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

by Robert P. French

  The background murmur of the crowd changes its tone and a few people stand up and cheer as Larry Corliss enters the room followed by two of Ian’s cohort. Two VPD patrol officers—one male, one female—walk in and stand beside the stage. I notice the man in the baggy coat, on the other side of the room, is also standing but he is not clapping or cheering. The security guard sitting beside him also gets to his feet and starts clapping. It’s a smart move. His arms are already in motion; if the guy tries something, he can redirect his movements quickly.

  Consummate politician that he is, Corliss stands and waves at the crowd, acknowledging a few individuals with points and smiles. I can feel his charisma from where I’m standing.

  I look at Goliath. He is not standing nor does he look in the direction of the man in the baggy coat.

  Having milked it as much as he can, Corliss signals for people to sit down. He moves behind the podium. Although no one would know, it is bulletproof and provides a modicum of protection from the chest down. Speaking without notes, he starts his speech and the opening words are the reason for all this security.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, the only people who benefit from the war on drugs…” he pauses, “are the drug dealers.”

  His opening line elicits a cheer from the audience. Covered by the noise, Ian and his colleague move a step closer to Goliath.

  I hear the door behind me open.

  The back door. The door that should be restricted to security personnel.

  I spin around to see four men in suits coming through. I scan their faces. No one familiar. Not one of them radiates the hard look. They have smiling, placid, pudgy faces.

  One of them points to a group of empty seats and they make their way to them.

  Ian and I exchange glances. He shrugs.

  The woman with the baby has turned at the noise of the opening door and is looking at me. I smile and she smiles back.

  “No matter what laws we may enact,” continues Corliss, “people are going to use drugs. Some of them are going to get addicted and are going to spend whatever it takes to feed their habits.”

  A baby cries.

  It’s the baby of the couple in front of us.

  It cries again and the mother rocks in her seat. She whispers something to her husband.

  I look at Ian. He smiles and shakes his head.

  We focus our attention on Goliath and on the man in the baggy coat.

  Corliss’ voice has gone up a decibel or two, “An addict willingly pays ten bucks for one tenth of a gram of heroin. Heroin that costs less than three thousand dollars a kilo to harvest and manufacture.” The baby cries again, as if in protest, and a few members of the audience chuckle.

  “The ninety-seven-thousand-dollar profit on that kilo of heroin ends up, tax free, in the pockets of the worst criminals this planet has ever known.”

  The baby wails and Corliss smiles and nods. “Yes, I know,” he says. “It makes me cry too.”

  Amid the audience’s laughter, the parents stand. The mother looks embarrassed but the father’s face is inscrutable.

  They make their way down the side aisle toward the entry doors. I had assumed they sat at the back of the gym so they could slip out through the rear doors.

  Why aren’t they?

  I cut a glance at Goliath. He is focused intently on them. There is a tension in his body, like a cat waiting to pounce.

  “It’s them, the couple with the baby.” I hiss into Ian’s ear.

  He’s a pro. He doesn’t question. He doesn’t even look at me. He moves fast down the aisle toward the couple, his colleague in his wake. His left arm moves up to his face and his words come through my earpiece.

  “Targets. Couple with baby, approaching doors.”

  The two uniforms beside the stage move fast to the doors. Out of the corner of my eye I see the security guard on the other side of the room yank his neighbour to his feet and strip the baggy coat off him but there are no weapons in evidence. The other guard is focused on the crackheads.

  The couple sees the police officers converging on them. After a moment’s hesitation, the man reaches for the bundled baby in the woman’s arms but Ian is right there; with one flowing movement, he takes the man down.

  His colleague heads for the woman. She takes one look and turns back toward the doors. She’ll take her chances with the uniforms.

  The female officer is faster and reaches the doors first.

  The audience realizes something is up. Corliss has stopped in mid-sentence and a murmur runs through the crowd.

