Bernadette only had one death to review for the weekend. Another detective would handle it until Tuesday, but she would have to read the file so she could be active on it the next day. From a quick glance, it looked to be the usual: drugs that someone wanted, stole, or did not pay for, and a young man lay dead. The gangs had now moved into Fort McMurray. The profits from drugs were too good to keep them out. An RCMP gang unit had been formed last spring—they were busy.
When 7:00 p.m. rolled around, she realized she was supposed to be at the restaurant to meet Pierre. She had suggested the restaurant, agreed to the time, and yes, she would be late. She threw her files into her desk, cursed the day paperwork became a part of police work, and grabbed her coat.
Outside, the cold made her eyes squint, and she could just make out the outline of her Jeep under a foot of new snow. She fired up the Jeep’s engine first, and then began working the snow brush. Snow fell down the back of her neck, down her sleeves, and she cursed the cold, the snow, and the fact that she never took vacations to Mexico.
When she arrived at the restaurant, Pierre was already there. She knew he would be. He had a habit for punctuality that made her habit for lateness even more pronounced.
Pierre was reviewing text messages as he looked up and smiled at her entrance. The restaurant was packed on a Monday night. This steakhouse was the best one in town. It was the place to make deals— where contracts got signed for oil services, transport, and workers. In the crazy days of multiple oil plant expansion, oil men had come here to strategize over stealing other companies’ employees. Bodies had been needed to build the plants—anything with a heartbeat.
Bernadette walked in, put her gloves in her jacket, and unbuttoned her coat. The place was warm. Grilling steaks wafted their aroma, glasses clinked, and voices rose as alcohol loosened restaurant patrons’ tongues.
Bernadette collapsed in her chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Pierre smiled. “The bad boys being bad again?”
“Always,” Bernadette said as she threw her leather jacket over the back of the chair.
A waiter arrived and placed an order of crab cakes and tempura snap peas and asparagus on the table. Another waiter followed with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“I ordered some starters and wine—I thought you might be hungry.” Pierre smiled again. His French Canadian charm was the thing that Bernadette had found attractive. She had stayed only briefly for the sex.
“Starving.” Bernadette picked up a fork and speared a crab cake the moment it hit the table.
“Still have Tim Horton’s doughnuts and coffee daily?”
“Hey, I now have a Subway sandwich—I’m a changed woman. And I started to drink that iced green tea,” she said through mouthfuls of crab.
Pierre tasted the wine; he had chosen a Merlot from Nk’Mip wineries in Canada’s Okanagan region. He thought the wine was okay. He was a California wine snob, but he knew Bernadette would like it.
Bernadette stopped shoveling mouthfuls of crab cake to sip the wine. “Nice. Nk’Mip wineries.” She smiled at Pierre. “You know I like this winery, it’s a great Native story. Native band in southern British Columbia puts together a winery with a five-star resort and golf course. And I hear they’re hiring a few white guys now.” She beamed at Pierre.
Pierre swirled the wine in his glass. He had heard the story several times as Bernadette never tired of telling it. “Yes, they make a passable merlot.”
“Passable. Hell, they’ve won awards.”
“Yes, yes. They’ve done very well. Listen I’ll grant you all the accolades for the Native winery. It’s wonderful.” Pierre paused as Bernadette visibly settled down. He was never sure when she got excited if it was the Cree side or the Irish side. They both flashed with fire.
He began slowly, keeping his voice low. “Bernadette, I wanted to thank you for the work you did on uncovering the Clearwater affair. The Synthetic Oil people are extremely grateful. So grateful in fact, they wanted to know if you would like to come over to private security—their private security team. There would of course be the usual perks, twice your present pay, a nice car, and vacations to exotic places that you might have the time to go to.” He paused and waited, watching her, seeing if an emotion would tell her thoughts.
Bernadette stabbed some tempura asparagus and munched on it. “You mean give up my pain-in-the-ass captain of detectives to come work for Synthetic Oil, where you would be my boss?”
