“And what specifically is that?” He sounds really ticked off now.
“I’d rather not say at this point, but I will get back to you on Monday. I promise.”
“Please see that you do. If there’s no progress…” He leaves it hanging for a moment. “I’ll talk to you on Monday.” He hangs up.
I’m starting to regret this plan for getting Susan Grey out of the fix she’s in. It sounded easy in the office but now? It’s not too late to pull out. I could phone and cancel. I should phone and cancel, then just tell her husband the truth, collect our fee and move on. Except that might put them both in danger. Will put them both in danger. Who am I kidding, I’m not gonna let that happen.
Decision made, I unlatch my chair from the driving position and activate the lift to get me out onto the sidewalk. It takes a minute for everything to operate and then to stow it back into the truck. I guess a quick getaway is going to be out of the question. The thought makes me grin as I wheel over to the door of the bar. As I get to the door a couple come out; they are holding hands and giggling. The woman holds the door open for me and I wheel in.
This is only my second time in here in five or more years. It’s changed a lot. Back then it was a biker bar and if you didn’t belong you’d be shown the door. Now it’s a lot more of a friendly place but the ownership is still in biker hands. I wheel over to the bar. I feel ridiculous; the bar is at chin level for me.
“Nick Stammo. I’m here to see Tusk. He’s expecting me,” I tell the barman.
He looks like he’s fifteen. He gives me a grin and pours me a beer. “On the house,” he says. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
I reach up and take the glass, drink the first two inches of beer, so that I can put it on my lap without spilling it, and wheel over to a table. I drink some more. It’s good. Probably from one of those craft breweries Rogan’s so keen on. I run through in my mind the plan that we made when Rogan debriefed us on the details of his conversation with Susan Grey. She told him that the biker gang who own this bar are regular customers of David Fox, the gun dealer she’s been forced to work for. They’ve been buying large quantities of weapons from him, which they are selling on to other biker gangs across the country. I have a history with the top dog in the gang. A history I’m not proud of.
“Well, well, well, Nick Stammo. What can I do for you?” I look up. Roderick Sweet, a.k.a. Tusk, is grinning down at me. He’s wearing a suit. Last time I saw him, he was in his biker’s colours. It’s good to see a thug move up market.
“Hello, Roderick,” I say. The grin slips away. He doesn’t like to be called by his real name.
“If you’re looking for another hand out Stammo, you’ve come to the wrong place.” I was right to come here without Rogan.
“I understand you’re a customer of David Fox, Roderick.”
“How the fuck did you know that?”
“You’d be surprised what I know.”
He mentally chews on that for a moment, then asks, “What’ja want?”
“I have a client. A rich client. A rich, foreign client. He wants some FN F2000s, and he wants a lot of them.”
His eyes drill into me. “I thought you were a PI,” he says.
“Means to an end, Roderick,” I say.
“Stop calling me that,” he snaps.
I shrug. “I was hoping you might make an introduction. I’d like to meet with Mr. Fox. There’d be a finders fee in it for you.” The last thing I want right now is to meet David Fox and Tusk’s greed will make sure I don’t have to until it’s on my terms.
He sits down across the table from me.
He leans forward and I can smell his aftershave. He has gone up market. He used to smell of sweat. I’ll bet the kids at school were too scared of him to call him Sweaty Sweet. He drops his voice. “I can get you F2000s. How many do you need?”
“For the first shipment, I’d need four hundred.”
He almost chokes on his surprise. “That’s over a million bucks US.”
“Well, if it’s too big an order for you…”
“No, no.” The dynamic between us has changed. “I can handle it Nick, no problem.” I can see his slimy little mind doing the math on what his cut will be.
“How do I know I can trust you, Tusk? You’ve got kind of a rep for short changing people.”
“Not on a big deal like this,” he tries to assure me.
“So, how much for four hundred and how soon?”
“I’d need to talk to my supplier first. No one carries four hundred F2000s in inventory.”
“OK. Fair enough. Just tell Fox that I need ’em quick and I want to see samples. I don’t want to get ripped off with some crappy replicas.”
Tusk licks his lips. “I’m gonna need a couple of hundred grand deposit, up front.”
I chuckle. “With this client that’s no problem. But you don’t get to see a penny of it until I see those samples.”
“Sure, sure. Like I said, no prob.”
“OK,” I say. “Set it up.” I reach into the pouch on the side of my wheelchair and take out a box. This was Adry’s idea and it’s a good one. It’s going to add—what was it she said—‘an air of authenticity’. Yeah, authenticity greases the wheels of every good sting. I hand him the box. “There’s a burner phone in there with one number in the recent calls list. Call me on that number when you’re ready for me to see Fox’s samples.”
“You got it.” He reaches forward and shakes my hand. “How about a glass of champagne to celebrate?”
“No thanks. I’ve gotta phone my client and let him know we’re on and to send the cash.” I wheel back from the table. “Don’t let me down, Tusk, OK?”
Without waiting for a reply I wheel out of there. I can’t wait to make that phone call… and it’s not to the imaginary client.
