False Witness (14 page)

Constable Darcy Flowers was different. Over the years, Sam had learned that a few of the people who walked on the ugly side of life – cops, firefighters, emergency room nurses – seemed to get off on showing the cracks in society to the poor, dim folks who wanted to believe they lived in a sane world. Sam knew he could always expect straight talk from Flowers in exchange for anonymity. Had, in fact, gotten a few scoops since being assigned to the handful of crime beat scraps that Alex Dunn left behind the previous year, and then later when he took over Dunn’s beat full-time during Rufus Hodge’s trial.

Dunn. Lucky son of a bitch.
As if he hadn’t already hit the lottery with Jesse Bikman’s confession. Dunn acted like he had dug up the story himself, instead of having it land in his lap with a random phone call from a pawnshop owner who recognized Bikman’s wristwatch from TV news reports. He managed to extrapolate that into a book that ended up on fucking
Maclean’s
bestseller list. Then Dunn ends up as the sole witness to a murder that had captured attention all over the world. It had
real
bestseller written all over it, the kind that turned reporters into columnists who got to pick and choose the topics they covered, and who could go weeks without coming into the office if they felt like it. The
Chronicle
would keep Dunn on the payroll, of course, simply because of the prestige that came along with his byline. These days, newspapers would do anything to increase readership.

But Dunn had disappeared, along with Leslie Singer, almost immediately after Chuck Palliser and Richie Duff had taken the dirt nap a week ago. Bob Shippobotham had been typically cagey over what he knew about that. All he would say is that Dunn would still have a job when he came back from wherever he was, and that he would have taken off, too, if he’d been in Dunn’s position. Sam wondered what he himself would have done if he knew he was likely the next on the Wild Roses’ hit list. He wanted to believe that Dunn had been a coward, and that he himself would have stood his ground and fought. But introducing C4 into the equation, and the five grand left in a stack of twenties on Richie Duff’s blood-stained corpse? That was Bruce Willis movie shit. It was enough to make his palms sweat.

And now I’m about to throw myself right into the middle of it.

Enough of that. Sam had to focus on the task at hand. As usual, the print media were playing catch-up with social media, especially Twitter, which had been buzzing since a few minutes after the explosion that took out Palliser. Of course, tweeters didn’t have to check their facts. Modern society wanted to believe they were living in the information age, when, in fact, they were living in the
misinformation
age. Twitter and Facebook posters had managed to get pictures of what was left of Chuck Palliser’s car circulating online within an hour of the explosion (Richie Duff’s corpse had, thankfully, managed to stay behind closed doors), but the speculation that went with the photos bordered on ridiculous. Some tweeter had posted that he had watched Palliser’s car explode, but then had identified the car as a vintage Mustang instead of a GTO. Another said windows had been blown out for a ten-block radius, which Sam knew was horseshit. Unfortunately, tens of thousands of Calgarians thought of Twitter as a real news source, which meant Walsh had to do his damndest to try to keep the record straight. The only way he could do that was by getting the inside story from the horse’s mouth.

The late afternoon sun was still high, and he was uncomfortably hot, even in the shade of a giant elm. The park was small and out of the way – the perfect place for his rendezvous with Flowers, but Sam found himself wishing they’d chosen a nice dark pub instead. That way he could have been drinking a cold bottle of Grasshopper instead of a tepid double-double.

He drained the dregs of his coffee and rolled up the rim. Sorry, please try again.
Story of my life
, he thought, as he crushed the paper cup and tossed it under the bench. He stretched back and closed his eyes against the sun, staring at the orange light flowing through his eyelids.

“Littering’s a hundred dollar fine, you know,” said a voice from high above him.

“It was there when I got here, officer. Honest.” Sam opened his eyes to see the silhouette of Darcy Flowers looming over him, blocking out the sun. At nearly seven feet and three hundred-plus pounds, Flowers loomed over pretty much everyone, all the time. Today he wore a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops that probably used up half a rubber tree on their own.

“You’re lucky I’m off duty.”

“
You’re
lucky I don’t out you as the biggest stool pigeon this side of WikiLeaks.”

