The Edge Creek Light

by H. P. Bayne

  Lachlan shrugged and smirked. Dez read the expression as, “Therrien doesn’t need to know.”

  Quinton slid his gangly form behind his desk, and Dez had the impression the furniture in the room was too big for its current occupant. Quinton was thin and on the short side with a receding hairline he didn’t seem to know quite what to do with. A pair of unfashionable glasses perched on his nose, and Dez decided a pocket protector wouldn’t be out of place on the guy.

  Tim Whitebear hadn’t been an overly large man, but next to Quinton, he would have looked like an Olympian. Dez had a hard time picturing this guy overpowering Tim and doing everything that came afterward.

  Then again, Sully had said Tim was cracked on the head first. And he hadn’t actually seen his killer. More than one person might have been involved.

  Lachlan had made himself right at home, taking the only other chair in the room. That left Dez to lean up against the wall—a tactic he figured was purposeful. Lachlan, he’d observed over time, loved to use Dez’s size to its fullest advantage with uncooperative witnesses.

  “So,” Lachlan said, leaning back in his seat. “Gabriel Pembroke is the biological son of Tim Whitebear. You remember Tim, of course.”

  Quinton snorted. “Of course I do. I worked with him.”

  “Worked for him, you mean.”

  Quintin crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair with a challenging sneer. “What are you getting at, exactly?”

  “You were up for the same promotion, and he got it. Must have rubbed you the wrong way.”

  “I wasn’t dancing in the streets, if that’s what you’re wondering. Of course, I was disappointed. Look, what’s the point of all this?”

  Lachlan sat forward, pinning Quinton in his sights. “We have reason to believe Tim’s death wasn’t as straightforward as everyone believed at the time.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  Lachlan’s lips curled into a humourless grin. “It means, sir, we believe he was murdered.”

  Quinton stared at Lachlan a long moment as if trying to make sense of what he’d been told. Then he burst out laughing. “Are you serious? Murdered? Why? He was an accountant, for God’s sake. We’re not exactly in a job filled with occupational hazards. Anyway, what would any of this have to do with his missing kid?”

  “We’re examining all possible connections,” Dez said. “This is one of them.”

  Lachlan nodded. “So perhaps you could answer my questions, Mr. Therrien. One event that’s come to our attention is an act of vandalism involving Mr. Whitebear’s car. It happened approximately two weeks prior to his death. Do you recall the incident?”

  Quinton continued to glare at Lachlan for a few seconds, but ultimately seemed to decide cooperation would bring this to an end sooner. “I remember people talking about it, yeah. I didn’t see it or anything.”

  “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “Me? Are you serious? Do I look like the type of guy who’d commit vandalism?”

  “You look like the type of guy who would be angered easily,” Lachlan said. “Being passed up for a promotion would anger anyone—especially if you’re being passed over for an Indigenous man.”

  Quinton fired forward in his chair. “Are you accusing me of being a racist? Because if you are—”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Lachlan said. “What I will do is ask. Did it bother you, that your direct superior wasn’t white?”

  Quinton gave a dry laugh. “No, it didn’t. I’m not a racist, all right?”

  “So this isn’t you at this rally for Patrick Callan?”

  Dez’s stomach drop. He fired his own glare at the back of Lachlan’s head as the man showed Quinton an image on his cellphone screen. Lachlan sure as hell hadn’t filled him in on this little discovery before coming in here.

  If Dez had appeared surprised, Quinton wasn’t in a position to notice. He was showing enough shock of his own as he scanned the photo.

  “That could be anyone,” Quinton said.

  Lachlan made a show of checking his screen and peering between it and the man across the desk from him. “Hmm. Sure looks like you. You’re a pretty distinctive guy, Mr. Therrien. If this isn’t you, you’ve got a doppelgänger out there somewhere. Maybe a twin brother. Might it be either of those things?”

  Lachlan was clearly poking at Quinton, and Quinton was smart enough to see it.

  “I must have just happened by there,” he said.

  Lachlan smiled as one might at a child caught lying. “You must have really enjoyed what you wandered into, then.” He motioned back to the screen. “You certainly appear most enthused. Would you agree you’re shouting in this photo? Or maybe you were trying to crack your jaw.”

  A sheen of sweat had broken out on Quinton’s forehead. “Look, I was a different person back then. I was stupid, and I fell for some of the crap people were spreading. I was a kid in my early twenties, an idiot basically. I don’t hold those views anymore.”

  “Fine,” Lachlan said. “But you did at the time, clearly. And it’s that time we’re concerned about. I’m going to ask again: Did it bother you to have to take direction from an Indigenous man?”

  Quinton opened his mouth, then closed it again. His eyes were fixed on Lachlan as if expecting him to draw a physical weapon and fire.

  Lachlan waited him out. At last, Quinton opened his mouth again.

  “I’m done talking,” he said. “Like I said, I’m busy.”

  “Not sure for how long, though,” Lachlan said. “If word of this gets back to your boss, how do you think he’ll take it? Carson O’Keefe isn’t a racist, after all. He’s happy to promote the best person for the job, regardless of race. Maybe he’ll think a white supremacist isn’t the best person for the position.”

