Divine Trilogy

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  "Mr. Sampson," Ben said slowly. "I'm going to have to insist that we take you to the hospital for a physical examination."

  Sampson jumped to his feet. "I already told you. I'm fine."

  Ben gave Natassia a helpless look.

  "What did the tox screen say?" she asked.

  "He tested positive for Rohypnol," he replied. Turning to Sampson, he said, "Mr. Sampson, you were given a paralytic drug that causes memory loss. If a larger dose had been used, you would've been completely unconscious. Or dead."

  The older man seemed baffled. "How could you know I had drugs in my system? I didn't give you any of my blood to test."

  "We borrowed your cigarette stub." Ben lowered his voice. "We need to know if anything was done to you while you were unconscious, Mr. Sampson."

  Sampson turned a sickening shade of gray. "Are you saying I was…?"

  "We don't know that yet."

  "Oh God."

  There was something pitiful about Sampson's voice.

  "Let's wait until all the reports are in," Ben said.

  Natassia patted the older man's arm. "It's better to know, Mr. Sampson. One way or the other."

  "We'll take my vehicle," Ben said when he saw Sampson fish his keys from a jacket pocket.

  As they left Sampson's office, Lorraine gave them a surprised look. "Porter?"

  "I'm going out for a bit, Rainey."

  His wife's worried gaze followed them to the door.

  Outside, Sampson paused in front of the SUV, his eyes barely meeting Ben's or Natassia's. "This is between us. Okay?"

  Ben removed one glove. "Our team is very discreet."

  As the man opened the vehicle door, Ben rested a bare hand on the man's arm. His vision immediately shifted until all he saw was a cloudlike fog. In the far distance, a shape moved, but Ben couldn't make it out. He felt a cool breeze brush against his face and a mist of water wash over him. Then…nothing.

  "Agent Roberts?" Sampson was staring at him, a look of concern on his face.

  "I'm fine," he lied.

  Sometimes his 'gift' infuriated him. It came and went without any rhyme or reason, and that made him a liability. One day, his unreliable visions would get him into trouble.

  14

  "Maybe Rohypnol was only used to keep him quiet, so the perp could transport him to the park," Natassia said to Ben.

  They were seated in the waiting area of Ottawa General, awaiting the results of Sampson's examination. Sampson was getting dressed.

  "I hope so, Natassia," her partner said absentmindedly.

  She smiled. He'd used her given name for the first time. Mr. I'm-so-serious Roberts was warming up to her.

  "What are you grinning about?"

  "Nothing," she replied.

  Cool eyes gazed at her. "By the way, when we're interviewing a witness, or anyone for that matter, follow my lead, Agent Prushenko."

  So we're back to being formal.

  "You mean be quiet?" she said dryly.

  "And don't defend me."

  She scowled at him. "I was just trying to help."

  Ben was being pigheaded. All she'd done was try to smooth things over with Porter Sampson. Why was he so touchy?

  "I'm fully capable of explaining myself," he told her.

  "Of course you are."

  Just then, Sampson stepped into the waiting room, his face three shades of red. He glanced around, noting the empty seats beside Ben and Natassia.

  "Well," he said. "If I didn't feel violated before, I certainly do now."

  "We're very sorry," Ben said. "But we had to know."

  "Now what?"

  "Now Agent Prushenko is going to talk to you alone for a few minutes."

  "Why?"

  "I may be able to help you recover some of your memories," Natassia said, standing. "Come with me."

  Ben pulled her aside. "Do you want me to be your reality line?"

  Surprised by the offer, she shook her head. "Not necessary. He was drugged and that makes his energy weak. Thanks, though."

  She led Sampson into an empty examination room and closed the door. "Have a seat, please. I promise this won't hurt."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to help you remember." She dragged a chair in front of another. "Sit."

  Sampson sat down, eyeing her suspiciously. "You gonna hypnotize me or something?"

  "Something like that. Trust me." Sitting across from him, she rested her hands on both sides of his head. "Just relax, Mr. Sampson. Think of this as a kind of relaxation massage."

