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

by Robert P. French

  For a moment, I am paralyzed. Sam’s phone was turned on and off on the Lions Gate Bridge. What if they dumped her off the bridge. No-one could survive that. I can feel a panic rising in me.

  Stammo reads my mind. “No way Rogan. They just dumped her phone off the bridge. Lions Gate is real busy at seven at night. No scum in his right mind is gonna dump someone off the bridge at that time.”

  He’s right. My fear factor ratchets down a couple of points.

  My Blackberry buzzes, so does Stammo’s. It’s the email from Sally Wilkes. In silence we view the caller and GPS data. Nothing out of the ordinary. The last entries show she gets a call at home from a phone booth in Kerrisdale; she stays at home and twenty minutes later she, or someone, switches off the phone. It stays off until the Lions Gate Bridge.

  “Where do we go from here Nick?” I hear the pleading in my voice.

  “We?” he asks.

  He’s right, why should he help? We have been enemies for most of the time we have known each other and, despite what he said before, he must have some resentment that I didn’t take out the driver more permanently. But for that error, he wouldn’t be here in the hospital in a wheelchair.

  I shrug. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  I’m going to have to go it alone. If there is a dirty cop in the VPD, I can’t go to the former colleagues for help because if I do, the kidnappers will hear about it. Maybe Arnold can help. He’s got a ton of contacts in the security industry. The only problem is that I’ll have to tell him I’ve been fired from the Department and why. I’m not sure he’ll buy the fact that I was kidnapped and pumped full of heroin by my former colleagues; that sounds way too much like junkie fantasy. If he knows I’ve been using again, he could use his power as a trustee to cut off payments from the trust fund that Mr. Wallace set up for me. When I’m fired with no salary coming in, I’m going to need that money.

  I’ve got to find Sam but I have no clue how. I guess first I should interview her neighbors; see if anyone saw anything but if I strike out there…

  I head for the door.

  “Rogan, wait.”

  I turn.

  “If I help you with this, there’s a favor I want in return, OK?”

  “Sure, anything. What is it?”

  He looks embarrassed. “I’ll tell you when we’ve found Sam.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Nick, I really appreciate it.”

  He nods. We look at each other for a second and I nod too.

  “What did the caller say to you?”

  “He said to back off, stop my investigation. He knew I wasn’t a cop anymore and said that Sam would be returned soon if I co-operated and that Ellie would be next if I didn’t.”

  Stammo ponders this for a moment. “First thing, you said he but if the caller used a voice distorter, it could have been a woman. It could have been one of the broads that tried to kidnap the Chan kid and tried kill me. It might explain why there was no sign of forced entry at Sam’s place. She would be more likely to open the door to a stranger if it was a woman.”

  “True.” It’s a possibility for sure. “But it could have been anyone, the phone call that Sam got could have been from someone saying that they were going to deliver a parcel or something.”

  “The other thing is the call was made from a phone booth in Kerrisdale. You know who lives there? Harold Varga, that guy who works for the bank. It’s a bit of a long shot but—”

  “Maybe not such a long shot. If you’re right and there’s a dirty cop in the department, in the pay of some drug gang, then that means that these murders are probably drug related, right?”

  He nods.

  I take a minute to bring him up to date on the significance of the oboe code.

  “So,” I continue, “I figured that Harold Varga and Mark Wright were using the code to rip off the bank. What I couldn’t figure is how. If they were siphoning money out of people’s accounts, those people would complain as soon as they saw their bank statements and spotted the missing funds. But if this whole deal is about drugs, it’s much more likely they’re using the code to launder money. That means that Harold Varga is up to his ears in drug money. If he wanted to stop me in my tracks, kidnapping Sam would do it.”

  He nods again. “There’s another thing,” he says. “The caller said they kidnapped Sam to make you back off from your investigation, right?” I nod. “Well they suspended your ass this morning. That should have been enough to get you off the case. So who knew you were still—”

  “Varga! After Vance fired me, I came here to apologize to you and then went to see Varga at lunchtime. You remember how he told us that he was big buddies with Superintendent Cathcart. What if he called Cathcart after my visit? What if Cathcart’s the dirty cop? It explains something else too. When I was talking to Varga, he knew Mark Wright was dead. Someone in the department must have told him. Also, he acted like he knew I wouldn’t arrest him or haul him in for questioning. Maybe he knew I’d been suspended. Cathcart may already have told him.”

  He digests this. “The two murder cases I was telling you about, it could easily have been Cathcart who screwed them up.”

  I open my mouth to respond but he holds up a finger for silence. I can almost hear the gears in his brain grinding. The monitor in the next room beeps another seven times before he speaks. “I knew it was cops who pumped you full of heroin. Young straight arrow, Eric Street, was one of them and he couldn’t resist telling me. He knew there was no love lost between us, so he thought I’d want to know. Well, no matter how I might feel about you, that is no fuckin’ way to treat a fellow member; that’s why I took the test for you. I never figured they’d test you again the next day.

  “I got to thinking why’d they do it. Sure, some of ’em didn’t like an ex-junkie in the department, still… But now I think about it, what if Cathcart wanted you out?”

