“Sure. Can I help?”
“Absolutely.”
While she perches on a stool at the breakfast counter, I get olive oil, vinegar, honey and an empty jam jar. I place them in front of her and ask her to make the salad dressing, one of her favourite jobs.
As I putter around getting the ingredients together I say, “I’m not as strict as Mommy on the social media stuff.” I glance over to see if there is a reaction but she seems focused on pouring the oil into the jar, her tongue peeking out from the side of her mouth. I putter some more. “So I’m guessing that Facebook isn’t your only one.” Out of the corner of my eye I see her finish pouring the oil and put the bottle on the countertop. I avoid looking directly at her and put the ground beef into a mixing bowl, followed by the breadcrumbs and garlic powder. I give her time. I grind pepper onto the mixture and see her pick up the balsamic vinegar bottle.
As she starts to pour it she says, “I’ve got Instagram too.”
“Any others?”
“No.”
“Are you and Justin friends on Instagram?”
“I follow him and he follows me.”
I don’t like the idea that is forming in my mind.
“So, in Instagram, can you send private messages to people?”
“Well duh!”
“Do you ever message with Justin?”
“Only on Facebook.” She picks up the honey bottle and I start to knead the hamburger ingredients together.
“But you could message him on Instagram?”
She digests this for a while. “Are you going to stop me using Instagram?”
“I need to think about that.”
And I need to think about whether I dare use my daughter to lure a predator from his lair.
I have to consider my next step in the search for Ariel. Ellie has eaten and is watching a Simpsons rerun on TV. Sam and I agreed that she could only watch it with adult supervision but it’s not getting my full attention. Ellie’s conviction that Justin is really a kid has got me worried. Is the kidnapper using an actual kid to front for him? His son maybe or perhaps a kid whom he has kidnapped and forced to do the grooming for him. The latter is unlikely and a quick call to Steve at VPD has confirmed that there are no recently missing young boys. Mark Traynor’s information about Thomas Radcliffe’s kiddy-porn background keeps forcing its way to the front of my head. Is Radcliffe the kidnapper? If so how can I prove it? Maybe if I grill him about it, he’ll give something away. Maybe.
A google search for Thomas Radcliffe turns up his production company’s website and on the About page there is a picture of him. I copy the image and paste it into a WORD doc and click Print. His picture goes into my file.
There’s an advert on the TV.
“Ell, come over here and have a look at this picture, please.”
She walks over and for a second I see that although she is not yet nine, she is going to grow into a beautiful woman. I cringe at the thought that some pervert, hiding behind the identity of a ten-year-old boy, is looking at her as a sex object.
“What is it Daddy?”
I take Radcliffe’s photo from the top of the small stack of papers in my Ariel Bradbury file.
“Do you recognize this man?”
She looks carefully at the smiling face.
“Is he the man who kidnapped Ariel?”
“He’s a suspect, for sure.”
She continues looking for a couple of seconds.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”
I pick up Mark Traynor’s photo. “How about him?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
As I put his picture down, I notice that Ellie’s eyes are glued to the file. There is real fear in them. My spine is electrified. I have never seen her so terrified.
“What is it sweetie?” I ask as calmly as I can.
Her finger is trembling as she reaches out and touches the photo of Sherri Oliver, the continuity girl Thomas Radcliffe fired for snooping into his computer.
“That’s just someone who worked on Canada’s Littlest Beauty,” I say to reassure her.
“No she’s not!” she shouts. “She’s that policewoman who was at school the day Ariel went missing.”
In the shocked silence, I hear Bart Simpson’s voice. “You’re the man, Homer.”
Apart from Ariel, Ellie is the only person, as far as I know, who has ever spoken to the boy named Justin…
And it all falls into place.
A wave of relief washes over me as I realize I no longer have to consider Ellie as bait, then a wave of guilt that I even considered it.
19
Sam
I stop applying the eyeliner and look more closely at my face in the mirror. I’m a bit behind. Deleting Ellie’s Facebook account took longer than I thought it would. At least the anger has subsided and I feel guilty for shouting at Ellie the way I did. But I’m still mad at Cal. He didn’t seem to mind about the Facebook thing and I think he’s holding something back.
A couple of the lines around my eyes look more pronounced but I don’t think I look thirty-seven. Do I? Almost thirty-eight. I met Cal what, fourteen years ago now. It was our wedding anniversary last week; neither of us remembered it. It’s rather sad. Oh, damn you Cal, why do I always think about you when…
Stop. I’m too excited to dwell on things like that. I get to work with my new client tonight. This is a breakthrough for me. Not only have I got a new photography client but he is a high profile client and I am going to redesign his website. This is going to look great on my portfolio and will clinch the deal with—
“Mommy, I’m home from Daddy’s and Mrs. Hunt is here,” Ellie bursts into the bathroom. She loves being babysat by the best neighbour I have ever had. Cora is wonderful with her even if she does spoil her with too much chocolate.
“That’s great, my lovely girl. Tell her I’m getting ready and I’ll be down in a minute, OK?”
“’K.” The whirlwind whooshes out of the bathroom.
I’d better get ready faster.
