by J M Dolan
“Both women entered Canada under the Temporary Foreign Worker program as, wait for it, exotic dancers. Koval’s additional visa to work as a live-in-caregiver still remains un-activated. The visas were in the system under authorization numbers, but without names attached. It’s an error that normally could escape detection. “Obviously,” said Thomas, “a bad attempt to make it look like a mistake in simple data entry. If by chance that is, someone did notice.”
“Jamee’s people do exemplary work,” Sam said.
“That they do,” concurred Thomas. “It was an undetected flaw in our system-design and it offered a loop-hole to the bad guys. I don’t think we would have found this on our own.”
“The information brings up several new questions,” said Sam.
“That it does,” Thomas agreed. “What I don’t understand, is why Koval would come to Canada as an exotic dancer when she could just provide proof of her live-in-caregiver application. Why would she need two visas? It’s illegal and risks detection.
“Jamee’s specialist was confident there’s no doubt the exotic worker permits for the Temporary Foreign Worker visas weren’t erased, but hidden,” finished Thomas.
“Maybe they didn’t erase the information,” said Sam, “because doing so posed too great a risk of detection. They may have been hoping that if the anomaly was discovered it would be simply written off as a data entry error. Let me get the Attorney General involved,” offered Sam. “If the suspects crack – their testimony will prove CBSA officers were bribed to tamper with the system. A smart prosecutor will work a deal. It’s a given, the perpetrators will lose their jobs at the CBSA but if they’re offered the enticement of a reduced sentence or no jail time, there’s a better chance to find out who’s behind this. I’d like to sauté the small fry, but it’s the big fish we’re after,” concluded Sam.
Chapter Thirteen
The neighbourhood was typical of the sixties suburbs, three-bedroom bungalow, detached garage, well-cared for lawn, a few trees and a fenced backyard. The homes in the tidy cul-de-sac were well maintained, but dated, and Abi’s was the same cookie cutter version of the next. Jamee parked her Mustang in the garage at the back, mindful to avoid scratches in the tight squeeze created by years of clutter. She envisioned with dismay, the job that lay ahead of her when Abi sold the place. It would be her third, household takedown and shakeout. She wasn’t looking forward to it. It was grunt work – cleaning and an emotional letting go. Now, that was something she definitely wasn’t good at.
Speaking of emotions made her remember – she hadn’t heard from Sam and wondered a bit about that. He was probably thinking she needed time to cool off.
The house looked quiet and just a little sad with Abi and the kids gone. The energy three young children pumped out was noticeably missing. No toys, no noise.
The post office was re-directing the mail, but Jamee glanced into the mailbox anyway, just in case something had snuck through. It was empty. She stuck a hand in and rummaged around to be thorough. Nothing. Removing her hand, she felt the scrap of something sharp along the side of her little finger. Gingerly, she felt back inside for the cause. Odd, something had caught on the back of the door hinge hard enough to bend the metal corner, leaving a sharp edge that bore a faint crimson stain.
Turning on the outside tap she did a walk about, watering in the trees and shrubs for the coming winter. The vibrant petunias and resilient pansies, their cheerful little faces turned up to the sun, continued to bloom despite a touch of frost from a few days back. She wouldn’t bother with water for the flowers this late in the season. They would survive only as long as they were meant to. Nature had a way of looking after things. Her mother called it a natural death.
Outside chores done, Jamee dug out the house key. She sure hoped the house would sell before the first snows of winter. She didn’t have time to shovel at both places and it would be inconvenient to have to look for a snow removal service.
The house smelled stale when she stepped inside. She would pop open the windows and get a bit of air flowing. The realtors had taken the listing only a short time ago and the house had yet to be shown. Abi had been assured it wouldn’t take long to sell. The asking price was right, the home had been well maintained and the good neighbourhood was a bonus. The agent called the three-bedroomed house a gem, a great starter home for a young family. It made Abi a little sad, as she had thought the same thing the day she and Jeff moved in. Thank goodness her sister was good at looking ahead. Abi seemed focused now, on the kids and the future.
