The words sound threatening but somehow… I dunno.
Tyler follows the path of Carl into the so-called hotel.
There’s no way they are going to let me through that door but there is one thing I can do. I look around and see it: a blue Shelby GT350.
I’m going to track down this Bookman character and find out what hold he’s got over Tyler. I can’t let him get in any deeper.
27
Cal
The loud noise is somehow soothing. Being forced to sit here has given me time to think. I’m pretty sure that the man stationed outside the cafe was a criminal of some sort. If Stammo is still speaking to me when I get back, I’ll get him to send a copy of the video screenshot to his buddies in the VPD who deal with sex crimes; see if he’s on their radar. The more I think it all over, the more uneasy I become.
Then out of the blue, I think of Immanuel Kant. The philosopher who impressed me most at college. One of the pillars of his wisdom was truthfulness. He posed an interesting dilemma: If you had an innocent man hiding in your house and a murderer came to your door and asked you if the man was there, would it be moral to lie and say no? Kant’s view was that you should not lie even in that dire circumstance. He allowed that you could be evasive, but not lie directly.
It’s only just afternoon and I’ve lied to both Steve and Stammo. In fact, it’s not just today. I have told a fair bunch of lies and perpetrated a fair number of evasions since I started on Ariel’s case. And it’s pressing heavily on my conscience. My desire to find her first is born out of the need to beat the Department to the punch. If I were to die right now, the information in my head would be lost, to the detriment of solving the case. I should—
My phone rings. It’s Steve. I’m betting that Stammo has told him about the tape and about Sherri Oliver. I should talk to him myself and tell him the other things I know or suspect. I look at the phone… and press the red button. I’ll come clean with Steve tomorrow. I see Kant look at me and shake his head.
As if to annoy me, the phone rings again. It’s Arnold. I feel a touch of guilt that I haven’t even thought about Larry Corliss’ problem. I tap my earpiece.
“Hi Arnold.” I don’t add ‘what’s new?’ or ‘how can I help you?’. Arnold doesn’t do small talk.
I strain to hear him over the background noise. “Our plan seems to be working. Larry Corliss contacted the blackmailer via the anonymous email account, accepted the bribe and demanded that it be in cash. They told him they’d be in touch. I may be needing your assistance in surveillance on short notice. Be at my office at eight-thirty tomorrow.” It’s not a request.
Before I can ask one of the questions bubbling to the surface, he hangs up.
I resist the temptation to call him back; I need to deal with what’s important right now.
The background noise changes; it drops in pitch. I look out the window at the waters of Long Harbour and hope that I don’t die when the plane lands on them.
The tiny town of Ganges on Salt Spring Island has more than its fair share of coffee shops. I am sitting in one, drinking what is probably the best Americano I’ve ever tasted, and looking out the window at the coffee shop opposite. It’s the internet cafe which Sherri Oliver uses to pose as Justin. Stammo was as mad as hell when I called but agreed to do as I ask. I’ll be the object of a tongue-lashing when I get back to the office.
It’s just after three and I’ve been watching people come and go for about half an hour. The streets are busy for a cold afternoon in March. Then I see her, ponytail pushed through the back of her LA Dodgers baseball cap, dressed in high-end jeans tucked into higher-end boots. I only have the skeleton of a plan but I’m going to give it the good old college try. I can’t see any sign of the bodyguard she had on the video. I scan the faces moving in the same direction as her and no one looks out of place: an old couple, a young kid, some teenagers. No one who looks even vaguely like a bodyguard. Maybe fortune smiles on the semi-prepared.
I send a quick text, leave the warmth of my cafe and cross the cold street. Another scan in each direction reveals no suspicious faces. I walk into the internet cafe and a bell jangles above my head. It seems like an anachronism in the cafe’s hi-tech style. I stand behind Sherri at the counter.
“The usual?” The teenager behind the counter is clearly smitten.
“Thanks Dale and I only need one hour today.”
He takes her money and hands her a slip of paper. “Number four. I know it’s your fav. I’ll bring you your latte.”
By the look on his face, she gave him a big smile as she dropped her change into the tip jar. She walks over to the computers and takes a seat at the one with a big #4 sign clipped to the monitor. I can see why it’s her favourite The chair has its back to the wall so that no one can sit behind her.
I order an Americano but Dale the Barista doesn’t offer to bring it to me. There is a counter with high stools that faces out through the window. I take a seat and text again then look out the window, facing away from her. I definitely don’t want her—or anyone else observing me as I observe her—to spot me as a tail. Ping. It’s a text back from Stammo. Justin messaging me. Great. Stammo is logged into Ellie’s Instagram account.
I need to push down the anger that is building up in me. She thinks she’s grooming my daughter. The desire to turn around and look at her is almost overwhelming. The desire to go over and strangle her is even greater. But I must keep the objective in mind. We need to find out where she goes because maybe that’s where we’ll find Ariel and because maybe when we do find her she’ll be alive. I’m just praying that Stammo hasn’t told his RCMP buddy over here. The last thing I want is Sherri Oliver spooked by a uniform.
