“OK, supposing I buy that, a couple of nights later you were at the Strathcona School gym for Larry Corliss’ town hall meeting and the following Wednesday you were at the debate between Corliss and Perot. On both occasions you looked like a man without a care in the world.”
“How do you know what I looked like?” He says aggressively.
“Because I was there. Both times.”
“Oh.” He looks like a teenager caught in a lie. Then a different thought occurs. “Were you following me, Mr. Rogan. Was that part of your job description as my wife’s private detective?”
The girlfriend flushes and walks off down the hallway and into the room Bradbury came out of.
I ignore his question. “So why were you so oblivious to the fact that your daughter was missing and could have been dead in a ditch at that point?”
“I…” He hesitates again. As he stands there, all the aggression just seems to wash out of him. He looks at me and there is something new in the eyes; he glances over his shoulder at the doorway of the room to which his girlfriend went; it’s embarrassment. In little more than a whisper, “I was under a lot of financial pressure at the time and I was in a position where I had to do what a very important client told me. I’m afraid I pushed Ariel’s situation out of my mind so that I could do what I needed to do.” The way he says it inclines me to believe he’s telling the truth. And it fits with what I know.
One itch scratched. But before I scratch the second one, I’m going to need to break him down some more. “That client being Carlos Santiago I assume.”
The shock is palpable but he manages to speak over it. “Well… Uh… Yes. Mr. Santiago has a number of legitimate investments which I manage for him.”
“Like Razor Point Holdings?”
This time shock overwhelms him. “Wha’… How?” He stops. I can almost hear the wheels clicking in his brain as he tries to respond.
“Razor Point Holdings. The company you control on behalf of Mr. Santiago. The company into which the money you launder for Mr. Santiago is paid. The company that buys cars for his thugs. The company that paid Larry Corliss to abandon his run for the Vancouver East seat. You know, good old Razor Point Holdings.”
He opens his mouth and then thinks better of it. The devastation is complete. He doesn’t even try to deny it. He stays silent and I can see him trying to weigh options. Now to scratch the second itch, this one I’ve got to know the answer to.
“Why would you invest two hundred thousand dollars of Mr. Santiago’s money in the production of Canada’s Littlest Beauty? Was it so that Edward Perot could spend time on set grooming the little girls, including your own daughter?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Perot had nothing to do with that investment. Mr. Santiago suggested it to me himself. He’d heard that Ariel was on the show and said it would be a good investment. And it was. He has more than doubled his money in a little less than a year.”
I can tell he’s telling the truth as far as he knows it. Poor sap doesn’t know the real reason Santiago made the investment. Itch scratched.
Now comes the play.
“You realize Mr. Bradbury that when I turn everything I know over to the Organized Crime Section at the VPD, you are going to be facing a charge of laundering the proceeds of crime and probably a slew of others. You’re going to be spending several years in jail, not a nice jail at that.” I let it sink in. His pallor tells it all: desperation. To desperation turn my trust and hope. Ah William, you knew so much.
Time to dangle the bait.
“Do you have a good lawyer?” I ask. A tiny hope glows in the pallor.
“Yes.” It’s almost like a question.
“I think the police might be very happy to give you amnesty in return for your giving evidence.”
I almost feel sorry for him. Fear and hope are fighting the good fight. I watch and wait. I can almost hear the battle going on inside his head.
And I wait.
Now the silence is becoming awkward. Good.
And I wait until…
He breaks. “OK. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” If I take charge now, I can get all I want out of this. “Here’s what we need to do.” We not you. He’s on Team Rogan now. “Get your lawyer to meet us first thing tomorrow morning. It’ll be either at VPD’s office on Graveley Street or the Crown Prosecutor’s office downtown. I’ll let you know which within an hour. We’ll be meeting with a Sergeant Steve Waters.” He nods. “Bring your laptop and bring with you any concrete evidence of Santiago’s operations.”
He swallows and nods again. “OK.”
