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

by Robert P. French

  The door of the so-called hotel swings open and the Bookman strides out holding a metallic case almost certainly containing a large-ish amount of cash: the day’s take. He scans right and left and his face is caught in the light from a streetlamp. I wonder why I didn’t see it before: he looks familiar because he is a younger version of his father. But he has a hardness and meanness that Stammo has never had, not even in his worst moments.

  I push off the wall and follow him. Just as he draws level with Nick’s van I call, “Matt!”

  He stops but doesn’t immediately turn. I stop maybe three paces behind him, then slowly he pivots and looks at me. “That little twerp Tyler must have squealed,” he says. There is a grin on his face; it’s cold and cruel and I try not to show the real fear I am feeling. “What do you want Rogan?” I incline my head toward the truck just as the window powers down. He looks and, for the first time in years, locks eyes with his father.

  “Hello Matt.” Nick’s voice is steady now.

  I take the three paces and open the passenger door then turn to Matt. “Why don’t you get in and have a chat.” I say it as nicely as I can but he doesn’t move. He stares in and I see a hint of surprise at the sight of Nick’s wheelchair.

  “What happened to you?” he asks. I cringe at the pleased look on his face which must be knifing into Nick’s gut.

  “Shit happened.” Nick tries to make light of it. “Just get in the car for a moment,” he asks. “Please Matt.”

  Matt holds his father’s gaze for a long time. His face is blank but I sense calculations going on in the background. Finally he shrugs, turns to me and hands me the briefcase. “Hold this,” he orders then gets into the van, closes the door and powers up the window.

  The metal briefcase is heavy. I wonder how much cash is in it. It’s a sign of his confidence that he could give it to me without worrying what I might do with it. Arrogant prick. For a moment, I toy with the idea of opening it and handing out the cash to the teeming throng in and around Pigeon Park. It’s a delicious thought that I savour like fine wine. But a thought is what it remains; I don’t want to upset any agreement that Nick might be able to reach with his son. I’m not hopeful but…

  They might be a while.

  My stomach growls again. After this we have got to get something to eat. I walk a few paces and sit on a bench facing the van with the briefcase on my lap, like a commuter at a bus stop. I think about tomorrow. When Bradbury tells all to the Crown Prosecutor, they will have the evidence they need to dispatch a S.W.A.T. Team to Samuel Island, Santiago will be under arrest and Ariel will be freed. Poor kid. She’s been gone for nine days. I shudder at what she must be going through. I have an almost overwhelming desire to call Ellie, to make sure she’s safe and to tell her I love her. Why don’t we say those three words to our children every single day? And Sam—I long to call her too. Maybe if Stammo had—

  The van door opens and Matt gets out. Without looking back he approaches me, hand held out for the case on my lap. I stand. It takes all my strength not to drop the case on the sidewalk and make him pick it up but I don’t want to jeopardize any accommodation he might have made with Stammo. Not to mention that he frightens me more than I like to admit. I just hand it to him. Six more steps and he is at the Shelby. He opens the door, throws in the case, gets in and peels off down Hastings then turns off onto Cambie and is gone from sight.

  Stammo’s van smells of smoke. I close the door behind me and crack open the window. “How’d it go?”

  “Not good.” I look over at him. The masseter muscle in his jaw is pulsing.

  “What happened?”

  “I tried to get him to see sense. Told him he had to get out before it was too late. That he would go down when Santiago goes down. But he wouldn’t listen. Kept telling me that I didn’t know what I was talking about. Shit, I pleaded with him but he just wouldn’t budge. Stubborn, like his mother.” He lapses into silence for a while then, “Let’s get that burger.”

  He guns the engine and pulls into the left-hand lane. As we wait for the light at Abbot, I look left, just in time to see a single tear trickle down his cheek.

  I look away.

  While I’m waiting for those burgers, I am definitely going to call Sam and Ellie and tell them both that I love them.

