I check over my shoulder and see that Steve and Stammo are less than fifty yards from the fence, approaching accurate shooting range, and Stammo is the best marksman in the VPD. The rail yard may have been a tactical error. There are few civilians here, which raises the likelihood of Stammo firing. As I get up, I see Steve pass him.
I have only one option. I run east as hard as my sprained ankle will allow, screaming at the pain and trying to match speed with the slowly accelerating train beside me. I grab a handrail and, with a leap, I clamber up the steps on to an empty container car. Without any handhold, I limp gingerly across the gently swaying platform knowing that I am making a near perfect target for Stammo. I dare not look back; a slip here is certain death. During what seems an age, I make it across and jump one footed onto the rail bed on the other side, the momentum of the train sending me sprawling in the gravel. The train has taken me over a hundred yards along the track. I cannot see where Steve and Stammo are.
Three tracks away, the westbound train is almost past me. It is slowing but still moving faster than I can run with my ankle. I half limp, half hop across the tracks and just miss the last car on the train. I try to ignore the pain and dash after it.
The unmistakable ping of a ricocheting bullet tells me that Stammo is firing at me over the empty container cars of the eastbound train. I’ve been shot before and my skin crawls at the memory.
Steve is picking his way across one of the cars of the eastbound train, just like I did. But the trains are moving apart at a combined speed of thirty miles an hour, fifteen yards every second.
Lungs bursting and foot screaming, I push myself to the limit. I am only a couple of feet from the end of the train but I know if I can’t make it or if I slip and fall, I will be taken. I hear another shot from Stammo’s Sig Sauer.
With a supreme effort, I catch up to the caboose, grab the handrail and somehow drag myself onto the platform. I stay prone to make a small target, gulping air for my fibrillating heart. Within ten seconds, I am out of range of Stammo’s fire and although Steve has jumped off the eastbound train there is no way that he can catch me; he has given up the chase. In a few minutes I will be under the SeaBus terminal downtown.
Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped but now what?
I have nowhere to turn. There will already be an APB out on me; Roy is a leaky sieve; I dare not show my face in the downtown east side where the gang will be on the prowl; I cannot even see my lovely Ellie without walking into a trap.
On top of that, I can feel the pain in my shoulders match the pain in my ankle and I have to buy heroin.
There seems to be only one choice.
43
Cal
Everything has changed. I have it. I have it all. The potential disaster of Kevin’s blood on my jacket was a gift: the definitive proof that Kevin was murdered. George knew that I changed my clothes at the condo and that my jacket would be there; nothing could be easier than framing me by smearing Kevin’s blood on it.
After my escape from Steve and Stammo, I bought from a dealer in the West End and, stopping only to purchase stationery supplies, headed back to the new home that Arnold arranged for me yesterday. It’s a safe house now but for how long?
Somehow, the adrenaline of the chase, combined with the effects of the heroin, honed my mind to a razor’s edge. My room back there is still festooned with more than twenty flip charts all marked up with brightly coloured felt tips. I charted everything I know about Kevin’s murder, about QX4 and Sandi, about George and his business dealings and about the gang.
One set of charts shows all of George’s businesses that I found on his website and from my talk with Brad.
I stared at those charts for an hour.
The manufacturing and distribution companies, the airlines, the convenience stores, the agribusinesses all seemed like an unrelated mish-mash until, with a spinal rush of electricity, it all fell into place. They are interrelated in a most unusual way that points to one stunning conclusion: George is not associated with the gang.
George is the gang.
For the first time in my life I have one goal and one goal only. I have to prove that George and his gang buddies killed Kevin. If I can do that, I can see them put away and clear my own name and maybe, with Mr. Wallace’s help, somehow get back into the VPD. I have no other path.
Accepting this is freeing. No decisions to be made; just get on and do it.
One thing seems not to fit. I reviewed the list of the people who died from Kevin’s drug. When Steve gave it to me, my withdrawal symptoms masked a nugget of gold: Palmer, Jason, age 19, died October 31. Poor kid died on Halloween. I did not see it at first. The name might be a coincidence but it is definitely worth checking out. Something else I must do later today.
Oh, and yes, I must find the time to deal with another question that is still niggling at my mind: the one thing that, try as I might, I cannot make fit: Arnold’s comment that my beating by the gang may be connected to Kevin’s murder.
My thoughts are interrupted by a drop-dead gorgeous secretary. She gives me a warm smile and leads me through a corridor to the plush interior of the office.
As soon as she closes the door behind me, I say, “I know Kevin was murdered and I know who killed him,” I do not get the reaction that I expected. Instead of irritation at my continuing pursuit of the murder theory, I get a bemused look, although it is not quite acceptance. I decide to press on. “When I tell you, you’re not going to believe it at first but I want you to hear me out. Will you do that?”
“Sure…” The word is drawn out, as much a question as a confirmation.
I desperately need his help, so I need to convince him right now. I decide to start at the beginning.
“We’ve known Kevin since grade eight, in fact you’ve known him since elementary school. We were the three amigos. I don’t think that even his parents knew him as well as we did.”
