Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  Just like Eddie, Stammo’s snitch, told us was the routine, the Bookman drives off with a little squeal of the tires. I get up and head off Tyler on his path to the flophouse.

  “Tyler?” I say. He looks at me, his blue eyes neutral. Even though his boss knows me, he shows zero signs of recognition.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  I see Stammo’s van pull into the space vacated by the Shelby. I nod in its direction and say, “He wants to talk to you.”

  He turns and watches as the passenger window slides down revealing Stammo, cigarette gone, leaning across the passenger seat toward him. “Come here a minute, Tyler,” he says.

  I match Tyler’s pace as he takes the three steps to the curb and leans into the window. “Hi Mr. Stammo.” I can’t see his face but can hear the hint of exasperation in his voice. “Listen, I know my Dad wants me to go back home but it just ain’t gonna happen. I told you that before. I’ve got a life out here, I’m doing real good.” The English major in me cringes at the grammar, but I ignore it and slide open the side door of Stammo’s converted minivan.

  “Just get inside and listen to what Mr. Stammo has to say.” I feel my muscles tense.

  He turns to me, suspicion wrought across his face. He glances at Stammo and knows exactly what’s happening. Instinct and adrenaline take over but before he can move, my right hand has grabbed his bicep and pulled him off balance and toward the van door. He partly recovers but I’m too quick. I reach across him with my left hand and grab the lapel of his leather jacket; I spin him toward me and give him a mighty shove and lift, depositing him on his back on the floor of the van.

  I scoop up his legs, push them inside the van and my world explodes in a galaxy of stars.

  I look up from the sidewalk and through the blur I can just see my assailant. A big guy, straggly hair, beer belly and tattoos. Stammo’s description of Carl: gang member, drug dealer, thug. He is pulling Tyler out of the van. He must think that he has incapacitated me. Almost without thought, my leg scythes into the back of his left knee and he stumbles forward undoing his efforts to extricate Tyler. By the time I’m on my feet, he has recovered and turned to face me, just in time to stop my fist with his fleshy nose. It’s a hasty punch without a lot of force and he bellows more from annoyance than pain.

  “Fight!” I hear from one of the people behind me. There are a few cheers. I’m the lunchtime entertainment.

  I follow my first jab with a hard right to the head; it has Carl staggering but before I can follow through, Tyler aims a kick at my crotch. Rookie move. I pivot and cup my hand under his calf and flip him back into the van. It gives me maybe three seconds and as I turn back toward Carl, I see it. A black hunting knife. Just like Roy used to carry and is now buried with.

  He has a big gloating smile on his face. “I’m gonna cut you, you son of a—” Another error made. His gloating time has given me the opportunity to plant myself sideways and as he steps forward my right leg curls up and releases, slamming my heel into his knee. Not quite enough force to break but enough to incapacitate for a few moments. Through the battle mist, I hear an approving roar from the crowd and feel a leather-clad arm across my throat. Tyler is stronger than I expected and he is holding on for all he’s worth, no doubt hoping to slow me down while Carl takes the time to recover. It takes me a second or two to swing around then I’m in position. I have been pulling forward against the arm so now I reverse and back-pedal, slamming Tyler into the side of Stammo’s van, letting my head snap back. I’m a couple of inches taller than him so the back of my head doesn’t connect with his nose but it has certainly increased the momentum of his head as it connects with the opened door. His arm on my throat loosens enough to allow me to wriggle free and turn toward Carl.

  Carl’s not there. But there is a uniformed policeman, almost exactly my height and build but much younger and I’m betting much fitter. His nightstick is raised ready to strike. I think that if this were somewhere other than Canada, I might have been shot already. I raise my hands and step back.

  The world slows to normal. I figure that not more than twenty seconds have passed since I slid open the door of the minivan. How did the cop get here so quickly? I look around. Standing to my right with his hand on his holstered Glock is Sarge. An old-timer at the VPD with whom I have some history. Much of it not good.

