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

by Robert P. French

  The thought of never using heroin again is agony in itself. Like every other addict’s, the neurochemistry of my brain, once exposed to the drug, demands it over and over and over again. I have no choice in the matter of my craving. If it were easy to stop using, no addict in the world would take drugs rather than live a normal life. And when I get out, Sam and Ellie will be two thousand miles away.

  I turn out of Sam’s driveway and head towards Marine Drive and the journey which will see me in detox in less than two hours. Each step darkens my despair.

  In contrast, the clouds have cleared and the November sun is shining down on me and glinting off the cars coming towards me. One of them is a black Mercedes CLS, the AMG version. I look appreciatively at it; it is a fine piece of machinery… then I recognize the driver.

  He is handsome with long, well groomed, blond hair and is wearing a leather jacket. It’s the man from the alley. Your kid’s next. I follow the car with my eyes and watch with mounting panic as it turns into Sam’s driveway.

  35

  Cal

  I speed dial Sam’s number and dash back towards the house. As it rings, I think about the VPD issue Browning 40mm that used to sit in a holster on my side. It would feel good in my hand right about now.

  “Hello—”

  “Sam, it’s me. Whatever you do, don’t open the front door.”

  “Cal, what are you talk—”

  “Sam. Listen to me.” I hear her doorbell chime through my phone and run faster. “For God’s sake don’t open that door. Those guys that beat me up and put me in the hospital, the guy in charge, the one who said ‘Your kid’s next’ just drove into your driveway. That’s him at your door. Don’t open it.”

  Sam’s voice has dropped into a harsh whisper. “Cal. Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re trying to do but it’s not going to work.”

  I have got to convince her.

  “Sam, please listen to me—”

  “Enough, Cal.” She hangs up.

  It takes me thirty seconds to reach the house, panting hard. God, I’m out of shape. I stand by one of the stone pillars that flank the entrance to the driveway and sneak a look at the house. The black Mercedes is parked nose-to-tail with George’s Bentley, definitely not positioned for a quick getaway. If he were here to kidnap or kill Ellie, he would not have parked that way. But this relieves my anxiety hardly a whit.

  My training screams at me. Call for backup. In one second I scan the street looking for the cops who are providing protective surveillance as a result of George’s request to the mayor of West Van. There’s not a Ford Crown Victoria parked anywhere. I check all the other cars and can see no sign of any occupants. A part of protective surveillance is to be seen, to be a deterrent. There are no cops here.

  I have no choice. Twenty long strides down the driveway and I’m ringing the door bell and hammering on the door with my fist.

  The door flies open and Sam’s fury explodes out. “What the hell are you doing Cal?”

  I see Ellie at the other end of the hallway. She looks frightened. “Sam,” my voice has dropped to a whisper, “you’ve got to listen to me. The man who just arrived here in that car is the same one who had me beaten up.” My voice drops several more decibels. “He’s the one who said, your kid’s next.”

  The exasperation on her face tells me that I’m not getting through to her. “Cal, for God’s sake don’t be—”

  “Sam!” I can’t keep my voice in a whisper anymore. “Either you and Ellie come with me right now or I’m calling the police.” I reach into my pants pocket, pull out my cell and flip it open.

  “Cal, you’re out of your mind. What do you think you—”

  “Is there a problem?” Sam is cut short again but this time by George. He is coming through a door on the right of the hallway.

  It is only the third time I have met George; I’ve always wanted to avoid contact with the fiancé of the woman I still love. He is not tall, not more than an inch over Sam’s five eight, but he has an air of command that reminds me of Kevin’s father. His expensive gym-bought physique is dressed in beige pants and a royal blue golf shirt. He walks to the door and stands beside Sam; his arm drapes itself around her shoulders and my skin crawls.

  “Cal.” His eyes hold mine. A pleasant smile is on his lips but his eyes are completely neutral. I would not want to play poker with this man. A pause… “Cal, you may not know this, but I love your daughter like she were my own. While she is in my house, she is safe from any harm. In fact… she is safer here than anywhere.” He has come straight to the heart of the matter.

