Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  “Names first.”

  With a shock, I realize that I only have one name: George. Sam mentioning Blondie’s first name, David. Of the others I have no idea. My position erodes beneath my feet.

  “Last chance,” Stammo says.

  Here goes. “The guy at the top is George Walsh.”

  “Your ex-wife’s fiancé?” Steve asks. There is no sign of the expected incredulity in his voice.

  “Yes. I know it would be easy to say that I am making this up because I have an ax to grind about him marrying Sam but I’m not.”

  “Are you one hundred percent sure about this, Cal?” Steve asks.

  Nowhere near a hundred percent. “Yes, I am,” I say.

  Steve leans in and whispers something to Stammo who looks at him hard and then nods.

  “So what are your terms, Rogan?” Do I hear a glimmer of something in Stammo’s voice? Maybe he can’t resist the opportunity for glory that will fall out from any major gang bust.

  “You put any thoughts of arresting me for Kevin’s murder on the back burner. You let me in on this. I work with you and when it’s all over, you tell everyone, from the Mayor on down, that I brought this to you. That’s the deal.”

  “And if we don’t agree.” Stammo is being the tough guy but I can trump him.

  “Then I’ll take it to the RCMP. I’m sure they’d love to take a bust from right under the noses of the VPD.”

  The mention of the Feds seals the deal. No local cop likes to lose a bust to the Mounties.

  Steve and Stammo eye each other and I see the micro movement of Stammo’s head. They’ve bought it.

  “OK, Cal. You’ve got a deal but, no matter what, we are not going to be able to forget about Kevin Wallace’s murder.”

  “No prob. If we haven’t unearthed Kevin’s murderer as part of the investigation, then I’ll just turn myself over to you guys and we’ll see where the chips fall.”

  Stammo starts to object. “How do we know that—”

  “Wait a minute!” Steve interrupts him. “Are you saying that this money laundering is somehow connected to Kevin’s death?”

  “Yes. It’s how I unearthed it all. The guys we’re going after killed Kevin.”

  After a moment’s thought, Steve says “OK. Works for me. We can live with that.” He turns to Stammo. “I worked with Cal for years; I’ll take his word on this.”

  Stammo shrugs but I detect a falseness in Steve’s tone and, for the first time in my life, I wonder how much I can trust him.

  “Right. Let’s get this show on the road.” Steve says. “We’ll get our car, drive round the back there, pick you up and go downtown.”

  “I’ve got a ride.” I point to Brad. “I’ll see you there later. I’ve got to do something first. Roy was badly beaten up last night, by the same guys we’re going after. The doc says he may not make it but you know Roy, he’s a tough old bird. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be OK. But I want to drop in and see him before I come over to 312 Main.”

  “How badly was he beaten?” Steve’s concern is written on his face, together with something else that I cannot quite fathom.

  “Badly. Lots of internal damage and it triggered a heart attack,” I tell him.

  “Shit! Those bastards.” In the old days, when Roy was my snitch, Steve knew him well and they hit it off. But there is something more here. Steve looks at Stammo, a question on his face. Stammo is undecided. He looks from Steve to me and back again. He shrugs and, after a moment, nods.

  “What?” I ask. What’s going on here?

  Steve looks around, like he’s trying to get out of something.

  “What, Steve?” I ask again.

  “When we sent your jacket off to the lab for DNA testing of the blood, we also sent your DNA from our files, for elimination purposes.”

  “Sure,” I say, “it’s standard practice.” I don’t know why they are telling me this but I am getting an uneasy feeling about it.

  “Well the results came back that there were two samples of blood. Kevin’s and an unknown male.”

  Where is this going? “You told me all this,” I say, “and I told you it was Roy’s blood. He cut his hand the previous night.”

  Steve is silent and in that brief instant, I know exactly what he is going to tell me. I can feel electricity coursing up my spine as I grab the chain link fence to support myself.

  “Cal. There’s no easy way to say this but… if that was Roy’s blood on your jacket, then Roy’s your father.”

