The River Killers

by Bruce Burrows

  “What in heaven’s name was he doing there?”

  “Good question, and some might ask what, in heaven’s name was he doing here?” They looked uncomfortable and sipped their drinks defensively.

  Pete gestured to the upper floors of the building. “You’ll notice none of the brass are here. They don’t like to acknowledge that Alistair even existed, much less worked here.”

  “Well, chickens come home to roost like salmon come home to spawn, or at least like they used to.” Sam and Markus looked even more uncomfortable and drifted unobtrusively away.

  “Better put the stabilizers out,” Pete laughed. “Danny’s rocking the boat again. What’s bothering you now?”

  “Pete, it looks like Alistair was murdered and whoever did it has some connection to the work they were doing here back in the 1980s. Is there anyone here who was part of all that?”

  “Jesus, that was never my scene. I only stopped in here once in a while to check something in the library. But Gary Masters, that guy in the Tilley hat over there, he’s a geneticist. He’d know something about it.”

  I looked in the direction Pete had indicated and saw a tall, slightly stooped man listening to someone who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Take me over there and introduce me, Pete. Tell them I was the one who recovered Alistair’s effects. We’ll see how popular it makes me.”

  “Why don’t I tell them you’re a loyal and dedicated DFO employee who has nothing but the best interests of the organization at heart?”

  “I don’t want you to go to hell for lying,” I replied.

  He grimaced. “Better that than for wasting an entire life in the service of a dysfunctional bureaucracy.”

  “Bitterness is the first sign of insufficient alcohol consumption.” I tried to cheer him up. “Once the ice is broken, and they’ve decided to like me, you might want to wander away.”

  “I’ll keep my eye on you from afar.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I demurred.

  “Presumably, Alistair thought the same thing.”

  We followed the game plan and were soon exchanging pleasantries with Tall Tilley Hat and the guy I was still trying to place. His name was tantalizingly close to recall but hovered just out of reach. Then I remembered: Reginald Sanderson. He’d been at my going-away party in Ottawa, the guy Bette had warned me was Griffith’s weasel.

  I addressed myself to Tilley Hat. “Genetics. Fascinating field. Wish I’d picked it myself, but I don’t know DNA from RSPs. Huge potential, though. Did you work with Alistair when he was here?”

  There was a pause while he tried hard not to look at Sanderson. “I was here at the same time as Alistair, but we were not colleagues. My work is more theoretical.”

  He was about to explain the class distinction between the lab rats like Alistair and the formula floggers like himself when Sanderson intervened. Placing a hand in proximity to my shoulder, but without exactly touching me, which would have forced me to not recoil, he led me out of earshot range. Tall Tilley Hat was left standing like a lonesome pine on a desert mesa. He appeared to be comfortable with that.

  Sanderson leaned close enough so that I had to make an effort not to step back. “So, Danny, you got to see all Alistair’s stuff after the, uh, after his death. Did he have like a whole library full of records and data?”

  I managed to conceal my distaste for his proximity. “Oh yeah, he had stacks of journals, logbooks and there was a computer found under the floorboards of his shack.” And then the devil made me do a bad thing. “The cops didn’t want any of it, so I’ve been hanging on to everything. It’s bound to be really interesting when I get a chance to go through it all.” I’m sure he was dying to ask where I was keeping everything, but he was much too subtle for that. But I knew the message would get back to Griffith and then, if there was a link, our bad guy and then . . . I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but I was sure something would happen. And I was right.

  I circulated a bit more, sipping scotch and seeking someone who would ’fess up to working with Crowley on Project Chimera, but no one would admit to as much as having heard of it. At about five o’clock, with the sun low over the water, Bette put in an appearance. She spoke to a few of the more senior-looking people, ignored me, and left after about twenty minutes.

  I gave it five minutes and then walked around the building to the parking lot. Bette was just getting into her car so I slipped into the passenger seat. I looked behind us but the sun was glaring in my eyes. Hoping no one had seen us, I slid down in the seat and gestured to Bette to drive.

  Heading east on Marine Drive, Bette looked down at me. Not, hopefully, down on me. “Danny 007. This is so exciting. When do we get to blow something up?”

