Stammo is calm now; he sports the smug smile of success. “Well, that’s OK then.” His voice is oozing sarcasm. “But I’m sure you won’t mind if we verify that will you Mr. Rogan?”
Steve intercedes for me. “Nick, do you really think—”
“You know the law here, Rogan.” Stammo continues as if Steve had not spoken. “We do have the right to seize that jacket as possible evidence.”
I look at Steve, knowing that he won’t let Stammo get away with this. After a couple of seconds staring at Stammo, he just shrugs. Et tu, Brute.
I have no choice. I want to tell them that it’s cold outside at nights and I need the jacket but that would just be too demeaning.
I start to stuff my things back into the garbage bag.
However, maybe I can eke an advantage out of this situation. Now it’s quid pro quo time.
“Steve. Will you do just one thing for me?”
“Sure.” Said cautiously.
“Can you give me a copy of the suicide note?”
Stammo is in there like a cat after a bird. “What the fuck for?”
I just stand and wait for Steve to answer. He glances back and forth between Stammo and me, looking for a way out. Stammo’s glare tips him over. “Sure. Why not?”
When he brings me the copy, warm from the Xerox, I am sure I’m right. Kevin was murdered.
And I am going to find his killer.
10
Roy
I hate this fuckin’ place. Full of freakin’ yuppies with their flashy clothes and cellphones. These days you can’t tell if someone’s talking to themselves ’cause they’re looney toons or ’cause they’re on a cellphone with one of them ear things. The whole freakin’ world’s gone crazy.
I’m real out of place here. I wouldn’a come here at all but Rocky likes it. He used to come here with that bastard Kevin and some other friend, Brad I think his name was. But I gotta say they do brew a nice beer and I got a real thirst on me after two days in the hospital.
“Thanks for bringing me, Rock.” I take a long swig of the lager. “And thanks fer gettin’ me outta St. Paul’s. Them walls was closing in on me.”
“No prob, Roy.” Rocky takes an equally long swig of his IPA. It’s too bitter fer my taste but he just loves it. “It was difficult finding you in there, not knowing your last name…”
He leaves it hanging. I’ve never told nobody on the street my last name, not even Rocky, and I’m not about to start now. I kinda like that it bugs him.
He looks at me over his beer and I know that look, it’s his cop look. I ain’t seen that in a long while; it’s good to see, it reminds me of the old Rocky, but I wonder where it’s coming from.
“While you were in the hospital Roy, I made a big decision,” he says.
“What’s that, Rock?”
“You’ve heard me talk about my buddy Kevin?”
Oh fuck!
“Yeah.” I say, keeping my voice real even.
“I was at his place on Saturday, you know to change my clothes before going to see Ellie, but when I got back there in the afternoon, he was dead. I found the body. Someone had stabbed him.”
My eyes open up wide. I gotta keep control now. I can’t let him guess what I know or how I feel. ’Specially how I feel.
“What happened?” I ask, still keeping my voice nice and even.
“This morning, I met with my old buddy at VPD, Steve Waters. You remember him, right? They said the forensics point towards suicide, but I can’t accept that. I knew Kevin. He would never kill himself.”
I know why he would.
“I decided I’m going to look into it myself and find out who killed him.”
I take another long drink of my beer to give myself some thinking time and, as a thousand things spin through my mind, there’s one thing I know fer sure: nothing good can come of him investigating Kevin’s death. I got to head him off from this and I know how to do it.
“Well, I been doing some thinking too, Rock.” I can hear the sarcasm in my voice and so can he. “The reason I was in the hospital in the first place was ’cause of you.” I stop to let that sink in and, from the guilty look he’s giving me, I guess it does.
I take a quick look around; you gotta be careful, even in a place like this. I drop my voice to a whisper. “You can’t go on supporting your habit like you have been, eh. It was OK to roll the odd dealer here and there. Stealing from drug dealers ain’t really stealing anyway. And you was smart, you never picked the same guy twice and you didn’t restrict yourself to the downtown east side neither. You kept a sense of proportion too. Never rolled no one for more than three or four grand. Never hit the same gang too often. Never nothing to draw serious attention. That was smart.