  50

  Cal

  Why couldn’t I see it? The words keep running through my head. The enormity of Steve’s revelation has shattered half the beliefs I hold about myself. My severe mother and the freewheeling Roy are my parents! I can’t make sense of that picture. How can it be and why couldn’t I see it? And why would my mother never tell me? Anger toward her flares in me at the thought… but, for some reason, I don’t feel angry at Roy.

  Roy is Ellie’s grandpa… and somehow that fits: the happy-go-lucky gene skipping a generation.

  Now I know why Roy has always tried to take care of me on the streets. But my paternity begs a lot more questions than it answers. Questions that I will start asking in just a few moments. Especially the big one. I find I am looking forward to seeing him in a whole new way. A good way. For many sons, their fathers becomes their friends but how many can say that their friend became their father? I smile at the thought as I walk into the ICU.

  But the smile washes from my face. I am too late. He is gone. His bed is empty. My stomach drops through the floor. Despite what the doctor said, I was so sure that he would pull through. Why didn’t I stay with him last night and sit beside my friend as he died? But then perhaps Steve would not have told me about the DNA results and I might never have known. I force back the tears forming in my eyes at the irony of learning my paternity and then losing the opportunity of ever getting to talk to my father before he died.

  An irrational anger stirs me. Why did he die before I could talk to him? Why couldn’t he just hang on long enough to acknowledge me as his son? So like Roy to run away from that responsibility. I hate this anger but can do nothing to suppress it. To distract myself, I look around.

  In the way that only a hospital can, they have erased all traces of Roy’s sojourn here; it is as though it were a dream that I sat here and held his hand for the only time in our history together.

  “Can I help you?” Her voice is severe. I am trespassing in her domain.

  “I was looking for Roy. Roy… Connor.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “Yes. I’m his…” My voice breaks. I cannot release the word.

  She softens but her face confirms my fear. I dread what she is going to say.

  But she surprises me.

  “He was transferred to the cardiac ward on the sixth floor of the Centennial building.”

  A wave of relief courses through me and I thank the God whom I don’t believe in. “How is he?”

  “I’m not sure. You would have to ask them up there.”

  The elevator ride is interminable. It stops at every floor; gurneys roll in and roll out; visitors get on and get off, their faces a chart of their loved one’s conditions; nurses and doctors armed with clipboards and stethoscopes enter and exit, dropping fragments of information about their patients.

  “I’m looking for Roy Connor,” I say to a nurse at the sixth floor nursing station.

  She gives the sympathetic smile and asks the inevitable question. “Are you a relative?”

  “Yes.” This time I think I can say it. “I’m uh… his son.” Why couldn’t I see this? Was I so stupid that I missed something?

  “Just a moment.” She picks up the phone and dials, smiling at me as she waits for the answer. “Dr. Duffus, Mr. Connor’s son is here.” She hangs up. “He’ll be right out.”

  “How is… my father?” The word is surreal but somehow joyful, like the first time you talk to a stranger and refer to your new br
ide as your wife.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know his exact status.” She equivocates.

  “Mr. Connor?” I do not at first react to the name. “Mr. Connor.” The English voice belongs to a good looking man in his fifties. “I’m Barry Duffus. I’m your father’s doctor.” His smile is friendly and warm and, in a surge of intuition, I know that Roy is in good hands; it gives me a big boost of hope.

  I shake his hand. “How is he Doctor?”

  “Come with me. We’ll talk as we walk.” He starts down the corridor. “You father had a massive heart attack. When we x-rayed him, we discovered that his internal organs have been compromised over the years. His heart is very weak. It’s good that you’re here now.”

  “But he will recover?” It is as much a statement as a question.

  “It’s… unlikely,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  And yet, despite his pessimism, I know that Roy will pull through this and somehow we will form a new relationship and new lives long into the future.

  He opens the door to a small ward. Two of the beds are empty. All that I can see in the third bed is the shaggy grey head of a body which is curled under the covers in a fetal pose. This is the room where they bring people whom they think are going to die.