  The woman runs toward the officer and tosses the swaddled baby into the air in her direction. The audience gasps. The baby is just cover, it’s not real, but if the officer suspects this, she doesn’t take the chance. She takes two steps back and catches the swaddled bundle like she plays for the BC Lions.

  The woman hurtles into the crash bar of the closest door, just as Ian’s colleague grabs her coat collar and yanks her off her feet.

  In less than five seconds from my hissing into Ian’s ear, it’s all over.

  Except that it’s not.

  I turn toward Goliath.

  He is on his feet and heading toward the rear door. Our eyes meet and his widen in recognition. Hatred suffuses his face.

  As I move to cut him off, his right hand snakes around behind him.

  I am unarmed. I only have one option.

  I explode toward him and shout the warning: “Gun!” Just in case.

  He steps away as he tries to wrestle his weapon out of his waistband but backs into a chair and is off balance when I crash into him. He goes over backwards and hits the floor with me on top. I can smell garlic and fish in the whoosh of breath from his lungs.

  Hoping that his right hand is trapped underneath him—and if it isn’t, that his weapon is not a knife—I arch backwards and drive my forehead hard into his nose.

  As I roll off Goliath and spring to my feet, I recognize the ribbed barrel of a Heckler and Koch SPF9 in his tattooed hand. However my ‘Liverpool kiss’ has left him blinded, but only for a few seconds.

  Around us, pandemonium reigns. The audience was bemused by the action at the main doors but the open violence mixed with my shouted warning has people running for the exits. As I raise my foot to stomp on the hand holding the gun, an elderly man pushes past me; I nearly lose my balance, step back and trip over a fallen chair.

  With amazing agility for such a large man, Goliath is on his feet and is wiping the tears from his eyes. He sees me and levels his gun at my chest. I am transfixed. I feel a tightening in my chest and a loosening in my bowels. The best I can hope for is to get out of this with just a wound.

  Then he grins, savouring the moment. “Good bye, Rogan,” he says, the smile broadening. “This is a little present from—”

  The sound of his body hitting the back wall is overwhelmed by the sound of the gun that shot him. The H & K flies out of a nerveless hand.

  I haul myself to my feet hoping I’m not shaking visibly, Ian runs over, gun no longer in view. He kneels beside Goliath. The latter is moaning, his left hand clamped over his right shoulder. The male police officer comes and kneels on the other side of him. None too gently, the officer handcuffs him and then uses his radio to request backup and an ambulance.

  I look around the gym. The audience has disappeared. I walk over to the main doors. The ‘couple’ is handcuffed and the baby’s swaddling has been unraveled to reveal an Uzi and an old-fashioned cassette tape recorder.

  I feel a touch on my shoulder.

  “Thank you, Cal.” Larry Corliss extends his hand.

  I take it. “My pleasure, Mr. Mayor.” I use his former title out of habit.

  He smiles for a moment.

  “They’re serious, aren’t they?” he says.

  “Yes, sir, they are.”

  “Did you know that since I declared my candidacy for this constituency and announced I would build my platform on the legalization of drugs, I’ve received quite a few threa
ts?”

  “I’m not surprised, sir.”

  “I just never thought they’d…” He sighs. “Well, I guess this town hall meeting is over.”

  “I’m sorry it was so short,” I say.

  He half smiles. “Don’t worry. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I’ll make the late TV news and it will be in all the morning papers. Also, I can use this incident on Wednesday in the debate.”

  He walks off and I wonder if next time the assassins will be more efficient.

  Cal

  Wednesday, 9 days later.

  I am trembling. Is it from my body’s reaction to the wound or my mind’s reaction to the closeness of the dogs?

  Gritting my teeth, I fold the tatters of skin and flesh over the wound and, with my left hand, press three large gauze pads on the area, unable to suppress the gasp at the sting of the alcohol. Using my right hand, teeth and bloody hunting knife, I tear off four strips of the silver duct tape with which I secure the gauze tightly over the wound. Two more pieces and the gauze is invisible under the tape. That will have to do; there is no time for further ministrations.