  “I didn’t want Reginald Sanderson to see us together.”

  “He’s harmless,” Bette replied. “He’s just going around leaning on people to keep their mouths shut about anything that happened in the eighties.”

  “Including Spandex?” Bette looked, no doubt about it, down on me. I forged ahead. “Sanderson may be harmless but he’s a conduit to Griffith, and he is highly toxic.”

  She considered this. “Fleming is a backstabber and an assassin, but that’s in the world of bureaucracy. I can’t see him killing anyone in real life.”

  “I don’t think he recognizes the difference. And he doesn’t have to get real blood on his hands. He just has to set things in motion.”

  She braked for a light.

  “Do you live around here?” I asked.

  “Back in Ambleside. But I’m on my way to see your Staff Sergeant Karavchuk and take a look at Alistair’s computer.”

  “Hey, I’m going there too. It’s a good thing I jumped in with you.”

  She gave me a quick glance. “You’re working very closely with Ms Karavchuk. Just how closely?”

  “We’re quite fond of one another.”

  “Fond of one another? I’m fond of my cat. Do you tickle her tummy?”

  “Only if she doesn’t scratch the furniture.”

  “Congratulations, Danny. She’s a very intelligent woman. I hope everything goes well.”

  “Thanks, Bette. We need to nail the bastards who’re responsible for this mess and then we can concentrate on our relationship.”

  “Good luck. When the war is over, we can all go home.”

  The police building hadn’t moved. I took Bette inside and Louise met us in the lobby.

  “Thanks for coming, Ms Connelly. We’ve set up a room where you can work.”

  “Thank you. And please call me Bette.”

  “All right, Bette. And I’m Louise.”

  Louise led Bette down the hall and I headed for her office. I was deep in thought when Louise came in and shut the door behind her. “How was the wake?”

  “Good scotch. Griffith’s right-hand man was there. Reginald Sanderson. He was warning everyone not to talk about Alistair and Project Chimera. But I had a brilliant idea.” She looked at me anxiously. “I told Sanderson I had all Crowley’s stuff, journals, computer, and everything. I’ve set a trap and baited it with me.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Danny,” she said, groaning unappreciatively. “You need to discuss stuff like this with me before you do it. You’ve put yourself in danger and we’re going to have to expend a lot of resources to protect you.”

  “The idea just popped into my head and I acted on it. We were dead in the water, so I had to do something. Anyway, I’m worth it.”

  “Tommy’s going to freak. We better go consult.”

  But Tommy didn’t freak. He was enough of a strategist to see that we had been facing a stalemate and he was prepared to sacrifice a valuable piece (I was at least a Bishop if not a Queen) in order to make progress. And I assumed that the use of the word “sacrifice” was purely figurative.

  “At the very least, Danny,” he said, “this will clarify some of the relationships. You’ve always assumed there was a connection from Griffith to our bad guy, maybe through Sander
son. Depending how this plays out, we may be able to confirm that link.”

  “So, what?” Louise said anxiously. “We stash Danny somewhere, and then let our bad guy know where he is and that he’s got Crowley’s stuff with him. I don’t really like this. We’re making a target out of a civilian.”

  “I’m not the target, Crowley’s stuff is. How about this? I’ll rent an apartment, get established, maybe invite a few people over for a party, and then pass the word that I have to go to Rupert for a few days. If we’re subtle enough, the bad guy will take the bait and make a move while I’m gone.”

  “We have to okay the apartment,” Tommy warned. “It would be better if it was a house, neighbors not too close. We don’t want to expose the general public. But I like it. It could be our only shot.”

  “Our bad guy knows we’re gunning for him,” Louise said. “You really think he’s going to come and knock on Danny’s door?”

  “It’s our best shot, Louise,” I said, realizing with a start that I’d almost called her “sweetie.” “What is there to lose?”

  Quite a lot, actually, as we were to become painfully aware. Some more painfully than others.

  We kicked around different scenarios and discussed details. It was close to nine when Bette walked into the office. We looked at her expectantly.

