“Oh, come on, Arnold! You know as well as I do, Kevin would never kill himself while his father was still alive,” I protest.
“There are things you don’t know. Things I’m not prepared to discuss with you, or with anyone else for that matter, but they provide a very real motive for suicide.”
“Oh, you mean the illegal drug testing?” I cannot keep the gloating at my knowledge out of my voice.
His eyes harden and I see his nostrils flare. He’s going to hit me! My hands ball and my shoulders tense. Arnold may be twenty years my senior but he is powerful and hard; he would certainly give me a run for my money in a fight.
But before I can push my seat back, the moment passes and he seems to force himself under control. Seems to.
“Where did you hear about it?” he asks.
“I’m not prepared to tell you.” If I did tell him, in the mood he is in, he might go to Sandi’s office and kill her.
To my great surprise, he seems to accept my refusal. “That information must never be passed on to Mr. Wallace. Do you understand? He could not bear to know that Kevin has betrayed the family’s honour like that. If you ever tell him, Mr. Rogan, you will live to regret it.”
I do not need his threats to agree with this. “Believe me Arnold, neither he nor Mrs. Wallace will ever hear it from me.”
We look at each other and the tension between us subsides.
He removes a business card from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The obverse has an elegant and simple crested design with the name Wallace Investments in copperplate script. Arnold’s name is not in evidence but there is a phone number. On the reverse is a name and address written in an obsessively neat hand.
“That is your new address. It is a clean and functional rooming house. Go there and the owner will give you keys. The rent will be paid for as long as you live there and it will provide you with a good base from which to conduct your investigation.”
There is a condescension in his tone that irritates me. I suppress my immediate reaction. “Arnold, I’ve known you for over a quarter of a century and yet I don’t know your last name. What is it?”
In his eyes, there is confusion at the abrupt change of subject, then a sudden flare that reveals a blade of anger. “I hardly see the relevance of my surname,” he says in that haughty manner only the Brits can affect. “What is being offered here is—”
“Yes, Arnold. I know what is being offered.” I can feel my temper rising, irrational but real. “But you know, you are one of two people in my life whose last names I don’t know. It bugs the hell out of me. I’ll probably never know the other one’s but I want to know yours… now.”
“One other thing, Mr. Rogan.” I might just as well not have spoken. “Mr. Wallace asked me to tell you that whether or not you solve Kevin’s murder, when you decide to stop your use of heroin, he will support you in any way that he can. So… do not do anything stupid. Do we understand each other?”
My irrational side is now in full-on mode. “You know what Arnold? I’m going to solve Kevin’s murder but I’m going to do it my way. Please tell Mr. Wallace that I really appreciate his support, but I don’t need a rooming house or promises of future help. I will contact you if there’s anything I need and I’ll give you updates when and if I think they’re appropriate. Please give my very best regards to Mr. and Mrs. Wallace.”
I stand and slip the business card back into the breast pocket of his jacket, turn and leave the coffee-shop with as much dignity as allowed while hauling a green garbage bag of clothes in one hand and a giant cup of hot coffee in the other.
I am nursing the feeling that both Sandi and Brad have tried to manipulate me and that Arnold has tried to buy me.
But I am going to solve the mystery of Kevin’s murder and I am going to do it my way and on my terms. For the first time in years, I feel like the cop I used to be: in charge and confident in what I am doing.
Except I need to find a quiet alley in which to shoot away the pain worming into my bones.
19
Cal
Roy is pissed. In both senses of the word. It is not a good combination. I have finally tracked him down. We are sitting at a table in Beanie’s Eatery. It smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke, despite the city’s no-smoking bylaws. A hundred drunks are either hunched over their beer glasses, whining at their lot in life or talking and laughing aggressively. The word fuck, in all its conjugations and declensions, swirls through the air. An unpleasant place to be at any time but it’s Roy’s favourite hang out. Don’t ask me why.
