Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  “OK.” Her voice is quiet now. “But you have to promise we’ll see him soon, OK?”

  “Yes, I promise.” That may be a cheque too big to cash. I cannot put our lives in danger by meeting up with him. Or his life for that matter.

  Oh Cal, why, why why? Didn’t it occur to you that killing a drug lord might just have consequences?

  9

  Cal

  The Railway Club is a Vancouver institution. Except for about nine months in which it changed hands and got a facelift, it has been in business since 1931 when you had to work for the Canadian Pacific Railway to get in. It’s known for it’s great music and gave a start to k.d. lang, The Tragically Hip and the Barenaked Ladies among others.

  I like that the current owners didn’t renovate the character out of the place and also that they installed twenty taps of local craft beer. I’m propping up the bar and enjoying a Dageraad blond ale.

  There’s no band playing tonight so it’s a bit quieter than normal and the bar staff are not slammed.

  “How’s your beer?” the barman asks. He’s young, intelligent looking and more than a little tattooed. He’s worked here for a while and served me quite a few times before.

  “It’s a Dageraad, so it’s great, right?”

  “I hear you,” he says with a broad smile and broader Irish accent.

  I finish my glass and say, “Good enough for a second one.”

  While he pours it, I pull out the photo of Dale Summers. “Do you know him?” I ask as he places the fresh glass in front of me.

  He looks at the photo and back at me, undecided. Sometimes bar staff can be protective of the privacy of their regular clientele.

  “It’s just that he’s gone missing. No one’s seen him since Friday evening.” His expression doesn’t change so I add, “His wife and kids are beside themselves with worry.” Again with a lie, this time about the kids. But it seems to work. His face softens. Worried kids can melt harder hearts than his.

  “He was here Friday. It’s a regular thing, he comes with a bunch of guys. I think they work together. They start to drift in around four-thirty, five, but they always leave by seven before the main band starts.” He shakes his head at the sacrilege.

  “Do you remember what time he left?” I ask.

  “Well, that’s the thing. Normally they all leave together. But on Friday, they were all standing around the end of the bar, there were six or seven of them. It was around six-thirty when this other guy shows up. He comes up to the bar and orders a Fat Tug when your man notices him and comes over to chat to him; they obviously knew each other from before. A few minutes later, I notice he’s introducing him to his pals but what was funny was, right after, the others settled up their bill and all left but for the two of them. They sat down at the bar and got into a deep conversation. Stayed there, had another beer and then left around seven.”

  “Any idea what they were talking about?” I ask.

  “Funny you should ask. I got the impression it was something important or maybe urgent would be a better word. Anyway, when they left it was like they were eager to get somewhere.”

  “Any idea where?”

  He just shakes his head.

  “Anything unusual about the other guy?”

  “Not really. Average looking, thirty something, about six foot give or take, expensive looking suit though. I didn’t recognize him, so I don’t think he’s been in here before.”

  Someone at the bar, makes the universal signal for the bill and he goes to the cash register to get it and the payment terminal. While he does it I enjoy my beer and think over the conversation. Nothing useful. Dale Summers comes to the bar as always, runs into a friend and leaves with him. Nada. I was hoping to get something but the hope is pretty well dashed… except for one thing. As the barman comes back to my end of the bar to replace the payment terminal, I stop him.

  “You must get a ton of people in here, how come you remember he ordered a Fat Tug?”

  “Ah well, he asked me what I’d recommend and I noticed he had a strong Irish accent; when I remarked on it, turns out he was from Galway not too far from my granddad’s place. He said he liked a strong, bitter taste and when I suggested a Fat Tug, he laughed, said his father used to work on a tugboat.”

  I smile and nod, hoping he might add more. But he doesn’t.

  I show him the picture of Janine, Dale’s personal assistant, which I downloaded from Beloff and Plasker’s website. “One last thing. Did you ever see him in here with this woman?”

  He shakes his head. “Never.”

  Well the stranger from Galway is the last person I know to have seen Dale Summers alive and I have just one chance of tracking him down but that will have to wait until the morning. And it will only work if I can be persuasive enough.

  10

  Cal

  Wednesday

  There’s a lot of controversy about this place. It used to be a quintessentially Canadian department store but now it’s just a vast cavern under renovation. The American giant Southbrook is building a new high-end store in its place. I’m here to meet with Sean O’Day, Southbrook’s project manager.

  After a good deal of persuasion Dale Summers’ personal assistant, Janine, revealed that Dale did have a contact with a strong Irish accent, a client in fact. Only when I expressed a high level of concern for Dale’s safety, coupled with a promise of complete discretion, did she volunteer that Sean O’Day worked for Southbrook, one of Beloff and Plasker’s international clients.

  The foreman, who let me onto the site and decked me out in a yellow hardhat, is leading me across the bare concrete floor toward a man in a suit poring over blueprints with a young man whom I suspect is an engineer.

  “Mr. Rogan to see you Sean,” the foreman says.

