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

by Robert P. French

His options are limitless. He is a man with enormous financial resources and underworld contacts. He could literally disappear and resurface anywhere in the world. We are never going to be able to second guess where he might go and where he might take Ellie.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the West Van Chief come into the room; he is a large, unattractive man who brings to mind a memory of Jabba the Hut from Star Wars.

  “I don’t know,” Sam responds to Steve’s question. “He could go anywhere. He has a private plane. He keeps it at the airport.”

  “What type of plane? Do you know the registration letters?” I ask.

  “It’s called a Citation, but I have no idea of the registration.”

  Before Steve can react the Deputy says, “I’ve got it,” and opens his cellphone. It needs his level of seniority to give orders to the YVR control tower.

  “And he’s got one of those fast boats. You know, what they call cigarette boats. We used to joke about it being a drug dealer’s boat.”

  “Where does he keep it?” I ask.

  “At the Royal Van Yacht Club.” Where else? Steve gets immediately onto his phone.

  While the Deputy closes down the airport to departing private aircraft and Steve dispatches a police car to the yacht club, I try and put myself into George’s shoes. He is a smart man. He must have known this day could come; the day when the noose tightens around his operation. He would have a contingency plan.

  What would I do in his position? First, he wouldn’t use any form of transportation that could be tracked back to him. So the private jet and the cigarette boat will be dead ends. Without doubt, he would have another identity: passport, driver’s license, valid credit cards. He would also have a reasonable amount of cash with him, both to cover his trail and to buy a new identity if the one he is using gets blown.

  “Sam,” I ask, “think carefully now. When George left, did he have anything with him: a briefcase, a bag, even a large envelope.”

  Before Sam can answer, Stammo bursts back in through the door to the deck. “He’s got the unmarked car. The guy on surveillance is unconscious in the back alley and his car’s gone.”

  The Deputy Chief mouths an obscenity and Jabba the Hut has a smug look that says ‘if you’d had us do the surveillance, this would never have happened.’ But this may be good news. It’s just possible that George doesn’t know all VPD cars are fitted with GPS.

  The Deputy opens his phone but Stammo says, “It’s alright sir, I already called it in.” Good work, Stammo.

  The paramedics come in. Stammo directs one out to the back lane and the other starts dealing with Rosa. The room is getting crowded and Sam has a confused, far away look on her face. I bring her back by asking, “Sam, apart from Ellie, did he have anything with him? It’s important.”

  She thinks for a moment. “No, definitely not. He was carrying Ellie in one arm and I could see that the other hand was free when he opened that door.”

  A cautious man would not keep alternate identities at home where they could be found by a wife, a nosy cleaner or even a child. I start with the obvious. “OK, Sam, that’s good. What’s the address of his office.”

  “It’s in the Wall Centre the uh… Twenty-third floor.” The same building as the head office of the foreign exchange operation. I check my watch. George took the police car fifteen or maybe even twenty minutes ago. At this time of night, he will be downtown by now.

  “Got it.” Stammo opens his phone again and dials. Maybe I misjudged this guy.

  I am starting to feel sure that the first thing George would do is pick up an alternate identity or maybe identities; it would be smart to have more than one. His office is an obvious choice but obvious may not be best.

  “Sam. Does George have any other properties? Is there an apartment downtown or a house? Does he own any apartment buildings, maybe? Anywhere you can think of that he might go?”

  “Not downtown. We’ve got a house on Salt Spring.” Her use of the word ‘we’ makes me realize how devastating this is for Sam. She has not only lost our daughter but she has been utterly betrayed by the man she loved. As much as I wanted Sam to be rid of George I hate that it has to be like this and to my chagrin, I know it is my efforts that have precipitated this whole mess. There is no way she will ever forgive me for this.

  I look at Steve. He nods at me and says, “I doubt that he would go there but better safe than sorry.” He talks to the Deputy Chief who dials his phone and talks to the RCMP detachment on Salt Spring Island.

