Except what he asked me in the hospital.
So Mr. Rogan, were you beaten up because of your investigation into Kevin’s death or because of your lifestyle?
The latter, I told him.
Are you sure of that?
It didn’t make sense then but now that I know there is a connection between the gang who beat me up and George, the man who controls Kevin’s company, it puts Arnold’s question in a different light.
But there are more questions than answers. Why would a major drug dealer like Blondie have a business relationship with a man who controls a company that is developing a product that could put drug dealers out of business? Or is Sam right: is Blondie an investor in one of George’s companies and is George unaware of Blondie’s gang connection? And why would George kill Kevin if it caused him a ten million dollar loss? Surely he wouldn’t. Yet Brad said that George wasn’t fazed by the loss.
I’m starting to believe that Kevin’s murder was part of a bigger picture, a picture I can’t yet see.
The questions gnaw at me. My gut tells me that Arnold is right and that somehow George and the drug gang are involved in Kevin’s death. But how? The cop in me burns to know the answers to all the questions. I glance at the front door of the detox centre; the answers are out there. I can’t solve a murder from inside detox, can I?
I stand up and turn towards the door but one thing holds me back.
Ellie.
If I don’t go through with detox and rehab, I may ruin any chance I might have had to be with her again. But, then again, Sam will not let me see her now and in a week she will be in Toronto with Sam and George, in what Sam considers safety. I guess if George does love Sam, he would never let anything happen to Ellie. But what happens if Sam is not there? Will Ellie still be safe?
My best bet is to go through with the detox and then rehab. I can also have the doctors look at my arm, give me some penicillin for the infection. If I am clean maybe I can go to Toronto, maybe…
I am teetering on the edge. Do I get out of here and take a run at finding Kevin’s murderer and maybe, just maybe, discover that George is implicated, or do I make the safe and sensible choice and stay here?
Then it hits me.
Safe?
Why have I been so stupid not to think of this before? There is no way George would want it broadcast that he and a drug gang have some sort of relationship. That’s why he and Blondie both headed out so soon after I had been there. They’re trying to hunt me down. The fact that I have uncovered the link between them has marked me as a dead man. Sam is bound to tell George that I’m in here. For all I know, she already has and there is a posse of gang members on their way.
That clinches it. There is no safety for me here. I need to be out there and I need to nail George for Kevin’s murder before he and his colleagues nail me into a coffin.
And deep inside me, in that place where even I can’t lie to myself, I know that the Beast is calling the shots. Getting out of here and solving Kevin’s murder is absolutely the right thing to do but it will also give me an excuse to continue using.
I go to the guy at the front desk.
“Look, I can’t check in right now.”
His look tells me he’s heard a hundred junkies say the same words.
“Mr. Rogan, it’s gonna be tough. I know, I was here as a patient a few years back and I remember how I felt at—”
“No. You don’t understand. Something has come up that I have to deal with. Something that has put my life in danger. There are people who want to kill me They’ll soon know I’ve come here and they’ll…”
His look stops me in mid sentence. He thinks it’s just another junkie’s paranoid fantasy. Why not? It sounds like one to me, too. Before he can speak, I turn round and head back down the hall and out the front door.
Outside, I call a taxi and then phone the Wallace residence to give Arnold some very specific and detailed instructions.
38
Cal
The cabbie is one of those irritating, talkative drivers who think his commentaries are all part of the service. He’s taking away from my much needed thinking time, as if thinking wasn’t hard enough when you’re sinking deeper and deeper into withdrawal. I shouldn’t have used my dwindling funds on a taxi but I want to get there fast.
“What do you think about the Canuck’s chances this season?”
“I don’t follow hockey.” It’s a lie but it shuts him up for a while.
The puzzle about why they didn’t kill me when they had me in the alley may be solved. I suspect George got them to hold off on going all the way for Sam’s and Ellie’s sakes. But now that I’ve made the connection between George and Blondie, that bet is off for sure. If they catch me again, I’m dead.
“Who d’you think’s gonna win the election?”
What election?
“I’m guessing it’ll be the one who gets the most votes.” Hopefully that will shut him up.
I can’t go back to my rooming house. Sam knows where it is. She waited outside, on the way to detox, while I packed the things I needed into the nice new backpack that Arnold provided when I moved in there. By now she will have told George about where I went and where the rooming house is. What I need to do now is—
“Guess who I had as a passenger the other day?”
“Listen buddy, just drive, will you.”
I need to find out everything I can about George. His connection with the drug gang means that he could easily have had Kevin killed. I can’t quite work out the motive but on that Saturday, I remember that George’s car was not parked in the driveway when I picked up Ellie. He could easily have been at Kevin’s.
But, wait a minute—
“Do you wanna go along Fourth or Broadway?” Delivered sullenly.
“For Jesus Christ’s sake, I don’t give a fuck, just shut up for once in your life and take me there.” That should do it.
