Angel in the Full Moon (4 page)

Damien glanced around the park, nodded and said, “Let's keep moving.”

They left the discarded shoes on the ground and strolled down a path together. “Sorry,” said Damien. “I got inebriated the other night and decided it would be funny. That's all there is to it.”

“That's all there is to it?” said Jack heatedly. “Making it look like Laura could be getting a bribe—speaking of which, did you know her husband works in Internal Affairs?”

“Internal? I heard he was in the Anti-Corruption Unit,” said Damien, before quickly adding, “Oh, I guess it's the same thing. Besides, he wasn't home at the time.”

Laura felt her spine tingle.
Damien knows a lot about us ... too much!

As if reading her mind, Damien looked at her and said, “Don't worry. Just routine survival stuff. You know, keep your friends close, your enemies ...”

“So, you're telling us you did it because you were pissed the other night?” said Jack.

Damien studied Jack's face momentarily before answering, “No, I said I was inebriated. There you go again.
Typical cop, thinking you have to lard on the tough talk.”

“So inebriated,” said Jack, “that you decided to advertise that you were back in the cocaine import business again?” Jack looked at Laura and added, “What am I saying? Why did I think he was ever out of it?”

Damien shook his head and said, “No, I am
not
importing cocaine from Ramirez. After what we went through with him last year? Give your head a shake!”

“New supplier?” asked Jack.

“It's not
us
you should be wasting your time on,” said Damien.

“I've never found working on Satans Wrath to be a waste of time,” said Jack.

Damien eyed Jack briefly and said, “Maybe in this new day and age you should set your sights higher. Start thinking outside the box. The world doesn't end at the Vancouver city limits.”

“What are you saying?” asked Jack.

“I'm just saying that your time could be better spent than hassling a few of my boys who might have crossed the line once in a while.”

“May have crossed the line once in a while?” said Laura, sarcastically.

Jack gave a slight shake of his head to Laura, signalling for her to be quiet.
Damien sent the shoes because he wants us to know something ... but what?
Jack looked at Damien and said, “Set our sights higher? On who?”

“I don't know. I'm not a rat, but—just for example—I did hear of a couple of Russians who were asking a lot of questions about how to bypass something through the Port of Vancouver. Maybe you should be looking at them.”

“And what do they intend to smuggle?” asked Jack.

Damien stared intently at Jack for a moment, and said,
really don't know. I'm not having anything to do with them. Neither is anyone in the club.”

Jack sensed a look of fear in Damien's eyes.
What is he afraid of?

“Russian mafia?” asked Laura.

“Probably connected,” shrugged Damien.

Jack watched Damien nervously look around as he spoke.

“You talk to them personally?” asked Jack.

Damien nodded and said, “For some reason they seemed to think that we had a connection at the Port.”

“You do,” said Jack.

Damien flashed an irritated glance at Jack and said, “We met briefly. It was real brief. I did all the talking. I told them we would have nothing to do with them. If you guys, or whoever, were watching—I'm just telling you that we are not involved with anything they might be up to.”

“And you don't know what they are up to?” asked Jack.

“That's right! I don't!”

“Who are they?” asked Jack. “What do they look like?”

“I don't remember. That's all I've got to say.”

“I thought so,” said Jack. “You are involved with them and are protecting them while trying to cover yourself.”

“I'm not a liar!” said Damien, before clenching his jaw.

“Then quit playing games. You didn't call us here for nothing. What is it? Something is eating away at you.”

Damien glared at Jack for a moment. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Okay, okay. I know I owe you for what you both did in Colombia last year,” he said, lowering his voice. “So I'll tell you a little something about them. This is just between us, right?”

“You've got my word on that,” replied Jack, glancing at Laura, who nodded her head.

Damien stared at Jack, nodded in return and said,
“They're both about my age.”

“And you turned fifty-three last April,” said Jack.

Damien frowned and Jack added, “It's like you said, know your enemies.”

