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

by Robert P. French

  Steve looks at me and a silent communication takes place. We’ve got the first thing we wanted.

  Steve’s rank is enough to get us a look at the log. It’s right there. Midnight. Prisoner: Harold Varga. Visitor: Inspector C. Vance.

  “Were you on duty last night?” Steve asks the guard.

  “Yeah. Same as tonight. Four to midnight. Why?”

  Steve points to the entry in the log. “Do you remember Inspector Vance’s visit?”

  He scratches his unkempt head. “Sure.Yeah. He stayed about half an hour.”

  “Did anything unusual happen?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?” Steve asks, a definite edge in his tone.

  “Well, he took the guy in a bottle of water, the expensive French stuff, eh. That’s not what you’d call usual.”

  “Is it even allowed?” I ask.

  “Not usually, but, hell, he’s an Inspector. I’m not going to argue with him am I? Anyway he took it back out with him when he left.”

  I’ll just bet he did.

  “Is his cell occupied now?” Steve asks.

  “No, but we’ve got—”

  “It’s a crime scene. Seal it off. Nothing goes in, nothing goes out, until a forensics team gets here. Got that?”

  I won’t let myself get too hopeful. Vance is far too smart to leave any evidence that the poison which killed Varga came from him. All we’ve got is Elizabeth’s identification and Sally Wilkes’ statement that Vance asked her to hold back details of the oboe code.

  I am amazed at Steve’s willingness to put his career on the line again with such circumstantial evidence but here we are in the Deputy Chief’s office.

  The last time I saw the Deputy Chief was in his car as we raced to arrest the man who is now in Millhaven. I remember in great detail him cogently expressing the view, a controversial view shared by many senior police officers, that drugs should be legalized. I have a great respect for the man.

  He knows that Steve is going over the heads of two levels of management to talk to him. “How can I help you, Steve?” he asks.

  “Well sir, there are some fingerprints connected with the case we have been working on. The computer recognizes them but we get an access denied message. According to Inspector Vance, Superintendent Cathcart said that the identities were being withheld for reasons of national security. Could you verify that for us please sir?” Steve hands the file across the desk to the Deputy.

  He ignores the file. “Why are you asking me, Steve? A request like this should come through Inspector Vance.”

  “I understand that sir.”

  Silence.

  Steve doesn’t try to justify going over Vance’s head.

  The Deputy’s eyes hold Steve for a while. He is assessing the ramifications of breaking protocol and doing as Steve asks.

  His eyes turn to me then back to Steve.

  “OK.”

  He opens the file and turns to the monitor on his desk. He angles it so that neither of us can see it.

  He enters the file number into his keyboard. After a moment, the computer gives a familiar beep; he just got the ‘access denied’ message. He enters another code which he types quickly.

  He stares at the screen, pondering whatever it is he sees there.

  He looks back at the paper file on his desk and repeats the process with the computer.

  He sighs.

  “OK Steve. You were right. There is no national security hold on the files of these women. You got the ‘access denied’ message because they are the prints of two female RCMP members based in Ottawa.”

  “Currently serving?” Steve asks.

  He nods. His face tells me that he doubts he is going to enjoy what he is about to hear but nonetheless he asks, “What’s this all about Steve?”

  Steve takes a big breath and starts to speak.

  68

  Cal

  Friday

  It’s an odd taste but kind of nice, though unfamiliar to my palette which is more used to craft-brewed beers. I don’t usually drink this early in the afternoon but it’s been one hell of a week since Steve and I met with the Deputy Chief on Monday. Also it’s Stammo’s first day back in his own apartment, so he wanted to celebrate with a shot of bourbon or, as he calls it, his buddy Jim. But he didn’t want to see me just to drink; I know why I’m here but not what it’s going to cost me. He’s holding off from bringing the subject up until I have briefed him on the details of the cases.

  Though fraught with inter-jurisdictional nightmares, Vance’s female hit-squad were quietly arrested in the Ottawa RCMP headquarters on Wednesday and, in separate interviews, both rolled on each other and on Vance. The latter was arrested this morning and, for starters, was charged with money-laundering, murder and conspiracy to commit murder. The women denied having anything to do with Superintendent Cathcart’s disappearance both being back in Ottawa at the time. Vance is exercising his right to remain silent.

  When the two million dollars in Mark and Elizabeth Wright’s bank account was seized as the earnings from a criminal enterprise and she learned that I had told the appropriate authorities about the money, she spent five long minutes screaming at me and wishing me a long and painful death. Despite her invective, I could not help feeling sorry for her and have asked Arnold to buy a money order with funds from my trust account and deliver it to her; it’s not a fortune but it will help her bury her husband and son and then live for a few months until she is ready to go back to work as a nurse at VGH.

  Stammo savors another sip and says, “I’m sorry it was Vance, I liked the guy. Go figure eh?” I nod in agreement. He thinks for a bit. “But it does answer another question.” He smiles at my questioning look, “You remember after you had the second drug test, you had a meeting with him and you thought he was gonna fire you but he didn’t. What he did do was tell you to track down Mark Wright. He must have figured you had the best chance of tracking him down and you did, even if Sally Wilkes boys did beat you to it. As soon as Wright was dead, you were fired.”

