I take the mics from his hand. They are much lighter than I expected. I find the switch on one of them and turn it on. The tap of my finger booms from the ceiling speakers. Just to be sure, I repeat the procedure with the other mics before I hand them back.
“I need to speak to you some more Mr. Traynor. Can you meet me after the debate?”
“What for?” He blinks his green and brown eyes.
“I just need to ask you some more questions.”
He thinks for a beat, says, “Sure,” and steps up onto the stage.
“Do you know him?” Ian’s voice says through my earpiece.
I walk back toward my original position. “Yeah. Right face, wrong context,” I tell him. I’m pretty sure it’s the wrong context. Why would the sound guy, fired by the producer of Canada’s Littlest Beauty show up at the debate. I’m leery of coincidence but this is almost certainly just that.
Traynor replaces the hotel mics with his own and says the obligatory, “Testing, testing” into each of them before returning to his position with the TV crews.
The debate moderator takes his position at the centre microphone. “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am happy to welcome you to…” I tune him out.
Ian and two of his men are entering the room. They close the double doors and one takes up his post in front of them. Ian walks over and stands beside me and his other colleague stands by the TV crews who are filming the debate for their networks’ late news.
I look toward snakeskin boots. He is taking photos of Larry Corliss which increases my feelings of unease.
“Excuse me guys.” I turn toward the whisper. It’s Alexis, who works for the hotel. “You said to let you know if I saw anyone doing anything odd.”
She has Ian’s and my attention.
“What did you see?” Ian asks.
She addresses her answer to me. “One of our banquet servers said he saw someone in the corridor that runs behind this room and into the kitchen; he had to ask him to leave.
“Do you have a description of this person?” Ian asks.
“Yes. He said average height, sandy hair and well dressed.”
I scan the room; there are at least twenty-five people who fit the description.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. He said the man had really cool boots.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it,” I say and am rewarded with a lovely smile.
Within seconds Ian and I are looming over the familiar face in the snakeskin boots. Ian’s colleague, sitting behind him, also stands.
“Sit down,” someone hisses.
Snakeskin looks up and smiles at us. It is one of those smiles that sits on the lips and never reaches the eyes. Although he is ringed by the three of us—and there is no doubt that the other two are hard, ex-military—he shows no sign of any concern, let alone fear.
“Would you come with us please sir?” Ian says in a tone that denies there is any question in what he has just said.
Snakeskin takes a leisurely sneer at each of us, slips his iPhone into the breast pocket of his jacket and stands.
We escort him down the aisle, through the doors and into the lobby. Without asking permission, Ian frisks him thoroughly and finds nothing out of the ordinary.
Ian says, “This is a private function I’m afraid sir.” He opens the door leading out onto the street.
With the same sneer playing on his lips he walks to the door but stops half-way through. He turns. “Good night, gentlemen.” He looks at me and sheer malevolence sends a chill down my spine. “See you again, Rogan.”
He turns and walks off.
How the hell does he know my name?
I move to follow him but Ian’s hard grip encases my bicep. “We have other priorities.”
He’s right. Quelling my curiosity, I return with Ian and his colleague to the ballroom.
I rack my memory. Where have I seen that face before? Nothing comes.
Then a sudden, out-of-the-blue, off-the-wall intuition.
But if I’m right, how could he possibly know my name?
21
Cal
The mood has changed. Larry Corliss has gone from ebullience at what he perceives as his victory in the debate to solemnity at this meeting.
He is seated at the head of the conference table with a can of Coors Light in front of him. I am on his right and Arnold Young and Bill Watson, Larry’s campaign manager, are facing me. Bill has been waxing enthusiastically about Larry’s performance in the debate. In his opinion Larry won hands down.
Arnold and I sit in silence while Ian walks round the room with a device called a nonlinear junction detector looking for electronic bugs.
It is almost a year since I have been face-to-face with Arnold. He still has his ramrod-straight bearing and eagle eye but he has aged more than the twelve months would warrant. Maybe he is thinking the same thing about me.
As much as I want to help Larry, I just want to be out of here. When the debate finished, Mark Traynor was nowhere to be found. His colleagues said he left just after the debate started. I need to track him down. And I keep thinking about the guy in the snakeskin boots. All my time on the streets and as a cop has given me an antenna for detecting drug gang members and I’m sure he’s one. And he’s not a street-level dealer either; although he’s different physically, he reminds me of ‘Blondie’, the number two man in a drug gang, who nearly beat me to death.
I cannot shake the feeling that snakeskin boots is the Bookman, the drug dealer whom Stammo’s runaway, Tyler Wilcox, hangs out with. I want to get out of here and talk to Stammo about it. See if his snitch can confirm the Bookman’s fondness for snakeskin boots. And I need to talk to Mark Traynor. I’ve made some progress today but not enough and every minute counts. Who knows what could be happening to Ariel.
“All clear,” Ian announces. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.” He leaves and closes the conference door behind him.
“So, Mr. Corliss.” Arnold calls everybody by his surname; he has called me ‘Mr. Rogan’ since I was twelve. “How can we help you?”
