by Dave Butler
Then she proceeded to tell Forsyth that they’d found nothing relevant to the poaching investigation, but had found a few kilos of marijuana in Clark’s shed.
The CO interrupted from the passenger seat. “Jenny hasn’t told you about the best part of her night,” she said. “Clark, half-naked and crazy, jumped her in the yard while we were searching his shed. It was like she was wrestling with a skinned wolverine. He was spitting and cursing and rolling.”
“I had to be really careful about what I grabbed and when,” Willson said, laughing. “That’s the strangest fight yet in my career, and I’ve had some strange ones. And I can tell you that the two COs with me weren’t real quick jumping in to help.”
“You looked like you had it under control,” the CO replied with a grin, “and we weren’t sure you weren’t enjoying yourself and wanted it to last longer.”
Willson could hear Forsyth’s laughter over the speakerphone, with Jenkins chuckling in the background.
“We’ll see you two back at the office in a while,” said Willson.
“Okay,” said Forsyth. “After tonight, I don’t see Eastman saying anything to us. There’s no reason for him to do so.”
“You’re probably right,” said Willson. “Of the two, I’m guessing Clark will be the one to make a deal because of the drug and obstruction charges he’s facing.”
“I don’t know,” replied Forsyth. “From all we’ve heard, he’s scared of Eastman. Do you think he’d roll over on him? The thought of prison time for the drug charge, in particular, might be a big incentive — he’s got a lot to lose. But I still don’t think he will.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Bill,” said Willson. “Once the RCMP get here and sort things out, we’ll head back to the CO office. It’ll be a while yet, so that will give you lots of time to ensure your notes and the seizure reports are complete. I’ll meet you there.” She ended the call, not concerned that her partner might have to sit on his ass for a few hours.
Three hours later, Willson climbed back in her truck, exhausted. The RCMP had secured the scene, seized the drugs, and finished their interviews with her, the CO, and Clark’s wife. Now they were inside the trailer, doing their own search.
As she backed out of the driveway, Willson saw Clark’s wife on the trailer porch. The bare light bulb above the woman allowed Willson to see tears glistening on her cheeks as she held a cellphone to her ear — a phone that the grumpy JP had put out of Willson’s reach. Wendy Clark was not moving, not talking, but simply standing there, the phone clutched to the side of her head like a security blanket. Inside the trailer, the shadows of the Mounties moved back and forth across the windows. Willson momentarily tapped the brake and slowed the truck as she wondered what was going through the woman’s mind. Wendy Clark must understand the degree to which her husband was in trouble. So was she calling a lawyer? Was she calling Eastman to tell him what happened? Was she calling Clark’s drug supplier?
Or was she trying to reach the third member of the trophy hunting triad to warn him that Willson was pursuing him?
Chapter 14
May 8
Luis Castillo sat in the quiet of his Spokane office. It had been a month since the confrontation with his wife. With the phone against his left ear, he listened to a male voice that was angry and insistent. Castillo’s jaw was tight, his face hot with acute discomfort. From the south-facing corner window of his new three-storey building on the edge of downtown, he watched the Spokane River as it carried the cool, clean waters of Lake Coeur d’Alene westward to an eventual meeting with the much larger Columbia. The river gave him no comfort this afternoon.
“Mr. Castillo,” said the voice, “the shipment has not arrived. We are concerned, very concerned … and we are not prepared to wait any longer. Our buyers are very angry. I need you to tell me what you are going to do about this problem.” The man purposefully used language that would suggest to anyone listening — in case someone was listening — that they were discussing a legitimate business matter.
Castillo responded with as much calm as he could muster under the circumstances. “Yes, all is fine and there is no reason for you or your buyers to be concerned. I certainly understand their unease with the delay. I checked with my people before I phoned you; they advised that the truck was stopped by Highway Patrol in Montana this morning. Apparently, there was confusion about the paperwork, but it was sorted out after a few hours. The truck is on its way again and my people have guaranteed me that the shipment will be at your warehouse by dawn tomorrow, if not before.”
The voice on the phone made it clear that failure to meet the deadline would not be acceptable. “If it is not here by that time, Mr. Castillo, then you and I will both have a problem on our hands, a big problem. I will contact my buyers now; I’m sure they’ll be relieved to hear that we’re back on track. Please give my warmest regards to your wife and daughters. Good day.”
After disconnecting, Castillo looked down at a pad of paper on his desk, his nervous doodlings filling one corner of the top sheet. But his thoughts were not on the drawing. The mention of his wife and daughters was a clear warning to him and he knew it. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead at the thought they might be dragged into this. Alone and in a strange town far from home, he knew that his two girls were easy targets for men not known for understanding or patience. Castillo had hired a private investigator to keep tabs on the girls when they moved from Spokane to California to attend university, but despite that, he understood their day-to-day well-being was beyond his control.
