Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Read online

  CAL ROGAN MYSTERIES

  Books 1, 2 & 3

  Robert P. French

  Foreword

  Thank you so much for choosing the Cal Rogan Mysteries. For more on Cal Rogan, there is more information at the end of the third book. Enjoy!

  Copyright © 2018 by Robert P. French

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, names and places either are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Acknowledgments

  Junkie would not have been possible but for the help and encouragement of many wonderful people and if I have forgotten anyone, I sincerely apologize: Gillian Maxwell who introduced me to people who understand the world of drugs; Mark Hayden of Addiction Services, Vancouver Coastal Health; Richard Utendale who told me about the life of a heroin addict and walked me through the streets; Bob Woodroff who showed me the inside of an SRO; Hank Reiner of the Crown Prosecutor’s office; an anonymous former Vancouver Police Department detective; and Roy Kuchma, the best read man I have ever met. I would also like to thank the Vancouver Public Library for providing the perfect working location for any writer.

  My very special thanks go to Lisa Rector-Maass of Third Draft Editing in New York, who supported and mentored me from day one through all the drafts.

  For Oboe, my very special thanks again go to Lisa Rector-Maass of Third Draft Editing in New York, who supported and mentored me from day one through all the drafts.

  Also many thanks to a marvellous employee of RSA who explained some of the intricacies of encryption. He asked to remain anonymous. I apologize for anything I may have got wrong.

  For Lockstep, many thanks to the people who helped me, especially the wonderful professionals at Reedsy: Nick Castle who designed the covers of all three books and Katherine Sands for her developmental edit.

  Most of all, a thousand thanks to my Launch Team for your support. You guy’s rock!! I would like especially to thank the following members of the team whose eagle eyes found lots of errors missed by the proofreader and corrected some of the errors I made. They are, alphabetically: Andrew Stewart, April W. Vivas, Beverley Canuel, Cindy Warrick, Debbie Francis, Diane Griffin, Gayle Siebert, Gina Hines, Holly Stolarski, Janet Cline, Kathy Bockus, Linda Harbour, Lisa Mauk, Lorraine Garant, Mary Roberts, Melissa Ann Sanchez, Paula Cope, Pauline Burke, Rick Connolly, Sherry Jenkinson, Shirley Blane, Sue Ann Kelly and Tony Montague. I am sorry if I missed anyone.

  As always, I would also like to thank the Vancouver Public Library for providing the perfect working location for any writer. Every word of Lockstep was written here.

  Dedicated to my wonderful wife Penny who believed in me when I had stopped believing in myself.

