Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  “We’re acting — I’m acting — outside protocol; it ain’t wise to use the same vehicle twice.”

  “So, what’ve you got for me, bro?”

  “I still can’t believe I’m doing this.” Rojas pulled a manila envelope from the side of his seat and slapped it onto Simmons’ thighs. “That’s everything I could scrounge up related to this.”

  Simmons grinned. He made a fist and gave Rojas a friendly jab.

  The smile disappeared as he flipped through the papers and pictures in his lap.

  “What is this crap, man? I don’t see anything on Daniel Greene or Henry Maitland.”

  “That’s just it. They’re not in our sights. We have zilch on those men. And I could get only some crumbs of info on that mining firm.”

  “This hearing that they were involved in, we already know about that,” Simmons protested.

  “I’m telling you that’s as much as I could get,” Rojas said through clenched teeth.

  Simmons looked out the window and shook his head.

  Rojas broke the silence, in a calmer voice.“Listen, you said Greene had a fight with Mahler about pulling a fast one on the regulatory authority, right?”

  “Yes, that’s the main reason Greene’s a suspect.”

  “Well, check this out. Before the murder, the company, Syron Lake Resources, was asking to give up its license for the property where it manages a pond that holds mining waste. Shortly after your Mahler guy croaks, bam! This pond breaks. Next thing you know, the company is doing a complete about-face and asks a panel hearing the matter to let it keep its license indefinitely. If the Greene guy is calling the shots now, that looks like a motive to me.”

  “But it was ‘An Act of God,’ Pablo. You’re forgetting there was a massive storm on the day of the flood.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t put anything past the types that run these corporations. Where money is involved — and, believe me, they can sniff the dough in places where we ordinary folks have no clue about — where there’s money to be had, they’ll stop at nothing.”

  “So you think there’s a possibility the spill was deliberate?”

  “It’s a hunch.”

  Simmons sighed as Cohen’s image flashed through his mind.

  “I checked with the local police in Syron Lake,” Rojas said. “Spoke with some detective up there to see if there had been any reports of vandalism or break-ins at the mine site around the time of the accident. There was none.

  “But the officer was happy to talk. Spent maybe half an hour with me on the phone, and something more interesting turned up. I may be completely off my rocker here, but look at those guys in the pictures there. The local police are calling it an accidental drowning and a suicide. I managed to get a copy of their files. And where does it turn out the one who drowned used to work?”

  “Let me guess: Syron Lake Resources.”

  “Bingo. He used to do maintenance work on the pond that broke. Conveniently, he took off and went to visit an out-of-town relative the day before the spill. Who’s to say that after he was seen leaving town he didn’t circle back to the mine site? When I checked the map, there’s a road further down on the highway that you can take to get to the mine.”

  “So Greene and/or Maitland may have sent down the command and got this employee to do the dirty work, and then bumped him off?”

  “It’s a theory.”

  “And how does this other one…. Good grief, this photo is gruesome. How does this one figure into all of this?”

  “The suicide victim? Not too sure. Could be suicide…or something else. He was this first guy’s fishing buddy. He was in the same place where his friend drowned that fateful morning.

  “An eyewitness reported suspicious vehicles near the scene of the drowning and also at this guy’s home, where he was found with his head blown off. Now, if one or both of your all-American, globe-trotting entrepreneurs could liquidate their own business partner to get their way, what’s two redneck nobodies to them?”

  Simmons nodded. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Best I can do for you, bro.”

  “Yeah, thanks, man. I appreciate it. Really.” Simmons grabbed the seat belt and drew it across his chest. “So you’re taking me back to the airport?”

  Rojas pulled a small rectangle of paper from his pocket and waved it in front of Simmons’ eyes. “There’s a stop just down the street. A bus comes every fifteen minutes. One should be here soon.”

  “Oh, come on, man!”

  “If you came by taxi and want to take one back, I’m sure the restaurant will let you use their phone. But dropping you off at the airport would be too much visibility for me. I love my job, Simmons. I want to keep it.”

  Simmons let the seat belt slip out of his hand and recoil. He stuffed the papers and pictures into the envelope and curled his fingers around the door handle.

  “Oh, there’s one other thing,” Rojas said. “I don’t know if it’s related or not. But you know that hearing to decide whether or not to let the company keep its license?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, turns out that the chairman of the hearing panel is now under surveillance by our guys, as of a few days ago. Word is that there was some kind of wrangling about it, but, in the end, the higher ups agreed to put two of the greenest agents on the case.”

  “Might not be related,” Simmons said. “But it’s something, and right about now, I’m so desperate I’ll take anything. If you guys are following him, maybe we should be taking a closer look at this chairman too.”

  Chapter 64

  I drove the rental hard along the Trans-Canada Highway, whizzing past the snow-laden trees and outcrops of rocks that reminded me I was still very much in Northern Ontario, and a long way from my destination.