  “But why?” I ask.

  “You were the one who kept on about the oboe code. I didn’t think it was important and nor did Steve. But you insisted that we follow it up, you became a pain in the ass about it. If Cathcart’s the guy, he’d have known the importance of the code and that he needed to shut you up before you found out what it was about. If he just let Eric and some of the others know he wanted you out and that he sanctioned someone doing something…” He leaves it hanging.

  I struggle to quash the feelings of anger and shame erupting from the knowledge that Eric Street and some of the other cops—the young fry of treachery as the Bard would have it—may have been manipulated into kidnapping me and awakening the Beast by pumping me full of heroin. Right now, I need to focus.

  “But how do I get Sam back?” I ask.

  “What about Ellie?” Stammo asks. “D’you think she might be in any danger?”

  A chill runs through me. This case started with the murder of a child. The voice on Sam's phone said, ‘Your kid’s next.’ With a chill, I recall the previous time that Ellie’s life was threatened.

  One phone call to my former in-laws verifies that she is OK, fast asleep in their spare bedroom. A second call to Arnold ensures that someone very hard and very resourceful will be at their house within an hour, no questions asked. Not yet anyway.

  “While you were on the phone, I’ve been thinking it through. You can’t approach Varga, he may have made the call to Sam but he’s an office guy, he’s not the type to get his hands dirty doing the actual abduction.”

  I disagree. “But I could wring the information out of him.”

  “Yeah, but what if he’s not involved. Just because the call came from Kerrisdale doesn’t mean it was him. If you go over there and rough him up and he’s not involved he’s gonna be calling Cathcart to complain and they’ll know what you’re up to. Then Sam’s really gonna be at risk and so is Ellie.”

  Stammo’s logic is irrefutable.

  “OK, but I’m going to interview Sam’s neighbors and see if anyone saw anything this afternoon.”

  �
��It’s almost ten o’clock, Rogan.”

  “I don’t give a flying…” I head for the door.

  “Rogan!” I turn and face him. “Remember, we’re partners in this. Keep me in the loop.”

  “Don’t worry Nick, I will.” I smile. “And thanks, I really appreciate it.”

  He gives a smile back. A rare visitor to his face, it looks out of place.

  I’m glad he’s on my side but I wonder what is the favor I am going to have to do in return for his co-operation.

  48

  Cal

  My mind is having difficulty seeing Superintendent Cathcart as the dirty cop. It makes sense logically but a worm of doubt is slithering through my mind. I’m replaying my conversation with Stammo in my head. I know there’s something I’m missing but my focus on Sam’s kidnapping is blurring everything else.

  I walk up the front path of Sam’s fourplex and go down three steps to the door of the basement apartment below Sam’s unit; it is inhabited by a sweet old lady with a penchant for cigarillos, the smell of which seeps up through the heating ducts and drives Sam mad. The lights are still on.

  “Who is it?” she responds to my second ring.

  “Mrs. Venes,”—I know her name from the mailbox—“it’s me Cal Rogan, Sam’s ex-husband,” I say through the door.

  “It’s late. I don’t like opening the door after eight.”

  “I know. That’s very wise. It’s just that Sam is missing. I need to ask you some questions.”

  “You’re a policeman, right?”

  “Yes.” My stomach clenches from the sadness that this may soon no longer be true.

  The door opens and she peers at me over the security chain. “Hmmmm.” The door closes and then opens wide. “Well you’d better come in. It’s cold out there.”

  I enter directly into the living room, the smell of cigar smoke strong in the air. It is a museum of bric-a-brac: dolls; Hummel figurines; old china that I don’t have time to look at.

  “You say Sam’s missing?” She looks like the thought frightens her.

  “Yes. I need to ask you if you might have seen or heard anything earlier today, between four-thirty and five-thirty.”

  “No dear, I wasn’t even here. I went out in the afternoon to have a coffee with my friend, Mabel. Then I went to the IGA to do my shopping. I didn’t get back here until twenty past five.”

  “Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary when you got home.”

  “Not really. It was getting dark…” she searches her memory. “Sam’s lights were on. I remember that but nothing else. I was a bit angry you see, it distracted me.”

  Sam’s lights were off when I was here before.

  “Did you hear Sam leave?”

  “No. I was listening to the last of the early news on TV while I made my dinner.”

  This feels like a dead end. I’m going to try the other two units.

  “I really appreciate your help Mrs. Venes. I’m sorry to call so late.”

  “That’s alright dear.” She walks me to the door and ushers me out. She peers out into the night. “Of course, she couldn’t have taken her car.”

  My antennae twitch. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, that’s what I was so angry about, you see. There was this big truck parked right in the middle of the ramp into the underground parking. It was so inconsiderate. No-one could have got their car in or out of the parking.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “When I say truck, it was one of those big things people drive these days, half truck, half car. I don’t know why people like them. In my day we were happy—”

  “Do you remember the color?”

