Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  He moves on to make room for the next person who wants to pay her respects to Kevin’s mother. He holds me in his gaze for a moment, then nods and walks away. I stay beside Mrs. Wallace, her hand tight on mine, while she receives the condolences of one person after another.

  I let my eyes sweep the room but this time, they are the eyes of a cop rather than those of a junkie. I know many of the people here. Could one of them be responsible for Kevin’s death? It comes as a shock to me that it is more than likely. Murders are almost invariably committed by someone known by the victim and all of the people here fall into that category. In fact, if I think about it, it is almost certain that Kevin’s murderer is in this room at this very moment. The realization makes my spine tingle and I find myself looking in a very different way.

  Kevin’s mother is still holding my hand and I feel her tense. I can sense how she feels about the next, and last, person in line, an opportunistic, beady-eyed and overweight Provincial politician whom I detest.

  “Please excuse me; I must rest for a moment.” She turns to me, “Cal, please give me your arm and take me into the library.”

  Feeling the daggers coming from those piggy political pupils, I give her my arm and lead her into the library. It is a large, imposing room with an almost uncountable number of books on a labyrinth of shelves. In my youth, I spent many happy hours here, learning the love of literature; now I feel I should not be here, as though somehow I am unclean or unworthy. As soon as the door closes behind us, she stops leaning so heavily on me and says, “I had to get away from that little worm. He hated Kevin for some reason. I’m surprised he had the temerity to come to the funeral.”

  She leads me to a corner of the room where there are two overstuffed leather chairs, sits and indicates for me to follow suit. “Cal, it has come to my attention that you’ve been saying it’s your belief that Kevin did not kill himself. Is that correct?”

  How did she know that?

  “Yes Ma’am. You know it was me who found him and I just can’t believe he did it. First—”

  She cuts me off with a graceful gesture and fixes a daunting gaze upon me.

  “Now you listen to me, California Rogan.” Her use of my full name is an indication that she is both serious and disapproving. “I know it is difficult for you to accept that Kevin killed himself. He was my son and I loved him; I loved him dearly and I knew him better than anyone.” She swallows twice and looks up at the ceiling, eyes blinking, struggling for control. She wins, for now. Her voice has taken on a commanding air, words stilted and precise. “He was suffering from depression. He always has. You didn’t know that, did you? He confided in me that he was having some serious problems and it was weighing very heavily on him. I tried to get him to put it in perspective but I’m afraid that it just overcame him. I can assure you Cal, it was suicide.”

  I have a strong need to tell her otherwise. “But Mrs. Wallace, I saw him every week, every Saturday. He never seemed to be depressed, or at least not depressed enough to kill himself. On that last day, he was worried about something and he wanted to speak to me about it but I put him off until later.” A lump has now formed in my throat as I remember how I failed to respond to Kevin’s need. “I know I should have taken the time to talk to him but nevertheless—”

  Again she cuts me off. “Yes Cal. You should have taken the time.” Her eyes drill through me. “Then you might have learned what was bothering Kevin and you’d understand why he chose to take his own life.”

  Guilt knifes through me. If I had taken the time to talk to Kevin and listen to his problem, would he still be alive today? I ask the question, dreading what the answer might be. “What was it?”

  She looks at me, her face obdurate. “Believe me Cal, you don’t want to know. No one must ever know, not even my husband; especially not my husband. It is something I intend to take to my grave.”

  What could possibly be so bad that it would make Kevin commit suicide? Sure, he looked a bit down when I saw him on Saturday morning, but kill himself? I just don’t buy it. Or am I trying to convince myself? To salve my conscience because I didn’t take the time to talk to my best friend when he needed my help? I have to know what was bothering him so much.

  “Please Mrs. Wallace, I have to know. What was it?”

  The vehemence of her reply is unprecedented, her voice harsh. “You must let this go, Cal. If you don’t, you may unearth something, something terrible, something that will shame Kevin and ruin this family. Just accept that he killed himself for God’s sake.”

  She takes two deep breaths to calm herself. “You don’t understand depression.” Her voice is almost back to its normal timbre. “You can’t possibly. I have suffered from it my whole life. Look!”

  She rolls back her left sleeve and thrusts her wrist at me. There are two white scars, one more prominent than the other. It embarrasses me to see them. I feel like some depraved voyeur. As I stare at them, I feel an insistent itch in the crook of my left arm. “Those are the result of my own lost battles,” she says. “There are others. Kevin inherited it from me. I try to tell myself it’s not my fault but…” a single tear runs down her cheek. “Please Cal. Leave it alone. No good can come of you trying to prove otherwise. Promise me you will leave it alone.” She shakes my arm roughly. “You have always been like a son to me and I’m asking you to promise me now, as a son.”

  The tears making furrows in the makeup on her cheeks are mirrored on my own. I tell her. “Of course… I promise Mrs. Wallace.”

  “Thank you, Cal. Thank you.”

  But as she takes my hand and kisses it in gratitude, I know, like Hamlet, that my words may prove as false as dicers’ oaths.

  12

  Cal

  I know what Sandi thinks of me and it is nothing good. About a month ago I overheard her ask Kevin, ‘Why do you let that junkie loser come here anyway?’