It was that good first-rate Scottish heritage. It made the pair of them, solid like those pansies, or perhaps more aptly, the Scottish thistle. Jamee moved from the kitchen window into the living room. The windows there didn’t open so she unlocked the front door and lifted the screen. That should do the trick. The bedrooms were next. The two smaller, opposite the main bathroom, had belonged to the kids. The girls shared the slightly larger one, with their bother Angus in the other.
Settled at the farm, they hadn’t seemed to miss their old rooms and were ecstatic about the new digs. To keep a sense of the familiar, the bedding had come to the farmhouse in the move and Jamee had seen to it the kids were happily tucked up into the two rooms with dormer windows on the second floor. She would move to the third and give up her main floor master to Abi. It would save her the effort of navigating the stairs and still ensure there was someone to run across the hall to in the night. It was important to keep the family close, thus enabling them to draw on each other for support. Wouldn’t hurt to have an eye on them as well; typical kids after all.
Jamee checked the bathroom and thankfully no water was where it shouldn’t be. It made her think of an idea she’d been considering for a while. She’d talk first with a friend from school who ran a plumbing business, but she felt confident that an old-fashioned water closet could likely be installed on the second floor of the farmhouse.
She pushed open the door to Abi’s room and looked around, everything appeared normal. She’d just slide open the window for a few minutes, check the machine, then go. That was when the blinking light caught her eye. Abi had opted to hook up the answering machine to her phone in the bedroom, less likely the kids would be in there messing with it and maybe hit a wrong button. With the frequency of calls related to Abi’s work and her medical needs she hadn’t wanted to risk losing a message.
Jamee reached for the message pad and pen Abi kept handy beside the phone. She clicked the play button then waited through a long pause before some background noise, took the place of silence.
She’d just about decided that the caller had maybe changed their mind about leaving a message when the voice came on. It was a woman’s voice, the words spoken in halting, whispery English well enunciated, but Jamee had the impression not her mother tongue. The voice pleaded for help, something about a note, begging for someone to answer followed by an abrupt click. There was a vague familiarity about the accented tone but most of it was so distorted, Jamee couldn’t make it out. She turned up the volume and played it back. This time recognition clicked in. Odessa — how was that possible?
Taking out her cell phone, she called Sam.
“Hi. I’m in Calgary, checking on Abi’s house — part of my duties until its sold. A second ago I listened to a message on Abi’s answering machine that will grab your attention. It’s Odessa and she’s asking for help.”
Jamee guessed, Sam would be intrigued by the possibility the murdered woman might have left word, but she was surprised by his rapid-fire directive.
“Just sit tight until I get there”. ‘Don’t touch anything, don’t go snooping around and don’t keep listening to the message until I’ve had a chance to hear it.’”
Jamee interpreted the abrupt click as, ‘I’m on my way’.
Don’t, don’t, don’t — yeah, yeah, yakety yak — don’t talk back. He acted like she’d just fallen off the garlic truck.
While she cooled her heels, she’d just che
ck the basement and try not to think about horror stories. Yes, he’d told her to wait, but since there were no signs of forced entry, she wasn’t about to be intimidated by a little investigation. Besides, it wasn’t her first crime scene, and so far, there was nothing here to suggest a crime had taken place.
Mulling things over in her mind, Jamee thought about the key Abi kept hidden in the garage — didn’t everybody? Maybe it wasn’t Odessa’s voice she thought she’d heard, but if it was—– the woman could have found the key, come into the house and hidden there while trying to reach Abi. Yes, she’d definitely have to search the house.
Everything on the main floor looked just like Abi would have left it, but that didn’t rule out the basement. If Odessa’s missing days meant she was in trouble, it made sense she would have tried to reach the woman who employed her. With that thought in mind, Jamee pushed open the basement door.