“But this last time you blew it. You picked the wrong guy to roll. He was too well organized. He had backup. And worst of all, he got a good look at the both of us, eh. When he came after you at the Lion, you was just plain lucky to get away with it.” I look hard at him. “I wasn’t so lucky.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Roy, but—”
“But nothing. While you’re on the street you’re a liability to me. What you need to do now is forget this whole thing. If the cops say it’s suicide then that’s what it is. You ain’t a cop no more Rocky, they fired your ass two and a half years ago,” I can see that hurts him but I gotta press on. “So just leave it alone. Now’s the time for you to get into detox and right after that into rehab.”
Before he can argue with me, the food’s delivered by a snotty looking waitress. I drink down my beer and order another one. She gives me a look like I’m something she just stepped in.
“You’re right, Roy.”
What!
A sadness comes into his face. “Do you know what Ellie said to me on Saturday?” he asks. “She said, ‘A junkie’s a good thing, right Daddy?’ Right there and then I knew I had to get straight for her.”
God bless little Ellie. If we can get him off the streets before he learns too much…
“’Course you do,” I say. “It’s gonna be hard but you gotta do it. For yourself and for that cute little girl of yours. You’ll be able to get back on your feet, get a place and maybe have her live with you on weekends or something. You can take her to a fancy Italian restaurant anytime you want. Maybe invite me to come and stay sometimes so that I can meet her, just like you’ve always promised. I’d like that. I would.” I think I’m getting through to him.
“This morning I called the help line for the detox centre on East Second,” he says, “They’re full at the moment but they put me on their waiting list. Said they should have a place for me in a week or ten days. I’ve got ten days to solve Kevin’s murder.”
“You sure they can’t get you in there sooner?” I ask.
He nods.
Well, that’s it. Rocky’s never lied to me; the only person he ever lies to is himself. I just gotta find a way to stop him doing any investigating. Maybe even…
“How did Tommy die, Roy?” he asks out of the blue.
The sadness comes on just like a wave washing over me. Tommy’s death has really got to me, especially seeing as it was all my fault. I have to look up and blink so as I don’t start bawling. If I hadn’t’a… Ahh, what the fuck! There’s no point in dwelling on it. What’s done is done, even though it never should have happened. It’s brought home to me how life on the streets is, what’ja call it?… fragile, that’s it, fragile.
I really wanna tell him… Maybe I should… Get it off my chest and tell him the truth, the whole truth.
“Well, it’s like this…” As I get my thoughts together, it hits me as to what the truth will do to Rocky; I don’t wanna be the one to tell him, it’ll tear him apart and it will make him even keener to look into Kevin’s death. “Not now, Rock. It’s too soon. I can’t talk about it right now. Maybe later.” I hope he ain’t gonna push it.
I can tell he’s not satisfied with the answer but he just lifts his glass and chinks it a
gainst mine. “Here’s to Tommy. And here’s to you, Roy,” he says. The beer feels good going down. I have to work hard to stop myself from finishing it all in one go. I wonder where he got the money to bring me here.
Oh, no. Don’t tell me he’s…
“Rocky,” I lean towards him and whisper, “where did’ja get the money for all this? You haven’t been…?” from habit, I look around again for dangerous faces, “y’know…”
“No Roy. After what that dealer and his pit bull buddy did to you on Saturday night, I’ve retired from that game.” He has a guilty look on his face now. “When I found Kevin, his wallet was on the table with a load of cash in it.” Now he’s blushing. “Before the police arrived, I took most of it. Left just enough so that it wasn’t empty. What was strange was that when I got round to counting it, there was over a thousand bucks. Why would Kevin have that much cash on him?”