I suggested a f2f. “Good” I text back. No response. I turn around to see if the barista has made my Americano. He is walking over to Sherri with a large latte in his hand and a larger grin on his face. I so want to follow him with my eyes and look at her, look at the face of the monster who abducted Ariel and probably that girl from Coquitlam and probably others and who wants to do the same to my Ellie. But I don’t. I turn back to the window.
There are people walking by. Out of habit, I scan the faces looking for anyone who might trigger a memory or even an uncomfortable feeling. Nothing. Just normal people going about their business. Most likely all locals. The tourist season is a couple of months away. A pretty girl walks by. She’s holding hands with a biker; he’s wearing a bandana, leathers, chains and boots and sporting a beard cut just right. But he doesn’t have the look.
She turned down f2f for next week. Said maybe week after. “Good” I text again. And it is good. If she’s not ready to snare Ellie, Ariel is probably still alive.
“Quad-shot Americano.” yells Dale. I get up from my seat and walk over to retrieve it. There is a lull in the action and he is looking at her like I used to look at Sam. Another pang.
“Your girlfriend?” I ask quietly.
“I wish,” he sighs.
“You should ask her out.”
He unconsciously shakes his head. “I want to but, you know…” I do. I don’t want to be unkind to him but she’s a bit out of his league. “Anyway, she’s not from around here.”
Damn!
“Where’s she from?”
“Dunno.” The tingle stops.
“She comes from one of the other islands.”
I nod. “That’s tough.”
“She comes here by boat.”
He’s giving me information and I don’t want to freak him out by being too inquisitive, so I just say “Uh-huh.”
“Yeah.” He gives me a quirky grin. Seems like a nice kid. “Big fancy boat. I followed her one time—” He stops short and blushes. “I wasn’t stalking her or nothing, I just…”
Ping. I glance at my phone. “Says she’s gtg.”
“Don’t worry. If I was twenty years younger I’d have done the same thing.” I give him a big smile. “She must have money. Why does she come here to use your comp
uters? She must have one of her own.”
“I dunno, I’m just glad she does.”
The bell over the door rings merrily and three teenagers come in, all wearing high-end clothes. Dale seems to know them and I know our conversation is over. I got a lot more than I expected.
If she comes here by boat, it probably ties up at the government dock a couple of hundred yards down the street. As I walk back to the counter by the window, I risk a glance at her. She is bent over the keyboard typing. I wonder if there is another eight- year-old girl whom she is putting into her evil inventory.
I look out the window again and sip the Americano. Not nearly as good as the one across the road. Maybe rather than follow her, where I might get spotted by any bodyguard she may have, I should leave ahead of her and make my way to the government dock. Then I look across the road and see the perfect place.
Without a glance in her direction, I leave the cafe and the coffee, cross the road and walk into the local bookstore. I stroll over to the closest shelf and select a book at random. I stand where I can look out the window and watch the door of the internet cafe while pretending to be interested in Flower Arranging for the Novice. Apart from the clerk and me, the shop is empty.
Minutes pass and I learn the basics of flower arranging. It’s more interesting than I thought. For example, I didn’t know that—
“It’s good isn’t it?” She’s about sixteen and she could be the sister of Dale the barista.
“Yes. I didn’t know there was so much to it.”
“There’s actually another one here that you might be interested in.” She pulls a bigger, more opulent-looking book off the shelf. Trying to up-sell me. She opens it and starts to wax enthusiastic about the merits of the more expensive item. I divide my attention between watching the door across the street and pretending to be interested in her patter. She helps pass the time. It’s pleasant.
Then as always happens on stakeouts, the action starts fast. A man walks along the street and I know him. Well, not actually know him but know the type. He’s the muscle. The type that every criminal organization needs. It’s not the guy from the bank machine’s video but it might as well be. It’s not just his build, or his clothes or even the look on his face, but his very being screams out the word thug. I’m completely focused on him.
“Is it for you or is it a gift?”
“A gift,” I say absently.
He walks into the internet cafe and in my mind I hear the chime of the bell above the door. Sherri and muscleman. My heart pounds, I think I know what this means.
“Would you like me to wrap it for you?”
“That would be great.”
I strain to look through the window but I really can’t see anything other than vague movement. I hear the rustle of paper behind me. I might as well buy it. It will give me the look of a person who belongs in the scene when I start trailing her.
An elderly couple of men appear from stage right and start to enter the cafe. They hold back as Sherri exits and, as suspected, she is followed by the muscle. I need to move now.
“I’ll come back for it in five minutes,” I say.
“Just hang on it’s almost done.” But I’m already halfway out the door. I turn away from my quarries and walk along my side of the street toward the park near the ramp to the government dock. As I reach the end of the street, I turn and look both ways while crossing. They are about fifty feet behind me; it’s a good surveillance technique to be in front of your subjects for a while. I walk into the park and immediately see my prop. Big, blonde and beautiful. Stammo would hate her. I walk over to her and smile, and she responds with a gentle wagging of her tail. I crouch down and let her smell my hand then stroke her head and scratch that spot behind the ear that nearly every dog loves.
“Well, you’re a lovely girl aren’t you?” I say, glad that dogs aren’t sensitive to the patronizing way we talk to them. But it’s not for her benefit.
