup logo.
A momentary silence rippled through the crowd.
The man felt the back of his head and turned to see who had thrown the soup. Daniel could see a woman holding a can of soup in each hand, a canvas grocery bag at her feet. She was a bit shorter than he was, blond hair, wrapped in a dark-coloured parka with the hood down over her shoulders. Even at this distance, her eyes bored holes into the man.
“Hey, doofus,” she called.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Daniel stood as the man turned his body to face the can thrower. Daniel went for his knee. The knee is a strong joint when it’s moving within its range of motion, but it’s weak when pressed from the side. The move didn’t require much force, and in his disoriented state, it was all Daniel could do. He gave a short, sharp kick. A loud, sickening crunch confirmed that the joint had broken. The man collapsed onto his back, banging his head on the pavement. Unconscious in a flash. Daniel jumped and grabbed the man’s midsection and the stick-wielding arm. The woman advanced and grabbed the other arm. They both stared at each other, panting from the exertion, their breath steaming and mixing in the air.
“Would somebody please call the police?” said Daniel.
The man was out cold, but neither Daniel nor the woman took any chances.
“You’re not going to thank me?” she said as she glared at him. Daniel heard smooth French-Canadian curves in her accent.
“For what?”
“Saving your ass, maybe.”
“I could handle him.”
“From under his boot?”
“I got him now.”
“Right. Two morons. Fighting. Over what exactly?”
Daniel glared at her.
They both held firm until the flicker of blue and red appeared from behind, and two police officers emerged from the crowd. He saw a flash. Someone had taken a picture. Others held their phones aloft, recording the scene so they could post it to their Facebook or some other social media page. Daniel imagined the caption: “Heroes Take Down Threatening Hooligan.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m Daniel.”
There was definitely a hint of a smile behind the tousled hair and the troubled, hurricane eyes that transfixed him. “Claire.”
Paramedics arrived soon after. The man regained consciousness, along with his pain and fury. But now his hands were constrained by handcuffs. The police took statements. The crowd corroborated Daniel’s story. Claire handed back his backpack.
TWENTY-FIVE
DANIEL’S LEFT FIST THROBBED, his head hurt, gashes covered both arms, and his left leg was numb. The paramedics patched him up. After a prolonged protest at their order to send him to the hospital for further tests, they allowed him to go. Claire didn’t have a scratch.
The police detective had interviewed the other witnesses, and now it was Daniel’s turn.
“I was on my way to see Detective MacKinnon,” said Daniel.
“MacKinnon, right.” The detective scribbled notes and mumbled something with a skeptical tone. “What is the nature of your business?”
“It’s part of a murder case.”
That caught his attention. “Just a minute.” He turned away and clicked his radio. Daniel couldn’t hear the brief conversation, only saw him nod occasionally. He turned back. “Detective MacKinnon will be here shortly.”
Daniel nodded.
The officer faced Claire. “And you are?”
She handed him her military ID. “Claire Marcoux.”
Daniel noticed that the detective’s look changed from uninterested to surprised, verging on respectful.
“Well, Lieutenant Commander. What’s your story?” said the detective.
Daniel was curious, too.
“I was walking home from the Superstore, after my run around the Citadel,” she said, hoisting two grocery bags, “and I was surprised to see the crowd. I tried walking around, but it got bigger. So I just walked through it.”
“And then you saw Mr. Ritter here?” The officer tilted his head toward Daniel.
Claire looked away for a moment and grinned. “Yes. He seemed to need a bit of help. So I gave him some.”
“How, precisely, did you help him?”
She pulled out a can from one of her bags, turning it until she could read the label. “I threw a can of Campbell’s soup. Tomato. It was on sale. I threw it at the crazy man to distract him.”
“And what is your relationship with the suspect?”
“None. I’ve never met him before.”
“And with Mr. Ritter?”
She paused. “Never met him before either.” She looked at him curiously.
Daniel felt a frisson of energy as he returned her gaze.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander.” The officer fished out a business card and handed it to her. “We may have further questions for you. I’ve noted your contact details. If you have any questions, please contact me.”
“Certainly.”
“And please wait here, Mr. Ritter, until the detective arrives. He should be here soon.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you both for your co-operation.” And then he moved on to others waiting in the crowd.
They were suddenly alone. The rally had long ended, and the participants, so eager earlier, had lost focus or interest and had left. Only a few stragglers milled about, some on their way to the bars along Spring Garden or to the boutique stores. A few were finishing interviews with other police detectives. But no one tried talking to Daniel and Claire.
Daniel was the first to speak. “Thank you.”
“Was that too hard? You needed my help.”
“I thought I had things under control.”
“You were going to lose.”
She’s right. There was something special in her eyes. Something that beckoned him in. Something he hadn’t felt since he met Vanessa in the business lounge years ago. His “red alert” warning sign flashed in his mind. Will she be part of my life’s reboot?
He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “In case you need my help one day.”
Claire tilted her head and scrunched her face a little. “Not likely.” She pulled out a pen from her coat, wrote her phone number on the card, and handed it back. “In case you need mine.”
Daniel gave her a fresh card and tucked the one with her number on it into his pocket. She nodded and smiled. Since neither of them seemed to know what to say next, she picked up her bags and turned to go.
“Stop. Stay where you are.”
Daniel and Claire spun around to see who had issued the command. Two serious-looking men were walking quickly toward them. Daniel recognized the one on the left as MacKinnon.
“Detective MacKinnon. Your message had me startled.”
“Daniel, this is Constable Perry.”
MacKinnon appeared perplexed at seeing Claire there with Daniel. “And you are?”
“Claire Marcoux.” She shook hands with both detectives. “We just met. I helped Mr. Ritter here. Another detective took my statement.”
Daniel wanted to spend more time with Claire, and these detectives were interfering with his plan.
“We’ll contact you again if we have any further questions, Ms.
Marcoux.” MacKinnon motioned for her to leave.
Claire smiled at Daniel as she walked past. “See you around maybe.”
Daniel watched her leave. When she was out of earshot, he turned to MacKinnon. “So my life’s in danger?”
MacKinnon started again. He seemed to be the more senior of the two. “Professor, you mentioned a hotel manager who accompanied you to Mr. Forrestal’s room.”
“Yes, but I don’t recall his name. French, but not Québécois. Maybe Loïc or Thierry.”
Perry was blunt. “We know his name. Can you tell us what you remember about him?”
“Not much. He was a bit of a prick. He wouldn’t open the door. It took me a long time to convince him.”
MacKinnon said, “Did you contact him after the interview with the police?”
“No way. I didn’t like him. He didn’t like me.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Perry looked at MacKinnon for a second and then directly at Daniel. “We’d love to.”
MacKinnon added, “But he was found dead two hours ago.”
TWENTY-SIX
GARTH DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO about his boss. Brewster was doing his thing on stage, making big promises in exchange for votes. Judging from the noise inside, the crowd clearly supported him. Another good speech that helped to build momentum, according to the plan. A plan that depended on Garth coming through.
His blue-striped iPhone chirped. The number had a 613 area code. Ottawa. Code name: Aspen. Another key part of Garth’s plan.
The voice was hoarse. “It’s me.”
“And?”
“I know why the big shipment didn’t arrive.”
Garth waited.
“It was intercepted by a navy patrol.”
“I thought you said the ship would be protected?”
“It was a total fluke.”
There had been too many flukes, Garth thought. “How do you know?”
“I’ve just seen the damned report.”
True Patriots Page 9
