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

by Robert P. French

  They shake their heads.

  “If you think of anything, please give me a call, especially if you can think of his name.” I write my cellphone number on a page from my notepad and give it to Cora.

  I know for sure whom I have to interrogate next.

  49

  Cal

  Not even the throaty roar of the Healey’s exhaust can smooth the convolutions of my mind. Things are coming to light but not a lot makes sense. If Sam’s boyfriend is the kidnapper, then he is involved in the murders and in the probable money-laundering scheme. But how long has she known him? Terry Wright’s murder was only discovered ten days ago. Why would someone befriend Sam on the off chance that they might have to kidnap her in order to shut me up? Anyway, my kidnapping last weekend should have taken me out of the loop.

  I must be looking at this whole thing wrongly. At the center of all this is a dirty cop. Because of his connection to Varga, Cathcart is the logical choice but—

  Oh my god. I struggle to remember my conversation with Stammo. He said 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.

  Driving with one hand and half an eye on the road, I dial VGH and get put through to Stammo’s room.

  “What?”

  His voice is bleary.

  “Nick, you reckon that those women were told to kill you if they got the chance?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So who told them? We went to Michael Chan’s house because I got a call from Grace Chan. Right?”

  “Sure.”

  “So who knew we were going there?”

  “That little weasel, Eric Street. He was working right there beside us when that call came in. D’you think he’s the dirty one?”

  “No, he’s not senior enough to be our man.”

  “Maybe he’s Cathcart’s errand boy.”

  “Maybe, but someone else knew.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t you remember, as we were leaving, Steve came in with the bottle for me to pee in. You took the bottle and said you needed to plan out an interview with me. Steve was right there with Eric. He might have asked Eric where we were going.”

  Stammo is silent for a moment. “Are you saying Steve is our guy?”

  “It’s possible. He’s certainly senior enough to have altered the outcome of your two cases.”

  “But Steve!? We both worked with him for a bunch of years. I don’t buy it.”

  “I just want you to think it through. We can talk about it later.”

  “OK, but my money’s still on Cathcart.”

  I change the subject and fill him in on my interviews with Sam’s neighbors, then tell him where I’m headed.

  He asks a few questions and then says, “Be real careful how you handle this next interview, OK. It is one you definitely do not want to blow.”

  He steps out of the shadows of a laurel hedge and he has the look. Hard. I’ve seen it so many times before but usually on the faces of career criminals. I don’t see any sign of a weapon but I know one is there. If I were to make a false move, he would drop me like a rag doll.

  “You’re Rogan.” Not a question. He has been briefed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Just to double check, what is the name of the man who sent me here?” His voice has a strong English accent. A Londoner, I think.

  “Arnold Young.” I have known Arnold for over a quarter of a century but only learned his last name a year or so ago.

  He nods and moves back into the shade of the hedge.

  The door opens before the chimes complete their peal.

  “Any news?” Sam’s step-father looks ten years older than his three score and ten. His eyes are red-rimmed and his skin looks parchment-white.

  The hope in his face collapses when I shake my head.

  “I need to speak to Ellie.”

  His wife appears behind him. “It’s almost midnight Cal, she’s fast asleep.” All her years of dislike for me resonate in her voice. Her husband moves back to grant me ingress but she stands her ground.

  “She may know where Sam is.”

  “How can she?” Her dismissive tone pushes all my buttons. “She was at school when Samantha went missing.”

  “Come in Cal.” His arm gently encircles his wife. “Cal knows what he’s doing, honey. Remember he’s a detective.” He moves her sideways. Her body moves but her scowl doesn’t.

  Without asking permission, I head upstairs to the spare bedroom and open the door.

  “Is Mommy home?” a tiny voice asks.

  “Not yet, sweetie.” I sit on the bed and enfold her in my arms. I want us to be a family again. Ellie, Sam and me.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Mommy. She has never missed picking me up from school. Never.”

  “I will find her, Ell. I promise you that. And you may be able to help me.”

  She looks up at me, her eyes trusting. “OK, Daddy, I’ll try.”

  I cannot suppress the feeling that I am probably asking her to betray Sam’s confidence. “Sweetie, the last time Mommy was seen, it was with her boyfriend.” A tiny frown works its way onto her brow and her lips draw tighter. “I need to talk to him to ask him if he knows where Mommy is.”

  She looks down at her hands. “OK.” The syllables are drawn out.

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “What is it, sweetie?”

  More silence.

  Then the flood gates burst.

  “Daddy, I don’t like him. He looks like you but he’s not nice like you and he has this horrible dog. I love dogs but I’m afraid of his dog. I hate him. He thinks he’s all nice but he’s not. He’s—”

  A sliver of fear surfs my spine. “Ellie!” I grab her by the shoulders. “What’s his name?”

  She responds to the urgency in my voice. “It’s Seth. I can’t remember his last name.”

  The sliver of fear explodes into a thousand shards of electricity.

  “Harris… Seth Harris.” The whisper escapes my lips and Ellie nods.

