Текст книги "Jack Taggart Mysteries 7 - Book Bundle"

Автор книги: Don Easton

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Текущая страница: 64 (всего у книги 141 страниц)

7

It was ten o’clock in the morning when Kang Lee arrived at the Pan Pacific Hotel in downtown Vancouver for a private meeting with The Shaman.

Lee sipped his espresso while seated on the balcony of the Jade Suite, located on the sixteenth floor. The Shaman, seated next to him, took a moment to gaze out over Vancouver Harbour. The view was exquisite and included the Lions Gate Bridge and the mountains.

Normally Lee would have enjoyed the view, but he had other things on his mind. Have I been selected to number two position or not?

The Shaman, still wearing the hotel bathrobe, took a swallow of freshly squeezed orange juice. After putting the glass down, he ran a hand through his thick, dyed-black hair that he kept trimmed to collar length.

The bathrobe concealed a body that Lee knew was tall, athletic, and agile. The Shaman had a passion for kenjutsu, a military art form originally created in Japan during the fifteenth century, primarily designed to instruct samurai in the use of swords. He had reached the highest level attainable in the sport, that of kyoshi, which made him a master. Overall, the muscular tone of his body, coupled with his agility and appearance, made him look much younger than he was. It was only the ruggedness of his face that betrayed his age of fifty-two.

“So, tell me,” said The Shaman, “in regard to the immigrants we have brought in, have any new pathways come to light?”

“Two new situations within the last month,” replied Lee. “A man who gained a position in Pacific Rim Oil and Gas has some valuable inside information that will benefit us greatly on the stock market. He asks that we arrange for more of his relatives to come to Canada.”

“It will be done. The other?”

“The president of another company, Eagle Eye Drilling and Exploration, is having an affair with his personal secretary. The president is married with two children. The personal secretary is a young man we brought over two years ago. Neither the president’s wife nor the company executives know that the president is gay, let alone prone to pillow talk about private company business. We have collected enough information to make the company’s next stockholder meeting extremely … shall we say, newsworthy?”

“Do you anticipate another advantage on the market, perhaps by selling short? Or will he be approached to pay by some other means for our silence?”

“The company may be on the verge of a major discovery. It is still being analyzed. I should know more within a week as to which way to approach the situation.”

“Excellent. And our other ventures … the intrepid Canadian. How is he doing?”

Lee smiled. The intrepid Canadian was Arthur Goldie, who oversaw the distribution of heroin once it arrived in Vancouver. Goldie had come a long way since he first came to their attention back in the early 1990s. That was when Goldie first wanted to import heroin from Burma to North America. Goldie had met personally with warlords overseeing the poppy plantations in Burma in an effort to extract what he thought would be the lowest price. The Shaman admired him for his courage at the time. Lee believed that Goldie was less courageous than he was naive.

Lee smiled to himself at how simple it had been to convince Goldie to pay a percentage of his profit to them. He first befriended Goldie at a hotel in Rangoon. A day or two later, Goldie was arrested at a Burmese checkpoint and his first shipment of heroin was seized. Lee stepped in as a sympathetic friend with high-level contacts. Soon, Goldie and his shipment were both on their way again.

Goldie was readily willing to pay a commission to guarantee the safe passage of future shipments. He never realized that the same people who sold the heroin also sold the information to The Shaman. It was The Shaman who paid the majority of the real salary earned by many of the police, military, and immigration officials in Southeast Asia.

In effect, The Shaman was often able to control which shipments would pass and which ones wouldn’t. In time, with the continued safe arrival of his goods in Vancouver, Goldie profited more than ever and his shipments increased in proportion, as did the commissions he paid out.

Now Goldie was no longer a micromanager. He owned a couple of antique stores, as well as a nightclub. Both types of businesses served to launder his money and to insulate him from the annoying tentacles of law enforcement. He had reached the point where he could sit back and collect commissions himself from the executive members of other crime families who also frequented his nightclub, bolstering his profit margin even higher.

“As you know by the increasingly large shipments and commissions, he is doing well,” replied Lee.

“From what I have read,” replied The Shaman, “in British Columbia that should be rather easy and relatively stress-free. Low risk and high gain.”

“There is some risk. Last year the national police, the RCMP as it is known, made several dozen arrests in regard to bikers. Many were charged with selling cocaine. The police in Canada are not as easily persuaded to turn a blind eye. Bribery is relatively rare.”

