She had prepared herself to wait. Girded herself with the task of remaining true to her cause amid the chaos of the world around her. Shielded herself from the frustration of knowing that somewhere, somehow, her brothers and sisters were struggling against their enemy while all she could do was endure a routine that meant nothing. That achieved nothing. She knew that some sleepers had been in place for years before they were called on. Nor did she even have the support of others such as Mujaahida. Her superiors’ security policy forbade sleepers from even knowing of one another unless they were on a mission together. She reminded herself that she was a soldier in a cause. Faiza, the triumphant, forced to cower behind Sherry, the banal. It was unexpected, therefore, when about six months after she had started her job, she received a phone call. The signal was her name.
“Faiza. How are you?”
“I am ready to serve.”
“Do you know the café at the Roseway Circle Shopping Center?”
“I can find it. When?”
“Tomorrow. Six p.m.”
So this was her call to action. She did not hesitate. She did not question. “Yes, I will be there.” The line went dead.
Her apathy vanished, her tiredness evaporated. She had a mission. What it was, she would find out, but for now, it was enough to know she had been entrusted with one. She would honor that trust. No longer was she Sherry, the nobody, she was Faiza, the triumphant.
10
Janner sat across from Travathan at a café the morning after the meeting at the Brouer Foundation. He noticed that time had not salved her anger toward him. Her voice carried an edge. “Where do we start?”
“I need to interview the husband and the guy who gave him his alibi, but there are a couple of other things I’d like to look into first.”
“What things?”
“When I spoke with Detective MacIlhenny, she said something that bothered me. There were two more homicides the day after Galina was killed. A letter carrier and a beggar.”
Janner frowned. “So what? What does that have to do with Galina?”
“The beggar is my problem. He hung out at the local supermarket. The police report told me it was the same one that Galina shopped at, so she would have known of him, maybe even given him a buck now and then.”
“Again, so what?”
“Well, when someone who is known to a murder victim is murdered at the same time, alarm bells go off. To me, that’s worth investigating.”
“And you don’t think it’s just a coincidence.”
“Ms. Janner, I’m an investigator. I’m not paid to think until I have something to think about. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I can’t afford to believe that, at least not until I have enough evidence to.”
“So how do we investigate this beggar?”
“Well, that’s a problem. The police were never able to identify him.”
She threw up her hands in disgust. “How do we investigate someone we know nothing about?”
“We don’t. We start with the person we do know something about. The letter carrier who was killed. If he delivered to Galina’s house, that’s another coincidence, and if I can’t ignore one, I sure as hell can’t ignore two.”
She shook her head. “You’re chasing phantoms. This is a dead end.”
“Maybe. But following up apparent dead ends has given me a pretty good reputation, so our first stop is going to be the post office where our murdered letter carrier worked.” He checked his notes. “His name was Ron Mahmoud.”
Travathan and Janner signed in at the reception desk of the postal station where a clerk led them to an office with a door bearing the name “Wanda Burgone, Operations Supervisor.” Burgone, chubby and short, reminded him of one of his aunts, but unlike his aunt, she was direct. Even before they had a chance for small talk, she said, “After you called, I pulled the file on Ron Mahmoud. It was tragic. He was one of the bright lights around here. Always in good spirits. We missed him.”
“Was there anything about his death that you found suspicious?”
“You mean, other than what coward did it? No, I can’t think of anything.”
“Was he having any kind of problems? Financial? Marital?”
Burgone shook her head. “If he was, he kept them to himself, but there were none of the normal signs of problems. He never asked for an advance on his pay, never took time off other than his vacations, never showed up late or drunk or high or even hung over. He was engaged to be married, and he was ecstatic about the wedding. I knew his fiancée and she was devastated when he was killed. No, I can’t think of anything Ron might have done that would explain why this happened. This was just some bastard out for a joyride.”
“What route did Mahmoud cover?”
Burgone went to a wall map of the city that was divided into areas like a collection of principalities. “He delivered to this set of postal walks.”
Travathan studied the map and shrugged. Mahmoud’s route came nowhere near the Galina house. “It was worth a try.”
“What does his route have to do with anything?”
“Well, given that’s his route, nothing. We’re investigating a case that took place here.” He pointed to one of the blocks on the map. “At Roseway Crescent.”
Burgone frowned at the map. “That’s the address of the woman who was murdered.”
“Yes, it was. Tell me, do you make a habit of remembering the addresses of murder victims?”
Her eyes had a distant look. “I do about this one.”
“What do you know about it?”
She muttered, “Kevin Winters.”
“Pardon me?”
“Kevin Winters. If it hadn’t been for him, Ron would still be here.”
“I’m listening.”
