I try to focus on Steve who is debriefing the Deputy Chief of the VPD, sitting in the front passenger seat, while the V8 engine whisks us silently across the Lion’s Gate bridge towards the Walsh residence in West Van. There is no siren, just a red light on the dashboard flashing a warning to let us pass.
My big worry is that George has got word of the bust of his money laundering operation and has flown the coop.
“From the bust this afternoon,” Steve is saying, “we counted the money and there was fifteen grand in cash dropped off at each of the foreign exchange places and an average of twenty-three hundred at each of the convenience stores.
“We arrested the CEO of the foreign exchange company and the slimy bastard caved right away and gave Walsh up, claims he was being forced to do it. What was really interesting is that the operation is much bigger than we thought. The company has seventeen branches: Toronto, Montreal, Calgary and here. There were drop-offs every day. We did the math. They were laundering at least ninety million bucks a year.”
Even these details do not allow me to focus my mind away from my worries about Ellie, in that house with George.
“The convenience stores are a little more difficult to tie down. We raided six of them. Unfortunately they are all owner operated in a loose franchise arrangement that Walsh has with them. The owners don’t know anything except they had to take in the cash and write cheques every week to three or four different companies, at least one of which we traced back to Walsh. From what we can piece together, there could be forty or fifty stores involved in Vancouver alone. They could account for another forty million a year. Maybe more in other cities, we don’t know yet.”
The deputy whistles. “So we could be talking a hundred and thirty million bucks a year money laundering scheme.”
“Maybe more,” Steve opines. “We haven’t even looked at his chain of dollar stores. We’ll know more in a few days.”
The numbers boggle my mind. No wonder George can afford that five million dollar house. I do the math: he bought it with just two weeks of laundered revenue.
“It’s a big win in the War on Drugs, sir,” Stammo the sycophant adds.
I can’t resist asking. “Oh crap, Nicky. Didn’t they tell you?”
His annoyance at the use of the diminutive is vanquished by his curiosity. “Tell me what?” he grates.
“It was in all the newspapers. The War on Drugs is over… Drugs won.”
The Deputy Chief chuckles and I earn a vicious dig from Stammo’s elbow. He manages to hit both my ribs and the infection in my arm. It makes me gasp but it was almost worth it.
“You’re right, Rogan,” says the Deputy. “Nothing we do is going to stop people taking drugs; in fact, because they’re illegal it makes them more exciting to a lot of people, kids especially.” He sighs. “And all the hard-to-come-by millions in budget money we have to spend on interdiction…”
There is a weariness in his tone which generates a strange and uncomfortable thought in my mind. I was a cop for thirteen years, most of that time risking life and limb fighting the criminals who run the drug trade and so the illegality of drugs is programmed into me. Even as a junkie I have never questioned it. But George and his gang are making at least a hundred and thirty million a year, in spite of the fact that their business is illegal. No, that’s wrong. It’s because drugs are illegal that they can sell them at such huge profits.
“Do you agree with the Mayor that drugs should be legalized, sir?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter what I think or what the Mayor thinks, for that matter. It’ll never happen in this country.”
“Why not, sir?” Even Stammo is intrigued.
“The US would never let us. They would close the borders on us.”
I can’t believe that we are having this conversation. “Why, sir?” I ask.
“Too many powerful special interests down there who don’t want to hear anything about legalization. Legalization in the US would put seventy percent of criminal lawyers out of business; the corporations that run the prisons would go broke overnight; police departments, DA’s offices and at least four federal agencies would face huge budget cuts and layoffs. Then the unions would get in on the act. It’s a long list. Add to that the profits from the drug business are so frigging huge the gangs could afford to pay every Senator and every Congressman a million dollars a year bribe and not even notice it. I’m even betting one or two…” He stops abruptly. “Enough said.”
We are silent as the car circles off the bridge on to Marine Drive. I try to process what it would be like if drugs were legal and you could buy heroin from, say, a liquor store or a pharmacy. It would be a fraction of the price too, if the gangs were out of the picture.
“How are the ribs, Rogan?” the Deputy cuts into my train of thought. The discussion on the politics of drugs is over.
“Nicely bar-b-cued, sir.” They hurt like hell but I have to make light of it. It is a macho world in the VPD.
“Waters tells me you unearthed this money laundering scheme because you were investigating your friend’s death. Is that right?”
My heart speeds up. I want this man to know my part in this. “Yes, sir.”
“Is there any evidence that Walsh killed him.”
“He’s certainly got motive, but that’s it so far.”
Steve says, “If it wasn’t Walsh, it could have been his gang, doing it on his orders.”
The Deputy says, “Some of the foot soldiers may be prepared to talk with their leader dead. SWAT guys had no alternative to shooting him, did they?”
“No, sir,” Steve, Stammo and I agree in unison.
I already know that Blondie or his boys didn’t kill Kevin. It had to be George himself. But I keep my own counsel for now.