  The young cop speaks first. “All of you, hands on the van.” Tyler, Carl and I all obey.

  Within seconds, we all have our hands cuffed behind us with plastic zip ties.

  I’m guessing it’s going to be some hours before we can sort all this out; precious hours that are keeping me from getting closer to finding Ariel.

  Then it hits me. I have a baggy of heroin in my pocket. When we get to the Cambie Street Station that is going to complicate matters a lot.

  Stammo has wheeled down the ramp from his van and is sitting next to me while the uniforms are calling for backup. In deference to their former working relationship, Sarge hasn’t cuffed him.

  “Nick, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Sure, anything.”

  I’m going to rely on the guilty feelings he must have about the situation we are now in. “In my pocket there’s a baggie. Can you take it out.”

  He cuts me a sharp look which quickly morphs into disgust. He looks over at the uniforms and, shaking his head in disapproval, slips his hand into my pocket. He pulls out the baggy and flicks it behind him into the gutter. The wrench I feel is greater than the relief. I try to console myself with the thought that most of the heroin now sold in Vancouver is not heroin at all but fentanyl and that it may very well have killed me.

  But even that thought doesn’t make me feel any better.

  And to make matters worse, this fiasco is going to take up precious time I could be spending tracking down Ariel.

  40

  Stammo

  What the fuck, Mr. Stammo?” He glares at me through the bars. “You tried to fuckin’ kidnap me. D’you think I was just gonna go back to Toron’o like some little kid going home to Mommy and Daddy. Now I’m in here with my fingerprints all over a briefcase with a kilo of coke in it. What the fuck?”

  He’s right. And Rogan was right too. He only went ahead with the kidnapping idea because I persuaded him. We finally sorted the whole thing out and Rogan’s gone off to follow up his lead on the Ariel kidnapping. To his credit, he didn’t blame me for the whole damn thing, not out loud anyway.

  “Look Tyler I’m sorry. But maybe—”

  “Sorry! You’re sorry! I’m gonna go to jail for god knows how many years and you’re fucking sorry. Oh, well that’s OK isn’t it.”

  I wonder how I’m going to tell his Dad that I’m the reason his son’s in jail. Oh God.

  “You’re not gonna go to jail, Ty.”

  That stops him. I can see the anger leave his face a bit.

  “What’ja mean?” There is hope there. Not much but some.

  “A plea bargain. No time and witness protection. All you’ve got to do is tell them that you worked for this Bookman character and for Carlos Santiago.”

  “But Mr. Stammo, you don’t understand—”

  “Sure I do. Look, I’ll even pay for the lawyer out of my own pocket. I know a great one. James Garry. He demolished me on the stand quite a few times, I hated the bastard but he is one hell of a defence lawyer.” I’m not sure how I’m gonna come up with the money. Conscience money is what it is.

  He goes quiet. “Do you think I could, like, not have to go to prison?”

  “Sure. Now listen carefully. Do not say anything to anyone until you’ve spoken to the lawyer. Promise me.”

  “Sure, I promise. But there’s one thing I need to tell you—”

  “No!” I interrupt him. “Don’t tell me anything, OK. I can be forced to repeat something you said to me but your lawyer can’t. Like I said, say nothing ’til you’ve spoken with him.”

  “OK, Mr. Stammo.” He kinda deflates, poor kid.

  N
ow I’ve got to go home and face the music with Bob, his Dad. It’s not gonna be pretty.

  Hopefully Rogan is gonna have a more productive evening.

  41

  Cal

  I sure am glad they have a bar here. With nothing on the menu under thirty bucks I’m glad I don’t have to freak out Stammo with a huge expense claim. I’ve already freaked him out enough today—not that it wouldn’t be worth it. Mark Traynor’s calendar had an entry for last Thursday at seven: a line of dollar signs followed by the words The Lift. The same restaurant and the same time where Edward Perot came with Sam and Ellie, ostensibly because he had a meeting scheduled here which was canceled. A coincidence perhaps? Perhaps not.