I choke on a piece of pizza trying not to laugh. We’re eating and drinking on Kevin’s thousand dollars! There’s a word for this. What is it? Rocky’d know; he’s full of big words. What is it?… Ironic. That’s it. For a minute, I think about telling him but I’m still sober enough not to, thank God. He wouldn’t find it funny.
“I dunno, Rock. But look at it this way. If Kevin’d known you’ve made the decision to get clean and get off the streets, he’d have wanted you to have that money.” I can’t hold back a smile. “Even if we are blowing some of it on beer and pizza.” I take another long drink.“Sometimes it’s nice to have money to burn.”
His face has taken on a funny look. Like a kid who just got slapped by his Ma. Now what have I done?
“Rocky. What is it? Was it something I said?”
“No Roy. I was just remembering something. You didn’t say anything wrong.”
“What is it?”
He looks off like he’s looking out to sea. He’s deciding if he’s gonna tell me something.
Still not looking at me, he says, “When you said about having money to burn, you reminded me of when I was a kid. One day I found this envelope on the front step. I must have been about ten years old at the time. I opened it and it was full of money. I counted it. It was a lot of money; for us it was anyway. I ran into the kitchen laughing. ‘Mom,’ I shouted, ‘we don’t have to move again. Look what I found out front. You can pay the rent and we can stay here.’
“Without a word, my mother took it from me, looked at her name, hand written on the envelope, then removed the contents. One by one, she tore each banknote and dropped the halves in a saucepan, then lit the last two notes on the red hot element of the electric stove and set fire to the lot. Nine hundred and thirty dollars, three months rent in those days, burned to ashes.
“As a kid, I couldn’t work out why she would do that. I still can’t.” He shakes his head.
It’s the first time in the seven years, since I first walked up to Rocky in his unmarked cop car, that he’s ever talked about his childhood and it has answered a question I have always wondered about. It makes me sad all over again.
11
Cal
The mansion is the most beautiful home I have ever been in; it has always been a haven of peace for me, warm, loving and welcoming. Approaching the threshold today makes my stomach churn.
It was for Kevin alone that I attended the funeral, where I avoided the judgement in the eyes of my fellow mourners by keeping my head bowed. If I had to make eye contact—as I did with a tearful Brad when we raised the casket to our shoulders—I gave the half-smile, nod, avert-eyes routine which one adopts at funerals.
But here it will be different. I am here not for Kevin but for his parents—if they will allow me in—and I will be on view to many who knew me before my very public descent into a life of drugs.
Before I can succumb to my rising desire to turn tail, the imposing front door is opened by the ramrod-straight Arnold, Mr. Wallace’s personal assistant. “Mr. Rogan,” he has called me that since we first met, when I was twelve. “Come in.”
He takes my jacket and hangs it on the rack in the corner of the hallway. It looks out of place beside the expensive furs and cashmere coats and, although it is my ‘good’ jacket, I am acutely aware that my definition of good has eroded. I glance down at what I am wearing and feel shamed, which feeling is then magnified tenfold as I place my garbage bag of belongings under my jacket.
“My condolences,” Arnold enunciates in his very British accent; I assume it is for Kevin’s death, not for the nadir to which I have fallen.
“And mine to you Arnold.” I say gratefully, for I cannot yet detect any indication of a changed attitude toward me.
“Thank you, sir.” He has known Kevin since he was born and must feel his loss sharply. I look into his eyes. It’s the first time I’ve really looked at him, looked at the lithe, whipcord thin man in the expensive Harry Rosen suits, the man who has been with the Wallaces since long before I was born. I wonder how he feels about Kevin’s supposed suicide. Does he accept the story or does he know, like me, that Kevin would never take his own life? Now is not the right time but at some point I must question him about what he knows or thinks.
For the first time in my life, I offer him my hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, we shake; I wonder if the presence of death sharpens the need for physical contact between those still living. His hand is cold and the shake is long and beyond firm; I almost wince.