“Still, is it not true that judicial sentencing practices in British Columbia make it irrelevant? I am familiar with the arrests you mention. It will be interesting to see how long those arrested will actually spend in jail. From what I’ve read so far, it shouldn’t be long. What does interest me is that the arrests were the result of a police informer who was a member of the gang. I have heard a rumour that the courts may not accept the evidence of the police informer because he broke the law while working for the police. An abuse of process it is called.”

Lee thought about it briefly and a smile crossed his face. “If the court rules favourably, it would certainly make it easy to identify any informers in our midst. They would be unable to behave or perform their duties as directed.”

“Exactly. It is something we will follow. I wish the bikers luck.”

“Even if they are our competition?” asked Lee seriously.

“We do not sell cocaine,” replied The Shaman, with a shrug.

Lee nodded. No, not yet. When we are stronger and the time is right, then —

“So, back to Mister Goldie,” continued The Shaman. “How is his progress outside of British Columbia?”

“Through his contacts, he is opening up more distribution channels all the time. Much of Western Canada and recently Seattle are beginning to add to our investment strategy.”

“What about the eastern seaboard?” asked The Shaman. “That is where the population is based. I expected our man in Palermo to have had the contacts in New York, but the Italian mafia there has lost all honour. Respected crime bosses are arrested almost daily and continue to cheerfully sing to the police in exchange for leniency. So much for omertà. I would like to discover a new path.”

“I understand,” replied Lee. “I have approached Mister Goldie on this matter, but he indicates it is a slow process. Competitive organizations in Ontario and Quebec have been receiving their shipments from Afghanistan. I thought the lack of stability in Afghanistan would have crippled that front, but apparently not.”

“The opposite, I should think,” said The Shaman. “Heroin will be sold more than ever so that the various factions will have money for arms.”

Lee nodded politely in agreement.

“And our Chinese friend, Mister Wang, appears to be doing well?”

“Yes,” replied Lee.

Hui Wang was originally from Hong Kong, but had moved to Vancouver. His role was similar to Goldie’s, except that he oversaw the distribution of ecstasy and methamphetamine, or crystal meth, as it was known on the street. Wang had also insulated himself well and owned a restaurant and a specialty store that sold imported bamboo furniture. Both served to give him an aura of respectability, as well as launder his money.

“You have done very, very well as our emissary in Canada,” said The Shaman.

“Thank you,” replied Lee, trying unsuccessfully to read what The Shaman was thinking.

“As you are aware, there is a position I need to fill at home. It is unfortunate that my most trusted employee, in essence, the vice-president of our organization, succumbed to heart failure.” The Shaman paused to swallow more orange juice.

Lee waited. He was not offended that he was not the most trusted employee. At least, not yet. The Shaman compared their organization’s protection to the skin of an onion. Comprised of numerous layers, the closer you came to the heart of the company, the more scrutiny and tests there were to ensure ultimate protection.

The Shaman placed his glass down and turned to Lee and asked, “Would you like to return and fill that position? To once more live under the same roof as your family?”

Lee’s broad smile gave his answer before his words announced, “It is my dream!”

“Then it shall be.”

“When do you foresee this taking place?” asked Lee, trying to contain his glee and maintain the proper dignity in his voice.

“That is the problem at the moment,” replied The Shaman. “I have a candidate in mind to fill your position at the investment company, but the person I am considering is not experienced in the commodity market like you are. With the rapid expansion of our influence here, I think we need to separate the two ventures. What we need to find is a suitable replacement for you to oversee our eastern commodity distribution.”

Lee nodded. He knew the commodities referred to were heroin, ecstasy, and methamphetamines.

“Canada is a different culture compared to our European and Asian markets,” continued The Shaman. “Now that you have set up the proper framework, I think it is better to have someone who was born to this culture or has lived here for many years to replace you. Such a person would know who to recruit in Canada and would also be more familiar with their family history.”

Lee knew that “family history” meant the personal knowledge of who and where families lived – knowledge that would ensure the strict obedience of new employees if they did not wish any harm to befall their family. He thought briefly about his own wife and their two daughters. He had seen little of them since working in Canada. Of course, their safety is not an issue. My loyalty is absolute … and I have brought them great prosperity.