  And I believe him.

  Behind him, I see Blondie. He walks across the hall and crouches down beside Ellie. He tousles her hair and she gives him a huge smile. My whole being aches to take him out with my bare hands but I don’t. I don’t do anything. Although it hurts to admit it, Ellie is safer here than with me.

  I hold George’s gaze and, for an instant, we each know the other’s mind.

  He turns and, followed by his guest, goes back into his study.

  Sam’s voice is puzzled. “Cal?”

  I ignore her, my mind racing to make sense of what has just happened. George is in some way connected to the gang. Blondie’s threat, your kid’s next, was clearly empty because Ellie is safe here. So why did he make it? To scare me off? Probably, but from what? Certainly, not from stealing from him and his associates, they would just kill me for that. And what is the nature of George’s association with this gang?

  “Cal, I think you need to go.” Sam’s voice breaks my chain of thought.

  I look at her and at Ellie standing behind her. Can I take George’s assurance of Ellie’s safety and, by extension, Sam’s? For the moment I have to—there is no way I can persuade her and Ellie to leave with me right now—but no one is safe in proximity to drug gangs. Their huge profits are a magnet for some of the worst psychopaths in history.

  “Cal!” Her voice breaks in again. My poor Sam, when she knows what George is mixed up in, she will be devastated.

  I crouch down and Ellie runs into my arms to give me a big hug. I have to tear myself away from her and from Sam for a moment.

  My priority has changed.

  I need to rescue them from this house.

  36

  Cal

  I do not have to wait long. From my place of concealment, standing behind a ten foot stack of timber in the yard of the renovation opposite George’s house, I watch as Blondie’s black Merc pulls out of the driveway. Moments later the front door opens and George is there. He stands in front of his house and looks around the garden. His gaze pans outward and at one point he is looking straight at the place from which I am observing. He is taking deep breaths, as though to calm himself.

  Then he moves briskly to his Bentley, gets in and drives off. This is better than I could have hoped but I wonder for how long he will be gone.

  As soon as he is out of sight, I extricate myself from my hiding place and make my way, for the third time today, towards Sam’s front door. I flip open my cell and redial. It’s picked up after two rings.

  “Sam. Don’t hang up. You need to hear what I have to say. In a moment, I’ll be knocking on your door. Make sure you answer.” I hang up. I’m betting that her puzzlement about what happened between George and me will motivate her to want to talk.

  She opens the door within seconds of my knock. She is dressed in a sheepskin jacket and her finger is on her lips in a gesture for silence. In the background I hear two voices singing in Spanish: Ellie’s and the maid’s.

  Sam pulls the front door closed behind her with a gentle click, snatches my elbow and leads me round to the side of the house. We are standing on a gravelled path that runs between the house and the high laurel bushes that isolate them from their next door neighbour She pulls cigarettes and a lighter from her jacket pocket and lights up. I haven’t seen her smoke since she gave it up when pregnant with Ellie.

  I’m feeling jittery and I
find myself sniffing. My shoulders ache. I sense that when the symptoms take hold it’s going to be bad. The thought of enduring this, getting more and more acute for almost a week, frightens me more than another beating from Blondie and his boys.

  She draws the smoke gracefully and gratefully into her lungs, holds it for a beat and lets it out with a contented sigh; I guess we all have our addictions. “OK, Cal. What is all this nonsense?”

  “I told you Sam. That man who just left with your future husband is the guy who beat me up and threatened Ellie’s life. I know this is all new and it’s difficult to get your mind around, but I need to get you and Ellie away from here right now.”

  She puts her arm around me and puts a hand to my cheek. “Cal, listen to me. You were badly beaten in that alley. You should still be in the hospital but, pig headed as always, you discharged yourself. Your mind is playing tricks on you. David is a partner of George’s in one of his businesses. He has been over to the house lots of times. He’s a nice man. He almost always brings a little something for Ellie.”

