As Chris watched on, two other figures suddenly appeared in the still open doorway and these, he did recognize; Wayne and Greg, Directors of Operations and Finance. Greg appeared nervous, glancing furtively about, twitching and pacing back and forth. He muttered something, which Wayne responded to with a laugh and a shake of the head.
The latter reached inside and the lights went out as the huge door began to descend. As Wayne jumped off the four foot dock, Greg gingerly climbed down the short steel ladder affixed to its side, drawing another head shake and laughter from his colleague. They hurried to the Jag and climbed in, Wayne in the driver’s seat, and, seconds later, sped off into the night.
Chris checked the time; 7:08. From start to finish, their little visit had only taken eight minutes. He wondered what could be important enough to bring four men here on a Wednesday night in January for such a short stay? Maybe the variety of products imported by the company was wider than he had been told.
He was starting to believe that he would truly enjoy this job. He returned to the Pathfinder and headed home to Sandy.
Chapter 10 - Thursday, January 23, 1997
“I’m gonna have to find out what’s in those boxes,” Chris informed his lovely wife as they chatted over breakfast.
“It’s guns or drugs,” Sandy confidently guessed. “What else could it be?”
“Stolen art, bacterial weapons, I don’t know,” Chris responded, shrugging his shoulders. “But you’re probably right; guns or drugs.”
“So these guys are probably dangerous.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I’ll be real surprised if they’re not,” admitted Chris, knowing where this was going. “Yes, my love. I’ll be careful.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Sandy offered, ignoring his last comment.
“Actually, I think there is,” Chris replied. “Peterson is paying me to document his systems so I’m gonna have to start working on that if I want to stick around. Which means I won’t have time to do some other stuff. I copied some information off the payroll system to run a check on everybody working there. What I’m looking for is anything that would indicate someone living much beyond their means.”
“Like a shipping clerk with a yacht and condo in Maui?” Sandy playfully suggested.
“Yeah, anything like that,” Chris replied with a grin. “Think you can handle it, kiddo? There’s about three hundred people to look into.”
She knew exactly how to go about digging into other people’s lives through the computer. She had seen Chris do it hundreds of times during his Vigilante days.
“Piece of cake, Mr. Barry,” she replied confidently, leaning over to kiss him. “I was trained by the best.”
* * * *
“That new guy, Barry, he makes me nervous,” stated Greg.
He was seated in Wayne’s comfortable office along with Wayne and Bryan Downey, Director of Sales.
“Ah, Jesus, Greg,” retorted Wayne in disgust. “Your goddamn grandmother makes you nervous.”
“I just don’t like having some unknown person digging around here, that’s all.” Greg shot back. “I have this strange aversion to spending many years in prison.”
“What do we know about this guy?” Bryan quietly enquired, as usual the mediator between these two extreme personalities.
“He was EVP at CSS,” Wayne arrogantly replied. “He’s a computer genius, semi-retired, filthy rich. He just wants to do a little contract work as a bridge between working constantly and doing nothing at all. Christ, I can understand the guy. He’s what, maybe thirty-five? He’s just trying to slowly withdraw from the workforce. I see no reason to worry about him.”
“Is there any danger of his finding anything out?” Bryan pressed.
“No fucking way,” answered Wayne, annoyed. “He’s here to document our systems. He’s not gonna find anything on our systems.”
He stopped suddenly and stared at Greg, his eyes narrowing. “I trust you weren’t stupid enough to set up our records here, were you?”
“Of course not,” Greg shot back, indignantly. “It's all on my PC at home. Sometimes I access the files from here through Eazy-Com but nothing is recorded here.”
“So then, what’s to worry?" challenged Wayne. “All he can find out is that Quality Imports is a well run, profitable business. All the transactions are kosher, all the suppliers real. Everything is under control, guys.”
“Hey, I’m comfortable,” Bryan retorted defensively. “I’m just making sure that Greg isn’t worrying about something concrete.”
He turned towards the fidgeting accountant. “Relax, Greg. I’m sure Barry won’t be a problem.”
“Alright, if you say so,” Greg doubtfully replied, forever uneasy. “I just don’t want any more screw-ups.”
* * * *
It had been a while since Chris had done any systems analysis and he was quite enjoying himself. Maybe he would seriously consider taking on a couple of free-lance contracts per year as a hobby.
Peterson had settled him in the late George Robinson’s office, where he was currently busy reading lines of code and drawing a flowchart.
“So, how’s it going so far?” questioned a voice from the doorway.
“Good, Charlie. Good,” he replied to Peterson. “Maybe your man wasn’t keen on documenting what he did but he was a damn good programmer. Real clean work, no patches or plugs; just straightforward and logical.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” said Peterson. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure thing. I do have question for you while you’re here. Do you operate on multiple shifts?”
“Nope. Day shift only, eight to five,” Peterson responded. “Volume’s not high enough yet for extra shifts but we’ll get there.”