  Once she felt some of the tension drain away, she moved her fingertips down to his jaw, stroking his face softly.

  "That feels…nice," Sampson said, his voice distant and tired.

  "Shh…no talking. Close your eyes and picture yourself at home in your office on the night you went missing. It's after supper and you're working."

  With that, she was in.

  She was in Sampson's office, seeing it through his eyes, living it through his actions, inside his body.

  The phone on the desk rang twice then went still.

  Minutes later it rang again. Sampson's hand picked up the receiver after the second ring.

  "Hello?" she said in Sampson's voice.

  "Justice," a voice whispered.

  Yawn. "Sorry. You've got the wrong number."

  Sampson hung up.

  His hand reached for a blue binder on the shelf. Nothing was legible inside the binder. It looked like someone had taken an eraser and rubbed it over every page in diagonal lines, canceling out letters and words along the way.

  His body suddenly felt very heavy.

  I need a break. Maybe I'll watch a little TV.

  He slumped into the chair behind the desk. Placing the binder in front of him, he picked up the remote control and turned on the television. The screen was blank and all he heard was static, but he was too tired to bother changing channels. Besides, the static was kind of soothing.

  I'll rest my head. Just for a moment.

  The binder felt cool against his face. He closed his eyes.

  It seemed like only seconds had passed before he awoke to the sounds of a loon crying in the distance.

  He lifted his head. "What the―?"

  He was lying on cold concrete.

  It took him a few minutes to recognize his surroundings. He was on the floor of the concert stage at Britannia Park.

  Panic overwhelmed him.

  How the hell did I get here?

  Returning to Ben's side, minus Porter Sampson, Natassia was wearier than she'd anticipated, probably more from jet lag and a bout of insomnia during the night.

  Ben frowned. "You look exhausted."

  "Thank you, kind sir. It's not easy inhabiting someone else's mind, body and memories."

  "No. I don't suppose it is. Do you need to lie down or something?"

  "Trying to get rid of me already?" In her best Sarah Palin impression, she added, "Don'tcha worry your head about little ole me. I'm just peachy."

  It was a lie, but she wasn't going to show him any weakness. Her energy wasn't always reliable or sustainable.

  "Did you get anything?" he asked.

  She told him what she'd seen.

  "Well, that confirms the presence of the blue binder in his home. I wonder why he doesn't recall bringing it home." He shook his head, frustrated. "And you didn't see where he went?"

  "It was really weird, Ben. One minute he was in his office asleep at his desk; the next he was laying on the stage floor in the park."

  "The phone call seems weird."

  "I agree. I don't think it was a wrong number. I think Sampson knew who called him."

  "Do you think you'd recognize the voice if you heard it again?"

  "I doubt it. He whispered that one word." Justice.

  Ben leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  "The only thing that makes any sense," he said after a moment, "is that someone snuck into his house, found
him sleeping and drugged him. It's the only way anyone would be able to get him out of his house without him knowing it."

  "This just gets stranger and stranger," Natassia said, peering down the hallway. "I feel so bad for Porter Sampson. No one should have to go through this."

  "At least he didn't wind up like Winkler."

  "True, but doesn't it make you wonder why?"

  "It sure does. So what did the perp have to gain? What did he want from these men?"

  "And did he get it, whatever it is?"

  Ben's gaze hardened. "I'm not going to stop until I find out why Winkler was brutally murdered, while Sampson was dumped, alive, in the park."

  "We," she said in a firm voice.

  Ben looked confused.

  "You said 'I,'" she said. "We're a team, Ben. And we're not going to stop until we solve this case."

  His intense gaze rested on her mouth and a shiver tingled up her spine.

  "You're right, Natassia. Sorry."

  They waited in silence until the doctor appeared. Behind him stood Porter Sampson, his unshaven face pale and his breath shallow. Fear was etched into every furrow on his brow.

  "Maybe you should sit down," she said gently.

  Sampson puffed up his chest. "Just tell me."