Larry Corliss takes a deep breath. “We all know that the very last thing the drug gangs want is the legalization of drugs. Well… I guess they think I’m a threat to the status quo. I got an email this afternoon. It contained a threat and a promise.”
“If there’s a threat to you don’t you think we should ask Ian to step back in?” Arnold asks.
“No, it’s not that sort of threat and I want to keep the circle of people who know about this to a minimum. Bill is here because he’s my campaign manager and I don’t keep anything from him. Arnold, I owe it to you to let you know this. You manage the funds set up by the late Mr. Wallace to help support my campaign and you need to decide whether or not to continue that support. Cal, you are here because I need someone with police experience to act for me in this. I can’t take it to the VPD or RCMP.”
He’s got my attention.
“Ten years ago my father was very sick. He was dying, but not quickly, and he was in a lot of pain. He refused to spend his last year in the hospital so I would go over to his house a couple of times a day to look after him. He had syrup containing morphine for control of the pain. But after a while he lost so much motor control, he would drop the syrup bottle and be unable to pick it up. The first time it happened, I got over there in the evening and he was screaming in pain. He had gone six hours without the morphine. Anyway, I took a leave of absence from work—I was in the Crown Prosecutor’s office at the time—and stayed with him most of the day.
“The pain started to get more frequent and I set up a meeting with his doctor. He said Dad was likely to live another six months and there was nothing more he could do for him unless he moved into a hospice. The next morning Dad said that he didn’t want to go into a hospice. He asked me to gradually increase the dosage and frequency of the morphine until he didn’t wake up again. I didn’t want to do it but he begged me.”
He stops for
a moment; locked in the memory. For the first time, I notice the muted ticking of a clock on the wall.
He shakes his head as if to clear away the thoughts. “Anyway, I did as he asked. Two weeks later he was dead.”
The story makes me think of Sam. At some point her MS will get so bad that she won’t be able to function any more. The thought of it sends a worm of dread slithering through my intestines. Knowing Sam, she would likely ask me to help her out of her misery.
I’d want to be there for her but I don’t know if I’d actually be able do it.
Larry’s voice brings me back. “The email I got this morning said the sender had proof that I’d killed my father and that it would be released to the press if I didn’t withdraw my candidacy.”
Bill Watson is the first to react. “Who sent the email?”
“It was sent from an anonymous email service.”
“Is there any way to trace it back to the sender?” Bill asks.
“I don’t think so.”
An idea forms in my head. “Do you still have the email, sir?”
“Yes. And it’s Larry, not sir.” I smile and I see Arnold frown.
“Forward it to me. I know someone who may be able to track down where it was sent from.” I slide my business card across the conference table. “Assuming it was a drug gang who sent it, how did they find out? Who else knows about the circumstances of your father’s death?”
“Good question. I think Dad’s doctor knew, or at least guessed, but because he’s a Roman Catholic, I never discussed it with him. My then-wife knew. Also, I told my younger sister and she hit the roof. She said I’d done it to get my hands on the inheritance so that I could finance my first run for Mayor.”
“Can you give me names and contact information for them? If one of them leaked the information, I want to know which one and to whom they leaked it.”
He nods.
We lapse into silence until Arnold breaks it.
“You said you received a threat and a promise,” he says. “What was the promise?”
“The email said if I withdrew, I would receive a quarter of a million bucks ‘for my trouble.’”
“That’s a lot of money,” Bill says.
“Not to a drug gang,” Arnold counters. “Among some contacts I have in the US government, it’s well known that there are as many as a half a dozen Congressmen who are on the payroll of the drug gangs to the tune of a million bucks a year each; and maybe a couple of Senators too. Their job is to ensure that US legislation stays in lockstep with the needs of the drug cartels. They make sure any legislation that even smells of legalization of drugs never gets near the statute books. A one-off payment of two hundred and fifty grand is penny-ante change to the gangs for keeping prices high and profits huge.”
Larry is nodding his agreement.
A thought comes to me. “What if it’s not a drug gang. What if your opponent, or someone in his camp, knew about your Dad’s death and was trying to get you to withdraw.”
“Long shot, Cal,” Larry says. “I’ve known Ed Perot for quite a while and I don’t think he’s the type to do anything like that.” I am not too sure about that. Perot seems like a nice guy but he is a politician after all and I still have my cop’s natural aversion to the breed.
“Even if he did make the threat, he hasn’t got the money to offer me two hundred and fifty grand to withdraw,” he adds.
“Maybe, but what about one of his supporters… Dave Bradbury for example.” I remember my visit to Bentley and Bradbury, Merchant Bancorp. The artwork on the office walls would pay my rent for a decade.
Arnold snorts. “David Bradbury doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. We did some work for his late father-in-law’s firm. The old man put a lot of money into Bradbury’s firm but unfortunately he has zero talent for finance. He’s made a series of spectacularly bad investments and is on the point of bankruptcy.”
