Unredeemed

by J M Dolan

  She was recovering quickly. Sam had to give her that. No sappy statements, no tears. Sam centered his pictures between them then leaned forward to compare the shots. The woman in the portrait was bold-featured with a humourless expression. Once she might have been striking but in death the face was stark. In the second frame, Odessa stood next to an older model vehicle. He guessed her to be five feet six, one hundred eighty pounds, information that matched the deceased.

  “It sure looks like the same woman,” said Sam. “Granted, her identity won’t be definitive until after forensics is finished with their investigation.”

  Sam angled the photos and Jamee moved closer. Sam didn’t rush, wanting to give her time to process while she studied the picture of a woman lying prone on the sidewalk. It wasn’t pretty, the photo graphically revealing the flattened skull in a pool of blood, the neck skewed at an obscene angle.

  “I concur,” she shot back, absolute.

  “Here’s what I ascertained. Based on the RCMP and Coroner’s report,” continued Sam. “The body was found at the base of the parkade on Stephen Avenue. The victim’s neck was broken at the atlas —C1 — and the occipital bone crushed.”

  “So, it was likely the fall that killed her.” Jamee pushed back the photos. “What floor did she fall from?”

  “Unknown,” said Sam, “no witnesses. A man exiting the homeless shelter on 3rd Avenue at four-thirty-two a.m. found the deceased on Stephen Avenue sidewalk a few minutes later. Our homeless man entered the shelter the night before just after midnight but not from Stephen Avenue.

  “The RCMP officer I met with reported the avenues of investigation seem limited — which in cop lingo means they lack leads. There was one other noteworthy detail. Look at these.” Sam slid over a picture of a fancy pair of four inch, animal print heels. They lay tossed up against the cement barrier. “The shoes were found up on the fifth floor. Forensic Services will run some additional tests there. Probably they’ll look for skin samples, DNA, that kind of thing.”

  Sam sat back in his chair studying Jamee as she scrutinized the file. “The officer I spoke with, Staff Sergeant Dunbar, hadn’t formulated a theory but since the deceased was shoeless, his gut tells him there might be some connection between the shoes and the victim.”

  While Sam was speaking, Jamee laid out all the pictures from the crime scene and was carefully studying the location of the barefoot body and the shoes. She reached for a straight edge and positioned it across two of the photos.

  “The fifth floor shoes and the body seem to line up. Given the face up position, it looks like she went backwards over the cement retaining wall.” Jamee glanced at Sam. “Hard to do unless it was deliberate, or something forced her back.” Jamee scanned the brief autopsy report.

  Now she turned to look at Sam. “The odd thing about the shoes is they sure don’t go with the outfit. Those shoes are hooker heaven, and the clothes are old schoolmarm. However, the officer’s gut might still be right. If the shoes did place her on the fifth floor, a fall at that height could indeed be fatal. It’s likely cause of death will be ruled the sudden impact with a cement sidewalk, but why did it happen?”

  “That’s the golden question,” said Sam.

  Jamee reached for her finalized spreadsheet. “I have some research to share with you as well. I made a request for data from a former colleague and came up with this.” Jamee placed the sheet in front of Sam. “I cross-referenced several flights and found Odessa’s name on the passenger list of a flight coming from Kiev and entering Canada via Montréal two weeks ago. Twelve days later, her name appears again; this time on a flight from Toronto to Calgary. That flight arrived in Calgary a few hours previous to the Kiev — Toronto flight connection I had her scheduled on, and just hours before her death and the discovery of her body the next morning.”

  “Well, I’m impressed.” Sam scanned the page. “Good bit of investigative work, Jamee. How in the world did you finagle someone into giving you passenger manifests? Who’s your source?”

  “I’d sooner stick a needle in my eye than tell you that,” said Jamee. “Wouldn’t be in business if I couldn’t be trusted. I will admit though, the person who helped me out was under the impression I was working with the Attorney General’s office.”

  “Why would they have thought that?”

