Dead Ends (2 page)

As Father Brown walked back to the house, voices and shadows from the basement caught his attention. The voices were not loud, but someone was angry.

“You fuckin' idiot,” seethed a voice. “We'll never get it done in time.”

“It wasn't like I did it on purpose,” replied the other renter. “Cocktail is supposed to drop by. Let's see what he says.”

“Cocktail will be pissed at us for cooking outside the room. He won't help. More likely he will rat us out. What do you think the bikers will say when we only deliver half the meth? They'll kick our asses!”

Father Brown let out a small gasp.
Did he say meth? Lord no
— He stepped onto the lawn, knowing his footsteps would not be heard as he crept up to the basement stairwell. The yard light illuminated him from behind, so he crouched down to minimize his shadow on the house, while straining to listen over the noise of the fan. He knew he could scoot away unseen around the side of the house if either renter approached the basement door.

“Calm down. It was an accident,” a voice from the basement pleaded.

“Calm down! Fuck you, calm down.”

“It was me who dropped it.”

“You think Satans Wrath will understand? They'll kick the shit out of us. We'll be lucky if we don't end up like Harvey.”

Father Brown sadly realized his fears were true.
Gabriel will be upset, but the police will have to be
—

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw a shadow loom large on the back of the house in front of him. He spun on his heels and stared wide-eyed at the silhouette of a man who stood over him. The man was holding a cement construction brick high in the air with both hands.

Time slowed down for Father Brown. His jaw slackened and his mouth hung open in fear. He locked eyes with the man for what seemed like an eternity, but remained silently transfixed, as if resigned to his fate. He saw the first downward arc of the brick and his brain registered the sound of crunching bone.

Seconds later, Father Brown's body, now prone on the grass, received six more blows to the head. The brick dispensed a rivulet of blood up the perpetrator's chest and face with each upward motion. Other arcs of blood splashed high onto the back of the house. Upon impact the brick sprayed more blood in all directions. The added blows were not necessary. Father Brown was dead from the first blow before his body even crumpled to the grass.

It was what happened to Father Brown's body next that revealed the real danger to Gabriel, Noah, and Faith as they slept upstairs in their beds.

Chapter Two

It was nine o'clock in the morning when Corporal Connie Crane, from the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team, arrived at Gabriel's home and parked. She was the first member of I-HIT to arrive, but six uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers were at the house.

As Connie stepped from her car, a young woman started her car and pulled out with tires screeching, causing Connie to step back.

“Hey!” yelled Connie. “Did you see that?” she asked, turning to a Mountie who was standing near the front gate.

“I saw,” replied the Mountie, “but under the circumstances, I —”

“She even had a little kid in the car,” interrupted Connie.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied. “Her kid was one of the kids in the daycare here,” he added, gesturing with his thumb toward the house. “You're Connie Crane from I-HIT, right?”

“We've met?” asked Connie. Her anger dissolved when she understood the young woman's instinct to protect her child and leave in haste.

“Didn't meet,” continued the Mountie, “but I saw you at a murder of some guy in Coquitlam River Park last year. As I recall, you had a partner by the name of Dallas. A blood-splatter expert. You'll need him here.”

“He's on his way. Sorry, I didn't recognize you.”

“We all look alike in uniform,” he smiled. “My boss is out back. He can fill you in.”

Connie went to the back of the property and recognized a sergeant sitting in a patrol car in the rear alley. He motioned for her to join him.

“Hi, Bert. What have we got?” asked Connie, as her eyes scanned the lane. She was glad to see that yellow crime-scene tape had already cordoned off the alley.

“What do you mean … we?” smiled Bert. “This one is a homicide for you.”

“You seem definite.”

“You could try to write it off as suicide, but it won't be easy,” said Bert, with a hint of sarcasm. “Bludgeon your brains out in the back yard with a concrete brick, after which you drag yourself down a set of stairs into a basement suite and lock the door behind you. Oh, yeah, the brick is also in the basement.”

“Guess we — I can rule out suicide,” replied Connie.

“Where are the rest of the troops?” asked Bert. “Thought they would be here by now.”

“They'll be tied up for another couple of hours. There was another gang hit this morning.”

“Another goddamned gang hit? I didn't even hear about it.”

“Too many now to get much news coverage,” replied Connie. “So in the mean time, what can you tell me about this vic?” asked, Connie, with a nod toward the house.”