  Another piece of the puzzle dealt with.

  Stammo pours us each another shot. “No news of Superintendent Cathcart?” he asks.

  “No. We’re guessing he and Varga were Vance’s last victims.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you when he had you unconscious at that church, Sam too for that matter.”

  “I figure he didn’t want to raise the storm of attention that goes with a cop killing.”

  Stammo nods and raises his glass to me. Here it comes.

  “So Rogan,” he says. “When I offered to help you find your wife, I asked for a favor in return.”

  “Yes, Nick. It’s the real reason I’m here this afternoon isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Well you’re off the hook for now, eh,” he grunts.

  He looks embarrassed, an odd condition for Stammo.

  “Come on Nick, what was it you wanted?”

  “I doesn’t matter now. It wouldn’t be fair to ask.”

  I don’t like owing favors, so I should be happy to just let it go. I should leave now and go pick up Ellie from after-school care—we could make an early start on our weekend together—but something pushes me to say, “Ask anyway.”

  He looks out the window at the darkening street. “Well… at the time, you were on suspension from the department and it didn’t look like you were ever going back. And there was me in this thing,” he thumps the armrest of his wheelchair, “knowing that if I went back into the department, all I’d be able to do was desk work. So I got to thinking, maybe I should go into business as a private investigator.”

  “That’s a great idea Nick.”

  “Yeah, well… maybe. Thing is…” he looks at me and looks away again. “I was hoping that if the Department didn’t take you back, that maybe you could join me, you know, be partners.”

  The surprise is written large upon my face. For some reason I had thought the favor would be somet
hing to do with his kids from whom he is estranged. Not this. A whole bunch of conflicting emotions writhe across my mind: how can I face my colleagues on a daily basis, never knowing who was involved in my kidnapping? Will my job jeopardize any reconciliation with Sam? Can I live without the badge?

  And somehow the conflicts resolve themselves.

  Stammo misreads the smile that I can’t keep from my lips. The annoyance sweeps over his face. “Look, forget I said it. You’ve got your job back with the department. You love it. Why would you want to throw it away? I should’n’a said anything.”

  My laugh is long, loud and restoring; then the words tumble out of my mouth in a rush.

  Cal

  Wednesday

  The wound must be bleeding heavily and hurts like hell. It’s definitely slowing me down, just when I need to be fast. I know the smell of blood will be easy for the dogs to track and will excite them mightily.

  As if in reminder, I hear the baying again. How far behind me are they now? Less than half a mile?

  In the growing darkness beneath the forest canopy, I can hardly see the branches and brambles. They’re snatching at my clothing and at the heavy pack on my back, slowing me even more.

  For an instant the distraction of my wound has caused my focus to waver from its prime task of navigation. Have I lost the path? If I have, I’m dead meat. Literally.

  Hell! I think I have. I feel the hand of panic tearing at me.

  I slow and check the left side of the trail carefully.

  No, I’m OK.

  What a relief! There’s the pine with the broken branch and the notch cut from its trunk: my first marker.

  I turn and run into the bush to the left of the trail.

  Crashing through the undergrowth, the waves of guilt flood through me again.

  I suppress them. I had no choice… or so I tell myself.

  No time to think.

  I emerge onto a narrow trail leading south and place all my attention on avoiding the many exposed roots. I count them with care. I have to. My life depends on it.

  I successfully navigate the first five. Now the greatest hazard of all. If I did this right only to screw it up now, I am in for a world of hurt. Maybe even death, which, given the circumstances, might be preferable.

  I stop and listen.

  Above the noise of the dogs comes a voice shouting a guttural command. The guards will miss my move from the main trail but the dogs won’t. I look back and can see erratic motions of flashlights carried by the running guards. I remove the tiny Maglite from the pocket of my pants and point it on the ground to the right of the trail.

  My skin crawls and I can feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck. One mistake now and… but no, there it is, the innocuous broken stick lying casually across a growth of those tiny blue forest flowers that bloom everywhere in the spring: my second marker.

  I scan the air above the stick and wave my Maglite at belly height. My heart is in my throat. It’s gone… No, wait a minute, there it is. I reach out and my trembling hand comes into contact with it. It is better concealed than I thought. Good. My pursuers will have their eyes and their flashlights trained on the path, looking for the next recalcitrant root. They will not see the thin filament, coated in non-reflective black dye, exactly three feet above the path.

  I drop carefully to my knees and then, on my belly, scramble forward. Although all logic tells me that the wire is at least twelve inches above my backpack, my skin crawls as I pass underneath it. I grunt at the pain caused to my wound. When I am sure I am at least six feet past, I stand and, spurred on by the sound of more frenzied barking, I continue along the path at a steady jog. I am sweating freely in the cool spring-like air.

  Suddenly, I am through the woods and running—or would hobbling be a better description?—down the green-clad slope leading to the pebble beach. I am both relieved and anxious at the same time. Relieved at being so close to the boat and anxious that I am now in the open, vulnerable to both eyes and bullets.

  In the dim dusk I can see the two patches of reeds, the larger of which conceals the boat.

