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

by Robert P. French

  “On what?” I ask.

  She is silent as the waiter places the first course in front of us.

  As soon as he is out of earshot, she continues. “On her schoolwork, on her sports. She’s very good at field hockey. She has all sorts of outside interests: horseback riding, gymnastics, but mostly singing and dancing. She really doesn’t have the time or, for that matter, the opportunity to have a boyfriend.”

  As we eat, she talks about Ariel’s dancing, singing and sports prowess but I am only half listening. There is something about the photograph that feels wrong. Ariel just doesn’t look like your average eight-year-old girl. But I can’t quite put my finger on why.

  A busboy clears the plates and the waiter brings the main course. Rebecca orders another glass of champagne. The bill for this lunch is heading toward two hundred dollars; Stammo is going to have a cow.

  I ask all the usual questions about Ariel’s routines, her friends and everything that happened during the days leading up to her disappearance. Rebecca’s answers are mostly very clear except when it comes to Ariel’s friends. She writes down their names and suggests I talk to them.

  When I have run out of questions, we come to the part of the conversation I really don’t like: the part where we talk about fees. This is usually done by Stammo, who seems to have no difficulty with it. I take a folded sheet of paper from my inside breast pocket and hand it to her. “This is our schedule of fees and expenses which you may—”

  “I am sure they’re just fine,” she says; she takes the paper from me and without unfolding it puts it in her purse. She removes a cheque from her cheque book “I presume a retainer of ten thousand will be sufficient.”

  I do a great job in covering my amazement. “Yes. That would be fine. Thank you,” I say.

  She hands me the cheque and I manage to avoid looking at it before sliding it into my pocket.

  With no further ado she stands, her lobster sandwich hardly touched. “I want a daily report every evening from you on your progress, starting this evening. Thank you. I am putting a great deal of faith in you.”

  She turns and makes her exit.

  As she goes out, I realize I didn’t get to learn a lot about Ariel. But I do know one person who can give me some unbiased information.

  As I look toward the exit, the words ‘dine and dash’ slip through my mind.

  I wonder where Ariel is. I suspect either she has run away, though eight year-olds don’t usually get that far, or her father has taken her. But if I’m wrong, wherever she is, she will likely be terrified. I imagine Ellie out there held against her will. People who abduct children are scum. I’m glad that we’ve got this assignment. I swear I’m going to find her and return her to her mother, no matter what. This case is already under my skin and best of all, there is no connection with the world of drugs, the world I never want to visit again.

  The waiter comes over and, with a little less trepidation than I had before taking the ten-grand retainer, I ask for the bill.

  “It’s covered, sir,” he says. “We have Mrs. Bradbury’s card on file. She comes here for lunch or dinner several times a week.”

  Stammo will be pleased on all counts.

  7

  Cal

  I have never worked in an office. As a cop I avoided the office as much as I could. I wanted to be out on the streets whenever possible. However, over the last year or so, I have visited some very plush offices. But this office beats the heck out of all of them.

  The discreet brass plate outside, polished to perfection, announces to the world that these are the offices of Bentley and Bradbury, Merchant Bancorp, whatever that means.

  I am sitting in the reception area drinking coffee from fine Wedgwood china, served by a receptionist who looks like she should be on TV, advertising shampoo. So many cases of missing children involve the other parent that I may be able to wrap this up today using some tactics the police can’t use. It would be nice to have a simple, no-stress resolution. When a secretary comes to fetch me, it is with some anticipation that I get up off the soft leather sofa.

  As I follow her down the hallway, I note that the paintings are all original oils or acrylics. They are all equally stunning. One looks like a Jackson Pollock; could it possibly be an original?

  David Bradbury is standing in the doorway of his office. His face is familiar but I can’t place it. He shakes my hand and draws me inside. “Thank you so much for coming Mr. Rogan,” he says. He is warm and friendly and I take an instant liking to him, though it doesn’t offset the pang I feel at being Mr. Rogan rather than Detective Rogan. I ask myself, not for the first time, whether I did the right thing when I quit the VPD to go into business with Stammo.