I hear rather than see Sherri and the muscle pass behind me. I give them some time then, with a final scratch behind the ear straighten up and follow them. My goal is clear. Get the name and registration of the boat that is going to whisk Sherri and her muscle away. I pick up a discarded newspaper from a park bench as I pass and stuff it under my arm. I’m just another citizen out for a stroll. As they approach the ramp down to the dock, I notice a second man standing there. I recognize him immediately. He’s the man from the bank machine video. He looks toward me and I am close enough to see a look of shock in his eyes. He says something to Sherri and her escort and the latter looks back at me as the former trots briskly down the ramp. There is recognition in his eyes too.
How the heck do they know me? I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen either of them before. As I approach the ramp the guy from the video blocks my path. Behind him my quarries are running down the dock.
Still playing the part of a citizen out for a stroll, I say, “Excuse me,” and start to squeeze past him. Unexpectedly, he moves back and as my momentum carries me forward, he trips me up. Suckered. My head explodes in a galaxy of stars.
Disorientation
Has time passed?
Someone is helping me to my feet. “Are you OK mate?” Australian. I focus on him. He’s concerned. “I saw it all,” he says. “That bastard tripped you up and kicked you in the head.”
I stand up straight and look down at the dock. It’s empty. “Where did he go?” I ask.
“Ran down and got into that ruddy great boat.” I follow his pointing finger and see a long sleek boat disappearing down Long Harbour. It’s way too far off to get any details.
I’ve screwed it up royally. Stammo was right and he’s going to be pissed. Now that they know I’m on to them, Sherri is never coming back to use the internet cafe. Tomorrow will be one week from Ariel’s disappearance and I’ve screwed up our best lead. And ruined the hopes of Dave the barista.
28
Cal
Friday
This time a maid answers the door. I am expected and am ushered into Rebecca Bradbury’s study.
Like my last visit here, tea is poured even though it won’t be consumed. Not by me anyway.
Since my visit to Salt Spring Island, I have wondered how I am going to break this to Rebecca. Break it to her that this is not just some kidnapping. Sherri Oliver had two thugs helping her; maybe there are more. This is a gang operation. But the full import of this is that they are probably taking kids and selling them into some sort of slavery. Ariel could be anywhere in the world. Another of the estimated ninety million slaves sold worldwide.
“Please sit down Mr. Rogan.”
I obey. She stands.
“An update please.” Imperious.
As gently as I can I say, “I think you should sit down Mrs. Bradbury.”
Her face goes white and she takes a faltering step to the nearest chair.
When she is seated, I tell her that we know who abducted her daughter and I tell her my suspicions about the possibility of a slave trading gang.
As I tell her, her eyes are darting around the room as if looking for a way out. Not out of the room but out of the obvious conclusion of my story.
“But maybe I’ll get a ransom demand. Maybe they kidnap for ransom.”
Just to check I ask, “Have you received a ransom demand?” Like her I want it to be a kidnap for ransom. What I believe to be the truth is unthinkable.
“No. No, I would tell you if I had, I promise you.”
“Have you spoken to your husband; has he received a demand?”
“I haven’t, so I don’t know.”
I check my watch, I don’t want to be late for my eight-thirty AM meeting with Arnold. Rebecca frowns. Thinking of Arnold takes me back to the debate at the Waterfront. When Dave Bradbury arrived, he didn’t look like a man whose daughter had just been kidnapped. Before I think it through I ask, “Mrs. Bradbury, I—”
“Please don’t call me that anymore. I am going back to my maiden name, Jones.�
�
I’m still going to ask it. “Ms. Jones, I want you to answer this truthfully. Is Mr. Bradbury Ariel’s biological father?”
Her eyes become like saucers and drill into me. The tendons in her neck stand out and all she can do is expel a strangled gasp. She is going to hit me with both barrels. Then she kind of deflates. Her voice is barely a whisper. “How could you possibly know that?”
I don’t tell her it was a wild-assed guess. It makes sense: he’s going broke and needs money. Why not fake the kidnapping of her daughter to squeeze money from her. Except that Ariel’s been gone for a week and she hasn’t received a demand yet. Maybe he’s playing a waiting game, ratcheting up her anxiety level so that she’ll cave when the demand comes. That’s cruel, bitterly cruel. Bradbury didn’t seem that depraved when I met him.
I just look at Rebecca and wait…
Finally, “Even he doesn’t know.”
What! How would he not know. But if he doesn’t know… Surely no man could do that to his own daughter.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods and bites her lower lip. And then decides. “David had left on a long business trip to South America. Our marriage was starting to deteriorate, even back then. I had an affair, it was a one-time thing and please don’t ask me with whom. When David came back I was already two weeks late. I made sure that I slept with him on the night of his return but when Ariel was born I could see who her natural father was. Until now, I have never told anyone and I am trusting you Mr. Rogan to keep it completely confidential.”
This is the first time I have seen her without her patrician shield. In her vulnerability she seems so much younger and somehow fragile. “I give you my word.” I have said that to perpetrators, witnesses and victims before but this time I really mean it.
“Did you think he might have taken Ariel?” she asks.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 75