  It was just past ten on a Friday morning, with a cloudless, pale blue sky overhead. The weather would be on my side all that weekend.

  Sure it was a bone-chilling minus-twenty degrees Celsius, with the mercury predicted to dip further over the next few days. But since the white stuff came down only when temperatures were around zero, my mind was at ease that I would not have to drive through any snowfall either on the seven-hour journey from Syron Lake to Hull, or on the way back on the Sunday afternoon.

  The cold weather also meant we would spend the entire weekend indoors, cozily wrapped up in each other’s arms.

  It would be our first time laying eyes on each other since that evening in the bookstore. In a million calls, and voice mail messages, and emails exchanged between us, Benoit Dromel had grown more charming to me. No, not just charming; irresistible.

  He had traveled across Europe, and was able to regale me with tales of taking in the fjord view from on high at the scary Pulpit Rock in Norway; passing through the Blue Grotto in Capri; sailing down the Volga; walking around Hohensalzburg Castle in Salzburg while listening to the music of a local boy by the name of Wolfgang Mozart on his Walkman; seeing the anatomically correct proportions of Michelangelo’s David up close….

  He would relate personal memories of events I had only read about in books and old magazine articles. He laughed easily, and often, and never failed at the end of our bedtime talks to let me know how much he longed to have me in his arms.

  And now, he had invited me to spend the weekend at his place – the weekend just before Valentine’s Day.

  We would not be together on the big day itself; that fell on the Monday and he would have to be at work. Besides, I would have to leave the Sunday afternoon so I could return the rental on Monday morning. But still, I didn’t miss the significance of us being together for the first time, this weekend of all weekends.


  I had packed only a tiny overnight bag. I wouldn’t be needing too much in the way of clothes over the next forty-eight hours. Those had been his words, uttered with a deliciously devilish laugh. I smiled and gripped the steering wheel more firmly as I heard the sound of his voice in my mind, and imagined the glint in his eyes.

  I was doing 115 kilometers an hour in a ninety zone on a deserted stretch of the highway. If I kept this up, I could arrive early in the afternoon. He had told me I would find the keys at the side of his house, on a hook about waist-height behind a trellis arbor.

  “If you arrive early, relax; make yourself comfortable,” he had said. “I love the idea of coming home and seeing you in a bubble bath.”

  I was excited by the idea of having the run of his place.

  That, more than anything, made me feel sure that this was real, that he was The One; he trusted me and had nothing to hide from me.

  That wild, intoxicating, all-encompassing thing called love had finally brought me together with the man whom I was destined to be with.

  Being with him that day didn’t come as soon as I’d expected, however.

  An eight-car pile-up on the highway had delayed me by a couple of hours. Darkness had fallen by the time I turned onto his street. Now, my nervousness about night-time driving, along with my unfamiliarity with the place, and my rising excitement caused my entire body to tremble.

  His street was a cul-de-sac. It ended at a river, which ran perpendicular to it. Up ahead, I could see the band of dark, shimmering water, and the squares of light emanating from the apartment buildings and houses on the bank on the other side.

  I inched along, looking at all of the houses on the left side to ensure I didn’t miss his. That was not really necessary because he had said his was the last on the left.

  I was somewhat surprised that a man of his stature lived on this street. All the houses I passed were about half the size of mine, with tiny front yards, and no garage. Still, they were neat, and I had no doubt were more than triple the value of mine, being located so near to the nation’s capital.

  As the last house on the left came into view, I felt disoriented and almost sure I had mistaken the directions. I had been looking out for the beige Audi in which I had last seen him drive off, but only a black sedan sat in the short driveway of the last house. My eyes scanned the cars parked along the street to see if the Audi was among them, but there was no sign of it.

  Feeling unsure of myself, I pulled up alongside the sedan. I couldn’t stop my fingers from trembling as I pressed the doorbell. My heart pounded hard and fast as I heard footsteps approaching.

  The handle clicked, and the door slowly swung open with a soft creak.

  Benoit Dromel stood in the doorway. Light from a chandelier reflected off his bald pate. His eyes twinkled with obvious delight. He smiled, then bit his lip.

  Without saying a word, he slipped his hand around my waist. A warm sensation surged through me. My knees turned to jelly, and I felt light-headed.

  He drew me gently toward him, pulling me into the house, and then he closed the door behind us.

  Chapter 65

  From the SUV with dark-tinted windows parked higher up the street, the CISIS rookie watched it all.

  Unknown to him, another pair of eyes had also taken in the scene.

  Lurking in the darkness of an apartment on the other bank of the river, an ex-NYPD officer, who took off-the-book contracts with the FBI whenever he could get them, peered through a high power telescope.

  “Looks like Old Baldy’s gonna have an early Valentine’s, while we have to sit here and watch,” he whispered to no one. His teeth ripped away at a slice of cold, rubbery pizza. Some guys just seem to have all the luck, he thought to himself.