  Quinton’s eyes widened. “You can’t tell him about this.”

  “So be honest with us,” Lachlan said. “Answer my last question.”

  Quinton blinked heavily, his teeth grinding together until he finally opened his mouth to answer. “Okay. Yes, it bothered me. At the time. It wouldn’t bother me now. Like I said, I’m a different man. I grew up. I got to know people outside my usual circle, and I changed my views. I’ve left that part of my life in the dust. I don’t want anyone to know about the kind of man I was.”

  “Or the kind of things you did, perhaps?” Lachlan said.

  “I didn’t do anything bad. I attended some rallies and meetings, but nothing more. We weren’t going out, bashing heads or anything. It was a lot of dumb talk between a lot of stupid people.”

  Lachlan leaned forward, far enough his belly pressed against the desk. “Did any of this talk involve Tim Whitebear?”

  Quinton paled. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Quinton licked his lips and swallowed before answering. “I think his name came up, yeah.”

  “In what way?”

  “Like I told you, I was upset I was passed over for promotion. I considered some of the people in the group to be my friends. I was blowing off steam, that’s all.”

  “And do you think your steam might have scalded someone there—maybe enough to set them on a course to teach Tim a lesson?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “We’re going to need some names, Quinton,” Dez said. “Everyone in the group you’re talking about.”

  “Like he said,” Lachlan told Quinton. “Oh, and we’ll need the name of the group besides.”

  “Someone came up with the stupid name Adam’s Children. We weren’t official or anything. It was an online group. Sprung up around the time news circulated that Callan was planning to come to KR.”

  “We’ll still need those names.”

  “Why? It’s in the past.”

  Lachlan sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. “Because it’s possible someone in the group kidnapped and murdered your colleague, Mr. Therrien. Names. Now.”

  Quinton sat back, sinking into a slump in his chair. �
��I’ll get them for you.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. I’ll have to go through some stuff at home. It’s been a lot of years. I don’t stay in touch with anyone from the group anymore.”

  Lachlan nodded, his posture and expression suggesting he would grant Therrien that concession.

  But only just.

  “Tonight, Mr. Therrien,” Lachlan said, standing. “If I don’t see those names in my email first thing tomorrow morning, I might have to get Mr. O’Keefe to put a bug in your ear about it, if you catch my drift.”

  On that note, Lachlan led the way from the office.

  Dez waited until they were back in the parking lot, well out of earshot of anyone, before letting his boss have it.

  “What the hell, man?”

  Lachlan’s face was the picture of innocence. “What?”

  “The photo? The rally? Were you ever planning to fill me in?”

  “Didn’t I say?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Oh,” Lachlan said. “Sorry.”

  “Come on. You know damn well you didn’t tell me about that. Why’d you leave me in the dark?”

  Lachlan stopped walking and turned to face Dez. “All right, Braddock, all right. I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget I’m not doing this alone anymore. I get the bit between my teeth and I’m off. I don’t always stop to let everyone catch up.”

  Dez’s anger subsided a little. Any apology from Lachlan had to be counted as a big thing. Even so …. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  Lachlan appeared to be giving it genuine thought. “No. Not that I can think of.” He must have read something in Dez’s expression, because he quickly held up a placating hand. “Honest.”

  Dez let it slide and continued toward the SUV. “So what now? We wait?”

  “Not quite. I know a retired cop whose job it was to gather intel at the time Callan was coming to town. Police were trying to sort out who was likely to cause the biggest problems. He might have some info for me on this.”

  “I take it he won’t want the extra company,” Dez said.

  “You take it correctly, Braddock.”

  “What about me?”

  Lachlan gave it some thought. “Might be time to loop in the police as to what we’re up to. Think you can trust your buddy Raynor to sit on this a while, until we get our ducks in a row?”

  “We don’t have any ducks yet,” Dez said. “We don’t have any proof Tim was murdered. All we’ve got is what a ghost told Sully, a lack of detail in the pathologist’s report and a whole lot of suspicions.”

  “Even so, might be a good idea to have police ready to move once we’ve got something.”

  “Fair enough,” Dez said. “But I’m starving. I’m going to go get something to eat, and then I’ll arrange to meet with Forbes. If there’s anyone we can trust to hear us out and sit on this, it’s him.”

  Lachlan smirked, and Dez sensed a heavy dose of sarcasm was about to follow.

  “You’re right, there,” Lachlan said. “Sitting is one of Raynor’s few true talents.”

  16

  Having parted ways with Dez and Lachlan in the lobby, Sully approached the info desk. Lachlan had blown past it the other day, but Sully didn’t think he could boast nearly the same commanding presence as his boss.

  The woman behind the desk appeared to recognize him, judging by her wary expression.

  Sully offered his best off-putting smile. “My name’s Sullivan Gray with Fields Investigations. I was here yesterday to speak with Carson O’Keefe. Some questions have arisen, and I’m hoping he might spare me a few minutes. I don’t expect it would take long.”

  The muscles in the woman’s face relaxed as Sully spoke, so by the time he completed his request, she offered him a polite smile. “One moment. I’ll call up for you.”

