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

by Robert P. French

  In all the time I’ve known Stammo, he has only once mentioned his children.

  “How are your kids, Nick?”

  “I dunno.” He sighs. “I haven’t had any contact with ’em for must be, what, ten years.” He thumps the arm of his wheelchair. “They don’t even know I’m in this.” He is silent for a while. “It’s probably best.”

  He sighs.

  “Anyways, I wanna see if I can turn Tyler around. My buddy’s got some money put by and he can afford our rates and with you doing work for free, I think we need to take any paying jobs we can.”

  I shrug. I can’t argue with him, even if he’s tilting at windmills with this one.

  “What’s his address?” I ask.

  Stammo flips open the green file folder. There is one document inside.

  “According to his dad, he’s on the westside, not too far from your place. Ten-thirteen Stephens Street.”

  I do the math in my head. “That means he lives in English Bay. The northernmost block of Stephens is the fifteen-hundred block, I think. You’d better check the address with your buddy.”

  An expletive explodes from Stammo’s mouth. “I’ll check but he was pretty sure of the address.”

  “Looks like a bigger job than you thought.” I can’t help being just a bit smug. I have spent a large part of my working life baiting Stammo and I guess I’ve got into the habit.

  “Good. More billing,” he grunts.

  “What do you want me to do on this one?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I owe it to my buddy to do this myself.”

  It’s a change in our dynamic. I usually do the field work and Nick takes care of the office and does the research; jobs at which he is surprisingly very effective.

  We settle into our routines. We are doing some investigative work for a law firm trying to track down former employees of a bankrupt airline. It is boring but lucrative work. I am working down a list of names of people who have moved since they worked for the airline, Googling and Facebooking each one to make a connection. Stammo is doing the same thing but in esoteric databases like Lexis-Nexis which he seems to understand.

  It’s boring and I love it. I have had enough excitement in my forty years to last a lifetime. My life is back together in a good way. I’ve been clean and sober for just over a year and a half and the thoughts of heroin are abating a little more with time, I get to spend lots of time with my darling Ellie and even my relationship with Sam is…

  My cell snaps me out of my wandering thoughts. I don’t recognize the caller’s name.

  “Cal Rogan,” I say.

  The voice is female, deep and vibrant; the tone is urgent.

  She tells me why she is calling and what she wants me to do.

  I know I cannot possibly refuse her.

  I’m hooked.

  Cal

  Wednesday, 8 days later.

  Before I hit the water I manage a good lungful of air and, as my head plunges below the surface, I focus all my strength on keeping the dog both at arm’s length and under the water. With my left hand, I get a second grip on his collar, then, spreading my legs, I arch my back and, ignoring the pain from my wound, use my stomach muscles to keep him under the water, succeeding in doing this partly because of the weight of the pack on my back.

  As his body comes into contact with the bottom, his feet gain a degree of purchase and he renews his struggle, sending billowing clouds of sand through the water, but he and I both know he’s beaten. Soon his lungs fill with water and his energy is sapped away. When his feeble wriggles stop, I let go with one hand and push myself to my knees, gulping in the night air as my head breaks the surface.

  For safety’s sake, I hold the corpse below the water for a further thirty seconds. I feel waves of guilt for killing this dog and the others who were caught in my booby trap. Innocents caught up in the battles of men.

  What has become of me? I feel guilt for killing dogs but none for maiming humans.

  I try to recover and take inventory of my situation. Our well-laid plans have gang aft a-gley: I am wounded; underneath my dry suit, I am soaking; and worse, my exertions with the dog have aggravated the wound. As I recover my breath, I become acutely aware of the increasing pain in my side, previously kept on low by the adrenaline surge of combat. Am I seriously damaged and in need of medical attention?

  I release the sad corpse of the dog, which floats lazily to the surface on his left side. I flex the fingers of my right hand as I wade toward the dinghy. I know the uninjured hunters will be proceeding very warily but they will soon be here.

  I must work quickly.

  First, zip up my dry suit, pull up the hood and pull the face mask down over my eyes and nose. Reach into the bottom of the boat for the control mechanism beside Manny’s plastic foot. Press the power switch and then the red arming switch.

  Throw in the backpack with all my gear in it. Secure it with the straps installed in the boat. Unhook the boat from its makeshift anchor, maneuver it out of the reeds into the open water and use the electric starter to fire up the motor. It starts on the first try. I switch on the running lights and the orange flashing beacon.

  I am about to point the boat out toward open water when I realize, with a rush of fear, that I have forgotten two vital items. From the bottom of the boat, I remove four long, thin plastic tubes, carefully prepared, and slide them into a loop on the thigh of my dry suit, a loop made specifically to hold them. Then I take a weight belt and strap it around my waist.

  Done.

  I point the boat at the wide mouth of the bay and twist the throttle grip to its fully open position. The dinghy leaps forward eagerly and races out across the water, Manny sitting jauntily at the helm.

  Although I can’t hear them, I know the noise of the motor will have caused a reaction from my hunters.

  Now comes the tricky part.

