Chris stood in the living room and gazed through the French doors at the stone patio, the flower garden, and the lake beyond. A strong wind had whipped the water into whitecaps that danced in the sun. He pictured himself and Amanda having their morning coffee on the patio on a warm summer day, or their glass of wine at sunset as they watched the sport fishermen motor back toward town.
He turned to look at the living room. A floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace dominated one wall, promising warmth and peace on snowy Newfoundland nights. At the other end, an open-concept kitchen allowed a view of the fireplace and the lake beyond. It was perfect. He didn’t know how long he’d be posted in Newfoundland or whether Amanda would ever join him, but he could see her in this house. It felt like a home, and she had had so little of that. He hoped that if she saw it, she’d be as captivated as he was, and she’d be able to put aside the traumatic memories Newfoundland still stirred up.
He’d made the appointment with the realtor for first thing in the morning. He knew there were still a few steps to navigate, but he already knew the ending. He was going to buy this house.
When he arrived at the station afterward, it was still too early to call Constable Brinwall. The day shift at the Drumheller detachment wouldn’t start for at least another hour. After he’d waded through the change-of-shift routine of updates and assignments, he still had fifteen minutes to kill. He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, sat at his desk, and opened the photo Amanda had sent. It was the tailgate of a white pick-up, blurry and mud-spattered, but all except the final few letters were legible.
The first step was to figure out which jurisdiction it belonged to. Licence plates were issued by provinces, territories, and states, each one with its own distinct colours, motifs, and slogans. Alberta had red letters and numbers on a white background. This plate had blue on white, which wasn’t much help because about half the provinces had that combination, including British Columbia and Ontario. Although quite a few American licence plates had blue on white too, most were more colourful and elaborate than the one on the truck.
He studied the fuzzy design. There was a slogan at the top and a coloured symbol in the centre. He enlarged the photo and identified the slogan as Beautiful British Columbia. He accessed the B.C. database and, armed with the partial plate number, narrowed down the search to five vehicles.
One was a white Ford F-150, registered to a Jack White of Coquitlam, B.C.
Who the hell was Jack White, and what did he want with Amanda? It made no sense. Surely she was imagining things. But before he told her that and risked getting her angry, he did a quick Google search of Jack White Coquitlam. As he suspected, the name was too common to give him any clear leads, and adding the phone number and address on the vehicle registration yielded dead ends. Puzzled, and with a twinge of concern, he ran a police information check and criminal records check. Clean as a whistle.
But finally, amid all the clutter and noise of Internet hits, one small tagline caught his eye. White Investigations, specializing in locating people and property. The firm had no website and almost no Internet presence beyond a listing in the directory of security firms, but its address was the one listed on Jack White’s driver’s licence.
A private investigator? What the hell? Did it have to do with Jonathan Lewis? Was someone else looking for him too?
Now he really did have a decent reason to phone Constable Brinwall. Amanda had warned him that Brinwall was a stickler for rules — a brick wall was the phrase she’d used — but he was hoping a man-to-man, cop-to-cop approach, along with this tidbit of intriguing information, would loosen a few chinks in the wall.
It was a long shot. If the situation were reversed, he’d never have discussed a case with another officer from the other end of the country without an official professional reason. But he’d promised Amanda he’d try.
After introducing himself, he came straight to the point. He told Brinwall he was making inquiries on behalf of Amanda and had determined that the white truck following her was registered to Jack White, a PI from the Vancouver area. Brinwall’s response was silence.
“Did you already know that?”
“You know I’m not at liberty to discuss the case, Corporal Tymko.”
So much for loosening chinks in the wall. “Why would a private eye be tailing Amanda?”
“No idea.”
“Did you guys hire him?”
A short, humourless laugh.
“Okay, but you gotta admit it’s weird. It looks like someone besides Amanda is looking for Jonathan Lewis.”
“That’s a stretch. It could be a lot of things. Maybe your girlfriend has secrets you don’t know about.”
Chris let that slide.
“Or maybe someone just wants to keep tabs on her. She’s poking her nose into places she shouldn’t.”