“You’ll need to give all your evidence to them. Your lawyer can negotiate immunity from prosecution with the Crown Prosecutor and the VPD can put you into protective custody while the RCMP organize witness protection for you.” I’m totally winging all this. I just need him in the right frame of mind.
He nods, “Good, good.”
Now for the last little lie, Kant forgive me. “I’m going to help you with all this and I have some compelling evidence that will make the police more sympathetic to your case. I can’t tell you what it is yet, but in return, I will need your help with one little thing.”
“Anything, what is it?”
“I am going to arrange a news conference to happen on our way to the police. At that conference, you’re going to tell the press that Edward Perot fabricated the evidence that made Larry Corliss withdraw from the election and you’re going tell them that Carlos Santiago tried to bribe Corliss on Perot’s behalf.”
“Why would you care about that?”
“It doesn’t matter. My help for you is contingent upon you holding that press conference. Do you understand?”
He thinks for a second then nods.
“Good. Now call your lawyer and have him clear his calendar for tomorrow morning while I organize the VPD.”
“I’ll do it now.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and as he starts to dial a nasty little worm of suspicion slithers into my mind.
“Wait!” His hand stops, poised over the screen. “How long have you known your lawyer?”
“I don’t know, about twelve years.”
“Does he also do work for either Perot or Santiago?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“OK, keep dialing.” He completes the call and makes arrangements with his lawyer while I plan.
He hangs up. “Ok, he’ll be wherever you say and he’s going to bring another lawyer from his office who does criminal law. They are going to sit down with me tonight and plan out the details.”
“Good. There’s one other thing you must do. Don’t stay home; go to a hotel and pay cash for the room.”
“Why is that?” he asks
“I have to arrange the meeting with the Police and the Crown Prosecutor. When they hear what you have, they will want to arrest you and take control of the situation. They will come straight here to pick you up the moment they hang up the phone with me. It is far better for you to spend the time with your lawyer and meet with them on your terms.”
“That makes sense, I’ll stay at the—”
“Don’t tell me,” I interrupt. “When the police ask me where you are I will be able to tell them honestly that I don’t know.” It’s a small salve for my conscience.
“Oh, yes, I see.”
Now for the final clincher. “Do you love your daughter Mr. Bradbury?”
He starts at the question. “Of course.” He pauses, and realizes. “Oh. I see. Yes, well, over the last few days I haven’t been acting like a father who cares, have I?”
I just look at him, feeling disgust at myself at using his feelings for his daughter as a pawn. What would Sam think of me doing that?
“Believe me Mr. Rogan. I do love her very much. Even though I have had to do Santiago’s business, Ariel has never been out of my thoughts.”
He seems sincere but who can reall
y know another man’s heart. “You see, I know where she is.”
“Where?” Hope and fear are written equally on his face.
“I believe she is being held at Santiago’s estate on Samuel Island. I suspect she is being held there as a reward for Ed Perot.”
It takes all of five seconds for the implication to sink in. He has to steady himself by stretching out his hand and propping himself up against the wall. His eyes are wildly searching my face. “They are not your friends Mr. Bradbury. They are using you. We need your evidence so that the police can raid his island and rescue her.”
“Perot?” He breathes. “Yes. I can see—” Then it hits him. “I’ve got to go to the police right now. If Ariel’s in danger, we haven’t got time to wait. Let me call my lawyer back. We need to see the police right now.” He’s panicking.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, starting to feel sick with my duplicity, “I made a call on my way here and discovered that Perot is in Vancouver at the moment. Ariel is safe from him and you can be sure that Santiago is looking after her. She’ll be frightened, yes, but we have to let the police do their job legally, otherwise Santiago and Perot will never be brought to justice and you will be in danger for the rest of your life.” The sick feeling has turned to disgust as I say, “I promise she’ll be OK. By noon tomorrow she will be back with you.”
I pray I’m right. Shakespeare is no comfort now; Cymbeline’s prayer rings in my head and will haunt my dreams tonight: Grant, heavens, that which I fear prove false!
