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

by Robert P. French

I have nothing to lose now.

  I walk to his walnut-burl executive desk, lean over him and plant my palms on the report he was reading. His arrogance morphs into fear. “Now listen to me you little worm. I know Mark Wright had the private key which would allow him to hack into people’s transactions with your bank’s computers. I want to know what you and he were up to and I want to know how your wife’s murder factors into this. I’ll ask you again. Who told you that Mark Wright was dead?”

  The blood has drained from his face. He stares into my eyes, trying not to give away any indication of what is going on in his mind. He succeeds.

  Then I realize it doesn’t matter. I know who told him.

  We maintain the tableau for ten seconds. Then he breaks it by leaning back and smiling.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about Detective Rogan and I don’t think you do. If you want to, you can take me into custody and I’ll have my lawyer meet us at the police station. So either do so or get out of my office.” I thought slithers into my brain? Does he know I have been suspended?

  “I thought so,” he says.

  I take out my phone and hold it up. If I were still a cop, I would be calling Steve about an arrest warrant but I’m not and the bitterness of that fact lances through me. In a strange way, it makes me more determined to take the smug smile from Varga’s face.

  But for now, I just take his photograph.

  46

  Cal

  She flies into my arms and holds me tight, too tight. And too long. Again I am confused about my feelings for her or, more to the point, her feelings for me. Her son died a week and a half ago and her husband died yesterday, ostensibly by his own hand and yet her hug has an urgency demanding more than just consolation.

  She draws me into the living room. “I’m so glad you’re here, Cal.”

  “I’ve been suspended.” The words come from my mouth of their own volition. I had no intention of telling her. Quite the opposite in fact. But there they are, out of the box.

  “Oh Cal, I am so sorry.”

  But she is not. She’s on her own agenda. The news of my pending termination is a mere ripple on the surface of the crashing waves in her mind.

  Her face lights up like a little girl’s. “Let’s go away,” she says.

  “I can’t take a vacation now. Just because I’ve been suspended doesn’t mean I’m going to stop investigating this case and there’s Ellie—”

  “I don’t mean a vacation. I mean let’s go and live somewhere. Mexico, Fiji or somewhere in Europe if you’d prefer.”

  I get the sense that she is going to spiral out of control. “Elizabeth,” my voice is as calm as I can make it, “I can’t leave Vancouver. What sort of job could I get in those countries?” It flashes through my mind that I don’t know what sort of job I will be able to get here and, if Arnold hears the reason for my being fired, he will have the right to terminate payments from my trust fund. For the first time since Vance suspended me this morning, I feel fear. Fear of the cold hand of poverty reaching out to grab me and drag me back to the streets. And Ellie… “And you’re forgetting—”

  “You won’t need to work.” She cuts me off with a tinkle of laughter. “I have all the money we’ll need.” She grins at whatever she reads on my face. “Don’t worry. Mark had a large life insurance policy and there’s the money… We’ll have lots.” She is becoming more manic. The words tumble out of her mouth. “We can maybe have a cottage on a beach somewhere. Or imagine a cute little apartment somewhere in Paris, wouldn’t that be lovely, Cal. Or London; I love London. We could spend our days—”

  As she speaks my stomach knots.

  “Elizabeth!” I have her shoulders gripped tightly in my hands and manage to resist the urge to shake her into silence. “Elizabeth, I can’t. I can’t leave Vancouver. I have my daughter here; I would never leave her. And my job. They may have suspended me and they are almost certainly going to fire me, but I’m not going to just give up. The Department thinks that Mark killed Terry but I’m not sure he did. I want to find the real killer. I have to. It’s what I do for God’s sake.”

  “OK, Cal. OK. I can understand that. We’ll talk about it again later.” She has not given up. More to the point, she has not reacted to the revelation of my uncertainty that Mark killed Terry.

  Before I can say anything, she takes my face in her hands and places a whisper-light kiss on my lips. Then another. Then on my cheek and the back of my jawbone. Then she envelopes my ear with her mouth driving my body into overdrive.

  I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But I’m just too weak to resist and hate myself for it. All thoughts of why I came here in the first place dissolve into nothingness.