“Yeah, kind of like that. You might find me nicer to work with than you think. My whole team loves me.” He threw that charming grin again.
Bernadette took another sip of her wine and patted her lips with her napkin. “You know, Pierre, that is a sweet offer, and you’re a sweet guy, but the RCMP would never survive without me. The very future of Canada would be at stake if I left the force.” She smiled over her wine glass.
Pierre let out a low chuckle. “Mon Dieu. What am I to do in the face of such patriotism? Okay, okay, the country of Canada needs you. The company also wanted to offer you some kind of reward—perhaps a nice cruise or two weeks in an all-inclusive resort. I hear good things about Cancun.”
“Which you know, of course, I cannot accept.”
“Merde, shit, of course. The honorable RCMP. So I will buy dinner, and you’ll have dessert, yes?” Pierre raised his wine glass in a toast.
“Of course. We’re talking business,” Bernadette said, raising her wine glass.
Pierre sighed and lowered his wine glass. “What business?”
Bernadette was about to launch into her conversation when the waiter came back to take their order for dinner. Pierre ordered the eight- ounce sirloin well done with a side salad. Bernadette ordered the baseball steak medium rare and sautéed mushrooms. She did not say no to the baked potato.
When the waiter left, she resumed. “Do you think the FBI or the CSIS has a chance of finding the guys who are behind this oil manipulation?”
Pierre poured more wine in their glasses and leaned forward. “I don’t think the CSIS or the FBI have the slightest chance of catching these guys.”
“Why’s that?” Bernadette leaned closer. The tables were close together in the steakhouse. They did not want to be overhead. Fort McMurray was a small town. The ears were everywhere.
“Look.” Pierre lowered his voice, providing a sense of conspiracy in his actions. “They can only catch these guys if they trade large volumes on NYMEX, the New York Mercantile Exchange—it has a watchdog. But if they trade on the International Oil Exchange, called ICE Futures, they’ll be virtually unseen.
“How come?” Bernadette was leaning so close to Pierre she could smell his cologne. It brought back memories.
“Thanks to the past president, Bush, who allowed it, and the guys like Enron, who proposed it—just before they took themselves and a few billion with them.”
“How’d they get it through?” Bernadette had to lean closer, as the restaurant was getting loud. Two young oil workers were enjoying themselves at full volume at the table beside them. She stared at them, just enough for them to feel it. They lowered their voices.
Pierre smiled and waited for her attention to drift back from the table of rowdies to him. “Some congressmen howled like crazy, but the Commodity Futures Modernization Act of 2000 was passed. The Act brought in a new way of trading oil called a futures ‘look-alike’ contract—a whole new way of speculating on oil that couldn’t be monitored.”
“And the government allowed that? My dear Grandmother would say that’s like the fox asking the farmers to feed the chickens.” Bernadette leaned back in her chair and then leaned in again. “So, you think these guys trade on this new . . . ICE exchange?”
“Yeah, I would bet on it. And they somehow convinced McAllen to come in to move the price of oil for them. There is a theory that 60 percent of the price of oil is caused by speculation. The war in Iraq caused a price spike because it’s so close to Saudi Arabia. Afghanistan caused a blip in t
he price of oil because there’s nothing there other than rocks, mud, and some opium plants. Did nothing to oil. Now the dustup in Libya—we had a 20 percent price hike back then.”
“So, what will this cause? The threat of terrorism to Alaskan and Canadian oil—what kind of price spike do you see?”
“I see a 40 to 50 percent, and maybe more.”
“That much?”
“Oh yeah, up until now, the main draw of North American oil has been safety. Sure, the eco-friendly Americans and Canadians hate the dirty Canadian oil. But without Canada’s oil sands, they’re hooped. Americans consume 20 million barrels of oil a day. Canada supplies 20 percent of that and 47 percent comes from the oil sands. Alaska provides another 5 percent of the oil delivered to the USA. If both of these oil fields were compromised, you would see gasoline at over three dollars a liter in Canada and on the upside of six dollars a gallon in America.” Pierre sat back in his chair. The waiter arrived with the steaks, poured more wine, smiled at them, and left.