  “Sam, you listen. David, as you call him, is a drug dealer and he’s right up there in the organization. He is not a nice man.”

  “Come on, Cal. He was wearing three thousand dollars worth of clothing. He’s always perfectly groomed and he doesn’t look anything like one of those awful people.”

  Why can’t she understand? “For God’s sake Sam, you know I was involved with these gangs when I was in the Department, d’you think I don’t know what I’m talking about. Everyone thinks of drug dealers as a bunch of yahoos and a lot of the soldiers are. But the guys at the top are very bright, very sophisticated business people who wear designer clothes and ride about in expensive European cars. I would have thought you’d be very concerned that your soon-to-be husband is mixed up with them.”

  I wonder if George is coming back yet. What will he do if he finds me here talking to Sam?

  The tip of her cigarette glows a bright orange as she takes another deep draw. “This is getting us nowhere, Cal. I just don’t believe what you’re saying. I think you believe it but you’re mistaken. You were beaten up, you were in a coma for two and a half days, then you were on painkillers and then you discharged yourself. On top of that you’re a heroin addict. I think you’re just hallucinating this nonsense.

  “Either that or you’re looking for some reason, any reason, to get out of going into detox and rehab so you’re fabricating a crazy conspiracy theory as the excuse.”

  I am drained. I know I’m not going to get through to her. She is convinced that I’m either hallucinating or lying or some of both. Hell, maybe she’s right, but I have to get her and Ellie out of here. But how? I cannot force her physically and let’s face it, why should she take the word of a junkie anyway?

  “Sam, you have to listen to me—”

  She places a frustrating finger on my lips and looks at the Piaget on her wrist. “Cal. It’s past three thirty.” Her voice is soft now and gentle. “You said you had to be at detox at four. Why don’t I drive you over there? We could get there by four-fifteen, latest. What do you say?”

  I can’t fight anymore. Try as I might, she just can’t accept what I’m saying. As much as I don’t want to, I just have to trust George’s assurance that she and Ellie are safe here. I capitulate, “Sure, Sam. That would be great.”

  She reaches out and squeezes my bicep. “Come on, let’s go.”

  She turns towards the front of the house and suddenly tries to grab my arm but misses and pitches forward onto the gravelled path. Electricity fires through my spine. She’s been shot. I didn’t hear anything but the way she fell, the shooter is at the back of the house. I turn and check but can see no sign of him.

  “Sam, are you OK?”

  I crouch down beside her, shielding her body against another shot from the same direction, my back crawling, waiting for the impact of that second, silenced bullet. She is lying face down and her body is shaking uncontrollably. I heft her body up to the wall of the house for better cover.

  “Sam! Where are you hit?”

  I roll her on to her side, not knowing what to expect. I remember with dread the time that I shot an armed suspect and watched him drop to the ground and twitch just like Sam is twitching now.

  I am torn between staying with Sam and getting in the house to shield Ellie.

  A quick check reveals no obvious gunshot wounds but her face tells me why she is shaking. She is sobbing.

  “Sam! Listen! Where are you hit?”

  I ask again but she just shakes her head, unable to speak. I help her into a sitting position and she locks her arms around me, the tears streaming off her face onto my thigh, leaving a pattern of wet drops on my pants. I cannot stop myself from kissing the top of her head and holding her tight.

  I put my hand under the back of her sheepskin jacket and feel her back for the wetness of a wound.

  Nothing.

  I can see no blood anywhere.

  There is no wound.

  Paranoia, self destroyer.

  I breathe deeply to get my heart rate under control.

  “Sam. Tell me what’s wrong,” I plead.

  She brings herself under control; the sobbing slows and she tries to talk between sharply inhaled breaths. “Oh, Cal… I didn’t want to tell you like this.” She draws in a deep but shaky breath and sighs. “I have been diagnosed… with M… with MS.”

