35
Cal
Saturday
We are in a diner on Pender Island where Ellie is delighted with the breakfast menu. As I watch her with what I know is a silly parental smile on my face, I can’t help thinking of Ariel. I wonder if she is alive and if, on the unlikely chance that she is alive, what she might be doing. But I can’t think about that. I have to assume she is alive and I have to find her.
“Waffles with blueberries!” Ellie announces her choice.
I signal the server to come over. She gives me the one-finger-raised-with-a-smile signal that says she’ll be right there.
Our trip to Pender Island has been fun but although I have learned something stunning about Dave Bradbury, I am still no closer to finding Ariel. My hopes that someone might recognize Sherri Oliver—or the boat on which she sped away to this island last Thursday—have been dashed. I can’t help thinking about that poor kid. Every time I think of her I am suffused with anger at myself for losing the one lead we had: Sherri Oliver. I know I would do anything to save her yet I didn’t do the one thing that would have: cooperate with Steve and the VPD.
“What’s the matter Daddy? You look sad. Were you thinking about Ariel?” I am shocked at the combination of observation and intuition in my daughter.
“Wow, Ell, you would be a great detective.”
“I’m going to be, just like you,” she answers proudly before a cloud crosses her face. “Whoops, Mommy told me not to tell you that.”
“That’s OK sweetie.” Why would Sam tell her that?
“Hi are you ready to order?” the fresh-faced server asks us.
“Waffles and blueberries, please. And a glass of milk.”
“I’ll have the ‘Full Works’ breakfast and coffee, please.” I don’t usually eat breakfast but I’m going to go with Ellie’s holiday spirit.
“I’m glad that you want to be a detective Ell and I’m going to give you some advice that my Mom gave me when I was young. You have to work hard in school and get at least one University degree before you become a policewoman.”
“OK, Daddy.”
“Maybe you could get a degree in Forensic Science. That’s where you use science to discover how someone did a crime and who did it.”
“Are you using that to find Ariel?”
“No sweetie.”
“Why not?” Why not indeed. She is asking great questions.
“You know what? You would be a good detective, you know all the right questions to ask.” That elicits a big smile. That smile, for a joyous moment, drives away my cares and worries. “Bring me a father that so loved his child, Whose joy of her is overwhelming like mine,” I misquote. “That was one of the things I learned in University.”
The moment of joy has freed my mind. Maybe I have got closer to finding Ariel. The Bradbury home on Pender Island is on Razor Point Road. It’s the same name as the company that sent the blackmail money to try and get Larry Corliss to quit the race for Mayor. We speculated that it might be drug money. If Bradbury controls the money maybe Ariel’s kidnapping is being used to control him. It might explain why he hasn’t seemed concerned about her disappearance. He knows if he does what he’s told he’ll get her back. There are a few too many ifs, mights and maybes but it’s definitely worth pursuing.
“Thank you my darling girl. You just gave me a clue.”
“You’re welcome.”
I can’t help feeling a little stirring of pride at the thought that Ellie wants to be a detective ‘just like me’. Hopefully she’ll be a better one.
36
Ariel
No more dancing lessons. No more dressing up. If only I could be with Mommy and Daddy. I’ve been here for like forever. The kind old lady who doesn’t speak English is taking me for a walk in the garden. It’s very pretty and soooooo big. We are near what that policewoman calls the beach. But it’s not like any beach I’ve ever seen. It’s all rocky and it hurts my feet when I walk on it. And there’s that wooden dock thing. It like floats on the water and that pretty boat is tied up to it.
The policewoman said that I just have to give one performance then I can go home. She said it’s real soon. I hope it is. I really want to see Mommy and Daddy. I miss them so much.
The nice lady looks up in the air and I hear the sound. I don’t like it because every time it’s brought that man who just looks at me. He’s yucky.
I can see it now. The black helicopter. It’s really loud too. It’s landing way over the other side of the garden.
I hope he’s not in it.
I really, really, really hope he’s not.