  “I made a little progress,” she said. “Those files won’t open properly because the computer doesn’t know the right program, or it probably knows but doesn’t know it knows. It was fashionable for the lab guys in the eighties to use an in-house modification of the data-filing system. I think Alistair modified it even further, so only he could read the files. I’m going to have to get in there and examine the code, line by line. It’ll take time, but I can do it.”

  “I’d do it, Bette, but I’ve got to go house hunting in the morning.” She gave me a yeah-right look, waved to the others, and left.

  I gave a thumbs-up to Tommy and Louise. “I knew Bette could penetrate Crowley’s computer defenses. That’s essentially his mind she’s looking into.”

  Tommy stood up and yawned. “You don’t need a computer whiz to decipher my mind. Food. Sleep. Repeat as needed.” He shrugged on his jacket. “Get some rest, you guys,” he said as he left.

  Louise and I just sat there for awhile. I put my foot on top of hers and tapped out a message. She replied verbally. “No, I’m not hungry. I’m tired.” There ensued a silence. “Your security detail isn’t on until tomorrow. I’m a little worried about you tonight.”

  I almost scoffed bravely but decided that neither valor nor discretion was in order. “You’re right. I don’t feel safe. Who can I turn to for protection?”

  Louise gave me a you’re-not-as-dumb-as-you-look look. “We are sworn to serve and protect.”

  “Protection. Just what I need. And service?”

  She gave me a don’t-push-your-luck look. “Let’s go.”

  In Louise’s hotel room, we noticed that one of the beds was not level. We were forced, therefore, to occupy the same bed, and it should be to the surprise of no one that the evening passed not without a certain degree of what some would refer to, should they be disinclined toward delicacy and prone to displaying the lack of couth which is the unfortunate condition of those disposed to consider such matters, a condition of what may necessarily be portrayed as, for lack of a better word, and one hopes with no fear of contradiction, intimacy.

  In fact, we reveled in the warmth and the scent and the touch and the closeness of each other for quite some time. We fell asleep with our naked bodies still seeking each other, mindlessly establishing the maximum area of contact possible.

  I woke the next morning and felt good and remembered why. Louise snuffled quietly on the pillow beside me and I kissed her bare shoulder. Carefully sliding out from under the covers, I tiptoed to the window and surveyed the wonders of a beautiful world.

  “You know, I think you’ve got a really cute ass.”

  I turned. “Gee, that gives us something in common.”

  “Why, do you think I’ve got a cute ass?”

  “No, I mean we both think I’ve got a cute ass.”

  I dodged the pillow and headed for the shower where Louise soon joined me.

  Nineteen

  In the morning, we found Tommy in his office along with four very young, very fit, very serious uniformed officers. “Hi, Danny. Meet your bodyguards.” They all squeezed my hand painfully as they introduced themselves, but because their stereotypical good looks were almost indistinguishable, they blended into an amalgamated character I could only remember as Jerome.

  “One of them will accompany you at all times,” Tommy said, “except when you’re in this building.”

  “Won’t they be a little conspicuous?”

  “They’ll be in plain clothes, and they’ve been trained to blend in. They never talk into their armpits.”

  “Ah.”

  Jerome left, and Louise, Tommy, and I planned the day’s activities. I wanted to spend a little more time trying to decode the May 6 and 7 entries in Alistair’s logbook. Then Jerome and I would go house hunting.

  Louise had copied the two relevant entries from the log and we spread them out on her desk and sat and looked at them. Louise had already noticed that the times given were to the minute rather than in fifteen-minute increments like all the other entries. As we pondered them anew, I noticed something else.

  “Look, the times are given in twenty-four-hour format where the first two digits designate the hour and the second two digits designate the minutes after the hour. So 2317 designates seventeen minutes after 11:00 PM. The May 6 entry gives times for seven different activities, the May 7 entry notes ten different times. Of the seventeen times, none of the minute designations is higher than twenty-six.”

  Louise twigged immediately. “That’s because they refer to letters of the alphabet?”

  “You’re as smart as I am.”

