by Rick Mofina
“Ray used to be a reporter with the Washington,
D.C., bureau of World Press Alliance, the wire service.” “What sorts of stories did he do?”
“He covered everything before moving to investiga tive features.”
Graham nodded.
“Then he began clashing with his editors. About a year ago he’d had enough and decided to try making a living freelancing.”
“How did that go?”
“It was rough. Anita was worried. He’d quit a wellpaying job with benefits.”
“So there was stress in the home?”
“Some. Sure, over the money and for Ray quitting
World Press.”
“So why not try to find another news job?” “I think Ray always felt he was close to a big story, or a book deal. Until then, he was always borrowing money from us to pay the bills, always struggling, worrying about Anita and the kids. About six months ago, he took out extra life insurance so Anita and the kids would be okay, if anything happened to him.” “Really? How much?”
“I think he said it was two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Means more premiums. How did he pay for this trip?” “I loaned him the money for this trip. He told me they really needed to get away. He found a cheap package deal. I figured he was going to pay me back with the money he’d get for some travel features, which usually happened. It just took time.”
Graham didn’t voice his view that Ray came across as something of a contradiction. Here was a guy who was not a risk taker but had taken a gamble leaving his job. Ray’s father must’ve picked up on what Graham was thinking.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Cor poral?”
“I’m just trying to figure things out.”
“You said it appears to be an accident, at this stage.
Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I’ve told you all we know. We just need to locate
Ray.”
“Corporal, it’s hard to explain a life here. My son loved his family. For him, reporting was a quasireligious cause. He worked hard on his articles, they were very good. In fact, I’d like his laptop returned to me as soon as possible. It would mean a great deal to me to read what he’d been working on.”
“Laptop? I don’t think we found a laptop.” Graham flipped through the inventory sheets from the crime scene guys.
“He never went anywhere without it.”
“It’s possible we have it in an evidence locker, or the lab is processing it.”
“He had it with him when I took them to the airport for this trip.”
“I’ll look into it.”
Graham was certain no laptop was found anywhere with the Tarvers and spent the rest of the night on the phone to the lab and the guys in Banff getting them to search for it.
In the morning, Graham rose early and drove Jack son Tarver two hours west to Banff, then deep into the
Faust region to the site. Jackson Tarver tossed roses into the river where his grandchildren, daughter-in-law and, most likely, his son had died.
That afternoon, Graham accompanied him to the airport and badged his way through to the gate where they watched three casket-shaped containers roll along the luggage conveyor and into the cargo hold of Tarver’s plane.
Before he boarded, Tarver took Graham’s hand and shook it.
“I heard what you did, how you risked your life trying to save Emily. Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary.”
“I hope you’ll find my son, so that he can come home with his family.” Tarver’s grip was like that of a man fighting to keep from breaking into pieces.
“Please.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Graham stayed at the window watching Tarver’s jet roll slowly from the terminal, turbines whining, running lights strobing, until his cell phone rang.
“Graham, it’s Fitzwald.”
“Fitz, did you find the laptop?”
“No laptop, but I did find something you should see.” Twenty minutes later, Graham was at Fitzwald’s desk looking at a sneaker.
“We figure it belongs to Ray Tarver.”
Graham was puzzled; he’d seen this sneaker and its mate before.
“I don’t get it, Fitz, I’ve seen the shoes. They were in the tent.”
“And this was in the left shoe.”
Fitzwald tossed a small, slim leather-bound note book on the desk before him.
“What do you make of it, Dan?”
Graham fanned the pages filled with notes, handwrit ten in ink. They were cryptic: something about an SS
Age, another, see B. Walker. Scores of notations just before the last entry: Meet ‘x’ and ‘y’ verify link to Blue
Rose Creek.
“Hard to say if it’s important.”
“It must mean something because it was hidden under the foot cushion. He valued this more than his passport.”
11
Tokyo, Japan
Central Tokyo’s skyline glittered against the night sky. Setsuko Uchida gazed upon it from the balcony of her fortieth-floor apartment in Roppongi Hills, but her thoughts lingered on her vacation in the Rockies. Had she really traveled halfway around the world? She sighed, then resumed unpacking in her bedroom, happy to be home. Tomorrow she would have lunch with her daughter, Miki, near the Imperial Gardens and tell her about the magnificent mountains.
With great care, she retrieved the gift box from her suitcase and slowly unwrapped the tissue paper until a small polar bear, and a second, tinier bear, hand-carved in jade, emerged. A mother and her cub. She knew Miki would love them. The two women had grown closer since Setsuko’s husband had passed away.
Toshiro.
He smiled from the gold-framed photo on her nightstand. He’d been a senior official at the Ministry of
Justice and was a kind man. He died of lung complica tions which had tormented him years after his exposure to the sarin gas attack on the subway system by the Aum
Shinrikyo cult.
Losing her husband had almost destroyed Setsuko, who’d been an economics professor at the University of Tokyo. Eventually, she took early retirement then moved from their home in Chiba to Central Tokyo to be nearer to their daughter, Miki.
