The Dead List (13 page)

“And he works at the national bank?”

“Yes, and it’s even worse than that; he’s an accountant.”

The young investigator was gleeful as he spoke to two different intermediaries before talking directly to his contact. “It’s Myron, just call me Myron.”

He glanced over at Drake, then after speaking to someone for a few minutes, he hung up the phone.

“He’ll get back to me within twenty-four hours. He seemed very anxious to help once I told him it was related to a homicide investigation.”

Drake began to ask another question but was interrupted by a knock from within the glass walls of Sergeant Thiessen’s office. The sergeant pointed through the window at Drake and beckoned him by curling his finger toward himself.

“Go. I’ll finish. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”

Sergeant Thiessen had attended the initial strategy meeting, but then had been absent from the ongoing discussions that the investigating officers had among themselves. After telling him to close the door, he asked Drake for an update on the status of the inquiry. Drake knew that Thiessen would have access to the reports he had entered in the computer as well as the recordings of the interviews that were stored on a main hard drive, but he repeated the information anyway. The other men and the woman from the list had not seen Mike Robinson on the night he was killed. Their accounts of him in terms of his character and personality were all similar, and none of them were forthcoming with any additional or helpful information. And none of them showed a great deal of remorse. There was no clear-cut motive or suspect. The man’s life seemed to have consisted of selling cars, drinking beer with his friends, and driving too fast.

“How’s your own investigation proceeding, Sarge?”

Thiessen ignored Drake’s question. His long legs extended from under his desk to the side, and one of his feet tapped back and forth in the air as he spoke. “I want you to do something for me, Drake. I want you to re-interview Anton Van Dyke, and I need you to ask him a specific question.”

Thiessen’s foot continued to nervously dance up and down. He stared out the glass window of his office as he spoke. Something had happened between Thiessen and Ryberg. Drake wasn’t sure what it was, but now it made sense. He hadn’t observed the two senior officers communicating in some time. For some reason there was a wall between the two men.

“I believe Investigator Ryberg has requested a re-interview with Anton, and he’s due back in tomorrow with his partner. I think Pringle is questioning the two of them with Myron assisting.”

Again he spoke as though he hadn’t heard anything Drake had said. He kept staring over Drake’s shoulder through the glass watching the situation room as officers made phone calls and moved from desk to desk. “I want you involved – you, Drake. I want you to ask him specifically what his connection to First Mennonite is. I need to know what his relationship currently is with the church.”

Drake ignored the fact that he probably would not be involved in the interview. “His relationship in what respect, sir?”

Finally, he gave Drake the pleasure of seeing more than his profile. The sergeant’s chiseled face always looked the same. Straight blond hair, cut short as though he’d just left the barber’s chair; his sideburns freshly trimmed; and his expression intent and serious. On the few occasions he had seen the man smile it had seemed like a great strain for him to show any sort of emotion. He was Drake’s age, perhaps a year or two younger. The gossip around the station was that he’d been a talented athlete in his youth – soccer and basketball. Always good enough to captain and lead the local teams but never able to take his game to the next level.

“For obvious reasons, Brandon Van Dyke cannot participate in the more delicate areas of this investigation.” Drake didn’t need to ask his superior why. He knew the reason. “I requested that Officer Banman be more involved, but for some reason Investigator Ryberg has chosen you to be our local hero.”

He let the words sit and waited for a reaction. Drake held it in and didn’t stir. The sergeant continued. “I want to know what the connection is between Robinson,” he tapped his finger on the desk between them and tried to stare down Drake, “the two boys, and First Mennonite Church. Robinson’s mother attended the church on occasion as did her son. And Anton Van Dyke,” he spoke with distaste as though he were trying to expunge the words from his mouth, “was no longer welcome at the church, and we’re all aware of the dead man and his friends’ feelings about that type of lifestyle. I want to know what his reaction is when you ask him about the church.”

Drake couldn’t see the link. It wasn’t as though there were one or two steps missing; there were nine or ten.

“It’s time to forget about your list, Drake. Get the answer to my question, and then you can report directly back to me – your commanding officer.”

He would need to clear it with Ryberg, but he kept that thought to himself. “Yes, sir.”