37
Sam
Cal texted to say they will be here soon. I can’t wait to see them. Seeing Ellie will be wonderful and will make me feel so much better. However, the thoughts of Cal have me confused. I keep going over it again and again.
Ed Perot and I had a lovely evening. When he got back here we had coffee and liqueurs and he wanted to see my photo portfolios. He thought my pictures of Ellie were wonderful and he was so attentive. When he looked like he was about to kiss me, I slid closer to him on the couch but he didn’t respond so I thought that maybe he was shy or maybe I was the first person he had got close to since the death of his wife and so I decided to make it easier for him.
I topped up his glass then excused myself and went into the bedroom, primped, put on my sexiest negligée and came out. He was standing, sorting through my photos so I walked over and put my arms around his neck. I was immediately turned on by the feel of his hardness through the thin silk. He looked into my eyes the way he did in the restaurant and I just melted inside.
Then he just mumbled, “I’m sorry. I can’t.” And he left.
I was stunned.
He left me feeling like I was dirty. How could I have read him so badly? Clearly he was turned on but… Did I do something wrong? Maybe the perfume I dabbed across my throat made him think of his dead wife. Maybe I was going too fast for him. I just don’t know. But I can’t shake this feeling of dirtiness. And thinking of Cal about to arrive makes it feel worse and I really don’t know why.
The madly ringing doorbell drags me out of my thoughts but not out of my mood. I can hear Ellie’s chatter as I go to the door. What would she think? And will the ever-observant Cal divine my thoughts?
I open the door.
“Mommy, you will never guess what we saw from the plane. We saw killer whales and they were so close. There was even a baby one, he was sooooo cute.” My spirits are immediately lifted and I wish I could pick her up and twirl her around but the MS has put an end to that.
Instead I hug her. I look up and see Cal standing, uncertain, in the doorway. “Come in then,” I tell him.
“How was your trip?” I ask Ellie but get the reply, “I have to go pee really badly.” She scoots off into the powder room.
Cal is standing there like a shy schoolboy. “So, how was the trip?” I ask him.
“It was great. We had such a fun time. I had some business to look into as well and she was really patient. We got to see all of the Island, explored the beach, had some great food and just generally had a perfect father-daughter time.”
My spirits are doubly lifted.
“Were you looking for clues to Ariel Bradbury’s disappearance?”
“Yes. We went round to all the harbours and marinas looking for a boat that I think her kidnapper owns. Ell loved seeing all the boats and the fishermen on the docks. She’s inquisitive about everything.”
“Did you find the boat you were looking for?”
His expression sobers a bit. “No, but I did find a connection that might be relevant, I’m going to check it out later.”
“That’s good. It’s progress, right?”
“I guess.” I can see his mind chewing over what he learned.
Suddenly I don’t want him to go. “Why don’t you stay for a bit and have a coffee?”
“Sorry, I can’t. I have to meet with Arnold and then I promised
Nick I’d help him on a case he’s working on.”
“Well how about dinner? We could send out to Bella Pizza.” Am I sounding too eager?
“Sorry, there’s a lead I have to follow and I can only do it tonight. It’s connected to the Ariel case.”
“Oh.” I feel deflated again. I want to ask him if maybe tomorrow night would work but I don’t want to sound needy.
“I’d better get going. Arnold’s expecting me in about ten minutes and I’m fifteen minutes from his office.”
He shouts a goodbye to Ell and leaves me alone with my thoughts. Cal made me think that maybe we could be a family again. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t used since the time he was kidnapped and shot full of drugs. And somehow this private detective business with Nick seems to be working out.
And he is such a good man. He always wants to do good and I can’t imagine that will ever change.
Maybe the thing with Ed Perot worked out the way it was supposed to.
I’ll tidy up a bit and then take Ell shopping. As I walk to the bookcase, I can see my portfolio of Ellie’s pics is open on the coffee table. A reminder of last night which I need to erase. The pictures are a complete mess, not in their previous order. Cal always used to laugh at my fussiness about the arrangement of my picture portfolios. As I rearrange them I smile, thinking about the circumstances of each shot. After her first day of school, her first time in the St. Cecelia’s uniform, her first big gymnastics competition. Some of the pictures seem to be missing. I’m sure I saw them last night. Maybe they are in the wrong place.