  I am exhausted but I cannot sleep. I stare at the ceiling and listen to Elizabeth’s steady breathing as she sleeps, her head on my chest. Our lovemaking was wild and wonderful and unlike anything I have ever experienced. She has a wanton quality that is intoxicating. It has left me physically drained but mentally clear and sharp.

  The elements of the case swirl through my head: the deaths of Terry Wright and Marguerite Varga; the Church of the Transcended Masters, the girl-woman who is the pastor and her brother Seth, with his dog BL. I remember the dog’s collar lying on the kitchen counter, engraved with the initials BLZ: Bee-el-zee. Is that short for Beelzebub? A biblical name for the devil. Is Elizabeth’s church a cover for something else or is it just Seth?

  As I think about Elizabeth and Seth, she stirs in her sleep. I don’t want her to wake up just yet. I have too much to think about in the quiet of her bedroom.

  Something bothers me about yesterday’s meeting with Inspector Vance: Steve wants to have different detectives investigating the attempted kidnapping of Terry’s friend Michael Chan. The two women who tried to snatch him were obviously professionals, maybe from out of town. Someone was prepared to pay big bucks to silence Michael, to stop him from repeating the oboe code. Mark Wright and Varga were obviously using the code to rip off the Toronto National Bank in some way. When Terry and Michael started to chant the code in public, it became a threat to their plans. A good reason for Mark to have killed Terry. My earlier doubts about Mark’s complicity are no longer valid; they were based on his motive being Elizabeth’s affair with Seth.

  But the attempted kidnapping of Michael Chan doesn’t fit with Mark Wright or Harold Varga. Neither a computer techie nor a banker have the connections to hire trained thugs, female ones at that, to plan and stage a kidnapping which would have worked like a well-oiled machine if Stammo and I hadn’t been there. It must have been Mark’s client, the one that Grace Chan said terrified Elizabeth. When Elizabeth wakes, I’m going to ask her about this ‘client’.

  It’s obvious now I think of it. Harold Varga and Mark Wright were just cogs in a bigger machine run by this infamous ‘client’. The murders of Mark’s step-son and Varga’s wife may have been to put pressure on them. Their scheme to rip off the bank was masterminded by someone else. This whole thing is starting to smell of organized crime.

  Two things I need to find out: Who was Mark’s client? What scam were Mark and Harold Varga perpetrating on the bank?

  Elizabeth can help me with the first question but the second one is going to be more difficult.

  An irritating buzz disturbs my thoughts. My Blackberry. When Inspector Vance took my gun and ID, he omitted to take the department issued cellphone. I lean over the bed and a pull it from the pocket of my pants, dropped in haste an hour ago.

  I notice the time, 6:05, but the caller ID is blocked.

  “Rogan.”

  “Hello Mr. Rogan. It’s Clare here, from Ellie’s after-school care.”

  My mind draws a picture of a plump blonde woman with a kind face and a nice smile. Why would she be calling me?

  “Is Ellie OK?”

  “Oh yes,” she catches the fear in my voice. “Ellie’s fine. It’s just that Sam hasn’t arrived to pick her up yet. She’s always here by five-thirty, six at the latest. It
’s when we close.”

  “Have you called her cell phone?”

  “Several times and left messages. Could you come over and pick her up. We should have closed at six and I have to—”

  “No problem. I can be there in ten minutes.”

  A cold worm of fear slithers through my gut. Sam is never late for anything.

  47

  Cal

  The silence feels unnatural. It heightens the fear. With that sense which lies between feeling and hearing, I become aware of my rapid heart-beat.

  The front door was not damaged. Sam’s mother’s spare key—given to me, somewhat begrudgingly, when I dropped Ellie off into the care of her and my ex-step-father-in-law—opened it silently.

  The hallway is as I remember it from my last visit. All the pictures lining the walls are in perfect alignment. At the end of the hall the kitchen door is open. On the marble countertop beside the sink there is a coffee press, full, with the plunger up. I make my way there but there is no smell of the coffee to make the house feel somehow less deserted. The coffee is cold. Beside the press is a clean mug and a carton of half-and-half. I have a picture in my mind of Sam, curled up on the couch, savoring her beloved coffee. A little thing that reminds me how much I love her.

