“I’m on Seymour. Near the Waterfront Skytrain Station.”
“Well, I’ll meet you at Stamps in an hour or so. We’ll have a beer and catch up.” His father was trying his best to lighten the mood.
“I don’t have a car, Dad.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up in say, 45 minutes. Grab a coffee or something, and keep an eye for an old dude in an old Ford.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
“Dad?” His vision grew blurry with tears and he slumped to the floor of the phone booth.
“Yeah, son.”
“Don’t hang up. I’m not doing too good here.”
“Jesus, Jack. What the hell happened out there?”
“They’re all dead. I couldn’t help any of them.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Who’s dead, Jack? What are you talking about?”
“Campbell’s victims. I couldn’t save any of them.”
“Jack, you’re a good cop. You did your best for those people. You got Campbell off the street so he can’t hurt anyone else.”
“I dunno. Rachael wanted to wait for back up and I talked her out of it. Now she’s dead because of my impatience.”
“Jack, if your partner thought that waiting for back-up was imperative, she would have pulled rank. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe, I dunno. I—I don’t have it. Maybe once—but not anymore.”
“Son, I’m almost there, just hang on.”
He groaned.
“Jack?”
“The eyes. Those dead eyes haunt me. I see those kids...every day...I see them and I can’t help them...” He rubbed his face vigorously.
“Jack, you’ve been through a lot. You need a break. Take some time to think. Maybe Major Crimes isn’t a good fit for you anymore. No one would think less of you if you went back to GI.”
“I killed her, Dad...”
“Jack—that piece of shit in the park—Chang—had three rounds left in his clip. If you hadn’t fired you’d be dead instead of him.”
“Sam Van Allen...would still be alive.”
“Jack, please let this go. Please.”
“I can’t...”
“Jack, your round went straight through Chang before it hit that little girl...that’s not your fault. It’s just...I don’t know...fate.”
Staal’s mind was a blur of thoughts. “I should have quit the job.”
“Bullshit, Jack! You’re a damn good detective. Better than I ever was.”
The phone company interrupted and instructed Staal to insert more coins. He did.
“Better than you, Dad? Now, that’s bullshit.”
“It’s true. I never worked the homicide squad.”
“I wouldn’t have made detective if it wasn’t for you.”
“Me? I had nothing to do with you getting your shield.”
“Then why did I get the bump less than six weeks after you retired?”
“Shit, that was a fluke. When the Chief came and told me it was my time to go, he asked me about you. He said that the auto-theft guys were raving about you. He said that your work was crucial in taking down that huge outfit. He asked me if I knew your preference—sergeant on patrol or detective. I told the Chief you wanted your shield.”
He nodded.
“Jack. You there?”
“She cried, Dad.”
“Huh?”
“Sam Van Allen. She was alive for a few minutes. Her mother—her mother held her and she cried—”
“I’m almost there son—hold on.”
“She cried...and that sound...those sobs haunt me...I hear them—all the time.”
“Oh—Jack.”
“I never told anyone about this. Not the shrinks—not even Gina.”
Staal looked out across the street. “I see you, Dad.” He stood, hung up the phone, stepped out the booth door, and waved. Warm exhaust-filled air blew into his face as a bus rushed past him. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes.
He slumped into the passenger seat of his father’s 1965 Thunderbird. Neither Staal said anything for several minutes.
“Your place?” Travis said.
“Yeah.” He closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.
He woke when the car stopped. His father’s face was lined with worry. Travis looked much like Jack, only older, with almost pure white hair and a few more wrinkles. He walked to Jack’s side of the Thunderbird.
“I called Gina,” Travis said. “She said that she’d be here in five.” He reached in, took Jack’s arm and pulled his son to his feet.
“Thanks.” They stood close for a moment, and then turned for the house.
“She’s a good woman, Jack.” Travis used his key to open the front door.
“Yeah, the best.” He suddenly thought of his mother. “Mom called me that night.”
“Huh?” Travis sat down next to Jack on the couch.
“The night she died, she called and said she was dizzy and light headed. I told her that I’d come see her at the end of my watch.”
“You were just a couple months on the job, right?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at a photo of his mother on the wall to his right. “I couldn’t save her, either.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack, snap out of this; your mother was diabetic and she drank too much. She knew she had to change her lifestyle.” He sighed, ran a hand through his thinning hair.
“Yeah, but if I had gone to her that night—I might have been able to help her. Instead I told her to call 911 if she got worse.”
“Jack, I’m not going to sit here and listen to you blame yourself for your mothers’ death. If it was anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I let your mother slip out of my life and I still regret it.”
“I know, Dad.” He heard a vehicle turn up the driveway and park.
“That’s Gina.”
Staal nodded.
Chapter 39
Gilbert pawed at his feet and woke Staal. The tabby was working to get his attention, and his soft purring was comforting. Staal didn’t remember stretching out on the couch, and he had no idea what time of day it was. He listened for Gina or his dad, but heard nothing.
His face flushed when he remembered the way he’d lost control in the phonebooth. Not one of his best moments. He rolled off the couch, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. It was almost seven PM. His nap had lasted at least seven hours.