  Sully waited as the lady tapped a few digits into her phone and waited. A moment later, she was talking to someone. “There’s a Sullivan Gray here for Mr. O’Keefe. Is he …? I see. I’ll let him know.”

  The woman hung up and turned back to Sully. “I’m afraid Mr. O’Keefe is out of the office at the moment, attending to a matter at the east rail yards.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  The woman smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I don’t. His business can take him away from the office for some time.”

  “Thanks for checking.”

  He stepped away from the desk and contemplated calling Lachlan to ask advice. But Lachlan and Dez were likely involved in their conversation with Therrien by now; Lachlan wouldn’t thank him for the interruption.

  Sully was new to the private investigation business but not new to investigating, thanks in large part to his unusual abilities. He’d make his way over to the rail yards now and see if Carson would spare him a few minutes.

  Cabs were abundant outside the railway station, thanks to an expected afternoon passenger train. Sully slid into the backseat of the first one in line and asked to be taken to the rail yards on the east end of town. It was a solid drive from here, but hopefully would be worth it at the end.

  The cabbie did a quick GPS search for the location before setting off. As they made their way through the city, Sully fired off a quick text to Dez: Heading to rail yards to talk to Carson.

  His text went unanswered, which wasn’t unexpected given Dez’s meeting with Therrien. Sully returned his phone to his pocket and settled back against the seat, watching the passing city through the rear seat window.

  A serious traffic accident on the freeway had them backed up until the cab driver could navigate onto an offramp. Driving through the city added time to the trip, so it was over an hour before Sully stepped from the cab.

  He grudgingly handed over most of the money in his wallet. Despite the rather remote location—nothing was out this way besides the rail yards, and it appeared most people were leaving for the day—Sully didn’t ask the driver to stick around. No way he’d have enough to even get him the few blocks into the busier portions of the city. He’d need to call Dez for a pickup once he was finished here. Either that, or hope Carson would be amenable to giving him a lift.

  The yard was fenced off, the only public access through the office in front of him. But upon trying the door, Sully found it locked. Hours posted on the door revealed a four p.m. close.

  He stepped back and took another look around. A gate on the far side allowed vehicles to come and go between the public parking area and the compound, and it stood open, presumably to allow workers to leave at the end of the day. Sully walked toward it. A few people stood chatting around their half-tons in a parking area on the other side, and he started toward them.

  One of the men glanced up as he approached, and the other two followed suit a moment later. Sully dug out a business card in response to the questioning gazes.

  “I’m with Fields Investigations,” he said. “I’m looking for Carson O’Keefe. Is he here?”

  One of the men snorted, then immediately cleared his throat and ducked his head as if caught in an impropriety. Another of the workers wasn’t as worried about perception, judging by his lopsided sneer.

  “What’s he done?” he asked, his tone heavy with unfriendly jest.

  “Nothing,” Sully said. “I have some questions for him about an investigation we’re working on.”

  “What kind of investigation?”

  “I can’t discuss it. Is he here?”

  The joker jutted his chin in the direction of the office. “Try there.”

  “I did. It’s locked.”

  The man scoffed. “Typical. Probably started doing Jasmine just as soon as the clock struck four.”

  Sully opted not to ask. Nor did he bother asking any of the employees about Tim Whitebear; all three appeared too young to have been working here seventeen years ago.

  Sully turned back toward the building, squinting against the sun as it dipped nearer the horizon. From here, he thought he could see a door at the back
of the building, and he decided he’d ask if he should give it a try. By the time he turned around, the smart aleck was getting into his truck and the guy who’d given the initial snort was heading for his own vehicle. One man—the eldest of the group if appearances meant anything—remained.

  “You can try the office, but Carson might be over in the departure yard by now,” he said. “On-duty dispatcher had a family emergency of some sort, so Carson came in to help out. We’ve got a big freight going out in half an hour and another one a bit ahead of schedule waiting to come in.”

  “I take it the boss isn’t well-liked,” Sully said, casting a glance toward the jokester’s truck.

  “Ah, Todd talks like that about everyone. Carson’s not so bad. He’s around here a lot, trying to lend a hand. Some of the guys don’t like it, say it feels like the boss is breathing down their necks.”

  “At least he’s not sitting up in an ivory tower, right?”

  “That’s the way I see it,” the man said. “You okay finding your way?”

  “I’m pretty good at navigating,” Sully said. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  Using a series of finger movements and verbal direction, the employee explained how to get to the departure yard. Sully thanked him and started off, listening as the trio of workers drove one by one out of the yard.

  On his own now, Sully neared the office building. The departure yard was much farther ahead, so he’d kick himself if he got all the way there only to discover Carson hadn’t yet left the office after all.

  He tried the rear door. It pulled outward, unlocked.

  The dirt-covered floor of the rear entryway greeted him, and he gave his boots a cursory wipe on a rubber mat as he stepped through the door.

  He stopped in a rear hall, and cocked his head. Hearing nothing, he moved farther inside, passing a bathroom, a small lunch room, a supply room and a photocopy/file room before finding himself in the empty front office. With nothing to be found there, he returned the way he’d come and went the other direction. This time, he found a set of stairs leading up.