  A resurgence of baying—it sounds closer and I pray that the guards have not yet let slip the dogs of war, for if they have, I will likely be torn apart—forces me to sprint the last one hundred yards to the beach. God only knows what it’s doing to the wound in my side.

  I reach the water’s edge and now time, as lawyers like to say, is of the essence.

  The pack is off my back even before I stop running and with two quick snaps the top is open and I am pulling out the drysuit.

  I deviate from the carefully rehearsed sequence and pull up my black polypropylene turtleneck. At the back where the bullet entered, the hastily applied duct tape has stanched the flow but the exit wound at the front, four inches to the left of my navel, has blood seeping ominously around the tape.

  I know I have to take precious time to deal with the bleeding.

  I remove my gloves and from a side pocket in my pack, I pull out a Ziploc bag containing alcohol-soaked gauze pads and a roll of duct tape, there at the insistence of Stammo.

  I suppress a cry of pain as I wrench off the existing tape, the pain from the wound itself and from the hundreds of hairs that are ripped from their follicles. The sight of the wound is horrific, made much more so by the fact that it is in my gut. Blood is flowing freely.

  The baying is closer. Can they smell my blood?

  How the hell did I get into this?

  Cal

  Monday evening, 9 days earlier.

  I scan the crowd, looking for a face. It may be a face I already know. It may not be; it may just have the look, the look I learned to recognize in my almost thirteen years as a cop in the Vancouver Police Department.

  I am standing on the back corner of the makeshift stage in the gymnasium. The candidate is not yet in evidence. People are still streaming in through the two sets of double doors and planting themselves on folding chairs. I cannot tell if they will be friendly or hostile.

  They are a mixed bunch. The majority are local activists and some of the neighbourhood’s better-off minority. There are a couple of well-dressed businessmen and quite a few homeless or near-homeless. Most are residents of Strathcona, V6A: Canada’s poorest postcode. It was my home for much of the time I lived on the streets.

  My eyes land on three young men with hard eyes. Their clothes are worn and old. Their physical ticks give away their addiction to crack. Anger is written into their faces. The security team may need to deal with them and though they are not my number one concern, I put them on my mental list.

  Through the doors walk a couple with a baby. It is tiny, swaddled. They don’t make their way immediately to the seats but instead take in the details of the room. They look toward the makeshift stage with its podium and for a moment the man’s eyes connect with mine, we nod and smile at each other. The wife’s eyes scan the room. She speaks to her husband and gestures toward the back of the gym, farthest from the stage and close to where the only other doors are located. He nods and they make their way back there taking the two seats closest to the back door, a precaution against the baby crying: the mother can make a quick exit with a minimum of disturbance.

  I take them off my mental list but add a man in a coat which is just a bit too baggy. He makes his way to a seat, stage left. My eyes drill into him as he sits. I look for any awkward movements that might give away the presence of a weapon concealed under the baggy folds. Looks OK but I keep him on the list with the hard-looking crackheads.

  I scan the faces of people coming through the doors and see a face I know.

  Goliath. A reminder of the past I can’t escape. A member of a drug gang, arrested by the VPD as the result of my investigation into the murder of my best friend. He is a giant of a man, walking with a limp. If he sees my face, he will remember me as the man responsible for that limp and he will almost certainly come after me. I step off the back of the stage and partially conceal myself behind
the backdrop; I don’t want my past to create waves for the candidate. I scan my memory for Goliath’s real name. It’s Guy Chang. I am surprised he’s out of prison so soon. He looks around the room at the crowd and then makes his way to the back. He sits a few seats away from the couple with the baby, multiplying my worry index. If he is here for some nefarious reason, I don’t want that baby put at risk.

  The room slowly fills up. There are a lot of people here to listen to Larry Corliss speak. He was popular in this community when he was Mayor of Vancouver and all the polls say he will win the upcoming Federal election against incumbent Edward Perot.

  There is a buzz in my ear.

  “Five minutes, Rogan,” a voice says. “Any suspects?”

  I raise my left hand and scratch my hair at the temple so that I can talk unobtrusively into my sleeve. “Yes three.” I say, feeling like a member of the US Secret Service’s Presidential Detail.

  “To the door.” It is not a request.

  I step off the side of the stage and taking care not to trip over any feet, I take the narrow isle in front of the first line of chairs. I keep my head turned so Goliath won’t catch a look at my face. Four hard-looking men are waiting for me at the doors. They work for the security company controlled by Arnold Young, my biggest client.

  I point out the man in the baggy coat and the crackheads. Two of the guards go off to sit beside them.

  Flanked by the other two security guards, I leave through the main doors, walk down the corridor beside the gym and re-enter in silence via the back doors. We stand, quiet and unnoticed, behind Goliath and the couple with the baby.

  The man on my right is Ian Peake; we’ve met before. Ian once provided a protection detail for my daughter and her grandparents. He is a former sergeant in the British SAS. Enough said. He and his colleague are among the few civilians in Canada licensed to carry concealed weapons in public, our gun laws being one of the reasons that the country only has about two hundred gun homicides a year and most of those are gang members thinning each other’s ranks.