“Any special orders sometimes that someone might come back to look after in the evening?” Chris persisted.
“Not really. Maybe a little overtime on busy days but normally, when we lock up we do so for the night. Why?”
“Well I noticed that some of the inventory control programmes had some cut-off times worked into them, probably to ensure proper stock levels,” Chris explained. “I haven't finished going through them yet so maybe some other programme lines compensate. I’m presuming that further into the programme, I’ll run into some code that sets off the running of back-up jobs. In any case, I was just concerned that entries made after a cut-off time might not record in the system.”
As he had hoped, Chris could see that Peterson had no idea what he was talking about. In all fairness, Charlie had admitted that he knew squat about computers.
“All I know,” repeated Peterson with a look of confusion. “Is that we’ve only got one shift; eight to five. That’s it.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
Chris held back a smile as he watched the departing man and murmured under his breath, “And that’s all I wanted to know. Thanks, Charlie.”
Chapter 11 - Friday, January 24, 1997
With cup in one hand and computer print-out in the other, Chris returned from the coffee machine, reading as he went along.
“Good morning, Mr. Barry,” a familiar voice called out as he walked by the reception hall.
He stopped and turned towards the voice, breaking into a warm smile as he identified the speaker.
“Lieutenant McCall,” he exclaimed with exaggerated formality, tucking the printout under one arm to extend a hand.
Chris and Dave McCall had worked closely together several months earlier on the Vigilante case and had grown quite fond of each other. It was Chris’s guidance which had led Dave and his team from the Special Homicide Task Force to the late Carl Denver, the supposed Vigilante.
“Captain McCall to you, sir,” Dave McCall barked in insult as they shook hands.
“Well, excuse me,” Chris jokingly retorted. “How the hell am I supposed to know when you don’t keep in touch. So you
made captain. Good for you. When are you gonna head the force?”
“Next year,” Dave replied with a grin, “One step at a time. So, how have you been?”
“Fine, great,” answered Chris, gesturing towards a hallway. “Come on in to my office for a few minutes.”
“So, what the hell are you doing here?” queried Dave once they had settled into Chris’s temporary quarters. “I thought the papers said you had retired?”
“Well, I realized that it would be best to ease out of the labour force,” Chris explained. “So I decided to do a little contract work here and give this place a hand until they find a new M.I.S. Manager.”
“Yeah, well as you may have guessed, I’m here to talk about the last M.I.S. Manager,” Dave sombrely said. “You’re aware of what happened?”
“Uh-huh,” Chris nodded. “The top cop looking into this? Is this a major case?”
“Nah. It’s probably just a mugging gone bad,” Dave responded. “I just have less and less time to get out on the street so, every once in a while, I pick a routine investigation and handle it myself. Just to keep my blood running. Did you know the guy?”
“Nope,” replied Chris. “I didn’t even know this company until about a week ago when an acquaintance mentioned it. I saw an opportunity for Quality and I to help each other to our mutual benefit. I made a proposition and Charlie Peterson agreed to it so, here I am.”
“Well, good for you,” said Dave as he glanced at his watch; 8:57. “I’m gonna get out of your hair cuz I have an appointment with Peterson at nine. Listen, give me a call. You and I have to get together real soon. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do and, from what I read in the papers, now you can really afford to buy me dinner.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,” responded Chris with a smirk. “I’m just a poor soul trying to get by.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” laughed Dave as he left the office.
* * * *
Dave’s meeting with Charles Peterson had proved to be a waste of time and effort and, although this was what he had been expecting, he had to follow up on all possible leads. Unfortunately, murder investigating was a business of trial, error and luck, not at all an exact science.
Peterson had described the late George Robinson as a quiet, friendly individual who, though not socially active, got along well with everybody. Originally from Calgary, he had moved to Montreal about ten years ago and had joined Quality Imports less than a week later. His sole passion was computers and they occupied most of his waking hours.
He had no immediate family, being an only child and having lost his parents in an automobile accident five years earlier. Peterson, who truly did not believe that George had any enemies, attributed his employee’s untimely demise to simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
To date, nothing had indicated anything different to Dave and he was inclined to agree. Unfortunately, in this day and age, there were lots of nasty people out there.
As he drove across the Des Prairies River on highway 15, with George Robinson’s useless death on his mind, his thoughts strayed to the Vigilante. Maybe they should have left him alone. He had been supplying a valuable service to the population at large, making the world a safer place for its honest citizens.
Although Dave recognized that the man had been a criminal, he couldn’t help but feel some respect for him and for what he had undertaken. Dave himself had often had to fight off the urge to pull out his gun and blow some punk away. Knowing that they were back on the street before one even finished the paperwork was, at the very least, goddamn frustrating. But the law was the law and they had to play by the rules.
He allowed his mind to wander again as he drove and Chris Barry popped into mind. He was surprised, yet happy to have seen Chris. Shortly after the solving of the Vigilante case, he had been promoted and the size of his task force had been increased. Unfortunately, murder was a growing business.