Flowers sat down on the bench and grinned. Despite his size – even sitting, he was as almost tall as Sam would have been standing – his smile was open and strangely gentle. “I think we both know that’s not going to happen,” he said mildly.

“I ain’t afraid of you, Tiny.”

“No reason to be. I just happen to know you’d sooner lop off your own dick than lose a source like me. Especially now that Dunn’s out of the picture.”

Sam couldn’t argue with him on that one. “You know anything about that?”

“About Dunn? Just that he’d be a hell of a lot safer with us than wherever he is right now. The chief tried to reach him but his cell is turned off. His condo was pretty much abandoned.”

“Any idea why he decided to rabbit?”

Flowers shrugged his massive shoulders. “You got me. Protective custody isn’t a picnic, but it sure beats being out in the open.”

“Anything on Leslie Singer?”

“We checked outgoing flight logs. Singer and her husband flew to Hong Kong yesterday. Markwart – forensics guy, you know him, right? – he managed to track down their travel agent. Apparently the Singers are cruising the South China Sea for the next eight weeks. But you can’t print that. Don’t even say it out loud.”

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe Dunn went with them. He got pretty chummy with the old bird during the trial.”

“Nope. No one under that name has flown out of any airport in the country in the last week.”

Sam scratched his chin. “Well, so much for that part of the story. Not that I give two shits about Dunn.”

“What is it with you and him?”

“He’s an arrogant asshole who’s had everything handed to him in life. Family money, good school.”

“Don’t forget about the book.”

Sam ignored that. “He was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple is all I’m saying. I had to work for everything I got.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think it’s a girl.”

Sam flipped him the bird. “Fuck you and the big mutant Clydesdale you rode in on.”

Flowers laughed. “See? It’s always a girl. I’m a cop, buddy, I know these things.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a reporter and I know things, too. Like the names of a few people who’ve tasted your knuckles while you had your badge on.”

Flowers curled his hands into ham-sized fists and kissed each one. “Thunder and Lightning. They love a good party.”

I’ll bet
, Sam thought. He liked and respected Darcy Flowers, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe the man was so easygoing all the time. Wannabe badasses often tried to prove their mettle against men like Flowers. You couldn’t blame him for not turning the other cheek every single time.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, you know what I’m here for.”

Flowers favored him with a pained grin. “I do, buddy, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Let me guess,” Sam growled. “Sweet fuck all.” It wasn’t a question.

“On Palliser and Duff, at least. Still following up leads.”

Sam pounded the wrought iron arm of the bench with his fist. “Fuck. I could have got that much from Harding in communications, Lurch.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

A happy shriek cut through the afternoon air as a gang of children raced by the bench, engrossed in a game of tag. Sam watched them for several long moments, trying to mask his frustration. It grated on him when he had to follow the crowd, reporting the same damn thing as every other news outlet in town.

“What about Jason Crowe?” he asked finally. “He’s got to have a part in this. I mean, he
has
to. Right?”

Flowers leaned farther back on the bench, simultaneously moving closer to Sam until their heads were only a handful of inches apart. “Well, therein lies a tale, Sammy-boy,” he said quietly. “He’s the obvious suspect, of course.”

Sam raised his hands in a
so what?
gesture. Impatience was quickly overtaking disappointment on his to-do list.

“So why aren’t we picking him up?” Flowers asked.

“Jesus, man, just get to the point!”

Flowers pooched out his lips in faux disappointment. “You’re no fun.”

“I swear to God I’d punch you in the balls if I could reach them.”

Flowers held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Just keep your voice down. Let me ask you this: what do you know about Crowe?”

“That he’s Rufus Hodge’s right-hand man.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly a secret. What else?”

“Nothing.”

“Congratulations. You now know as much as we do.”

Sam gave him a blank look. “What?”

Flowers shrugged and leaned back into the bench again. “The guy’s a ghost. Outside of his tax records and driver’s license, there’s nothing to say that Jason Crowe even exists. He doesn’t own a passport, at least not one in the name of Jason Crowe. He’s been a mechanic for one of the Roses’ front businesses for the past two years. Before that, nothing. The SUV he drives is registered to the business, he pays his rent in cash, and there’s no paper trail on him anywhere.”