“Winters was the letter carrier for the route that included Roseway Crescent. On the day Ron was killed, Kevin didn’t show up for work. He didn’t phone in sick, he just didn’t show up. Ron volunteered to take his route after he finished his own. He said he could use the overtime for his honeymoon.”
“What happened to Winters?”
“Beats me. We never saw him again.”
“Never?”
“Never. He vanished into thin air. We still owe him two weeks’ pay.”
“Did you try to track him down?”
“Of course. We called his house, but there was no answer. He lived alone, and our records didn’t show a family or emergency contact. There was nothing more we could do.”
Janner spoke up. “Did you call the police? Report a missing person?”
“We don’t do that. It’s not part of our standard operating procedures.”
“Besides,” Travathan said, “the police will only follow up if a relative or close friend reports someone missing. Not an employer. People walk out on their employers every day.”
Janner said, “That address seems to mean something to you.”
Burgone grimaced and shook her head. “You meet all kinds of wackos in this job, but that woman was something else. I was delivering parcels at the time. Before I got this promotion. I had a delivery for her place, but when I rang the bell, she greeted me wearing little more than a smile. I’m guessing I’m not the one she was expecting. A few days later, I noticed Kevin was finishing his route an hour or so later than usual. It’s not hard to figure out why.”
“And you guys didn’t intervene?”
She shrugged. “As long as a letter carrier finishes his route within the times we specify, there’s not much we can do without antagonizing the union. There are more important battles to fight.”
Travathan said, “And the woman you saw was Sherry Galina? The woman who was murdered?”
Burgone nodded. “Her picture was in the paper. It was the same woman.”
“And it was the day after her murder that Winters didn’t show up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell this to the police?
She frowned. “No, I didn’t. At the time, I was just anot
her grunt. I know the police talked to our supervisor, Fred Real, but other than him grumbling about having to replace two letter carriers, I don’t know what he told them. I sure didn’t think Kevin had anything to do with it. I mean, he was a lady’s man, and if there was a party around, you can bet he’d be there. I figured he was having sex with the woman, but murder? Not the Kevin I knew. Even then, I considered talking to the police, but when that kid confessed, that ended it.” She studied his face. “You aren’t thinking Kevin had anything to do with it?”
“We’re just asking questions. One thing more, did Kevin have any friends here we could talk to?”
“His best friend was Stuart Shearing. They used to go white-water kayaking together. They were crazy about it. But Shearing quit a couple of years ago and moved. I don’t know where he is now. As to anyone else, I can give you some names of people who knew him, but I doubt anybody will have anything else to add.”
“White-water kayaking? That was his recreation?”
“That, parties, and getting laid. Don’t misunderstand me. Kevin was okay. Young and impulsive, but he did his job well, and the people here liked him.”
Before they left the postal station, they asked Burgone for a photo of Winters from his last employee ID shot and found themselves a coffee shop.
“Dead end,” muttered Janner.
“Comatose end,” corrected Travathan. “We just need to find this Kevin Winters.”
“Why and how?”
“Why? Because there’s a connection to Sherry Galina. I suspect that the person who killed Ron Mahmoud killed the man he thought was her mailman. He wouldn’t have known Mahmoud was just filling in.”
“And I suppose you’re going to say this wasn’t a coincidence.”
“Ms. Janner, we have two people connected to Sherry Galina who were killed at the same time she was. Can you dismiss that as a coincidence?”
She sighed. “Okay, say you’re right. We still don’t know where this Kevin Winters is.”
“Not yet. We just have to follow the lead.”
“What lead?”
“People change their names, their identities, their jobs, their homes, but they don’t abandon their passions. Where’s the best white-water kayaking around here?”
The best white-water kayaking, according to the tourist board, was in the Fraser Canyon, and the best-known company, or at least the most publicized, was Bentron’s White Water Adventures. Bentron’s offered tours that ranged from introductory river rafting in rapids that would threaten little more than a few splashes of cool water to a one-on-one encounter with Hell’s Gate Canyon, a spot, if the tourist literature could be believed, whose fury matched its name.
Bentron’s was about a three-hour drive from the city. Travathan drove, and to Janner’s relief, he was too deep in thought to bother trying to dodge his way through the traffic.
They stopped for coffee where the freeway ended before starting up the highway through the Fraser Canyon. It was a weekday before the summer invasion of motor homes, campers, and tourists who acted as if it was their right to slow to a crawl on a busy highway to admire some craggy vista. But Travathan and Janner weren’t prepared for the lines of semis grinding their way up long, steep grades and easing their way back down the other side. The few passing lanes provided some relief, but as they approached the top of a hill and the highway narrowed back down, there was always another truck ahead of them.
Their trip had been in silence. Conversation hadn’t even intruded upon the coffee they’d stopped for. While they were crawling down a grade behind another truck, Janner, more out of boredom than anything else, asked, “Have you known Max long?”
“A few years.”
More silence.