Staal thought about Wendy Reynolds for the first time in days. Now that Campbell was in custody, and he was on suspension, he had nothing else to do. Still, he was hesitant to call her.
Rudy Vaughn had said that Rebecca and Wendy were estranged and that Rebecca might be in trouble. Staal had a feeling that he was too late to help Rebecca, anyway, but he decided to fly to Toronto as soon as possible. He found the number Rudy Vaughn gave him for his sister’s place and dialed.
“Lenora Brand? It’s Jack Staal speaking,” he said when she picked up.
“Oh? Oh yes, Rudy said you might be calling.”
After a few minutes of small talk, Staal asked Brand if she knew where Johnny Vaughn and Rebecca Reynolds were staying.
“Yes, I have an address, but there is no phone there.”
“Okay, well, that’s a start. I’ll be in town tomorrow. I’ll go check it out.”
He checked the coffee pot, and found that it was half full, hot, and still switched on. Gina must be in the house. She never left without turning off appliances.
He crossed the kitchen, headed for the stairway to the upper level, and paused at the railing to catch his breath. His body ached, and his head pounded as though he had spent the night drinking.
“Gina? You up there?” he called. He thought he heard her typing on the keyboard.
“Jack, you’re up.” Gina rushed down the stairs. “How are you, honey?”
“I’m better now that I know you’re here.”
Gina wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace. She f
elt good to him, comforting.
“Do you need anything?” she said into his ear.
“I was just about to have some coffee after I take a pit stop.”
Several minutes later Staal and Gina sat in the living room. She stared at him.
“I had a long talk with your dad, Jack.” The worried look on her face made him feel ashamed.
“Yeah, I was pretty messed up. Four days without sleep or a half decent meal will weaken the strongest guy, you know. I’m fine now. I feel tired, but I’m okay.”
“I don’t know. You—maybe, uh you need to talk to someone. I know you didn’t have much luck with Dr. Connelly, but I think you should talk to someone who has experience with law enforcement stresses.”
“Yeah, maybe. I think I’ll wait a few days and see how I feel. If I’m still struggling, I’ll get some help.” He took a long swallow of coffee before he began again. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. This is going to sound weird, but here goes. I’ve been having some strange dreams for the last few days about a dark room and a child crying.”
“I remember you talking in your sleep and yelling that time,” Gina said.
“It began when Wendy Reynolds called me about her missing daughter, Rebecca. I was at Rebecca’s fathers’ funeral in ‘90. She was a child—she cried and cried and then she hid from her mother.”
“Jack, dreams are just your subconscious speaking to you. These dreams started around the time you took over the Birthday Boy case. You still had residual stress from the shooting in the park, and Gooch making sergeant had you kind of pissed.”
“I found Rebecca in a broom closet that day. She had pulled this bag of garbage apart and it was all over her.”
Gina opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again.
“I found where Rebecca is staying. In Toronto—I’m catching the next flight from YVR”
“You’re going there? Why?” She shook her head. “Toronto PD can pick her up.”
“I need to do this.”
“Okay, I’m coming, too.”
“No, I—I need to do this alone.”
“Jack...” She stared into his eyes. “Okay. Get to the bottom of this or it will drive you crazy. Just hurry up.”
“Thanks. I’ll only be gone a day or two.” Staal stood and so did Gina. She kissed him, held him tight, and whispered, ‘I love you,’ in his ear.
The next morning he woke feeling rested for the first time in weeks. He had an 11:15 flight with West Jet to Toronto, with a short stop in Calgary. He packed his carry-on bag, and then woke up Gina to say goodbye.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine, babe. Go back to sleep.”
“All right. Call me when you get there. Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be back by Friday...for the service. I’ll keep in touch.” He knelt on the edge of the bed and kissed Gina. “Don’t worry, babe.”
On the road to Vancouver International Airport, Staal stopped at his bank and withdrew twenty-five hundred dollars in cash. He wasn’t sure why he took out so much money; he just felt like he would need it. At YVR, he parked the Mustang, made a hotel reservation for two nights in Toronto, booked a rental car and checked in with the airlines. It was 10 AM; he had more than an hour until his scheduled departure.
YVR, like most airports in North America, was busy and continually in a state of renovation. The escalator was down for repairs so he walked the stairs to the domestic departure terminal.
Staal sat sipping Starbucks and people watching to pass the time. Gina was worried about him and when this was over he would think about visiting Dr. Connelly as she had advised. Gina showed honest concern for him and didn’t act as if she thought he was insane. He didn’t know if he would have been as supportive of her if she had revealed a need to fly away to rescue a lost twenty-two year old junkie.
Flight 490 began boarding at almost 11:30, fifteen minutes after its departure time. Staal had a window seat and it appeared that he would have the row to himself, until an older man, perhaps sixty, with no hair to speak of jammed a bag into the overhead compartment. Luckily, the man fell asleep shortly after he finished his in-flight meal of warm soda and cold sandwiches.