When I went to pick up Ellie, the Bentley was gone, he could have left at any time before I arrived. When I got back to his house, the Bentley was back. Easily enough time to—
The driver has pulled over to the curb. “Get out of my cab. I don’t have to take that kinda talk from anyone, ’specially not some junkie who’s just come out of detox.”
I look at him and can see a Madonna and child statue on the dashboard and a rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror. My little outburst crossed the line for him, big time, but I need him to get me over to the Wallace’s residence so that Arnold can do what I asked.
“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ha—”
“Get out.” He’s not going to budge.
With as much dignity as I can muster, which isn’t much, I get out of the cab, pulling my backpack behind me. The moment the door closes, he floors the gas and squeals up the ramp onto the Cambie bridge, leaving me standing on Second Avenue across from the Cambie Street police station. I could stand here and try and flag another cab except that my driver has probably put out an alert using that fancy little computer terminal all the cabs carry. If he has, it’s for sure that no one is going to stop and pick me up. He’ll likely have blacklisted my cellphone number too. I’ll have to walk up the hill to Broadway. There’s a Starbucks there. I can shoot up in the washroom and then get a cab from a different company or take a bus.
As soon as I cross the street, I see him.
He’s about to get into a green Pathfinder which is parked between two police cars. My immediate thought is to avoid him but I don’t know why; maybe it is because of the tension at the end of our last encounter. I am about to deke across Cambie and out of his line of sight, when he looks up and sees me. After a brief double-take, he smiles. We walk towards each other and he transfers the file he is holding to his left hand. We shake hands, which feels unexpectedly awkward, considering we know each other so well.
“Hi, Cal.”
“Hey, Steve.”
When we were colleagues in VPD, we spent hours in each other’s company and
always had lots to talk about. Now, we are both at a loss for words. After a moment, he breaks the silence.
“It’s funny that I should run into you right now. You’re the reason I’m here.”
A frisson of concern runs down my spine.
“How come?”
“I’m following up on our conversation at the hospital.”
My heart beats just a little faster. He has been talking to someone about the possibility that I might be able to make it back into the VPD. Now that the moment is here, I am afraid to hear the verdict.
“And…?” I hold my breath.
“You were asking about unusual numbers of deaths on the downtown east side.” I expel the breath and nod, relieved yet let down. “Well, I thought I’d look into it and there have been more than normal recently. The Department is concerned about it. When Pickton killed all those prostitutes a few years back, we took a lot of flack for ignoring the missing women statistics for too long. Next thing we knew, we’d got the biggest mass murderer in Canadian history on trial. Well, the new Chief has an order out that if there’s any sign of unusual patterns of deaths or missing persons, they have to be investigated thoroughly. He’s even created a task force to look into the statistics.”
This is not what I wanted to hear. A task force will almost certainly uncover Kevin’s illegal testing of his Addi-ban drug; if that becomes public it would be devastating for the Wallaces.
“Anyway,” Steve continues, “after I spoke to you on Tuesday, I decided to talk to someone I know on the task force. He invited me over here today to talk to him. He told me there have been a lot of mysterious deaths recently and all of them are showing the same unknown chemical compound in their systems. The count’s up to fifteen now.”
Fifteen! I try to keep my face straight. When I talked to Sandi about Kevin’s rogue drug testing, she said that only seven people had died. Roy talked about a bunch of people dying but I don’t remember him using specific numbers… but fifteen. That’s half of the subjects in Kevin’s trial. Maybe they are all going to die and Roy’s one of them. I can’t let my shock show on my face. I sniff. Twice.
Steve is looking at me closely. “How did you hear about it?” he asks.
“From Roy.” I say as casually as I can, trying to mask that my need to get up to Starbucks—and into the washroom where I can fix up—is soaring. “One of his good buddies, a guy called Tommy, died suddenly and Roy said he’d heard of some other deaths. I was just curious.”
I can see that Steve suspects I know more than I’m telling. Hell, he was my partner, he knows I am. He opens the folder he’s carrying. “What was this Tommy’s last name?”
“Connor. At least that was what Roy and I knew him as.”
He scans a sheet. “Yes, he was one. Connor, Thomas, age 62. He’s the fifth one, died on October thirtieth.”
“Could I see the list, please Steve?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, Cal.” He closes the folder.
I hold his eye and I can sense that he is becoming uncomfortable. “Come on, Steve.”
He thinks for a second, looks around him then shrugs and hands it over. I smile and nod my appreciation; I know he is breaking the rules for me. I scan it and recognize two names: Spider Norton was a heroin addict whom I met a couple of times, so was James Capp. Before I hand the list back, I do one more quick scan. There’s something here but the heroin-craving will not allow my mind to focus on what it is.
“Can I keep this Steve?” I ask.
“You know the rules, Cal. That I can’t do.”
I look him in the eye and hold his gaze. It doesn’t work this time. “You know the trouble I’d be in if I gave this to you.”
“Please Steve. It may be relevant to Kevin’s murder.”
“You’re still pursuing that?”
“Yes, of course. And I’m getting close on something. This list might really help.”
He weighs the balance and I win.
