Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5)

by Lyle Nicholson

  Bernadette walked the piece of paper back to Durham’s office as if she’d just caught the biggest trophy fish in her life.

  “You want proof? I got it right here,” Bernadette said. “The phone that pinged at my home was given to Cahal by the perps.”

  “How could you prove it? A defense lawyer could say that Cahal Callahan wasn’t near your place when the call took place.”

  “Miranda also did a GPS tracker on the phone. The phone took off for the Calgary Airport only thirty minutes after it received a text from our dead perps.”

  Durham almost leapt out of his chair. “We got aiding and abetting attempted murder and I’m sure we can bring that around to murder. I’ll get the Crown Prosecutor on this right away. With this we can issue a Canada-wide and international warrant.”

  “What are the chances we’ll get him back if he makes it overseas?” Bernadette asked.

  Durham leaned back in his chair. “If we make a strong enough case to where he’s detained, if he is. You’re looking at two to six months. If he gets a good lawyer, it could be a year, or even more.”

  Bernadette and Evanston went back to their desks.

  “Well that threw a damper on the party,” Evanston said. “If we catch him in Canada we get to prosecute immediately. If he makes it out of the country, he sits on ice until we can bring him back. I hate justice sometimes.”

  “It’s what we signed up for. I just want to get him back here to grill him on what exactly he was up to,” Bernadette said.

  “You suspected him for the beginning, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, there was something about him. But I let my guard down. I won’t let that happen again. Now let’s get to the CCTV footage and see what we can find in airports.”

  For the next two hours they checked countless tapes of service stations videos that had been brought in, and then they moved onto passenger videos from airports. There wasn’t enough coffee to keep their eyes from going limp.

  Bernadette looked at the clock on the wall, it read 7 p.m. “My god, is that the time? I have to go and see how Chris is doing. Can you handle the search for a while?”

  Evanston smiled. “Are you kidding? Sit here and look at pictures of people getting on airplanes without you muttering under your breath for background sound? Go on, get out of here, I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  Bernadette made it to the hospital twenty minutes later. She hoped Chris might be out of his drugged state, but also wanted to just lie beside him and sleep for a while.

  When she found him in his room he was sitting up in bed.

  “Hey, sweetie. You look good,” she said as she bent down to kiss him.

  Chris made an attempt at a weak smile. “Yeah, for a guy who let a killer close enough to shoot him.”

  She squeezed his hand. It felt a bit cold. Taking his big hand between both of hers she kissed his hand and rested it on the side of her face.

  “How could you see him? A hospital staffer said he came at you from behind a food cart. Not exactly a fair fight. You did put a bullet in him. And anyways, Father Dominic isn’t dead. He only got grazed again, which I’m sure isn’t doing his poor old skull any good, but he’s fine.”

  “Father Dominic is okay?”

  “Yeah, we wanted to keep it a secret. Well, I wanted to. I needed to see if Cahal would do anything.”

  Chris blew out a breath. “You still don’t trust him, do you?”

  “Not after what he just did,” Bernadette said. She filled him in on recent events and watched his eyes widen as he learned what the Irish uncle had done to Harvey and Sprocket.

  “That son of a bitch. I’ll rip him apart. And to think, I was going to give him my recipe for my Irish stew,” Chris said. He grabbed at his chest for a second as the pain shot through him from his collapsed lung.

  “Hey, take it easy my darling. Don’t get riled up, we’ll find him. You rest up, get better, and we’ll get you home.”

  Chris lay back on the bed and let his breathing and lungs go back to normal.

  “I’m thinking you need to call my mother,” Chris said.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” Chris said taking her hand. “If detachment human resources decide to pick up the phone and call her, we’re screwed. You know she’d be on a plane out here in a day.”

  “Why would human resources call her—wait, I know, you didn’t put me down as emergency contact on your sign in form?”

  Chris lowered his eyes. “You know how I am with paperwork. I forgot.”

  “Oh crap. You’re right. I do have to call her. But she hates me.”

  “She dislikes all xenos, you know, her word for foreigners.”