  The view is spectacular. Vancouver Harbour in the foreground with its marinas and boathouses, the Stanley Park rainforest to my left and the North Shore Mountains behind still capped with snow which may not melt until as late as June or July. This is my city at its most beautiful. I regret that it’s too cold to sit out on the deck.

  Another big plus is that they have a well-curated selection of local craft beer. I’m enjoying a hazy IPA with the interesting brand name of Trash Panda. It’s a lovely local beer and it’s helping me forget the Tyler fiasco—which used up all of the afternoon—even if my aching body keeps reminding me I’m forty and too damned old for fighting gang members.

  “Great selection of beer here,” I say to the barman. That sends him off on a long diatribe about the beer scene. Vancouverites are big craft beer fans. I join in with as many encouraging words as I can and soon we are like old buddies. When he finally runs out of steam, I extend my hand. “Cal,” I say. He reciprocates, “Josh.”

  We chat some more, this time about hockey and the upcoming Stanley Cup playoffs; his favourite subject, not mine. Eventually, I think I’m at the right place in the conversation.

  I take the folder out of my briefcase and slide out a photo. “Hey Josh, d’you know this guy?”

  “Sure. Edward Perot, he’s running for the federal seat in my ’hood. He comes here a lot. Good guy, but I’m a Corliss man.”

  “Did you see him here last Tuesday?”

  He thinks for a bit. “Sure. That was the evening the Canucks got trashed. I was working here so I missed the game. He was here with a cute woman and a little kid.” I feel that flush of jealousy about Sam being out with him, even if Ellie was a de facto chaperone. My smile fades as Josh’s gaze focuses over my right shoulder and the smile fades from his face.

  The voice could not be described as anything other than prissy. “Excuse me sir.”

  I swivel toward him.

  “I’m pleased to say that we guard our patron’s privacy. None of our staff,” he pauses and gives a lemon-sour smile at Josh, “are allowed to divulge client information.”

  Well, good for you, but I don’t give up that easily. I pull a business card from the breast pocket of my jacket and hand it to him. “I’m working closely with the police on the disappearance of a child and I think you may have some information that’s vital. You could speak to me now or I could call the police and have them come over and interrogate you later this evening… when you’re busier.”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “Why don’t you do that, sir. However, until they arrive, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” I misjudged him. But I can’t let this go. If I get this right I’m going to be one step closer to finding Ariel. She’s been missing for eight long days I’ve got to try another tack.

  “Please. This little girl has been missing for over a week. Her parents are beside themselves with worry. You really could be very helpful.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s different. I would be happy to help in any way I can. As soon as the police arrive I’ll tell them anything they need to know. Meanwhile…” He inclines his head toward the door. “No need to pay for the drink; it’s on us.” His smile is as warm as a penguin’s rear end.

  The temperature has dropped to just above freezing and the Healey’s English heater is not really up to it. The manager is long gone and I’m waiting in the carpark for Josh the barman to head off home.

  Finally he appears. I jump out of the car and trot over to him. “Hey, Josh.”

  “Oh hi,” he says. He looks over my shoulder. “Is that yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What year?”

  “’63 it’s a Mark II.” I say with pride.

  “Sweet.”

  “I hope you didn’t get in trouble with your manager.”

  “Nah. He and I don’t usually see eye-to-eye but we manage to coexist.”

  “I know he’s big into client privacy and I respect that. But there’s a little girl’s life on the line here.”

  He looks around. “Sure. Let’s go to the St. Regis. They’re open ’til two. It’ll be a bit warmer than standing out here and I’d like a ride in an Austin Healey 3000 anyway.

  Ah, the joys of good beer, English sports cars and late-hours bars.