I sort through them; at least three of them are gone; if memory serves they were pictures I took of her in her swimsuit on Second Beach. Did Ed put them somewhere? I have to sort these out and find the missing ones. They must be here somewhere. But where?
38
Cal
My phone beeps. Great, it’s the email from Steve. The attachment is a one-page WORD document. I read it.
I know what you’ve been doing, $100,000 will buy my silence.
If you pay me $100,000 I will destroy the evidence.
I know what you did. I have the evidence. A payment of $100,000 is nothing to you. I will give you the evidence when you give me the money. Must be a public place.
Its lack of specificity is annoying. It’s like Mark Traynor was scripting various ways of presenting his blackmail pitch. It could apply to Thomas Radcliffe but despite what I learned from Adriana his secretary, I’m betting not. I’ll know better tonight.
“Mr. Rogan, come in and sit down.”
I get up and walk into Arnold’s office. As always he comes straight to the point.
“When we took on Larry Corliss as a client we did checks on everybody connected to his campaign and the campaign of Edward Perot. That was when I discovered that David Bradbury’s company was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. It didn’t seem germane at the time. However, we didn’t look into the affairs of his wife. So we knew nothing of her property on Pender Island, on Razor Point Road as you discovered. It can hardly be a coincidence that the Cayman Islands company which paid Mr. Corliss a cool quarter of a million for withdrawing from the race is called Razor Point Holdings. Mr. Bradbury supplied the money to get Mr. Corliss out of the race.”
“We’ve been assuming that it was a drug gang that wanted Larry out of the race,” I say. A frown passes across Arnold’s face; is it because of my use of Corliss’ first name or is it something else? “Maybe this has nothing to do with drugs.”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve had some time to think about this and make some discreet inquiries. Here’s what I think happened.” Arnold looks like a cat who has just found a bowl of cream. “After your call yesterday, I have looked into the affairs of Bentley and Bradbury a little more deeply. It’s a private firm so its financial statements are not public, however after a lot of digging I discovered that the firm was initially capitalized to the tune of almost a hundred million dollars by Mrs. Bradbury’s father just before his death. Bradbury invested that money into a number of companies in such diverse fields as mining, oil and gas exploration and high-tech. Interestingly, all the companies in which he invested over a period of years went into bankruptcy. I have people digging deeper but I think those companies were just shells, controlled by him, that allowed him to funnel the Bradbury wealth into his own pockets.”
“Thieving bastard,” is all I can think to say.
“Oh but that’s not the half of it,” says Arnold in his most British of tones. “It seems that there was a very substantial investment made in Bentley and Bradbury a few years back. And this was also invested in a number of little known companies which all similarly went bankrupt. But those companies most likely made payments to phony suppliers by cheque or bank transfer.”
“Money laundering!”
“Indeed. I think Mr. Bradbury is in cahoots with a drug gang. So while my people dig into the financial side, your job is to (a) prove Bradbury’s connection to drugs and (b) turn Bradbury. With Bradbury on our side, Larry Corliss can reveal that he was blackmailed and return to the race to be MP for Vancouver East. And we can hand Bradbury over to the VPD; they can use him to get to Santiago.”
“What about Ed Perot? What if Bradbury has contributed to his re-election as a proxy for Santiago.” I ask.
“Yes, I’ve been mulling that over too. I think Mr. Perot is a decent man. I doubt that he knows the source of Bradbury’s wealth. Nevertheless, you have to look into it.”
Oh I will Arnold. You don’t know how much yet.
Arnold stands. Meeting over. Unexpectedly he shakes my hand before ushering me out.
As I leave his office, I feel like the cat who got the bowl of cream. I’ve got two tasks to perform and I’m looking forward to them both.