Bernadette cut into her steak. It oozed blood, and she smiled her satisfaction. “So the people trying to manipulate oil knew what they were doing when they hit these two oil fields.”
“And so did McAllen. They hit the two places in North America that are vulnerable to a single-source water supply. If the polywater had done what McAllen claimed it would do, you might be looking for a new posting. Say, you would look great in the ceremonial scarlet RCMP uniform. I hear the tourists like to take pictures of RCMP in Banff. You’re pretty photogenic.” Pierre smiled and looked for the rise out of Bernadette that was sure to follow.
“Asshole,” Bernadette scowled between mouthfuls of steak. “The last place you will ever find me will be in Banff, and other than at a ceremony, I do not wear the scarlet. Not that there is a problem with the scarlet uniform.” She realized Pierre had successfully boxed her into one of his little conversation corners. She remembered this was one of the reasons she had broken up with him. The verbal jousting was a pain in the ass.
“So, why the interest in the case? The chief said you were off it.” Pierre reached his hand across the table and put his hand on hers. “Not like that would stop you, of course.”
Bernadette glanced at Pierre’s hand on hers. She let it rest. She felt the old feeling—was this flirtation, or just concern?
“Well, you know me; I’ve always had this thing about the chase. Never stop until the other guy drops.” She moved her hand from under Pierre’s and patted her lips with her napkin. “Let’s put it this way, I got two murders here in Fort McMurray, three on Galiano Island, and three more in Alaska all caused by McAllen and supposedly someone trying to manipulate oil. The natural tracker in me doesn’t want to let go.”
“But you’re off the case.” Pierre knew he was stating the obvious. “Well, I believe the case has been reorganized, and I will look in on it as a casual observer.”
“The RCMP does that?”
“No. I do.”
Pierre put his wine glass down. “Ah, the unstoppable Detective Bernadette Callahan.” He looked straight into her eyes and held her gaze.
There was a moment, when Pierre stared into her eyes—the little spark rekindled, the interest, the old excitement was there. She felt flushed and hoped it didn’t show. She blamed it on the wine, the heat of the restaurant, and the cold outside. A thought entered the back of her mind and then took center stage. Did Pierre want to be involved again? Were they about to go to his place or hers? Was a quick hookup her style? Could she handle it? A message flashed to her brain: Bernadette, you need your libido serviced. Time to light the fires, girl
Pierre looked at his watch. “I hate to cut our evening short, but I need to catch a flight to Calgary tonight. Some accountants at Synthetic Oil want a face-to-face. Risk assessment analysis and stuff. I never knew these guys would be up so late for something so boring, but that’s the job.”
Bernadette snapped out of the conversation going on in her head. “But there’re no flights this late at night . . . Oh yeah, the Synthetic Oil private fleet.” She let the words out slowly. Just as slowly, she let go of the vision of Pierre and her romping naked. Yes, I’ll be in the gym early tomorrow, to work off the sexual frustration, she told herself
“We have the new Gulfstream G150 on the tarmac. I hear they can max at around eight hundred kilometers an hour. I should be in Calgary fifty minutes after wheels up.”
“And wheels up are when?” Bernadette asked as her composure returned. She was no longer going to let her brain send her images she could not act on.
“Supposedly at 8:30, but I can push to 9:00. How about desert? I know you like your sugar.” Pierre patted her hand again. This time it felt friendly. He smiled.
Bernadette returned the friendly smile. “You know me. Normally I would, but I hit my sugar max with a doughnut or two today. How about we call it a night? You go do your risk assessment, and I could use some downtime.”
“You sure? They have that amazing chocolate cake you like.” Pierre smiled again. It was obvious he wanted to leave as well.
“Absolutely. Matter of fact, I hate to eat and run . . . have some errands to do.” Bernadette stood and extended her hand. She did not want the standard French Canadian hug in the restaurant.
Pierre stood. He got the message. “It was a pleasure; perhaps we can do this again.”