“Is this the first time you’ve worked with the Foundation?”
“No.”
Another mile or so passed by. This was turning into a long trip. In their few hours working together, she had already learned that Travathan didn’t chat, so she was startled when he broke the silence. Speaking more to the world than to her, he said, “Max started the Foundation after a case we worked on.”
“You were there when he started it?” He nodded. “Tell me about it. All Max will say is that it began with a kid named Kelly Brouer who was wrongfully convicted of the rape and murder of a child. The Foundation got him released.”
“Yeah, that’s the bare bones.” He stared straight ahead which, since he was driving, she figured was a good thing, but his focus seemed to be less on the road than on the past.
“Tell me about it.” She expected him to shrug it off with some bland comment. Until he started to talk.
“It happened about ten years ago.”
11
Gord Travathan ducked under a barrier of tape demarking the police line, walked toward a knot of officers and emergency workers, and flashed his badge. “Travathan, homicide.”
The lead investigator scowled. “Travathan, the last thing I want to do is to panic these people. I know you guys have to start gathering evidence if this case goes sour, but until we find the kid, keep a low profile. Understood?”
“Yeah, sure. Now what can you tell me?”
“Jeannie Archibald. She’s five years old. Went missing about four hours ago. Her parents called all her friends, all their friends, the neighbors, then us. We’re just setting up a search command post.”
“Parental abduction?”
The investigator shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. The parents are together. There are no indications of separation and no signs of abuse. I don’t see anything here other than a missing kid.”
“I’ll do some poking around. Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep a low profile.”
He ducked back under the tape and walked toward his car when a man stepped up beside him. “Max Kagan. I’m a reporter.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“I figured so. It’s too early for any real information, and in any event, there’s no way a cop would give me anything that wasn’t already public.”
“Does it show? That I’m a cop?”
Kagan shrugged. “Anyone who crosses a police line without getting his butt kicked sure isn’t a reporter.”
“So if you don’t have any questions for me, what do you want?”
“Maybe to give you some information. I’ve already had three neighbors point the finger at a guy named Kelly Brouer. He lives in that house over there. I’m told he has some mental condition, and according to the neighbors, he spends too much time hanging out at the local playground.”
Travathan scowled. “So what do you want me to do? Arrest him? Maybe beat a confession out of him? We don’t even know if there was a crime. It’s a little premature to be trying to lynch someone.”
“Is that why you think I’m telling you this? I’m just giving you a heads-up. Look, if this turns out to be more than just a missing kid, you had better know about this Brouer guy.” Kagan held up his hand to ward off Travathan’s mounting protest. “Not so you can arrest him, but so you can prepare for the inevitable round of questions about neighborhood safety and police readiness and whether this could have been prevented. Besides, you may have to have some cops protect him. He’s not popular.”
“I’m still not clear what you want me to do.”
“Then you’re not as bright as I thought. How about a background check. If it turns out Brouer is a convicted pedophile, you guys will have a problem. I’m just trying to alert you so you can be on top of things.”
“All right. You’ve alerted me. Now I’m busy and not inclined to chat.”
“Hold on. I don’t like to give information without getting some in return.”
“What information? I told you, I’m not about to give you any.”
“Yeah, how about your name? I’m guessing you can tell me that.”
Travathan chuckled, gave Kagan his name, and continued to his car. He had a good sense for people. Kagan seemed like someone he’d like to get to know—if only he w
eren’t a reporter. He glanced back to see Kagan wandering toward the search command trailer. Travathan would learn he volunteered to be one of the searchers.
They found Jeannie Archibald’s body three days later. She had been raped, strangled, and dumped in a set of bushes near a marsh. She wasn’t found by the searchers, but by a tourist who was doing some bird-watching and vomited when he took a closer look at a patch of color he thought was the nest of a type of pheasant.
When the police went to question Kelly Brouer, he sprinted out of the rear of his house. They corralled him near a park where he fought back, breaking the nose of one of the arresting officers and inflicting bruises on several others. His trial was brief. The evidence against him was his proximity to the Archibald house at about the time the little girl went missing, his lack of an alibi, his insolence toward the police and to the Archibald family, and to some scratches on his arms and face, which he couldn’t explain, but which a forensics expert testified could have been made by a set of fingernails. The jury convicted Brouer after just one day of deliberation, the judge sentenced him to life without parole for twenty-five years, and Gord Travathan entered into a period of self-examination that would lead him to abandon the career he still wanted to embrace.
Three months after the Brouer trial, Travathan, who had stopped at a bar after his shift—a behavior that was becoming not only habitual but extended—spotted a face that seemed familiar. “Remember me? Max Kagan. Reporter. We met—”
“At the Archibald search site. Yeah, I remember. I guess you called it right.”
A Vicious Balance: A Mystery Thriller Page 7