He has consumed way too much alcohol for rational conversation but I want to confirm that Kevin was conducting illegal tests of his wonder drug. Then I realize, with a shock, that, more than anything, I want Roy to deny it, to prove Sandi a liar, to provide definitive proof Kevin did not do this thing that killed Tommy Connor and six others.
With Roy in his present state, I need to come at it obliquely.
“Are there plans for a service or anything for your buddy Tommy?” I ask.
“No. He’s still in the morgue. They’re doin’ an autopsy on him but they ain’t rushin’ it. They don’t care so much when the body’s a homeless person. Wouldn’t do it at all if the law didn’t say they gotta.” He sighs. “Poor bastard. It’s pure luck that I ain’t lying there beside him.” His face contorts into an angry frown.
“Roy, when you told me about Tommy’s death, you said something about bad drugs.”
“Did I now?” Roy at his most ornery.
“Yes, you did. But Tommy didn’t use drugs did he? He was a drinking man, like yourself.” ‘Drinking man’ sounds nicer than alcoholic or any one of a long list of sobriquets that could be applied.
“What of it?” Arms crossed, still intransigent.
“Well, why would Tommy die of bad drugs, if he didn’t use drugs?” I keep my questions quiet and gentle.
He shrugs and calls for another beer.
“So what did happen to Tommy, Roy?” I say it in my most reasonable voice.
“Why the fuck do you care, eh?”
“Because I liked Tommy and I care about what happened to him.”
“That the only reason?”
“No. I also think Tommy’s death may be connected to Kevin’s murder.”
He turns his battered old face to me, the bleary eyes focusing with difficulty. I see the malicious side of Roy darting to the surface like a Great White. Something wicked this way comes.
He spits out the words. “Your asshole buddy Kevin wasn’t murdered, you stupid fucker. He was the murderer! Him and his stupid fuckin’ drug. He’s what happened to Tommy. And to a bunch of others. But he didn’t have the guts to own up to what he done, did he? He fuckin’ killed himself instead.”
The hairs on the back of my neck come to attention as his words sink in. I have been hoping against hope that Sandi’s story about Kevin’s illegal drug testing would prove false, despite Arnold’s confirmation. Now that faint hope is gone. But the bigger questions are how did Roy know there were other people killed by Kevin’s drug and why is he so sure that Kevin killed himself? How could he possibly know that?
“Roy, what do you—”
My question dies in my throat as I look at him. Tears are streaming down his face and he is racked by sobs. “And God forgive me… I helped… I helped the bastard… I helped him find his guinea pigs.”
What! Roy was the one helping Kevin? The one Sandi referred to as someone outside the company. How the—
“I did it ’cos I knew he was yer friend and because he told me that he wanted to use the drug to cure you. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now? Are you?”
He lurches to his feet and sneers down at me.
He spits as he speaks, an unholy gleam in his eye. “I’m glad the bastard’s dead. I hope he rots for ever in hell. He was a fuckin’ murderer.”
There is an icy ring of truth to what he has said. From the maelstrom of thoughts assailing me, one pushes
to the fore. I have to know. “Roy, how do you know Kevin killed himself?”
But I have taken my eye off the ball. Roy lifts the other side of the table and pushes it over on top of me. As I go over backwards in my chair, I see him turn on his heel and head for the door.
I flail about for several seconds, getting the heavy table off me and rolling out of the downed chair onto the filthy carpet, so that by the time I am on my feet, the door is swinging closed behind him. I have to catch him right now and get the truth out of him. I start for the door but am brought up short by a powerful hand on my arm. It is the establishment’s bouncer. “What the hell are you doing?” He booms.
I try to pull away from his grip and follow Roy through the door but his hand is enormous; it is in proportion to the rest of him. He is holding my left arm at the elbow and the pain is much greater than it should be. “Look, I’m sorry, I have to catch my buddy.” I indicate the door with my head.
He shakes his head. “Roy’s a regular here,” he says. “We take care of our own.”