  Stammo’s phone rings. He listens for a moment, grunts his thanks and closes it. “The patrol car is in North Van. The GPS says it’s parked on First Street. It’s right outside a garage, an auto repair place.”

  We all know what this means. George has switched cars. I am betting that the car he is using is not registered in his own name. The trail just got a lot colder.

  Stammo says, “I’ll try and track down the owner of the garage. See if he can give us an ID on the car.”

  My phone vibrates but I do not have time for it right now.

  I cannot think of anything else to ask Sam and I have no idea what to do next. My fears for Ellie fill the vacuum. What will George do with her? If he tries to leave the country on a scheduled or a charter flight, he will not be able to take her with him. He could just let her go but that does not compute with what I know about the big shots in the drug trade.

  I sniff and realize that the withdrawal symptoms are starting to strengthen. All the activity of the last ten minutes has kept them out of my immediate consciousness.

  Time is running out for Ellie and time is what I’m losing fast. My daughter needs me and, within an hour or so, I am going to be a basket case, unable to think clearly. Maybe I should just go and shoot up now. Maybe just one point; just enough to keep me going. Just enough to take the pain away. No one will notice. Maybe Steve, or Sam, but no one else.

  NO! I push the Beast behind me. This time Ellie must come first. Somehow I’ll get through. I have to hang in there. For Ellie. If I can.

  “His office is the best bet.” Steve interrupts my thoughts. “Let’s go. You coming, Cal?”

  “Sure.” I put my arms around Sam and kiss her forehead. “Sam, I’m sorry.” I whisper. She just nods her head.

  As I run for the front door, I hear Sam say, “I’m sorry too, Cal.”

  With all my heart, I long to hold her, comfort her, tell her that I love her and that everything is going to be alright. I turn and look at her and know, in that instant, I have already lost her and that it is Ellie I must hold on to.

  I turn back and run after Steve.

  56

  Cal

  I’m like a prisoner. We’re in one of the VPD cruisers. Stammo is driving with Steve beside him and me in the back, behind the metal screen. Steve is checking his voice mail and I remember the call that I got. Not many people have my number and two of them, Sam and Steve, were in the room with me. It wouldn’t be Brad again and with Roy gone that only leaves—

  I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I realize this when it rang at Sam’s house. I struggle to get the phone out of my pocket, flip it open and hold down the ‘1’ key. My heart is beating a tattoo against my rib cage. As soon as I hear the recorded voice, I enter my password: 1005, Ellie’s birthday.

  “You have one new message.” ‘1’ again.

  “Daddy?” Her whisper stops my heart. “George has taken me away from Mommy. I’m in this room and I don’t like it. I’m scared, Daddy. Come quickly. Please.”

  There is a long silence and I strain to hear more. Anything. “To delete this message press ‘7’.”

  I hang up. “Steve, Nick, I just got a voice mail from Ellie. She said she was in some room and—”

  “What’s the number she’s calling from?” Steve interrupts.

  “I don’t have caller ID.” Oh God.

  “Who’s your cellphone carrier?” he asks.

  “Fido.”

  Steve starts dialing.

>   A real anger suffuses me. If I had thought through who the call was coming from while I was in Sam’s house questioning her, a lot of time would have been saved. We would already be at George’s office, or wherever he is holding her, and she would be safe in my arms right now. If something happens to her, I will never be able to forgive myself.

  Stammo turns on the flashing lights and the siren and accelerates down Marine. He too pulls out his cell and speed dials someone. “Get hold of the guys on the Lion’s Gate Bridge and tell ’em to turn the middle lane red in both directions immediately.” I can forgive Stammo anything now. The Lion’s Gate bridge from West Van to Vancouver, has three lanes; at this time of night, it is always one lane into Vancouver and two out. By turning the lights red on the middle lane we can sail through.

  Within two minutes, we are pulling onto the bridge—doing sixty miles an hour and still accelerating—Steve has given my phone number to a supervisor at Fido and, after what seems a never-ending delay, he has the phone number from which Ellie called.

