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

by Robert P. French

  When I’m downtown, there are a bunch of Roys, right there on the streets, sitting on the sidewalk or leaning up against a wall, almost invariably holding out a paper coffee cup or a battered baseball cap and asking for money. And I do what I guess we all do. I avoid eye contact and speed up my pace until I am safely past them.

  Up until now, I have only been able to see the humanity of the dispossessed through the lens of my camera, as though I were seeing them from behind a screen or through a two way mirror, safe and removed, somehow unreal, just conceptual. Now, for the first time, I see with my own eyes that there is a very real person beneath the shabby clothes and dirty skin. A person who has seen many sides of life but a person none the less. A person who cares about others, a person with a history. Someone who has loved and lost, not some faceless degenerate.

  Roy, sitting here in his shabby old clothes, was once an innocent kid, like Ellie, laughing, running and playing. What happened? I would love to know what twist of fate brought him to where he is now. For a frightening instant, I think of Ellie in fifty years, ending up like Roy and know that, however unlikely that may seem, it is in fact possible.

  But Roy’s heartfelt plea is not enough. Cal’s actions, whatever they might have been, have caused a gang of drug dealers to threaten Ellie and I cannot let that pass. I would do anything to protect her, anything. I just can’t risk it. I won’t.

  I realize that Roy has been watching me like a hawk. “You gonna say no, ain’tcha?”

  Now a tear is forming in the corner of my eye as I nod.

  He takes his beer and makes his way back into the hall. I walk him back to the front door and as he shambles down the steps from the porch, he turns back and says, “Find a way. Please. Just give him his last goodbye visit with the little one, won’t’cha.”

  God help me, I don’t know what to do.

  33

  Cal

  Time is running out. Kevin has been dead for two whole weeks now and I only have twenty-nine hours left to find out who killed him. No matter what, I am going into detox tomorrow afternoon. I have been trying to get hold of Arnold ever since my meeting with Kevin’s neighbour Even when I finally succeeded, he has taken his time in getting here.

  He is uncomfortable in these surroundings where his tailored pinstripe is so wildly out of place that it draws the lupine stares of the local denizens. It is one of the reasons I suggested we meet here. This interview will be on my turf and on my terms even if it means enduring the sights, sounds and smells of Beanie’s Eatery pub.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say as he takes his seat like a fastidious matron settling upon a gas station toilet.

  “Mr. Wallace’s instructions were explicit: that I am to help you in any way I can,” he says. “Although, if Mrs. Wallace should discover that we were meeting, I cannot imagine what she might say.”

  “It’s one of the reasons I suggested meeting here,” I say. “I think it somewhat unlikely that she’s a regular.” I find my tonality and sentence structure taking on a British orientation in reflection of his.

  Arnold’s smile is frigid. “Mr. Rogan, I want you to understand my position here. My loyalty is first and foremost to Mr. Wallace but, over the years, that loyalty extended to Mrs. Wallace and then to Mr. Kevin. So when I am caught between the opposing desires of Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, I find it uncomfortable in the extreme.”

  I reward this revelation with silence.

  “Why did you want to meet with me Mr. Rogan?”

  “I want you to tell me what you did on the morning that Kevin was killed.”

  “Am I to take it that you regard me as a suspect?”

  I ignore his question. “What did you do that morning Arnold?”

  He stares at me, his face a mask, and I wait… until he starts to rise. “If you don’t tell me Arnold, I will have to go to Mr. Wallace and tell him that you are not cooperating with me.”

  He holds for a moment, on the edge of decision, before sinking back into his seat.

  “I rose at five, as always. I spent thirty minutes riding the stationary bicycle and then another thirty lifting weights. After my ablutions, I dressed, went to the kitchen and made myself breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausage, toasted rye bread and orange juice.”

  My antennae are twitching. When someone is too precise in their answers, it is often a subterfuge to cover something they do not want to reveal. I need to listen carefully.