Staal closed his eyes and almost six hours later, he walked up the gangway and entered Toronto-Pearson international airport. He picked up his rental Taurus and drove surface streets until he found the 401 and reached the Marriott hotel. His mouth was dry, his neck stiff, and his stomach panged with hunger. He ordered a burger from room service, raided the honor bar for a Budweiser, and then called Gina to say that he had reached his hotel. They made small talk until his meal arrived. Then he told her goodnight.
The following morning he tuned into CTV for the news. It only took a few seconds for the Birthday Boy case to come up. He listened, losing patience when the broadcaster rambled on about the RCMP’s work on the case. He flipped to a weather channel. The forecast called for sunshine and 84 degrees.
He phoned Lenora Brand and she gave him the address where she believed Jon Vaughn and Rebecca Reynolds were staying. It was in Brampton, Ontario, the third largest city in the Metropolitan Toronto area, only a twenty-five minute drive from the hotel.
Staal used the GPS system to plot a course for Burrard Street.
The neighborhood looked like it had been ignored by the local government and sanitation crews. Garbage bags, newspapers, and cardboard boxes were strewn all over the sidewalks. The recession had hit the city hard as a liquor store was the only business open on one block, a pawnshop on the next.
Staal found 1709 and 1713 Burrard, but 1711 was now a pile of battered bricks, concrete, and lumber. He had traveled this far to find a construction site. The brownstone building in which Rebecca Reynolds had lived in a few months earlier was gone. He got out of his rental car and stood behind a chain link fence, staring at a bulldozer and a site security-trailer.
Chapter 40
Staal had known his chances of finding Rebecca were slim to none. Now it appeared that his one lead had dried up. He pulled out his wallet and fished for the card on which he had written the address.
The security guard was dressed in a dull black uniform, with his oversized belly spreading over his waistband. His hair was cut short in the front and allowed to fall three quarters of the way to his shoulders in the back. Apparently, no one had informed this guy that the eighties were over. The thin trimmed goatee completed his outdated look. Staal put the card away when he noticed mullet walking purposely straight toward him.
“Yo, buddy. You looking for work?” Mullet had a Saskatchewan accent.
“No, I’m a cop. Detective Staal. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure, I’m always happy to help the city’s finest. Go ahead, shoot.”
Staal didn’t bother telling the guy he wasn’t Brampton PD.
“Was there an apartment building on this lot before?”
“Yeah, the demo guys nuked it three days ago.”
“Were any people living in it?”
“Yeah, a bunch a hypes and hookers, and shit like that. When the demo team arrived they had to call you guys to clear ’em out.”
“Any idea where the squatters might have gone?”
“Sure, ‘bout a dozen of ’em went over there, to 1712.” Mullet pointed across Burrard. “Same developer owns it, too.”
Seventeen-twelve Burrard was another run-down four level brownstone with boarded windows and evidence of a fire. He paused to check his weapon, and remembered he was unarmed. He had a small flashlight instead of a pistol. He took a deep breath and stepped through the front door. A sheet of plywood that once covered up the entrance lay in the lobby. The light became dimmer as he went deeper into the structure. He stepped over old clothes, wine bottles, syringes, and a filthy mattress. He smelt urine, feces, vomit, and rats. He had a strong feeling that the dark room from his dreams was somewhere in the building.
He heard moa
ning, and followed the sound down the hallway. An emaciated woman slumped against a wall tied a length of rubber tubing around her left bicep, and injected a needle into her arm. Wendy had sent him several photos, and he stopped to look at Rebecca’s image with the flashlight. He moved from room to room on the first floor, shining his light into each face he passed. The inhabitants of the building were like ghosts, each as lost as Rebecca was to her mother.
Staal was confident that Rebecca was not on the first floor. He knew that she might be on the street, in another flophouse, or shacked up somewhere else entirely with a sleazy pimp dealer. Still, he went on.
Fire had scorched most of the second floor and few people inhabited the rooms. He made his way up the stairs to the third floor. Almost a dozen people lay in the corridor, each in their own private escape. None of them was Rebecca. At the end of the hall, an African-American man rooted through the pockets of some more junkies. He was dressed in street clothes, but didn’t look like a user.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Staal shouted. The guy shoved a bill in the pocket of his grimy Yankees jacket. He didn’t run, he just looked Staal up and down.
“What, ya think these fine citizens earned dis the old fashioned way?”
“You want to earn some real cash? Help me find her.” Staal showed him the photo.
“Yo, yo, yo, this one is da bomb!” The man’s breath reeked of cheap booze and decay.
“You seen her, ah...”
“Lamar, name’s Lamar. Hmm, looks like, umm, not sure,” the man said.
Lamar was around five-five and very thin.
“Will this help?” Staal stuffed a twenty into Lamar’s shirt pocket.
“Yeah, yeah, I think I seen dis one around. Hold up a sec.” Lamar looked around the area. “Ty! Tyrell! Where you at, nigger?” he yelled.
“What, Lamar? Stop yellin’ and shit.” Tyrell stumbled from a room to Staal’s left.
Tyrell was barely five feet tall with long dirty dreadlocks poking out from under a Mets cap. He was drunk and took a gulp from a paper-bagged bottle. “Whoa, who’s the five-oh?” Tyrell slurred.
Dead of Knight Page 32