As he replayed the telephone call in his mind, he heard a knock at the heavy wooden door. His executive assistant, a middle-aged Latino woman who had worked for him for nearly twenty years, opened the door and stood with her hand on the handle. “The inspector is here for his two o’clock appointment,” she said.
“I will see him in five minutes,” Castillo answered without looking up. He put the pad of paper in a desk drawer on his right, sliding it shut. He took three deep breaths to calm himself.
This was the second call of the day to disturb his calm. Castillo was a man who liked to call the shots, to be in control, to understand every aspect of a business empire that stretched across the Pacific Northwest. In fact, he’d set up the businesses so that he was the only one who saw the whole picture, how products moved, how dollars flowed, and who played what role in making the complex enterprise work. When a surprise dropped on his desk, either a small one or a big steaming pile, his temper rose to the surface quickly.
Earlier that morning, Bernie Eastman had called to tell him about the warrants and the searches at his and Charlie Clark’s houses three weeks before. It was unusual to hear the big man sound hesitant, subdued, so Castillo knew that the call was made reluctantly. He listened as Eastman told him how B.C. conservation officers and two park wardens had combed through every inch of the buildings on their properties.
“Do we have a problem?” Castillo had asked, subtly reminding Eastman — as the other caller had just done with him — that any problems would be shared problems, with the bigger share falling squarely on the shoulders of the guide-outfitter.
“They seized two rifles, but those won’t be a problem,” said Eastman in response.
“Is that all they seized?”
“Yes …”
“Bernie, I get the sense you’re not telling me everything. Are you sure that’s all they seized?”
“I was in handcuffs and in a police car for a while, so that’s all I saw them seize at my place,” said Eastman.
He then told Castillo that Clark had been arrested for obstruction and drug possession during the search at his trailer. “Charlie attacked a female cop when they were about to discover his dope stash. That was stupid. He spent the night in jail but our lawyer got him out the next morning.”
“You will make sure he understands he must keep his mouth shut,
won’t you? He is your employee and I expect you to keep him under control.”
Eastman answered quickly, too quickly for Castillo’s liking. “Yes, I’ve already talked to him and he promised me he’ll shut up and take his lumps.”
“You will make certain there is no problem,” said Castillo before ending the call. Castillo did not like loose ends. And despite Eastman’s assurances, Charlie Clark had become a loose end.
A soft knock came at the door and, preceded by Castillo’s secretary, a Spokane building inspector shuffled into the room, sitting down when Castillo told him to do so. It was the same inspector he’ d caught ogling his wife at the Easter celebration a month earlier. While the man fidgeted, his eyes wandering the room nervously, Castillo checked his email on the small laptop to his left.
“I see you have a new photo there,” said the man, pointing to the credenza behind Castillo. “Nice ram. Where did you get it?”
Castillo stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. He couldn’t help but wonder how the man always looked rumpled, no matter what he was wearing or when in the day he was wearing it. It was disgraceful.
“It is a nice one. It was very considerate of the parks folks up in Canada to grow and safeguard that one just for me,” said Castillo. “But I didn’t ask you here to talk about hunting.” Time to get to the point of the meeting. “Tell me where you’re at with the approval of the new parking garage on Sprague Avenue,” he said, his eyes drilling into the inspector like twin laser beams. “I am tired of the delays. I bought that land three months ago and every day is costing me money. I have subcontractors waiting to start. As you know, the hole for the foundation has been dug. I need to begin building.”
The inspector may have tried to appear calm and confident, but his tentative voice betrayed him. “Uh, there were other projects in the work ledger that were submitted before yours, so I had to call in favours in the planning department to get them to move your project to the top of the pile. We’re also short-staffed by two people, so there’s more work for us to do than there is time in the day.”
“You did not answer my question,” said Castillo, his impatience showing.
“S-sorry,” said the man. “I can tell you that I hope you should have all of your permits in place by the middle of May, end of May at the latest.”
“You hope by the middle of May? Another two to four weeks away? That is simply not acceptable.” Castillo moved forward in his chair, against the edge of his desk, placing both hands flat on the leather surface, his knuckles white. Even though the desk was large, the inspector shifted his chair back, overtly trying to distance himself from the angry man across the desk.
“Your incompetence is making me extremely angry,” Castillo said, again staring at the man without blinking. “I pay you good money and I want results. I need those permits by the end of this week or there will be consequences for you personally.”
Castillo paused, ensuring the inspector understood the situation and then continued. “I assumed you’re the right man for this job. I don’t want to find out I was mistaken. That would be bad for both of us. As you well know, my friend, you have more to lose in this matter than I do. Do you understand me?”
“I do,” said the inspector. “But some of this is out of my control.”
“That is not my problem,” said Castillo. “It is yours.”
“All right, all right, I’ll do my best.”
“Your best must be good enough.” Castillo pushed back from the desk and stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. He said nothing more to the man as the inspector left the office, meekly closing the door behind him.