  “If there’s anything you can do to help find Ariel…” he leaves the sentence hanging and a wave of empathy sweeps through me. If Ellie were missing like this, I would be beside myself with worry. “The police call me every day and update me but nothing seems to be happening. There are no leads, nothing shows on the school CCTV cameras, no one saw her leave the school premises. Nothing. Anything you can do… anything.” The desperation in his voice is palpable. Unless he’s the world’s best actor, I can write off the spousal kidnapping theory. Damn, I was hoping for a quick and quiet conclusion to the case.

  He is the opposite of his soon-to-be-former wife. She was controlled, only letting the grief slip through for instants here and there; he is a mess.

  He leads me to a meeting area and we sit.

  “There are three possibilities,” I say. “Firstly that Ariel has simply run away. She may be upset at the breakup between you and your wife.” His face registers surprise that I know this. “Or she may have run away for some other reason. Secondly she may have been kidnapped for ransom…” In the pause, I scrutinize his face for any reaction to this suggestion. “You are obviously a wealthy man Mr. Bradbury. Have you received any ransom demands?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at me, undecided. There is an internal struggle going on, I can read it in his face. Then he comes to some conclusion. “No. No ransom demand yet.”

  I think I believe him but he is covering up something. Not good.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” I ask him fixing him with a steady gaze.

  “No. Nothing.” His expression is blank. It looks forced.

  “If you were to receive a ransom demand, would you pay it?”

  “Yes, of course.” Again, I sense something is wrong with his answer.

  “If you received a ransom demand, would you tell the police about it?”

  He ruminates.

  Ten long seconds pass. “No.”

  “Would you tell me?”

  “I might.”

  “You should,” I say.

  He shrugs.

  “We also have to consider a third possibility,” I say.

  He puts his head in his hands. He knows what’s coming.

  “Ariel may have been kidnapped but not for money.”

  He lifts his head to look at me and tears are rolling down his face. “I can’t even think about that,” he says. I double my pledge to find Ariel and find her fast.

  He may have to think the unthinkable. Ariel has been missing for four full days now and, unless either he or Rebecca is lying, there has been no ransom demand. It’s a big ‘unless’. I can’t shake the feeling that David Bradbury is hiding something.

  “What do you do here Mr. Bradbury?”

  “I’m the CEO, I run the company.”

  “I assume Mr. Bentley is your partner?”

  He gives the hint of a smile. “No, Mr. Bentley doesn’t exist.” He sees my puzzlement. “I am the sole owner of the company but it’s a marketing thing. The company name seems more substantial if it implies there are partners. I chose the name Bentley because it sounds solid and respectable, like a Bentley car.”

  It sounds a bit shady to my unbusiness-like ears. Go figure.

  I’m still uneasy about what he might n
ot have told me. “What does your company do?”

  “We are a type of merchant bank. People with high net worth place their money with us and we invest it in a variety of companies, giving them much higher returns than they could make in say a mutual fund.”

  Out of my league for sure.

  “How many people have placed their money with you?”

  That same look of discomfort crosses his face. “I uh… can’t discuss specifics. Confidentiality agreements, you know?”

  I press harder. “Well is it hundreds of people?”

  “Oh. No. We have a small number of clients but with exceptional net worth.”

  “Have you ever lost money for your clients?”

  “Never.” He says it emphatically but I know he’s lying this time; it’s written on his face.

  I continue as though he had said yes. “Could one of them be so angry that he wanted to get to you somehow?”

  “No, no. That’s preposterous.” But his face tells me that maybe he has a suspicion.

  “If there was, who would it be?” I press him.

  “As I said before, I cannot divulge client names to you.” So there is someone; otherwise a plain ‘No one’ or ‘I don’t know’ would have sufficed.