  “I might have dropped your name.”

  “You what!” Sam’s voice raised a notch.

  “Well, it isn’t something you can’t fix. You can erase that little white lie by actually authorizing a contract for my help with investigation and research. I’ve had previous contracts. Something, I’m sure you’ve already checked on if you know your stuff. I’ve done work for CSIS, CBSA, the RCMP and those pay cheques were issued from funds out of Public Safety, so the lie is only semantics.”

  Jamee felt a tad bit guilty as she had been vague with André and hadn’t really said Attorney General. Only the words, government contract had come up.

  “That’s freak’n hilarious.” Sam’s expression was droll. “You know Jamee, you go to jail for lying just like you do for thieving.”

  “Rule Number Five,” she shot back.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Best to seek pardon later than to ask for approval now,” she said primly.

  “Babe, there’s no bloody way my boss, who I’ll remind you is the Attorney General, or Thomas Avery from Public Safety, would approve that. How would I explain your contribution to the case?

  “You coppers do like to stick together. Don’t be such a mouse, use your initiative.”

  “You’re very cheeky,” he said, dark eyes flashing, “Anything else while I’m at it?”

  “Well, if you could be quite quick about it. That would help,” said Jamee.

  Sam made a kind of sputtering sound. “Lord, what am I thinking?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. Let’s see that timeline.” He held out his hand for the page.

  Jamee’s face wore a smug little smile as she passed Sam the data summary.

  “So day one, Odessa flew from Ukraine to Montréal. Then several days go by, twelve exactly, and her name appears again on a flight from Toronto to Calgary, arriving at eight p.m. That same night, the flight you had scheduled for Odessa arrived at midnight, with her a no show. The next day — day thirteen, a body with Odessa’s I.D. is found on Stephen Avenue in the early morning hours.”

  “One little thing here I’d like to point out,” said Jamee. “In the cross referencing of passenger lists, I noticed the reoccurrence of the name of a second woman from Ukraine.” Jamee pointed to the specific spreadsheet entry, “This woman,” she traced the name, “Veronika Kaminski. She was on the same flight from Ukraine to Montréal. Her name also pops up on the Toronto to Calgary flight Odessa took twelve days later. Just coincidence or not — I’m not sure but it has my spidey sense tingling?

  “All right I’ll nibble, after all its spider sense,” said Sam. “Life is often stranger than fiction and sometimes coincidences are reality.”

  Jamee rose from her chair. “And sometimes,” she said, “it’s not that complicated, but it just gets curiouser and curiouser. I think we need to go back to the email from the Prosecutor’s office in Kiev. Take a look at this Inspector Volkov and see where that lead takes us.”

  “I agree,” said Sam as he gathered up his file. “I’ll reach out to Avery again, see if he can shed any light on the subject. Having Public Safety contact, Immigration should be worth a shot.”

  Sam turned to move towards the door. It was getting late, time to head back into Calgary.

  Jamee walked him out. “I’ve been skeptical about the agency Jeff used. Something has always seemed a bit off. The Odessa I’ve spoken with never seemed to line up with the pictures provided. Call it a gut feeling. Maybe the same gut instinct your RCMP case officer had when it came to that out-of-place pair of shoes. It’s like we’re on a three-hour cruise to Gilligan’s island. Some kind of disaster is pen
ding, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  They stepped into the porch, the light from the kitchen spilled forward providing scant illumination of the shadows. Sam turned towards her and ran his fingertips down her bare arm. The touch sent up a shiver along the route his fingers took. He brushed her cheek in a caress with the back of his hand.

  “Cold?” he asked at her response. Then, leaning forward replaced his hand with lips that left a buttery soft kiss, close to her ear. She smelled sweet and spicy like red pepper jelly. There was something about her like static in the air — something that got to him.

  “Thanks for supper,” he whispered.

  Jamee swallowed and her answer came out all husky, “You’re welcome”.

