The Dead List
Page 10
A slight movement perhaps – just a small hesitation. “You’re wrong. If Mike saw me in the street, he would have walked the other way. He had to.”
“Why did he have to?”
A moment of silence while he stared at the two men. Everything stopped; then he put his hands firmly on his knees and sat up straight. “I don’t know why you’re here. I mean, why me? I haven’t seen Mike in ages.”
Ryberg leaned closer. “We’re exploring every avenue. All we want is to find out what happened to your friend.”
Something had shifted. It was like he suddenly made a decision. “Officers, you really are asking the wrong person. I’m very sorry about what happened to Mike,” he looked at them with a blank expression, giving away nothing, “whatever happened to him. But he wasn’t part of my life. He was no longer my friend.”
Drake began to speak, but it was too late. The mood of the room had changed. Trevor interrupted him. “I’m sorry, I have clients to attend to, and as this is such a serious investigation, and you’re here in my salon asking questions in that tone, I think I shall have to confer with my brother.”
Ryberg looked at Drake and then back to Trevor.
“My brother is a lawyer, gentlemen. Any further questions should be addressed through him.”
As they made their way back to the salon entrance Drake touched the fabric on the wall. “It’s a great effect.”
Trevor’s manner had changed now. His tone was dismissive as he answered. “Thank you, Officer Drake. Let me know if I can make an appointment for you.”
Two of the workstations were in use as Gerry, the man who had been reading the magazine, walked from one to the other, attending to two clients at the same time. When Trevor opened the door Ryberg asked one last question. “I’m sorry, but I need to ask. Your hairstyle, did…”
“That came later, after the group banished me from the pub.” His lips were tight and his face expressionless as he spoke, the booming voice from earlier long gone. “You’re right, old man Wilson would not have approved.” He quickly wished the officers a good day and closed the door behind them.
Ryberg shook his head as Drake pulled the car back onto the main road. “My brother’s a lawyer and my sister is a nun.”
For the first time in a while, Drake laughed, and looked inquiringly at the older man.
“It’s an old police expression. It takes on different connotations from time to time. Everybody knows somebody on the inside – somebody that’s going to help them.”
The town was buzzing with lunchtime activity as the men drove back to the station. Pausing at a light, they both turned as two well-dressed women walked out the front door of the bank, their heads down, moving quickly. They fell into the lineup outside a sandwich shop and huddled together, bracing themselves from the cold. The summer windbreakers that the locals wore with the names of hockey teams plastered on the backs were being replaced with fleece-lined jean jackets. There was a chill in the air. The branches on the trees that ran along the sides of the street were almost bare. It would snow soon, and Michael Robinson wouldn’t see it. His mother would spend a winter alone, and Drake still had no clue why her son had to die. The man who had barely lived had been dead for less than forty-eight hours. They’d interviewed all of his friends and knew very little about him. There was no motive or clear-cut suspect. Nothing made sense.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
Myron worked the keys of the computer with the finesse and efficiency of a concert pianist performing a masterpiece. His right hand stopped and moved the mouse from time to time in conjunction with his lightning-fast typing. Drake knew how to access the RCMP’s main database, but there were areas on the site that he hadn’t even known existed. It wasn’t a matter of having clearance; it was knowing where and how to access the information. Myron ran his cursor over the different acronyms associated with various government agencies.
“This is where we find out if there are any other interests or queries. By other interests we mean CSIS…”
Drake was slowly becoming familiar with the names of different government organizations. “CSIS is the Canadian spy agency.”
“Yes, of course. But there’s nothing there.” Myron looked up quickly and then went back to his typing. “We also look at data collected by the income tax people, or whether the subject has been involved with family court.”
“So divorce or child support, you mean?”
“Yes, anything that varies from regular charges or fines will show up here. And if you find something that doesn’t look right you sometimes look further, but for that, it’s often better to make a call.” For the first time the young man smiled.
“There is a system within our system, Drake. We ask and we owe; it’s very simple. I’ll show you. Here’s what I found earlier.”
He clicked on a heading, then moved the cursor to the bottom of the page and clicked again. Instantly, there was a list of names and connections. He scrolled down the page until he found what he was looking for.
“Investigator Ryberg wanted me to do a background check on all the names from the list that Parker, the sales manager, gave you. So I ran them through the system. No flags came up, but when I punched in the retired logger, Frank Wilson, I couldn’t find the payout information for the insurance claim from his injury. It’s a minor thing, but it’s a gap, and I wanted to fill it. I can see the money; it’s quite a sizable amount – two hundred and eighty thousand dollars going into his account here.”
He showed the deposit entry on the screen. “The money comes from a holding company. That isn’t unusual with some insurance companies; it’s a third-party situation. In some US states and Canadian provinces it’s mandatory, and these international companies tend to abide by the same rules no matter where they’re doing business. That way they don’t make mistakes, and their internal rules are often far more stringent than what’s actually required. That part didn’t surprise me, but look at this.”