Brad shrugs and nods.
I continue. “Can you really believe that Kevin killed himself, Brad? In your heart of hearts?”
“But the evidence, Cal. The autopsy and the—”
“Just put that aside for a moment.” I am trying hard to curb my feelings of irritation. “If there were no evidence, no autopsy, no coroner’s verdict, would you believe that Kevin was capable of killing himself? that he could stab himself in the chest with his own knife?”
He struggles with the idea. “I don’t know… I guess not.” But he is not convinced.
“I’ve never believed it. Now, I’m sure that it was murder and I know who did it.”
I wait. I am determined to make him ask.
He does. “So who, already?” Now it’s Brad who is irritated.
“It was George Walsh.”
Brad takes a breath and throws his eyes heavenward. He turns his head away from me and blows the breath out audibly through his lips, shaking his head. The dismissive gesture hurts but I press on.
Before he can speak, I say, “You promised to hear me out, Brad. I’ve got some evidence and with your help, I can prove it.”
“OK. Prove away.”
I ignore the skepticism in his tone. “We know that Kevin was conducting illegal human trials of his anti-addiction drug. Sandi confirmed it and so did my buddy Roy. I’ve seen the police’s list of the people who died and I recognized a few of the names.”
“The police know about the drug testing?” He sits bolt upright in his executive chair and his face pales. Now I have got his full and undivided attention.
“No, but they know that a number of street people have all died recently and all of them have the same unusual chemical in their blood.”
He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. “Shit! If they find out about it, QX4 is a dead duck. Everyone will lose everything. I’ll be ruined. Just when the shares have bounced back, I’m going to lose it all again.”
My sympathy for him is limited. “The fifteen people who died are a whole lot more ruined.” I
comment.
“Fifteen! I thought it was seven,” he is on his feet, working hard to keep his voice down.
“It was, up until the time that Kevin died. Since then, another eight have been found. That’s fifty percent of the people being tested.”
Brad’s face has gone from pale to the colour of the parchment skin of Kevin’s father. “No Cal. That’s one hundred percent. You told me that Kevin had thirty subjects. He would have split them into two groups of fifteen. To one group, the control group, he would have given a placebo. The real drug would only have gone to the other group of fifteen. Everyone who took the damn drug died.”
We both pause for this to sink in. Instead of being appalled by the enormity of the tragedy, I feel relief. Roy must have been in the control group. My nagging worry that he might follow Tommy and the others is put to rest. He’s going to be around to bug me for a lot of years to come.
Hiding my desire to smile at the thought, I continue, “I think George found out about the results of the testing, either from Kevin or Sandi. He realized that if Kevin started telling people what he had done, then QX4 would be ruined for ever; it could never recover. So he decided that it would be better to take a hit on the stock price when the news of Kevin’s death was announced.”
Brad thinks about it and starts to nod to himself. Time for my next salvo.
“Right after Kevin’s death, QX4’s stock price dropped sixty percent, so what did George do? Bit by bit, through a company in the Cayman Islands, he bought another twenty million shares at fire sale prices then, lo and behold, last Friday the company announces that it’s got approval for human trials and the shares rocket up and good old George has made another killing”
Brad is getting animated. “What! George bought more stock? How do you know that? And how do you know about all that Cayman Islands stuff?” he asks.
“Arnold found out, with Mr. Wallace’s help.”
He processes this. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would he buy those shares? He didn’t know that QX4 was going to get approval from the feds. For all he knew, the approval was never going to come through because of Kevin’s death.”
I can now trump that objection. “Arnold called me on my way over here. He found out, through one of Mr. Wallace’s contacts in the Federal government, that the approval to run human tests was couriered to QX4 on the Thursday before Kevin died. They would have received it on the Friday morning. I’m betting that George knew about it and decided to kill Kevin rather than have word of the illegal testing get out. Plus he could make a nice little profit into the bargain.”
Brad’s face takes on a green hue as it all sinks in. He makes one last ditch, but halfhearted, attempt. “But businessmen don’t solve business problems by killing people. We talked about this before. You said you had only ever once heard about it happening. It just… I mean…” His objection peters out.
I can now take the last trick.
I lay it all out for him. The circumstantial evidence that leads inexorably to the fact that George is running the drug gang.
And, as implausible as it might seem, he buys it. I’d better not burst the bubble by telling him who the police’s prime suspect is.
Now all I have to do is get him to help me prove it.
But first, one of the anomalies needs investigation.
44
Cal
The security guard, like Worcester, is malevolent to me in all aspects. Since Sandi refused to see me, I told him I would wait and did not take no for an answer. He wants me out of his reception area but is not big enough to try and eject me himself and, I suspect, wants to avoid the embarrassment of having to ask the police to do it for him. He has glowered at me for the last forty-five minutes. But it is evening and I know she will have to leave eventually.
But his trial is ended as Sandi sweeps out of the elevator. I pull myself out of the stylish and uncomfortable knock-off of a Mies Van der Rohe chair but before I open my mouth she says, “I have nothing to say to you Cal.”
