I spin toward her partner, she is exploding in the direction of the gun.
“You bastard!” she shrieks.
In a split second I can see that in a race for the gun, it is an even bet as to who will win. When the odds are even, Laddie, do the unexpected. I make a dash but hold back enough to let her get there first. When she bends down to pick it up, I will nail her with the tire iron.
But she senses my hesitation and reads my mind. She must have had the same instructor.
She turns fast and charges me, her face a mask of fury.
She’s coming from my left.
There is no chance to get the tire iron into play.
My left fist snakes out and her nose runs right into it. In the second of extra time this gives me, I swing the tire iron hard and low and it makes contact with her knee. As she drops to the floor, I have all the time in the world… and I use it to summon up every ounce of strength to kick her in the head. She goes down like a rag doll.
I turn around to check on her partner.
She’s gone.
A trickle of fear runs down my back. She was the one who drove Stammo down, despite having a broken arm.
I see a residual movement of fabric; she has disappeared behind the black drapes.
I quash the impulse to follow; she may have a broken arm and a smashed wrist but she may also have another weapon behind there.
I turn and take three paces toward the gun. It has come to rest under a chair in the second row. I kick the chairs out of the way and pick it up.
For the first time I glance toward Sam. The chair in which she has been tied is toppled over into the row behind her and several chairs are scattered around. She made the crash that distracted the woman with the gun. I burn to rush over and hug her but do not dare risk the time. I check the gun, a Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm; the safety is off—it’s ready to rock and roll.
“OK, I’m armed now. You’d better come out.” I shout the words. I am not going to enter the curtains to the right of the altar, through which she disappeared, but I need the flashlight that Scarface placed on the floor. I walk loudly across the hardwood floor to retrieve it. “If you don’t come out I am going to start shooting through the curtains.”
Silence.
I slip out of my loafers and stride soundlessly to the far left of the altar.
Deep breath.
In one motion, I sweep the curtains aside, step through and level both the flashlight and the gun down the corridor behind the altar. The woman is lying face down on the floor. I approach her and see that she is either unconscious or faking it. She is lying on the broken left arm and I can see that her right wrist has been badly damaged by my blow with the tire iron. If she wants to use a gun again, she will have to learn to shoot left-handed.
The instant of sympathy that I feel dissipates as I think of Stammo, at the hospital, sitting in his wheelchair, never to walk again. A desire for rough justice swells inside me. One bullet to the base of her spine would be a fair quid pro quo. I burn to do it. I can find a way to make the evidence support the use of the weapon. I move around her so that I am standing by her head. One bullet, fired at an angle passing downward through the spine will cause maximum damage without killing her.
Aim.
Breathe.
Hold.
We are all undone, unless the noble man have mercy.
The unbidden words deflate me and my burning anger dissolves in a flood of sanity. Like Stammo said, You can’t become a vigilante. It leaves you feeling too dirty.
I take her by the scruff of her neck and drag her through the curtains into the main room. Her partner is stirring. Two quick strides and I kneel on her back. She is still holding the plastic tie. I snatch it from her hand and use it to bind her wrists behind her back. A search of her jacket pocket produces more ties. I use one to secure her ankles and another to secure her partner’s ankles. I am loathe to secure the partner’s injured hands but I remember the last time I counted her out; that error in judgment put Stammo in a wheelchair for life.
I take her injured wrist and bind it to the back of her leather belt. She groans as I do it but without regaining consciousness.
The scene is secured.
Now Sam is my priority.
As soon as I’ve released her. I will call 911. With a rush, I realize I’ve just solved three crimes. The attempted kidnapping of Michael Chan, the assault on Stammo and the kidnapping of Sam.
Although it is probably less than a minute since I entered the room, I am breathing like I have just finished a marathon. I go over to her and gently right Sam’s chair. She is bound to it by plastic ties and is gagged with duct tape. I glance at her fellow captive and he is bound the same way… but to hell with him he can wait.
I look into Sam’s eyes and instead of seeing relief I see fear.
“Mmmmmmm.” She is trying to communicate, her eyes wide.
I reach forward to peel off the tape.
She shakes her head and looks past me.
“Mmmmmmm.” She is frantic.
Electricity fires up my spine as I realize what she is trying to say.
I start to spin around and the world explodes in light.
51
Stammo
Mrs V. is pissed at me.
“Detective Nick,” it’s what she always calls me, even when she’s mad, “do you realize what time it is? It’s nearly one o’clock and no, your friend has not been here yet. If he has any sense he is in bed, like we all should be. If he comes, I will call you OK?”
“OK, Mrs. V. Sorry to disturb you.”
Fuck. Rogan can be such a smart ass sometimes; going into a situation like that without a gun is just plain stupid.
I phone him… no reply again.
Rogan’s got to be onto something big. Kidnapping his wife to shut him up is a pretty big reaction. He’s gotta be real close. That puts him in real danger. I gotta get him back-up.