“No gang member, that's for sure. A retired priest. Living —”

“A retired priest?” reiterated Connie, unconsciously fondling the gold crucifix dangling from her neck inside her blouse.

“Yeah. He was rooming and boarding here. The owner, Gabriel Parsons, is a widow and lives here with her two children. She also runs a small daycare out of the house. Only three or four kids at a time. I talked to her briefly, but decided to leave the real interview to you.”

“How did the call come in?”

“Gabriel said she was taking the garbage out at about seven-thirty and the first thing she noticed was a missing concrete brick out of the row of bricks lining her driveway. She turned and saw the sprays of blood up the back of her house. She dropped the garbage and headed back to her house. Along the way she saw the pool of blood and brain matter beside the basement stairwell. She ran back in the house and knocked on Father Brown's door to tell him. When he didn't answer she called 911. First member on the scene tried a key that Gabriel gave him for the basement door, but the lock had been changed. He kicked open the door and saw the body inside with a pulverized head. He didn't go in, so your crime scene is intact.”

“Positive it's the priest?” asked Connie.

“Wearing pajamas and a blue silk bathrobe with a dragon. Gabriel said it was his.”

“Did Gabriel look at the body? What was her response?”

“No. She waited at the top of the stairs. Started crying and broke into hysterics when she realized who the vic was. She's not crying now … probably gone into shock.”

“What prompted the priest to go outside dressed like that?” mused Connie.

“Gabriel said they've had a problem with winos sleeping under the cedars in her yard. Father Brown used to roust them on occasion.”

“You thinking it was robbery? Doesn't make sense if he was wearing a bathrobe.”

“I've got more. Gabriel rented the basement out about a year and a half ago to a guy who owns a janitorial company. She copied down his driver's license. The name given was a Bob Rimmer. I checked it out. The name, address, and driver's license number are all bogus.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Gabriel says Rimmer … or whoever he is, wasn't around much. He told her he owned the company, but two other guys by the names of Joe and John were the ones who were always coming and going. She never knew their last names, but thinks she could identify them. Joe is around thirty, slim, with short red hair. John is a little younger, muscular build, and a shaved head. She barely remembers Rimmer, but, as she recalls, he was around forty with collar-length dark hair. She says everyone tended to work nights and she seldom saw them.”

“Joe and John gotta be bogus, as well. No matter, we should be able to get prints.”

“That could be a problem. The place reeks of bleach. I think it's been wiped down. Whoever the renters were, they don't want to be found.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Connie.

“Maybe outstanding warrants on them,” offered Bert.

“Could be. Maybe the priest found out and they whacked him.”

“Possible,” agreed Bert. “We didn't go in, but from what we did see, it looks like the basement suite has been cleaned out.

“Vehicles?”

“Joe and John drove a plain white van. No company logo. She can't remember what Rimmer drove. Guess he usually parked in the alley someplace.”

“Figures,” muttered Connie.

“There is one thing. They might be bikers, or maybe associated to bikers.”

“They look like bikers?”

“No. She said the three of them looked real straight, but when they were first moving in, some biker-looking guy on a hog pulled into the yard. Gabriel said she heard Rimmer tell him in no uncertain terms to leave and never bring the bike around here again.”

“Did she ask Rimmer why?”

“She presumed he knew the noise would bother the neighbours.”

“Where's Gabriel?”

“Inside waiting for the last mom to arrive and take the remaining daycare kid away.”

“I'll need a statement from her. You said she is in shock. Do you think she is up to —”

“I don't know. I guess she's holding it together. I think she has to for the moment. Besides still babysitting, she's got her own kids in the house. A four-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy that she kept home from school.”

“This has gotta be tough on her.”

“At least she didn't see the body.”

How about the pool of blood, bone, and brain matter on the lawn? She won't forget about that. Holding it together … for how long? Still in shock — wait 'til it sinks in.

“You know any members that have a handle on the biker situation?” asked Bert.

Connie stared briefly at Bert as she collected her thoughts before lolling her head back and rolling her eyes. “Oh, crap,” she whispered aloud. “That would be Jack.”

Corporal Jack Taggart worked in and Intelligence Unit of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Vancouver. The unit specialized in organized crime. Jack knew a lot about bikers and in particular, Satans Wrath, who were world-renowned for having clawed their way to the upper echelon of organized crime families on the planet.