  “And what’s the word for a Cree slash Irish mix detective who has mesmerized her only son with her charms?”

  Chris winced slightly. “You don’t want to know that word. But she may have softened up a bit. I called her before I left for work this morning. We had a little conversation about our heritage.”

  “You told her you found out you’re Jewish and now you want me to walk into the mix of this. She must be madder than a bear with a sore head.”

  Chris moved slightly with the pain in his ribs. “She was a bit vocal.”

  “Explain vocal.”

  “She told me I should let the past stay in the past. As far she is concerned, we’re Greek, not Jewish.”

  “Hum, that’s an interesting take on your heritage—denial. Look, I’ll call her, tell you’ve been injured and doing just fine. I’ll also take the time to invite her to our wedding.”

  Chris shook his head. “You’ll be entering into dark territory there, my love. She’ll get even more riled up.”

  “What me, get your mother upset? I’m just going to ask her what she thinks of us having a native shaman and a rabbi officiate our wedding. Nothing too radical,” Bernadette said with a smile.

  “So, you’re not concerned about Cahal’s story of you being the daughter of some Gypsy Irish woman?”

  “You’re just pushing my buttons, aren’t you?” Bernadette asked. She wanted to punch him in the arm at this moment, but not in his weakened state.

  Chris had a tiny smile. “Maybe a little. Did you spit in your DNA test tube yet?”

  “Not yet. But I will tonight if it makes you happy. Now, get some rest. I’m heading to the vets to pick up our dog. I’m sure he wants my company, and I need his—a quiet male dog that doesn’t give me any lip,” Bernadette said. She bent down, kissed him, and headed out the door.

  Before she left the hospital, she checked on her neighbor, Harvey. She went to his ward, found him fast asleep, and left a note by his bed that she’d be by in the morning to pick him up if he needed a ride home. That was just a gesture on her part. Harvey had so many friends in the city that one phone call from him would spark a fleet of cars to his aid; most of them would be elderly widows looking for his affections.

  She left the hospital and got into her Jeep. A gentle snow was falling as she drove out of the car park. She felt very alone in that moment. Chris and she had been together for over a year. They’d been through a lot together but leaving him in the hospital pulled hard on her heart muscle. It felt like an ache after a big workout in the gym, only it seemed to last longer.

  She drove to the vets and spoke with Annette Chow. Her vet was a big softy for Sprocket. She’d seen him through all manner of injuries that were mostly self-inflicted as Sprocket seemed to want to investigate bull snakes, porcupines, and chase down coyotes. All with negative effects.

  When Bernadette came into the exam room, Sprocket jumped off the table and stood up with his two paws on her chest. She grabbed his head and ruffled his ears.

  “He’s happy to see you.” Dr. Chow said.

  “The feeling is mutual. Is he okay for me to take him home?”

  “Give him lots of rest, lots of water, and don’t run him for a day or two. The drug is coming out of his system. I think it’s been about eight hours now since he wa
s given it. He’ll be fine.”

  Bernadette took Sprocket to her Jeep. He still wasn’t his usual self. His head drooped down, he walked slowly and when they got to her Jeep, she had to help him up into the back seat.

  She drove home, put Sprocket in his large dog bed, then ate some

  leftovers in the fridge and poured herself a glass of wine.

  The house was eerily silent as she tried to go over the day’s events, and it was hard to fathom how everything had been turned upside down in her world. The two Irish assassins had been killed, Chris had been shot, and Harvey and Sprocket had been drugged so Cahal could get away.

  She sighed deeply, took a long sip of her wine, checked on Sprocket, then looked at her phone. There was nothing else to do but call her future mother-in-law.

  Her phone read eight o’clock. That meant ten in Toronto. Marula Chistakos never went to bed early. She was a night owl, drinking tea at night while watching Greek and American soap operas until she fell asleep in her armchair. Marula had raised Chris and his sister Lenia after their father had died when they were young. She fiercely protected Chris, which is one of the reasons he’d left to join the RCMP and get some space. Marula felt any woman who got between her and her son was a threat. Especially one who wasn’t Greek, like Bernadette.