  I’m not going to get anything more going down that rabbit hole, so I change tack. “Your wife told me that Arnold Young had recommended me to you,” he nods as I continue. “Is he a client?”

  “Good heavens no. I know him through Mr. Wallace. I wondered if his security firm could help.”

  His answer surprises me. The good heavens no implies that either Arnold doesn’t have the money to be considered a ‘high-net-worth’ client or that Arnold would never consider investing. Seeing as Arnold manages the late Mr. Wallace’s money he would certainly qualify as high net worth. Note to self: check him out with Arnold.

  Although there is something amiss here, it may be nothing to do with Ariel’s disappearance. High finance may be a business segment riddled with white-collar crime; it is not usually a reason for abduction. I am getting a creeping and horrible suspicion that the motive for her kidnapping is not financial. I can feel a real anger building towards whoever took her. I redouble the pledge.

  I can feel the thrill of the hunt: the thing that drove me as a cop. My hope that this was a parental kidnapping disappears and I realize that I didn’t really want that anyway.

  I have to face the naked truth: I need this.

  8

  Stammo

  Tyler’s Dad said he couldn’t think of any reason why his son would have come out to BC but I’ve got a good idea. After a call to an old buddy in North America’s oldest municipal police force, I’ve got a real good idea. Tyler’s dad, Bob, is an old-style cop like me. He failed to tell me his son got busted a couple of times by the Toronto Police Service for possession of pot. It’s tough for a cop to admit his kid’s broken the law. When Matt got arrested the first time, I was goddamn embarrassed by it. Anyway, if the cops in Toronto are anything like the cops in Vancouver they pretty much ignore possession. I’m thinking Tyler may have had larger amounts, warranting possession with intent to distribute, but they went easy on him because of his old man.

  For a kid into dealing, Vancouver’s a great place to be: lots of dope, lots of users and cops who ain’t interested in small-time action. At Hastings and Main—known by many as Wastings and Pain—people used to do deals on the street within half a block of the old Main Street Police Station.

  Tyler’s pretty much invisible on social media. His Facebook page hasn’t been updated for over a year and there’s no sign of him on Twitter or Instagram. I’m betting he’s out there somewhere but under a new identity.

  There’s nothing in the court records here either.

  I’ve tried a couple of times to hack into the VPD system but it’s beyond my skill level so I have to rely on my buddies there to look things up for me. I don’t like asking but this kid is like a second son to me; he’s worth cashing in some of my markers.

  Maybe I’ll ask Bob to do the same for me. See if he can find out where Matt is at.

  I’d give anything to see him and Lucy again.

  9

  Cal

  Climbing these stairs always makes me feel sad. Sad for what I almost regained and then lost. But for Ellie, I don’t like coming here anymore; it just churns up the past.

  “Oh, hello Detective Rogan.” Cora Hunt, Sam’s neighbour, is coming down the stairs, reusable shopping bags in hand.

  “Hello Mrs. Hunt.” I don’t correct her use of the title; I don’t have time to get into the necessary explanations.

  As I reach the top of the stairs, I hear, “Hi Daddy.” Ellie is standing in the doorway, beaming; she must have seen me through the front window.

  “Hi Sweetie.” She runs into my arms and I lift her and spin her around in a great big hug. Although she is eight and a half she still doesn’t weigh much.

  Sam appears from the kitchen and I feel the accustomed tug in my chest. “Come in Cal. Oh—” she catches herself, “I mean, come in Rocky.”

  “It’s OK, Sam. You know what? I’d rather you called me Cal.”

  A couple of years ago, I decided that I would like to be called Rocky, a tribute to Roy. But now, in my mind, Rocky is the drug addict part of me, the part that will always hear the Beast inside with its siren call, willing me to take just one more hit of heroin. Cal was my name before all that.

  Sam smiles. “Good.” She leans in as though about to kiss me on the cheek then thinks better of it. Ellie, who misses nothing, pulls me down to her level and plants a kiss on my cheek instead.

