I hope.
I walk out of Sunrise and take six brisk steps north and check through Max’s window. Morgan Harris is sitting alone at a table with a designer coffee in front of her. I go in.
It’s busy, as always. There is no sign of the women I have come to think of as ex-cops. I scan the faces of the servers. None of them are showing any sign that something abnormal is going on, for example two tough-looking women hiding out in the kitchen.
I walk over to her table. Big smile, extend hand. “Reverend Harris, thank you so much for meeting me here.”
Her smile seems genuine. It makes her look like a fifteen year old again.
She is wearing jeans and an angora sweater under a sheepskin jacket, with a matching angora beret perched on her head, a retro 1960s look. She looks stunning. For no reason at all, I think of Sam.
“Detective Rogan.” She shakes my hand. “Why—”
I cut her off. She is sitting facing the front door. “Would you mind changing places with me?” I ask.
Her confusion seems genuine. “OK… Sure.”
She gets up and sits in the chair opposite. Now I have a clear view of the front of the deli and across Oak Street. In addition, she is shielding me from any bullet that an accomplice might fire through the window. Paranoia or self-preservation?
“Detective Rogan, why is there crime-scene tape at the Church?”
I have two goals for this interview: one, find out if Morgan is with the good guys or the bad guys and two, find out everything I can about her brother, Seth, if indeed he is her brother. And that’s the place to start: the unexpected question.
I ignore her question. I still have what I hope is a pleasant smile on my face. “Reverend Harris, I need to ask you, is Seth really your brother?”
I watch her like a hawk. She frowns, looks askance at me and says, “Detective Rogan, there is crime-scene tape all over my Church. Instead of asking me silly questions would you please explain to me why.” There is a mounting anger in her voice.
Time for some truth. “Yes, I will,” I say, “but before I answer your question I need to ascertain whether you are involved in the crime that has been committed.”
I give her my long, hard stare, honed over thirteen years as a detective and I see uncertainty in her eyes.
I press the advantage. “Is Seth really your brother?” I repeat.
“Yes, of course. Why would you ask that?” Unless I’m being fooled by those big blue eyes and little girl look—which is always a possibility—I am pretty sure that she is telling the truth.
“We have reason to believe that he is involved in some criminal activities.”
There is a flicker in her eye but it is not surprise.
“What sort of activity?” she asks.
I bring out everything connected with the case, “money-laundering, assault,” she flinches at that, “kidnapping, perhaps even murder.”
Her eyes are wide, but from worry not incredulity. As I look at her, tears start to well up. She sniffs and looks up at the ceiling, blinking. She is breathing fast through her mouth, fighting for control. “What has he done now?” she asks.
“He’s done things before, hasn’t he?” I counter.
She nods.
“I think you had better tell me,” I say as gently as I can muster.
She sits, looking at me, her expression temporarily unreadable… by me anyway. She looks away and bites her top lip then starts to nod slowly as she comes to some conclusion.
Across the street a number seventeen bus pulls away from the bus stop. The lady and her dog aboard. The high school kids are still there, laughing at something.
“He’s my brother. I can’t just…”
I go for the soft spot. “Reverend Harris,” I say “we believe your brother has committed some crimes that may put your Church in a very bad light. The only way you can avoid the possible crushing publicity is by being truthful with me.”
She is on a razor’s edge and I have no idea which way she is going to tip.
“OK… OK, yes, it’s time.” She takes a tissue from her purse, wipes her eyes, blows her nose and takes a deep breath.
“You have to understand, it’s not Seth’s fault.” She looks at me imploringly.
I want to tell her how many times I have heard that line from the family members of hardened criminals but instead, I smile encouragement and say, “Why is that?” It’s often best to let a cooperative witness go at her own pace.
“Our father was a very strict man and he was very hard on Seth, abusive even. So Seth rebelled. He went against everything that my father stood for. As a teenager, he drank alcohol and took drugs—both of which are strictly against the teachings of our Church—and the more my father lectured him, the more he did it. Then he started hanging out with an old school friend of his, a guy named David. David was a charismatic kind of guy, dressed extremely well, drove a very fancy Mercedes and always seemed to have a lot of money to throw around. I never knew for sure, but I always suspected that David was involved in the drug business.”
Her description sends an electric shock through me.
“Did this David have long, wavy, blond hair?” I ask.
“Yes. Why, do you know him?”
Blondie! Sidekick to my former nemesis and a man who once came very close to killing me. “Maybe. Sorry, go on.”
“Anyway, Seth started working for David. I didn’t see a lot of him during that time but when I did, he always had a lot of money and drove nice cars. I’m not sure if he worked for David in the drug business but he was involved in something illegal.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Our father died almost two years ago, leaving his ministry in my hands. I invited Seth to the funeral and to my surprise, he came, even though he and our father had not spoken to each other in several years. After the service, we had a reception in the Church and David turned up with two other men. One was very smooth, well dressed, polite, but I got a really bad vibe from him. I don’t remember his name. The other was a slob with long greasy hair, bad teeth and a paunch.”