Miki was angered by her father’s death and had with drawn from everyone, burying herself in her job.
Setsuko had refused to accept Miki’s isolation, never letting her be alone for too long, always calling or visiting. In time, Miki opened her heart and allowed
Setsuko back into her life, allowed her to be her mother again.
This happened because Setsuko’s friends, Mayumi and Yukiko, had always encouraged Setsuko not to give up on Miki. She loved them for it. She also loved them for insisting she join them on their recent adventure to the wilds of Canada, a place Setsuko’s husband had dreamed of visiting.
It was a wonderful trip, but it was good to be home. Setsuko took a break from unpacking.
She went to her desk with her memory cards, switched on her computer and began viewing her travel photographs.
Here they were-the girls-on a mountaintop; in a forest; next to a river; here they were on the Icefields
Parkway. Here were elk on the golf course in Banff. A man with a cowboy hat. Setsuko clicked through dozens of images, smiling and giggling, until she stopped at one.
Her smile melted.
Setsuko had taken this one of Mayumi and Yukiko in cowboy hats, laughing, seated at their table in the logcabin restaurant outside Banff. It was during the last days of their trip.
Something about the image niggled at her. Something familiar.
Staring at it, she tried to remember.
The people in the background.
She returned to her bags, fished around in the deep side pockets where she’d shoved magazines, maps and newspapers, her fingers probing until she found the copy of the Calgary Herald the attendants had offered on the plane.
She remember
ed glancing at it before dozing off during the flight to Vancouver where they’d caught the return flight to Japan.
She unfolded it at her desk.
There was the headline, U.S. FAMILY DIES IN MOUNTAIN ACCIDENT, and pictures of Ray and Anita Tarver and their two small children, Tommy and Emily. A beautiful family, Setsuko thought, reading the article.
Having done her postgraduate work at the London School of Economics and at Harvard, her English was strong. According to the report, the authorities had located the bodies of the mother and her children, but not that of the father, Ray Tarver, a freelance reporter from Washington, D.C.
The article concluded with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police requesting anyone with information regarding the Tarver family’s movements in the park area to contact them, or Crime Stoppers.
Setsuko studied the pictures in the newspaper then the people in the background of the photo she’d taken at the restaurant. The man in the background, sitting at the table behind Setsuko’s friends, was Ray Tarver. Setsuko had no doubt about it.
She checked the dates. The tragedy was discovered one or two days after Setsuko had snapped her photo of her friends in the restaurant.
This might be the last picture taken of Ray Tarver. It could be of use to the Canadian police. Setsuko reached for her phone and called her daughter, who was working late at her office. After Setsuko explained,Miki said, “Can you send me the news article and your picture now?”
Setsuko scanned the article into her computer then e-mailed it along with her travel picture to her daughter, who was a sergeant in the Criminal Affairs Section for Violent Crime with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police De partment. Miki would know what to do, Setsuko thought, rereading the terrible story about that poor young family from the United States.
At her desk at the headquarters of the Keishicho, in the Kasumigaseki part of central Tokyo, Miki Uchida studied the material her mother had sent her. She agreed with her mother. The man in the background was the missing American.
Miki glanced at her boss’s office. He’d gone home for the day.
Early the next morning, as soon as he stepped into the office, she told him about the information and how it related to the tragedy in Canada. Sipping coffee from a commuter mug, he looked over her shoulder at the article and pictures enlarged on her computer screen.
“Do the necessary documentation. Then contact the Canadian Embassy and get back to our work.”
Sergeant Marc Larose was the Royal Canadian Mounted Police liaison officer for the Canadian Em bassy, which was located along Aoyama Dori. After as sessing the tip Miki Uchida at Tokyo Metro had sent him, Larose e-mailed a report, along with the informa tion, through a secure network to Canada.
The file pinballed down through the command struc ture until it finally arrived in the mailbox of Corporal Daniel Graham, who would come to realize it was more than a random picture of Ray Tarver before the tragedy.
The background of Setsuko’s photo showed Ray Tarver sitting at a restaurant table facing the camera.
He was behind an open laptop.
12
Near Banff, Alberta, Canada
Fear crept across Carmen Navales’s face as she studied the pictures Graham had set before her on the table in the Tree Top Restaurant.
Ray Tarver stared back at the waitress from his passport, his driver’s license and the tourist photo Graham had received that morning from Tokyo.
“Think hard,” he said. “Do you remember serving this man?”
Carmen caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Earlier, Graham had noticed her watching him in the booth of the closed section of the restaurant where he’d been interviewing other staff. They weren’t much help, practically indifferent, so why was Car men nervous?
The RCMP knew all about places like the Tree Top.
Young people from around the world worked at the motels, resorts and restaurants in the Rockies, lured by the mountains, the tips and the party life. Sure, at times, things got out of hand with drinking, drugs, thefts, a few assaults. Last month, a chef from Paris stabbed a climber from Italy over a girl from Montreal. The Italian needed twenty stitches.