The time between when the check was deposited and cleared was almost two months. Drake pointed at the screen. “That’s a long time. You’d think he’d want the money sooner than that.”
“Fifty-eight days. You’re right, that is a long time. And I’m sure he wanted the funds right away. I know I would.”
“Did Wilson have poor credit? Were they holding the check to cover something else he owed?”
Myron smiled again, and Drake began to understand where the investigator’s talents lay. During the first briefing after breaking the news to Robinson’s mother, he’d been despondent and sullen. Today he was a different man. He was excited as he relayed his findings. “That’s where I went next. And no, he has fairly good credit, although at the time he had no real assets, and his house and cabin were both mortgaged to the hilt. In fact they were backwards.”
“He owed more on them than they were worth?”
“Exactly, and that’s common these days, but a few years ago, before the economy started tanking, it was unusual. He spends money. I can’t figure out what on, but the dollars going out are more than the funds coming in. All of that is interesting, and probably not pertinent, but...”
Drake finished for him. “But we still don’t know why the check was held for so long.”
“Right, and because the money was released from a holding company, we don’t know where the check came from. So in order to answer that question, we utilize our system within a system. And we use this old-fashioned device right here.” He pointed to the telephone.
Myron’s confident smile was glued to his face. He was enjoying showing Drake the process. He pulled a small, black book from his inside coat pocket. “I assisted on a fraud investigation last year, and our contact at the Bank of Canada was extremely helpful. I think he may have played policeman when he was a kid, but never took the plunge when he grew up.”
“And he works at the national bank?”
“Yes, and it’s even worse than that; he’s an accountant.”
> The young investigator was gleeful as he spoke to two different intermediaries before talking directly to his contact. “It’s Myron, just call me Myron.”
He glanced over at Drake, then after speaking to someone for a few minutes, he hung up the phone.
“He’ll get back to me within twenty-four hours. He seemed very anxious to help once I told him it was related to a homicide investigation.”
Drake began to ask another question but was interrupted by a knock from within the glass walls of Sergeant Thiessen’s office. The sergeant pointed through the window at Drake and beckoned him by curling his finger toward himself.
“Go. I’ll finish. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”
Sergeant Thiessen had attended the initial strategy meeting, but then had been absent from the ongoing discussions that the investigating officers had among themselves. After telling him to close the door, he asked Drake for an update on the status of the inquiry. Drake knew that Thiessen would have access to the reports he had entered in the computer as well as the recordings of the interviews that were stored on a main hard drive, but he repeated the information anyway. The other men and the woman from the list had not seen Mike Robinson on the night he was killed. Their accounts of him in terms of his character and personality were all similar, and none of them were forthcoming with any additional or helpful information. And none of them showed a great deal of remorse. There was no clear-cut motive or suspect. The man’s life seemed to have consisted of selling cars, drinking beer with his friends, and driving too fast.
“How’s your own investigation proceeding, Sarge?”
Thiessen ignored Drake’s question. His long legs extended from under his desk to the side, and one of his feet tapped back and forth in the air as he spoke. “I want you to do something for me, Drake. I want you to re-interview Anton Van Dyke, and I need you to ask him a specific question.”
Thiessen’s foot continued to nervously dance up and down. He stared out the glass window of his office as he spoke. Something had happened between Thiessen and Ryberg. Drake wasn’t sure what it was, but now it made sense. He hadn’t observed the two senior officers communicating in some time. For some reason there was a wall between the two men.
“I believe Investigator Ryberg has requested a re-interview with Anton, and he’s due back in tomorrow with his partner. I think Pringle is questioning the two of them with Myron assisting.”
Again he spoke as though he hadn’t heard anything Drake had said. He kept staring over Drake’s shoulder through the glass watching the situation room as officers made phone calls and moved from desk to desk. “I want you involved – you, Drake. I want you to ask him specifically what his connection to First Mennonite is. I need to know what his relationship currently is with the church.”
Drake ignored the fact that he probably would not be involved in the interview. “His relationship in what respect, sir?”
Finally, he gave Drake the pleasure of seeing more than his profile. The sergeant’s chiseled face always looked the same. Straight blond hair, cut short as though he’d just left the barber’s chair; his sideburns freshly trimmed; and his expression intent and serious. On the few occasions he had seen the man smile it had seemed like a great strain for him to show any sort of emotion. He was Drake’s age, perhaps a year or two younger. The gossip around the station was that he’d been a talented athlete in his youth – soccer and basketball. Always good enough to captain and lead the local teams but never able to take his game to the next level.
“For obvious reasons, Brandon Van Dyke cannot participate in the more delicate areas of this investigation.” Drake didn’t need to ask his superior why. He knew the reason. “I requested that Officer Banman be more involved, but for some reason Investigator Ryberg has chosen you to be our local hero.”
He let the words sit and waited for a reaction. Drake held it in and didn’t stir. The sergeant continued. “I want to know what the connection is between Robinson,” he tapped his finger on the desk between them and tried to stare down Drake, “the two boys, and First Mennonite Church. Robinson’s mother attended the church on occasion as did her son. And Anton Van Dyke,” he spoke with distaste as though he were trying to expunge the words from his mouth, “was no longer welcome at the church, and we’re all aware of the dead man and his friends’ feelings about that type of lifestyle. I want to know what his reaction is when you ask him about the church.”