“OK, OK,” he says as he hands it over, “I’ve got another copy in the file here; I got it for Nick.”
“Hey, thanks, man.” I stuff the paper in my pocket.
I have to get up to that Starbucks before I start groaning from the pain but I just need to know one more thing. “When you came to the hospital, I asked you to check something out for me. Did you get a chance to do that?”
“Yes, I’m going to meet with someone in Human Resources first thing Monday morning. Why don’t you give me a call after nine o’clock and I’ll let you know what they say.”
“That’s great, Steve. I really appreciate it.”
He nods. “Cal I talked to a couple of the guys, without mentioning you by name, they all said… Well, don’t get your hopes too high, eh.”
He extends his hand. “I gotta go.” We shake again and he turns towards his truck, then suddenly turns back. His face is serious. “Cal. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this either, but what the heck… Stammo sent your jacket off for DNA testing. The results could be back early next week.”
That’s the least of my problems. “No worries Steve. I told you, it’s Roy’s blood.”
I wince at the pain of hoisting my backpack over my shoulder and head up Cambie towards Broadway, trying not to stagger. The craving for that next fix is obscuring everything now, even my desire to check the names on Steve’s list.
39
Cal
Noon is fast approaching and I have seen no warning signs: no men sitting in parked cars; no expensive vehicles cruising the area just a little too slowly; no parked Harleys. I have done all the tricks to check myself for a tail: coming here by a circuitous bus route; making sudden changes of direction and looking for equally sudden changes in the people around me; checking reflections in shop windows; running across the road and into the public market, then hiding near the entrance to check for someone following me.
He insisted we meet here at midday but I can no longer trust that he’s operating as a free agent.
From my vantage point in the Starbucks, I see Roy in the stream of people coming out of the SeaBus terminal. He ambles towards Chesterfield, rain dripping off his leather hat. I hold until the last of the passengers is through. A quick scan reveals no obvious sign of a tail, so I head after him.
On the short walk to Sailor Hagar’s pub, I can observe no changes from when I walked this way fifteen minutes ago: no new cars parked; no pedestrians standing incongruously in the rain. I have adjusted my pace to match Roy’s. He doesn’t look around for anyone; he just trudges along, his gaze on the sidewalk a few paces in front of him. When he climbs up the steps to the entrance, I take a diversion and comb the streets for two blocks around the pub.
When I finally enter the place, dripping rainwater, I know that the only danger is if they are using Roy as bait and plan to arrive while we are in here. If he is being used, I wonder how willingly he is cooperating.
I scan all the tables. Although it is just after twelve, most are occupied. Only two people catch my eye: a burly guy in a Harley t-shirt with a ring of thorns tattooed around his neck, sitting alone at a table in a corner and watching a soccer match on one of the big screen TVs; the other, a wiry, hard-looking man of about fifty, sitting with a group of people who look like they are all from the same company.
Roy is sitting in the farthest, darkest corner. As I approach I catch the tail of an animated conversation with the buxom server who has brought him his beer.
“I’m sorry sir, you have to either pay for the drink now or give me a credit card so that I can run a tab for you.”
“For God’s sake,” Roy responds as he hungrily eyes the beer in front of him, “my buddy’s picking up the tab. He’ll be here any minute.”
She decides to settle the matter by retrieving the beer but Roy is too fast for her. He snatches up the glass and half empties it before her hand is half way there. I cannot help grinning.
“It’s OK,” I say. “I’ll be paying.”
She turns and checks me o
ut. I guess I pass the test because she sports a smile, bursting with whitened teeth. “No problem. I’ll run you a tab.” There is no mention of a credit card. Another example of how the world is stacked against the poorest. People take one look at guys like Roy and make a thousand instant judgments, most of which are just plain wrong. I know. I did. But living on the streets changed all that; there I learned that the quality of a man is not to be judged by his looks or his clothes or his circumstances. Men like Roy and Tommy Connor are as much pillars of their community as Mr. Wallace is of his.
“I’ll have a brown ale,” I say, giving no indication of my thoughts.
Another big, false smile. “I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks, Rocky,” Roy chuckles and takes another deep draft of his beer. “We was too fast for her, eh.”
I laugh at his glee. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in a while. The laughter takes on a life of it’s own and a tendril of my mind knows that I can’t stop. Roy is immediately infected and we sit rocking like a boat of fools adrift on a sea of mirth.
Eventually we get ourselves under control until Roy espies our server, returning with my order, and says, sotto voce, “Look out. Here comes tits and teeth.” It starts us off again and I can hardly thank her between guffaws. Roy struggles hard to get the words out to order another pint… but, being Roy, he succeeds.
When at last I stop, I realize I have been teetering on the edge of hysteria and that I’m close to tears. One wrong word will push me over that edge. A deep breath helps centre me.
“I needed that, Rock. I dunno when I’ve had a good laugh like that.” He’s wiping away the tears with hands that are leaving streaks of dirt on his leathery old face. He empties his glass and sighs contentedly.
I sweep the bar and see that ring-of-thorns and wiry are both still in place.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 21