  “It’s a land line,” he says. Thank God; tracing a cellphone’s location is an inexact science. Ellie must have been calling from a phone in the place where she is being held. Steve enters the number into the computer in the cruiser and immediately has an address.

  We have crossed the bridge and are turning off Georgia onto Denman. Steve calls in for backup. He gives the address and requests they don’t use lights or sirens.

  WHAT!

  “Steve. What was that address?” He repeats it. I was not mistaken.

  “That’s my buddy Brad’s address,” I tell them.

  “Why would Walsh be going to your buddy’s house?” Stammo’s voice is dripping with suspicion.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Brad works for the broker who took QX4 public.” I realize that maybe they don’t know what QX4 is. “They’re a company that George owns a big chunk of.”

  Steve jumps in. “So… could this Brad be part of the whole money laundering thing with Walsh?”

  “No way. I’ve known Brad since I was thirteen.”

  “So, if Walsh is on his way to pick up a false identity, why would he go to Brad’s house?” Steve’s tone is sounding more like Stammo’s.

  “I have no idea.” And I don’t.

  “Could he be holding on to Walsh’s other IDs for him?” Stammo asks.

  “Why would he do that,” I ask. Stammo just shrugs.

  “Does Brad have any weapons?” Steve’s question makes my blood run cold.

  “Oh my God! Yes. He’s got a cheap knockoff of a Steyr .357 semi-automatic.” My little Ellie is in that apartment with that weapon.

  “Fuck.” Stammo and Steve say it in unison. Then Steve is on the radio updating his instructions for the backup team.

  Stammo is driving like a mad man along Pacific headed for the Burrard Bridge. Surely Brad would not let anything happen to Ellie. He has known her since she was born. Besides, George could have no idea about the gun. Why is he at Brad’s anyway? Nothing is making any sense.

  And all the time my body is reacting to the effects of heroin withdrawal. The pain is getting worse but my mind is clear. For the moment anyway.

  We cross the bridge and turn right off Burrard on to Fourth; Stammo turns off the siren but keeps the lights flashing. Steve has finished on the radio. He turns to me, face grave. “Cal. I want you to stay in the car while we deal with this. You—”

  “No way, Steve,” I interject. “My daughter’s in there. I brought you Walsh on a platter and that gives me some rights here. I want in.”

  “Ellie is in there, with your buddy, with a big-assed gun and with a ruthless criminal. There is no way you can be objective. Plus, you are not armed and you were injured by that Blond bastard less than three hours ago. Also you have started sniffing all the time and I know what that means. I’m sorry, Cal. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Steve, you can’t stop me from coming with you.” I am pleading now.

  “Remember where you are, Rogan,” Stammo says.

  He is right. I am in the back of a police cruiser, with doors that cannot be opened from the inside and a wire mesh screen that cages me in.

  “Guys, please.” But it’s no use.

  Stammo turns off the lights and pulls onto Brad’s street. There is a cruiser already there and probably one around the back. As they jump out of the car, I plead, “Steve. Watch out for Ellie. Be careful.” He nods to me as he runs towards the front door of the building. It has already been opened and he disappears inside. All I can do is watch, impotent, through the windows of the police car.

  I scan all the windows of Brad’s condo. I am getting twitchy. I cannot remember if Brad’s unit is at the front or the back. I am just watching for any sign. A light comes on. Not in a window. It is at the top of the ramp down to the underground parking; it must be a security floodlight working off a motion sensor. The gate to the parking garage is opening and, through the bars, I can see a maroon Toyota.

  It is Brad’s.

  In desperation, I try the doors but they are securely locked. Grabbing and shaking the steel mesh has no effect.

  The car pulls up to the top of the ramp. Because of the floodlight, which is shining in my eyes, I cannot see who the driver is but in the passenger seat, I can see Ellie’s face, white and frightened, staring toward me through the passenger window. Before I can tell if she has seen me, the car drives slowly off.

  Forcing myself to control the rising panic, I pull out my cellphone and dial Steve’s number. I can still see the Toyota driving up towards Broadway.

  I slide across the seat to the window and, with all my strength, drive my elbow into the glass. A pain like an electric shock travels through my arm but the glass is intact.