“Providing, of course, that such a person existed and was qualified,” continued The Shaman. “If you have a potential candidate, then I would suggest that after the appropriate security checks, some testing and training, six months would be appropriate for you to leave Canada.”

“I have such a person in mind,” said Lee.

“And would that be Mister Wang? He came to Canada as a young man, and with his associates he undoubtedly has connections across North America.”

Lee shook his head. “Mister Wang has eastern connections through the Big Circle Boys and the Sun Yee On triad, but, like Mister Wang himself, they seem reluctant to conduct business with Westerners. I do not believe Mister Wang is ready to advance to my position. In my opinion, he still associates too closely with individuals who could arouse police curiosity.”

“Do all his associates adopt gang names? Do they not realize the target they then present to the police? I know some feel the name coupled with the reputation will promote fear and inspire compliance, but the risk of identifying one’s membership to the police outweighs that advantage.”

“Mister Wang has contacts with some new gangs who choose not to adopt a name for that reason. It is a step in the right direction, but even Mister Wang admits that their philosophy of dealing only with Asians is still prevalent. I have spoken to him about it, but I am afraid that he tends to feel safe around these people. They are Asian, like him, and tend to shun Westerners. No, for what you suggest, if we are to influence the eastern market, we need a Westerner to open the door. For that, I would recommend Mister Goldie.”

“Ah, the intrepid Canadian,” replied The Shaman. “I wondered if you felt he would be worthy.”

“He has many connections,” replied Lee. “Furthermore, he has never been convicted of any criminal acts. He is welcome to travel anywhere, including the United States.”

“He is like you,” observed The Shaman, “in that you have no criminal record.”

“Somewhat different,” noted Lee with a smile. “Goldie, like Wang, controls a large gang of barbarians. The drug business is different than our other, more corporate, enterprises. Goldie and Wang did not make their way to the top by relying entirely on their intelligence. They are both personally familiar with the use of … lethal persuasion.”

“So, his resumé is different from yours in that you have never had to soil your hands with another person’s blood,” said The Shaman.

“I suppose so,” mused Lee, “but I do respect his intelligence, nevertheless. He has never been convicted and it has been years since the police even came close to catching him. And that was not in Canada. Since then, like your past analogy of the onion, he has developed many layers of protection.”

“Despite what you think, if he is to fill your position, he will not do so without proper screening, including a polygraph.”

“Most certainly. As you have taught me about the onion – the closer you are to the middle, the more intensity exists. If you do not wish to fly someone in, here in Vancouver are several firms that offer the services of lie detectors for corporations.”

“We will decide at the time, but you will mention it to him within the next few days. I will be spending a week golfing at Crown Isle in Courtenay on Vancouver Island. I hope it is as luxurious as the Internet makes it out to be.”

“I have never been there.”

“Perhaps next time I will invite you to accompany me.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, we will meet again next week before I leave Canada. I will wish to know how Mister Goldie reacts to our proposal and the security measures we require. He knows a great deal about us. If he refuses, I would see it as a serious problem.”

The Shaman’s eyes glanced through the glass window of the balcony to where Da Khlot was seated inside before adding, “Should that happen, as Mister Khlot has said, to keep him would be of no benefit.”

“I see no reason that he would refuse. I didn’t,” added Lee with a smile.

“No, you didn’t. And if all goes well, you will be stepping through the last layer of the onion yourself. The protection will be for you as much as for me.”

“He will be scrutinized carefully,” said Lee. “If he passes, would you like to meet him in person?”

“He will be your responsibility. I see no necessity for him to know my name. I’m sure that in time, with the transactions involved, he will figure it out, but I see no advantage in personal contact. His placement is your decision. I hope you have chosen wisely. Your life will depend upon it.”

Lee nodded sombrely.

“Now, this brings us to another small matter that needs to be discussed. Trivial, but requiring prompt attention.” The Shaman paused, smiled, and said, “Like peeling the onion, I hope it does not bring tears to your eyes.”

Da Khlot hurried to open the door to the balcony when The Shaman and Lee stood up, signalling an end to their meeting. Lee’s face did not portray the jubilance of a man who had been promised a promotion. His eyes appeared distant and his jaw was set with determination as he hurried out of the suite.

Da Khlot looked at The Shaman, who returned his gaze and said, “Tonight you wear your new suit.”

8

It was two o’clock in the morning when Corporal Connie Crane arrived at Coquitlam River Park, where the murder had been reported. She was the second member of the Integrated Homicide Investigative team to arrive.