Right on cue, the sergeant’s phone rang. He held his hand in the air when Drake got up to leave. “Wait.”

He hung up the phone and clapped his hands together. “Okay, we’re on. They were overheard; the coveralls gang is ready to move. They’ll be at the Goldminer just after three.”

Drake looked at the clock in the situation room. “Sir, we have a strategy meeting – a briefing this afternoon, and if you need me to get involved with Anton Van Dyke I should be here arranging that.”

“You’ll be back in time for your briefing, Drake. I need this handled – delicately. You know the drill. Scare the crap out of them and then get back here. It’ll take hardly any time at all. You’re the only one they don’t know. It has to be you.” He brushed his hands in front of himself, excusing Drake from his office.

Drake parked the cruiser around the corner from the pub. It wasn’t unusual to see a police car parked along one of the city streets. Out of uniform, he was wearing a black jacket and jeans, and had a baseball cap pulled down hard over his eyes. He sat on a bench, nursing a bottle of water that was camouflaged by a brown paper bag. As promised, the pickup truck pulled into the parking lot a few minutes after three o’clock, just enough time to make it from the high school to the bar. Three boys jumped out. One of them looked around, but the other two didn’t seem to care. They each took a pair of coveralls out of the bed of the truck and pulled them on, over their clothes. They playfully lined up in front of each other, taking turns checking their appearance. And then they walked into the bar.

He gave them five minutes, then ditched the empty bottle and brown bag in a garbage can. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but it didn’t matter. The three of them were extremely visible. They were sitting at a table in the center of the room – a jug of draft and three glasses in front of them already. They’d been served. Now, he just had to see them imbibing. It didn’t take long. Seconds later, their glasses clinked together, and each of them guzzled at their beers. Drake pulled a chair from an empty table and sat in between two of them.

The glasses went down, but they still didn’t realize what was happening.

The biggest of them eyed Drake and kept holding on to his beer glass. As usual it was the smallest boy who spoke up, brave with a big mouth while he had his buddies to protect him.

“Do you have a problem? Nobody asked you to sit down, hobo-man.”

Their laughter began and quickly ended when he put his badge on the table. All of a sudden, even with their coveralls on, the boys looked their age.

“I need to see some identification, guys.”

The excuses began immediately. They didn’t have ID on them, and besides, they had just left work.

“In about two minutes I’m going to have your nice pickup truck towed away. Then I’ll bring a couple of your teachers from school down to the bar to identify you. And finally, I’ll haul the three of you into the station, and your parents will follow.” The guy in the middle began to shake; the smaller boy, the mouthpiece, was the only one looking defiant.

“Last chance, guys. May I see some identification please?”

A couple who had been seated at a table close to the boys moved to a booth over by the window. They kept watching but seemed to want to get away just in case the policeman found something to charge the boys with. Three bulging wallets were placed on the table and driver’s licenses from each were pulled out and put in front of Drake.

A voice came from the area behind the bar. “He should be out finding some real criminals instead of bothering the kids.” Drake didn’t turn around.

He wrote down each of the boy’s names in his notebook.

“Have you paid for your beers?”

They shook their heads, and the mouthpiece started again. “You know, this may be illegal…”

Drake ignored him. “Okay, who’s buying the round?”

The shaking boy and the larger one each reached for their wallets, and then the mouthpiece did the same. There were large wads of five- and ten-dollar bills in cash in each boy’s billfold. As they did the calculations over how much each of them owed, the same voice came from behind the bar. “Leave it, guys. It’s on the house. We’ll see you in a couple of years.”

His instructions were to scare the good, young churchgoing boys so they wouldn’t attempt to get served in a bar again. He hadn’t been told to cite the bar. Thiessen could send someone else to do that later. He needed to keep this moving and get back to the station.

“Right, all of you get outside and stand by your truck. Take the overalls off once you’re there.”

Three sixteen-year-old boys leaned against the pickup truck, their disguises draped over the side.

He stood in front of them. Just like in the army, he made himself as big as he could, keeping his arms and legs wide apart.