But who? He’s right, we can’t trust anyone in the VPD. Anyone I might call could be the dirty cop. I hate to admit it but Rogan’s right, it could even be Steve.
I wanna just go jump in my car and go after him. This fuckin’ wheelchair. If only— Can’t go there, a waste of energy.
What has Rogan unearthed with this oboe thing? He said the code could be used to steal people’s bank account numbers and passwords.
If this whole thing is about drugs and banking then we are talking money-laundering… but how? The big problem for people laundering money is that if you deposit more than ten grand in cash into your bank account, the bank has to report it to the federal government. We’ve often wondered if some of the gangs might have opened hundreds of accounts and every day deposit just under ten grand into each of ’em but that would never work. For one thing, to open a bank account you need ID and an address for them to send statements to. On top of that, the bank’s computers would spot all these accounts with cash going in every day. What you would need is thousands of accounts that you only used…
That’s it!
Oh my God, that’s it. You’d need thousands of accounts that you only use once.
They are using the oboe code to steal thousands of people’s account numbers and passwords. Then every day someone goes and deposits just under ten grand in cash into a bunch of different people’s accounts. As soon as the deposit is made, someone logs into that person’s account using internet banking and immediately transfers the money out of the person’s account and into the gang’s account. If the bank’s customer notices the transaction on their statement, they just assume that someone at the bank screwed up and deposited the money into the wrong account, then immediately corrected it and transferred it back out; no harm, no foul.
If they’re doing this using just ten different accounts every day, that’s just short of a hundred grand a day. That’s thirty million a year. It’s fuckin’ brilliant is what it is.
I cannot wait to tell Rogan.
Man, I hope he’s OK.
&n
bsp; I try phoning him again.
52
Cal
I hear a moan… It’s repeated. Not certain, but I’m pretty sure it’s not me. “Cal?” I fight against the crazy glue holding my lids together and force open an eye.
Hardwood floor. Laminate.
“Cal… here.”
Pain screams through me as I move my head.
I see feet.
Bound.
“Sam?”
I roll on my side. This time, the moan I hear is mine.
I look up at her. She is still tied in her chair but the side of her face and her clothes are drenched in blood. There is an ugly wound on her temple.
I struggle to sit up but my hand is impeded by the gun in it. How did that get there? I remember having it but I don’t remember dropping it. When I went to Sam, it was in my hand but I didn’t have it when I was trying to remove the duct tape from her mouth.
Wait. She just spoke. I look at her face. Someone has removed the tape. I wonder why?
Gee, I am so tired.
I close my eyes.
“Cal! Stay awake.”
Just five more minutes… please.
“CAL!” It is a shriek this time.
I am bolt upright now. The Smith and Wesson clatters on the floor.
I am infused with urgency and force myself to my feet.
Sirens. Just on the edge of hearing but getting close. Or is it just a buzzing in my head?
“Sam,” I ask, “what happened?”
“I don’t know,” she falters. She looks around and horror fills her eyes.
I follow her gaze. She is looking at the other captive.
The sirens are getting closer. They are not in my head.
Seth Harris, Sam’s kidnapper and erstwhile boyfriend, is still sitting, bound and gagged, three chairs away from Sam. But now he is different.
“Sam, did Seth kidnap you and bring you here?”
“No… What? Kidnap? He didn’t kidnap me. He brought me here but…”
The sirens are close. They’re coming here. Thank God. VPD to the rescue.
I look at Seth. Three bullet wounds in his face have rendered him almost unrecognizable. Who would have killed him? I glance around. There is no sign of the women. Just Sam, Seth and me…
And my fingerprints on the gun.
“Sam. Who killed Seth?”
“I don’t know. He wore a mask. He hit you first, then he hit me. That’s all I remember.”
The sirens wind down but through the frosted glass beside the front door, I see the strobe of red and blue lights. I look at Seth again and wonder why Sam and I are still alive. Why didn’t the killer—
I hear the sirens of a second unit. Then a third.
And my fingerprints are on the gun.
If they follow procedure, one will take up a position at the back of the house.
In an instant I sum up the full import of what has happened here. My fingerprints are on the gun and I have fifteen seconds tops.
I go to Sam and take her by the shoulders.
“I was never here, Sam. Tell them everything that happened except for the fact that I was here. Do you understand?”
“But Cal, why sh—”
“Sam, listen. The VPD suspended me. My prints are on the gun.”
I have no time to say more.
I grab the gun and stuff it in the back of my pants.
“Please Sam. I was never here.”
I dash through the drapes, out the back door, down the steps in one jump and run to where my jacket is draped over the barbed wire. I grab the chain links but out of the corner of my eye, I see more red and blue strobing.
They are coming up the alley.
With a flick of the wrist, I flip my coat off the wire and cringe at the ripping of the expensive lining. Seven running strides take me to the south side of the fence, bordering on the next-door neighbor’s back yard.
Gotta move fast.