This conversation is exceeding my expectations. I have a pretty good idea who the smooth, well dressed one was. He’s currently sitting in Millhaven prison.
“At one point during the reception, I was feeling a little overwhelmed, so I went through the curtains beside the altar. There is a door behind there that leads into the back yard, so I went out for some fresh air. When I came back, I was about to go back in through the curtains when I heard Seth’s voice on the other side of them. He was having a conversation with the other three. I know I shouldn’t have…” she looks at me and a gentle flush suffuses her cheeks, “…but I couldn’t resist eavesdropping on them. The smooth one was saying something like, ‘You’ve done well by us Seth. I want you to become my liaison with Dominic here. You’ll bring his cash into our system and at the same time do any other little favors that he might ask of you.’ Then they must have moved away from the curtain, because I couldn’t pick out their conversation from the other voices in the hall. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I reassure her. “It’s very useful information.” Understatement of the year! “What can you tell me about the one with the long greasy hair?”
“He was very creepy. I really wished that Seth hadn’t brought him to the Church. I kept feeling that he was undressing me with his eyes. I couldn’t work out how Seth, David and the smooth one could have anything to do with him.”
“Was there anything else about him that you might have picked up, other than his name?”
She shakes her head.
“About how old was he?”
She shrugs. “Forty, forty-five?”
“Can you remember anything else distinctive about him?”
Again she shakes her head. I’ve got all I’m going to get about the fourth member of Seth’s little cabal.
There is more I want to ask her but a little worm of guilt is slithering in my gut. I’m pretty
sure that Morgan Harris is an innocent party and it is clear that she doesn’t know that her brother is dead. I should tell her but there are some other things that I need to find out first.
“When did Seth come to live at the Church?”
“Not long after my father’s funeral.”
“You said that he always seemed to have a lot of money and drive expensive cars…” She nods at this statement. “So why would he need to come and live with you?” I ask.
“I asked him to. After my father’s death, I was feeling a little nervous about being there by myself, so I asked Seth if he would come and live there.” She gives a rueful smile. “I was also kind of hoping that he would take an interest in the spiritual life of the Church. In my heart, I knew that he is probably involved in the drug business and I wanted him to change. Becoming a church member could give him a whole new raison d’être…” She frowns and her eyes go to her left as she thinks. “I’ve just remembered something. The guy with greasy hair, Dominic, he spoke with a Québécois accent; he was French Canadian.”
I file that away for later. “Go on with what you were saying,” I invite her.
She shifts in her seat and looks hard at me. “Is my brother the reason that there is crime scene tape on the Church?” There is an assertiveness in her voice. “Do you have him in police custody?”
Feeling like a lowlife, I say, “No we don’t have him in custody. But I need to know something about his relationships with women—”
“I’m not prepared to answer any more of your questions until you tell me what is going on.” The assertiveness has become steely. I am going to have to come clean with her but not here in a crowded restaurant.
“Let’s go.” I stand. “I’ll tell you everything but not in here.”
I check the street outside as I open the door for her. The school kids are gone. Oak Street looks unusually deserted. “Where are you parked?” I ask.
“Just round the corner on fifteenth.”
As we turn the corner, she asks, “So, what is this all about, Detective?”
Before I can answer, I see it.
Adrenaline pumps into my system and I automatically reach for the gun that is no longer there.
I grab her shoulders and move her toward the curb where there is a green Subaru parked. “Crouch down beside this car and don’t move until I say it’s OK.” My tone brooks no argument and she complies.
I strain to look through the windshield of the metallic gray Cadillac SUV, parked four vehicles ahead of us. As far as I can see it is empty. I scan the sidewalks on both sides of the street but there are no signs of the two female killers. It means nothing. They could be crouching behind a parked car. I look back toward Oak Street. Nothing.
“What’s going on, Detective?” Morgan’s voice has a distinct tremble in it.
“Wait here,” I tell her as I crouch and run across the street. I stop behind a red van parked on the other side.
Taking a deep breath, I sneak a look along the sidewalk. Empty, except for an teenager walking a white Pomeranian.
I do another scan of the area before walking back to where the Reverend Harris is crouching.
“We have to get out of here fast,” I tell her. “Where are you parked?”
“There,” she says, pointing. “The grey Escalade.”
An electric shockwave passes through me. Have I made a huge mistake in my assumption of Morgan Harris’ innocence? She owns the car that was used to try and kidnap Michael Chan and has put Stammo in a wheelchair for the rest of his life?
“That’s your car?”
“Yes.”
I reach down, take her arm and help her to her feet. Without letting go, I walk her to the Caddy. As we get closer, I can see there is a dent in the front fender on the driver’s side and the headlight glass is mazed. The grill shows evidence of the predation of Stammo’s bullets.
“How did that happen?” I ask, pointing to the damage.
“I don’t know. Seth took the car earlier this week; he said that he damaged it parking.”
