None So Deadly

by David A. Poulsen

  I checked the address that the school secretary, Lois Meeker, had given me and circled the block a couple of times, stopping directly across from a medium-sized 1960s bungalow with a single attached garage. Blue siding, living room to the right, bedrooms to the left. The place looked decent, yet there was no sign of life, as if it were uninhabited. Blinds were pulled down over all the windows except in the living room, where floor-length drapes were drawn. The sidewalk hadn’t been shovelled, though there were some footprints and tire tracks in the driveway. Not uninhabited after all. I checked my watch. It was just after 8:00 p.m.

  I slowly climbed out of the Accord and looked up and down the street. No one was in the neighbouring yards or strolling along nearby. I hurriedly manufactured a story in my head about looking for an old pal who had once lived here and crunched my way through the snow to the front door, mounted three steps to a small landing, and rang the bell.

  I waited a minute or so, then rang it again. No answer, no sound or light inside the house. I flipped up the lid on the mailbox. Empty. I turned away from the door, stepped back to the path that ran both to the front walk and the garage. I walked to the garage, noting that the snow had been stomped down to a thin layer, an indication that whoever lived in the house went to the garage for the car more often than they walked out to the main sidewalk. And apparently didn’t believe in the snow shovel.

  If those were my takeaways, I hadn’t learned much. At the garage I took in that there were no windows, and, just for the hell of it, tried the garage door. Locked shut from the inside. I decided against bothering neighbours at that hour. I’d come back the next day, after whatever “surprise” Cobb had in store for me.

  For now it felt like a great night to retire early with a glass of wine and a good book. As I climbed back into the car, I pulled my cellphone out and called Jill. “Hey,” I said, “how’s the patient?”

  “A little better, I think. She’s sleeping. I’ll see how she fares through the night and into tomorrow morning, then I’ll decide if we need to get in and see the doctor.”

  “Okay, let me know if I can do anything.”

  “I will. And I’ll call you in the morning in any event. I think I’m about to call it a day.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, Jill.”

  EIGHTEEN

  When I opened the door to the office, I saw right away that Cobb wasn’t alone. Someone was sitting in the chair opposite his desk, his back to me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll come back a little later.”

  Cobb gestured. “No, no, come on in, Adam. You know our visitor, I think.”

  As I crossed the office, I glanced at the person in the guest chair and stopped dead.

  Ike Groves. The Grover.

  His look told me he wasn’t any happier to see me than I was to see him.

  I decided to play it cool, so instead of taking a seat, I headed for the Keurig machine like this was the most normal morning ever and spending time with someone who had recently tried to blow us up was the sort of thing that happened every day around here.

  “Coffee, guys?” I offered.

  “Love one,” Cobb replied. “Grover?”

  “Uh, yeah, I could use a coffee. Thanks.”

  I made up three mugs. “Milk or sugar, Grover?”

  “A little milk would be good.”

  I passed the mugs around. “You picking up a suit downstairs, Grover?”

  “No,” he held his hands out to display his ensemble — a burnt-orange blazer over a pink shirt and a tie that was wide, colourful, and hideous. “Do I look like a dude who needs a suit from down there?”

  “No, you’re da bomb, Grover.”

  I heard Cobb sputtering at that as I took a seat. I’m not sure Grover got it.

  Cobb leaned back, coffee in hand. “It seems that The Grover has a problem.”

  I had a dozen snappy comebacks at the ready but thought it best to keep them to myself. “Something we can help with?” I said.

  Cobb shrugged. “Maybe.” He turned his gaze to Grover. “You want to tell him about it or would you like me to?”

  “You go ahead, man. I trust you to tell it right.”

  Cobb sipped his coffee, then began. “It seems that our friend Grover has had a falling out with the MFs. Grover has explained that he has worked with Mr. Scubberd and company a few times over the years, including a recent situation. Apparently, in the execution of a course of action related to that situation, Scubberd concluded that Grover may have provided faulty information that resulted in a serious problem for the MFs. Grover is convinced that his life is in danger and would like our help in keeping the MFs from finding him.”

  “Did Grover happen to mention what the particular situation was that has led to his being in danger?”

  “He prefers not to give details that he feels are irrelevant.”

  Grover had been nodding as Cobb laid out the problem he was facing. I realized then that Grover was not aware that we knew he had tipped off the MFs to the van in front of Brock Scubberd’s home — the one that was blown to bits the night of the con involving Pink and the younger Scubberd … the one Grover thought we were in at the time of the explosion.

  “Irrelevant,” I repeated. It was a struggle to keep myself from grabbing Grover by his long, skinny neck, but I had a hunch that Cobb had another idea.

  He continued. “Grover and I have been discussing an exchange of services. I believe I can provide a place where he can live out the rest of his life in relative safety. And he, in return, is willing to do something for us.”

  More nodding from The Grover, this time even a bit of a grin. Mr. Co-Operative.

  “Are we going to get to any specifics of what it is we are all doing for one another?”