  “I was washing the dishes,” he continues, “when Mrs. Wallace entered the kitchen and told me that she would be wanting me to drive her at seven-fifteen. She didn’t say where.”

  “What time would that have been?” I ask.

  “Eight minutes to seven.” There’s that precision again. “I finished up in the kitchen and took the Rolls to the gas station at Granville and Forty-first, filled up and returned to the house where I parked in front. Mrs. Wallace came out, at just a few minutes before seven-fifteen, and asked me to drive her to Kevin’s townhouse. When we got there, she went in for about twenty minutes and when she came out, she asked me to drive her home. We were back by eight and, after parking the car in the garage, I retired to my room and spent the rest of the morning working.”

  Working at what I wonder.

  “So you see Mr. Rogan I do not have an alibi for the time of Kevin’s death,” he says with a smile.

  “What was Mrs. Wallace’s disposition when she came into the kitchen?” I ask.

  “Mr. Rogan, you have to understand the delicacy of my situation. I am a trusted employee and I refuse to gossip about my employers.”

  He’s pissing me off now. “Arnold, we have some choices here. One, you can answer my questions; two, we can both go to Mr. Wallace and I can ask him to tell you to answer them, which I suspect will be distressing to him; three, I could ask Steve Waters, who is in charge of the case at VPD, to ask you officially. I think you know which is the best option here.”

  He looks at me and raises an eyebrow and I am sure that he is going to call my bluff. But before he can speak, Beanie’s bouncer—a squat bull of a man whose IQ is inversely proportional to his neck size—makes his presence known with, “You can’t sit here without a drink in front of you.”

  I nod at the bouncer, get up and decide that I’ll get more flies with honey than with vinegar. “Please Arnold, you know how much this means to Mr. Wallace.” Leaving him to think, I walk over to the bar and order two bottles of pedestrian, manufactured beer. They are not going to be consumed but they are the price of admission.

  I walk back and suppress a grin at the picture of Arnold sitting at the grimy table in his perfectly tailored suit, hair immaculate, his rear on a chair that had seen better days in the nineteen sixties, ignoring the open bottle of beer I put in front of him.

  As I sit, he raises an eyebrow. “I call, Mr. Rogan.” My bluff shatters on the table but I cannot leave it at that.

  “It was Mrs. Wallace who told you what Kevin had done, wasn’t it?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “What did you do in the army Arnold?” I ask this because I know the answer.

  Surprise and anger are mixed on his face. “How is that relevant?”

  “Humour me.”

  “I was a captain in the military police.”

  “You must have done some interrogations in your time and so you know that asking ‘what do you mean?’ is a classic delaying tactic, a ploy to give you some time to consider whether or not to tell me the truth.”

  His face reddens.

  “So I’ll take it as read,” I continue, “that Mrs. Wallace did tell you and I’m guessing that she told you during the drive back home from Kevin’s.” He releases a fractional nod and I change my tone, no longer confrontational. “How did it make you feel Arnold?”

  “Hurt that he had betrayed the honour of his family so profoundly.” His emotions are naked on his face and there is more than hurt there. I wonder what it is. Let’s see if he answers the next question with as much ca
ndour

  “Was Mrs. Wallace angry too?”

  “Well firstly, I didn’t say that I was angry.”

  “Was she?”

  He thinks for a while. “No. She was devastated.”

  “When you got back from Kevin’s, did Mrs. Wallace go out again?”

  His eyebrow flickers for an instant, registering his surprise at the implication. He looks up and I can tell that he is weighing options. I take an absent-minded mouthful of the beer and wish that I hadn’t. I watch him, trying to read what might be going through his mind, until finally he speaks.

  “I refuse to be a spy on my employer for you, Mr. Rogan,” he says with a sad smile.

  “You know as well as I do that Kevin was murdered, don’t you Arnold?”

  He stands, holds my gaze for a long, distasteful moment of his time. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “So enlighten me,” I say.

  “You went to QX4,” he says. It is not a question; how could he possibly know that I have been there? “That is a far better place to focus your attentions.”