Chapter 15
May 9
The inspector felt as if his brain was burning with a toxic cancer. Castillo’s arrogance and lack of respect for him were like malignant cells, growing, dividing, out of control, affecting his every waking moment.
On the regulatory side of the development industry, he often met people who walked the edge of legitimacy. Or maybe “walking” was too strong a term. Most of them teetered and wobbled as if drunk and on a tightrope, nearly falling but always catching themselves from crashing with awkward last-second movements. However, Castillo was, in his experience, the first to abandon any pretences; he walked boldly on the far side of the line, using his many contacts to keep him out of trouble, to continue to build his empire … and to grow his revenues.
By late afternoon, with a few glasses of liquid courage under his belt, the inspector decided he’d had enough. He sat in his office, the door closed, brooding, fuming. He resented the fact that Castillo didn’t recognize how hard he worked on his behalf. He was tired of being used as a pawn! The developer was making serious money from his many projects and it was on the backs of people like him. Most of all, he was tired of waking up from nightmares where the man was pushing him off a cliff or out of a plane and resistance was futile. Yes, it was true that Castillo was paying him well. But what little self-respect remained was slowly being eroded by the man’s conceit and threats, his constant bullying and belittling.
He thought back to his earlier musings on how to take Castillo down, how to make him pay for the way he’d taken control of his life, how to change the balance of power between them without letting him know that it was this low-level inspector who’d done it. Those were his choices. And then he remembered Castillo’s passing comment yesterday about taking a ram from a Canadian park. The son of a bitch’s previous boasting about working with an outfitter north of the border came back to him, and the inspector’s plan of revenge began to fall into place.
A quick Internet search for “Canada national park” gave him the information he needed. Banff National Park came up first on the list of links. He’d heard of the park but had never been there. He scratched the phone number on a notepad, and then, using his cellphone so the call couldn’t be traced to his office, he phoned the Banff Warden Office. Always paranoid about Castillo’s reach, he turned his back to his door, hunched forward in his chair, and cupped his free hand around the phone to muffle his voice.
He heard a woman answer the phone after two rings. “Banff Warden Office dispatch, this is Marilyn, how may I direct your call?”
“Please put me through to one of your rangers …or wardens … or whatever they’re called,” said the inspector.
“They’re wardens,” said the woman. “Can I tell the officer what it’s about?”
“No,” he said. “Quit asking stupid questions and wasting my time. Put me through or I’ll hang up. It’s about someone taking animals up there they shouldn’t be taking. They’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
“Stand by,” said the woman. “I’ll put you through to Warden Willson.”
The man heard a series of clicks, twenty seconds of silence, and then a second woman’s voice, younger, more abrupt.
“Jenny Willson. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not going to give you my real name,” he said. “You can call me Sprague for now.”
“Hi, Sprague. Thanks for calling. My dispatcher said that you wanted to talk to me … something about animals being taken from our park?”
From the tone of her voice, the inspector could tell that the woman was interested … and was taking his call seriously.
“Do you know that someone poached a bighorn sheep from one of your parks?” he asked.
“I do. In fact, we had a bighorn sheep and an elk taken from two of our parks. Do you have information for me on either of these cases?”
“I don’t know anything about the elk, but I do know something about the sheep,” the inspector said, feeling more confident as the call proceeded. “I’m not ready yet to tell you the guy’s name at this end … but I will tell you what I know about what’s going on up there.” He heard another distinct click on the line. “Are you recording me?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” said W
illson. “I don’t want to miss anything you say. As you can imagine, this is a major deal for us.”
The building inspector hesitated. “I’m not sure I want to be on tape,” he said.
“Look, I don’t know who you are and I have no way of tracing the call. So … what do you know?” she asked.
The inspector again paused, but his anger drove him forward. “Okay. There’s an outfitter up there who offers guaranteed hunts … and the guy I know down here has been taking advantage of that. He has the money to pay for it and I can tell you he doesn’t give a shit about rules. He also thinks you guys up there are a bunch of incompetent bozos. That’s what he thinks of most people … so welcome to the club.”
“Guaranteed hunts?” asked Willson, “What do you mean by that?”
“The outfitter’s clients, like the guy down here, pay him for a ten-day hunt,” the man said. “He guarantees they’ll get a trophy animal of a specific species, and so they pay a significant premium over a regular hunt. If they don’t get a trophy in the first five days in his area, or territory, or whatever the hell you call it, then the outfitter takes them into one of your parks and they get the animal there. That’s probably why and how the sheep was taken.”
“What’s the outfitter’s name?” asked Willson.
“I honestly don’t know,” the inspector replied. “But I can tell you the guy at this end boasted to me — just yesterday — that he got the ram in one of your parks. I wouldn’t be surprised if the arrogant prick sends you a thank-you card.”
“Do you know if he was with the outfitter when he took the ram?”
“I don’t know for sure, but he always likes to hunt with someone local. So I would be surprised if he wasn’t.”