  But Sam is not on the couch. The living/dining room is empty, silent, lifeless.

  Lifeless.

  With dread I climb the stairs, remembering a time, fifteen months ago, when I climbed another set of stairs to find a body drenched in blood.

  I have to stop thinking like this.

  The bathroom and Ellie’s bedroom are clear.

  I rest my hand on the handle of Sam’s bedroom door. It is the only room in the house I have never been in… other than in fantasy. I steel myself, knowing what is to come. The door swings open silently. Peach and dark green are the predominant designer colors. Typical of Sam, there is a place for everything and everything’s in its place—another one of her little quirks that I love.

  The room smells of Coco Chanel.

  Feeling like a voyeur, I take a step inside.

  And see it. The only thing out of place.

  A bright neon-pink slipper, its color clashing with the design of the rug, on its side with one bunny ear up and the other down. Ellie’s favorite. I pick it up and the fear melts away. The body, which my suspicious detective’s mind expected to find, is not here.

  I linger for the moment enjoying the illicit feeling of being here uninvited. Folded on her pillow, the right-hand pillow, is a men’s XXL t-shirt, her preferred night attire. I picture her in it, a wanton look in her eye, like…

  I shake my head, close Sam’s bedroom door and cross the tiny hallway to Ellie’s room. As I drop her bunny slipper on the floor beside her bed, I startle, the sound of my Blackberry making me jump in the silence.

  The Caller ID says Samantha Cullen. Thank God, thank God. But my relief quickly turns to anger.

  “Sam, where the hell are you?”

  Silence.

  “Sam?”

  “Rogan. Back off. Stop your investigation and she won’t be harmed. Understand?” The words are made more sinister by the sound of the voice distorter the caller is using. The shock-waves tingle through my body. A picture of a terrified Sam, head covered with a coffee sack and wired onto a gurney in a dank room in Riverview, forces its way into my mind. Illogical, but no less disturbing.

  “Who is this?” Stupid, amateur question.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sure. OK. But when will you let her go?” Another stupid question a cop should never ask. With a wrench, my experience of adult kidnappings already knows the answer.

  Never.

  “Soon. Remember, you’re not a cop anymore, so just stop digging. Keep digging and the kid's next.”

  “OK. No prob.”

  “Oh, and don’t tell your former colleagues about this call. Just keep it between us and you’ll see her back in no time.” Liar. The caller’s plan is that I never see Sam again.

  He hangs up. From the maelstrom of emotions assailing me, one name emerges. One person whom I think I can trust to help me.

  “Sally?”

  “Yeah?” The reception on my phone is not too good in here; I can hardly hear her.

  “It’s Rocky Rogan.”

  “Hey Rocky, what’s up?” There is nothing in her voice to make me think she knows I’m no longer with the department.

  “I need to track down the movements of a cell phone over the last couple of days.”

  “No problem. Just call my Unit. Charlie’s on duty; he’ll do it for you.”

  “The thing is, Sally, this is a very sensitive case. I need you to do it for me and keep it confidential.”

  “Which case?”

  “The kid, Terry Wright.”

  There is silence on the line for a while.

  “I didn’t know that was a priority.” She sounds wary and it rings an alarm bell. Why would Terry’s case not be a priority?

  “Well it is now. A high priority. What I need is the location of this cell phone and the calls it made over the last two days.” Sam was last seen dropping Ellie off at school yesterday morning. She could have been taken any time since then. “The number is seven seven eight, nine one one, zero five four five.”

  She repeats the number back to me.

  “OK. I’ll call you as soon as I get the info,”

  “Thanks, Sally. Remember to keep this quiet.”

  Stammo can read the concern on my face. “Don’t worry Rogan, Sally Wilkes is one of the good ones. She’ll get the movements of Sam’s phone real fast and she’ll keep her mouth shut.”