“Yeah,” replied Damien gruffly. “Early fifties. One guy is tall, thin, short grey hair, grey moustache, and a prominent nose that sticks out like a beak. The other is short, fat, and bald with hairy arms. Looks like an orangutan. They mentioned they used to be schoolteachers in Russia.”

“Schoolteachers!” exclaimed Laura.

“They're lying,” said Damien. “These guys are different.”

“How so?” asked Jack.

“I know authority types. The tall one for sure has government written all over him. Maybe military ... maybe police ... something. They're sure as hell not schoolteachers.”

“So, what are you suggesting?” asked Jack.

“I'm suggesting that you should be working on them rather than bothering a bunch of working stiffs who occasionally like to get together and ride bikes.”

Jack started to laugh but Damien interrupted and said, “No, seriously. Whatever they're up to, I'm not interested. And neither is anyone in the club. Understood?”

“I understand what you're
telling
me,” said Jack.

“Damn it, Jack! I'm telling you the truth. We are not involved with them!”

“How do I find them?”

Damien glanced around and after not seeing anyone, he handed Jack a slip of paper. The names
Petya
and
Styopa
were on the paper, along with a cellphone number and an apartment address.

“There are only three guys on this planet that make me ... uncomfortable,” said Damien. “You,” he said, pointing a finger at Jack, “and these two.”

Jack studied Damien's face as he spoke.
He is nervous ... so what the hell is going on?

Damien gestured to the slip of paper in Jack's hand and said, “They think the cell number is cool so it could prove interesting to you. They also don't know I know their address. It's a penthouse suite backing onto Stanley Park. Fairly lavish. Two bedrooms, mini-bar, plasma television, one desk with a laptop computer and ... a bunch of textbooks.”

“And they don't know you know their address?” commented Laura, with a bemused look on her face.

Damien ignored the comment.

Textbooks?
wondered Jack.
Odd comment.
“What type of textbooks?” he asked.

“They were in Russian.” Damien stared at Jack and said, “So I don't know for sure.”

Jack sensed that there was more to this than Damien was letting on.
Or is he uncomfortable admitting that he had his guys break into the Russians' apartment?

“You might be interested in who visits them there,” Damien suggested.

“And who would that be?” asked Jack.

“How the hell should I know?” Damien pointed to the paper in Jack's hand and said, “Don't lose that. I didn't make a copy and will have nothing further to do with these guys. That's all I've got to say on the matter.”

Damien turned away and took a step, but stopped and added, “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. The shoes didn't arrive how you might think. But I guess if you had toxicology check them for powder you probably already know that.” He handed Laura another piece of paper and walked away.

“Customs declaration,” said Laura. “The shoes were mailed to him directly. No cargo ship involved.” She stared after Damien. “So, what was that all about? Do you think he's
trying to sidetrack us into working on someone else instead of them?”

“I don't think so.”

“Maybe he wants us to get rid of the competition for him.”

“He has his own surveillance team and hit squad for dealing with the competition.”

“Complete with locksmith,” added Laura.

“Probably the one they call Sparks, from the east-side chapter. He does bugging as well.”

“Figure he's bugged the Russians?”

“I don't think so. Not after telling us. He'd be afraid we'd find out. No, I think he's telling the truth when he says he doesn't want anything to do with them.”

“So what do you think? That these guys are with the Russian mafia and have got him rattled?”

Jack shook his head. “Satans Wrath had a problem with the Russian mafia a few years ago. Four Russian brothers were the ringleaders. It took a year or so, but when the bullets stopped, there were three dead Russians and the fourth fled back to Moscow. This is what's so strange. Stuff like that doesn't scare him. He said that these two guys make him uncomfortable. For him to admit that—I just never would have believed it possible.”

“Why doesn't he just kill them?”

“That's just it. I don't understand.” Jack spoke his thoughts aloud. “There's something he isn't telling us. Some potential consequence that scares the hell out of him.”

“So what should we do?”