  With a feeling of dread, Bernadette dialed her number.

  “Yassou, hello, Marula Christakos here.”

  “Hi, Marula, it’s me, Bernadette calling.”

  “What’s happening, why you calling? Where’s my Christos?”

  Bernadette took a deep breath. They’d never had a normal conversation. It was always concerning an emergency, which generally involved Chris.

  “Chris was injured.”

  “What! How he is injured? He is dead?”

  “No, no, he is not dead. A suspect shot him. His vest saved him. He will be out of the hospital in three days. He would have called you but it’s hard for him to speak right now.”

  Marula paused for a moment. Bernadette could feel she was building momentum. That was never a good sign.

  “You are always a danger to him. Why he is still with you?”

  Bernadette put her hand to her forehead. “Because we love each other, and we are going to be getting married in May. May tenth to be exact. I just got confirmation of our wedding dates.”

  “You are not Greek.”

  “Well, from what Chris told me, neither are you,” Bernadette said. The moment the words came out of her mouth she regretted them. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that…”

  “…Christos told you?”

  “Yes, he did. He said he’s been talking to some cousins of his back in Greece who are Jewish.”

  “I…my father and even his father, we tried to protect the family. The Nazi’s were killing us. You have no idea how bad…”

  “I can understand,” Bernadette said. The white settlers decimated her own people, the Cree Nation, but she didn’t want to make a comparison.

  “No, you do not understand. The Greek Jews were hunted like animals. My father swore it would never happen again. He saw his neighbors shot in front of him.”

  “Mrs. Christakos, I’m so sorry all that happened, but it’s in the past. You live in Canada now,” Bernadette said.

  “Three days ago, boys put bad words on a Jewish cemetery here in Toronto. Is better we stay quiet, stay Greek.”

  “I cannot judge you or speak for you, but I do know that Chris will stand up for what he believes is his heritage. I don’t think you can deny him that.” She couldn’t believe she was getting into this conversation. She should have hung up.

  “No, you cannot judge, you do not know. I know. And I know you are no good for my son. He is my boy, he is Greek. I tell him he should not marry you. He should marry Greek girl, stay Greek and keep away from people who hate Jews.”

  The phone call ended with a slam of the receiver on Marula’s end. It made Bernadette jump. Sprocket woke up and looked at her with concern.

  “That went well, don’t you think, Sprocket?” Bernadette asked her dog.

  She finished the dregs of her wine, washed her glass and got ready to go to the bedroom.

  Sprocket wagged his tail and perked up his ears. He knew with Chris out of the house he might be able to jump on the bed with her.

  Bernadette looked at Sprocket. “Okay, you can jump on the bed, but try not to shed too much so Chris doesn’t find out. And don’t snore.”

  The dog got it. In a flash, he shot into the bedroom and bounced onto the bed. He laid his big body down on Chris’ side and looked up at her.

  By the time Bernadette had come out of the bathroom, the dog was fast asleep snoring peacefully.

  Bernadette climbed under the covers and turned off the lights. She nudged the dog once to see if he’d stop his snoring, but it didn’t work.

  She fell into a fitful sleep of Greek mothers-in-law and Irish assassins.

  29

  Bernadette woke up at 6 a.m. to see Sprocket had already vacated the bed. She would do a complete vacuum of the bed to hide any evidence of him. Although Chris always seemed to find stray dog hairs when he came home.

  Only once did Bernadette say, “At least she wasn’t hiding sleeping with a man.” It had sounded lame. She’d just vacuumed and looked at his eye roll of disapproval when he checked the bed.

  She made coffee, checked her phone and scrolled through messages. The one that made her stop was from Detective Patrick Sullivan in Dublin. He’d seen the international search for Cahal. He said he might have something.

  She called his office; his line went to voice mail. There wasn’t much she could do but leave a message. She also informed him of the deaths of Emily Murray and Dylan Quinn, in case he hadn’t read the report online.