  Cobb shook his head. “You and I will get into that after Grover leaves us. I’m sure you can understand that he’s a little anxious about being discovered by members of the MFs and would like to be on his way as soon as possible. To wit …” Cobb waved an arm, “our friend’s chariot and charioteers are here.” I turned to see Jean-Luc, a.k.a. Frenchie, and McNasty — I still didn’t know his real name — entering the office.

  Cobb stood up. “Everything clear outside?”

  Frenchie nodded. “The car’s in back. Nobody followed us and nobody’s watching the building.”

  Grover stood up and slowly turned to them. “You get my stuff?”

  “We got it,” Jean-Luc said. “One suitcase. One computer case, computer inside. Paperwork right here.” He patted his pocket.

  Cobb looked at his watch. “Okay. You’ve got time. No need to speed or do anything that will draw attention from the cops or anyone else.”

  Grover turned back to Cobb and offered a hand. “Thanks,” was all he said.

  Cobb shook his hand. “Remember, Grover, if you screw this up even a little bit, I let Scubberd and company know where you are and you’re a dead man. And that’s a promise.”

  Grover nodded. “Got it.”

  McNasty, who hadn’t spoken a word, turned and led the way out of the office, Grover behind him and Jean-Luc the last one out. He closed the door without looking back at us.

  Cobb sat back down.

  “Why is it I get the feeling we’re back in the Old West again, riding on the wrong side of the law?”

  Cobb didn’t answer. Instead he passed me a single eight and a half by eleven sheet of paper, typed text covering most of the page. I read it slowly, then read it again.

  The following is my complete and truthful statement as to what happened on the night of February 2, 2017. That evening at just after 10:00 p.m., I was admitted to the residence of Mr. Wendell Claiborne on Willow Park Green Southeast in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. I was there to confirm details of a plan Mr. Claiborne had to contract his daughter’s boyfriend, named Danny Luft, to shoot his wife, then make it look like there had been a break-in and that Mrs. Claiborne had b
een shot by the intruder. Mr. Claiborne and I had known each other a long time. He enjoyed the services of some of the ladies in my employ on a number of occasions. My job in this instance was to be the break-in artist. Two nights later, on Saturday night, I was to break his office window, enter the office, leave a fairly obvious trail in and out and then leave. Mr. Claiborne didn’t give me the details of how Danny Luft would carry out the shooting of Mrs. Claiborne. But while we were discussing the final plan for Saturday and what I was to be paid, he refused to pay the 50 percent up front that had already been agreed upon. We argued about that, and I told him if he didn’t pay what he owed me, I’d go to the cops and tell them what he had in mind for Mrs. Claiborne. The argument got louder and nastier. Claiborne lunged for a revolver that was sitting on his desk at the time and had been there from the start of our conversation. I got to it first and when it looked like Mr. Claiborne was reaching for the drawer in his desk, where I was concerned there might be another gun, I shot him once in the chest. Clearly this was self-defence, as there was no doubt in my mind that Claiborne was reaching for a second weapon. I was going to take his wallet and search the office for other money or goods to make it look like a robbery, but I didn’t get that chance, as I heard a scream upstairs and figured someone in the house had heard the shot and would be coming downstairs and into the office. I exited through the front door and left the area. Unfortunately, a couple of nights ago I let slip that I had shot Claiborne to a couple of guys who know Mike Cobb, who is an ex-cop and someone I have provided information to on a number of occasions. Cobb had a couple of his associates bring me to his office, where I admitted that I had shot Mr. Claiborne. Cobb told me he would have to turn me over to the police homicide unit but I insisted that I give him my full and truthful confession because I do not trust the cops. I am making this confession freely and of my own will. And now that I have done so, Cobb is having the same two associates who brought me here take me to the police station, where I will be handed over to homicide detectives.

  Signed on this 22nd day of February, 2017.

  Grover’s signature was at the bottom of the page and I had no doubt in my mind that it was, in fact, Ike Groves’s signature. It was probably the only thing on that piece of paper that was legitimate. I leaned forward and set it on Cobb’s desk.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “About what?”

  “About giving that to the cops. That is so junior high it’s embarrassing. And you’ll probably end up in jail. And you thought my deal with the MFs showed poor judgment. They’ll peel Grover like a stale grape and that whole bogus thing is going to blow up bigger than that van in front of Brock Scubberd’s house.”

  Cobb was smiling. “Of course it’s bullshit and of course the cops are going to suspect it’s bullshit. But a few things you need to consider. The first one is I don’t have a better idea, do you?”

  “I can hardly think of a worse one.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. We don’t have a lot of options. Mrs. Claiborne has forbidden us to do anything that might point the finger at her daughter, and we gave our word on that. The only way we get her out of there is to find another person the cops can hang this on. So what we’ve got is a lowlife with a lengthy criminal record who has confessed to shooting Claiborne. Yes, the document itself and even the idea is junior high, as you call it, but what’s more important than that is that it could work. Grover has included just enough truth in his confession that it just might fly.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mike.”

  Cobb held up both hands. “Consider this. The police and the Crown prosecutor have a very sympathetic figure in Mrs. Claiborne, whom nobody wants to see behind bars except maybe a dickhead like Chisholm. I spoke to Kemper and he told me he’s seen cases with less reasonable doubt than this result in acquittals. By the way, he’s talked to Rachel Claiborne and she has given a tentative go-ahead for our little plan.”