I extricate my hand and before taking the four marble steps down from the entrance lobby, I scan the large reception room for Mrs. Wallace. I catch the glances of several of the mourners and can read the emotions from discomfort to disdain to disgust. An elderly matron, one of Kevin’s aunts, nudges her companion and points in my direction. Again I want to turn tail and run out of this house, back to the solace of the familiar faces on the downtown east side.
Then I see her, the woman who was as much a mother and more of a role model to me than my own mother had the ability to be. I hurry down to join the end of the line of people who are waiting to offer their condolences.
As I wait my turn, I sense a presence move in behind me and feel compelled to turn round. I am face-to-face with the Mayor, a not unexpected guest. I did not notice him at the graveside although I recognized several Federal MPs, a cabinet minister, two senators and a smattering of provincial politicians. All are here out of respect for Kevin’s family and, perhaps, for the healthy campaign contributions they are known to bestow. Like most cops, or ex-cops, I have a healthy distrust of politicians of any stripe but the current Mayor of Vancouver is the exception.
Yet he is an enigma to me: law and order has always been a big part of his political platform—which has garnered the support of almost everyone in the VPD—but, in complete opposition to that platform, he has stated more than once that he strongly supports the legalization of drugs: all drugs, not just marijuana. It is a position that, as a cop, or rather as an ex-cop, makes no sense at all to me. Why make drugs more available than they already are?
“Mr. Mayor.” I extend my hand. “Cal Rogan.”
He obviously recognizes me but cannot put a context around me, something every politician hates.
“Mr. Rogan.” His shake is firm. “I’m pleased to meet you again, even if on such a sad occasion. You were a friend of Kevin’s, of course.” It is said in such a way that it could be a statement or a question.
“Yes, sir. Since we were at Magee High School together.”
Somehow, my reply triggers his memory. “Of course. Kevin and his family were at the ceremony we had for you and Detective Constable Waters at City Hall, right after you sent those gang members to jail.”
His smile is warm but I sense a wariness. His clever control of the publicity around the big gang bust Steve and I made helped to reinforce the law and order side of his platform and was a contributing factor to his re-election. However, my fall from grace into my current life caused him some embarrassment. I feel myself flushing with embarrassment of my own.
He resolves
the conflict in a manner foreign to most politicians: by being straightforward. “I was sorry about what happened to you. You were a good detective and you had the potential to be a great one. What is your, uh, status at the moment?”
The junkie in me wants to lie about how great I am doing but under the scrutiny of those clear blue eyes I say, “To tell you the truth sir, I’ve pretty much hit rock bottom. I think I’m ready to quit now. I know I am. But what I don’t know is if I have the strength to do it.” I am shocked at my own candour
He looks hard at me, delving beyond my eyes. “I think you do, Cal.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and I feel the electric charge of his charismatic personality. “If you ever straighten yourself out, maybe…” He hesitates for a long moment, wishing perhaps that he had not spoken so quickly. “I can’t promise anything but when you’re sure the time’s right, come and talk to me anyway.”
I am overwhelmed by what he is saying but before I can formulate a response, Kevin’s mother’s hand closes over mine and she pulls me to her side. I hungrily take this as a sign of her acceptance of my presence here. “Mr. Mayor,” she says. “How good of you to come.”
As they talk cordially, like the old friends they are, I feel that yearning deep in my soul to be a cop once again. It’s a yearning I’ve suppressed since the day they fired me. I swallow and my eyes prickle. Was he saying that if I sort myself out, I can get back in? He would somehow smooth the road back to the department? Can he do that? If so, why would he? And why would he say so now, today, the day of Kevin’s funeral?
Maybe his attitude towards the drug problem is part of this. Maybe he thinks that as an addict I am in flavor of legalization and that, if I were to return to the VPD, I would become an inside supporter of his position. But maybe I’m more of a cop than an addict, because legalization has never made any sense to me; I just can’t see how it would work.
Even so, the Mayor is a man with a reputation for doing the right thing. If I could be a cop again… No, I must be reading something into what he said. But what if…
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 6