  Then she took Sprocket for a slow walk. He looked okay but the drug GHB or Rohypol could act differently on a dog. Sprocket’s gait was okay, and he kept looking back at Bernadette hoping she’d break into a run.

  “Sorry, fella, the vet said no running for you for a day or two. Just chill and we’ll have you running in no time.”

  His ears perked up, and at the sound of ‘running,’ he gave her a resounding ‘woof,’ and they finished their walk.

  As she got in the door, her cell phone rang. It was an overseas number.

  “Detective Callahan.”

  “Ah, I’m glad I caught you,” Sullivan said. “I see from the reports you’ve had a bit of action down your way.”

  “I guess you could say that. The main thing is the bad guys died, and they missed their target.”

  “Oh, and Father Dominic, he’s still among the living?”

  Bernadette felt a moment of panic. Should she confide in this detective or tell him the same lie they were telling everyone else?

  “That’s a bit of classified information at the moment,” Bernadette said.

  “Your secret is safe with me, Detective. I understand if you wanted to flush out your uncle. Seems he’s done a runner, as we say here.”

  “Yes, into the wind, as we say here. He had about a four-hour head start and could be anywhere on any airplane or airport.”

  “We may have come up with a stroke of luck. Once we had the actual passport photo of him that you sent us, we ran all of his features through our facial recognition software here in the EU. We may have come up with a match.”

  “Where did it show up?”

  “In Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport early this morning. He must have taken a red eye from somewhere in North America. We’ve checked the video feeds of all the connecting flights to the UK and Ireland, but we’ve come up empty on that.”

  “Would he head back to Ireland?” Bernadette asked.

  “Hard to say, but something we did find was that both your suspects, Murray and Quinn, belonged to a strange organization of ancient believers. Cahal, it seems, was one of them.”

  “What kind of beliefs?”

  “That they were the direct descendants of
the ancient kings and queens. Seemed they had some ritualistic mumbo jumbo they got into. Sorry, I don’t have much more to go on, but there it is,” he said.

  “Anything you have to shed a light on the case would be welcome. We’re still in the dark as to the motive. We’ll have a warrant for Cahal’s arrest on charges of aiding and abetting an attempted murder in the morning. There’s a possible charge of giving someone GHB, but we have to wait for the victim to give a full statement.”

  “Once we have your international warrant, we’ll arrest him if we find him,” Sullivan said. “But he’s a slippery sort.”

  “Wait, I thought you didn’t know about him when I first mentioned his name to you.”

  “Ah, sorry about that. We’ve known of him for years. He’s always been in shadows, never one to show his face. He never allowed his picture to be taken or got a driver’s license. There were only rumors that he was involved in the IRA, but no one knew what he looked like, until now.”

  Bernadette shook her head. “I guess if he is in fact my uncle, I’m related to one that’s become somewhat of a legend. Not sure that’s a comfort.”

  “No, I imagine it’s not. But do tell your force we’ll be on the lookout for him,” Sullivan said.

  “Thanks, I’ll let my chief of detectives know that.”

  “Always happy to help our fellow officers,” Sullivan said as he rang off.

  Bernadette texted the message to Dawson, changed her clothes, and headed for the hospital.

  She wanted to see Chris and needed to speak with Father Dominic, if he was in any way lucid. The information she’d just received on Cahal didn’t surprise her, nothing seemed to anymore. This was like having her entire ancestry run over her.

  Detective Sullivan met with Bishop at the bar in the pub. He was nursing his usual pint of Kilkenny Cream Ale that Sullivan found particularly appalling. To Sullivan, only a Guinness was a proper pint. All others paled by comparison.

  “What’s new?” Bishop asked as he regarded his pint with great anticipation.

  “I was just sharing a bit of information with that Detective Callahan in Canada. Seems the RCMP killed both Quinn and Murray. And I don’t know if you saw the bulletin on Cahal Callahan, but he’s a suspect. He did a runner. I was looking at the sheets the morning, he turned up on visual ID in Amsterdam.”