39
Cal
Pigeon Park. It’s a total misnomer: a triangle of sidewalk on the corner of Hastings and Carrall teeming as usual with the dispossessed of the downtown east side. People in ragged clothing, eking out a living selling single cigarettes, crackheads jabbering and twitching and trying to figure out where the next hit is coming from, an addict on the nod enjoying the fading ecstasy of her recent hit of heroin or, god forbid, fentanyl. This is the place I used to call home. It’s not far from where the Mayor, Council and City officials of 1886 pitched a tent and labeled it ‘City Hall.’ We’ve come a long way baby but not all of it is good. This is my city at its ugliest.
I’m here to fulfill my promise to Stammo to help on the Tyler case. I don’t want to be here. It stirs up the Beast inside who is dying for a hit of heroin. I can’t seem to escape it. The best part of the Ariel Bradbury case was that there was no drug connection but with the discovery that Dave Bradbury probably controls the company that paid off Larry Corliss, even that is gone. I can’t seem to get away from it.
Right now I want to be grilling Bradbury about Razor Point Holdings, but Stammo is not letting me off the hook. Anyway, his plan may be pretty damn drastic but it makes sense.
I look east on Hastings and see Stammo’s van parked by the curb in the next block. He must have the window cracked open because periodically a stream of smoke appears from the driver’s side. He’s nervous. These days he only smokes when he’s nervous. His snitch, Eddie, told him that Tyler comes here to deliver drugs to the flophouse which the gangs deal out of every day around noon. I check my watch for the tenth time. Ten past twelve, three minutes later than the last time I checked.
“Looking to buy?” With that unerring instinct of an addict he knows I might be a customer. He’s probably around twenty-five but looks decades older.
“Got any white stuff?” I find myself asking and suddenly the longing washes through me.
“Sure. Fifteen bucks.”
Without thinking, I reach for my wallet and the cash and baggie are exchanged in that furtive way we are both all too familiar with. He turns and walks quickly away as I pocket the heroin.
I look around guiltily to see if Stammo observed th
e transaction when I notice a Mercedes SUV pull up on Carrall street. This’ll be him. No one in a Mercedes stops their vehicle at Pigeon Park. I feel the thrill of anticipation. The call to action.
A young-ish guy gets out of the driver’s seat. It’s not Tyler. Maybe someone else is making the drop. I can’t see him that well, he’s shielded by the Merc. He moves to the back and the hatchback door opens. I can see him now. Well-dressed, confident looking. He reminds me of the long-dead Blondie from my past.
He reaches into the back and takes out a big aluminum baking pan. He carries it over to one of the benches and deposits it there. “Help yourselves,” he says.
People descend on the free food like pigeons on a slice of bread. “Thanks, man.” “God bless you.” “You’re doin’ a real good thing, sir.” The voices ring out, truly grateful for this small act of kindness. No sign of jealousy or resentment that a rich guy in a fancy car is dispensing charity. The man nods and smiles, almost shyly, as he gets back into his SUV and drives off.
People walk away from the baking pan with handfuls of chicken wings, handing some to their friends in wheelchairs, enjoying what may be their only meal of the day. One raggedy old guy nudges the heroin addict. Her eyes open blearily and he pushes some chicken into her hand: a man with nothing, giving something.
The burble of a car exhaust catches my attention. There it is, pulling up on the Hastings Street edge of the park. A blue Shelby. I sit down on a bench so that I can look inside. The passenger door opens and Tyler gets out, looking exactly like Stammo’s photo of him with the small birthmark on his chin. He reaches behind the seat and takes out a metal briefcase. The drugs. As he steps back I get a good look at the driver. Young, well-dressed, good-looking. Not a lot different from the Good Samaritan in the Mercedes, on the surface anyway. More to the point, I recognize him. I feel a touch of smugness. I’m betting that if I could see his feet, they would be encased in expensive snakeskin boots. He’s the same guy whom we ejected from the debate between Larry Corliss and Edward Perot. At the time, something deep in my consciousness figured that he was the Bookman. I’m still wondering how he knew my name. And if he knows my name does he know about Sam and Ellie? A worm of fear slithers through my gut.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 78