At about the same time, CSS had been put up for sale so both he and Chris had ended up with very busy fall schedules and little time for social activities. He would make a point of getting together with Chris in the near future however, as he truly enjoyed the man’s company. He chuckled suddenly as he realized that what had created occasions for them to see each other thus far were murders. He’d have to warn Chris to stay away from such events lest he want to be considered a suspect.
* * * *
“So like I was saying, Mr. Johnson, we realized that we had too much space for nothing. That’s when we built this wall to cut off our warehouse from this side of the building and sectioned off this side into smaller storage areas. Most of our clients are local businesses who need occasional space for temporary overstocks.”
“Well, this will do just fine,” said Chris, nodding approvingly as he peered out towards the rear of the building through the windows of the office above the storage area. “You see, the mini-warehouses I saw were just too small. My parents have been living overseas for a number of years and now, my father has retired and they’re moving back here. While their house is being built, they’re gonna fulfil a lifelong dream and go for a trip around the world for a few months. In the meantime, they’re shipping all their stuff here, including a car, and I have to put it somewhere until the house is ready. Plus, there’s some furniture they bought, so on and so forth. Bottom line is, I need a place to stick it all and this would be perfect.”
“It’s available if you want it,” replied Tony Bradley, owner of the building located directly behind Quality Imports. “You can take one closer to the front if you want. Like you saw, they’re all pretty much the same.”
“No, I’d like this one,” insisted Chris. “I might use the office occasionally and this one has windows. I like to see outside.”
“Your call,” Tony shrugged indifferently. “They all cost the same; a thousand a month.”
“That’s fine. Three months should be all I need. Is cash acceptable?”
“Sure,” agreed Tony with a huge grin. “Cash is great.”
“Excellent,” said Chris, pulling out his wallet and starting to count. “There you go, Mr. Bradley; three thousand. I’ll let you know if I need it longer.”
“Hey, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, Mr. Johnson,” exclaimed Tony, admiring the wad of bills he clutched tightly in his fist. “And if you need anything else, don’t be shy. I aim to please.”
Chapter 12 - Saturday, January 25, 1997
Chris put away his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, being careful not to make any noise which might wake Sandy. She had worked late on some research for him the previous evening and deserved her sleep.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and headed downstairs to his workshop. He was nearly finished working on the equipment he needed and planned to go install it at his newly rented warehouse later that day.
After starting up ‘Cracked Rear View’, the first CD by ‘Hootie and the Blowfish’, he resumed his work on the modified video cam he had clamped to his work bench. Fifteen minutes later, the few remaining connections were complete and the transmitter was in place, set to the proper frequency. All that remained to be done was the testing.
He picked up a stopwatch, started it and placed it in front of the camera lens. After turning off the CD player, he headed for the garage, choosing the Lexus 400SC for his little ride. The roads were dry and at 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday, he figured he could speed a bit with little risk of getting pulled over.
Within minutes he was on the 40 heading west and then north on the 640. Twenty minutes later, he was approaching the Quality Imports building, heading west again, this time on the 440. He pulled out his cell phone, called a number stored in memory and gazed down at the Sony Watchman on the seat beside him.
Following a few seconds of static, the tiny picture cleared and he could see the stopwatch ticking away back at home. Twenty-four minutes, thirty-seven seconds. He punched a second memory number on the phone and
the screen went blank.
At Chomedey Boulevard, he crossed over the 440 and headed back east. As he approached Quality Imports, from the west this time, he looked at his watch. Five minutes had gone by since his last transmission. He recalled the first memory number on the phone and the miniature T.V. screen came back to life. Thirty minutes, three seconds. He smiled with satisfaction as he called yet a third number from memory, this one aimed at turning off his little network altogether.
At 7:39, he rolled the Lexus back into its spot in the garage and hurried to his work shop. He pressed the rewind button on the video cam and listened to the whirring sound of the tape. It stopped after fifteen seconds or so. Smiling with satisfaction, he pressed the play button. As the image of the stopwatch appeared on the camera’s small view-screen, he leaned forward to verify its time recorded on the videotape. Twenty-four minutes, forty-three seconds. He watched the recording for the next five minutes until it ended; at thirty minutes, five seconds. He smiled again and headed upstairs for another cup of coffee and the morning paper.
* * * *
“Good morning, sir,” yawned Sandy as she shuffled into the dining room where Chris sat reading the paper.
“Well, it’s about time,” teased Chris, tossing the paper aside. “I’ve been up for hours, I’ll have you know.”
“Yeah, so?” Sandy replied as she leaned down to hug him from behind. “That’s cuz while I was doing your work, you were sleeping.”
“Oh yeah? Well you better have something good for me,” retorted Chris with mock sternness, heading for the kitchen to get her some coffee.
“If you’re not satisfied, boss,” she called out with a sly smile, “You can hold off on those sexual favours I crave for."
The Consultant Page 5