Drake couldn’t see the link. It wasn’t as though there were one or two steps missing; there were nine or ten.
“It’s time to forget about your list, Drake. Get the answer to my question, and then you can report directly back to me – your commanding officer.”
He would need to clear it with Ryberg, but he kept that thought to himself. “Yes, sir.”
Right on cue, the sergeant’s phone rang. He held his hand in the air when Drake got up to leave. “Wait.”
He hung up the phone and clapped his hands together. “Okay, we’re on. They were overheard; the coveralls gang is ready to move. They’ll be at the Goldminer just after three.”
Drake looked at the clock in the situation room. “Sir, we have a strategy meeting – a briefing this afternoon, and if you need me to get involved with Anton Van Dyke I should be here arranging that.”
“You’ll be back in time for your briefing, Drake. I need this handled – delicately. You know the drill. Scare the crap out of them and then get back here. It’ll take hardly any time at all. You’re the only one they don’t know. It has to be you.” He brushed his hands in front of himself, excusing Drake from his office.
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Drake parked the cruiser around the corner from the pub. It wasn’t unusual to see a police car parked along one of the city streets. Out of uniform, he was wearing a black jacket and jeans, and had a baseball cap pulled down hard over his eyes. He sat on a bench, nursing a bottle of water that was camouflaged by a brown paper bag. As promised, the pickup truck pulled into the parking lot a few minutes after three o’clock, just enough time to make it from the high school to the bar. Three boys jumped out. One of them looked around, but the other two didn’t seem to care. They each took a pair of coveralls out of the bed of the truck and pulled them on, over their clothes. They playfully lined up in front of each other, taking turns checking their appearance. And then they walked into the bar.
He gave them five minutes, then ditched the empty bottle and brown bag in a garbage can. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but it didn’t matter. The three of them were extremely visible. They were sitting at a table in the center of the room – a jug of draft and three glasses in front of them already. They’d been served. Now, he just had to see them imbibing. It didn’t take long. Seconds later, their glasses clinked together, and each of them guzzled at their beers. Drake pulled a chair from an empty table and sat in between two of them.
The glasses went down, but they still didn’t realize what was happening.
The biggest of them eyed Drake and kept holding on to his beer glass. As usual it was the smallest boy who spoke up, brave with a big mouth while he had his buddies to protect him.
“Do you have a problem? Nobody asked you to sit down, hobo-man.”
Their laughter began and quickly ended when he put his badge on the table. All of a sudden, even with their coveralls on, the boys looked their age.
“I need to see some identification, guys.”
The excuses began immediately. They didn’t have ID on them, and besides, they had just left work.
“In about two minutes I’m going to have your nice pickup truck towed away. Then I’ll bring a couple of your teachers from school down to the bar to identify you. And finally, I’ll haul the three of you into the station, and your parents will follow.” The guy in the middle began to shake; the smaller boy, the mouthpiece, was the only one looking defiant.
“Last chance, guys. May I see some identification please?”
A couple
who had been seated at a table close to the boys moved to a booth over by the window. They kept watching but seemed to want to get away just in case the policeman found something to charge the boys with. Three bulging wallets were placed on the table and driver’s licenses from each were pulled out and put in front of Drake.
A voice came from the area behind the bar. “He should be out finding some real criminals instead of bothering the kids.” Drake didn’t turn around.
He wrote down each of the boy’s names in his notebook.
“Have you paid for your beers?”
They shook their heads, and the mouthpiece started again. “You know, this may be illegal…”
Drake ignored him. “Okay, who’s buying the round?”
The shaking boy and the larger one each reached for their wallets, and then the mouthpiece did the same. There were large wads of five- and ten-dollar bills in cash in each boy’s billfold. As they did the calculations over how much each of them owed, the same voice came from behind the bar. “Leave it, guys. It’s on the house. We’ll see you in a couple of years.”
His instructions were to scare the good, young churchgoing boys so they wouldn’t attempt to get served in a bar again. He hadn’t been told to cite the bar. Thiessen could send someone else to do that later. He needed to keep this moving and get back to the station.
“Right, all of you get outside and stand by your truck. Take the overalls off once you’re there.”
Three sixteen-year-old boys leaned against the pickup truck, their disguises draped over the side.
He stood in front of them. Just like in the army, he made himself as big as he could, keeping his arms and legs wide apart.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I have your names, I know who your parents are, and I know your teachers.” He was just about to let them off the hook when he had a thought. Just like Myron had done with his information gathering, he might as well try to fill in the blanks. “Usually, you’d be charged as young offenders and fined for being minors in a licensed premise, but due to the fact that you were impersonating workmen,” he nodded toward the coveralls, “and taking up my valuable time, I may recommend that you be tried as adults and moved up to adult court.”