One of the guards rushed back to the outer office expecting to see Clara standing there. Instead the secretary was passed out on her desk, the same white substance flowing from her mouth.
“Christ,” yelled the guard. He ran to Clara and checked her pulse. It was faint, but present. He grabbed the phone and dialled 911. “We have two people needing medial attention.”
“What is their condition?” responded the dispatcher.
“Both are unconscious and vomiting a white substance. I’m guessing they were poisoned. They were eating the same food.”
“Are they breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Two emergency response units are on the way. I’ll stay on the line with you.”
* * *
The oversized garage was built to accommodate recreational vehicles. The owners likely never imagined when they rented the South Edmonton house to the quiet gentleman from Spain with the charming broken English that the space would hold a stolen cleaning services truck completely filled with potentially explosive fertilizer and gasoline. The truck was from the same company hired by Gervais for cleaning his businesses. Eric was wiring the detonators to the cellphone when Ken entered the garage. The shelf in front of the only window was carefully filled with plants, only a small crack was left open. Through that space a person would see a workbench filled with gardening needs. Ken set down a steaming cup of coffee for Eric and looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Ah, you’re doing good work. Those solders look solid.”
“Tell me again that this is it. No more.”
“I promise you these are the last moves. After this we put our escape plan into motion and we’ll be sunning ourselves on the beach in no time.”
“Sure.”
Ken placed his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Eric, I promise you that soon your troubles will be over. We’ll drop it off this afternoon. You finish this, and I’ll prepare our surprise for the police.”
* * *
The ambulance attendants arrived just as Claude Gervais was able to hear what was happening. Gervais’s followed the voices of the paramedics as they checked him over. They hooked up a heart and respiration monitor.
“Heart rate eight-five. Lungs clear,” one of the paramedics said.
Gervais was surprised his heart rate was so low because his mind was working overtime. He wondered when his eyelids would start working so he could open them. He wanted to reach up and rub his eyes. His mind sent the message, but nothing happened. The arm would not move. Trying to move his left arm also failed.
“Mr. Gervais? Mr. Gervais, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
Gervais mind swirled. He couldn’t feel the paramedic.
“Mr. Gervais, I’m going to check your eyes now. Can you open them? Mr. Gervais?”
“Jim, hand me the flashlight. Mr. Gervais, if you can hear me, don’t worry, I’m going to open your eyelids and have a look.”
Gervais was thrilled. Then he could see what was going on. He felt a slight sensation near his eyes. Good, he thought, sensation is coming back to my body.
“Eyes cloudy. Unresponsive.”
“It looks like some kind of neurological or nerve issue,” one of the paramedics said to the other.”
Gervais almost wished he couldn’t hear them.
“We have to transport immediately,” responded the other paramedic.
“Mr. Gervais, we’re going to move you onto a gurney.”
Gervais heard the click as they adjusted the height of the wheeled bed. He only felt a sight discomfort as they moved him. The second click meant they had raised the gurney.
“Okay, sir,” said the more formal of the paramedics, “we’re taking you to the hospital now.”
One of the wheels of the gurney squeaked slightly as the rolled across the thick carpet.
Gervais heard other voices as they passed through the outer office.
The other sets of paramedics were helping Clara. She was sitting on one of the soft chairs in the waiting area of the office. Her desk was covered with vomit. It dripped on the floor, a pale-grey mixture with small pieces of lettuce.
“Can you hear me, Clara?” asked a female voice.
“Yes,” whispered Clara. “Wha…what happened.”
“You ate something that didn’t agree with you. Your delicate pallet seemed to have rejected it. Now, squeeze my hand.”
“I’ll try,” responded Clara.
“Good. That’s fine. Now move your legs. Good.”
Papers shuffled. “What’s on this paper, Clara? Do you recognize it?”
“Yes, it’s the receipt for Mr. Gervais’ lunch.”
Clara moved restlessly and the fine leather squeaked. “How is Mr. Gervais?”
“We don’t know yet, Clara.”
The elevator door closed. Gervais could only hear the familiar whoosh sound.
* * *
Gervais gave the team of hired security guards two orders to follow should someone make an attempt on his life. The first was for all of the guards to move in around him regardless of his condition, or where he was. Thus the eight guards that patrolled Gervais Industries rode in, or followed the ambulance to the hospital. They even followed him into emergency where they were detained in the waiting area. After a heated discussion with hospital security, and eventually the police, a compromise was reached where one of the hospital security men would remain with Gervais at all times. The private security men remained huddled in the waiting area, keeping an eye out for any tall men who entered the hospital.
The head of the security team followed Gervais’s second order to the tee. As the paramedics worked on Gervais he pulled out Thorpe’s business card that contained his private telephone number. He moved into the hallway outside of Clara’s office and dialed the number.
Thorpe was in a meeting with Collins and a roomful of detectives, including the Chief of Police. Tension filled the room as the entire city seemed to be collapsing around them and the two brothers remained out of their grasp.