After a long silence—during which, no doubt, the Deputy was weighing the implications of what he is about to say—he turns in his seat to face me. “You did good work, Rogan. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” In my very soul, I want to ask him about my chances of reentry into the Department. For a minute I wrestle with how best to word it but in the end I do not dare; I am too afraid of what the answer might be.
We hit a bump in the road which sends a stab of pain through my ribs. I think back to the alley and the confrontation with Blondie and his gang.
“Steve,” I ask, “did you call me on my cell when I was in the alley back there?”
“No, why?”
“Someone did.”
I squirm around to pull the phone from my pocket and check the voice mail. It was Brad; I dial his number. One good thing that has come out of this mess is my new relationship with my old buddy. Kevin’s death has brought us together and his rescue of me from the gang has deepened the return of the old camaraderie. He has called me every day to see how I’m doing and I’ve got to say, his positive thinking attitude is the only thing that still lets me believe I will make it back into the VPD.
“Hey, Cal, how’s it going?” he asks.
“Great. You’ll be pleased to know that the gang who killed Roy are all under arrest, except for the leader, that big blond guy. He’s dead.”
“So what’s next?”
I don’t want to tell him details of the investigation in front of a car full of cops; it would be regarded as a breach of security. I just say, “I’m going over to Sam’s house, right now.”
He gets the implication. “You’re going to arrest George?”
“I hope so.”
“That’s great news. Let me know what happens.”
“I will, for sure. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“Go get ’em, hombre,” he says and hangs up. I have to grin.
We arrive in Dundarave village at nine fifteen. It is deserted except for three VPD police cars and another black Town Car, in which is seated the Chief of Police of West Van. Now I know why we came here with the Deputy in his Lincoln. He is here to smooth any inter-jurisdicti
onal feathers.
Steve checks his radio. One of the surveillance teams at George’s house confirms that George is still inside. Good. My worst fear was that George would get word of the busts of his lieutenants, evade the surveillance team and run for cover.
“OK, guys. Go do it,” says the Deputy to Steve and Stammo.
“Sir,” I interject. “I know I’m a civilian now but I want to be there when he’s arrested. I’d like your permission to go with them.”
Before the Chief can respond, Steve says, “I don’t think it’s a good idea, sir.”
“You know my daughter lives there, sir.” There is a note of pleading in my voice. George’s surprise arrest should be straight forward and without violence. But ‘should’ is a unreliable concept.
To my surprise, Stammo supports me. “If you don’t mind me saying so sir, but I think Rogan has earned the right.”
I can see the Deputy balancing the options. He doesn’t want to make this decision.
So he doesn’t.
“Mr. Rogan,” he says, “you are a civilian and I can’t really tell you where to go or what to do. Unless you have committed a crime, I don’t have any jurisdiction over you.”
He smiles at Steve, opens the door of the West Van Chief’s car and gets inside.
55
Cal
George Walsh, I have a warrant for your arrest. I await, with mounting anticipation, the look on George’s face when he hears those magic words. Then the anticipation is vaporized when, in a moment of panic, I think that Steve may have forgotten the paperwork. Now the time is here, I’m getting nervous.
The prospect of seeing George led away in handcuffs is definitely enhanced by the fact that this may just be my ticket back into the department. With the Deputy Chief’s remark in the car and the possibility of a good word from the Mayor to the Chief, maybe I have a chance. Not that a couple of kind words mean that much. Steve never did tell me what the department’s policy was on rehiring; he tried to arrest me instead. But the hope is all I have to hang on to. Brad would have a positive thinking line here, I’m sure.
In a guilty little corner of my mind, I am also happy to see George removed from Ellie’s life and, for that matter, from Sam’s. But the icing on the cake is that with George gone, Blondie dead and his gang in custody, Sam surely wouldn’t remove Ellie to Toronto, would she?
I catch myself sniffing: the start of withdrawal symptoms. Another thing to make me jittery. Thank God this will soon be over and I can use the last of the heroin secreted in the zipped inner pocket of my jacket. We are in the home stretch now.
There is no answer, so Steve rings again. We wait for a seemingly interminable twenty seconds but the door stays closed. Stammo raps with his fist and calls. “Mr. Walsh. Open up please. It’s the Vancouver Police Department.”
Silence.
Then a crash: the sound of something heavy breaking. My God, what’s happening in there?
Steve is the first to react. He shouts at the uniformed sergeant stationed at the entrance to the driveway, “Bring the ram. Now!” Three times Stammo tries to burst open the door with his shoulder before the sergeant runs up. Stammo grabs the heavy battering ram and with one mighty swing, hits the door in the area of the lock. It flies open and we race inside.
I shout, “Sam. Sam, where are you?”
Silence. Then a sound, coming from the living room, part hum, part growl, makes the hair on my neck stand up. I rush down the hall. There are two bodies on the living room floor. Both are trussed in duct tape. Rosa seems to be unconscious but Sam is thrashing about making the noise that we heard. Beside her, toppled onto the floor, is a small antique table and the remains of a ceramic flower pot and its contents.