45
Cal
Although it is poor relief for my battered conscience, Steve has moved fast. He has set up the meeting downtown tomorrow morning with a Crown Prosecutor. He is going to bring his new boss, Inspector Philips, and they are arranging to have a Swat Team ready by the morning to helicopter over to Samuel Island and raid Santiago’s estate. He was totally pissed that I didn’t tell him about Bradbury earlier but hey, it’s the result that counts. Arnold, too, is doing his part and has promised to have a TV news crew and reporters from the Sun, Province and Globe and Mail outside the Prosecutor’s office first thing. Steve will be pissed at that too but Bradbury’s on-camera exposé is necessary to get Corliss back in the race and Perot out. I owe Corliss at least that much. Arnold, too, for that matter. Doing it this way will produce the best result for all.
Or so I keep telling myself.
Stammo is pleased that I want to help him with Tyler, even when he knows my agenda. We’ve met with James Garry, the lawyer Stammo has hired for Tyler, and he is with Tyler right now. Stammo and I are just chatting in the lobby waiting; he’s in his wheelchair and I’m in a very uncomfortable chair. Apparently Tyler’s dad wasn’t happy with how things have gone. Stammo looks the worse for wear. He has turned to his buddies Jim Beam and Jack Daniels quite a bit of late and I don’t know whether I should be concerned for him. I feel I should say something but know I’m going to chicken out for now. Instead we take the time to update each other on the other cases that Stammo Rogan Investigations is handling.
A movement to my left catches my eye. It’s Garry. He is still wearing his lawyer’s collar from court. He comes and sits on an equally uncomfortable seat. He’s an older guy with a pleasant, craggily handsome face, a grey beard and long grey hair in a ponytail. Not your typical lawyer. He has a twinkle in his eye that makes him a lot more human than many of his brethren, or is that my jaundiced cop’s eye?
He gets straight to the point. “I think we can do something for Tyler. Although he’s a low-level member of the gang, he has a lot of information about Santiago’s operations because of his association with this, uh, Bookman character.” He looks at Stammo for a second before continuing. “Combined with the fact that he’s got no prior criminal record as an adult, I’m sure I can put together a deal that will avoid his having to do any prison time.”
Stammo breathes a very long sigh of relief which earns a wry smile from Garry. His gaze stays on Stammo for a long beat before he continues, “I’ll put together a proffer for the CPO and see what we can do.”
He stands up and shakes our hands. “You should go and see him now.”
“I dunno,” says Stammo. “He was pretty pissed with me the last time I saw him.”
Garry nods. “I know but he said he wants to talk to you. He’s in interview room three. I’ve told him what he can and can’t tell you.” He smiles kindly, “He told me you were worried about that.”
He walks off toward the doors leading outside.
Stammo looks up at me. “Will you come with me? Please.”
“Sure.”
He nods and wheels toward the interview rooms. I walk beside him in silence.
A guard checks our visitor badges and lets us into the room. Tyler is sitting at a table. I was expecting teenage anger and resentment but none is present as far as I can see, rather he has an air of deep sadness.
After Stammo makes an awkward introduction of me, he asks, “How y’doing, Ty?”
“Pretty good. The lawyer, Mr. Garry, seems real good.”
“He is Ty, he’s the best. Whooped me a couple of times in court, I can tell you.”
“He told me you’re paying for him.”
Stammo shrugs.
“Thanks Mr. Stammo, I really appreciate it.”
Stammo covers up his emotions with, “He said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yeah… Well… There’s something I thought you should know…”
Training kicks in and we both nod, silent and encouraging.
“’Cos after you hear you may not want to pay for… you know, the lawyer an’ all.”
“What is it Ty?” Stammo says quietly.
“Well my deal, you know, with the lawyers, means I have to give evidence against Mr. Santiago and all his people, including the Bookman.”
“Go on.” I’m not sure what is happening here but Stammo seems to suspect something… but what? He’s biting his lower lip; like smoking, it’s another thing he does when he’s stressed.
