Divine Intervention (11 page)

The Rhinestone Cowboy
, Jasi thought, positive that somewhere in the building a lone Stetson was perched haphazardly on a rack.

I wonder where the rest of the Village People are.

The man gasped nervously for air―like a fish out of water. Nervously he wiped his forehead, leaving a smear of sweat across the sleeve of his shirt.

A musky odor wafted toward Jasi, sweet and familiar.

The man was higher than a kite.

"Albert Hawkins, manager," the man coughed, holding out a shaking, grease-stained palm.

She peered down her nose at his hand, ignored it, and then showed him her ID. She explained that CFBI computers had traced his company to two pick-ups at the Pyramid Theatre after midnight the night before.

"I need to see those records."

Hawkins huffed indignantly. "We respect our clients confidentiality."

"I can subpoena them," she threatened softly, watching his bloodshot eyes.

Jasi knew she had him by the balls. There was no way Albert Hawkins wanted the CFBI snooping through his records―or his place of business.

She watched as he lowered himself into a torn leather chair. He pushed aside a half-filled coffee mug. It left a pale ring of dampness on the wooden desk. Shoving a pile of food-stained receipts and invoices to one side, he awkwardly fingered the keyboard of his computer.

"There."

He rotated the monitor in her direction and pointed a stubby finger at the screen. "Two pick-ups in that area after midnight. One at 12:15 paid by credit card and another at 12:39 paid in cash. The credit card we can track, but the other…"

Cash customers were the bane of Jasi's existence. There was no way to trace any kind of transaction if cash was involved.

"The credit card is registered to Gayle McDermid. Was signed by her too." Hawkins glanced up with a hopeful expression in his drugged eyes.

Jasi shook her head. Dead end.

Hawkins checked the screen again. "The driver with the cash payment indicated 'male passenger' in his logbook. The driver's name is Ian Vandermeer. You have a picture of the guy you're looking for?"

Jasi slapped the photo of Jason Beranski on the desk.

Hawkins squinted at the picture, then waved his arm.

"Show it to Ian. He might remember picking him up. There's nothing more I can tell you. We done, Agent McEwan?"

"McLellan."

"Wha―"

"The name's
McLellan
," Jasi snarled.

The man stumbled to his feet. "Is that all?"

Hesitating at the door, she turned back and gave him a penetrating stare. "No, that's not all, Mr. Hawkins."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You might want to keep in mind that the next time the CFBI makes an appointment to see you, you better not stagger in here smelling like a Z-Lyte factory."

Without saying another word, Jasi made her way out of the office, leaving the door ajar. From the corner of her eye, she saw Hawkins slump thankfully into his chair. She was tempted to confront the man about his earlier
meeting
. Using Z-Lyte was one thing but the man could be dealing. A taxi company would be the perfect place to operate from. Unlimited contacts.

Today Albert Hawkins was safe though. Jasi had more important predators to bait. But one day…

In the back lot, Jasi was pointed in the direction of the driver who had been paid in cash. Ian Vandermeer was just a pimply-faced kid. He didn't appear old enough to be finished high school―much less to drive a taxi.

She was tempted to ask the kid for his ID, but instead she clenched her teeth and showed him the photo of Beranski. Vandermeer smiled slightly, revealing bright multi-colored braces. He told her that the man who had gotten into his cab two nights ago had been wearing a hooded jacket.

"Maybe it's him," Vandermeer shrugged. "I can't say for sure. All I know is the dude paid with cash. Lousy tipper, though."

She thanked the kid, her eyes following him while he responded to a message from dispatch. He climbed into his designated taxi and peeled away from the curb.

What is the world coming to when pimply-faced kids are driving city cabs?

9

Benjamin Roberts unfolded himself from the back
seat of the taxi after it stopped at 103 Dremner Boulevard.

Martin L. Gibney lived in an impressive Victorian mansion. The house was located in an exclusive, posh Kelowna neighborhood known as
The Heights
. The white siding was trimmed with dusty rose shutters and brick pillars. A large turret rose on the right side of the massive home, its windows staring down onto the street.

The front yard was professionally landscaped and immaculately groomed with tall pine trees. A granite retaining wall sectioned off a three-tiered rose garden on the left. A meandering creek flowed through delicately scented flowers and poured between the rocks. At the bottom, a small waterfall emptied into a pond.

Ben followed a hedge-lined sidewalk until he came to a door. Just as he was about to push the intercom button, the door opened and a tiny elderly woman of Asian heritage jumped back in alarm.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Gibney," he explained to the startled maid. "Agent Benjamin Roberts."

The woman pointed to the mailbox outside the door. "I checking mail." Her voice was soft and lilting.

She pushed past him, opened the mailbox and retrieved a handful of letters and bills.

"Come!" she smiled, waving him inside and leading him to a spacious sitting room. "I get Mr. Gi-ney for you. You sit." Then she disappeared.

While he waited, Ben casually examined the room.

A portrait of a young black-haired woman with dark eyes and golden skin hung above the gas fireplace. She was lying on a chaise lounge in a candlelit bedroom. A sheer piece of lavender silk was draped lightly across her naked body. The fabric left nothing to the imagination.

Throwing a vigilant look toward the open door, Ben walked over to a cherrywood table. Arranged on it were a variety of professional photographs of the woman in the portrait. He cautiously picked one up, admiring the youthful innocence of its model. She was mesmerizing―exotic, alluring and inviting.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

Ben jumped, then peered over his shoulder at the man standing behind him.