I think over my interview with Bradbury. When I asked him whether he had received a ransom demand, I felt something was wrong. Was it the fact that if he did receive a substantial ransom demand, he wouldn’t be able to pay it?
Or what if he already has…?
A very uneasy feeling is stirring in my gut.
Larry’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “Is there anything we can do gentlemen or is my run at federal politics at an end?”
There is a long silence. I think about Larry’s predicament. Either he is exposed, at the best case, for assisted suicide or, at the worst case, for manslaughter, or he takes the offer of the bribe.
“Why not go public with the email,” I suggest. “Deny the details and blame the drug gangs for trying to silence you.”
I can see Bill Watson, the campaign manager, weighing the options. “It might work,” he says.
“It wouldn’t.” Arnold’s tone is adamant. “They are not making empty threats. You can bet they have someone willing to give evidence that you killed your father. Your career would be dead and you could end up in jail.”
“You’re right,” says Larry. “Maybe I should withdraw but refuse to take the bribe.”
“Definitely not.”
All eyes turn to Arnold. A small smile is playing on his lips. Arnold’s smiles are always small.
“If we are willing to spend a little money for Mr. Rogan’s services, I think we should try and turn the tables on them,” he says.
In the silence, I am as confused as everyone else at the table.
22
Cal
I press all the door buzzers except one. Then wait… Suddenly a whole bunch of voices are questioning. “Hello.” “Who is this? Don’t you know it’s almost midnight?” “Is that you Fred?” But one person figures they know who has pressed his door bell. The lock on the front door buzzes. I push it open and walk in.
The lobby smells of mould I don’t care. This is where I get to make a big move forward on Ariel’s case.
According to his personnel record, given to me by Thomas Radcliffe, Mark Traynor is in apartment 505.
The elevator is old, smelly and slow.
Ellie’s identification this afternoon of Sherri Oliver as the phony cop at St. Cecelia’s has changed everything. The address in her personnel file was non-existent but I have this feeling in my gut that Mark Traynor might know where I can track her down. In addition to playing the female police officer, she is also the voice of Justin and deep into the kidnapping of Ariel Bradbury.
If Mark Traynor can get me a location for Sherri Oliver, this case will likely be solved. Ariel may be traumatized but she’ll be home and safe.
As the elevator stops at the fifth floor, I stifle a yawn. It’s been a long day.
I step out on to the stained carpet.
I wonder why Traynor lives in a place like this. He must make good money in the movie business. Maybe he’s going to use the ‘severance pay’ he extorted from Radcliffe to get a better place to live.
Apartment 505 is directly opposite the elevator.
I didn’t ring his buzzer downstairs because I don’t want him to blow me off. For the same reason, I knock loudly and say “Fortis BC. Checking for a gas leak.”
No response.
I put my ear to the door. I hear what sounds like a voice on the radio. Maybe a sportscast.
I knock again.
“Did you say there’s a gas leak?”
The lady from 504 looks like she’s at least a hundred years old.
“No ma’am. You must have misheard me. There’s nothing to worry about.” I say it quietly. I don’t want Traynor to hear my denial.
“What did you say?”
“I said there’s nothing for you to worry about. The problem is in Mr. Traynor’s apartment.”
She looks at me for a moment.
“Why didn’t you say so before.”
She turns and slams the door behind her.
I knock harder on Traynor’s door.
Nothing.
The lock on the door is one of those che
ap locks where the keyhole is in the door knob. No problem.
I turn the knob.
Open sesame. Easier than I thought.
The apartment smells of pizza. I close the door behind me and turn the little gizmo that locks it.
I’m in a tiny hallway. Bathroom to the left, closet to the right. There are no pictures or photos on the walls.
“Mark?”
Nothing.
“Mark. Are you home?” A little louder.
I know I shouldn’t be doing this but I’m going to anyway.
I walk ahead into the living room. It’s sparsely furnished but with a big screen TV showing hockey. A replay of the LA Kings getting stomped by the Canucks. He’s not going to be gone long. On the opposite side of the room is an Apple MacBook. I touch the mousepad and the screen comes to life. No password. Good. I click the Spotlight icon and type Sherri Oliver.
The elevator door screeches open.
Crap.
Two quick steps to the hallway, step into the bathroom and push the door almost closed. If he comes in and doesn’t need to pee, I’ll be in a good position to take him. The bathroom smells of mildew. As so often happens, the smell triggers a memory, this one is of the many apartments I lived in as a kid.
Someone knocks on the door.
Pause.
Knock-knock.
Pause.
Knock-knock-knock.
“Mark?”
A woman’s voice.
Silence.
I have a wild thought that it might be Sherri Oliver. Maybe I should open the door. No wait, there’s a peephole.
As I step out of the bathroom, she tries the door. Thank goodness I thought to lock it.
Two steps take me to the peephole.
She’s facing the elevator, her back to me, but she has the ponytail. It is her. Now she’s going to be in for a big surprise.
The elevator door squeals open again.
I snatch open the apartment door.
She is stepping into the elevator.
“Sherri.” I take a step towards her.
She turns. Scared look. “Who the hell are you?” she asks.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 73