“Well… The Bookman… You know him.”
When I first laid eyes on the guy with the snakeskin boots, he looked familiar and he knew my name.
“Who the hell is he?” I ask.
Tyler glances at me but then focuses back on Stammo.
“Matt’s the Bookman,” he says.
Who the hell is Matt?
I look at Stammo. He’s as white as a sheet. He leans forward and grabs the desk to steady himself.
Then it clicks.
Matt is Stammo’s son.
“We shouldn’t be doing this Nick. What can you possibly hope to achieve other than to let him know that Tyler has given him up? What if he tells Santiago?” There is no response. “Let’s call it a night Nick.” He is still silent. He hasn’t said more than half a dozen words since Tyler dropped his bombshell. I have to try and deflect him.
He turns his modified van on to Carrall for what must be the hundredth time this evening. We have been cruising a nine-block area surrounding Pigeon Park hoping to see the Shelby.
Finally, “I gotta do it Cal.”
The use of my first name doesn’t go unnoticed. He only uses it when he’s vulnerable.
I nod. “Yeah, I know how you feel but you can’t.”
“You can go if you want. I could drop you off at your car. But I gotta keep at it. I gotta find out if Tyler was telling the truth and if he was, I gotta talk to him.”
I give up. I feel a sudden pull. If he drops me off now, I could go to Pigeon Park and get a baggie of heroin. Just one. Just to take the edge off. Just this once. It’d help me sleep tonight and be ready for the meeting between Dave Bradbury and the Crown Prosecutor. The longing is deep in my gut; it’s a real, physical pain.
I turn to him. “OK.”
He doesn’t look at me but I can see his disappointment. It’s a real, physical pain for him too. I push down my longing. It’s a hard push. “No, it’s OK. I’ll stick with you on this.”
“Thanks
, I appreciate it,” he says and goes silent again but this time I know there is more to come. After a while he sighs and the floodgates open, “He was such a bright little kid; he always had his nose in a book. Didn’t matter what the subject was, he’d read it. S’probably why they call him the Bookman.” He gives a sardonic little chuckle. “He always wanted to do the opposite of what we wanted. If I said something was black, he’d say it was white, y’know?”
“A contrarian,” I say.
“Exactly. It was a problem when he got into his teens. Always pushing the limits of the law. Did it ’cos I was a cop eh. I always managed to avoid him getting a record, I’d talk to the arresting officer and get him to look the other way, lose the paperwork.”
“Any father would do the same. You can’t blame yourself.”
“Maybe I should’a done the tough love thing.”
We lapse into silence again. My stomach growls.
“Why don’t you stop at the Micky D’s in International Village. I’ll pick us up something.”
“Good idea.” He signals to go left onto Hastings to loop around to Pender and we both see the Shelby parked right at Pigeon Park. Stammo pulls the van over and parks in front of it. “It wasn’t here when we passed by before. What was that, five minutes ago?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Listen, we’re parked right between the hotel and his car. Why don’t I get out, stop him and ask him to come and sit in here with you so you can talk to him.”
“Sounds—” His voice is a croak. He clears his throat and takes a gulp of the cold coffee in the cup holder on his dash. “Sounds good.”
I get out and look back. There is no one in the Shelby. I scan the faces but don’t see any familiar ones; I’m particularly interested in knowing if the muscled thug known as Carl is in evidence but he seems not to be.
I check the area of sidewalk in front of the flophouse: just the usual suspects. I stroll west for a few paces and position myself just past the door and lean against the wall.
“Need a cigarette?”
The seller looks like he’s fifteen. I just shake my head; what I need is a hit of heroin. He moves on. “Need a cigarette?” he asks a bag lady pushing a Safeway cart. She ignores him and scurries by. I muse that if he were selling cocaine, which is less addictive than tobacco, he would be breaking the law. As if in tune with my thoughts, through the windshield of Stammo’s van, I see a brief glow of red.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 81