  My mind struggles to put this in context. Sam is dating the brother of Morgan Harris, the minister of the Church of the Transcended Masters. How can that be? I first learned that Sam had a boyfriend last Wednesday when Ellie was at my place. She told me Sam was out on a date. That was the day after Stammo and I made our first visit to the Church, two days after the discovery of Terry’s body in the woods. Sam must have known him before… My mind snaps back to a phone conversation I had with Sam on the Monday night, the first day of the case. I clumsily asked her out for dinner and she kind of deflected my intent into a family dinner with Ellie.

  “Ellie, how long has Mommy been dating Seth?”

  She shrugs.

  I need a date reference. “Do you remember Valentine’s day? You stayed at my apartment that night and told me Mommy was on a date.”

  She nods.

  “Was that her first date with Seth?”

  “I don’t know.” Her brow crinkles. “I don’t think so. The week before she had that horrible Roxanne come and babysit me and she wouldn’t say where she was going.”

  If Ellie is right, Sam had been seeing Seth since before Terry Wright’s death. That is either the biggest coincidence in the history of the world or something more sinister. I suddenly feel like I am being manipulated by forces beyond my ken. But now is not the time to speculate. I need to find Sam.

  I kiss Ellie. “OK Sweetie, I’m going to go now and bring Mommy home.” I know I’m writing a metaphorical check that I may not be able to cash. “You snuggle up and go to sleep and we’ll be home soon.”

  She smiles. “I’m glad you’re a policeman, Daddy.” She does not know how much those words hurt. I smile back and leave, worrying about the impossible decision I have to make right now.

  5
0

  Cal

  Friday

  I’m doing a hundred and twenty klicks along Oak. Hold on Sam, I’m coming. I’ll be there in five minutes. Just hold on, my love.

  Every instinct from my training tells me that I need to call in my former colleagues. Going single-handed and unarmed against a kidnapper is stupid. I want the strength of the VPD on my side but the kidnapper’s words, during the call from Sam’s cellphone, flap around in my skull. The caller knew I’m not a cop anymore. How did he or she know that unless someone in the department called them? Hell, I was only fired fourteen hours ago. I don’t think I can put Sam at greater risk by involving anyone else. I have to go it alone… but I know I shouldn’t. I need help here.

  I press the button on my bluetooth headset. “Call Nick Stammo.” After three seconds I hear his phone ring. After three rings I check the clock in the Healey. After midnight. He’s probably asleep.

  “Yeah… what?” He was asleep.

  I brief him on my talk with Ellie and my indecision.

  “You’re going up against that Seth character and his dog alone?” His voice is incredulous.

  Frustration spills over. “Hell, Nick. Tell me who the fuck in the VPD I can trust with this.”

  He is silent, five seconds of silent.

  “Yeah, OK. Point taken.”

  I hear a monitor beep in the background. “You armed?”

  “No. They took my weapon when they canned me.”

  “What about a personal weapon? D’you have one?”

  “No. It’s illegal. We’re in Vancouver not L.A.”

  He snorts. “OK, you can be Mr. High and Mighty if you like but you need a weapon. You know my apartment building? Go there and wake up my landlady, Mrs. Van Vloten, she’s in suite 103. Tell her to let you into my place. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming. There’s a Glock 17 in my bedside table, top drawer. Take it alright? If that dog so much as looks at you squirrely, double tap it’s ugly great head.”

  “Nick—”

  “STFU, Rogan. Just do it. I’ll call Mrs. V now. Remember, suite 103. Call me when you get to the Church.”

  He hangs up just as I pull up on the side street beside the Church of the Transcended Masters. I’m not going to take the fifteen minutes I need to go to Nick’s apartment and back. I don’t share his fear of BLZ and I don’t want gunfire around Sam.

  As I exit the Healey, I can feel the adrenaline. Not only am I going to rescue Sam but I am going to have a nice little chat with Mr. Seth Harris, without the shackles of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. I’ll start by not politely knocking on the front door. With that thought in mind I open the trunk of the Healey and remove a tire iron. It is a simple design: a two foot long bar, at one end a socket wrench for removing the nuts that secure a wheel, at the other end a screwdriver-like head for prying off hubcaps. It’s of no use on the Healey, which has chrome knock-on wire wheels. I keep it in the trunk for other purposes.

  The Church sits in a double lot, one house in from the side street. I walk into the alley that runs behind the houses and have a flashback to another alley in my former life—an alley in which I twice almost lost my life. I suppress a shudder.

  Where the back of the lot borders on the alley, there are several trees and a labyrinthine tangle of bushes and shrubs dominated by wild blackberry thorns. I am grateful that it is winter, I doubt I could penetrate the cover in summer. Through the brush, I can see the back fence: seven feet high and topped by a tight coil of glittering razor wire. Beyond it, the house lies in shadows. No light escapes from any window. It has an abandoned aspect to it. I hate to think of Sam locked in there.

  I scour the garden for any evidence of BLZ. In the cimmerian area behind the house I think I see a doghouse. In a moment I will know if it is occupied. Being as quiet as I can manage, I tread a path through the brush, crushing the plants beneath my shoes. Brambles cling to my pant legs and I hear an expensive-sounding tear. It is far less than the damage I am about to inflict on my leather jacket.