Jacket over the wire.
As I put my foot up onto the chain link fence it catches something in the undergrowth. Something metal.
I hazard a quick look down.
It’s a license plate. ZOA 1645. I mustn’t leave prints. I lift it using only my palms on opposite edges and toss it toward the back steps where it will be seen by the uniforms when they check the back yard.
No more time. Climb the chain links. Lean over my jacket. Vault. Retrieve jacket. More ripping.
I run across the neighbor’s yard and have no difficulty navigating the wooden fence that separates his property from the sidewalk.
Two deep breaths. Put on my jacket. Cross the street then saunter toward my car half a block away. Hands in pockets, playing the part of an insomniac local out for a late night stroll. As I cross the alley, I turn casual enquiring eyes toward the police car parked behind the church. I can’t see whether either of the uniforms in the car is looking at me, maybe even recognizing me.
Both of the patrol officers get out of the car at the same time. One looks at me. I fight to suppress my flight reflex and just stand and watch for a moment.
He walks toward me as his partner turns his attention and his flashlight to the back of the church. If he recognizes me I am in real trouble.
He’s young, probably fairly fresh out of the Institute. I don’t know his face. He probably doesn’t know mine.
“Can I help you sir?”
“No Officer. I was just out for a walk, couldn’t sleep.”
He just looks at me. He’s good.
I do as he expects and fill the silence. “What’s happening at the Church?”
“Are you a member sir?” there is suspicion in his voice.
For a moment I freeze. I assume he means am I a member of the Church but he could be asking if I’m a member of the VPD. Maybe he has recognized me.
“No Officer.” True for option one and false for option two.
“OK sir,” he says. “Probably safer if you carry on with your walk.”
I nod. “Good night Officer.”
I casually continue my stroll.
As I approach the Healey, I want to look back to check if he is still watching me, which will look suspicious to him. But getting into the car would give the lie to my out-for-a-walk story.
I turn and start to cross the road and, like a good pedestrian, I look both ways.
He has gone.
I spin back and get in the Healey.
I turn the key and press the starter button.
British cars built in 1964 don’t like cold and damp. It doesn’t start.
I pull out the choke about half way and try again. It doesn’t start.
I check the mirror. The young patrol officer is standing at the entrance to the alley, looking at me.
I try again, resisting the impulse to floor the gas pedal and flood the ancient SU carburettors. It doesn’t start.
I can feel the gun stuffed under my belt at the back, my fingerprints all over it.
The officer steps toward me.
Choke full out. Quick prayer to the sports car gods. Press the starter button.
It roars into life. The officer breaks into a run
I accelerate away hard, hoping that he can’t read my license plate.
53
Cal
“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t go in there.”
I’m in no mood for this but I respond with all the politeness I can muster. “I’m afraid I have to.”
“Sir, it’s two-thirty AM. Patients need their sleep. If you persist, I will have to call security.”
“Do what you feel you have to, nurse. I have to see Detective Stammo on official police business.”
She is clearly undecided, so I stalk off to Stammo’s room.
Stammo is in bed but sits up as I enter the room. Either he was awake or he is the lightest sleeper with the fastest reactions that I have ever encountered.
“What happened?”
No foreplay, straight to business.
I
tell him about the trip to the Church of the Transcended Masters. When I tell him about the two women being there he utters the one expletive that makes me cringe. His eyes narrow when I tell him that when I arrived, Seth Harris was a captive too. This turns to incredulity when I get to the part where I woke up and found Seth Harris dead.
“So did he kidnap Sam, or what?” he asks.
“Well, she said he didn’t. She said he brought her there.”
“So Seth could be an innocent bystander in all of this?”
“I thought that for a moment but as I was leaving through the back yard, I stumbled over a license plate. It was the license plate from the blue truck that killed Marguerite Varga. The plate that was stolen from the old couple in Langley. Seth has to be the one who hid it there. He was the only—”
Then it hits me.
Where was Morgan Harris?
Was she also being held as a captive in some other part of the house or is it possible that she was somehow in league with the two women? It’s a long shot but…
I tell Stammo my thoughts.
He thinks for a moment then shakes his head. “It’s possible but that means that she would have been in on killing her own brother. I don’t really buy that.”
I think back to my meetings with the Reverend Morgan Harris. Despite her childlike appearance she was certainly capable of manipulation. But it is a long step from manipulation to fratricide. Except…
“We only have her word that he was her brother. What if he’s not? He certainly looks nothing like her.”
Stammo chuckles. “No, if he looks like anyone, it’s you. Maybe he’s your brother.”
I try to smile as I suppress the unpleasant feeling this gives me. Given my family background, nothing’s impossible.
Nothing’s impossible.
Maybe Morgan Harris is involved with the two women. Maybe it was her who knocked me out, after I put the women out of action. Sam said that it was a man but a man in a mask. Maybe she just assumed it was a man; I will need to talk to her some more about this. What if—
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 55
