"Guess I better," Denise said, joining in the laugh. "For a minute there, I thought we were going to get to practice our CPR."
"Not far off," I agreed, trying to wipe the shock off my face. "Apparently you two are connected somehow."
"That we are," Denise confirmed. "I'm with the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, stationed out of Spokane, Washington. Since the parts trade isn't too particular about boarders, we're on a joint operation here."
"You're undercover, too?" Matt said.
"You sound surprised."
"I am. I thought undercover operatives were supposed to be inconspicuous."
Denise laughed. "You and everybody else. So—who'd suspect a loud-mouthed fanatic?"
She had a point. "And you think Kenny Legge's involved in a cross-border network?"
"Let's just say we have our suspicions about his trafficker."
A familiar clicking told me Matt had gone to work with his camera.
"How does the pup fit in?" I asked, looking down at the handsome animal at my feet.
"Rocky's one of a kind," Stacey beamed. She reached out a hand and patted his head with obvious pride. "He's the first trained gall-sniffer in the COS."
"You mean, like the dogs who search for drugs?" I asked, thoroughly impressed.
"That's it," she confirmed.
"Tell me all about it," I said, eager to follow this unexpected angle. "Where do you want me to start?"
"Anywhere you want," I said, flipping to a fresh page in my notebook. "Just tell me in your own words. I'll ask questions when I need to."
Stacey took a deep breath, which strained the fabric of her uniform shirt. Fortunately for my husband, I heard no corresponding click. The man was showing admirable good sense.
"Well...a couple of years ago," Stacey began, sounding a little tentative, "the brass decided to try an experiment. Since the bear parts trade is relatively high value, and the goods are easy to hide, and the incidence of poaching was on the increase, they thought a dog might be valuable—but no dog had ever been trained for this before."
The story was flowing smoothly now. Stacey had jumped the hurdle of awkwardness I often found with people who weren't used to talking to a reporter.
"They tried out the same techniques they use for narcotics detection and soon realized that a dog could be trained to discriminate gall scent. Rocky was certified through the RCMP Dog Service in a course modified to meet COS needs."
"You make this certification sound significant," I said, noticing a subtle change in her tone.
"Oh, it is," Stacey confirmed, with an emphatic nod. "Canines have to be certified for law enforcement or the courts won't consider the evidence they obtain. And, as Rocky's handler, I had to qualify as an expert witness."
"Why is that?"
"Because I'm the one who actually testifies," Stacey explained. "I have to be able to relate what we did as a team."
"I see," I said, carefully noting her last point before moving on. "And when is your team called in?"
Stacey, who had fully hit her stride, launched confidently into specifics. "Times like today, of course. The dog is very effective in detection situations, when we're executing a search warrant. Today it'll be in a house. But he's great wherever evidence is likely to be hidden— planes, warehouses, boats. When you're short of manpower, the dog makes a big difference. Rocky can search the average house in half-an-hour. We'd be at it forever." She paused for a beat. "He's also useful at poaching scenes for finding small bits of evidence like spent brass, or knives, anything foreign to the site."
"Then he's trained to search for things other than the galls themselves."
"Oh sure," Stacey replied. "We could use him to track a suspect in the bush—and he can assist with arrest and control."
"Quite a partner you've got there," I said, eyeing the beautiful dog with true admiration.
"Wait till you see him in action," Stacey crowed.
I was looking forward to it.
"Show time," Mike called from the front of the van.
Peering through the tinted window, I saw that we had pulled up to the curb on an older residential street. The homes were moderate clapboards fronted by small rectangles of grass. Some were shaded by mature trees, others peeked from behind shrubs grown wild and tangled with neglect. Here and there a dot of colour showed some resident's effort to brighten things with a bed of newly planted flowers or a hanging basket. But, somehow the effect was more pathetic than artistic. Overall, the neighbourhood felt as though it had seen better days.
"That's Legge's place, over there," said Denise Pardue, swivelling the captain's seat to face us in the rear. "Number 649."