  The warmth of the bar is settling into my bones and the Yellow Dog IPA is settling into my stomach. It provokes a shard of guilt: I’m here in comfort and Ariel is out there somewhere, desperate to be home again.

  I open my folder. Perot’s picture is on the top of the pile. Josh is excited. He’s never talked to a private investigator before and I told him as much as I could of the Ariel Bradbury case on the way here. He’s primed to help. Mindful that I might need to swear to this in court, I spread all my photographs on the table. “Apart from Mr. Perot, are there any other faces you recognize?”

  His gaze goes to Sherri Oliver. He taps the picture. “I’d like to know her but unfortunately…” He points to another. “That’s Larry Corliss. I was going to vote for him. Any idea why he bailed?” I shake my head. He shrugs and points to Mark Traynor and I hold my breath. Finally, “I’ve seen him. He came in about two weeks ago. No, wait a minute, it was Friday the sixth.” I try not to show my surprise. That was the day Ariel went missing. I’m not sure if it’s relevant. Yet.

  “Did he come in with anyone?”

  “No he was alone.” Damn. Before I can ask him my next question he continues, “I remember it was Friday because Mr. Perot was in having a meal with three other gentlemen. They seemed to be celebrating something. They got through three bottles of Billecart Salmon at four hundred bucks a pop.”

  I really have to try to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Josh, this is very important. Did this man talk to Perot?”

  “Yeah, yeah, he did. He paid his bar tab and walked over and seemed to whisper something in Mr. Perot’s ear. Mr. Perot got up and they went outside on to the patio. It was a cold evening so the patio was empty. They were out there for a while and when they came back in, the guy left right away.”

  “How did Perot act when he came back in?”

  “I couldn’t tell really. We were slammed, you know, Friday night. But he left early before the others. He didn’t seem too happy then.”

  I breathe a deep sigh. I think my hunch was right. Mark Traynor was blackmailing Perot, then five days later he turns up dead. But what did Traynor have on Perot?

  “Thanks Josh. You don’t know how helpful you’ve been.” I ‘Cheers’ him and call over the waiter. As he’s taking the order for two more, Josh shuffles through the other photos. “I know this guy too, he was with Mr. Perot that Friday night. He was the one who picked up the bill. It was over two grand with the tip.”

  He’s pointing at Dave Bradbury.

  I ask myself again why the hell would Bradbury be out celebrating with Perot on the day his daughter was kidnapped.

  42

  Cal

  Sunday

  I want to speak to Dave Bradbury about Razor Point Holdings but after my meeting last night with Josh, the barman at The Lift, I have to explore something else first. When I first saw Radcliffe, I thought he looked more like a student than a TV producer. Now he just looks like hell. The Pre-Trial Correctional Centre will do that to someone. Good. Anyone who make
s kiddy-porn deserves everything he gets. Wait until he gets to Fraser Regional after he’s found guilty, that’s going to be a lot more unpleasant. Better.

  But I don’t show any of that on my face. “How are you doing Mr. Radcliffe?” I ask.

  “How the fuck do you think?” He gestures at the grim surroundings in anger. Let me stoke that up a bit.

  “I spoke to your secretary, Adriana.” A hint of fear joins the anger on his face. Good, lots of emotion. “I’m sorry to tell you that she recanted her alibi for the time of Mark’s murder.”

  Now the fear takes over. “You didn’t tell the police did you?” he’s begging now.

  “I’m afraid I had to.” True. It was my key to getting Steve to give me authorization to be here.

  He deflates. All the emotions sigh out of him. “But I didn’t kill him,” a note of pleading creeps into his voice. “You have to believe me.” He looks into my eyes. “Please.”

  I’m enjoying this way too much.

  “As a matter of fact…” I leave it hanging for a beat. “I do believe you Mr. Radcliffe.”

  “Oh, thank God, thank God,” the words tumble out of him. “Do you have evidence? Can you get me off? I can pay, you know. You’re a private detective, I know that, I can certainly pay your fees and if you—”