  Sandi Palmer and I have detested each other from the get-go. She is a cold, calculating bitch who was never good enough for Kevin but, right now, I am not looking at her through junkie’s eyes. She is tall and leggy with a fantastic figure and the long black hair, pale skin and blue eyes which speak of Irish ancestry. Her face is spoiled by her mouth which has a mean set to it and that, I believe, sums her up; except for the fact that she is a PhD in biochemistry and, according to Kevin, is one of the most brilliant people he ever knew. They met at Kevin’s employer, QX4, where she is a scientist in the research department Kevin manages. Or managed.

  She was Kevin’s girlfriend for about six months and was pretty much living with him. I am surprised she was not there on Saturday morning.

  But then again, maybe she was. When I went there in the morning, Kevin took a hell of a long time to come downstairs and open the door. She could have been upstairs. They might even have been… I make a mental note to find out. Now I’m thinking like a cop again.

  And, of course, there is the question of the engagement ring on the living room floor.

  She is talking to Brad when I walk over from the library.

  It is almost four hours since my last fix and I am getting jittery. I have some heroin with me but it would feel disrespectful to shoot up here in the Wallace’s home. I guess I still have some scruples. Scruples or not, Rocky will need to get well in an hour but there are things Cal needs to do first: for one, interview Sandi.

  Brad and Sandi are standing at an angle to each other, both facing away from me, both holding small plates of canapés. I stop a few paces away from them and listen in on their conversation.

  “I don’t think it would have made any difference if he had known,” Brad is saying. “What’s important here, Sandi, is that Kevin left a legacy: his work. You have to take that and make it bigger, better, more successful than even Kevin could have.” I cannot help but smile with affection for him. This is classic Brad: the quintessential positive thinker. He has attended every positive thinking seminar known to man and has read everything from Horatio Alger and Napoleon Hill to Tony
Robbins and Deepak Chopra. Only Brad could find a positive in the horror of Kevin’s death.

  I return to an earlier thought: Kevin’s killer is somewhere in this room; it could even be Sandi or Brad. My conversation with Mrs. Wallace has hardly dented my belief that Kevin was murdered.

  “Hi guys,” I say.

  They turn towards me and Brad beams in counterpoint to Sandi’s sour expression which falls a soupçon short of a sneer.

  “Hey, Cal. Great to see you.” Brad gives me a hug and pats me on the back. I reciprocate uncomfortably while feeling grateful for his acceptance. He releases me and holds me at arm’s length. I watch his face grow serious. “How was Mrs. Wallace?” he asks.

  “Pretty bad. She’s adamant that Kevin really did kill himself and has found a way to blame herself for it.”

  Sandi nods but addresses herself to Brad making a point of not recognizing my presence. “People tend to blame themselves when a loved one dies by their own hand. It’s natural. I keep asking myself why I didn’t see it coming. Or did I see it coming but pushed it out of my psyche and buried my head in the sand? I just can’t help thinking that if I had just paid a bit more attention, maybe…” Her voice trails off and I have to admit she seems sincere, even if way off the mark.

  I try to offer some consolation. “Sandi, maybe you didn’t see it coming because it didn’t happen that way. Have you considered they may have got it wrong and that it wasn’t suicide?”

  Her mouth tightens like she has bitten into a lemon and her eyes flare at me. “What, you think he was murdered?” She is having difficulty modulating the volume of her voice and a few of the guests, including the Mayor, turn in our direction. “You knew him. Why would anyone want to kill Kevin?”

  I do not want to attract the attention of the Mayor by getting involved in a scene with Sandi. I drop my voice to just above a whisper. “You’re probably right Sandi but I really need to know one way or the other,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize I have already broken my promise to Mrs. Wallace. Pushing down my feeling of guilt, I continue, “All I can say is: all my instincts tell me he didn’t kill himself and those instincts rarely let me down when I was a detective.”

  “Oh, right. The cop…” Her tone and a dismissive look ricochet around in the emptiness of no longer being in the VPD.

  “Hey, guys,” Brad the peacemaker interjects, “let’s not argue. Kev wouldn’t have wanted that. He would have wanted us to, I dunno, like… well, celebrate his life, accept his death and move on.”

  I ignore Brad’s words and take a different tack with Sandi. “I know I’m not your favourite person in the world and let’s face it, I’ve never done anything to merit your respect. But one thing we do have in common is we both loved Kevin.” I pause and she acknowledges me with a half nod. Quarter nod, really.

  “Everyone may be right that he committed suicide but I just need to verify it for myself. I can’t live with the thought that Kevin killed himself and I never saw it coming. You must feel the same way.” Another pause but I can see I’ve struck a chord.

  I press on, “Here’s not the place but I do want to have a talk with you. His mother says he was worried about something. I’d like to ask you about it but not here. Would it be OK if I dropped by your office and had a chat?”

  In the silence I look to Brad for support.

  “Cal,” he says, “Sandi is in enough pain. She’s not going to want you rooting around and making matters worse. You should just drop this whole thing. You’re not a cop anymore and the detectives on the case and the Coroner’s office all agree it was a suicide. Let’s leave the dead in peace, eh. We need to move forward here.”