  He felt her eyes on him as he moseyed to the vehicle and slide inside. He’d resisted the urge to turn, but now looked at the rearview mirror as he backed from his parking space. She stood in the light of the porch watching him as his headlights reflected down the long drive. Reversing gears, he caught a glimpse as she raised her hand to her mouth and gave a two-finger whistle for the dog before she turned to go inside. It was a fascinating image.

  Sam reversed gears, his last sight of Jamee was with the dog at her side.

  Chapter Six

  They had reached cruising altitude. The Wolf was a man who commanded obedience through fear. He was well aware those who worked under him hated him, but that in itself was another kind of power. He lowered the tray which took up what little space there was. He preferred the use of his tablet to access electronic data, but couldn’t take the risk of the internet.

  God, he hated economy. How was a man his size supposed to work? As a mere public official there had been little reason for the impoverished government who employed him to foot the expense of first class. He was fortunate he’d been able to persuade them the trip was necessary in the first place. The lowered tray, crowded and inconvenient though it was, at least gave him a work surface.

  He studied the report on his latest Ukrainian operation. The pawn failed to check in with her handler. The stupid bitch— she’d been a problem right from the start. As naive as they come, she couldn’t seem to grasp the concept she’d been duped. His business associate reported the mule, his asset Veronika, and her delivery had fallen off the radar. It was this development which precipitated his need to travel to Canada and handle matters for himself.

  He’d warned Veronika to tone it down. She tended to make her work seem far better than it was. Her self-importance likely would prove to be part of the problem. Veronika Kaminski was all domination and superior attitude with no wit of imagination, a bully to the core. In truth, some aspects of her narcissistic personality made her ideal for the work he tasked her with. Still, the woman was infused with an inflated sense of her own worth, a lack of empathy and little regard for other people.

  The woman lived up to her reputation as stone-cold and stubborn; a diva with a personality to match, Veronika never forgot insult or injury.

  In her role as mule, her racist arrogance had proven key to keeping the girls in line. Previous deliveries had gone off without a hitch. Universally, victims were not all that hard to find. Once isolated, they were vulnerable to a lifetime of manipulation and mistreatment. Control over another person for the purpose of exploitation; that was the name of the game. Human trafficking was a business that traded in misery and generated vast, unimaginable funds for organized crime.

  “Da.” The Wolf thought of the endless strip clubs and lap dances, massage parlours and escort agencies, internet sites and street-level prostitution, unmonitored hotels and motels, house parties and truck stops, all helping to support the business of men renting women and children for personal gratification. The tolerance for buying another person showed no signs of slow-down, regardless of the economy. The profiteers were many and varied, from landlords who accepted rent for the buildings where trafficking occurred, to the municipalities that collected licensing revenue without due diligence. It was big business, and business was good.

  The truth was there would be no business without a buyer and Canadian men were no different from countless others around the world. Human trafficking met a demand, and sex trafficking wouldn’t exist in Canada or elsewhere, without men who wanted to engage in paid sex or eroticism.

  It made for a profitable sideline for the Wolf. He hoped Veronika hadn’t screwed everything up. There were people back home to answer to. Veronika’s condescending attitude had gotten her into management difficulties in the past. He didn’t like the woman, but she produced the results he wanted and he’d been willing to cut her some slack. As long as she remembered who was boss.

  He could see that was over now. He’d be lucky to get the operation back on track without lost revenue. Veronika would pay for this screw-up, and that at least was something to look forward too.

  The Wolf loved his work, even with the occasional hiccup. He revelled in the feeling of power and control. It was like a chess game moving the pawns, outwitting the opponent. His superiority had proven itself time and time again and he took pride in his ability to be manipulative. He was an expert at wrapping it all up into a congenial package when he had to. Oh, he had that superficial act down to an art. He was one cunning bastard he acknowledged with a smile that only twitched the corners of his mouth.

  His only constraint was the realization he needed to appear normal, to fit in among civilized people. Luckily, most people were fools. It was so easy to dominate, and on occasion, humiliate subordinates. He was doing the world a favour showing up the weak for what they were, victims just waiting to be used. Yes, life was good — remorse was for weaklings.