  Contents

  Junkie

  1. Cal

  2. Cal

  3. Cal

  4. Sam

  5. Cal

  6. Cal

  7. Cal

  8. Cal

  9. Cal

  10. Roy

  11. Cal

  12. Cal

  13. Cal

  14. Sam

  15. Cal

  16. Cal

  17. Brad

  18. Cal

  19. Cal

  20. Cal

  21. Cal

  22. Cal

  23. Roy

  24. Arnold

  25. Cal

  26. Cal

  27. Cal

  28. Cal

  29. Cal

  30. Cal

  31. Cal

  32. Sam

  33. Cal

  34. Cal

  35. Cal

  36. Cal

  37. Cal

  38. Cal

  39. Cal

  40. Cal

  41. Arnold

  42. Cal

  43. Cal

  44. Cal

  45. Cal

  46. Brad

  47. Cal

  48. Cal

  49. Cal

  50. Cal

  51. Cal

  52. Cal

  53. Cal

  54. Cal

  55. Cal

  56. Cal

  57. Cal

  58. Cal

  59. Arnold

  60. Cal

  61. Cal

  62. Cal

  Oboe

  1. Cal

  2. Cal

  3. Cal

  4. Cal

  5. Cal

  6. Stammo

  7. Cal

  8. Cal

  9. Cal

  10. Cal

  11. Sam

  12. Cal

  13. Cal

  14. Debbie

  15. Cal

  16. Cal

  17. Cal

  18. Ellie

  19. Cal

  20. Cal

  21. Cal

  22. Cal

  23. Cal

  24. Cal

  25. Ellie

  26. Cal

  27. Cal

  28. Cal

  29. Biker

  30. Cal

  31. Cal

  32. Cal

  33. Cal

  34. Cal

  35. Cal

  36. Cal

  37. Cal

  38. Cal

  39. Cal

  40. Stammo

  41. Cal

  42. Cal

  43. Mike

  44. Cal

  45. Cal

  46. Cal

  47. Cal

  48. Cal

  49. Cal

  50. Cal

  51. Stammo

  52. Cal

  53. Cal

  54. Cal

  55. Sam

  56. Cal

  57. Cal

  58. Cal

  59. Cal

  60. Cal

  61. Steve

  62. Cal

  63. Cal

  64. Cal

  65. Cal

  66. Cal

  67. Cal

  68. Cal

  Lockstep

  1. Cal

  2. Cal

  3. Cal

  4. Cal

  5. Cal

  6. Cal

  7. Cal

  8. Stammo

  9. Cal

  10. Cal

  11. Ariel

  12. Cal

  13. Cal

  14. Stammo

  15. Cal

  16. Stammo

  17. Cal

  18. Cal

  19. Sam

  20. Cal

  21. Cal

  22. Cal

  23. Cal

  24. Ariel

  25. Cal

  26. Stammo

  27. Cal

  28. Cal

  29. Stammo

  30. Cal

  31. Sam

  32. Stammo

  33. Cal

  34. Sam

  35. Cal

  36. Ariel

  37. Sam

  38. Cal

  39. Cal

  40. Stammo

  41. Cal

  42. Cal

  43. Stammo

  44. Cal

  45. Cal

  46. Cal

  47. Stammo

  48. Cal

  49. Cal

  50. Stammo

  51. Cal

  52. Stammo

  53. Cal

  54. Sam

  55. Cal

  Afterword


  1

  Cal

  I didn’t die last night. The sandpaper sound of Roy’s voice tells me I wasn’t that lucky. Another day to fight my way through.

  The pain is deep in my bones. My toenails hurt. My hair hurts.

  A claw bites into my shoulder, sending a new tsunami of agony crashing through me.

  “Hey, Rocky. It’s Saturday. We gotta getcha well.”

  Saturday! And Roy’s here to get me through.

  His Sally Ann boots, one brown and one black, are stamping the cold out of his feet. “Come on, man,” he croaks. “It’s nearly seven. I gotcha stuff here.”

  I kick off the rancid quilt—left here by some crack-head—and the feeling of disgust at its touch fights with my burning need. I push myself up and feel my bones shatter.

  Visible between Roy’s stamping legs, the green dumpster tagged with a swastika confirms it. We’re in the alley, the one that terrifies me. I can feel my heart racing in my throat.

  My eyes take in the morning detritus strewn across the pavement: garbage bags; crusts of bread; broken glass; rotted fruit; and, of course, the usual assortment of used needles. The human feces, not six feet from where I slept, assail my senses. It’s been a thirty-eight year struggle and I have finally arrived at the bottom.

  But the stench, the filth and my irrational fear of this alley are an inconsequential backdrop to what Roy has in his hands. “D’you want me to help you with it?” He always offers and I always refuse. I let him hold on to it for me on Friday nights, to make sure I’ve got it for Saturday morning, but I don’t trust anyone. Not even Roy. Roy’s my only friend in this life. And I hate the bastard.

  I reach up with both hands and snatch the eight items from him.

  In my lap, they are all that exist in the world.

  The urgency in Roy’s voice cuts through the haze. “Rocky, man. It’s gone quarter past seven. Come on. Time to get ready, eh.” Deep breath. It feels good… I feel good. That twenty minutes on the nod went by way too quickly. But it’s twenty past. I spent too much time. Roy must have woken me late. That’s not like him. Damn, I have got to get moving right now.

  His filthy hands grab me and pull me to my feet. God, why does he do that? I know he’s trying to help but I hate being grabbed by him.

  As I stand up, my old denim jacket drops to the ground. I scoop it up fast. It’s stained. Looks like blood. It is blood, a lot of blood. Blood is a part of the scenery around here—encrusted on faces, arms and legs, smeared on clothes and sidewalks—but I have some residual memory of a knife, a memory filtered through last night’s haze. The blood is fresh, but no longer wet. In the last six hours, a tendril of my old self thinks. But my old self is gone, too painful to contemplate. I have to let it go…

  Who am I kidding? I can never let it go.