Cal clearly isn’t interested in getting back together, despite what happened in the kitchen last year. When he was here yesterday evening and we were talking about it, he was just about to tell me why he didn’t want for us to get back together and, thank heavens, Ellie cut him off with her dance performance. I was so glad that I didn’t have to hear him tell me that he doesn’t love me anymore. Stop Sam! If I keep thinking about this, I’ll ruin my makeup. I couldn’t get back with Cal anyway. His job has put Ellie and me in danger more than once plus he could slip back into drugs at any time. Time for a change of subject.
As I finish my eyeliner, I think about my new client. He’s really rather good looking and he’s not married, according to Facebook anyway. At our last meeting he seemed slightly flirtatious. I would definitely go out with him if he asked me.
I reach for my old favourite perfume. Cal loves— No! Time for a change. I look in my drawer and find the sampler of Liquid Cashmere I got from Sephora. New man, new perfume. But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.
Hell no. Maybe I’ll ask him out.
Suddenly my feelings are in a maelstrom. Hating myself for doing it, I put the Liquid Cashmere back in the drawer.
20
Cal
I am stationed just inside the entrance to the ballroom at the Waterfront Hotel, scrutinizing the faces of people attending the debate between Lucas Corliss and his opponent, the incumbent, Edward Perot. And I really don’t want to be here. I need to hunt down Sherri Oliver. I’m betting either Radcliffe or Traynor or both of them are working with her. And I’m stuck here. Right now Steve might be picking up Radcliffe or Traynor for interrogation and will squeeze enough information out of one of them to beat me to finding Ariel. The thought ratchets up my frustration.
As people stream in, I search my memories for faces connected with the drug world. It is boring work and I suspect unnecessary. Whichever drug gang was responsible for the attempt
on Corliss’ life on Monday is unlikely to make a second attempt with all the security for this debate. The size of the team from Arnold’s security firm has been doubled; Ian Peake has his guys out in force, recognizable by their hard looks and discreet earpieces. There are also several uniformed VPD members.
Because of my part in foiling the assassination attempt on Sunday, Lucas Corliss has insisted that Stammo Rogan Investigations be paid for my presence here. Although that pleases Stammo, I don’t want to be here. Right now I regret leaving the VPD. If I were still there, I would be working full time on tracking down Ariel’s kidnappers before the case becomes a murder investigation. I’ve been on the case for thirty hours and there is no clear path to who took Ariel. Every minute here makes her case a minute colder.
Stammo seems to be making some strides on the Tyler case. Tyler’s connection with this Bookman character is big and more than a little scary. Tyler is playing in the big leagues which I’m guessing are way over his head.
“You OK, Cal?” says a voice in my ear. I look around and see Ian Peake twenty yards along the hallway, his hand to his mouth, disguising the fact that he is talking into the mic in his sleeve. I nod at him but notice the flush suffusing my cheeks. I just zoned out thinking about the Ariel and Tyler cases and he spotted that I wasn’t paying attention to the job at hand.
I scan the elegant room with its crystal chandeliers and rich carpeting, looking for recent entrants whom I might have missed. No familiar faces.
I return my eyes to the lineup of people waiting to be checked over by the uniformed security guards before they enter the ballroom and I immediately recognize a face.
What is he doing here?
Then I make the connection. When I met with Ariel’s father, Dave Bradbury, yesterday afternoon, his face looked familiar. I now know why. He was one of the four businessmen who barged through the doors of the gym two nights ago just before we took down the would-be assassins. He must be a supporter of Larry Corliss. If so, that’s got to be good news for the former Mayor; politicians always need supporters with deep pockets.
I really want to go and talk to him to find out if he has received any blackmail demands but my instincts hold me back.
I watch him as a security guy waves a metal detector around his torso. He smiles and swaps a joke with the guard. No one would ever know from his demeanour that his daughter has been kidnapped. I would be beside myself if it were Ellie. Why is he not at home waiting for news? Where is the man who was almost in tears when I spoke with him?
A very unpleasant feeling is stirring in my gut.
Then I smell Coco.
“Hi Cal. What are you doing here?”
Sam.
“Hi Sam.” Relief, surprise and pleasure paint a huge smile on my face. “I’m part of the security team, but more to the point, what are you doing here? When you said you had an appointment, I had no idea it would be here.”
“My job,” she grins. “I just got a big commission to do publicity photos.”
I notice that she has the suitcase-on-wheels in which she keeps her camera equipment. “That’s great, Sam. Did Arnold set you up with Larry Corliss?”
“No, Cal.” A slight edge has slipped into her tone. “I managed to get this job all by myself.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“And it’s not for Corliss.”
“Perot?” The edge is in my voice now.
“Problem, Cal?” Ian Peake’s tone tells me he is really saying I should be keeping my attention on the job for which I am being paid, not talking to beautiful women. His message elicits equal parts of guilt at dropping the ball and frustration that I have to stop this conversation with Sam.
I raise my left hand to scratch my temple and speak into the microphone. “No problem. Sorry, Ian.”
I drop my hand. “Sorry, Sam. I have to pay attention to the people coming in.”
I smile.
She doesn’t.