I rush to Sam and roll her onto her back; her face is covered in tears. “Sorry Sam. This is going to hurt but I can’t wait for a paramedic to do it properly.” I start to pick at the edge of the duct tape across her mouth and she nods her understanding. When there is enough material to afford me a decent grip, I rip it from her mouth. She screams at the pain and starts sobbing.
“Sam. Sam! What happened? Where’s George?”
“No. No. I can’t tell you.”
“Why? Why can’t you tell me.”
“He made me. I can’t say… He…” She is sobbing uncontrollably.
I pick her up and place her on the couch. “Someone get a knife from the kitchen so that we can cut her wrists free.” I point in the general direction.
“Now Sam.” I am forcing myself to stay calm. “Tell me what happened.”
“No. No. No. No. Nooooooo.” I recognize the mounting hysteria.
I cannot bring myself to slap her so I shake her hard and it seems to work.
She looks like a haunted animal for a moment and then it all bursts out. “He took her. He took Ellie. A hostage, he said. Oh Cal, he took Ellie…” she ends in a wail and descends into sobs.
My whole body is alive with electricity. I think of Ellie, terrified, somewhere out in the night with a man who will stop at nothing, a man who controls a vicious gang of drug dealers. I want to run up to Ellie’s bedroom and see if this is all some nightmarish mistake. I start to move but my training takes over: stop, breathe, focus… and my mind is clear. Except for the fear.
Sam is still sobbing. I sit beside her on the couch, take her shoulders and shake her again, gently this time, to get her attention. “Listen Sam. You have to stay calm so that you can tell us what happened.”
“Cal, you have to find her.”
“I will, I promise.” I remember something from my training: you never promise you will get a good result because you may too easily be proven wrong. I shake the thought from my head. “You have to tell me exactly what happened.”
I realize that I have taken charge of the situation and, more strangely, Steve, Stammo and the Deputy Chief are letting it happen. I don’t have time to assess what this may mean.
She takes a couple of deep breaths. In the background, I can hear someone on a radio calling for paramedics. “He got a phone call. Right after, he looked worried. I asked him what was the matter and he yelled at me to shut up. He has never spoken to me like that before.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes have a haunted look, then flicker with a memory. “It was nine o’clock. George always likes to watch CNN at nine. He was annoyed that the phone had rung just as it started.” I look at my watch it is nine twenty-five.
“OK, that’s good, Sam. How long was he on the phone?”
“Not long. Not more than a minute or two.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, he was obviously thinking about something. After he yelled at me, he paced up and down for a moment and kept looking at his watch. Then he stalked out of the room and I thought that maybe I had done something wrong but he was back in a minute or two.” While she is talking, the sergeant comes in with a paring knife and sits on the other side of her. He starts to cut the duct tape off her wrists. She flinches at the touch. “He just walked in, and without any warning, he pulled me out of the chair and punched me in the stomach. He grabbed me by the hair and forced me on to the floor and put the tape across my mouth. Then he tied my hands behind me.” My blood runs cold. If George could turn violent towards Sam, what might he do to Ellie?
“As he was starting to do my feet, Rosa walked in—she must have heard all the noise we were making—George just grabbed her and punched her in the stomach then in the face. After he had finished with me he tied her up too.”
As she is talking, I am calculating times. Two minutes on the phone, he thinks for a minute or two and then goes and gets the duct tape. It must have taken him five minutes to immobilize and duct tape both women. That takes it to about ten after nine.
“What about Ellie?” I ask. For the first time I face the real possibility that I might never see her again.
“He went into the hall and I couldn’t see him for a moment then I saw him head up th
e stairs, he had his coat on and he had Ellie’s coat in his hand. I knew what he was going to do. I tried to shout out but I couldn’t.” Her tears are flowing again but she is keeping it together.
“In no time, he was back downstairs with Ellie in his arms. She was still more than half asleep.” She is sobbing now. It must have taken George at least two minutes to get Ellie, put her coat on and bring her downstairs; he is less than fifteen minutes ahead of us.
Her sobs reach a crescendo. “Sam. Sam!” I say. “You’ve got to stay focused now.”
“He said she… she was his hostage and if the… if the police came after him he would… kill her.” This time she cannot bring her sobs under control.
I look up at Steve but he is already ahead of me. “Do you know what sort of car he drives?” he asks.
“A dark green Bentley convertible,” I reply for her.
Immediately Steve is talking into his radio. “Find out the registration of a dark green Bentley convertible registered to a George Walsh and put out a BOLO on it.”
“No. No.” Sam is shaking her head. “He didn’t take the Bentley. He took Ellie and went out onto the deck and into the back yard.”
Why would he do that? Why leave on foot when he had a perfectly good car?
Steve supplies the answer. “He must have guessed there might be surveillance out front, so he decided to sneak out the back.” I make a mental note to trace the call that George received at nine. I have a mounting suspicion that there may be a leak in the police department, either Vancouver’s or West Van’s.
“But we had surveillance in the lane out back too.” Stammo says. He turns to one of the uniforms. “Come with me.” They go through the doors to the deck and disappear into the dark beyond.
I put my arm around Sam. Steve asks her, “Where do you think he might go, Sam?”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 30