But Carmen hadn’t gotten into trouble out here. She was from Madrid and her visa was about to expire. Nothing to be nervous about.
Carmen was the last staff member Graham needed to interview. None of the others had remembered seeing Ray Tarver. I was, like, so hung over. Or, those tour buses just kept coming. It was all a blur, sorry, man, such a shame with those little kids.
Their responses eroded Graham’s hope that his Tokyo tip would lead somewhere because they still hadn’t recovered Ray’s body.
Carmen’s reticence frustrated him.
He tapped the photos.
“Ms. Navales, this is Raymond Tarver, the father of the family that drowned not too far from here. It was in the news. You must’ve heard.”
“Yes, I know, but I was in British Columbia at that time.”
“According to your time cards, you worked a double shift here the day before the children were found in the river.” Graham tapped the photo from Tokyo. “Ray Tarver was here the day before the tragedy. In this res taurant. In your section. On the day you were working. Now, please think hard.”
Carmen steepled her fingers and touched them to her lips.
“What’s the problem?” Graham asked.
“I need to extend my visa.”
“What’s that got to do with this?”
“I need to keep sending money home to help my sister in Barcelona. Her house burned down. I’m afraid that if my records show I’ve been involved with police-”
“Hold on. Look, I can’t do anything about your visa. But things might go better for you if you cooperate, understand?”
She nodded.
“You served him?”
“Yes.”
“And his family?”
“No family, he was sitting with another man.”
“Another man?”
Carmen traced her finger on the photo, along a fuzzy shadow behind the head of one of the laughing Japanese women. It bordered the edge and was easy to miss.
“That’s his shoulder.”
Graham inspected the detail, scolding himself for not seeing it.
“Do you know this other man? Have you ever seen him before?”
Carmen shook her head.
“Describe him.”
“He was a white guy, but with a dark tan. Slim build. In his thirties.”
“Any facial hair, jewelry, tattoos, that sort of thing?”
“I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“What about clothes. How was he dressed?”
Carmen looked at Graham.
“I think like you. Jeans, polo or golf shirt, a wind breaker jacket, I think.”
“Did he pay with a credit card?”
“Cash. And he paid for both. In American cash.”
“Do you remember their demeanor? Were they arguing, laughing?”
“They were serious, like it was business.”
“Any idea what they talked about?”
“We were crowded, it was loud, I couldn’t hear them.”
“How long did they stay?”
“About an hour.”
“Do you know if they left in separate vehicles?”
Carmen shook her head.
For the next half hour, Graham continued pressing her for details. When he was satisfied he had exhausted her memory, he stood to leave.
“One last thing,” Carmen said. “Every now and then, the computer guy would turn his laptop to the stranger so he could read the screen.”
Graham didn’t know what he had.
Driving back to Calgary, he weighed the new infor mation. The Tree Top was about a forty-five-minute drive from the Tarvers’ campsite. The photo put Ray in the res taurant the day before his family was found in the river.
Who was the guy at his table?
And why was Ray showing hi
m his laptop? Was it an arranged meeting? Or spontaneous? Maybe he’d gone there to interview someone for a travel article?
Maybe it was nothing?
But some twenty-four hours later, his family was dead.
Now, Ray was missing and so was his laptop.
The questions gnawed at Graham as he worked alone at his desk.
Since the initial front-page stories, the calls from the public had slowed. Prell and Shane had followed up with a lot of door-knocking. Most of the information was useless, even bizarre. One guy claimed that the Tarvers had been “abducted by alien organ harvesters who will appear at the UN.”
Other tips were more down-to-earth, like the local rancher who’d insisted he’d seen a man resembling Ray hitch a ride on a logging rig. Graham had contacted all the lumber and trucking companies in the region.
No one had picked up anybody.
And nothing had surfaced concerning the where abouts of Ray’s missing laptop.
The Banff and Canmore Mounties had put the word out to see if anyone on the street was selling one like Ray’s. Graham notified Calgary and Edmonton city police, who circulated information to pawnshops.
Jackson Tarver agreed to release the family’s bank, credit and Internet accounts. If someone had stolen Ray’s laptop they may be using it, and this information could help track the computer down.
Nothing had surfaced so far.
What was he missing?
Graham’s cell phone rang.
“Danny, it’s Horst at the site.” Static hissed over the search master’s satellite phone, mixing with the river’s rush and a distant helicopter.
“You find anything?”
“Nothing. Our people have been going full tilt for twenty-four-seven for the past few days. We figure he likely got wedged in the rocks, or a grizz hauled him off. A couple of big sows have been spotted in the search zones. We could find him in the next hour, or the next month, or never. Know what I mean?”
“Right.”
“We’ll keep it going, but we’ll wind it down by the end of the week.”
It was early afternoon as Graham ate his lunch, alone, outside at a picnic table.
He chewed on the ham and Swiss he’d made at home, looked at Calgary’s office towers and the distant Rockies and tried not to think of his life.