  “Yes it was black…” she thinks for a moment. “It was a Cadillac. I remember I saw the crest on the back. My late husband Stanley always drove a Caddy. He said that it was better to buy quality where your family’s safety was concerned.”

  My mind is full of the picture of the dark Escalade sending Stammo’s skinny frame flying through the air. Almost trembling with hope, I ask her, “You didn’t happen to see the license plate did you.”

  “As a matter of fact I did. I wrote it down when I got in. I was going to call a tow truck if it was still there at six o’clock. Would you like me to get it for you?”

  “That would be wonderful.” I can hardly keep the excitement from my voice.

  She bustles through the living room and into what I assume is the kitchen and returns almost immediately.

  “5163 TYK.” She hands me the paper with the number.

  “Did you hear or see it leave?”

  “No, but after the local news finished at six, I went to check if it was still there but it was gone.”

  “Thank you so much Mrs. Venes, you have been extremely helpful.”

  “Any time, detective. I hope you find Sam. She is a lovely person. I’m very fond of her and Ellie.”

  She closes the door and after calling in the number to Stammo, I make my way to the adjoining basement suite. It is dark, quiet. On the third ring of the doorbell, the door of the suite above, next door to Sam’s, opens. “What is it?” a voice calls down.

  I look up and see a man looking over the rail of the porch to the upper units.

  “Hi,” I call up. “It’s Detective Rogan. Sam Cullen’s ex-husband. May I have word with you?”

  “Sure.” The voice sounds uncertain. “Come up.”

  I ascend the steps to the porch.

  The door to the suite next to Sam’s is open and the lights are on. The man is now standing in the doorway. To put him at his ease, I smile and extend my hand. “Hi I’m Rocky Rogan. I’m sorry to disturb you but Sam has gone missing and I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”

  Before the man can react, another man appears in the doorway behind him. He is tall, with a pleasant face and a shaved head.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Says he’s a cop. Sam’s ex. Says she’s gone missing.” He looks me in the eye. “Can I see some ID?” he asks.

  My heart drops. These people may have some vital information but they are not going to give it to me unless I can prove who I am. I mentally kick myself for introducing myself as ‘Detective’ Rogan.

  Maybe I can bluff my way around this, though his face says he is not going to be easy to bluff.

  I reach into my pocket and start searching for my non-existent ID.

  “Wait a minute.” The bald man has come out on to the porch. “Yes, I’ve seen you here before, bringing Ellie home or picking here up.”

  Both men relax and I almost collapse with relief.

  “Come in. We’ll help you any way we can.”

  They lead me into the hallway. It is the mirror of Sam’s unit. In the living room, two women are sitting opposite each other at a table in the dining area. Cards are spread out in front of one of the women and there are small stacks of cards face down in the other three places at the table.

  “Bridge night,” the second man offers by way of explanation. “I’m Ed Hunt and that’s my wife Cora about to go down in three no trumps doubled and vulnerable.” He sighs and I smile as if I know what he’s talking about.

  His friend extends his hand. “I’m Pete MacAvoy and this is Alice. We live downstairs.”

  “So what’s this about Sam?” Ed asks.

  “I want you to keep this very confidential but we believe she has been abducted.”

  There is an indrawn breath from one of the ladies and an “Oh no!” from the other.

  “I need to ask you if any of you saw or heard anything late afternoon or early today?”

  “I was at work,” Ed offers.

  “Me too,” from Pete.

  All eyes go to the ladies.

  Cora looks uncomfortable but says nothing. Alice furrows her brow. “I don’t remember anything unusual.”

  I look at Cora but she maintains her silence. She is hiding something.

  I let my eyes drill into her for a moment. “Did eit
her of you see a black Cadillac SUV parked on the ramp down to the underground parking?”

  “Black, no.” It’s Alice who answers. “But my brother’s dark blue one was parked there at around five-thirty. He was dropping off some glasses we had lent him for a big party he had last Saturday. His fiftieth.” She smiles.

  With a feeling of hopelessness, I can feel my one clue starting to crumble. “Do you happen to know his license plate number.” I’m clutching at straws.

  “Not the numbers but the letters are TYK. I kid him that it’s because he’s a just an overgrown tyke.”

  So much for a connection with the women who almost killed Stammo.

  “Was there anything else either of you could tell me?” Silence. “Cora?” I look directly at her again.

  She looks down at the tablecloth. It’s paisley and looks expensive.

  “Sam is missing, I have to know.”

  She sighs. “Yes, of course. It’s just that… well, you’re not just a detective, you’re her ex too. It’s embarrassing.” She is silent for a moment, then, “Her boyfriend was here. I saw him arrive at five o’clock. Ellen had just finished and it was starting to get dark, so I went to draw the curtains and I saw him coming up the steps.”

  “How did you know he was her boyfriend?”

  “She introduced him to us on Saturday, didn’t she Ed.” Her husband nods.

  “Do you know his name?” I ask.

  “I knew you were going to ask that but I just can’t remember. Can you Ed?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Did you see him leave?” I ask.

  “No. I went straight into the kitchen to prepare tonight’s dinner.”

  “Do you know what type of car he drives?”