“Okay, here’s the deal. I have your names, I know who your parents are, and I know your teachers.” He was just about to let them off the hook when he had a thought. Just like Myron had done with his information gathering, he might as well try to fill in the blanks. “Usually, you’d be charged as young offenders and fined for being minors in a licensed premise, but due to the fact that you were impersonating workmen,” he nodded toward the coveralls, “and taking up my valuable time, I may recommend that you be tried as adults and moved up to adult court.”

Three white faces. The middle one, the shaker, swore. Mouthpiece kept grinning, but he was crapping himself the worst. The shaking boy stammered, “It was just some fun. It was the first time we’d done it. I mean, we work too, we’re workmen.”

Bingo.

“No, it’s not the first time you’ve done it. That’s lie number one. Don’t add another lie to your story. Now, you workmen, where did you get those nice crisp five- and ten-dollar bills that are in your wallets?”

The shaker spoke. “Maybe we can make a deal. If we tell you, maybe we can stay in young offender’s court.”

Mouthpiece chimed in, agreeing, trying to negotiate.

Drake pushed the mute button on his shoulder and spoke to dead air. “Ready transport van, three males, charges are personation, fraud, and underage drinking.” He pushed the frequency button and the device squawked back at him.

Always be wary of the quietest man. That’s where the danger lies. The largest boy hadn’t said a word. He shifted his weight and Drake braced himself. It only took a moment, and then he spoke up. “Okay, okay, okay.” He put his arms around the shoulders of the other two boys, holding them still. Their mouths instantly closed.

“We do a little work out on the lake road, picking up firewood and selling it for an old dude who lives out there. He pays us when he sells the firewood, always fives and tens. It’s a cash business so he pays us in cash too.”

He stopped speaking, waiting for the negotiation to continue.

Drake nodded. “That’s Chilliwack Lake Road?”

A smirk from the mouthpiece, then he put his head down as the bigger boy squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Yes, Chilliwack Lake Road.”

Could it really be that easy? Could the entrepreneur be a crusty old logger who had been interviewed the day before? “Who’s the guy? Who’s your boss?”

A patrol car pulled up behind him before they could answer. All three of their faces relaxed at the same time. The boy who had been negotiating nodded toward the car. The shaker called toward the policeman, “Brandon, we need some help here.”

Brandon Van Dyke pulled on his cap and nodded to Drake. With his blond hair and country-boy expression, he could easily pass as their older brother. “You three need more than help. What were you thinking?”

Drake began to speak, but Van Dyke cut him off. “I’ve got it, John. Ryberg wants you present at a briefing. They’re waiting for you.”

He considered making a copy of the boys’ information and giving it to Van Dyke, but then he realized Brandon would know their names already. Operation Coveralls was incepted because of a request from one of the boy’s high school teachers. Thiessen, and obviously Brandon Van Dyke, knew the boys already – from church.

The boys were eyeing each other, feeling more comfortable now. Brandon nodded to them as though he had it under control. He did not seem to be in any type of current fecal difficulty. He turned to Drake again. “I’ve got it, John. Sergeant Thiessen sent me out; I’ll take care of this.”

Thiessen and Van Dyke were like little boys trying to impress other little boys. Operation Coveralls wasn’t an operation; it was a joke. Drake walked toward the patrol car, leaving the officer to administer whatever punishment he and Thiessen had agreed on.

The briefing was in progress when Drake arrived. The assembled group included Ryberg, Pringle and Myron, who always sat side by side, and Adam, the Ident officer. Just like the first time Drake had seen him, the Ident officer was polishing his round, wire-rimmed glasses and staring nervously around the room.

Ryberg was in the process of summarizing their findings when Drake sat down. The interviews with Robinson’s friends had given minimal insight into what type of man he’d been. Myron had found that botulinum was used primarily in plastic surgery, and none of the local doctors or the hospital had any recent records of administering the drug. And Pringle’s visits to local pubs and restaurants had yet to result in anyone remembering Robinson eating dinner there on the night of his death. During an additional interview, which Investigator Ryberg had conducted himself, Robinson’s mother had given even fewer details of her son’s life. And the results from analysis of Robinson’s room, car, and workspace at the car dealership had yielded no clues as to who might have wanted to kill the man.