  The Toyota has come to a stop at Broadway, left indicator light flashing.

  Steve’s phone is ringing at last.

  I take my eyes off the target and lie across the seat, with my head against the left-side door. I put my feet on the right-side window and push with every ounce of strength in my body.

  All the injuries I have sustained in the last two weeks, combined with the withdrawal, make me scream out in pain. But I use it and push harder until with, a bang, the window shatters.

  Steve’s phone is still ringing as I put my hand out of the cruiser and open the door from the outside. In seconds, I am in the front seat. Yes! Stammo left the keys. There is no sight of the Toyota.

  I hear Steve’s voice on the phone as I accelerate. “Steve. I’m in pursuit—” But the voice is his recorded voice mail greeting. I close the phone and throw it on the seat beside me.

  Barely slowing, I turn on to Broadway, causing two drivers to hit their brakes hard.

  The traffic is heavier than normal for this time of night. But I have an advantage. George knows he must drive cautiously—now is not the time for him to get stopped by a traffic cop—whereas I am in a police cruiser. However, I dare not use the siren or lights until I have him in sight. I don’t want to give him any advanced warning.

  We are coming up to the traffic signals at Burrard and they are red. Risking detection, I put on the flashing lights and pull left into the oncoming lane. As I sweep by the waiting cars, I check them all out.

  There is no sign of my target.

  I snap off the lights as I cross Burrard. Up ahead, the cars are stopped at Pine. As the lights change, a car pulls out into the fast lane. A maroon Toyota! He crosses Fir, signals left and pulls into the left turn lane for Granville Street. He comes to a stop behind a trolley bus. The filter light goes green as I pull up behind him and the bus pulls forward.

  I cannot take him yet.

  He checks his mirror and our eyes lock; his open wide as mine narrow.

  The bus is making its ponderous turn on to Granville. He guns the Toyota past it and races down the hill towards the bridge. But he is no match for the 4.6 litre V8 in the cruiser. I put on the lights and the siren and pull in behind him.

  Where th
e traffic was heavy on Broadway, it is light here. I grab my cell and press ‘Send’ twice.

  Steve answers immediately. “Cal, where are you?”

  “I’m on the Granville Bridge, following George. He’s in a maroon Toyota.” I give him the number plate. “He’s got Ellie with him.” George pulls into the right hand lane and I follow. “He’s taking the Seymour exit. I need backup.”

  “Gotcha.” I hear him talking into his radio. I put the phone on the seat beside me and leave it open.

  Why doesn’t George pull over? He must know he can’t escape. He’s just putting Ellie in danger. Now to make matters worse, I can see that he’s talking on his cell. At the speed he is driving, if he hits another car, he will kill them both. If I stop pursuit, he may slow down and reduce the danger. But then he would escape taking her with him.

  We come down the ramp on to Seymour. The lights turn red at Drake. A brown UPS truck is starting to cross in front of George. He hits the brakes hard and turns right, cutting in front of the truck. I follow but the truck is between us now. The Friday night downtown traffic is heavy on Drake. The oncoming lane is blocked and, despite my lights and siren, no one can pull over to let me through. The UPS truck lumbers ahead to Richards before it can pull over and let me past.

  George has taken advantage of the gap in the traffic and is already across Homer. Where the hell is he taking Ellie? He’s nowhere near his office. Does he maybe have an apartment in Yaletown that Sam doesn’t know about? He just catches the green light at Pacific and screams into a left hand turn.

  By the time I get there, it’s red. I slow down but, as I cross against the red, I’m sideswiped by a speeding red Camaro. The force of the impact slams the cruiser into the median and it stalls. I scream Ellie’s name in frustration as I see the Toyota vanish eastward down Pacific.

  I need to tell Steve. I grab for the phone but it is not on the seat; after the impact, it could be anywhere in the car. I scrabble around on the floor in a rising panic but it’s nowhere.

  A good looking young man opens the passenger door of the cruiser. “Are you OK, officer?” he asks.