  The man in the suit turns toward me. Sean O’Day looks to be about thirty-five, he has a mop of jet-black hair protruding from beneath his hardhat and he has blue eyes. His looks match his deep voice and Irish accent. “Mr. Rogan,” he says extending his hand, “how can I help you?”

  There’s something about him that tells me to be straightforward with him. I suspect he would spot any subterfuge quickly.

  “I’m a private detective. I understand you know Dale Summers.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ve been retained by his wife to try and find him. He appears to have gone missing and you’re the last person I know who was with him.”

  He doesn’t react to this in any way, no expression of surprise, no expression at all. Strange. He just says, “How so?”

  “I believe you were with him at the Railway Club on Friday evening.”

  “I was.”

  I wait but he doesn’t offer any further information.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Business.”

  His terseness is starting to get to me. “What specifically?”

  He thinks for a bit and looks like he’s deciding whether to answer. “There were some cost overruns with the contractors, I needed to make sure he factored them into the financials.”

  “You could have done that by email, surely.”

  He looks irritated. “Yes, I could have but I needed to ask him some questions too and I thought it was better to do it face-to-face.”

  “What questions?”

  “I beg your pardon?” The irritation’s in his voice now.

  “What questions did you need to ask him face-to-face?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you for reasons of company confidentiality.” He says it evenly, the irritation gone as quickly as it appeared.

  “You and he left together at about seven o’clock.”

  “That would be correct.”

  “Where did you go?”

  He looks me in the eye. No expression. I think he’s trying to gage how much I know about his movements on Friday night.

  “I went back to my hotel.” I have a sudden intuition this is not one hundred percent accurate.


  “Where did Dale go?”

  “Home, I assumed. But if you say he didn’t, well I don’t know.”

  Again the intuition. I play along with it and just look at him with the hint of a question in my expression.

  His gaze flickers away from my face and over my right shoulder for a second. “Well, if there’s nothing more I must get back to work.”

  “Just one thing: which hotel are you staying at?”

  A slight pause. “The Hotel Vancouver.” It’s said almost as a question.

  I take out a business card. “If you see Dale, will you ask him to call me please?”

  He takes the card and puts it in his pocket. Again he looks over my right shoulder and this time he smiles. I turn to see a woman in a pantsuit and a white hardhat, the latter of which she somehow manages to make into a fashion statement.

  “This is Ms. Audley, our Vice President of Development,” O’Day says. “She’s overseeing our expansion. Em, this is, uh,” he consults my card, “Mr. Rogan. He’s investigating the disappearance of Dale Summers.”

  She extends her hand and takes mine in a very firm handshake. “I’m pleased to meet you Mr. Rogan. Please call me Em. Disappearance you say?” Her voice is pure southern US, deep and vibrant. I find myself viscerally attracted to this woman. She’s not classically beautiful like Marly Summers but there’s something infinitely sexier about her. She’s about five-nine or -ten, with blue eyes, short, almost cropped, blond hair showing under the white hardhat and a playful smile.

  “Nice to meet you Em, I’m Cal.” I can feel the silly grin on my face as I hand her my card. “Mr. Summers hasn’t been seen since Friday evening. I’m investigating on behalf of his wife.”

  She puts my card into her purse. “I met with Mr. Summers on Friday afternoon but haven’t seen him since. He’s a very nice man, I hope nothing has happened to him.” She looks from me to O’Day and back. I notice O’Day is looking at me with a very measured gaze. Can he see the silly grin for what it was?

  “Was there anything else?” There’s a playfulness in Emily Audley’s voice but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’ve been dismissed.

  “No,” I say. I nod to Sean O’Day. “Thank you for your help. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

  With a smile to Emily, which is returned warmly, I head toward the exit door. As I go through it, I look back. She’s leaning over the plans with the engineer but Sean O’Day is looking directly at me with that expressionless face of his.

  I wonder what’s going on behind his blue Irish eyes.

  11

  Stammo

  “Hi Cal.” I hear Adriana’s voice followed by a “Hi” from Cal. My partner’s back. He walks into the main part of the office. Some days I can read him like a book. Today’s one of those days. I’m betting his meeting with the Irish guy didn’t get us any further ahead. He flops down at his desk. Yep, I’m right.

  Adry’s voice floats over from the reception area. “Coffee and cookies?”

  “Yes, please.” We say in unison. Cal chuckles but it’s not a completely happy sound.

  “Got nothing from the Southbrook guy, I’m guessing.”

  “Not really, I just had a feeling he was holding something back. Probably nothing; maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “Damned if I know.” He looks really down. More than just the ups and downs of a case. I think he secretly likes it when a case is going off the rails, it makes him try harder. This is something else.

  “So what’s up?”

  He puts his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. He massages his scalp with his fingertips and I notice he’s got a couple of grey hairs. I never saw them before. Finally he looks up. “I need you to help me find Ellie and Sam.”

  “What?”

  He tells me the details and I can see he’s really worried. He ends with, “Can you maybe track their social media posts and find out where they’re posting from? Their IP address or whatever it’s called.”