  46

  Cal

  Monday

  Steve and I are standing with Hank King from the Crown Prosecutor’s office. I worked with King on the last case Stammo and I had as cops. He has a hawk face and a mind like a steel trap; defendants and their witnesses, and sometimes even their attorneys, will often break under his sharp gaze. He and Steve are talking tactics, leaving me to worry. What if Bradbury doesn’t show; maybe I misread him. Maybe he’s taken the time since I met with him yesterday to fly off to some sunny haven without an extradition agreement with Canada. A worse thought swoops in from nowhere: what if he’s chickened out and told Santiago in exchange for Ariel.

  Either of those scenarios would be my fault for not taking him in to the VPD last night. I justified my decision based on needing to give Arnold time to organize news coverage on behalf of Larry Corliss. Now I’m doubting my own wisdom. Wisdom? I remember a philosophy professor whom I greatly admired saying, Wisdom is a level of understanding that as soon as you think you have some, the Universe proves to you that you don’t. I hope that’s not prophetic.

  I wish Stammo were here. Funny, I wouldn’t have thought those words a year or so ago but on our last case as cops and on our cases since, I have come to value his good points and to truly value our partnership. I don’t want to think about what he’s going through right now. I feel like I should have called him this morning just to check in on him. Maybe later.

  I look around to distract myself.

  A flash of colour to my right draws my attention to a bright green Lamborghini growling its way down Hornby. It passes a parked Rolls Royce. One that I know. One that I have sat in only once. I can just see Arnold through the windshield. I wave. He doesn’t. Just a slight bob of his head acknowledges me.

  For about the tenth time, I check my watch. Eight thirty-eight. Bradbury’s late.

  I look at the newspeople. A gaffer with a microphone in its covering—which always reminds me of the bearskin cap of one of those English soldiers who silently guards Buckingham Palace—nudges the cameraman and points at the retreating Lambo. A reporter holding a second mic is on her cell but is not talking into it. She is staring across the street at the Law Courts building with its vast sloping glass roof. Suddenly she turns and looks north on Hornby; the person on the phone must have given her a heads-up. I follow her gaze and see three men striding along the sidewalk toward us. In the centre is Dave Bradbury, flanked by two suits who must be his lawyers. One of them is pulling a suitcase on wheels which I’m guessing, and hoping, holds Bradbury’s files and laptop. I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  The reporter has galvanized her troops into action and is making a line for the approaching trio. One of Bradbury’s lawyers steps forward and holds up a hand indicating they should stop and says something to them that I can’t quite hear. Bradbury has stopped in his tracks, looking nervous. I hope he doesn’t chicken out in front of the camera. The other lawyer, the one closest to the curb, takes a step back. Not like any defence lawyer I’ve ever met. They usually love to hog a camera, taking any opportunity they can to advocate for their client—and for themselves, my cynical side says.

  I forget all that and listen to the first lawyer. “My client, Mr. David Bradbury, has a statement to make prior to meeting with the authorities.”

  He steps back a half pace and the other lawyer takes another two steps backward. Odd. Bradbury steps forward toward the reporter. He looks uncertain. I would too. He is about to break with the people who have made him a very rich man over the last few years, people who will make him a very marked man for the rest of his years. He looks over and catches my eye. I smile encouragement to him. He takes a deep breath and takes a second s
tep closer to the microphone which the gaffer is dangling a few inches above his head.

  Bradbury stumbles and a puzzled look crosses his face. He looks down as I hear an unmistakable crack. I glance at Steve, he has heard it and is reaching for his weapon. Bradbury crumples to the ground and I hear a second crack. The news crew is looking down at the body and I scan the buildings behind the Law Courts looking for any telltale sign of the shooter. A third crack and Bradbury’s lawyer drops to the ground. I can hear the hubbub but snap my attention back on the buildings, looking desperately for anything unusual. Nothing. I glance back at Bradbury trying to estimate trajectories. Everyone, including the second lawyer, is backing away from the fallen bodies except for the cameraman who is focusing in on the shot that will make his career. Only Hank King runs forward to attempt first aid. I cut a quick glance at Steve. He’s focused on a building about two hundred yards away on the other side of the Law Courts.