  Roy is propped up in the fourth bed, eyes closed. The covers are rolled down to his waist and his upper body is naked. He is breathing heavily with the help of a transparent oxygen mask. The straggly grey hairs on his chest do nothing to mask the bruises. His face is misshapen from the punishment it has taken and for the first time I study that face, looking for similarities to my own. Our noses are about the same size and shape and our eyes are not too different, although his are blue and mine more green. Even our lips are the same shape. The question comes again: Why couldn’t I see it? It was in front of me all the time.

  Dr. Duffus breaks into my thoughts. “Although he will feel cold and clammy to your touch, he’ll complain of being hot.” He smiles sadly. “I’m sorry there’s nothing more we can do for him.” He shakes my hand in both of his and leaves.

  “Roy… Roy, it’s me, Rocky.”

  The eyes flicker and open. It takes them a minute to focus. “Hello, Rocky,” he croaks. He licks his lips. “Get me some water, Rock. I’m parched. I’m burning up here.” He chuckles. “I must be standing too close to the gates of Hell.” His sense of humour is still alive and kicking and it further buttresses my hope against the doctor’s prediction. This is not the end of Roy.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and reach across for the water on his night stand. I hold the bendy straw to his lips and he takes a small sip. “Thanks.”

  I take his hand in mine. There is a clip on his index finger from which a lead runs to a monitor. He gives my hand two squeezes, smiles and nods. The questions bubble up inside me, all the things I have to know.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Roy?” I ask.

  “Tell you what, Rock?” He asks the question with an innocence that stirs a whiff of anger in me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you were my father, for God’s sake?” My voice has risen several decibels.

  “Who told’ja that?” There is a denial in his voice; perhaps he doesn’t know. “Father. Huh.” The addendum or, more accurately, the way it is delivered, puts paid to the denial.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit, Roy. You know as well as I do.” My voice is a shout and the body in the other bed stirs.

  In the long silence, a cloud passes over Roy’s face. “How’ja find out?” he whispers.

  “DNA. When they checked out the blood on my jacket.” I have my anger under control now.

  “Oh.” He takes four laboured breaths.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Roy? Things could have been so different.” My anger dissipates and I wonder where it came from in the first place.

  “Ain’t it obvious?” There is anger in his voice now. Am I missing something here?

  “Not to me, Roy. No.”

  “Figure it out.” He closes his eyes and is breathing more easily.

  But I can’t figure it out. Why would a man deny his only son? The thought hurts. “Tell me Roy, please.”

  Two deep breaths, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “I didn’t want’cha to know that yer father was a pathetic old drunk.”

  “You were never pathetic to me. You were my best friend.” I squeeze his hand and hold back the tears.

  He nods. “I wanted to protect you. You’d achieved so much; I was so proud of you. I didn’t want to bring you down. You was better than me.”

  “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to ‘bring me down’, why did you—”

  With a surprising force, his hand crushes mine, cutting me off. “Listen,” he says. He is breathing more quickly now and I see him struggle to get it under control.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” he says. “Don’t interrupt. Just listen for once. OK?”

  I just nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  He takes deep inhalations forcing his breathing to slow while he puts his thoughts in order. It takes several agonizing minutes before he starts to speak.

  “I was twenty-two when I met yer mother and I was living in a hippie commune on Fourth. Kits was Vancouver’s Haight-Ashbury then, not the yuppie place it is now.” Each sentence is punctuated by his laboured breathing.

  “I met her at a free concert down on Jericho Beach. She was beautiful. She actually had flowers in her hair. It was love at first sight.” He smiles at the memory. “I wanted her to move in with me but she wouldn’t. She was nineteen, lived with her parents and worked in a Hungarian deli. Her folks was old country and there was no way they was ever going to let her date some uneducated hippie. For her it was part of the excitement. The secrecy. Y’know, dating someone who’d make her parents freak out.”

  I am having difficulty seeing my severe mother in this picture but she is there. I know Roy is telling me the truth. His breathing has evened out; maybe he’s over the worst now.