  I’ve already briefed Stammo about Sam’s kidnapping. It was a difficult decision to involve him. Whoever called from Sam’s phone told me not to talk to my ex-colleagues but I need to talk to someone. I’m not sure why I picked Nick but standing there in Sam’s house, it just felt right.

  As though reading my mind, he says, “You did the right thing to come to me. I think you’re right about these murders being tied in with organized crime.”

  “The guy on the phone said not to talk to my former colleagues. He knew I’d been suspended. I’m thinking there might be a leak in the Department.”

  His eyes bore into me and he bites his lower lip, on the left side. He is weighing options, pondering a decision. There is a monitor in the next room. With rising agitation, I hear it beep seven times before he talks. He shifts his position in the wheelchair.

  “It’s more than a leak. There’s a dirty cop in the department.”

  “How do you know?” I can’t believe it.

  He ponders this too. I expect he’s wondering if he can trust Rocky, the junkie. The monitor next door continues its inexorable beeping. Five, ten, fifteen. I notice my mouth is hanging open. I close it and my teeth click together. Then he makes his decision.

  “Over the last year, I worked two murders involving drugs. In the first one I had a guy dead to rights for the murder: witness, motive, forensics, the whole bit. But when I went to pick him up, he’d gone, vanished into thin air. We’d kept everything real quiet. I was sure that the witness wasn’t the leak so I had this nasty feeling that someone in the department might have been.

  “So in the next drug-related murder, I arrested the guy and brought him in without telling anyone first. It was another open-and-shut case except when it came to trial, all the DNA evidence went missing and the bastard was acquitted. Right after the trial, one of Sally Wilkes’ guys resigned and word was that he had screwed up the evidence but I just didn’t buy it. I went to the guy’s home and questioned him about it. He was shit-scared. Wouldn’t talk to me. Screamed at me to get the hell out of his house. I figure someone got to him. I’m pretty sure someone in the department is dirty.”

  “Any ideas who?”

  “Nah! But whoever it was must have known I’d be suspicious. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a dirty cop. I was gonna find out if it killed me.” He looks dow
n at his useless legs. “Being stuck in here has given me some thinking time.”

  He bites his lip again. “Those women, in the black Escalade; the driver swerved out of her way to hit me. Why would she do that? Her priority was to escape. Maybe she was told we might be there and she was to kill me, or maybe both of us, if she got the chance. I dunno, maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

  Stammo’s story is ringing bells big time. “Both murders were related to drugs cases?”

  He nods, “Yeah.”

  “So if the guy who called me on Sam’s phone was tipped off by someone in the department that I had been put on suspension, and if that someone is a dirty cop in the pay of a drug gang, then that means our cases are drug related.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Then, just like that: Click. A huge piece of the puzzle falls into place. I can feel a tingle in my spine.

  “Nick, you know what this means? It means—”

  I snatch my ringing Blackberry from my pocket.

  “Cal, it’s Sally Wilkes. I don’t think you were a hundred percent straight with me. That cellphone was registered to your ex-wife.”

  I feel a cold knife in my gut. “I know, Sally. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But it is connected with the case, I promise you.”

  “I’m not sure what to do here, Cal. Using Departmental resources on a personal matter is strictly forbidden. You could get fired for it; hell, you could get me fired for it. I can’t risk my pension on your say-so. If I get the OK from someone higher up…”

  I want to scream at her that Sam’s life is in danger that I have to find her, find her and bring her home safe, but I rein in my frustration and say, “Sally, just hang on a minute.”

  I cover the mouthpiece and tell Stammo.

  He grabs the phone from me. “Sally, Nick Stammo here… Yeah, hi… Listen, Rogan’s being straight with you here. We believe that the same people who put me in the hospital have grabbed his wife. We need that information right now… Uh-huh… Uh-huh. Rogan, write this down.” He starts repeating what Sally is telling him. “It was turned on at seven-ten this evening on the Lions Gate Bridge… one call to Rogan then turned off… prior to that it was used at her home at four… an incoming call from a phone booth… then at four forty-five it was switched off, still at her home. Uh-huh… OK. Sally email me and Rogan all the details of the calls. Thanks… Yeah, I will… Thanks, Sally.”