She strides towards the front door, opening a blue and white golf umbrella bearing the QX4 logo. As I go to follow her, the guard’s hand locks on my upper arm and I am surprised at the strength of his grip. Rather than struggle with him, I call, “I want to talk to you about Jason.”
She turns and her face is wreathed in fury. The last name was not a coincidence.
For a moment she is unable to talk but brings herself under control and nods at the guard. “It’s OK. Let him go.” She walks through the rain to her car, followed by me with the guard at my elbow. She clicks the remote and says to me, “Get in.”
The guard is not a happy camper. “Honk your horn if you need me, Miss Palmer.” He gives me a hard look and is not impressed with the phony grin I flash him, but he walks off anyway.
I get into the car. Sandi is staring straight ahead, sitting with her hands white knuckled on the steering wheel, bringing herself under control. The rain is beating a tattoo on the convertible roof, flashing me back to a memory of my days as a Boy Scout, under canvass in the rain. The sound calms me.
“Sandi,” my voice is gentle. “I’m sorry to come to your place of work like this; it’s just that I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you.”
Silence.
“I know about Jason. Was he your brother?”
Sandi nods; I suspect that she can’t trust herself to speak.
“I’m very sorry.”
Nothing.
While I was waiting I had the time to plan my approach. “Sandi, I know you don’t like me very much and I know that I’m not a cop any longer and that I have no standing in this. Legally there is no reason for you to talk to me.” She is still silent but I know she is listening.
“I still believe that Kevin was murdered and at some point I am going to have to go to the police and tell them what I know.” I notice her jaw tighten. “But the motive may have nothing to do with the issue of his doing illegal tests of that drug.” This out-and-out lie catches her attention and she half turns to look at me. Is the emotion on her face hope? Or am I seeing what I want to see.
“I know that if it came out that Kevin had been testing the drug on human guinea pigs, it would ruin the company and I don’t want to do that. So if you could answer just a few questions for me, I can follow my other leads and it need never come to light.”
She takes a deep breath and turns away from me to look out of the driver’s window. After a long moment she says, “OK.”
“So Jason was an addict?”
“Heroin.” She turns and faces me. “An older guy got him hooked when he was sixteen. After years of his lying and stealing from them, my parents gave up on him and threw him out of the house on his nineteenth birthday. I tried to help him when I could but…” Her voice tapers off but I know all the implications of what she is saying: the constant pleas for help; the barrage of lies, broken promises, unpaid loans and theft. Every junkie’s gift to his family and friends.
“Did you know that he was one of Kevin’s guinea pigs?”
“Not at first. When Kevin broke it to me that he was doing the drug tests, he conveniently omitted to tell me that Jason was one of his subjects. Jason always carried a card in his wallet with my home and cellphone numbers, so when he was found, the police came to me to tell me that he had died. Even then I didn’t put it all together; even though by then I knew that six of Kevin’s subjects had died, it never occurred to me that Jason was one of Kevin’s guinea pigs. I was devastated. I went to tell my parents and they completely broke down. They blamed themselves. If they hadn’t thrown him out…” Tears trickle down her face, mirroring the rain on the windshield.
In an attempt to give some consolation I say. “They couldn’t have stopped him, nor could you. Addiction is just too strong a force.”
She just stares ahead.
“It was the Friday, the day before Kevin killed himself,” she continues. “After I had gone to see my parents, I went over to Kevin’s to tell him.
He wasn’t there, so I let myself in and waited. I waited hours. He didn’t get back until midnight. When he walked in, his face was deathly pale and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. I told him that Jason was dead and he just said, ‘I know.’ Even as I started to ask him how he knew, the answer hit me.” She turns and looks out the window and I can tell from the movement of her shoulders that she’s crying.
I give her time to recover her composure before I ask, “What happened then?”
She reaches into the glove box and takes out a package of tissues. She wipes away the tears and blows her nose.
She looks me in the eye and says, “I lost it. I attacked him. I tried to scratch his face but he held my wrists. Then I tried kicking and I caught him a couple of times in the shin. I swear to you Cal, if I’d had a gun I would have shot him. Finally, I just collapsed onto the floor.” She pauses. “I don’t know how long I lay there but when I stopped crying, I got up and looked at Kevin. He was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. I took off the engagement ring he had given me only a few weeks before. I threw it at him and walked out.”
Either Sandi’s telling the truth so far or she is the world’s greatest actress.
“I’m sorry, Sandi but you know I have to ask. Did you go back to Kevin’s on Saturday morning?”
“No, Cal. I didn’t.”
“Where were you on Saturday morning?”
“I was at the office.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes, on a Saturday. I don’t work for the government you know.”
“Were you alone?”
She holds me in a glacial glare. “No, as a matter of fact. I was in a meeting.”
“Who with?”
“You know what, Cal? Fuck you!” she explodes. “As you reminded me, you’re not a cop anymore. You don’t have any standing and I don’t need to give you an alibi. In fact, maybe you should give me your alibi. Did you know that Kevin was going to cut you off? Not let you use his place anymore on Saturdays. Maybe you got so pissed off that you killed him. Now, get out of my car.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 24