  “No, to do that I’d need to hack into Facebook or Twitter or whatever and there’s no way I’ve got the skills to do that. Not to mention it’s illegal.”

  “Do you know anyone who could?”

  “No,” I lie. I’m not going down that rabbit hole.

  “Coffee.” Adry comes in with three cups of coffee and cookies. For the first time she sits down with us. She’s changed since she came to work for us a couple of weeks ago. She’s lost the corporate look and is a lot less formal and reserved than she was. She wears her brunette hair down and her clothes are much more casual than on her first days here. I kinda like it. Right now she’s got a big grin on her face. Rogan’s noticed it too.

  He laughs. “You look full-replete with choice of all delights.” he says, whatever that means.

  “I am… I think.” She giggles. “I was looking through the stuff on this Dale Summers guy. Now I know you two were falling over yourselves to try and impress her, her being so pretty and all,” the sarcasm’s pretty much right on so I can’t suppress a chuckle myself, “but she wasn’t exactly truthful with you guys.”

  “Tell me more,” I say.

  “She didn’t tell you about a prime piece of real estate her husband happens to own. I wonder why she kept it from you.”

  “What real estate?” Rogan asks just as I say, “Maybe she doesn’t know about it.”

  “You’re pretty quick to defend her there Nick,” she laughs. I can feel a flush of anger coming to my cheeks and part of me is a little bit irritated by it, and therefore at her, but a bigger part of me is intrigued.

  She continues. “I checked the city property records and found out that Mr. Dale Summers owns a townhouse in Kits with an assessed value of a cool two point two million dollars.”

  “Maybe he’s had it for a long time and his wife doesn’t even know about it,” I say.

  “He bought it two years ago. They’ve been married since twenty-thirteen. Sooooo, no. He bought it four years into the marriage.”

  “Oh.” A big part of me wants to believe Marly Summers was being straight with us but I’ve gotta be sure. “You live in Kits Rogan, why don’t you check it out on your way home. See if he’s holed up there. I’ll contact Marly and ask her about it.”

  “Well done Adry,” says Rogan. I think it’s the first time he’s called her by her shortened name.

  “I live to serve you guys,” she jokes but I can see she’s pleased. “I’ll see what else I can dredge up on him.” She takes her coffee and two of the chocolate digestive cookies and heads back to her reception desk.

  Rogan goes all thoughtful on me, doing that staring off into space thing. I leave him to it and wiggle my mouse to wake up my computer. I’m going to do some digging into Marly Summers and see what I can find. Maybe I’m wrong about her. I hope not.

  Rogan springs to his feet. “I’m going to check out that townhouse. Maybe she doesn’t know about it. It could be a place he keeps for a mistress or maybe he goes there to get away from it all. But if it checks out we’ll have an answer for her and will have earned our fee. I’ll text you when I find out what’s happening.” He takes something from his desk drawer, grabs the last two cookies and heads for the door.

  Now I need to see if I can track down Sam and Ellie for him but I don’t have a good feeling about it. Sam knows what Cal did on that island and I figure she doesn’t want to be found by him.

  12

  Cal

  Sixth Avenue in Kitsilano is one of the nicest streets on the Westside of Vancouver. West of Balsam, large trees line the sidewalks and form a canopy over the road where, even on the hottest days of summer, they provide cool shade for walkers and joggers. And shady parking for Austin Healeys.

  Dale Summers’ townhouse is in a small but expensive-looking development not too far from Alma. The townhouses are tall and narrow with flights of six steps up to the front doors.

  Pressing the doorbell produces a muted and e
legant chime but no answer. I try it again. No answer again. Just on the off-chance, I try the door. Locked. I feel a tingle of relief. A couple of times recently, when I’ve found front doors open it has not led to a happy encounter.

  I descend the steps, walk to the end of the block, do a couple of left turns and head down the alley. As I thought, there are garages behind the townhouses. One of them is open revealing a Lamborghini Aventador SV with a personalized plate: DALE CA. So far, so good. I walk in and try the handle of the door leading into the house. Locked. Well, I’ve come this far. I press the button to close the garage door and it clatters down. Now I’m shielded from prying eyes. It’s one of those doors with the lock inside the door knob. Easy-peasy. I take my trusty lock-picks—confiscated from a petty thief years ago when I was a uniformed constable and kept in my desk drawer—and I’m in the house thirty seconds later.

  Unfortunately, I can hear a persistent triple beeping. A security alarm will be blaring in thirty seconds. When that alarm goes off, the monitoring company will call the police and in Kits the police don’t take long to arrive at the scene of a property crime. All my senses tell me to get out of there fast. All except one. Smell. An all too familiar smell. A grim reminder of another townhouse at another time. It takes me seven seconds to head up the stairs to the main floor. Ten more seconds to check the main floor. Seven seconds to the second floor. There are three doors. One’s open. The smell’s stronger. Taking a deep breath I walk through the door.

  Dale Summers is secured to a bed with rope and duct tape. He’s very, very dead.