  He points. “I think I saw something on the roof there.” He says. He holsters his gun and pulls out his cell.

  A shooter on a roof has to come down to escape. Without thought I dash across Hornby and down Smithe. I am calculating. The building that Steve pointed to is about twelve floors. It would take the shooter about twenty seconds to clear the roof; he won’t want to take an elevator, it’s too confining. He is probably dashing down the stairs as I run under the section of the Law Courts that is like a bridge over Smithe. Say he can make five or six seconds per flight of stairs, it will take him about a minute and a quarter to reach ground level. Just enough time. Maybe.

  As I hit Howe, the traffic is light enough that I can dash across. I make a beeline for the lobby of the building acutely aware that I’m not as fit as I used to be. The sign over the door says Robson Court. I push through the doors. As I stand panting, I take in the scene. A couple of people are standing waiting for elevators. Dressed in business casual, they look like they belong. To the right of the elevators is a door that looks like it leads to a stairwell. I head toward it and redo my calculation. He will come through any second. An elevator pings. No one walks out. The people in the lobby get in. As the doors close a second elevator pings. This time a man gets out. Looks about sixty, a hundred pounds overweight, carrying a tiny briefcase that wouldn’t hide a disassembled long gun.

  I open the door to the stairs and listen. A door slams and then silence. Damn! He’s left through the back entrance. I run through the stairwell and down a couple of steps. There is a steel door with a crash bar in front of me. I push it open and find myself in the loading bay at the back of the building. No sign of the shooter. I jump down into the area where the trucks back into the loading dock and run to the alley. Nothing to the right. To the left about fifty yards down a man is throwing something into the back seat of a nondescript black car that looks about twenty years old; a light mist of exhaust is bubbling from the tailpipe. He slams the back door and glances back as he opens the front passenger door. Our eyes meet. Instant recognition. I go into a sprint. He hesitates a second—he’s thinking ‘fight or run’—then decides and hops into the car which takes off in a squeal of tires before he has even closed the passenger door, allowing me to see a brief flash of snakeskin boot.

  Steve has the good grace not to excoriate me for my lack of wisdom in not bringing Dave Bradbury in last night. He doesn’t have to: I can’t get the words of King Lear’s Goneril out of my mind: You are much more at task for want of wisdom. Bradbury may have made a great deal of money laundering Santiago’s funds but he didn’t deserve to die for it, especially as he was just about to redeem himself. My decision has made his daughter fatherless.

  Despite Hank King’s pleas, Bradbury’s secondary lawyer has refused to release the laptop and documents that Bradbury was bringing to us, claiming that the documents are now the property of his wife and she will need to give her permission for their release. I have another suspicion. Did this lawyer stand back from his client because he knew what was going to happen to Bradbury and his main lawyer? Something to get Steve to look into at some point in the future. But right now, saving Ariel is the priority.

  Hank has listened to the details of my investigation and asked some probing questions but says it just isn’t enough to get a warrant for Santiago’s property, unless there is something in Bradbury’s files. It all hangs on Rebecca Bradbury giving her permission for those files to be released to the Crown Prosecutor’s office.

  She surely will when she knows they are the key to getting a warrant that will allow us to free Ariel. There’s just one catch.

  Despite attempts by the VPD, nobody seems to know where Rebecca Bradbury is.

  47

  Stammo

  How are you doing?” He asks. I can read it all in his face. What he’s really asking is if I drank myself to sleep last night. He can see the redness in my eyes but I’m not about to tell him about how it got there.

  “I’m just aces.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Sorry.” He nods and gives a half smile. Uh-oh. “How’d it go with Bradbury?” I ask.

  “It didn’t. He got shot.”

  I feel the blood drain out of my face. Trying to keep my face straight and voice steady I ask him, “Who shot him?” But I ask myself, My God, what have I done? When I talked to Matt I told him he should leave Santiago’s gang, that Santiago was about to go down. Did they guess that Bradbury was the weak link? Am I the one responsible for his death?