  He turns to leave. “Don’t ever ask me to come to a place like this again.”

  “Arnold, wait!”

  He turns back, maybe at the note of desperation in my voice.

  “What did you mean in the hospital when you asked if my investigation was the reason those drug dealers beat the hell out of me?”

  He smiles, like a professor encouraging a slow student. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. You were a detective; go and detect.” He turns and walks away, his parting shot: “You really should.”

  Although this meeting has supplied another small piece of the jigsaw puzzle, I am left with the feeling that Arnold has manipulated me into doing what he wants.

  34

  Cal

  He is big, hard, aware and vaguely Schwarzeneggerian and, in flagrant violation of Canada’s gun laws, he is carrying a Glock 16 concealed in a shoulder holster. He looks both menacing and competent. I am happy that he is never more than a few paces away from Ellie and feel a grudging gratitude toward George for supplying her with a bodyguard; the words your kid’s next are never far from my consciousness.

  “Pick me up, Daddy,” she says.

  I pick her up and she perches on my forearm, her arms around my neck. She glances back at Sam, ten paces behind, her sweet little face worried. “Daddy,” she whispers softly, “I don’t want to go back home. I want to come with you to your new house.”

  We are on Marine Drive and almost at the turn off to George’s house. There is a bus stop with a blue tubular metal bench. I sit down with Ellie on my lap and look back at Sam. I wonder for the hundredth time what persuaded her to change her mind and allow me this one last visit with Ellie. She looks pointedly at her watch—my four hours are nearly spent and I sense that I am not going to get a single second beyond the allocated time; I know this is painful for her too—shrugs and occupies herself by looking in the window of a women’s clothing store.

  The Terminator is five feet away, arms crossed, scanning up and down Marine.

  “Why don’t you want to go home, sweetie?”

  “Because I want to come with you.”

  “One day soon, sweetie,” I prevaricate.

  “But I want to go with you now, Daddy.”

  I’m relieved to see that Sam is not in evidence. She must have succumbed to the draw of the store.

  “Is there something happening at home that’s upsetting you?”

  I decide to take her shrug as an affirmative.

  “What is it, sweetie?”

  She looks up at me and the tears welling in her eyes break my heart. “The other night, I got up to go pee and I heard Mommy and George talking. I’m frightened that Mommy may wake me up one morning and take me to Toronto. Then I’ll never see you again like Jenny Oliver never sees her Daddy.” She breaks down into sobs.

  I cuddle her tight, rocking from side to side, and kiss the top of her head. What can I say to her? My anger at Sam for not being forthright with Ellie is rising to fever pitch, only to be cut off by the sound that always catches a cop’s attention: the loud rumble of a motorcycle exhaust, a sound copyrighted by the Harley-Davidson motorcycle company.

  My head snaps to the left and I see, about a hundred yards away, two men on bikes coming along Marine. One is a giant of a man, his face obscured by a triangular bandanna. The other is looking right at me. I look up at the bodyguard; he is eying them but making no move for his gun. I get a sudden feeling of unease about this guy.

  I get ready to cover Ellie with my body and pray that Sam stays in the store.

  My eyes are drilled in on them, looking for any untoward movement, any indication of impending violence. As they draw closer, I can see them more clearly. The smaller rider is well shaven and has short, well groomed grey hair under his tiny, just-legal helmet; the giant is not wearing a bandanna, it’s a knitted scarf: two middle-aged businessmen, trying to look like bad boys, out for a Saturday ride.

  Paranoia, self destroyer. I flex my shoulders to get the kinks out and I cuddle Ellie tighter.

  Then another shadow falls over us: Sam’s. “It’s two o’clock. Time to go now,” she says as she plucks Ellie from my lap and stands her up.

  She starts to walk off and I can see that Ellie is pulling back from her. Rather than risk a scene, I take three quick steps to catch up and grab Ellie’s other hand. “I’ll walk you both home,” I say to Ellie.