  Converting the seventeen numbers to letters gave us this:

  GLRINUQWKSHVCIRKX

  “Case solved. I’ll tell Tommy,” Louis commented with a hint of sarcasm.

  I scrambled to recover. “It’s obviously incorrect to convert based on the standard alphabet sequence. There’s a key somewhere. All we have to do is find it.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’m positive,” I said with as much certainty as I could muster. “Have your cipher guys looked at this?”

  “You were right. All our cipher guys did get assigned to CSIS. They’re decoding the prime minister’s last speech.”

  I sighed. “I’ll look through Crowley’s stuff again. Somewhere there’s a key sequence that will unlock this.”

  “Either that or our bad guy’s parents couldn’t afford too many vowels.”

  I switched to action mode. “Okay, I’m going house hunting. How many Jeromes do I need to take?”

  “What?”

  “The bodyguards. They’re all Jeromes to me.”

  “Interesting. They refer to you as ‘Meat.’” She gave her head a slight shake. “You need two. They’ll follow you in an unmarked car. You can continue to use taxis so you’re not changing your behavior.”

  She left and came back a minute later with two Jeromes. They had changed out of their uniforms, sort of. They were now dressed in jeans and T-shirts, with almost identical bomber jackets. But they had differentiated themselves through footwear. One wore low-cut runners endorsed by someone much taller than me, and the other wore Converse All-Star high-tops in the standard black.

  We discussed a game plan. There were five rental houses I wanted to look at. The nearest was not far from Commercial Drive, so that was destination number one, followed by four others in an agreed upon sequence. We exchanged cell numbers and set them to speed dial. I was warned that cell communications could be monitored if the bad guys were technologically savvy. I was sure they were, so messages would have to be cryptic.

  This was no big deal to me. Cryptic messages were standard op
erating procedure in the fishing industry. VHF radio conversations had to convey detailed information over open channels in such a way that only the intended recipient would understand.

  “How’s it lookin’? Do you see any fish?”

  “Remember last year behind the house?” Fish abundance is roughly equivalent to this time last year on the north shore of Malcolm Island.

  “You got that new chart yet?” Are you where you said you were going to be in the bar?

  “No, we’re lost in the Heart of Darkness.” No, we’re at Uganda Point in Fitz Hugh Sound.

  So, confident that my obfuscation skills were equal to undercover standards, we set out. I inspected all the possibilities. The rentals were all nice, featuring several rooms that had floors and ceilings and an assortment of walls. I completed my house-inspection agenda, only occasionally spotting High-Top Jerome and Low-Top Jerome hovering protectively, and was back at the police building by four. Tommy, Louise, Jerome, and I debriefed. Jerome preferred the house on West Sixth Avenue. It was not a busy area, primarily residential, and parking was difficult. Intruders would be easy to spot. And it was furnished. The other pros concurred, so I phoned the real estate agent and offered to sign a three-month lease, the minimum I could get away with. I could pick up a key and move in tomorrow. My friends Jerome offered to help me with my stuff, but I said I could carry my duffle bag all by myself.

  I called Bette and asked her to put a notice on the bulletin board at the lab that I was having a housewarming party on Friday. I arranged for the same notice to be displayed on the bulletin board at DFO HQ. And just to be sure it was a fun party, I phoned Mark, Christine, and Fergie.

  That night, I spent a pleasant evening with Rugby Pants Jerome in my room at the Ritz. His trouser-type apparel had never been worn on a rugby field, in a rugby clubhouse, or by, as far as I knew although I’d have to check with Tommy, an actual rugby player. But I didn’t hold that against him.

  I excused myself for a quick phone consultation with Staff Sergeant Karavchuk, which was not as amiable as I’d hoped. In fact, the meeting fell well short of our previous standard of amiability. When I returned to the room, Rugby Pants Jerome was flicking through the channels. It was that awkward time of year, post-hockey but pre-football. Baseball had started but games in May were like men in drag, occasionally spectacular but lacking the fundamentals. The NBA play-offs were in session, but I wasn’t comfortable with any game where two digits weren’t adequate for scoring. This eliminated cricket as well. He settled on something called the Palm Springs Chevy Invitational Open.