“Absolutely.” Bernadette squeezed away from Pierre, put on her coat and gloves, and walked out of the restaurant and into the street. Three young men looked at her with interest, making movements as if to approach. She glared back at them. They stopped in their tracks.
28
Margaret Always Ate Lunch At Armando’s Grill on Wednesdays at 2:00 p.m. Most of the tourists had moved on by that time and only a few locals would be there.
Armando’s was the happening place for locals and tourists. Locals loved it for the famous Cadillac margaritas, served in large bowl-shaped glasses with loads of tequila and a splash of Grand Marnier. The food was Mexican, the atmosphere the same, but the real appeal was the location. Armando’s was right on El Paseo Drive, Palm Desert’s answer to Rodeo Drive in LA, where all of the glitz of Palm Desert went by on wheels or on foot.
Lexus’s and BMWs with a few Bentleys roll down the street, and Palm Desert ladies hauling packages and poodles shopped the stores for fine clothing and art, or their next ex-husband. The place to see and be seen was El Paseo. Armando’s had a promontory view with a street-level patio. The patrons on the patio got all the ogling they could absorb.
Margaret went there for the quiet, and the nacho chips and salsa. she was only slightly addicted to them, certain they were the reason for the weight she had gained in Palm Desert. With her other favorite, the fish taco (grilled not fried), and an ice tea, her lunch was complete. Her companions for lunch were The Economist and the Wall Street Journal
Some found these a dry read. Margaret found them fascinating. The Economist provided snapshots of the capital output of countries and government sentiments. She used it like a gambler would use a racing sheet to bet on horses. She found countries suitable for her operations. The Wall Street Journal let her know what the boys of industry were up to and who could use her special assistance next.
She always sat on the patio, reserving one of the small tables just inside the entrance. The Palm Desert sun beamed down, providing light for her reading and warmth. Her table was waiting as she entered the restaurant. She smiled her satisfaction to the waiter, and with her magazine and paper in hand, she went to her table.
She noticed that only one other table on the patio was occupied. Three people sat over on the far corner—a tall, gray-haired, grey bearded man wearing a loud, red print Hawaiian shirt and gray cargo shorts, a round-faced Native-looking lady, and a small man with gray braids and a bandana. She thought he looked a lot like Willy Nelson. Tourists, she thought, and went about reading her magazine.
The waiter placed a margarita on her table. She looked up from her reading.
She never ordered margaritas at lunch. The waiter knew he was doing something unwanted. “Senora Ashley, this is from the other table . . .” He let the words trail away and hurried off.
Margaret looked over. The tall man in the loud shirt and gray cargo shorts stood up and started ambling towards her. It took her brain a mere nanosecond to recognize Professor Alistair McAllen. He had grown a beard and his hair was longer, but it was him—here, in Palm Desert.
He moved slowly to the chair opposite hers. She tried to relax her breathing. She needed air to get to her brain. She placed her hands on the table. A Beretta Tomcat .32 caliber, loaded, with the safety on, was in her purse on the floor. The options did not look good. McAllen’s other hand rested in his pocket. She assumed he had a gun. The strange- looking little man at the other table was eyeing her. She breathed deeply, waited for their moves.
“Mind if I join you?” McAllen stood in the bright Palm Desert sunshine. He was taller than he looked on television. The long hair and beard couldn’t hide the keen sharp eyes that stared at her.
“Please do,” Margaret offered. She instinctively wanted to withdraw her hands from the table. She stopped herself.
“Margaret Ashley my name is Professor Alistair McAllen, but you already know that. What you don’t know is we . . .” he turned his head to motion in the direction of his companions, “. . . know quite a bit about you.”
Margaret processed the information. Here was McAllen. He had found her and knew her name. She had lived so many years in the safety of the shadows. Now here, on her doorstep and threatening her life, was one of her pawns. Someone she had manipulated for money. She breathed deeply, and let it out slowly. “Well, Professor, you are far more clever than I gave you credit for. And to what do I owe the honor of this visit.. .revenge?”
Polar Bear Dawn Page 17