  My first thought is relief that she has not been shot but the relief is instantly shattered. MS is incurable. Does this mean that it’s terminal? Are Ellie and I going to lose Sam in a year or in five years? Why hasn’t she told me this before? And why the hell was she smoking? That can’t be good.

  “Oh, Sam. Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask but she just shakes her head.

  After what seems an age, she speaks. “Help me up please, Cal.”

  I help her to her feet and a pain lances through my arm as she rubs against the infection that has been steadily growing for the last two weeks. For the hundredth time I pray that it is just an infection, that the contaminated needle did not carry anything worse than just a few germs.

  She reaches up and kisses my cheek. “It’s passed now. I’m OK. Let’s get you into that detox place.” She takes my hand and leads me into the garage. Compared to what Sam faces, the impending agony of detox seems trivial now.

  37

  Cal

  As I walk through the doors, I hear the throaty exhaust of the 4.8 litre engine as Sam’s SUV wings her away. I sniff twice on the walk along the stark hallway to the circular reception desk. My joints are aching now.

  Sam’s revelation has floored me. I only know a little about multiple sclerosis and it’s nothing good. A distant cousin of my mother had MS. I called her Aunt Aida and she was the only one of her relatives whom we kept in touch with. We would see her every year or so and I would mentally chronicle the deterioration in her health: she would stumble and drop things on one visit, walk with a stick on the next, then with crutches, then in a wheelchair. The last time I saw her, she could not feed herself.

  Is this the prognosis for my darling Sam? And Ellie? I have no idea whether it is hereditary.

  On the drive over here, Sam revealed a lot. She kept the information from me because she didn’t want me to turn my back on drugs for her sake rather than my own. She said she knew that I had to get clean from my own desire to do so. And of course I let her down there too.

  She said her biggest prayer was that I would get clean and start to take on more responsibility for Ellie, with the hope that when she reached the later stages of the disease, I would become Ellie’s primary caregiver. Me, not George. But I’ve blown that now.

  It was Sam who asked Kevin to stop enabling my addiction by not letting me use his place on Saturday mornings. Now I can make sense of Kevin’s words. Cal, I need your help on something… It’s a bit difficult to talk about this but…

  But now it’s too late. Now she is going to take Ellie to Toronto and when
George joins them there in a few weeks, he will become Ellie’s de facto father. Sam’s words ring in my head. I can’t wait for you to sort yourself out, Cal; George will become Ellie’s legal guardian when I am too ill to take care of her.

  When I tried to protest that George was somehow linked to illegal drugs, she lost it with me. She pulled the car over and screamed that I was a paranoid junkie, that George was a good man and that he would be a wonderful father to Ellie and that my psycho fantasies were no concern of hers and how dare I speak about her future husband that way. This was why she didn’t want me to see any more of Ellie, in case I filled her mind with this nonsense. Her outburst deflated her and then she just looked old and tired.

  We continued the journey in silence but I could not help noticing that the hand that held the steering wheel had a tremor that would not go away.

  “Are you Mr. Rogan?” The man behind the desk breaks into my thoughts. His good looking black face has a kind smile and I suspect that a quirky sense of humour sits behind those alert eyes.

  “Yes.” I smile back at him and turn around to see if perhaps Sam has returned.

  When I turn back, he rises and says, “OK. You’re a bit late but no problem. Let’s get you checked in here.” He knows I’m experiencing withdrawal and he wants to get me settled quickly.

  “I just need a moment first,” I tell him. He nods and indicates a row of chairs along the wall.

  I slump into a threadbare but comfortable armchair and feel a profound sense of failure. I have failed as a father and am losing my daughter because of my inaction; I have failed as a human by procrastinating over dealing with my addiction; I have failed as a detective, too. I promised Mr. Wallace that I would find Kevin’s murderer but not one of my erstwhile suspects—Roy, Brad, Sandi, Arnold and George—has both motive and opportunity. I guess I should phone Arnold and ask him to inform Mr. Wallace of my failure. Arnold will enjoy that, I suspect. He never believed that Kevin was murdered. Except…