  “We was together for almost a year but it was bound to come to a bad end. I was making a living dealing acid. A friend of mine was a chemist, he manufactured it and I sold it up and down Fourth. It wasn’t like drug dealing today. No one ever got addicted to LSD; it was just a bunch of people experimenting and having fun, eh.

  “I was making a lot of money but spending it like water.” The thought of Roy having money to spend like water makes me shake my head in amusement. “I dropped acid now and again but I was drinking heavy and your mother didn’t approve. Then it happened. She came to me and told me she was pregnant. She said her parents would freak and that she wanted me to pay for an abortion.” He stops for a moment, his breathing more laboured again.

  The shock of this bit of information raises the hairs on the back of my neck. In complete opposition to my beliefs about a woman’s right to choose, I think, “My mother wanted to kill me.” I cannot shake the thought off or rationalize it away with logic. My stern but loving mother wanted to kill me. Cold descends on me.

  Roy gets his breathing under control. “Abortions was tricky back then,” he continues. “There was no clinics like now. There was some doctors who’d do it, but mostly it was done in dirty, backstreet rooms by woman who didn’t know what the fuck they was doing.

  “Anyways, I didn’t believe in it. I was living the hippie life and we believed in love and peace and flower power: all that shit.” As he struggles again for breath, I imagine him in sixties clothing with beads and flowered shirts and a full head of shoulder length hair. A grin spreads over my face as my emotions continue their roller-coaster ride.

  His breathing evens out again. “So I told her we should have the baby and live together. She got real angry and stormed out.”

  He gestures towards the water and I give him another couple of sips. He winks at me. “A beer would be real nice right now, Rocky.” I laugh. Of all the things he might have said, this is the one that tells me he is going to pull through. Doctor Duffus has n
o idea what a tough old bird Roy really is. I make a mental note to smuggle in a six-pack tomorrow.

  “I’m glad I wouldn’t let her do it.” He squeezes my hand and gives me his crooked old smile. I wonder if my mother would have gone through with the abortion; I’ll never know now. But he has answered one question that has bothered me my whole life. Why did she never tell me about my father? It is plain to me now. She made a point of never lying to me but if she had told me this story, she would have had to tell me that she wanted to terminate her pregnancy and me with it. She could never bring herself to do that. I feel a great flood of sympathy for the frightened nineteen year-old, pregnant by her irresponsible boyfriend.

  After a minute, he continues. “So she went home and told her parents and they threw her out of the house. Just like that. She came back one last time, begging me to help her get the abortion and when I told her I didn’t think it was right, something seemed to break in her.” Another pause for some deep breaths. “I don’t know if I understand it myself but she seemed like she all of a sudden turned into a block of ice.” He thinks for a moment then adds, “No. Not ice. Steel. She walked out and said she would never speak to me again.” I recognize my mother in those words.

  “At first I couldn’t handle losing her. I really loved her. I want you to know that, Rock.” The unwelcome tears try and force their way into my eyes. He squeezes my hand again and I reciprocate, knowing that I have always loved this old man, despite our occasional ups and downs. “I went to the deli where she worked and tried to talk to her but she refused to say a word to me. So one day, after the deli closed, I followed her. She was living in a little apartment in Marpole. I discovered later that she shared it with a couple of girls. I never approached her again but I’d just kind of keep tabs on her. When she got close to her time, I hung around outside her apartment one day and waited for one of her room mates to come out. I gave her a hundred bucks, which was a lot of money in them days, and made her promise that she would come and tell me when you was born, eh.

  “She kept her promise and I snuck into the hospital, Grace Hospital it was called in them days, and saw you for the first time in that room they put the babies in. I looked through the window and saw you. Baby Rogan it said on the little blue card. Even though it was her name, not mine, I don’t think I’ve ever felt happier.” A tear trickles down his cheek and he signals for more water. I was born in the same hospital as my darling Ellie and I’ve been absent for much of her life. The sins of the father, visited upon the son?