  Chapter 66

  “And just who is this Dawit Bekele character that the house in Hull and the car belong to?” Peabody sat in his office, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. The grin stretched from ear to ear.

  “Someone who no one in Dromel’s position should be associated with.”

  Firestone was nearly as pleased with the developments as Peabody was. “No convictions, but known to law enforcement. He hangs out with drug dealers and the like. Suspected of peddling, even. But he actually comes from a fairly respectable background. No parents in this country; they’re possibly dead. He was raised in Gatineau by an uncle who runs a small mechanic shop.”

  “And the floozy?”

  “Stella Jacob. Here’s the best part. She is an intervener in the Syron Lake hearing.”

  The prime minister opened his eyes and sat up. “What?”

  He cackled.

  He got to his feet and walked to the front of his desk, then sat at the edge of it. “That’s very interesting news.”

  He began to pace the room, cracking his knuckles. “Call up over at the CNRA and at the Ethics Commissioner’s office. Make inquiries. Quietly, though. See if he’s declared any connection like this and recused himself. I’m guessing, not. But let’s confirm. Discreetly.”

  “So can CISIS call off the surveillance now?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “They won’t be pleased.”

  “That’s not my problem, Angus.”

  Firestone pursed his lips and sighed quietly.

  Peabody opened the shutters behind his desk, flooding the room with light. “Isn’t he married?”

  “Dromel? No. But he has a common-law wife he’s been with since law school. I understand she’s hardly around these days. Works in Europe.”

  “Sun of a gun. Well, his glory days are about to come to an end.” Peabody returned to his chair and leaned back. “When we’ve heard from the CNRA and the Ethics Commissioner’s office, I think I’ll want to have another word with Mr Benoit T. Dromel.”

  Chapter 67

  A week after our magical weekend, I lay in the bath, back home in Syron Lake, under a sheet of white suds, luxuriating in the aroma of rose oil and rose-scented candles.

  I paid no attention to the chipped enamel of the tub, or the ceiling stained by condensation as a result of a faulty fan that I’d not yet got around to replacing. The warmth of the water caressed every inch of my body, relaxing all my muscles.

  Yet my heart raced. The cause was both excitement and nervousness.

  I looked at the too-silent phone, which I’d dragged into the bathroom and placed on the floor within arm’s length. Then I glanced at the clock that I’d placed beside it. Quarter past six. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the rim of the tub. It was still not time for him to call.

  I tossed the romance novel that I’d been trying to read onto the rickety shelf above my head. It took its place alongside the latest local newspaper and another novel, both of which had been equally incapable of holding my attention.

  My nervousness didn’t stem from wondering whether there would be a call. Either he or I had rung the other up every day since I’d returned from that fantastical weekend in Hull. It was a given that we’d be in contact.

  No, the butterflies gathered in my stomach because of what I wanted to ask on this particular occasion.

  An unexpected friend request on Facebook earlier in the day had ushered me into this state.

  Aileen Castillano had been an acquaintance at the girl’s convent school I had attended in Trinidad. Aileen came from old money, one of the richest families on the island. She had a life outside of school (outside of the island even, as she hopped onto planes as easily as ordinary folk would jump into a taxi), and so she was never fast friends with anyone in the class. But as our desks were side by side in home class and Aileen realized she could always cat
ch up on her incomplete homework by borrowing mine, the two of us spoke often. The bond, however, was not so strong that either of us thought to keep in touch after I moved to Vancouver.

  Recently divorced, a childless Aileen discovered Facebook and began feverishly building a circle of friends. It didn’t take too long for the Facebook chat to lead to an invitation to visit Trinidad for Carnival, which was three weeks away.

  She had said we could have the guest house that overlooked the swimming pool on her family’s property.

  Yes, “we.”

  I had mentioned — vaguely — that there was someone in my life and Aileen was clear that I was welcome to bring a partner along.

  Dromel had once told me that he had long wanted to experience Trinidad’s Carnival, on account of an old friend who worked in Grenada as an engineer and would regale him with adventures involving sailing over to Trinidad for the festival.

  This would be the perfect opportunity for us to grow closer as a couple.

  It was not until six-thirty that he rang; I figured he would have just walked in the door at his house in Hull after a long day at the office on Peppard Street.

  The warmth of the water made every inch of my body tingle, but it was the sound of Benoit Dromel’s voice that sent waves of pleasure from my head to my toes.

  “I’m blowing those bubbles away,” he said. “Blowing them left, and right, and before long, those suds won’t be hiding any part of you.”

  “Naughty man!” I giggled. “Allow a lady a bit of decency, will you?”

  “A lady? Come, come, now; you were anything but a lady when you were here with me.”

  “Don’t make me blush, now.”

  “What was it that you said an old woman told you was the rule for the perfect relationship? Something about being a lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedroom?”