  While still shielded from the woods by the reeds, I hyperventilate for fifteen seconds, focusing my attention on the second patch of reeds some seventy yards down the shore. With a final deep breath, I slip beneath the water and, weighed to the bottom by the belt, part swim and part crawl slowly but steadily toward my temporary home.

  An Olympic swimmer can swim seventy meters in around thirty seconds. I’m twice the age with less than half the skill and have to cover the distance under water with a bullet wound in my side which is aggravated by the movements of the breaststroke. Thirty seconds: I start to let little breaths of air out of my lungs, silently praying no guards are yet out of the woods and if they are, that their focus is on the retreating boat.

  Forty-five seconds: my lungs start to hurt. Sixty seconds: the pain starts to rival the pain in my side and stars appear before my eyes. I must go up for air.

  I pray I won’t be seen.

  The surface is three feet above my head. Exhale the last dribbles of air. Push up from the bottom. Break the surface. Greedily fill my lungs. Dive back down.

  I struggle on, dreading that I was seen.

  As my lungs start to burst for a second time, I see through the water, illuminated by the Maglite, that I’ve reached the second patch of reeds. I pull my knees underneath me and carefully push my head above the water to gasp in air as silently as I can. I have reached the outer edge to the second patch of reeds. I snap off the light.

  Trusting that no one will notice the black-clad head just slightly above the water, I turn in the direction of the forest. Where the path makes its exit, a guard steps out from the trees. He turns back and calls to someone then faces back out toward the ocean. Kalashnikov to his shoulder, he aims toward the escaping dinghy and fires off a dozen rounds to no effect. He slings the weapon back over his shoulder, takes a walkie-talkie from his belt and barks some orders into it, almost certainly alerting the crew of the yellow cigarette-boat on the other side of the island. I smile. At least this part of the plan seems on track.

  Discretion being the better part of valour, I take a deep breath and slide below the surface. I swim arou
nd the outer edge of the reeds for about ten yards and then, proceeding carefully, worm my way into the middle of the reed patch, trying desperately to avoid causing the slender stalks to wave.

  Now to make my bed and lie on it.

  I remove two of the specially prepared tubes from the loop on my thigh and blow the water out of them as I raise them above the surface. I breathe through them, rest my head on the sandy bottom, loosen the weight belt and pull it up over my chest.

  I am invisible.

  My body is four feet below the water, obscured from anyone not standing directly above. The only sign: the two tubes rising above the surface, indistinguishable from the thousands of reeds surrounding them. Even someone with infrared field glasses will be unable to isolate the minimal difference in temperature between the night air and my exhalations among the reeds. I settle down for the night.

  I take stock. I am warm but as the reaction to my exertions wears off, will the chill of the water become a problem? Mercifully, despite the punishment it has taken, the wound in my side is just a dull ache; I hope it lasts. I risk using the Maglite to illuminate my watch: eight fifteen. I wonder if the decoy will work.

  Some sounds come to me through the water but they are indistinct, of unknown nature and source.

  As I begin to relax, I feel a pressure in my bowel and my bladder, a common reaction to an intense period of stress. I want to suppress my human sensibilities and let go but I dare not. The risk of infecting my wound is too great. Out of spite, my side starts to throb. It’s going to be an uncomfortable night.

  The water mutes the boom. Atta boy Stammo.

  Two panels—cut out of the hull and then replaced using the least possible amount of epoxy glue and just enough plastique—blow out and the dinghy, together with Manny and my equipment, take the one hundred and fifty meter trip to the bottom of the Strait of Georgia, leaving nothing for the cigarette-boat to examine and burying all evidence of my visit to the island.

  I am alone with my thoughts.

  Now I have time to wallow in my guilt.

  The full impact of what I have done assails me with the words of King Richard, so faultlessly crafted: O, no! alas, I rather hate myself, For hateful deeds committed by myself!

  I have crossed the line.

  The big line.

  No matter how I try and justify it, I have done the unthinkable.

  Three times. And the third is the worst.

  And it all started just eight long days ago at one outrageously expensive lunch where Rebecca Bradbury asked for our help. The solution seemed so logical when we planned it. Hell, it was logical. We just didn’t plan for one element.

  Despite my one year, six months and eighteen days of sobriety, I can’t help thinking how just one little hit of heroin would blunt both my pain and my disgust.

  Cal

  Tuesday, 8 days earlier.

  The Yew Restaurant in the Four Seasons is a bit out of my price range. Correction. It’s a lot out of my price range but this is where she asked to meet. I scan the menu while I am waiting for Rebecca Bradbury, trying to plan the lowest-cost meal; a salad is usually a good choice. The lobster sandwich looks great but at forty-five bucks, I’ll pass. If I stick with the parsnip soup and the Caesar salad, my side of the bill will come out to less than thirty bucks; I just hope that Mrs. Bradbury doesn’t have much of an appetite. In her position, I wouldn’t.

  I am wearing my only suit. I’m glad I made the choice. The place is riddled with suits, most of them costing more than the net worth of Stammo Rogan Investigations Inc. I feel out of place. Not so long ago I was a homeless junkie, living on the streets of the downtown east side. I could have lived for a month on what this lunch is going to cost.

  “Mister Rogan?”