The noise level has dropped and a dozen pairs of malevolent eyes are focused on me. A couple of guys get to their feet and stand either side of me giving questioning looks to the bouncer. Survival moves to the top of my list of priorities. I weigh the odds. I could take any one of them, probably all three. The bouncer first. Use his grip on me, pull away and use his reaction to add force to the head butt. With him down, the other two will be easy. Then I sense that there are others standing behind me. Seconds pass. He smiles for a long moment, then lets go of me and walks to the bar.
I turn and five men are standing between me and the exit. They wait a beat then pull apart just enough to let me push between them. I walk through the doors onto Hastings Street but I am too late. It is dusk and Roy is not visible on any horizon.
The questions come flooding back in. How the hell did Roy know Kevin? I’ve never talked to him about Kevin—other than that he was an old friend who let me keep my good clothes at his house—and I’m sure that I never told Kevin about Roy. Why would I?
Like Arnold, Roy seemed so sure Kevin killed himself. Could my murder theory be wrong? If it is, then my secret plan, to solve it and prove my worth to the VPD, just went up in smoke.
I pinned so much on getting justice for Kevin and yet, if Roy is right, justice has, in a weird way, been served: Kevin has paid, with his own life, for the lives he took.
My world has collapsed around my ears.
20
Cal
It is a long time since I have felt such warmth. I struggle to suppress a veil of depression at the knowledge that it has been lost from my life; in the last three years, heroin has been my only solace, my last fix just two hours ago.
I have had a long, hard, confusing day, which started this morning when I walked into Sandi’s office—was it really only ten hours ago?—yet Sam and Ellie have cleansed me of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with nothing more than Sam’s homemade Osso Buco, a fine Chianti taken from George’s cellar and Ellie’s laughter.
We are sitting on bar stools around the butcher-block table in Sam’s kitchen. I asked if we could eat in here because the kitchen is Sam’s domain and, unlike the rest of the house, it bears no reminders of her fiancé George Walsh, which allows me to pretend for a moment that we are a family again, having a normal family meal. We have, as though by mutual consent, avoided all the subjects that would bare this illusion, but I know the illusion is about to be shattered.
Sam gets up and starts to clear away the plates; it is my cue. My gut tenses; the time to pay the piper has arrived. I have to put some things right. Now.
I reach over and pick Ellie up from her stool, settle her on my knee and glance at Sam, rinsing dishes at the sink. She smiles encouragement at me. I think of all the ways in which I have let down Sam and Ellie and know that this cannot be one more.
I put my arm around Ellie’s shoulder. “Mommy told me about what happened at school, sweetie.” I say.
She says nothing but I feel a slight shrug of her shoulders.
“I want you to know that it was my fault—”
“No it wasn’t Daddy. It was Nate. He said mean things about you. He said you were filthy. He said you—”
I put my finger gently to her lips. “Listen to me, sweetie,” I interrupt. “It was my fault because I didn’t explain to you what a junkie is. I’m going to tell you now, so that you know, OK?”
Another shrug.
This is the fundamental truth of my life.
“There are two types of drugs, sweetie. There are medicines that the doctor gives you or that you buy in a drug store and those are drugs that make you better when you’re ill. You know about those, right?”
She looks up at me a nods.
“But there’s another kind of drug you don’t get from a doctor. People take them because it makes them feel good; sometimes very good.” I pause to let that sink in.
“Like chocolate?” she asks.
“Kind of, except that it makes them feel a hundred times better than chocolate does.”
“A hundred times?”
“Maybe more, sweetie, but the problem is that when some people start taking these drugs, they can’t stop, even if they really want to; they have to take more and more and then more—”
“Oh, you mean like cigarettes,” she interrupts. “George smokes cigarettes but Mommy only lets him smoke them outside. I heard him tell Mommy that he really wants to stop but he can’t, right Mommy?”
Sam looks uncomfortable. “It’s not the same, Ell,” she says. “Listen to what Daddy is telling you.”
“The drugs I’m talking about are called heroin and cocaine and crack and crystal meth. When some people start taking these drugs they can’t stop taking them. People like that, who can’t stop, are called drug addicts or junkies.