  Sam shrugs and Ellie just stares ahead as we walk in awkward silence. The pain in my heart becomes worse with every step. Will this really be the last time that I’m with my daughter. At least Sam is walking slowly—she seems to be limping—so I use the time to rehearse what I’m going to say next.

  We arrive at Sam’s front door and the bodyguard, without word or sign, squeezes his frame into a Ford Taurus and drives off. I wonder why he is going. Does George think that Ellie is only in danger when I am around?

  George’s car is parked in its usual place. Unbidden, unwanted but not unexpected, my cop brain clicks in and I want to ask Sam about George’s investment in QX4, hell I wouldn’t mind talking to him myself but I guess now is not the time.

  As she inserts the key, Sam says, “’Bye, Cal,” without looking at me.

  “Wait, Sam. You need to listen to this.” I say. “You too, Ellie.”

  Sam looks at me; she’s trying not to cry. “What is it Cal?” Ellie just looks at the floor.

  I crouch down to Ellie’s height and put my arm around her but address myself to her mother. “The detox centre called and confirmed they have a place for me. I have to report there today at four.” Do I detect a softening in Sam’s demeanour?

  “What that means sweetie,” I say to my daughter, “is that I have to go into that hospital we talked about for a week and then to another place for a little while longer.” Her face is blank. “It means that I won’t be able to see you for a few weeks”—the evasion claws at my gut—“but when I do, things will be much better.” I give her a hug, which she does not reciprocate, and stand up.

  Sam pushes the door open. “That’s good news, Cal.” The words should be encouraging but they are delivered in a flat, neutral tone. “Come on, Ell.” She takes the little hand and draws our daughter into the house but Ellie breaks away and attaches herself to my leg.

  “Daddy, don’t go. Take me with you. I don’t want you to go to that hospital. I want to be with you. Please don’t go, Daddy. Pleeeaaase.”

  I reach down and pick her up but cannot find the words. I hold her tight. She is the reason I am going into detox yet she will not be here when I get out. I get an insane desire to just turn around and run away with her in my arms but we have nowhere to go. “Listen, sweetie. I know it’s difficult to understand, but it’s something I have to do. It’s just a while then I’ll be seeing you again.” Sam will make a lie of this in a week but it is up to her to tell Ellie.

  With a volte-face that only a child can pull
off, she says, “No you won’t.” She squirms out of my arms and runs into the house. “I don’t care. I never want to see you again. Go away.” I feel the spear in my heart.

  Sam looks at me, shrugs and shakes her head as she closes the door. For an instant, I see George in the hallway. My anguish turns to anger and focuses white hot, re-forging the spear to turn against him. I’m damned if he is going to see her every day for the rest of his life. He’s the guiding force behind their move to Toronto and somehow I’m going to stop him, somehow I’m going to get Sam and Ellie back whatever it takes.

  Yeah, sure. A junkie can pull that off.

  The reality deflates my anger, leaving an emptiness that I have never before experienced.

  I turn from the doorstep and walk off with my fears roiling inside me. I have been telling myself that I can’t go into detox and rehab while Kevin’s murder is still unsolved. But what do I have? Roy has a rock solid alibi: me. Brad was never a logical suspect; he loved Kevin as much as I did and he has no motive: Kevin’s death has nearly bankrupted him. I can’t believe that Sandi did it in a fit of jealousy; it’s just not credible. Arnold is an enigma but ultimately, he would do nothing to harm the Wallace family. And George, if George did it I can’t see any logical theory of the crime.

  Even Blondie’s comment, Your kid’s next doesn’t make sense to me. Rather than try and find out what it means, I should follow his advice. Ellie’s safety is more important than my need to solve the puzzle of Kevin’s death. I just have to accept that I am an ex-cop.

  All my excuses are gone. There is nothing I can grasp at as a reason for not doing it. But I am petrified at the thought of the detox process. It’s days of suffering through the crippling pain of heroin withdrawal, once described to me as the equivalent of having an extreme cramp simultaneously in every muscle of your body. And for me it will be even worse: I will be suffering from the withdrawal of Ellie to Toronto.