  “I dunno,” he says. I feel a wave of relief except… there’s a look on his face.

  “You sure?”

  “Well, it was obviously someone on Santiago’s payroll; it could have been anyone.”

  “But it wasn’t just anyone was it Rogan?” He looks at me. He doesn’t want to say it. So I do. “It was Matt wasn’t it?” He nods. “Is he under arrest?” He shakes his head and I feel another wave of relief. “But the cops know it was him?”

  “Kinda,” he says.

  “What’ja mean, kinda?”

  “I saw him escaping. I had to tell Steve but I told him it was the Bookman. I didn’t mention that he was your kid.”

  I feel more relief than I should. “Thanks Cal.”

  “S’OK.” He smiles.

  We sit silent for a moment. We both know that the Bookman’s identity will be known by all soon enough.

  “So what happens now?,” I ask.

  “Bradbury brought all the evidence we need to get a warrant on Santiago but after he was shot, his damn lawyer wouldn’t release it to us without Rebecca’s permission and she seems to have gone missing.” He checks his watch. “They’ve been trying to track her down for the last couple of hours but there’s nothing. Steve said he’d call me as soon as he heard from her.”

  “What if the worst has happened? What if Santiago has had her killed or maybe Bradbury was after the last of her money and had it done.”

  We both mull that over. I can’t help thinking about that poor little kid, Ariel. What she must be going through now plus what will happen when she’s rescued only to find out her father’s dead and her mother… Where the hell is Rebecca Bradbury? Shit. We gotta do something. And Matt. Last time I talked to the guys in the drug squad, they didn’t know who the Bookman was, didn’t have a photo or nothing. Maybe Matt’ll be in the clear. That fuckin’ Santiago. Turning kids like Matt and Tyler into criminals, murderers.

  “Fuck Santiago.” I say it out loud.

  “I hear you,” Rogan says. “Anyone who kidnaps a little kid to keep a pedophile MP on his payroll doesn’t deserve to draw breath.”

  “Yeah, but without good, solid evidence there’s nothing we can do. We can’t tie Bradbury to Santiago and we can’t tie Perot to him either.”

  Rogan looks at his watch and grabs the remote control for the little TV we keep in the office. “Let’s see what CBC’s got to say about the Bradbury killing.”

  Just as it comes on they are showing the footage of Bradbury’s lawyer. He’s saying, “…has a statement to make prior t
o meeting with the authorities.” Bradbury takes a step forward, looks at something, then stumbles and falls. The camera shakes for a moment, then focuses on him lying on the sidewalk, then there is a cut to the News anchor. “We won’t show the balance of the footage as it may upset younger or more sensitive viewers. Mr. Bradbury was a successful local entrepreneur who was also a supporter of East Vancouver MP, Edward Perot, who had this to say…” The scene switches to an interview with Perot.

  Fuck. It’s him.

  “That’s Perot?” I shout.

  “Yeah, why?” he says without taking his eyes from the screen.

  “I’ve seen him before. In the Bookm— in Matt’s car. That’s the proof we need.”

  No reaction. He just keeps staring. As Perot speaks, I can hear a growling in Rogan’s throat. He looks like he’s going to throw something at the TV. Perot is doing the typical politician thing whenever there’s a high profile murder. He’s yammering on about law and order. All fucking talk. Nothing ever happens. Perot finishes with, “I will be on the Gulf Islands on Wednesday and will be flying to Ottawa Thursday night. I have arranged a meeting on Friday morning with the Prime Minister to finalize the details of the new anti-drug bill which I will introduce into the House with his full support—”

  Rogan stabs the remote at the screen and it goes blank. “You know what that means.” He’s on his feet raging now. “It means he’s going to Santiago’s island for his reward. The reward for turning around the government’s stance of legalization. And you know what that reward is: it’s poor little Ariel. There’s gotta be a way to stop him.”