“I think we better do as he says. Check these guys out.”

It was late afternoon as Assistant Commissioner Isaac sat at his desk and gazed at the picture that stood upright on his
desk next to his Bible. It was a picture of Sarah and Norah. His wife and daughter. Norah was only seventeen when an impaired driver raced through a red light, striking the side of the car that she was in. She died at the scene. Her friend, who was driving, was also seventeen and Isaac knew that she still blamed herself.

It was not her fault ... I pray that some day she realizes that
. The impaired driver was convicted and lost his licence.
Little compensation for losing our daughter
.

“Staff Sergeant Quaile here to see you,” announced his secretary.

Moments later, Quaile was seated in an overstuffed leather chair facing Isaac's desk while nervously wondering why he had been summoned.

For management purposes, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was broken down into four nationwide regions: the Atlantic, Central, NorthWest, and Pacific Regions. Isaac was the Criminal Operations Officer who oversaw all the operational investigations in the Pacific Region. It made Quaile feel like he had just been invited into the inner sanctum of power.

“You've been in charge of the Intelligence Unit for three months now,” observed Isaac.

“Yes, sir,” replied Quaile. “Three months today, actually.”

Isaac nodded. It was a date he had already noted in his Day-timer from when Quaile first arrived to the section. His piercing eyes examined Quaile closely and he said, “I wanted to wait until you had ... a feel ... for the office before having this conversation with you. A conversation that for now will remain between the two of us.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want to talk with you about Corporal Taggart.”

“Sir?”

“Are you familiar with the more unusual aspects of some
of his past investigations?”

“I heard he was in a shootout with some bikers two years ago. Also that someone tried to kill him last year.”

Isaac nodded knowingly and said, “He's had a rather lively career. Outstanding in some aspects. But ...” Isaac paused and glanced down at his desk before continuing, “I'm not exactly sure how I should word this. There's never been any proof,” he muttered, more to himself than to Quaile.

“Proof, sir? Of what?”

“Of any wrongdoing on the part of Corporal Taggart. This is the dilemma. He could be completely innocent. Incredibly lucky, perhaps. His predictions in his reports about organized crime families have been remarkably accurate.”

“That concerns you, sir?”

“No,” said Isaac, brusquely. “That is
not
what concerns me. What concerns me is that key people he works on end up dead! That is what concerns me!”

“Dead?” said Quaile, sounding dumbfounded. “You mean like—I don't understand.”

“I'll give you a quick history lesson. Three years ago, Corporal Taggart worked on a notorious French bank robber who was the ringleader in a gang that robbed banks across Canada. They were responsible for wounding and paralyzing a female officer in Quebec. Two months after Taggart starts to work on them, suddenly the gang believes their boss is an informant and kills him.”

“Was he Taggart's informant?”

“No.”

“Oh, I see,” said Quaile, wondering what Isaac meant.

“That investigation followed another where a corrupt prosecutor working for Satans Wrath had ...”

“Had the bikers go after Taggart's niece and nephew. I heard about that,” said Quaile.

“And did you hear that this prosecutor was later found dead in his swimming pool?”

“Yes, sir. An accidental drowning, I was told.”

“
Maybe
it was—but it happened in Mexico at the same time Taggart was in Mexico.”

Quaile swallowed nervously when he realized the implication.

“Perhaps that was just a coincidence,” continued Isaac. “Then, last year, a Colombian drug lord tried to kill Taggart and terrorized the family of Constable Danny O'Reilly, who was Taggart's partner. A short time later, Taggart went to Colombia, allegedly to work on an unrelated investigation. Within a day of his arrival the drug lord and thirty of his men were murdered.”

“Taggart did that?” asked Quaile, his eyes wide and his mouth dropping open.

“No, I'm not saying that he did. It's just that ... well, quite frankly, it has crossed my mind if he wasn't somehow responsible. All this might simply be the suspicious brooding of an old man who has been on the job too long.”