  “Thanks for letting me come to see Ellie,” I say. “I needed to talk to her and couldn’t wait until the weekend.”

  “No prob,” she smiles. The room lights up for me. It is the smile I fell in love with fourteen years ago. “Listen. Ellie and I were just about to have dinner. It’s beef stroganoff. Why don’t you eat with us? There’s lots.”

  I stamp on the conflicting emotions and say, “I’d love to.”

  “You go in the living room and have your chat with Ellie. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  Sam’s apartment is in an old Shaughnessy mansion, converted into a fourplex. The developer did a wonderful job of keeping the old feel of the building while completely renovating the interior. I walk Ellie over to the large bay window and we sit on the built-in bench.

  I look at my wonderful daughter and my heart feels like it wants to burst. “Ell, I want you to help me with something but it is very important that you don’t speak to anyone about what we discuss, especially not the people at school, OK?”

  “Can I speak to Mommy about it?” she asks.

  “Of course. But nobody else.”

  She nods. “OK, Daddy.”

  “It’s about someone at your school, Ariel Bradbury. Do you know her?”

  “Yes.” The single syllable is drawn out over a second.

  “Do you like her?”

  “She’s OK. She’s in my music class.”

  “But she’s not one of your friends?”

  “Not really. She only hangs out with the cool girls, like Megan and Kaylee.” A worried look comes on to her face. “Ashleigh told me that the police went to Megan’s house on the weekend and to Kaylee’s. They said that she was missing and they asked a lot of questions.”

  “Is Ashleigh a friend of Ariel too?”

  “Yes. But Ash is nice, don’t you remember, you met her at my birthday party? She’s probably Ariel’s best friend but Ariel’s Mom doesn’t like her.” I don’t remember Ashleigh but I can imagine that Rebecca Bradbury would be very controlling about her daughter’s friends. Also I don’t remember the name on the list of Ariel’s friends given to me by Rebecca.

  “Do you know why Mrs. Bradbury doesn’t like Ashleigh?”

  “Oh yes. It’s because of that beauty thing… you know… on TV.”

  She laughs at the look of mystification on my face. “You know Da
ddy. That show on TV where all these girls compete to be like beauty queens. Canada’s Littlest Beauty.”

  “Ashleigh was on the show?” I could see Rebecca Bradbury not approving of someone on a reality TV show.

  “No, silly. Ariel was on the show.”

  “Ariel was on a reality TV show?” Why in heaven’s name did Rebecca Bradbury not mention this to me?

  “Yes. It’s on tonight.”

  This I have to see. I get back on track with, “But why is it that Mrs. Bradbury doesn’t like Ashleigh?”

  “It’s because last week Ariel told Ash that she didn’t want to be on the show anymore and Ash told her she had to tell her mom and say she wouldn’t do it anymore. When Ariel told her mom, she freaked. She told Ariel she couldn’t speak to Ash ever again. She even came to the school and complained to the principal.”

  An uneasy feeling worms its way into my gut.

  “Do you know why Ariel wanted to stop being on the show?”

  “No. Ash didn’t say.”

  “When the police talked to Ariel’s other friends, did they talk to Ashleigh too?”

  “No.”

  “Three minutes,” Sam’s voice calls out from the kitchen.

  Ellie leaps to her feet. “Yummeeeee. I’m starving.” She makes a beeline for the kitchen.

  “Wash hands first,” I remind her. She veers off toward the powder room and I follow.

  As we lather our hands, I ask, “Ell, I want you to think carefully about this. Did you notice anything unusual at school on Friday?”

  She thinks. “We had fish cakes for lunch. They were gross.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Is that when Ariel went missing?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe the policewoman saw something.”

  “What policewoman?”

  “She was in the playground during afternoon recess. She talked to some of us.”

  “Is she often at your school?” The VPD has a program that assigns patrol officers to schools but they usually go to schools with high at-risk populations, not westside private schools. It’s a sign of the times, I guess.