  The frustration turns in my gut. I must not let the creeping pain of withdrawal push me into anger.

  I look at Sandi and realize she’s been scrutinizing me while Brad was speaking. She seems to come to a decision and throws me by putting a hand on my arm. “Listen, Cal. I can’t imagine how Kevin could be a murder victim. But you were his friend and I know he loved you like a brother,” she puts her other hand on Brad’s arm. “You were both like brothers to him. I guess I owe it to him to give you the benefit of the doubt. Why don’t you come by my office on Thursday morning at nine. We can talk then.”

  She reaches into her purse and brings out an elegant gold case from which she slides a business card. She hands me the card and, with a dismissive gesture, turns her attention back to Brad.

  I am stunned at her acquiescence. I felt sure that she would turn me down. I can’t help wondering what made her agree; knowing her, it was well thought out. And Brad. Why did he try and derail my attempt to meet with her? What does he think I might unearth?

  Rather than delve into these questions now, I decide to devote my time to the main reason I came here today and do it before the cravings get unbearable.

  13

  Cal

  The hand is stark white with a road map of blue blood vessels meandering under the parchment which once was skin. It is emaciated, stiff and cold to the touch. I take hold of it gently, wary in case it should snap off from the withered arm. I think back a quarter-century to the first time I shook this hand and was pulled into a world I had read about in books and only dreamed existed in life.

  Without letting go, I sit beside the bed. “How are you sir?” I ask. I have never called him anything but sir. He is a wonderful man; my respect for him is absolute. My withdrawal causes me to sniff twice and I feel deeply ashamed that the evidence of my addiction is open for him to observe.

  “Hello, Cal. It’s good to see you.” Kevin’s father is frail from the ravages of the cancer that’s eating him alive but the disease has not yet robbed his voice of the strength, the warmth and a charisma that not even the Mayor can match.

  “It’s good to see you too, sir. I’m sorry it’s under such circumstances.”

  “Indeed. A man should not outlive his son. Even if he will soon be following him to the undiscovered country.”

  I complete the quote. “…the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.”

  He smiles. “Your mother did well by you, Cal.”

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  “A man who loves Shakespeare will never be alone.”

  We sit in silence, his hand in mine, his eyes closed.

  He has fallen asleep. I do not have the heart to wake him but I must. There is one thing I need to know before I have to leave to deal with the encroaching pain. I cannot hold in the groan as a wave of it washes through me.

  The sound stirs him and he again quotes Hamlet. “When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin.” He is silent for a moment. “Cal, I don’t want to believe that my son stabbed himself but they tell me he did. Even my wife believes he did it.”

  He leaves the unasked question hanging in the air but I do not answer it. Instead I ask, “If he didn’t kill himself, who did? And why, why would anyone want to kill Kevin?” Will the father tell me what the mother will not?

  His hand tightens on mine. “That is what you must find out, Cal.” His intensity sends a shiver down my spine. Again I think of my promise to Mrs. Wallace and again regret my cowardice in giving it so readily, knowing that I would betray it on one word from this man.

  “I know he didn’t do it, sir. I’m going to prove he didn’t and find out who did.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I want you to do just that.” His tone becomes intense. “If there’s anything you need, any help I can give, you are to call this house and speak to Arnold. I will see to it that he gets you whatever you want. He has been with me for over forty years. He is completely loyal to this family. He will do anything and everything that is necessary to help you find Kevin’s murderer. Find out who did this, Cal, no matter what the consequences.”

  “I intend to, sir.”

  His hand relaxes on mine. “And I intend to postpone shuffling off this mortal coil until you come back here and sit beside me and tell me that you have brought
my son’s killer to justice.”

  My voice trembles as I say, “I will sir, I promise you.”

  And now my stomach is in turmoil. Partly because I dread that I no longer have the chops to carry through on this promise. Mainly because I must now own up and face the music by telling Mrs. Wallace that I’ve already proven false to the promise I made to her less than an hour ago.

  And it is all overlaid with my screaming need for heroin.

  14

  Sam

  I fell again today. It was at Pigeon Park. I crouched down to take a picture of three elderly drunks, sitting on a park bench, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag. It was a wonderful shot. It captured a moment of carefree joy in three careworn lives and will be perfect for the dust cover of the book. But as I straightened up, my right leg—it’s always the right leg—folded under me. As I rolled my body to protect the camera, I fell on my right shoulder but the pain that stabbed through me was eclipsed by a sudden rush of fear.

  A huge, tattooed man, whom I have seen several times recently, hanging around near where I have been photographing, was suddenly looming over me, projecting a sense of menace. A five thousand dollar Hasselblad would buy a lot of drugs. He changed his grip on his crutch and reached down for the camera but with a surge of anger, I clutched it to myself vowing I would not give it up, not for the camera itself—George would happily buy me a replacement—but for the perfect shot I had just taken; that I refused to surrender.

  But I was surprised.

  “Let me help you up,” he said with a strong Chinese accent. “Give me your hand.” I examined his face and could see no ill intent. He gave me a broken toothed smile. “It’s OK,” he said. “My mother has falls all the time.”