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

by Robert P. French

  I am sobbing uncontrollably and I have no idea why. Since the day my father died, I hardly ever cry. I didn’t even cry when I lost George. The last time I remember crying was in anger and frustration at Cal that time I thought he had put Ellie in danger.

  He holds me tight and kisses the top of my head and I feel safe.

  After what seems an age, my sobbing subsides. I look up and grin at him through my tears. He has tears in his eyes too and I feel myself melt. I look at his lips and know we are going to kiss. I want him so badly, right now. I slide my fingers into his hair and pull his head toward me. His eyes start to close… then snap open.

  I feel his neck stiffen. His hands take my shoulders and gently push us apart.

  There is a look of infinite sadness in his eyes.

  “I need…” He clears his throat. “Sam, I need to ask you some questions.”

  I want to kiss away his sadness. “Later.” I pull him back toward me.

  He resists. “Not now, Sam!” His tone is like a slap in the face and I feel myself flinch. His rejection cuts into me.

  “How long had you been seeing Seth Harris?” he asks.

  Mention of Seth’s name physically hurts me. The image of regaining consciousness and seeing his face, shattered by gun shots, bursts onto the screen of my mind, making my stomach churn. Why would he ask me this? My God he’s jealous? I can feel the storm fueling an anger in me.

  “I don’t see what business that is of yours.” I step back from him and turn back to the coffee press. I feel overwhelmed by the hurt of his rejection and the horror of Seth’s death. The hurt starts to turn into something else, something that I know I can’t control.

  “He’s mixed up in the two murders I’m investigating. He kidnapped you to try and force me to back off. But the thing is, I think that you have been seeing him since before the first murder.”

  My amazement at his statements throws fuel on the fire.

  “Seth is not a murderer, you idiot, and, for your information he did not kidnap me.”

  “Sam, you have to tell me what happened.” It is delivered like an order.

  “Matter of fact Cal, no, I don’t,” I yell. “I told the police everything yesterday. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Sam, please. They’re going to blame Terry Wright’s father for his murder and he may not have done it. I know it’s—”

  “Mummy why are you shouting at Daddy?”

  Ellie is standing in the doorway holding her favorite Teddy bear. She only ever hugs him when she is upset or frightened. All my anger dissolves in an instant.

  “It’s OK, honey,” I try to scoop her up in my arms but nearly lose my footing. Damn this MS. “I’m just a bit upset because of something. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Mommy’s right, sweetie,” he steps in and picks her up. “Sometimes people speak loudly when they’re upset.” He gives her a big kiss on the cheek and she smiles and hugs him. “Just go and play for a bit longer so that Mommy and I can finish what we were taking about.”

  Oh, no. I am not in the mood to be interrogated right now.

  “Actually, Cal,” I say, “Ellie and I are going to have lunch now. Didn’t you say that you had to get back to work? Let’s talk another time.”

  He looks back and forth between Ellie and me.

  “Sure,” he says. “Hey, El, you know what day it is? It’s Friday. So when I come back later to take you to my house, Mommy and I can talk again then.”

  Before I can check myself, the words come out of my mouth. “Ellie won’t be going to your place this weekend. Not until you know for sure whether you’re going to use again.”

  When I see the reactions on their faces, I hate myself for my cruelty.

  56

  Cal

  The irritation that was in evidence during the early hours of the morning is gone. When I walk through the door of his room, he knows I’m on to something.

  “What’cha got?” he asks.

  I tell him about my arrest then try out my theory.

  “One of the reasons they knew to pick me up was that my fingerprints were on a flashlight I used while I was at the Church but the person who used it before me was one of the women. So I asked Steve if they got a hit on her fingerprints. He didn’t tell me that it was none of my business or that he was not prepared to discuss it, he said, ‘that’s sensitive information.’ So I started to wonder what he meant by sensitive. What if those women are cops or maybe ex-cops that would certainly qualify as sensitive.”

  “You got a better look at them than me, did they look familiar to you?” he asks.

  “No. But they would have been from out of town. They carried themselves like cops. The one who caught me on the back porch: she had the look and the way she handled the gun, her stance, everything said ‘cop.’”

  He nods. Then one of his rare smiles, more of a grimace really, steals slowly across his face. “If they were working under the direction of whoever in the Department is dirty, they gotta know each other pretty well. So you gotta ask the question how do they know each other. If these broads are from out of town and we can find out where, then all we gotta do is look at the history of the senior people in the department and find out who has worked in the place they’re from. We’ll have found our dirty cop.”

  “I like it,” I say. “It’s all a bit of a long shot. Lots of ifs but let’s check it out.”

  He grabs his phone from the bedside table and dials.

  “Hiya, Steve,” he says. “How’s it going, eh?”

  They chat for a bit and I notice that he is playing with something in his right hand. I can see a slim gold chain and he is rubbing his fingers against whatever is attached to the chain.