Several marked and unmarked police cars lined the side of the main road, and yellow police tape sealed off a small, gravelled parking lot leading into the park. Inside the park, floodlights running on generators were being turned on, sending an array of light and shadows through the trees.

She parked behind a patrol car and approached two uniformed officers standing near the tape.

“I’m with I-HIT,” she explained, reaching for her badge inside her windbreaker. “Do you know where my partner —”

“Over here, CC!” yelled Dallas, answering her question.

Connie ducked under the crime scene tape and approached Dallas. He was a new addition to I-HIT and this was only their second case together. He was a blood-splatter expert, which was a field of expertise unto itself. CC felt he had distinguished himself on their first case and was glad to be paired up with him.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Accident on the Port Mann. What have we got?”

“Adult male, still warm. Multiple gunshots. Empty 9 mm six-shot semi-auto pistol beside the victim. Whoever did it made no attempt to hide the gun.”

“Where’s the body?” asked CC.

“Less than a minute walk along that path,” replied Dallas, pointing to a trail leading from the parking lot. “Face down beside a small creek.”

“The parking lot doesn’t look well used,” noted Connie. “Couldn’t hold much more than five or six cars. Who reported it?”

“A young couple who came to park and make out. They got into an argument and ended up going for a walk. I think what they saw took their mind off the quarrel. They didn’t see anyone and there were no other vehicles.”

“How does the couple look?”

“I don’t think they had anything to do with it. They’ve given statements. I did a quick statement analysis … appears truthful.”

“Victim a dealer? Into drugs?”

“Don’t know. He looks and is dressed like a street person. Also had a relatively fresh dressing on one hand. Looked professional. I’m betting he received medical treatment recently. I patted him down for a wallet, but there wasn’t one. No identification that I could find yet. Maybe when we print him —”

“Robbery?” said CC.

“Don’t think so. It was more like a kidnapping and execution. The guy’s hands were bound behind his back with duct tape. His mouth was taped, as well. So were his ankles, but I found a piece of duct tape in the parking lot. Looks like he managed to get most of the tape off his ankles while being transported. I think he was dragged out of a vehicle and dumped on his back on the ground. Someone tried to shoot him in the face but the bullet took a chunk out of his ear. The victim rolled in panic. I think that’s when he freed the last of the tape on his ankles and got to his feet and bolted. Later he took another bullet through his thigh, one in his back, and then one to the back of his head. The last one was at such close range that the muzzle likely touched the back of his head before the final shot. Pretty cold thing to do.”

“No shit.”

“I checked the gun. Looks like all six rounds were fired.”

“So whoever murdered him was a lousy shot. Probably missed him with two rounds altogether.”

“Could be. Something peculiar, though. The victim had a large garbage bag over his head and torso.”

“How was he able to run so far down that path?” asked Connie.

“It wasn’t the dark-green type of bag. Made of clear plastic. The type you would use for disposing of leaves and stuff in the fall.”

“Someone figured it would help eliminate DNA from their vehicle.”

“That’s what I figure. The victim was coughing up blood before he got here. The inside of the bag was sprayed from blood coming out his nose.”

“Maybe the bullet in his back went through a lung.”

“No. Wait until you see the bag. There was quite a bit smeared around inside. I think the bullet in his back was followed in short order by one to the skull.”

“What’s your guess on why he was bleeding prior to arrival? Think he was punched in the face?”

“No, it’s not a broken nose. I’ve seen this type of blood pattern before. My guess is someone took a bat or pipe to his ribcage to subdue him. Autopsy should confirm it, but I bet one of his lungs is punctured with a broken rib.”

“A tough way to die.”

“Yeah. I bet he knew it was coming. Slow and painful way to go. I’ve uncovered the route the victim took after arriving and have a theory from what I’ve seen. Where do you want to start? At the body or do you want me to show you the evidence leading to the body?”

“May as well start at the beginning. If he was bagged, I doubt that there is much blood in the parking lot.”

“There’s always some when someone is shot. Bagged or not.”

“Too dry for foot or tire tracks,” said CC, thinking aloud.

“This is the beginning as I know it,” said Dallas, pointing to an area in the gravelled lot. “You can see a double set of scuff marks in the dirt. Like a bounce followed by short drag marks that match the heels of his shoes. My guess is he was dragged out of a van by two people. If it was a car —”

“He would have been lifted from the trunk. There wouldn’t be these patterns in the gravel from being set down.”