Sam chewed on that for a moment. “That’s obviously bullshit. Why don’t you bring him in?”

“There’s no law against being off the grid,” Flowers said simply. “He doesn’t have to keep records of his life just because the cops might want to know more about him someday.”

“And there’s nothing to link him to the bombing? Or Duff?”

“Nada. And until there is, he’s a free man.”

“So he’s a professional.”

“Not just a professional; he’s a professional who managed to get
plastic fucking explosives
into Canada. That’s no mean feat, Sam. That’s ex-military, or maybe paramilitary. Either way, believe me, you don’t want to get within a hundred yards of someone who can do that.” He leaned in again, fixing Sam’s eyes with his own. “Trust me, Sam. Leave Jason Crowe to the guys who carry guns. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Sam looked back up toward the sun and ran a hand down his face, wiping off a thin film of sweat that had developed in the stifling heat. He rubbed his palm absently on his pant leg and sighed. He wasn’t scared of Jason Crowe, though he knew he should be. But he knew when to leave well enough alone. Usually.

Well, shit.

“You could have told me all this over the phone,” Sam said finally, glancing at his watch. He was the one who had called the meeting, but he felt compelled to give Flowers the gears just on principle.

Flowers smiled wide and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, ye of little faith. Do you really think I’d send you away empty handed?”

“You’re telling me I didn’t waste a perfectly beautiful afternoon sitting in your shadow?”

“Answer me this, smart guy: While everyone’s running around trying to find the mad bomber and figure out where Dunn and Singer are, who’s getting the least attention?”

Sam considered that for a moment. “Rufus Hodge. So what?”

“So I know a guy inside the Badlands, and he hears things. You know about what went on in remand, right? Other inmates going after Hodge?”

“Yeah. I was going to write a piece on it, but Shippy said there’d be no point. Nobody in any official capacity would ever admit to it happening, even off the record. Talking heads at the CBC would demand a federal investigation if they did.”

“No kidding,” said Flowers. “You think cops play it close to the vest? Jail guards are sewn up tighter than a nun’s bunghole. The shit that goes on inside – let’s just say a lot of people would lose their jobs, maybe even end up behind bars themselves, if it ever saw the light of day. But my guy just couldn’t resist calling me up and letting me know there’s a hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on Hodge’s head. Says everybody knows about it, but nobody’s talking. They’re not getting involved.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. This was getting interesting. “Who’s putting up the cash?”

Flowers beamed. “I love that you don’t give a flying fart about the fact Hodge is marked for death. You’re a cool customer, Sammy.”

“Professional detachment. So where’s the money coming from?”

“My guy pieced it together from overheard conversations. Figures the Asians are teaming up.”

“Your guy speaks Asian?”

“Very funny. Think about it – they know the guards couldn’t care less if Hodge takes the dirt nap, especially after what happened to Chuck Palliser. They
wanted
my guy to overhear so he could spread the word on his side of the bars and make sure the right people were looking in the wrong direction.”

It made sense, but it still set off an alarm bell. Sam knew Calgary was home to a number of ethnic gangs from all over the world, plus the usual Aryan shitheads, and even natives from the dozen or so reserves across the west. And, of course, rival bike gangs. More were arriving every day since the city approached the magic one million population mark.

He was also tuned in enough to know they were anything but friendly with each other.

“Fuck off,” he said amiably. “These guys can’t even go to Stampede at the same time without someone getting shot.”

“Maybe so,” said Flowers. “But they’re not stupid enough to miss out on a share of a multi-million-dollar meth trade. They can fight it out amongst themselves later, but not as long as Hodge is still in play. They’re gambling that, with him gone, the rest of the Wild Roses will shrivel up like a snake with its head cut off, and whichever group does the deed will be seen as the heir apparent. I’d bet a month’s pay that once Hodge is dead, Crowe will cut his losses and disappear long before we can arrest him.”