Martin Gibney had expensive taste. He wore an Italian designer suit.
Natazzi
, Ben realized. The gray of the fabric reflected the distinguished silver lights in Gibney's short black hair. He had to be in his late forties.

Ben placed the photo back on the table.

"Your daughter?"

Gibney gasped in amusement. "Not quite, Agent Roberts. Try
wife
." His laughter sliced the air, like a double-edged sword.

Startled by the man's admission, Ben's eyes drifted back to the portrait on the wall.

Damn!
Gibney was one lucky man! His wife couldn't be more than twenty-five.

"She's from Brazil, my wife," the man said, as if that was an explanation for why he was married to someone at least twenty years younger.

"How'd you two meet?"

"I met her father when I was in Brazil on business, about five years ago. Her father was Orlando Santiago―the leader of the Brazilian Labor Party. Last year Orlando was assassinated. I had promised him years ago that I would take care of his daughter if anything happened to him. So when he was killed I brought Lydia back…as my wife."

Ben followed Gibney toward a plush leather sofa and sat down.

"So Agent Roberts. What can I do for you? I have to admit I was a bit surprised to receive a call from the CFBI."

Ben flipped open his data-com. "Do you mind?"

When Gibney shrugged, he turned the recorder on.

"Are you aware that Premier Baker's father died yesterday?"

Gibney heaved an enormous sigh. "Oh yes, I heard about it on the radio. A sad, sad situation." His head twitched slowly, back and forth.

The Asian woman entered the room, halting all conversation. She poured two tall glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice, then left.

"I understand you called the Premier that night, just before midnight," Ben said after the door closed after her.

"Yes, I did call Allan."

"Was the call related to Baker's political campaign?"

The man laughed derisively and leaned forward.

"Agent Roberts, you do know what I do for a living?"

Ben realized that he had assumed that Gibney was connected to Baker in a political field. He hadn't checked fully into Martin Gibney's background.

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"I'm on the Board of Administration at the Kelowna General Hospital. I worked with Allan's father." Gibney took a swig of his juice before continuing. "In fact, Dr. Washburn and I go back a long way. I met him when he first became an ER doctor. Back when I was a GP."

Ben recalled Natassia's vision.

Natassia had seen a hospital room. She had also recalled angry words exchanged between Washburn and at least one of the hospital administrators.

Marty
…Martin Gibney.

Ben reached for his glass and knocked back the juice in one gulp. "Why'd you call the Premier?"

Gibney opened his mouth, about to say something, then closed it again.

After a moment, he said, "I'm not sure I should be discussing―"

"We can go downtown, if you like, Dr. Gibney."

"Mister," the man corrected, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I gave up the title of doctor a long time ago."

He gave Ben a resigned look. "We were going to fire Dr. Washburn―no pun intended."

The wheels turned quickly in Ben's mind. If the hospital was about to fire Washburn, perhaps Baker figured out a way to avoid the scandal. The call could have been innocent.

Or Gibney and Baker could have been discussing a hit.

Murder.

"How did Premier Baker take this news?"

"How do you think?" Gibney asked blandly. "Allan can't afford another scandal. When the public found out his mother had slept with a married man they were outraged. How do you think Allan's supporters would feel if they knew that his father was about to be fired for alcohol and drug misconduct?"

They'd question Baker's suitability as Prime Minister of Canada, Ben thought.

And Allan Baker? He'd feel cornered.

"Why were you the bearer of bad news?"

"The Premier has made some significant contributions to the hospital and I thought he was worth some consideration. Better to hear it from me than on TV."

Gibney's manner was indifferent.

Ben mulled over the information. "Why didn't you attend his campaign party at the Paloma Springs? Your name was on his guest list."

"We held an emergency Board meeting to discuss Dr. Washburn. It didn't finish until eleven. By the time it was over I realized it was too late to go to Allan Baker's party."

Gibney peered at his watch.

A solid gold Rolex, Ben noted. The hospital administrator must be pulling in a hefty salary. So much for government cutbacks.

"Anyway, my wife represented us both. She was at his gala until maybe three in the morning."

The man rose to his feet, a blunt indication that their meeting was terminated. "Su-Lin will see you to the door, Agent Roberts. I have another Board meeting this afternoon."

"Is your wife home. I'd like to speak to her."

"I'm afraid she's out―shopping. You know women."

"Yeah," Ben agreed, holding out a bare hand. "Thank you for your time."

As he shook hands with the man, Ben sensed that Martin Gibney was hiding something―and he was terrified that someone would find out.

When Ben pulled his hand away, he was startled to see that his palm was covered with a sticky reddish-brown substance.

B
lood.

Then the vision faded, leaving Ben feeling uneasy.

Martin Gibney had blood on his hands. But whose?

Ben ordered the voice record off.

Then he filed a mental note to talk to the wife at a later date. Perhaps Mrs. Gibney had noticed something at the party. Maybe someone who should have been there…but wasn't.

Following Su-Lin, he made his way past the fireplace and hesitantly studied the portrait of Gibney's wife. Yeah, she was the kind of woman a man would do almost anything for.

Outside in the warm sunlight, Ben thought of Natassia Prushenko.

Natassia was sexy, intelligent
and
beautiful. Although they had only worked together for a short time, he admired her immensely. Admiration wasn't the only thing he felt for her. But it was against CFBI policy for agents to mix business with pleasure.