As she takes off with her suitcase in tow, I notice her limp is more pronounced than usual and she is walking with the aid of a cane.
I turn my attention back to the people in the hallway. Edward Perot is coming through security. The guard has been briefed on who he is and signals him to go on in but Perot declines and has the guard pass the metal detector over him. I’m impressed. Politicians usually go for the special treatment; I like that Perot doesn’t make a big deal of his status here.
Perot is talking to a woman who also impresses me. Alexis works for the hotel and has organized this event. She’s cute too. She gave Ian’s team and me a tour of the hotel so that we could familiarize ourselves with the layout.
People are gathering around Perot and shaking hands. One of them is David Bradbury. Shame. I was hoping his money would be on Corliss.
Next is a vaguely familiar-looking face. He is in his twenties and well dressed in business-casual. The clothes look expensive. As he passes security I can see his feet. He is wearing what look like snakeskin boots: flashy but expensive; it would be typical of someone rising fast in the hierarchy of a drug gang. And he has the look: a quiet yet unmistakable aura of menace. I try to remember where I have seen him before. Was he in the same gang as Goliath, the man Ian Peake shot during the Corliss event two days ago? His eyes are focused on someone and I follow his gaze to… Sam.
I rub my nose. “Guy in the black jacket and boots looks familiar and not in a good way,” I say into the mic. “Keep someone close to him.”
“Got it.” He can hear the urgency in my voice.
I look over toward Ian. He is talking to one of his people, the one who helped take down the couple with the phony baby.
I turn back to the guy in the boots. He is no longer looking at Sam, thank God. Maybe he was just looking at her because she’s beautiful. Maybe. He takes a seat close to the stage and starts tapping at his smart phone. Ian’s colleague takes the seat immediately behind him, which only slightly reduces my unease. I scan the room again. The wall opposite me is partially mirrored, making the room even more impressive looking, so I can see the faces of people even if they are facing away from me. Perot is talking to one of the network camera crews, set up on the back wall with their equipment focused on the stage.
I hear a flurry of activity and see Larry Corliss enter with a small entourage. He walks straight over to Edward Perot and they shake hands; each of their faces showing what I think is genuine pleasure in seeing the other.
This is a good time to check out who might be following Corliss into the room; I scrutinize the entrance, looking carefully at the faces moving through the security gauntlet. No bells ring. So why am I feeling increasingly uneasy?
I scan the front of the room. Snakeskin boots is still hunched over his iPhone, oblivious to the entrance of either Perot or Corliss, and Ian’s henchman is sitting very still behind him.
I turn my attention back to the politicians. After a few words they separate and Perot goes over to Sam. He shakes her hand and she gives him a warm smile. He says something and she laughs. I feel a stab of jealousy as she puts her hand on his forearm. She looks stunning.
I can’t look at her. I turn back toward Larry Corliss. He is scanning the room and he makes eye contact with me. Leaving one of his entourage to talk to the network guys, he smiles and walks over, followed by the other two.
“Hi Cal,” he extends his hand and we shake. Although I am unsure about the wisdom of his agenda to legalize all drugs, I like the man a lot and owe him big time. He turns to his two colleagues. “Could you give us a moment, please guys.” They smile and one gives me a friendly nod but I sense they are not pleased. I take a second to scan the entranceway but there are no familiar faces. I check snakeskin boots but he is still tapping away at his screen.
Larry Corliss’ face has lost its politician’s smile. I look into worried eyes. “What’s the problem, sir?”
“First thing, Cal, why don’t you call me Larry?”
It catches me by surprise. “OK… Uh, Larry.”
I smile but his face becomes grave.
“I need your help on something. Could I ask you to attend a meeting to discuss it?”
“Of course sir,” I say, inwardly cursing the fact that it’s going to keep me from my next step towards finding Ariel: a visit to Mark Traynor.
“After the debate, I’ll probably have to perform for the TV cameras for a while. After that, we can meet here in the hotel in the Seymour Board Room on the second floor.”
“I’ll be there,” I assure him trying not to show my reluctance.
“Good man.” I receive a pat on the shoulder and get the full force of his charismatic smile.
His news has ramped up my feelings of unease. Maybe I’m wrong in my assumption that there would not be a second attempt on his life.
The room is almost full now with most people sitting down. I check out the faces still waiting to clear security. Nothing. I walk to the front of the room and stand beside the stage. Row by row, I check each face. Except for snakeskin boots, none of them ring any warning bells.
Then I see him and my mind goes on alert.
Walking toward the stage is a man holding three microphones. It is a face I know. I move in front of the stage in his direction. “Near the mirror. Familiar face with the microphones,” I say into my sleeve.
The mountain has come to Mohammed.
I focus on the mics. They look innocent enough, except that there are already three mics on the stage. Why would he be taking three more? He is almost coming up behind Sam, who has positioned herself against the mirrored part of the wall and is taking pictures of her client. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Larry Corliss step up onto the stage. The guy with the mics is not looking at Corliss but at Sam. I keep moving and intersect his path at the corner of the stage.
“Could I look at those microphones please, Mr. Traynor?”
His face registers surprise. “How did you—”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 72