  When he has finished a not-wildly-hopeful update of his medical condition, he asks, “Any news on who the broads were who did this to me?” He winks at me but then all vestiges of humor wash out of his face. “No?… What’cha mean no?…” The hand holding the gold chain is clamped, the knuckles white. “So why did you tell Rogan that you knew who they were but that it was sensitive information?” I can imagine Steve on the other end of the line, backpedaling like mad. A look of disgust comes to Stammo’s face. “Just ’cause I’m in a wheelchair, doesn’t mean I need to be protected from the truth, Steve. Who the fuck were they?” he spits out.

  He listens for a long moment. “You’re kidding… What?… National fuckin’ security? Are you kidding me?… Yeah… OK, OK, I won’t… Right. See’ya, Steve.”

  He slams down the phone. “Cover up,” he snorts at me.

  “Yeah, but by whom?”

  “Steve says when they ran the fingerprints, the computer said ‘Access Denied’. He says he took it upstairs but nobody had the authority to override it, some national security bullshit. That’s what he says, anyway.” Skepticism is strong on his face. “You’re right, Rogan, they’re cops.”

  “Yeah but how do we find out who they are?”

  “I dunno.” He looks downhearted, not a very Stammo-like look.

  Downhearted. That’s a good description of how I feel. On the way here and all through our conversation, I have been repeating Sam’s last words to me. Will she really keep Ellie from me?

  I shake off the thoughts. “OK, Nick, why don’t we go back to the basics, the murders of Terry Wright and Marguerite Varga. Let’s go through what we know and what we suspect.

  “Terry was killed on Sunday night, he was in the care of his step-father, Mark, but both parents agree that he likely climbed out the window of his bedroom. Terry had been repeating the oboe code and had taught it to his friend Michael who was also chanting it. The code is an encryption key that can be used to hack into people’s internet banking. Terry probably got it from Mark’s computer.

  “Next day Marguerite Varga is killed in a hit and run. The stolen license plate from the truck which killed her was in the undergrowth behind the Church of the Transcended Masters. The killer could be either Seth Harris or even th
e Reverend Morgan Harris. The connection between the killings is that Mark Wright used to work for Harold Varga and their wives both went to the church.

  “So there are at least two possible motives for the killings: Terry’s murder might have been ritualistic, committed by a person or people connected to the church or it could have been to silence him from repeating the code and then made to look ritualistic to point the blame at the church.”

  “Or there could have been another reason,” Stammo interjects. “Mark’s wife Elizabeth was having an affair with Seth Harris. What if Mark Wright killed Terry to punish Elizabeth and then mutilated the body to look like one of the pictures in the church to point the finger at Seth.”

  “Or it could be a double motive,” I add. “Mark was mad at Terry for spouting off about the code and killed him to shut him up and to punish Elizabeth and try and blame the boyfriend Seth.” And as I say the words an alternative presents itself and erupts a queazy feeling in my stomach.

  “Makes sense,” Stammo nods. “Terry repeating the code must have been a problem; why else would those women try and kidnap Michael Chan too? They didn’t want him repeating the code to us so that we could figure out what…” His voice trails off and I can see an ah-ha moment forming on his face. “Who knew that Michael was repeating the oboe code to us?” he asks.

  “Apart from you and me, I asked Mark and Elizabeth Wright if they knew what O-B-O-E meant; they might have guessed that I got it from Michael. I don’t think we ever mentioned it to Varga, until noon yesterday. On our second trip to the church, I looked at a picture that had some musicians in it and asked Morgan Harris if one of them was playing an oboe. Michael’s parents would have known, they might have told someone that we were interested in the stuff that Michael was chanting.”

  “Call ’em and ask.” Stammo’s tone is urgent. I call Grace Chan and ask her; she tells me that she didn’t mention it to anyone and is pretty sure that her husband didn’t either. She promises to call be back if he did.

  “Anyone else?” Stammo demands.

  “No… Not that… oh, wait a minute. My buddy Damien. I emailed and texted him about the code as we were learning about it but he couldn’t have anything to do with all this.”

  Stammo nods. “So… that just leaves you and me, Steve, Inspector Vance and Eric Street. And of course, Superintendent Cathcart would have heard about it from Steve or Vance. Unless Mark Wright worked out that you knew about the code from Michael Chan, the only people who could have known that Michael Chan was about to spill the beans on the oboe code are in the VPD and the only one to have a connection with this case is the Superintendent; every damn’ time we talk to Varga he makes a point of telling us that he’s friends with Cathcart. What if Cathcart’s in this money-laundering scam with Varga and Wright. He was in the drug squad and organized crime before he got his promotion to Super. I’m guessing Cathcart ordered those women to kidnap Michael and get me off the case. If he was the one who got the guys to pump you full of drugs, he knew that he could have you fired at any time. With Michael out of the way and you and me off the case, the whole deal about oboe would just go away.”

  He’s right. Cathcart is the logical choice. He was also one of the members of the senior staff who never wanted me back in the Department. Stammo’s analysis is good, except…

  “Sally Wilkes,” I say.

  “What about her?”

  “When I got the oboe code in full from Michael I sent it to Damien Crotty and to Sally Wilkes in Forensics. If Damien figured it out in a few hours, surely Sally Wilkes or one of her guys would have done the same. So why did we never hear back from Sally about the code?”