  I reach the fence and examine it. There seems to be no sign of any security device. No terminals that might indicate electrification and no sign of cameras, bells or other telltales. It is close to freezing. I breathe out several times at different heights. The vapor of my breath shows no sign of any laser beams. Yet I can’t be sure.

  Holding my breath, I take off my jacket and drape it over the razor wire, lining side down, in the vain hope that not too much damage will show on the outside. No alarm sounds, which does not mean that no alarm has been tripped. I slide the tire iron into the back of my belt, praying that it will hold fast.

  I climb the fence finding easy hand- and footholds in the chain links. The slight rattle of the fence is a scream in the still night. I freeze, waiting for the snuffle of a dog or the sound of an alarm.

  Nothing.

  Nothing that I can hear, anyway.

  With my hands just below the level of the razor wire, I straighten up and curl forward so that my stomach is resting on my jacket. I feel the razor wire give under my weight.

  Deep breath.

  Again.

  I roll forward and reach down with both hands, get a good grip on the chain link, and then flip my legs up and over the fence. I miss snagging a trouser leg on the razors but as I steady my dropping body, the fence rattles loudly. Way too loudly. I land, release my grip on the fence and drop into a crouch.

  Silence.

  Nothing moves but the steam from my breathing.

  Am I doing the right thing here? Is Sam really in this house? Am I putting her more at risk by coming here? I smother twinges of regret that I didn’t get some form of backup and that I didn’t take the time to stop for Stammo’s Glock.

  Too late for any of that.

  I make my way to the back door. As I get closer, I see a faint glimmer of light through a window to the right of the back door. Recalling the layout of the interior, I guess that the window is behind the black drapes that back the altar. On our first visit here, Seth and his dog appeared through those drapes and the back door was visible.

  There are three wooden steps up to a tiny patio. In the dark, it is impossible to examine the condition of the steps. I put my foot on the first step and slowly transfer my weight onto it. It gives a little under my weight. Good sign: the wood feels rotten and less likely to creak.

  One more silent step. I’m holding my breath. I let it out gently.

  Two more silent steps and I am on the patio, the back door six feet away. I’m hoping that the wood around the back door is as rotten as the steps.

  I reach behind me for the tire iron.

  Creak!

  The door opens and I’m flooded with light.

  “ Don’t move an inch.” I can just hear the woman’s voice over the hammering of my heart.

  As my eyes adjust to the powerful flashlight I see the silenced gun pointing at me. It’s big, mat black, not your typical woman’s gun. Her stance is professional.

  “Put your hands behind your head.”

  I obey.

  The flashlight and the gun move backwards,

  “Follow me. Real slow.”

  She backs inside the house, away from the door and to my right.

  I follow.

  As I enter the house she backs away further to the right. We are behind the black drapes.

  “Keep your hands on your head and close the door with your foot.” She’s definitely a pro.

  I turn to my right, facing her. I don’t want her to see the tire iron stuffed in the back of my belt. I hook my foot behind the door and push it closed.

  The curtain to my left opens to reveal the inside of the Church. The woman holding the curtain open has her arm in a sling. The smile she gives is not pleasant.

  “Go through,” her partner with the gun commands.

  I sidle into the room so that neither of them can see the tire iron.

  The candles are not in use and in the harsh electric light, I see Sam.
r />   She is sitting on one of the chairs, bound and gagged with duct tape.

  She is not alone.

  Two chairs away is another captive, also bound and gagged. When I see who it is, everything is turned upside down as my mind races to integrate the new information.

  “Step back.”

  I do as I’m told without taking my eyes off Sam. I smile what I hope is encouragement to her.

  I take a good look at my captors. Both women are squat and hard-looking; they could be sisters. The one with the gun is slightly taller and has what looks like a knife scar on her right cheek, she places the flashlight on the floor and then carefully puts the gun in her partner’s good hand; she smiles almost tenderly and rubs her partner’s shoulder.

  When she turns to me, her face hardens as she takes a plastic tie from her pocket.

  “Slowly put your hands behind your back,” she orders and I comply, trying not to show my glee at her stupidity for not checking if I have a weapon. My right hand takes a firm grip on the tire iron.

  I weigh the odds. They are slim. The woman with the broken arm and the gun is ten feet away from me. My first thought is to throw the tire iron at the one with the gun, then grab her partner and, using her as a shield, propel her into the path of the gun. But a voice in my head, a voice with a Scottish accent, says, Remember, Laddie, there’s nae much moves faster than a bullet. It’s the voice of my old combat instructor at the Justice Institute—he’s never let me down yet.

  Throwing the tire iron is a non-starter; I need a better plan. Scarface starts to circle round to my right, if she gets behind me she will see my weapon. I rotate to my right, facing her, with my back to the other captives.

  “Turn around!” she says but no sooner are the words out of her mouth than there is a crash from behind me. The woman with the gun turns toward the sound and as she turns, the gun pans away from me.

  Instinct takes over.

  In one motion, I pull the tire iron from my belt and take three fast strides toward her. Too late she turns back. Before she can level the gun, the tire iron descends and smashes into her right wrist. The sound of the gun spinning off across the hardwood floor is inaudible, masked by the woman’s scream.