Thorpe’s cellphone vibrated. “Detective Thorpe.”
“Detective, this is Larry Thomson. I’m in charge of Gervais’ private security force.”
Thorpe had met Thomson on several occasions. He had a reputation as one of the best security men in Edmonton. “Yes, Larry.”
“Albert, there has been an incident at Gervais Industries.”
Thorpe shook his head and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “What happened, Larry?” The conference room at police headquarters went silent.
“It appears someone poisoned Gervais and his secretary. The doctors at the hospital are working on them as we speak.”
“What are their conditions?”
Thomson leaned back and glanced through the door. “The secretary seems to be coming around. Mr. Gervais is alive, but unresponsive.”
“Right. We’ll be right out there. Do you know how he was poisoned?”
“It occurred while they were in the office eating lunch. They both had a salad from a local pizza place called Forzani’s Restaurant.”
“Okay, don’t let anybody touch anything in the office. We’re on our way.”
“I’ll have them lock the offices and stand ready to let you in when you arrive.”
Thorpe hung up the phone and quickly filled everyone in on the incident. They called Forzani’s and found the lunch order for Gervais was the only one that went out so far that day. They agreed to immediately close the restaurant and not touch anything until the police arrive.
The police assigned to check the restaurant found the other tampered containers of salad dressing and reported it to Thorpe and Collins. Thorpe and Collins arrived at Gervais Industries along with the crime scene team, packaged the evidence. While they discovered the means of delivering the poison they ran into another dead-end for clues leading to the likely killers, the Clelland twins.
* * *
“What about Mrs. Gervais?” asked Eric. “She prosper
ed from her husband’s success, at our family’s expense.”
“Let’s just leave her alone. Look at the life she has. Either she spends the rest of it caring for what’s left of Gervais, or she leaves him and looks like hell to her friends for abandoning him,” said Ken
“Subtle.” Eric choked back a laugh. “Well, our instincts were right. Still want to make the other hits today before we take off?”
“Hell, yeah. That’s why we’re here.”
Ken sat at the wheel of the cleaning company van wearing a pair of dark blue coveralls and a dirty baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. He looked rough with his day old beard. Ken applied more dirt to his face and hands.
Eric looked at his brother and shook his head. “You look like hell.”
Ken laughed. “I like your outfit too, brother.”
Eric wore a city gas company uniform and industrial work boots. He had dyed his hair and eyebrows black. The overgrown fake moustache made him look every bit the police detective.
“Ken, I still think we should just get the hell out of here. Are you sure you want to risk this?”
“Absolutely. I want these last shot at them. Come on, Eric. Suck it up.”
“All right. But this is definitely it for me.”
“Fair enough.” Ken pulled the truck over at a parking spot beside a busy intersection on the south side of the city. “I’ll meet you at the other van.”
“Right.” Eric picked up a heavy toolbox and left the van. Ken watched his brother walk down the street and turn into an alley.
Ken drove down the street and turned onto the freeway, heading straight for the industrial zone between Edmonton and Sherwood Park. At the second exit into the industrial area Ken turned left and wound his way through the streets, past warehouses, factories, and an assortment of other wholesale businesses. He pulled off the street and into a parking lot down the block from Gervias Industries. Pulling out a pair of binoculars Ken watched the building. Everything looked quiet. A scan of the surrounding area showed no police or security in vehicles or on top of nearby buildings.
“They would be at the hospital, or morgue, if the dose killed him rather than paralyzed him,” thought Ken.
There were several interesting spots to park, but Ken decided to drive around to the other side of the building until he found what he was looking for. As Ken again stopped and surveyed the area he smiled. He put the truck in gear and pulled the van up to a large door in a narrow spot between a chain-link fence that surrounded large chemical tanks on one side and six natural gas metres on the other. Ken turned off the ignition and walked away from the van. He patted a pocket in his coveralls that contained the cellphone.
As he walked around to the back of the building he stopped at a truck and pretended he was straightening his collar in the side mirror. Cocking his head a couple times to get a good look to see if anybody was following him. He saw nobody behind him so continued walking through the parking lot and into a row of warehouses on the adjoining property. At the end of the long street Ken stopped at a coffee shop, pulled out his cellphone, and called a taxi. As he waited, he ordered a coffee to go.
The taxi pulled up, and Ken, his hat pulled a bit over his eyes, sunglasses on, sat in the back. “The Barkerton hotel on Whyte Avenue please.” As they moved down the highway and entered Edmonton, Ken looked up at the driver who was concentrating on the road. Carefully pulling out his cellphone, making sure it was out of sight of the driver, Ken dialed the preset number. The muffled sound of the explosion made the driver briefly turn his head.