  “Tentative,” I said.

  “Yeah, she wants to know it will work. Kemper relayed my there ain’t no guarantees speech but he also told her it has a decent chance. And as for the cops ripping Grover to shreds, well, that isn’t going to happen.” He glanced at his watch. “Because by now, The Grover, that crafty son of a gun, has somehow managed to escape his escort and is on his way to a place that will provide him with safety and anonymity for the rest of his life. The police, and more importantly, the MFs, will not find him because there are only three people in the world who know where Grover will be by this time tomorrow. Those three people are Grover, me, and a man a very long way from here who will be Grover’s guardian angel and watchdog all at the same time.”

  “Your own private witness protection program.”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “I still can’t believe it’ll work.”

  “You might be right,” Cobb admitted. “But it’s what we’ve got. And it gives Rachel Claiborne a chance. Which is more than she’ll have if we do nothing. And, by the way, since you aren’t part of this, all you have to do is tell the truth. You saw Grover leave in the company of two of my associates and after he had been escorted from the office, you read the confession that he wrote. By the way, that confession was taped and videoed as he made it and I have to say The Grover was pretty convincing. He won’t win the Academy Award, but then neither did La La Land.”

  “Landry’s going to hate this,” I said.

  I was right.

  Detective Yvette Landry was sitting in Cobb’s office across the desk from him and I could see it was a monumental effort for her to keep from screaming. So far she’d been able somehow to maintain control. I was on my observation perch over near the Keurig machine, Chisholm was standing, his back to the windows that looked down on 1st Avenue. Both of them had declined coffee.

  She had spoken for several minutes, had not raised her voice, had not sworn, yet had managed to convey in absolute terms what she thought of Cobb and me and what she thought of the fact that Rachel Claiborne was going to be released later that afternoon.

  Cobb sat back in his chair. He didn’t look smug or smartass. He had listened to what Landry had said, had not interrupted, and had nodded a couple of times. Now he was ready to respond.

  “Detective Landry, I understand your frustration, I really do,” he said. “I’ve done the job you’re doing and I watched people walk who in my mind were absolutely guilty. It was the most frustrating part of the job and was probably the biggest reason I finally left the police service. But all of us in this room know that Rachel Claiborne confessed in order to prevent Danny Luft from having a murder conviction over his head for the rest of his life.

  “She did that because she knew that Danny did not shoot Wendell Claiborne. She was prepared to go to jail for a very long time to protect that young man. And if one of Calgary’s seedier citizens, who had a long association with Claiborne, seeing to his penchant for hookers, had not been overheard bragging about killing Claiborne, which led to his confessing to the shooting, Mrs. Claiborne would have been one of this city’s most tragic wrongful convictions in our history.”

  “That, if you’ll forgive the vulgarity, is bullshit,” Landry answered. “The woman shot her husband, perhaps with good reason, I concede that, lied to us at first with some cock-and-bull story about finding him after some unidentified prowler had shot him. Then, to her credit, she didn’t want a young man to be convicted and jailed for something he didn’t do. She confessed, finally telling the truth, but only because she had to. Then along come Cullen and Cobb with a load of crap, cooked up with a piece of street shit, and because Mrs. Claiborne has been painted by the media as the female counterpart of a knight on a white charger, she will go free today.”

  Cobb looked like he was ready to argue again but changed his mind.

  “But I didn’t come here to debate her guilt or innocence,” Landry continued. “I know you’ll ride your nonsense story as long as that horse will carry you. I came here to make two promises. Th
e first is that I … we” — she included Chisholm for the first time — “are not about to let this go. There has been no trial; there is no double jeopardy here. We will keep looking for your lowlife friend, and if we find him, we will get the truth from him. And when that happens we will see your asses behind bars for a very long time. And we will see Rachel Claiborne charged with and tried for murder, as she should be.

  “My second promise refers to the time from now until that day comes. I will be watching you. Oh, I know Cullen and Cobb are little cult heroes in this city but you are not heroes to us. If you so much as fail to dot an i or cross a t; if you step offside in one of your investigations by so much as a half-stride, my partner and I, and a hell of a lot of people in the Calgary Police Service, will be there, and you will pay the price. Believe me, you will pay the price.”

  She stood up. Cobb and I joined her. There would be no handshakes, no see ya later smiles. This was a declaration of war, and while it might be a long time before the battles of this war would be fought, if they ever were, the line had been drawn and the arbiter of that line would be Detective Yvette Landry. Of that there was no doubt.

  NINETEEN

  The confrontation bothered Cobb, I could tell. I made us a couple of coffees after Landry and Chisholm had left, but we didn’t talk much and he declined my suggestion that we grab some breakfast at Red’s Diner, a sure sign that he wasn’t himself.

  Cobb liked Landry, and more than that, he respected her. She was a straight shooter and a good detective, and for him to know that she didn’t see him the same way was tough to take. I’d come around a little more on what Cobb was trying to do. He didn’t want Glenna Claiborne charged and tried in the death of her father, and it wasn’t right that her mother should possibly spend several years incarcerated to keep her daughter out of jail.