10
Cal
When I see her face, I wonder at how the world worked before we had FaceTime. “Hi Dad.” Her smile is huge. Thank heaven it’s also even; no fear of orthodontist’s bills in that mouth. “Ethan said he really liked talking to you. He thought it was neat that you’re a private detective. Do you know what, Dad?”
Mention of her friend’s name brings back the unpleasant thought. “No, what?”
“He didn’t even know there was such a thing as a detective who wasn’t a policeman until I told him there was. Are you solving any cool crimes right now.”
“No. Right now I’m talking to you,” I say.
“Da-ad! You know what I mean.”
“Yes, we are helping a lady who’s being forced by a very bad man to do something she doesn’t want to do.”
“She should just tell him no means no.”
If only it were that simple. “Also we’re trying to find out who killed a homeless man.”
“Who would kill a man because he’s homeless? Ethan says homeless people are just like us.”
“Ethan’s right.” I can’t delay the unpleasant part of the evening any longer. “Sweetie, would you tell Mommy I need to speak to her. Tell her it’s important.”
She drops her iPad and I have a view of their living room ceiling while I hear Ellie talking to Sam. There is a pause and she says, “But he said it’s important.”
The iPad is picked up. “Here she is Dad.”
Sam’s face, a face that I once loved more than anything, appears on the screen. “What is it, Cal?” I can feel the frost from three thousand, three hundred and fifty kilometres away. This does not bode well.
“Hi Sam.” No response. “I want to know if you have any plans to change Ellie’s name from Rogan to Cullen?”
“Did she tell you that?” She looks off screen. “Ellie! I told you I wanted to tell Daddy in my own way, on my own time.”
“She didn’t tell me Sam; don’t blame her,” I say. “It was just that I was speaking to her friend Ethan and he called me Mr. Cullen.”
“Oh.” She looks uncomfortable. “Right… Well, yes, I’ve registered her at school
as Cullen and I think it would be appropriate to change her name legally at some time.”
“Have you started the legal process?”
“No,” she says, then looks embarrassed and adds, “Yes.”
“Don’t you need my permission?”
“Not really, I have legal custody and guardianship.” She got that when I was living on the streets.
“Don’t I have any say in the matter?”
“You would need to research that yourself. Anyway Cal, I have to go now. We can talk about it when you come out here for Christmas. Here’s Ellie.”
Ellie’s face appears on the screen before I can object any further. In the background I hear a door close. Her little face doesn’t look too happy. She looks off-screen for a moment and then says in a whisper. “I don’t want to change my name Daddy.”
I have to tread a fine line here. “Did you tell Mommy that?”
“Yes but she said I couldn’t choose because I’m not twelve yet.” Then the clouds disappear and she smiles. “Anyway she said in Ontario you can’t change a name until you’ve lived here for like a year and we haven’t even been here for six months yet. Maybe we can change Mommy’s mind when you come here.”
“Good idea, sweetie. We can try.”
However, I know Sam. When she latches on to something, even the proverbial wild horses couldn’t drag her away.
“Third evening in a row, Mr. Rogan.” I smile like a fool and step back to welcome her in. I feel equal parts of happiness to see her and sadness, as her use of my last name reminds me of Sam’s intention. Damn. I don’t want Sam in my mind right now. She plants a kiss on my cheek and thrusts a bottle of Chianti Classico into my hands. It’s one of the more expensive marques.
“Thank you. You look great.” And she does. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a dress and heels. It’s red with a gold pattern that brings out the caramel of her skin and a lump to my throat.
“Thank you.” She does a pirouette. “I got it in Mumbai.” I have an almost overwhelming desire to take her in my arms and kiss her but I’m pretty sure the moment’s not right. Yet.
“The Chianti’s perfect,” I say. “I’m cooking lasagna.”
“Yeah, I figured. Guys always cook pasta on a third date.”
I hang her coat up and lead her into the living room. She sits on my sofa, slips off her shoes and curls her legs up. I start to pour the wine and she says, “Anything new on the woman we followed, two nights ago?”
I hand her her wine and she pats the sofa beside her. I sit down and breathe in her perfume. Not Chanel. Good, it won’t remind me of Sam or Em… yet here they are, unbidden, in my mind. “Just to check,” I say, “I assume anything I tell you isn’t going to end up in the Daily News Hound.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” she says.
I tell her all about yesterday’s events with Susan Grey and Stammo’s plan to rescue her from the predations of the arms dealer, David Fox.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” she asks.
“Nick may be in a wheelchair but he’s a tough old bird who knows how to take care of himself.”
She slips her arm through mine.
“You really like him don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. I really do. I have no idea how I would get along without him.”
“Have you ever told him that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Well you should.”
For some reason the thought of telling Stammo how much I rely on him is a bit uncomfortable, so I segue into, “But there was a time when he and I really did not get along.”
She snuggles closer and I tell her my long and chequered history, how we went from having a bitter, confrontational relationship to being partners and friends.
And I realize how much I have missed just chatting with someone about stuff that matters. I haven’t done that since Sam and I were still together.
This is special.