  The doctor consulted a file. "The test came back negative. No bruising or injury. No sign of sexual assault."

  Sampson deflated instantly, heaving a visible sigh of relief. His eyes watered and he turned away.

  "We'll take you home now," Ben told him.

  On the drive back to Sampson's house, Natassia studied the man in the passenger seat. Porter Sampson was a man of power and authority, a Member of Parliament, someone who followed the laws and helped set legal standards in Canada. Today was his wake-up call. He'd have to be more careful, maybe hire a bodyguard since he often spent time with the public, co-workers, his assistant or Lorraine. He couldn't take any unnecessary risks now. Someone had gotten to him, taken advantage of him. Not sexually, but someone had managed to drug him, move him without his knowledge and take away his memories.

  When they finally reached the modest house at 501 Linden Terrace, she watched Sampson stumble toward the door, then hesitate on the porch. He seemed smaller, less sure of himself. At last, he went inside.

  "He's going to have a long, tough recovery," she said.

  "It always is for a victim of crime," Ben replied.

  Natassia heaved a sigh. "What does this perp want?"

  Jasi was wondering the same thing as she checked out the bars near Britannia Park. There were five in total. She had already visited an Irish pub and a hotel bar.

  No one had seen Sampson.

  The next place on her data-com checklist was the Britannia Yacht Club, located on Cassels Street. It was worth the visit just to see the uniquely designed bar counter constructed from an authentic 30-foot Dragon sailboat. She'd never seen anything like it.

  A stooped man with a bushy white beard appeared in a doorway behind the bar. When he noticed her, he slid on a pair of thick-lensed glasses and gave her a wide smile, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

  "Can I help you, young lady?"

  She slid Porter Sampson's photo toward him. "Have you seen this man in here recently?"

  The bartender scrunched his eyes. "Don't think so. Is he a member?"

  "No. But he might have been meeting someone here."

  "Haven't seen him. Sorry." He paused. "I'm only here during week days. Maybe the night bartender's seen your man."

  "When will the night guy be in?"

  "He's already here. Paul Cahill. The kid over there." He pointed to a preppy college kid sitting at a table with an older man.

  "Who's the guy in the suit?"

  "Paul's father."

  "Well, isn't that ironic?" she murmured.

  Victor Cahill, the owner of the speedboat she'd spotted near the Winkler crime scene. She had him slated for an interview later that day.

  Now I can kill two birds with one stone.

  The bartender leaned close, his breath a mix of pepperoni and beer. "Victor Cahill's the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada, and one of the richest men in the city."

  "Is he a member of this yacht club?"

  "Whole family is. The Cahills have three crafts docked here. Two fancy yachts and one of them racing boats."

  "Thank you for your help."

  She briefly scanned the room. Other than the bartender, who was possibly the oldest person in the bar, there were two male customers occupying the barstools and a few others sitting near the pool tables. She was the only woman.

  As she approached, Jasi carefully observed the younger Cahill. From the expensive gold-trimmed pool cue that rested against a nearby wall and the reversed ball cap on his head, she guessed that Paul's occupation would best be described as 'slacker.' Even from a distance he had that spoiled rich kid attitude, an attitude of entitlement.

  "Paul Cahill?" she said.

  "I'll be anyone you want, sweetheart." he drawled, eyeing her from head to toe.

  There was no denying that Paul Cahill was a handsome young man. Too damned handsome for his own good. He was also well-built and naturally bronzed, the kind of tan one would get from habitually lazing by a pool, horseback riding and boating. Based on his clothing style and intelligent eyes, she'd bet anything he was educated at one of Canada's best colleges or shipped overseas

  Probably has a hefty trust fund from dear Daddy.

  She slapped her badge on the table.

  Paul Cahill jerked back in his chair, then guiltily gazed at his father. "I didn't do anything. I swear."

  "Probably not," she agreed. "Have you seen this man in here?"

  "Never. Guaranteed. I've been working here for two years. I know all the regulars and most of their guests."