* * *
Sam had a hunch, as he entered the house with as much stealth as he could muster, that he wouldn’t find Jamee sitting waiting for his arrival. He stood quietly on the landing, listening for any sound apart from the usual fridge and furnace noises. Stairs were notoriously creaky, so he’d only moved to stand on the top step of the basement stairs. A faint footfall came from below. Leaning forward to look under the sub floor, he spotted her bent over, picking up a forgotten toy. He gave himself a moment to admire her very shapely derriere.
“Yeah,” he announced, “this just proves, all women are trouble.” Jamee let out a shriek but he noted, as she whirled to face the intrusion, her body had already taken a defensive posture. Composure was not far behind.
“Sir, I’m a woman!”
“So…Are you a trouble maker? Sam started down the steps. “I believe I suggested you refrain from looking around until I got here.”
“Really — did you think that would that make more sense to me if I heard it again? Trained investigator, remember.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. I stand corrected.” Sam was scanning the basement, for his own look around. There wasn’t much to see. It was one big open space with nothing much to fill it. “Did you find anything of interest?” he asked.
“No, but listen to the answering machine message. See what you think.”
Sam followed Jamee back through the house, taking his time to examine and make his own assessment. He’d had the same thought as Jamee on the drive over. If the dead woman was actually Odessa, then she may have tried to reach Abi’s house on her own. His assessment wasn’t just about looking for signs of a break-in. Sam focused on finding something out of place or something added. Sometimes a break-in wasn’t about what was taken, if taking something wasn’t what you broke in for. Maybe the woman left a clue.
He had a lot to fill Jamee in on after his conversation with Thomas, but first, he played the message through twice while Jamee sat on the bed. The second time, being careful not to touch surfaces, he made a copy.
She’d waited until he was done then suggested coffee at the kitchen table so they could review the developments of the day. Jamee made coffee and found some powdered creamer for hers, Sam opted for black.
“Sorry, no cookies or other calorie rich add-ons, the cupboard is bare.”
“Coffee’s fine. I have news for you. This will no doubt be a great day for celebration.” He toasted her with his coffee cup.
“Okay, I’ll bite…let’s celebrate, but you’ll have to be more specific, babe.”
He liked her encouragement.
“Inspector Aleksey Volkov,” Sam announced, “has left our merry band. We are now back to the three musketeers, if you’re still in?”
“Absobloodylootely.”
“I suspect, Volkov has problems working with women in authority,” Sam hinted. There was humour in his voice but sympathy in his eyes.
“I didn’t get that message, drat!” Jamee’s voice dripped sarcasm.
Sam laughed, then sobered. “Joking aside, you’re the one who got the rough ride. We wouldn’t blame you if you bailed.”
“No problemo, just said to myself, don’t be a baby and shook it off, but,” Jamee elevated her brows, “can’t say I’ll miss the little bugger. I’d rather face the inquisition than work another minute with that whack job. I am surprised though that he’d go it alone. He was like fly to fly paper and now he’s ditching us?” Jamee paused to reflect on the new development. “You’re not worried about losing your foreign friend? You know diplomatic appearances and all.”
“Hell,” Sam grinned, “I have lots of friends, and diplomacy is Avery’s job.”
Jamee studied him intently. Under scrutiny, Sam took a slow swallow, but didn’t look away. He could tell she was trying to read between the lines.
“I can only imagine the drive back to Calgary was,” she hesitated, “eventful. What was the reason for the brouhaha? And Sam, don’t sugar-coat it.”
Sam figured he’d better come clean. “I only threw it out to the universe, once Volkov and I were in the car alone, that he might be working the middle man angle, you know payment from both sides — he took a swing at me.”
“Holy bejeezus, are you crackers?”
“If the shoe fits,” said Sam as he trailed off. “But, when it comes to swatting flies you have to be aggressive.”