  Roy hands me a plastic Safeway bag, wrapped up tightly, and I push it as deep as I can into the pocket of my jacket, knowing I need the contents and hating that I want them. “Thanks, man,” I say and really mean it.

  I need to rush now. Right now. But there is a sadness on his face that holds me. Why does he do that? He knows it’s Saturday and I have to get going. It’s probably just Roy being dramatic. Again.

  I start to head out of the alley but, damn it, the image of his face pulls me back. I can’t just leave the poor old devil looking like that.

  He is standing, leaning against the dumpster, forlorn in his long brown coat, several sizes too large for his tall, stringy frame. His face shows no trace of the streak of malice which sometimes lurks just below the surface. The bald patch, about which he is so sensitive, is covered by the ever-present, battered, leather cowboy hat perched on the top of his head, the chinstrap tied at his throat. With his straggly grey hair falling to his shoulders, he looks like an ancient Jessie James. He would like the simile just fine… except for the ancient bit. He’s sensitive about his age too.

  “You OK?” I check my nine dollar watch. Seven twenty-five. I’m cutting it fine.

  The watery blue eyes peer down over his beak of a nose. He cleans his hornlike fingernails with the wicked-looking switchblade he always carries. Come on, Roy, come on.

  “Sure.” No eye contact. Now I know something is wrong, something serious. Unlike me, he’s chipper in the mornings—a rare condition for an alcoholic as far gone as Roy—but today he looks deflated. Diminished.

  “What’s up man?” I ask. I recheck the time; maybe I can spare just one more minute.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing, you go.” There are streaks down his dirty old face.

  I rein in my need and wait the aeon, stretching some twenty seconds, until he speaks.

  “Tommy died last night.”

  “What?” The blood drains from my face. I look down at the blood on my jacket and strain to remember… but can’t.

  I look up. I don’t think Roy has noticed it.

  He nods, his head hanging. “Yeah. Bad drugs.”

  The loss bites hard. People die all the time in these alleys but Tommy’s death is a blow. Tommy Connor was a life-long alcoholic but he was both a gentleman and a gentle man. A man with an unwavering sense of humour and an optimism wildly at odds with the reality of his life.

  My old self is trying to burst through with questions. I crush it down and push the questions out of my mind; it’s better that way. I just say, “I’m sorry to hear that, man. I know you and Tommy were real close.” I note the poor grammar which I often use with Roy and the guys on the street. A survival mechanism, I guess.

  I reach out to touch him, comfort him, but don’t know how. I grip his shoulder, shake it once, pat it and shake it again. Hoping that somehow just the contact will console. He shrugs off my hand and turns his back on me. “Anyways, you gotta go. Tell her Roy sends his love.” There is a catch in his voice.

  I reply with the unvarying formula. “I will Roy. She always loves to hear from you.”

  As I hurry away, he says, “Maybe I’ll get to meet her sometime soon.” There is no mistaking the bitterness.

  “Sure,” over my shoulder, “that would be great. I’ll arrange something.”

  I feel the flood of guilt. We both know it will never happen but what can I say? It’s the ritual we observe every Saturday morning.

  “Later!” he shouts after me, his voice angry now. “You know where to find me when you get back.”

  I turn up the collar of my jacket and pull the peak of my baseball cap down over my eyes. A futile camouflage but I need a low profile on the streets because of how I used to make my living and, more to the point, how I make my living now. There are people who will kill me if they recognize me. Kill me very slowly and painfully. With a shiver, I hurry off toward the buses.

  Then one of the quashed questions bubbles to the surface. Tommy was an alcoholic like Roy. Why would he die from an overdose? No, not an overdose. What did Roy say? Bad drugs?

  2

  Cal

  The first bus driver must have seen the blood on my jacket. He wouldn’t stop to pick me up—one or two of them are like that driving through the downtown east side—then the second bus took forever to arrive. Only two more months. I can’t blow it by being late now. I just can’t.

  Kevin’s doorbell chimes the first four notes of the 1812 overture. It’s the only doorbell I’ve ever heard that plays Tchaikovsky. And in my past life I rang a lot of doorbells.

  There’s no reply.

  Kevin is the only one of my old friends who will have anything to do with me. His loyalty to me has not wavered, despite the thousand ways I have betrayed it.