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Paul's father staring at the photo. "What about you?"

  Victor Cahill was an older version of his son. Good looking, wealthy and educated.

  "I haven't seen him here, but I do recognize him. That's Porter Sampson."

  She nodded, unsurprised by the man's admission. As a judge, Cahill would be familiar with many of the MPs.

  "Can I see your badge again?" Victor Cahill asked.

  She handed it to him and his eyes lit up.

  "Ah…Agent McLellan. Don't we have an appointment this afternoon?"

  "Yes. I had no idea you'd be here."

  "You might as well pull up a chair."

  "Thank you, but I'd rather stand. I have a few quick questions."

  He studied her with heavy hooded eyes. "Ask away."

  "Do you know Porter Sampson personally?"

  "No, but I've seen him around."

  She angled her 'com so he could see a second photo.

  "Recognize this?"

  The judge shrugged. "Looks like my boat. Why?"

  "It was spotted near a recent crime scene."

  "Well, it might be mine, might not. But I haven't taken it out in over two weeks." His gaze narrowed and he glanced at his son. "Paul, did you use the speedboat?"

  Jasi sensed that Daddy wasn't too pleased with Junior.

  "You know I'd never take it out without your permission first," Paul Cahill said defensively. He looked Jasi in the eye. "I swear I didn't use it. My father has the only key."

  Her eyes narrowed in the Judge's direction.

  "Like I told you," he said. "I didn't take it out either." He rummaged through his jacket pocket, then tossed his keys on the table. "The silver one is for the speedboat."

  "Does anyone else have access to your keys?"

  "They could," Paul cut in. "He usually hangs his jacket up over there." He pointed to an open wall cupboard with hooks.

  "Where were you between eleven p.m. and two a.m. Friday evening?" she asked the younger Cahill.

  "I was here. I work weekends." He scratched his chin. "I don't get out of here until close to two."

  She wasn't sure whether she
believed him.

  "I can vouch for him," his father said.

  "Of course you can."

  Victor Cahill frowned. "I'm not sure I like what you're implying, young lady."

  "Simply an observation. And it's Agent McLellan, sir." She eyed both Cahills. "Thank you for your time. If I have any more questions, I'll be in touch."

  She had moved a few steps away when angry voices rose over the music. Peering over her shoulder, she saw the Cahill men facing each other. Neither looked happy.

  "I told you, someone stole it!" Paul Cahill snapped, tamping the end of the pool cue on the carpeted floor for emphasis.

  "Who would steal an old dingy?" his father demanded.

  "I haven't got a clue. Maybe you forgot to secure it to the yacht and it drifted away."

  Victor Cahill pursed his lips. "I doubt it."

  "Why? You think I'm the only one who slips up and makes mistakes?"

  The judge said nothing.

  "Fine, Dad. I'll buy you another one. But so you know, I never touched the Goddamn dingy." He slammed the cue into the carpet one last time.

  Paul Cahill stalked past Jasi. His father followed close behind, barely acknowledging her. That was fine with her, though. Her mind was elsewhere. Something bothered her. The problem was she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

  Outside the Britannia Yacht Club, Jasi activated the recorder on her data-com and left some notes. She'd add them to the official file later.

  "Not enough to pull a warrant on either Cahill regarding their speedboat seen near the crime scene. And neither appeared to be lying. Also, look into Paul and Chief Justice Victor Cahill. Is there a connection to Winkler or Sampson?"

  She pulled up the checklist. The stripper bar was only two blocks away, so she walked. Signage outside the bar boasted dollar drinks after midnight and five dollar lap dances. The marquis above the bar door read 'Bottoms Up.'

  "Why didn't I let Ben take this one?" she groaned.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The first thing that hit her was the smell. Stale beer and sex. The lunch she'd eaten earlier on the pier threatened to end up on the floor and join the miscellany of unrecognizable stains on the worn burgundy carpet. Even though smoking had been banned from public places years ago, the stench of old cigars and cigarettes still wafted from the carpet.