“Crap,” exploded Jamee, “Volkov, definitely doesn’t know how to play nice in the sandbox. My guess, he’s a narcissistic sociopath who doesn’t mind stepping into the fray. My intuition, he enjoys it — but Sam, I assure you there was no need to defend me.” Jamee reached out to place her hand on his arm. “If that was part of your reason for the trip to the woodshed, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you hurting your fist on something stupid. Capiche?”
“It didn’t come to that. No harm, no foul.”
“I’ll bet Thomas wasn’t enthralled by the Volkov departure. Bloody hell — that must have been a real kick in the old plums.”
“He’ll get over it,” said Sam. “He’s not impressed with our foreign colleague’s manners either. Far better, I slap the bull than he did. You know pecking order, and all that.”
“So we weren’t a match made in heaven,” observed Jamee, “but his behaviour is a little drastic, even for a creep like Volkov. I feel like he picked our brains and when there wasn’t more of a reveal, jumped ship.”
“Kind of my thoughts, too,” Sam agreed. “I sure didn’t expect round two when I asked him about being involved with Koval’s family for a finder’s fee.”
“Well, I’m glad we didn’t talk to him about the little DNA project we’ve got going.”
“Yeah about that, could be you’re right. Results are back — not Odessa Koval.”
“What?”
“When I got your call, I was in a meeting with Sergeant Dunbar, the RCMP officer assigned to the Koval case. He says my consultant has good instincts.” Sam reached out to run his fingertips lightly down her bare arm, raising goose bumps. Sam caught the reaction and had to stop himself from following up. He wanted to pull her close and sample those soft supple lips. A nibble wouldn’t be enough so he forced his brain back to business and his hand back onto his cup.
“RCMP forensics harvested DNA from our victim and was able to pull a DNA sample from the shoes as well. Blood inside the back of both heels of the shoes indicated blisters. The two DNA samples were compared — not a match.”
“So,” Jamee mused, “the shoes were the right size for the dead woman, but the DNA found on them wasn’t a match. I was inclined to tie the shoes to the deceased as she was shoeless,” admitted Jamee. “On the other hand, it sounds like whoever was wearing those fancy pumps, found it a tight fit.
“I gather there weren’t any rub marks on the heels of our victim, but I still have a hunch that somehow the two are connected,” Jamee insisted.
“Good, Dunbar’s not far behind you on that,” said Sam. “He’s shown some initiative and went one step further. Apparently, at some point Dunbar did a stint with an International RCMP Task
Force, examining Canada’s security risk to immigration. He’s aware of the requirement, that security checks are often requested for processing immigration applications. As part of that processing, the CIC asks for a criminal record check from the country of origin.
“Dunbar was positive Koval’s fingerprints would have been required for the approval of her securities. He’s checked the fingerprints of our dead woman against fingerprints Immigration has on file for Odessa Koval. No match.”
Sam studied Jamee, waiting for her reaction to the new developments. He could see the wheels turn as her clever mind processed the revolving events.
“A holy shit moment, if I ever saw one,” exclaimed Jamee. “I have to say this makes what I started with earlier, namely a late caregiver, look like an invitation to a church social. Our luck seems to be changing, but not Odessa’s. Well, game on I say. Let’s sweep the house for fingerprints and see what turns up.”
“How did your mind make that leap,” asked Sam, looking at Jamee in wonderment.
“You listened to the message left on the machine, definitely a woman’s and a foreign accent. I can’t be positive, but it certainly could be Odessa. I remember her voice from our earlier conversation and it could be a fit.” Jamee could barely contain her excitement. “If it is her, she may have come to the house. She could have been in the house.”
The idea had Jamee on her feet pacing. The thought occurred to her when she first went into the basement. Now it gnawed at her. “And while forensics is at it,” Jamee insisted, “that message is another thing we should have analyzed. It’s so garbled. I can’t exactly be sure what it says but I picked up something about, ‘help’, and maybe, ‘note’?”