11
Cal
Saturday
Breakfast in the Ovaltine three times in a week, Rocky. We could get used to this couldn’t we Tommy?” Ghost’s buddy just nods his head as he gums his corned beef hash. An adult life spent mostly on the streets has left him with precious few teeth. “So we done what you said. We handed out copies of that picture you did of the big guy who killed ole Wily. Gave ’em to a whole bunch of folk and told them follow him if they saw him and to let us know where he goes. Told ’em there’d be a hundred bucks in it if they found him. I’ll phone you as soon as I hear from anyone.”
“Thanks Ghost. If we get anything we’ll pay them and you guys’ll get a hundred bucks each too.”
Tommy smiles and gives us a thumbs up. Ghost says, “Fuckin’ A.”
Jen jumps in, “I’ve got another question for you guys.”
“Fire away, Miss.”
“In that bible of Wily’s we found a letter from his sister Annie.”
“Yeah, she often wrote to him. They was real close.”
“Where did she send them?”
Ghost frowns, “What’ja mean?”
“Wily lived on the streets, he didn’t have an address to send letters to.”
“Oh… Yeah… I never thought of that. I dunno.”
Adry’s right, it’s probably not relevant but it’s bugging me as much as Jen. How the hell did his sister get that letter to him last week?
We get up from the table. Neither Jen nor I ordered breakfast; me, because the withdrawal pains are taking away all my hunger, and her, because she already had breakfast at her hotel. Her breakfast at the Devonshire was definitely more expensive, and certainly more elegantly served, but I’m not sure it tasted any better than a breakfast at the Ovaltine.
Definitely not if Ghost and Tommy are anything to go by.
Tommy swallows his mouthful of hash. “I know,” he says.
“Know what?” I ask.
“How he got his letters.”
We sit down.
“He was friendly with one of them priests who help out at the shelter. He’s a real nice ole guy named Father O’Higgins. Wily told me he knew the Father back in the day, before he was, y’know, on the streets. I think Annie sent her letters to him and he’d pass ’em on to Wily.”
“Thanks Tommy, you earned that breakfast for sure.” I get up again. “You guys be sure to call me if anyone sees that big guy.”
Their mouths are full again so they just nod.
They’re good men. If life had dealt them different cards, who knows what they’d be? Again I think of Damien’s t-shirt. Is it just luck that they’re living on the streets while I have a job I love and Damien owns a multimillion dollar company? It gives me an uncomfortable feeling.
The church office is austere but the occupant is warm and welcoming. It took me four phone calls to track down Father John O’Higgins, S.J., on a Saturday. He is a very old priest who looks like he might disintegrate and blow away in a strong wind, yet the hand that shakes mine has a firm, if bony, grip.
He smiles at Jen and then me. “How can I help you?” His voice is decades younger than his appearance and still carries the air of Ireland.
“I was wondering if you could help me with some information, Father.”
“If I can.”
“You knew Denis Lamarche, I believe.”
He frowns. “Knew?” he asks.
His question catches me by surprise but then why would he know that Wily was dead? “Yes, I’m afraid he died just over a week ago.”
He crosses himself. “That’s terrible. It’s such a hard life for those poor souls on the streets. How did it happen?”
“He was beaten to death.”
He shakes his head. “His poor sister. Do you know how she’s taking it? I must call her.”
I take a deep breath and Jen says, “We hate to be the bearers of more bad news Father, but Annalise was killed in the terrorist bombing in Ottawa last week.”
“Lord, have mercy on her soul,” he whisper
s, crossing himself again.
He sits with his head down and we give him time.
Finally, he looks up. “They died on the same day. The Lord moves in mysterious ways Mr. Rogan.”
“In this case Father, we think it may not have been the Lord.” I immediately regret the wording but he doesn’t seem offended, so I continue “We believe there’s a connection between their deaths and I was wondering if you knew anything about them that might throw some light on it.”
“Well I don’t know what that might be. What sort of thing are you looking for?”
“I don’t really know either. How well did you know them?”
“I knew the family well. I was their parish priest in Sainte-Foy, Québec; I baptized both Annalise and Denis. Did you know they were twins?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Their mother was a lovely, saintly woman, very devout. The father on the other hand was a—” He stops himself short. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but let’s just say he was not my favourite person.” The Irish in his accent is a little more pronounced now. “He had a knighthood, I’m not quite sure why, but I seem to remember that he might have come to Canada to escape some sort of scandal.” There is a look of indecision on his face and he looks hard at me… then decides. “If I know Sir Samuel, there was a woman or women involved.”
“What was his last name?” Jen asks.
“Fetherstonhaugh. A typical Englishman of the worst sort, I’m afraid.” The Irish accent is really strong now. From his tone, I can feel hints of the decades of oppression to which the English aristocracy subjected the Irish in the nineteenth, and into the twentieth century—long ago but not forgotten. “After their marriage broke down, Clarisse changed her name, and the names of the children, back to her maiden name, Lamarche.”
My gut tells me that this kindly old priest may know something that could help in our investigation but I can’t for the life of me guess what it might be.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 32