Chapter Nine
Carol Barker recently graduated from university with a master degree in economics. She had dreams of running the marketing department of a large oil company. While the oil companies were willing to give her a junior sales position, she wanted more. A university friend suggested she take her energy and talents to Claude Gervais. Connie and Gervais hit it off and he made her the head of his sales department. Connie knew the money was better at the oil companies, but the prestige of having a management title on a resume in the future and the perks that went with the job were too much to resist. She was young, full of life, and loved to travel.
The events of the past week, and especially Mr. Gervais going to the hospital that morning in an ambulance, had the rumours flooding through the company. The vice-president of the company told everyone to continue working and they would be updated when he heard anything. Connie needed some exercise to relieve the tension. Noticing the security forces were gone added to the tension, though she wasn’t sure why they were there in the first place. She presumed it was personal and involved Mr. Gervais since they all went with him to the hospital.
One of the sweetest perks of Connie’s management position with the company was the parking space with her name in bold letters. Not only was her name on the stall, but the parking space was out of the weather under the large overhanging roof at the back of the building. Carol promised herself she would work hard as well as stay fit, she fitted her earphones at the rear exit of the large building. As she walked past her new black SUV she patted the glistening paint. She leaned against the chain-link fence and stretched before her five kilometre run through the winding streets of the industrial park. Glancing at the cleaning van, she presumed they were called in to clean up the offices.
The explosion sent flames shooting one hundred feet in the air. Carol Barker never felt a thing as the truck exploded. One of Carol’s expensive running shoes melted against the chain-link fence. The secondary fire from the tanks full of chemicals dissolved the shoes, leaving no evidence Barker was ever there. The force of the blast sent the cinder block wall shooting through the factory. The chunks of cement blew out windows and ripped apart everyone in the factory. The office complex to the right shook, the large windows overlooking the plant floor disintegrated. The outer offices swayed like an 8.0 earthquake hit them. The workers in the outer offices were thrown to the floor. Bookcases fell, breaking furniture and bones. The asphalt melted for thirty feet around the centre of the explosion.
* * *
The taxi dropped Ken off in front of a store on Whyte Avenue in south Edmonton. Ken waited for the taxi to turn a corner. After the taxi was out of sight Ken turned around and walked back three blocks where he entered a fast food restaurant. He locked himself into the second toilet stall from the rear. After checking he was alone Ken pulled out his jackknife and flipped out the screwdriver head. He jumped up on the toilet seat and quickly removed the two screws from the fan vent cover and pulled out a small leather case. After returning the vent cover Ken opened the case and propped in on the back of the toilet. Straddling the toilet seat Ken faced the mirror built into the case and applied the makeup, hair colour, and moustache that aged him thirty plus years. From the restaurant Ken walked across the street and entered the dark lounge of an expensive hotel. He sipped a beer in the lounge when a buzz worked through the crowd and people streamed outside to look at the chemical cloud rising into the eastern sky. Ken ignored the conversation and ordered another imported beer while sitting alone in a booth in the dark corner of the bar. He dialed a number on the cellphone. “Hey, brother, sounds like there’s something happening in the industrial area east of the city.”
* * *
At the same time Ken entered the industrial area east of Edmonton, Thorpe and Collins got off the elevator crossed the street entered the police lab. Another technician pointed out Gallivan, and the detectives introduced themselves. The pleased look on the face of the young laboratory technician gave an additional boost of adrenaline to the detectives.
“Nice to meet you, detectives.”
“Likewise,” Thorpe and Collins answered together.
“Please follow me, I might have found something that will help you. I may have come up with something to help you figure out where the brothers are headed if they manage to slip out of the country.”
Thorpe and Collins realized they were desperately short of leads and followed Galliv
an into the adjoining room.
“You have our attention,” said Collins.
“Perfect, I only need a few minutes.”
Gallivan walked over and flicked on the video screen. A picture of one of the dark marijuana butts flashed on the screen. “I found something interesting in these butts.”
Gallivan pointed at the picture with a laser pointer. “This type of marijuana cigarette is from a very specific place.”
“The Caribbean?” asked Collins.
“Exactly, detective. They wrap marijuana in the most convenient thing on the island, cigar wrappers. This includes islands from Cuba to Venezuela. However, I am certain this particular joint is from a specific island in the southern Caribbean.”
Gallivan pressed a button on a computer keyboard. A close-up of one of the butts appeared on the screen. The blue laser light buzzed on the screen like a fly, finally settling on the burnt end of the roach. “If you look closely you’ll see a small part of a cigar band.”
The detectives moved close to the screen and noticed a blue and gold piece of paper with the letters “r-a-s” barely readable.
The detectives backed away as the lab manager changed the picture. A small wooden structure on a commercial street surrounded by palm trees flashed up on the screen. “This, detectives, is a picture of the “Rasagla Cigar Company” in Charlestown, St. Kitts. To the right is a picture of the bands they use on their cigars.”
The detectives could clearly see the bands were the same.
“Are there any other cigar companies with a similar band?”
Sutherland put down her pointer. “I looked on the Internet and no others come close.”
Rough Business Page 10