  I pull on the dry suit and fasten it except for the hood; I still need my ears free. I slip the strap behind my neck and pull the mask forward on to my forehead. The dry suit immediately makes me feel hot. This is good; in a moment I will need all the warmth it can provide.

  Quickly checking that I’ve left nothing on the ground, I swing my pack onto my left shoulder and wade into the patch of reeds.

  I break several of the reeds in the process. I want it to be obvious that this is where I entered.

  The reeds, so rare in west coast waters, are thick and strong. They grow to as high as six feet above the surface of the bay and their concealment gives me a momentary sense of security.

  As I wade through the reeds, I hear the almost continuous sounds of the dogs, they know their quarry is close and are being encouraged by the shouts of their handlers.

  Then loud cursing from two of the voices and, although I cannot make out the Spanish words, I am quite sure one of them has tripped on the clutching hand of a root and one of his companions has fallen on top of him. Despite the dire circumstances, I can’t help but smile and be grateful that this experience will ensure their eyes stay focused downwards.

  With a sudden chill, I realize that in his tumble, the guard may have dropped the leash of his dog, freeing the beast to run ahead and pass free under my booby-trap wire, or worse, trip it early.

  I suppress the thought and press on through the reeds, which are starting to thin. They allow me to peer through them until I see my target, the sturdy aluminum dinghy with its powerful outboard motor. I smile at the silent figure seated in the stern.

  Manny sits motionless, dressed as I am under the drysuit: black shirt, pants and woollen hat; he has been in position, waiting, for twenty hours. His blue eyes stare fixedly at the prow of the dinghy; his hand is on the tiller of the outboard motor. Manny will not let me down.

  A barking dog is very close, I imagine him standing and slavering on the edge of the shore, undecided on his course of action. Whether or not my imagination is correct, I don’t know. Then he makes his decision. I hear a splash as he launches himself into the water and starts to paddle his way through the reeds, alternating gasps of breath with grunted barks.

  Because we knew there were dogs, I have a can of pepper spray, bought from the camping supply store. The owner was a red-faced man with a drinker’s nose and the most luxuriant moustache that I have ever encountered. He guaranteed me that the spray would deter even a grizzly bear. I silently promise myself that if his advice proves false, I will track him down and remove that magnificent facial hair strand by strand by strand.

  Assuming I live.

  But I have to live, for Sam and Ellie.

  I reach down to my left pocket where I keep the spray can, except that of course, it is in my pants pocket under the dry suit.

  In a panic, I unzip the suit, being careful to keep the zipper above the surface of the water, which is up to my waist. Awkwardly, I slide my left hand inside the suit and fumble in my pants pocket. My hand is encased in a rubber glove which is part of the dry suit and try as I might I cannot pull it and the spray can out of the pocket. In a flash of irrelevance, I think of the monkey unable to pull his hand from the glass jar while it is clutched firmly around the apple.

  This thought vanishes as I glimpse the dog, mere feet away, paddling steadily through the reeds toward me.

  Up close, he is smaller than expected but somehow more fearsome. Chestnut brown with a white patch over his left eye, his head is wide and square like a pit bull, his mouth open in a rictus of determination and, now that his prey is in sight, he has stopped barking, his silence rendering him even more ominous. And he is better trained for moments like this than I am.

  I have maybe three seconds before he’s on me. I abandon any thought of the pepper spray or indeed of freeing my left hand from inside the dry suit. I turn my right side toward him and let him approach. I see my supposition that his handler had let go of him during his fall is true: a sturdy, leather leash is attached to the back of his studded collar. I make this my target. Planting my legs firmly I prepare for battle.

  Good luck is something I never factor into a plan. Reliance upon good luck is in the plans of fools; the inevitability of bad luck is in the plans of the wise. However, when good luck occurs, I always take full advantage of it.