For a silly minute, I made the mental leap to Lotto 649 and wondered if we'd hit the jackpot. Right now, the house was as unremarkable as its neighbours, but that would soon change. I was so keyed up I could hardly sit still.
Mike must have read my mind—or my body language. "Better get comfortable," he said as he moved into the cramped midsection of the van and stationed himself next to a video camera. "We've got an hour to kill before Tang's scheduled to go in. But it's important to keep still. From outside, the van looks empty and there's nothing more suspicious than a vehicle jiggling around when you can't see anybody inside."
Mike's warning worked like a wet blanket on a fire. It smothered not only activity—but conversation as well. I thought I'd explode.
Rocky's rhythmic panting and the hum of two heaven-sent fans were the only sounds. As the minutes ticked past, tension began to show. Denise worried a hangnail on her left thumb. Matt fidgeted with his new lens. Stacey twisted a nylon dog collar between her fingers. Mike's gaze constantly darted from one electronic gadget to another. I drew geometric shapes around the margins of my notes—and Rocky's ears swivelled to catch the slightest sound.
I can't describe the relief when the glowing red numerals on the control panel clock finally flashed the magic 3:00. Right on cue, Adam Tang's battered little import drew to a stop at the opposite curb and a crackle of static sounded like a rifle shot in the quiet van. "What's the status?" his disembodied voice inquired over a radio speaker.
"No activity since we've been in position," Mike responded.
"Roger," Adam said. "I'm going in."
We all held our breath as the undercover officer climbed from his car with an ordinary plastic grocery bag clutched in his hand. Rocky even forgot to pant. He crouched in barely contained anticipation, his back muscles twitching. Five pairs of eyes followed Adam to the door. Five necks craned forward as he punched the bell.
We waited.
He punched the bell again.
We waited some more.
Time inched by.
A third try.
Even with no experience in situations like this, I knew full well something was wrong. Adam had started to turn away when an electronic ringtone snapped the bowstring tension. The collective gasp inside the van probably saved lives. I know I'd completely forgotten to breathe.
Mike snatched up the mobile. "Boychuk," he snapped. I strained forward, desperate to learn what had happened to put that look on his face. "Right. We'll wait for you," he said, then, without acknowledging the anxious stares around him, switched from phone to radio. "Come to mama," was all he said, and a moment later Adam Tang tapped at the door.
"What the hell's going on?" he demanded, squeezing himself into the over-crowded quarters.
"Just heard from Friesen," Mike said. "He's got a weird message on the office answering machine from somebody named Tovey Aquino." He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Obviously, the name meant nothing to him.
"She's a biology student working with Liam Malloney," Adam explained.
"Oh," Mike nodded. "Well, the message she left was sort of garbled and agitated. But she claims to have found a bunch of galls here at Legge's place. Roy's on his way over now."
"Where does Tovey fit into all this?" I asked. "And where is she now?"
"Beats me," our former barte
nder said, looking completely baffled. At this point, there was no way of telling why or how, but one thing was absolutely clear. It wasn't Kenny Legge's train that had gone off the rails, it was Adam Tang's.
Right then, the dark blue COS Suburban pulled up and soon Roy Friesen was poking his head through the door. The ensuing conference was brief. We had a search warrant and a talented dog. It was time to put them to use.
After Mike applied a muscular shoulder to the suspect's front door, Stacey took over with Rocky. Just inside, she ordered him down and stood quietly waiting.
"What's going on?" I whispered to Roy.
"She's letting him acclimatise his nose to the unique scents of this house."
I nodded and watched—fascinated.
A couple of minutes later, his handler fastened the nylon collar around Rocky's neck and gave him a single command. "Search." Instantly the dog set off with his head lowered, systematically scanning the scene with his finely tuned nose. We followed him into the living room, staying well out of the way. He searched the shabby area efficiently and thoroughly, but showed no signs of interest. He moved on to what would have been a dining room if Kenny Legge had needed a place to entertain guests. Instead, the space appeared to serve as his office, dominated by a large, old-fashioned desk standing squarely in the centre.