  He left off his musings and went back to studying his notes in preparation for the days to come. A commotion a few rows ahead broke his intense concentration.

  Distracted by the clatter of the refreshment cart, he found new irritation in the cookie sleeve arrangement of being sandwiched-in like sausage meat. The minimal service in economy was deplorable, almost non-existent. This class discrimination even affected the selection of attendants. The younger, more attractive flight attendant spent most of her time in first class with a dozen privileged few. Meanwhile, the rest of the plane waited for the attentions of a worn, mid-aged woman and a young, non-heterosexual man. The Wolf had an abhorrence of both.

  The racket in the aisle-way was becoming more apparent and service appeared to have stopped. Blocking the cramped isle was the multi-wheeled, stainless-steel refreshment cart assigned to economy. The wheel of the over-loaded cart was lodged in a horizontal position making a very effective brake. With little success, the weary female stewardess and her frazzled, fruit-fly co-worker struggled to free the offending wheel. No amount of pushing or shoving on the part of the staffers was moving it. They were going to have to lighten the load to re-align the wheel. Passengers, trying to make their way to the washrooms were starting to stack up behind the cart and getting cranky.

  The Wolf, as was his habit had made a careful study of the staff and other passengers aboard the flight. The female flight attendant assigned to the economy section, though not unattractive, was past her prime

  Sensing opportunity, he leaned forward in his aisle seat, brushing the woman’s uniformed hip. With a large hand he grasped the pull bar on the upper edge of the cart. Effortlessly, he lifted the cart holding it with ease while she moved aside, then smoothly spun the wheel with the toe of his shoe before setting it back down. It was an impressive move, done with a confidence that revealed an astonishing strength beneath the tailored jacket he wore.

  The woman turned to him, perhaps to show her displeasure at the liberty he’d taken by fondling her hip, or merely to thank him for his timely assistance. Either way, what she’d planned to say died on her lips. Instead, she stared mesmerized by the nearly colourless, icy blue eyes that trapped her with their intensity. She couldn’t seem to look away. It was hypnotic like looking into the eyes of a snake, cold and treacherous. The Wolf grinned, or at least
pulled back lips in a facial expression meant to disarm. He predicted she’d think herself grateful for his attention, but would discover soon enough, he never did anything without reason.

  “Thank you for your help.” She beamed a sunny smile at him. “That was really amazing. Pays to work out I see,” she said with a flirty laugh. “Can I offer you a complimentary drink from our bar selection?”

  “That would be generous,” The Wolf gave a persuasive smile that somehow didn’t quite reach his eyes. The woman appeared not to notice. His attentions had brought an attractive glow to her skin. “Vodka, straight up, would be perfect,” he purred.

  She reached for a cocktail napkin and a company pen from the top of the cart taking the time to write a number on the clean white surface. Pouring a liberal shot from the premium spirits bottle she passed the glass with a teasing smile. The napkin was placed beneath it.

  He’d have preferred a younger version but yes, in a pinch she’d definitely do as a replacement. He slid the napkin into his breast pocket.

  Chapter Seven

  Jamee pried her eyelids open. Bloody hell, it was still dark. Her brain was definitely working overtime. She kept playing the whole scenario back over in her mind and speculating on puzzle solving strategies.

  The once melodic, early morning song bird harmonies were joined by the neighbourhood crows and magpies — the squawkers were annoying little muckers. She’d never get back to sleep now. As much as she hated to, she might just as well get up. Jeez, up with the birds. It was for the birds, she grumbled.

  Jamee threw back the feather duvet. She liked to sleep nude, o’natural. Rule Number Six: your best suit should be your birthday suit.

  As a child, she’d always hated pajamas. She could never seem to get through a night without the material being twisted up around her throat. Slow death was her thought. She drew on a long black, plush robe with velvet collar and headed to the shower.