  Stammo’s eyes narrow. He grabs his phone and dials. After a moment he frowns. “Hi Sally, this is Nick Stammo. That code that Rogan sent you, did you ever find out what it is? Give me a call back.” He hangs up. “Voicemail,” he grunts.

  “OK, back to the original murders. The odds are that Terry was killed by Mark Wright to stop him repeating the code and maybe to punish his unfaithful wife into the bargain.” Again I get the queazy feeling but ignore it and press on. “What about Marguerite Varga? Why was she killed? Let’s assume that it was Seth Harris who drove the blue truck that killed—”

  “Wait a minute.” Stammo is holding up a finger. “Before we get on to that, here’s a question. If the oboe code was being used for money-laundering, whose money was being laundered? You got Varga, a suit, and Wright, a computer geek. What did they do? Work out this money-laundering scheme and then go wandering around the streets to find a gang to sell the idea to? That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “What if it’s like this?” I surmise. “We know Varga’s a gambler. What if he’s got a gambling problem and owes some money to some crook running an illegal operation. The crook tells him that he can work the debt off if he can use his position at the bank to launder some money for him and some of his friends. Varga knows that he can only do that with the help of some IT expertise and contacts his former employee and IT whiz-kid, Mark Wright. Together they hatch up a plan to steal the oboe code and launder millions of dollars through the accounts of thousands of unsuspecting bank customers. When Terry starts spouting the oboe code, Varga gets cold feet and tells them he wants out, so they kill his wife as a warning.”

  Stammo is silent for a while. When I attempt to speak some more, he holds up a finger. “You know what doesn’t make sense to me is that anyone would care if Terry started reciting the oboe code. He was a ten year old kid with a mental handicap; who would take any notice of him? Who would ever know that the gibberish he was gabbling would be a secret bank code?”

  He’s right. Why would anyone care? And why would anyone care that Terry’s friend Michael was also chanting the code and care enough to try and kidnap him?

  We sit in silence. What is it about this case? Nothing makes sense.

  The reminder on my phone beeps.

  But before I leave the hospital I have to do one other thing: ask a question, the answer to which I dread hearing.

  57

  Cal

  Please, please speak for me. The words refocused me onto my mission to speak for Terry Wright and bring his murderer to justice. They gave me the strength to resist, once more, the call of the Beast. I pray something gives me the strength to get me through this latest trial.

  For the last four years, I have dreamed of getting back with Sam. Earlier, thoughts of Elizabeth made me pull back from her and, as the other William said, about a hundred years after the Bard, Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. I love Sam and I want her but, heaven help me, I have been sleeping with Elizabeth and I have feelings for her too… strong feelings. But what I’ve just learned needs to be resolved with her right now. I take a deep breath and relax my hold on the steering wheel. The speedometer tells me I’m doing ninety-five k’s down Granville Street. I ease my foot off the gas; no need to kill myself on the way to see her. I need to—

  There is a ping in my Bluetooth headset. I press the button. “Rogan.”

  “Detective Rogan, this is Morgan Harris.”

  All my senses go on alert.

  “Hello, Reverend Harris, how may I help you?”

  “I’ve been away for a couple of days. I just got back and there is crime scene tape over my front door. I had your card in my purse so I thought I should call you.”

  “Are you inside the building?” I ask.

  “No. I didn’t think I should cross the tape. I rang the doorbell several times but there was no-one in there.”

  Curiouser and curiouser, Alice. It is twelve hours since the murder of Seth Harris; the place should still be crawling with forensic techs. I check the dashboard clock. Twelve forty-five. I suppose they could be taking a lunch break, but not likely.

  I am consumed with a desire to talk to the Reverend Harris. I need to find out if she is in league with the female ex-cops or just an innocent bystander. But I need to proceed with cau
tion; this may be a trap.

  “Where are you right now?” I ask.

  “On the steps of the Church.”

  I need to get her away from there. If the forensic team come back… Wait a minute, if this is a trap… OK, I can kill two birds with one stone.

  “Do you know Max’s Deli at Oak and 15th?”

  “Yes.” She drags the word out, unsure.

  “Meet me there in ten minutes,” I say as I execute a U-turn on a busy Granville Street.

  “But I need to get into the Church, right now.”

  I have to head that off. “It’s a crime scene, you can not go in there. If you do, you will be subject to arrest.”

  She is silent for a moment and I wonder if she is, in fact, already in the building.

  “OK. Ten minutes.” She hangs up.

  I parked the Healey on Montcalm Street, a block behind Max’s, walked down the alley between 15th and 16th and entered the Sunrise Market through their back door. I stand looking through the front window onto Oak. Everything looks normal. No parked cars with occupants. No sign of a Cadillac SUV. Only one elderly lady with a Scottie dog in a carrier is standing at the bus stop and three high school kids in private school uniforms are sitting on the bench opposite; I wonder what they are doing out of school at one o’clock. No-one is loitering outside any of the shops.

  Clear.