“When specifically?”
“I don’t know. Monday, I guess.”
The day Stammo was injured.
“Did Seth often take the car?”
“Sometimes. It was my father’s so Seth figured that he could use it anytime he wanted.”
A thought hits me out of the blue.
“Did your father buy it new?”
“Yes, from a dealer in Richmond, a parishioner.”
Why didn’t Eric Street’s inquiries to Cadillac dealerships turn up that juicy little fact? I file the thought away.
“Why did Seth take it on Monday?”
“His Jaguar was in the shop and he said he had a meeting and didn’t want to go in his old pickup.”
This is just getting better and better.
“What pickup?”
“He’s got an old pickup that he’s had forever. It was his first vehicle. He loves that truck.”
“A blue Ford F150?”
“Yes. How did—”
“Where is it right now?”
“He keeps it in our neighbor’s garage. But why do you—”
“Let’s go.” Gently leading her by the arm, I start along the street toward Montcalm, where the Healey is parked.
“What about my car?”
“You can’t use it; it’s evidence.”
“Evi—”
“We’ll take my car. Come on.”
“I don’t think I want to go with you.” She tries to pull per arm out of my grip.
“Your choice. Either you come with me now or I arrest you formally and we wait for a paddy wagon to arrive and take you into custody.” I take my phone from my pocket.
Now I am going to find out if she knows.
“Arrest me? … Arrest me for what?”
She doesn’t know I’m no longer an active-duty cop.
“For a start, accessory to grievous bodily harm. Your vehicle was used to cripple a police officer.”
Her eyes widen in shock.
“So do you want to come with me now or take a ride in a paddy wagon?”
She looks like a little girl again. “Come with you.”
As we walk to my car, I call Stammo and give him two tasks.
This has been some interview. Some of the pieces are clicking into place, but, yet again, for every answer there is a new question. Maybe our next stop will provide some clarity.
There is a silence to the church. It’s almost two o’clock. Time for any forensic team to be back from lunch. It confirms my suspicion: the team has been pulled back. By whom I wonder?
Morgan unlocks the front door and I peel back the yellow tape so that we can enter. I go in first. The scene is still similar to when I hightailed it out of here last night. The chairs around where Sam was held are still scattered everywhere, as is the chair in which Seth died: it is lying in a brown pool, the metallic tang of blood still noticeable.
I turn back to her. “When you come in, I want you to walk straight toward the stairs. Do not look toward the altar, is that understood?”
She nods. I refused to talk to her during the short drive here, which has fueled an anger she does nothing to hide. However, she does follow the letter of what I asked. I follow her up the stairs to her little office on the floor above.
“Please sit down,” I say with as much gentleness as I can muster.
She is about to refuse but detects the change of tone in my voice and expression. A look of worry crosses her face; she may have a glimmering of what’s to come. She sits.
I take a deep breath and stare at the bookcases. She is probably going to need the comfort of her religious beliefs now.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this but your brother was murdered last night.”
I see the shock crash through her body. Her eyes are stricken and a strangled “No” escapes her lips, yet it is not a denial. She collapses forward, her head on her knees as sobs wrack her. I sit on the corner of he
r desk and leave her to her grief; I know that nothing I say or do can help her.
If what she told me is true—and I have no concrete reason to doubt her—on Monday, Seth took her car, switched the license plates and gave it to the women for the purpose of kidnapping Michael Chan and, incidentally, crippling Stammo. Then, four days later, the women tied up Seth in the Church and shot him, putting the gun in my hand. Then it hits me that it was probably them who called the police; they wanted me to be caught red handed. Nice try.
So what happened during the week that turned Seth and the women from collaborators to victim and killers? As I turn it over in my mind, a new idea emerges. The thing that gets most people killed in the drug business is gang rivalry. What if the man in Millhaven prison, who Seth clearly worked for, is not in collaboration with the dirty cop in the VPD. What if they have become rivals. If the dirty cop wants to take over control of the Vancouver drug trade, then killing Seth destroys the main link between my nemesis and the outside world.
My train of thought is broken by Morgan; she has stopped sobbing and is sitting back on the couch looking at me. “The wages of sin,” she says. “Just as they are portrayed in the black pictures on our walls.”
She reaches forward and takes a tissue from a box on the corner of her desk. A box probably put there for the use of troubled parishioners during counseling sessions. “Who killed him?” she asks as she dabs her eyes.
“We don’t know yet,” I lie. “Has he had any visitors here over the last week?”
“No.”
“Have you had any new people at your services recently?”
“No.”
Out of the blue, it hits me that I haven’t asked one very obvious question. “Where were you yesterday evening?”
“Surrey. I was at a meeting of a group of independent churches. We met at the Sheraton in Guildford.”
“When did you leave to go to this meeting?”
“Wednesday evening. I got back from Surrey an hour ago, when I called you.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says curtly. She pulls out her phone, checks the contact list and gives me three names with their phone numbers. “I was with them the entire time.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 58