  Just as the dog comes to within three feet of me, the air is rent with four explosions happening so close together they might almost be one. My pursuers picked themselves up and continued along the trail in hot pursuit, eyes and flashlights trained upon the path beneath their feet. The stomach of the unhappy soul in the lead has pushed up against the black filament tripwire and Stammo’s six home-made pipe bombs, placed strategically along the path, have detonated, wreaking havoc upon the leader and anyone else within twenty yards of his rear.

  That this happens at all is not luck.

  That it happens at the very instant the dog is so close to me, is.

  The explosion and the concomitant screams of the wounded, both human and canine, cause the dog to turn his head in the direction of the chaos, allowing me to grab at the leash where it joins his collar. I yank him toward me and manage to slip my fingers under the collar right at the back of his neck, safe from the snapping jaws.

  On dry land this dog would be impossible to control; he must weigh one hundred and twenty pounds, he is bigger than he at first looked. However, in the water, he can gain no purchase with his feet and I am able to force him under. His muscular body contorts wildly in an effort to free himself and my disadvantage is that my left hand is still stuck uselessly in the pocket of my pants, trapped under the elastic fabric of the dry suit.

  Struggling to maintain both grip and balance, I straighten the fingers of my left hand and, pushing hard against the inside of the suit with my forearm, I am able to slide it from its trap. My relief lasts about a microsecond as the dog executes an amazing wrenching movement at just the moment my hand comes free, causing me to lose my balance and fall forward into the murky water.

  Fear lances through me. Thanks to the Bookman, I’m going to die on this island.

  Cal

  Tuesday, 8 days earlier.

  Christ, Rogan! You were there to provide intelligence not to nearly get yourself killed.” Nick Stammo is madder than a wasp in a jar. “We were hired to have you check the crowd for familiar faces from your druggie days; not to take ’em down.”

  I don’t have the energy to take exception to his ‘druggie days’ reference and I don’t have the energy to argue with him. “I know, you’re right.” I’m all for the quiet life.

  “Plus you did it for free, for fuck’s sake.” Nick is not about to be mollified. “This business is hanging by a thread financially and you give away your time for free.”

  In a minute he’s going to start on his it’s-OK-for-you-with-your-god
damn-trust-fund-but-I-gotta-earn-a-living rant.

  “You know I owe Larry Corliss big time,” I say. “When he was Mayor he got me back into the Department. He persuaded the Deputy Chief to hire me back and—”

  “Yes and you quit a few months later.” He shakes his head. “Jeez.”

  The partnership of Stammo Rogan Investigations Inc. is not unused to these conflicts in spite of which we still make a pretty good team.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I got us a paying gig.”

  “Way to go Nick. What is it?”

  He smiles. He does that a lot more these days and it’s not creepy like it used to be. The storm has passed. We can slide back into our routines which are a lot less stressful than when we were in the VPD.

  One thing that works for us is that I bring in some lucrative corporate work via Arnold and Nick brings in a lot of more interesting work from his network of VPD and RCMP members.

  He takes an eight-by-ten photo from a folder on his desk and hands it to me. “This kid is the son of a buddy of mine from Toronto.”

  A boy in his late teens or early twenties, with a small strawberry birthmark on his chin, smiles out of the pic at me. “Missing?” I ask.

  “Nah. He’s living out here but his folks are worried about him. I got his address.”

  “So what does his dad want us to do?” I ask.

  “Talk to him. Get him to see sense and go home.”

  “Nick, we’re a detective agency, not counsellors”

  “I know that Rogan…” His voice drops, “but this is important to me.”

  “Why would he listen to us?”

  “I dunno, but I promised his dad. The kid’s name’s Tyler. Years ago, when they were in grades one and two, Tyler and my son Matt were best buddies. He was a good little kid. I worked with his dad in the OPP. We were all pretty close, went camping together, stuff like that. I want to help him. It’d be like, I dunno, like helping my own kid.”