  I stand and extend my hand. Rebecca Bradbury is very tall, almost as tall as me. She is dressed in a cream-coloured suit with a maroon purse and shoes. Her ash-blonde hair is perfectly coiffed and styled to show off her earrings. A necklace of large pearls circles her long neck. Everything from her smile to her shoes screams old money. She is stunning.

  She looks to be in her mid-thirties but behind the façade, and the artfully applied makeup, is the face of a woman who has not slept for a while and who is racked with worry.

  “So nice of you to see me at such short notice.”

  An elegant movement of her hand invites me to take my seat. The maître d’ who escorted her to the table, pulls out her chair.

  “Would you bring me a glass of Pol Roger?” she asks him. Twenty-nine bucks if my memory of the wine list serves me.

  “Of course, Mrs. Bradbury.” He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “For you sir?”

  “Just water, I’m driving.” I’m not. Our office is five blocks away.

  “San Pellegrino?”

  I wonder what that’s going to cost in this place. Hopefully less than a glass of wine. What the heck, I’ll splurge. “That would be fine.”

  I do not want to make small talk; we’ll have little in common. “How can I help you in the matter of your daughter’s disappearance?” I ask.

  She appears a little taken aback by the direct approach. “Well,” she gathers her thoughts for a second. “While I have full confidence in the Vancouver Police Department, Ariel’s disappearance is one of many cases for them, so Ariel’s father and I thought it would be good to get some additional help. David, that’s Mr. Bradbury, asked the advice of Arnold Young; Mr. Young’s firm worked with my late father’s firm. He gave us your phone number and a glowing recommendation. He said you’d solved the murder of Kevin Wallace; we knew Mr. Wallace of course and still see Mrs. Wallace socially from time to time. Mr. Young said we could trust you completely.”

  From Arnold, that’s high praise indeed.

  “Of course,” I say, “I checked on the newspaper reports of Ariel’s disappearance and will do anything I can to help. I have a daughter, Ellie; she’s the same age. She was once taken by someone,” I shudder inside at the memory, “so I have an idea of what you must be experiencing right now.”

  She nods, smiles and looks very vulnerable.

  “Tell me what happened,” I suggest gently.

  “She didn’t come home from school on Friday. She goes to St. Cecelia’s.”

  It’s the same school Ellie goes to, courtesy of my trust fund from Mr. Wallace. Something tells me not to volunteer this information.

  “She didn’t attend the last class of the day after afternoon recess. During recess, she was talking to one of her friends and then she went to the washroom. No one saw her again. No one saw her leave the school, she just disappeared into thin air.” There is a quiver in her voice. She is working hard to keep it all together.

  “Have you and your husband received any ransom demands?”

  She looks uncomfortable. I get the impression she is holding something back… or is about to.

  “Mrs. Bradbury…?”

  She looks into my eyes, without blinking. It is disconcerting. Then her shoulders sag. “David and I have just recently separated. We are hardly talking, even about this. For my part I have not received any ransom demands. You would need to talk to David and ask him the same question.” She searches through her purse and retrieves a business card which she hands to me. Sotto voce, she adds, “No one in our circle knows about the separation. I trust in your complete discretion on the subject.”

  I nod. “Did you tell the police about your separation?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  Clearly, I do not understand the very rich. Why would you keep such a material fact from the police investigating your daughter’s disappearance?

  “Did Ariel know?”

  “Yes. I told her on Wednesday evening.” She looks devastated; she is wondering where on earth her daughter can be.

  “Do you think your separation might have anything to do with her disappearance?” As I say the words, I catch the tone in my voice.

  So does she.

  Before she can re
ply the waiter arrives and asks us if we are ready to order.

  She has not looked at the menu but orders the bisque followed by the lobster sandwich. I toy with the idea of dropping the soup and saving twelve bucks but it’s not going to make that much difference.

  When the waiter has left, she answers my question. “If you are suggesting that David might have taken her to get at me, I very much doubt it. Frankly, he doesn’t have the stones.”

  The crudity sounds strange delivered in her patrician tones.

  “Actually, I was wondering if perhaps Ariel was upset by the separation and might have run away in order to punish you both.”

  She takes this like a slap and for the first time I see the complete devastation on her face. My heart goes out to her and I regret the tone of my voice. I am going to bring her daughter back. No matter what. And I’m going to do it before the VPD.

  “Ariel would never…” she starts to say. Then she thinks. “If she did, where would she go?”

  “Typically a kid will go to a friend’s house.”

  “The police talked to her friends and their parents. They are sure that didn’t happen.”

  “Do you have a recent photo of her?”

  She goes to her purse and takes out a five-by-seven picture.

  It is a head-and-shoulders portrait. Ariel is sitting on a high-backed chair, wearing a sequined dress. She is a very pretty girl and she looks a lot like her mother but… there’s something wrong.

  “Does she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

  “Of course not. She’s eight years old. Would you allow your daughter to have a boyfriend at that age?”

  Without showing my surprise that she doesn’t look to be only eight, I reply, “No, of course not. But we don’t always have control over what our children choose to do when they’re not with us.”

  “Not Ariel; she’s very focused.”