Abruptly Rocky's pattern changed. Abandoning his former routine, he trotted directly to the heavy desk. With his nose he investigated minutely, then dropped his head and made for the kitchen. He pranced excitedly at the back door until Stacey pushed it open, then charged into the enclosed porch beyond. There he pulled up short in front of a huge chest freezer. At first, he whined and pawed at the heavy lid. But suddenly the expert sniffer dog sat down, head held high, eyes shining confidently.
"This is it," Stacey announced. "We call it a sit confirmation," she added, evidently for my benefit. "Rocky's just committed to his find."
I nodded, quickly jotting notes while Matt blasted off shots with his auto drive.
"Open her up, Adam," Roy Friesen urged. "This is your bust." The undercover agent stepped forward to do the honours while the rest of us crowded close behind. As he raised the lid, we all pressed nearer, anxious for a glimpse of the hidden cache of galls.
Nobody was prepared to see Shane Deeks.
Chapter Twenty-Six
As a mystery addict—both books and TV—I've had plenty of exposure to crime scene investigation. What followed the discovery of Shane Deeks' body roughly fit my expectations. Uniformed police arrived first, in response to the radio call, then the specialists started to roll in. Our little troop was bundled outside and detained until we gave our preliminary statements. It was all very systematic and efficient.
The big difference I noted between fact and fiction, was the lack of opportunity for amateur sleuths to poke around for clues. Of course, our situation hadn't really fit the classic mould, given that the body had been found by a whole slew of officers.
Roy Friesen had immediately taken charge, allowing no convenient time lapse before the authorities arrived. Not that I was in any condition for nosing around. The sight of that face staring out of the freezer was hands-down the most horrendous experience of my life. My limbs refused to stop shaking and my stomach teetered on the edge of all out rebellion—but there was no time to dwell on physical woes. As soon as the police let us go, I wangled a ride back to our car.
"What's the rush?" Matt wanted to know as I jumped into the driver's seat, leaving him no choice but to take the passenger side.
Without stopping to answer, I began thumbing through the contacts on my mobile. This was a call I didn't want to make in front of all those uniforms.
"What's going on?" Matt demanded, completely out of patience.
I would have answered if my phone hadn't chimed. Instead, I held up my hand to silence him as Brooke's voice issued from the speaker.
"No time to talk," I blurted into the phone. "Can you tell me how to get to the Deeks' place?"
"The Deeks?" Brooke sounded baffled.
"Yeah—I'll explain as soon as I can, but right now I have to see Shane's mom."
My friend knows me well enough not to get in the way when I've worked up a head of steam. Still sounding hesitant, she nevertheless gave me directions. I think I remembered to say thanks before I broke the connection and rammed the car into gear—maybe not. I had other issues to contend with.
"What the devil are you up to?" stormed the man in the passenger seat. A quick sideways glance revealed the remaining green tinge around the edge of his face had suddenly given way to blazing red.
Matt Anderson is normally a very calm individual. You might even call him laid-back. But shanghai-ing my newly minted husband into joining me as I chased off on an impulse had apparently got him a trifle riled. I still had a lot to learn about this marriage game.
"I think we'll find something important there," I replied, aiming for a conciliatory tone.
"No, we won't," he shot back, refusing to be mollified. "If there's something important to find, it'll be there for the police. This is now a murder investigation, Taylor."
"I'm well aware of that," I said. "But, there's something wrong. Something urgent. I don't know what it is, Matt. But I know we have to find out."
Picking up on my genuine concern, Matt backed off. "Is this one of your famous hunches?" he asked, with what definitely sounded more like irony than anger.
Thank heaven, I thought, grasping gratefully at what I took for an olive branch. The prospect of continually butting heads with my spouse was not my idea of a happy life. Although, happy or not, there were going to be times when I'd just have to follow my gut, whether Matt agreed or not. "Yes," I admitted, letting a wry note creep into my own voice.