“Ellie, I take a drug called heroin and… well, I’m a drug addict.” With a shock, I realize that I’ve never before said those exact words to anyone, not even to myself.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to look at Sam. The words have brought tears welling in her eyes but before either of us can say anything, Ellie says, “If it’s a hundred times better than chocolate, it must be really cool, Daddy.” The enthusiasm in her voice makes my blood run cold and I feel Sam’s hand tense. I don’t want to make drugs sound interesting or glamorous but I have to tell Ellie the truth.
“Yes, they do make you feel really good Ell but the problem is that they are very, very bad, not cool at all.”
“They can’t be good and bad, Daddy?” she chuckles.
I sense that Sam wants to jump in and say something but I turn and plead, “Let me explain it, Sam… Please.” She looks hard at me, then nods uncertainly.
I turn back to Ellie. “I take a drug called heroin and it makes me feel good when I take it but if I don’t take it every four hours, I get pains in my body; they are very bad pains and I get them everywhere. Sometimes if I can’t get heroin in time, the pain is so bad that I can hardly walk and all I can think about is stopping the pain. Sometimes the pain makes me scream. But then, when I take the heroin, all the pain goes away until four hours later, when it comes back again.”
I pause to let Ellie absorb this. She looks up at me then hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. “Poor Daddy.”
“Anyway sweetie, in nine days, I am going into a place like a type of hospital where they are going to help cure me of my addiction, so that I won’t have to take any more heroin and I won’t be a junkie anymore.”
A claw of fear squeezes my gut as I think about the pain I am going to have to live with for four or five sleepless days in the detox centre: one hundred and twenty solid hours; seven thousand, two hundred and twenty long minutes of agony; a time longer than any sadist could continuously torture his victim.
Sometimes Sam can read me like a book. She puts her arm around me, “You can do it Cal. I know you can,” she whispers as she brushes her lips against my cheek. I lo
ok into her eyes, wanting to kiss her and realize, with a shock, that her lips are parted and she is leaning in towards me. I feel the pressure of her breast on my arm and her fragrance catches in my nose and throat. My heart is beating a tattoo.
“When you stop being a junkie, are you and Mommy going to be married again?”
The smoulder dissipates and wafts away in the breeze of Ellie’s innocent question.
Sam pulls back and clears her throat. “No Ell,” she says, “But we’ll always be friends and we’ll always be your Mommy and Daddy. We both love you very much.”
Ellie looks disappointed for a second then takes another tack. “If George is a junkie for cigarettes, is he going to that hospital place too?”
“No Ell,” Sam answers, somewhat abruptly. “Cigarettes are different. People who smoke them aren’t junkies.” I sense in her voice that George would be most upset if Ellie called him a cigarette junkie. I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep the smile from my lips.
“Why?” The eternal kid question.
“Well…” Sam is searching for a right answer and her frustration is obvious. She catches the look on my face and says, “Daddy will explain it.”
I let the grin out. “The reason is that there are some legal drugs people get addicted to, like cigarettes or wine or beer. But others, like heroin and cocaine are against the law; the people who buy them and sell them can go to jail. They only call people addicts or junkies if their drugs are against the law.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know, sweetie.” And I don’t.
“Well, I do,” interjects Sam. “It’s because we don’t want our children using them. By making them illegal it makes them harder to buy.”
Oh that it were that simple, Sam. “I’m afraid you’re dead wrong there. Every cop in North America knows it is easier for a kid to buy a rock of crack cocaine from someone at school than it is to buy a six-pack of beer from a liquor store.” Sam starts to object but I stop her with, “I’m making an important point here, Sam.” I turn Ellie’s face so that she is looking directly into my eyes. Her look tells me she can see I’m deadly serious. “Ell, I want you to promise me something. If a boy or girl at school ever tries to give you a pill or some powder or a cigarette or anything like that, I want you to promise me that you will say No to them and, straight away, you will go and tell your teacher. Will you promise me that sweetie?”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 11