“Exactly.”

“Thought your specialty was blood?”

Dallas smiled and said, “If you look closely, you’ll see a little blood smeared in the gravel.”

“Got it,” said CC.

“The pattern is repeated about two shoulder widths away and then repeated a third time.”

“What the hell? You’re right.”

“Let me take you through it,” said Dallas. “He was dragged backwards out of a van and dumped on the ground. Someone tried to shoot him in the face, but he likely saw it coming and moved. The first shot took out a piece of his ear and tore the garbage bag. He then rolled two complete turns, leaving blood from his ear about two shoulder widths away on each roll.” Dallas looked at CC and said, “Are you with me so far?”

“Hang on,” said CC, clasping one hand over her ear and then stepping sideways while spinning around to simulate a roll. “Got it. Explains the gap in between.”

“Exactly. And here we have a small ball of duct tape. I think he got that off while being transported and it probably stuck up inside his pant leg. He still has a short piece of it on his ankles, but I figure he was kicking in his panic. His legs broke free at this point and he got to his feet and started running.”

CC then followed Dallas a short distance down the path, where he used a flashlight to point to a new blood trail that was easily visible.

“Here is where he took one to the inside of his thigh, but kept running,” explained Dallas. “By the large amount of blood, I’m sure the bullet hit his femoral artery. If whoever murdered him hadn’t finished the job, he would have bled out pretty quick.”

CC paused to envision the nightmare. Beaten with a bat or pipe … broken rib through your lung … bound in duct tape … kidnapped and laying on the floor of some van … dragged out and shot in the face … escape while more bullets are flying … trying to run with your hands tied behind your back … shot through the thigh … staggering … unable to gasp for air through your mouth … shot in the back … face down in the dirt … feel the gun on the back of your head —

“And here,” said Dallas, waving his flashlight beam over a spray of dark red blood in a contrasting splatter against the bright green leaves on a bush beside the trail, “is where he took one to the back. See where the blood from his leg changed direction? He spun around, staggered, and went down.”

CC looked at the man lying face down along a short embankment beside a small creek.

“The killer then put the last shot into the back of his skull,” continued Dallas.

CC paused and looked around. She knew that Dallas thought she was searching for clues. In reality she was trying once more to grasp the inhumanity of the human race. She sighed and looked at Dallas and said, “Guess it leaves us with who and why. Also, who is the victim? You said you checked for a wallet?”

“I only patted his front and back pockets. Nothing. Maybe he has it in his jacket. I didn’t want to move anything until the Forensic Identification Section does their thing.”

“I want to identify this guy. I’m not going to wait for FIS,” said CC. “I’ll be discreet. The sooner we can ID him the better.” She bent over the victim and gently started to roll the body over on the side, but her attention was diverted to a shadow cast by a fern growing out from the side embankment on the other side of the body. “Dallas, over there!” said CC. “Under the fern … see it? In the shadow. There’s something there.”

Dallas pushed the fern aside and shone his light. “Bingo! We’ve got a footprint.” Dallas squatted and examined it closer. “Too smudged to match, but gives us an idea of size.”

“Maybe the couple who found him,” suggested CC.

“They said they didn’t come down off the trail. Plus she was wearing short heels and he is big. I’m betting size ten-to-twelve range. This is much smaller. Not the vic’s. Maybe a woman?”

“Pretty wide for a woman,” commented CC, turning her attention back to the body. “Hang on, hand me your light.”

Dallas passed CC his flashlight and saw her direct the beam through the front of the clear plastic bag that was still covering the head and upper torso. She then squinted, peering closer through the bloodied plastic and reached her hand inside and took out a prescription pill bottle from the victim’s shirt pocket.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.

“What is it? Got something?”

“Yeah, we got something all right. Do you know Corporal Jack Taggart from the Intelligence Unit?”

“No,” replied Dallas, bending over for a closer look at the pill bottle.

“His wife is Doctor Natasha Taggart,” replied CC, covering her eyes with one hand as she unconsciously massaged the sides of her temples.

Dallas paused for a moment, glancing at CC. “Do you want me to call her?” he asked.

Connie sighed and said, “No, I will.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” replied Connie, “but with Jack, there is guaranteed to be one.”