Matt sighed deeply. "Oh well, why not?" He crossed his arms and slid down a little in the seat. "The worst they can do is throw us in jail for interfering with a criminal investigation."
"We won't interfere. We'll just—"
"Poke our noses where they're not wanted?"
I shot my husband a pained glance. He paid no attention.
"I can't imagine the authorities are going to be too pleased with us for spilling the beans to the next of kin," he said.
"So, we won't."
"Are you suggesting that we visit Shane Deeks' mother and sister, knowing that he's dead, and not say a word about it?" Matt's voice rose dangerously.
"I'm not suggesting it," I replied flat out. "I'm going to do it."
"OMG!"
I put a hand on his knee. "Just bear with me on this, okay?"
"What choice do I have—short of flinging myself from a speeding car?"
I welcomed Matt's grudging acceptance and fell silent, concentrating on what to say when we met Mrs. Deeks. Nothing very convincing had occurred to me by the time I wheeled the car into the Holiday Valley trailer park some distance up the east side of Bear Lake from the lodge. Following the directions Brooke had provided, I turned along a row of single-wides—and prayed for inspiration.
The Deeks' trailer was near the end of the line. Old and worn, it nevertheless looked homey—welcoming, even. The tiny yard struck me as neat and trim, enlivened by a sawed-off barrel filled with newly planted petunias that would strike a cheery note all summer. Without daring to glance in Matt's direction, I climbed out and headed for the front steps. Behind me, a car door opened and closed. Though he didn't like what I was doing, at least my husband was going to back me up.
When I knocked, the sound was a lot more confident than I felt. But there was no going back now. After a short delay with no response, I tried again. Still nothing.
I tried the knob and the door swung easily inward. "Anybody home?" I called. No answer.
I stepped inside.
The living room, like the trailer exterior, was worn, but tidy and friendly. In the open kitchen area, a drainer full of clean dishes sat next to the sink, the countertops uncluttered and clean. "Looks like Lynette's home from school—and C
laire must be with her," I murmured, pointing at two piles of books on the chrome and Arborite table. "I wonder where they are?"
Matt didn't answer. He knew it wasn't expected. But he did follow as I made my way down a narrow hall. Four doors opened off the passage. I poked my head into each room as I passed, identifying the bath and Lynette's room before finding what I wanted. Shane Deeks was either as neat as his mother or she spent a lot of time picking up after him, because his space was as trim and tidy as the rest of the house. A single bed, Spartan in a plain corduroy spread, shared the limited area with a brown painted dresser, a study desk, and a small bedside table, its open shelf piled with hunting magazines.
"Look at this," I said, after a little rummaging. I held up a dogeared brochure that had been buried in the pile.
Matt took it from my outstretched hand and whistled softly when he read the cover. "Could explain a lot," he said, handing back the leaflet from Cancer Clinics International. "If Deeks was trying to get together the money to send his mother for special treatment, then poaching makes a world of sense."
"True enough," I agreed. "Though it doesn't explain why he's dead."
I shifted my attention to the narrow desk where my partner was already rummaging through the drawer. It was an easy task. The few contents were arranged with military precision: two pens, a ruler, a pencil, a box of ammunition, an old-fashioned portable radio-recorder, and an audio cassette. Matt picked up the cassette and turned it over in his hand. "Legge," he read aloud from the carefully lettered label.
We glanced at each other for a fraction of a second then simultaneously reached for the recorder. Matt got it first, quickly fitted the cassette, and punched the play button. Given the condition of Shane's personal belongings, it was no surprise to find the tape already rewound. At first, we heard only the quiet whirr of small wheels turning.
Then Shane Deeks returned from the dead.
"I want my money now," said a voice that sent shivers up my spine.
The words were clearly audible, but Shane sounded far off—muffled.
I could hear the snarl on Kenny Legge's face as he replied. "You'll get the other half when the job's done."
Bear of a Honeymoon Page 20