Connie Crane had past murder investigations where Jack, uninvited and against Connie's objections, had interfered. The problem, in Connie's opinion, was that Jack took certain investigations too personally.
Mind you, some were personal
, thought Connie, as she reflected back.
Bad guys with any smarts should have known better than to mess with a cop's family … especially Jack's. Guess the ones who did were not smart. Not smart enough to know they would end up being corpses
.

Connie could understand bending the rules when bad guys crossed certain barriers, but with Jack, there was more to it. Both Jack and his partner, Constable Laura Secord, had received special training as undercover operatives. They were considered two of the best operatives in the RCMP. Connie had never worked undercover, but she had learned a little about Jack's personality from past investigations. She also knew Laura, and saw her personality change when she was assigned as Jack's partner.

What the brass did not seem to understand, Connie had decided, was that the real undercover training took place on the street. A place where survival becomes much more personal and where your methods of survival become more honed and deadly the longer you do the work. Jack had been surviving for a long, long time. The same couldn't be said for those he worked on. Many ended up in the morgue rather than court. Some said Jack's involvement was only coincidental to the growing body count. Connie knew better.

Connie thought about some of her past cases with Jack.
Some criminals became his informants … or had they become his friends? Some good guys we thought were friends had become criminals. Through it all, Jack continues to weave and twist his way in pursuit of justice. His justice … which has no resemblance to the law he was sworn to uphold
.

“You okay?” asked Bert. “Who's Jack?”

Connie slowly shook her head in response and sighed as she reached for her BlackBerry.
Past investigations with Jack saw me investigating more murders than I started with. God, I hope this time will be different … I wonder if he is religious?

* * *

Corporal Jack Taggart leaned back in his office chair as he talked on his BlackBerry to a friend. His desk and Constable Laura Secord's desk butted up to one other in an office designed for one desk and one filing cabinet. They had a dozen filing cabinets.

Jack's friend was a woman by the name of Ngoc Bích. She was brought to Canada by a smuggling ring on the pretext of working in the hotel industry. Upon arrival she was forced into prostitution. Jack had befriended her and convinced her to give evidence. Now Ngoc Bích was a nanny to another friend of Jack's. She was also taking music and learning to play the flute.

Many of the perpetrators associated to the smuggling ring had either been convicted or were dead. Two Vietnamese brothers, both considered ringleaders, were still free, pending trial.

Ngoc Bích explained to Jack that she had shown up for court at ten o'clock, but the two accused didn't appear and the witnesses were excused. Warrants were issued, but Ngoc Bích later heard from the prosecutor who said that after the witnesses left, the defence lawyer appeared before the judge to say he had spoken with his clients and learned they had made a mistake and thought the court case was scheduled for the afternoon. The warrants were quashed and a new trial would be scheduled at a later date.

“I didn't sleep last night,” lamented Ngoc Bích. “I really wanted this to be over. To see their faces when they are sent to jail for what they did to me and the others.”

“I know. Me, too,” said Jack. “I wish I could have been there with you, but I don't want the bad guys to see me and realize who I really am.”

“I understand,” said Ngoc Bích. “It's okay. I'm not alone. Another woman is testifying, too. She is also angry that the trial did not go ahead. I guess we'll have to wait a little while —”

“Hang on a second,” said Jack as the phone on his desk rang. Laura took the call and as he wrapped up his conversation with Ngoc Bích, he could overhear Laura's cheery voice.

“No, I think Jack's an atheist,” said Laura. “Me? I'm undecided. If I say I'm an atheist I'm afraid I'll never get any holidays … hang on, Connie … Jack, you still an atheist?” asked Laura as Jack put his BlackBerry away.

“Yes, God made me one,” replied Jack.

“Yup, a heathen through and through,” replied Laura into the phone. She paused and added, “Why is that a relief? … Oh, you're kidding. Better speak to Jack. He knows more about them than I do.”

Jack listened quietly as Connie quickly told him what she knew about the murder.

“Offhand,” replied Jack. “I'm not aware of any full-patch members of Satans Wrath who operate a janitorial service, but I wouldn't be surprised. It would suit their MO to have such a company. They would use associates who don't have criminal records. Especially if they could get contracts in sensitive areas.”

“Like police stations,” suggested Connie.