That was the perfect segue into the next issue he wanted to discuss. “You’re right. She wants answers, so I’m trying to help her. Is there anything you can tell me about the investigation that would ease her mind?”
“I’ve already made my position clear to Ms. Doucette,” Brinwall said. “I have nothing to report yet.” His voice cracked as if he’d barely passed puberty, and Chris had a funny flash of the man sitting poker-straight in his chair, clutching his rule book like a talisman.
“Yes, and you’re absolutely correct. I know what a bind she’s put you in. But here’s the thing. When Amanda wants to find out something — no, needs to find out something — she doesn’t give up. If she can’t find out from you, she’d going to investigate on her own. I know her. I’ve seen her in action. Full steam ahead, straight through the mountain.” He felt a twinge of guilt that he was painting Amanda as just shy of crazy.
“It won’t help her,” Brinwall said.
“She’s already found out a lot, hasn’t she? She’s been asking questions, putting pieces together, confronting people. She’s fearless. And I’m afraid she’s going to get herself hurt.”
“That’s your problem. I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
Brick wall doesn’t cover it, Chris thought. Self-righteous little prick comes closer. He reined himself in with an effort. “She doesn’t believe you are taking this seriously enough.”
There was a long pause. “I can assure you we are taking it seriously, Corporal. We’re just not at liberty to discuss it with Ms. Doucette.”
“Is there anything you can tell me, anything that might satisfy her and make her patient enough to wait for the results of your investigation? Anything about the body?”
“No. The DNA results are not in yet. The tests have not yet been completed on the human remains.”
“I get that it’s early days. But the Medical Examiner must know some details about the body by now!”
There was silence. Chris made one last try. “Is it a man?” More silence. Chris persevered. “Adult, twenty to thirty years old? Any signs of trauma? Cause of death?”
Still silence. Finally Brinwall spoke. “It’s not likely cause of death can be determined from the remains, but the lab has confirmed minute traces of burnt cloth at the site.”
“The guy tailing you is a private eye from B.C.,” Chris said. He had phoned just as Amanda was finishing her coffee at Maeve’s and about to leave for the Time Travel tour. The big day had finally arrived.
Words failed her. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Maybe to keep tabs on you? Maybe he’s looking for Jonathan too?”
“But who hired him? And why now?”
“I don’t know. But it’s quite a coincidence that it’s happening just when you’re stirring things up.”
“Can’t you just phone and ask him?”
“He’d never divulge that confidential information. And maybe we don’t want to tip him off that we’re on to him yet. But I did pass the info on to your buddy Brinwall to add to his file. And at least we know you’re probably not in danger from the guy.”
Amanda’s thoughts were still reeling. “Did you ask Brinwall about the case?”
He chuckled. “I did. And I didn’t get much. Like you said, Brinwall is by-the-book. Not that I blame him.”
Amanda was about to protest but bit her tongue. Chris himself was straight as an arrow, so this could not have been a comfortable move for him. He had tried, and that’s what counted. “Did you at least find out when the DNA will be in?”
“Brinwall wouldn’t know that. They have to extract the DNA from the bones and profile it, and then it wends its way through the lab bureaucracy. They’ll know when they know. I’ve had cases take six weeks.”
She forced a smile. “Okay, I’ll try to be patient. But did he give you any details? Age? Sex?”
“One detail, but it’s significant. Traces of burnt cloth at the bone site.”
She sucked in her breath. “Fuck! I’m right!” To her surprise, her breath quickened and a lump rose in her throat. She had not expected to feel grief. Over the years, she’d all but forgotten the Jonathan of her childhood, but in her quest to trace him, he had once again become part of her.
“We don’t know that,” Chris cautioned. “These are pieces of the puzzle, but we don’t know how they fit together.”
“You’re right. At least now I know the police are working on it.” She softened. “You’re the best.” A whisper. “Love you.”
“I’m buying that house.”
Her tongue was tied. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’ve got an appointment at the bank this afternoon.”
“Good.” She searched for words. She wanted to be supportive. Enthusiastic. “Keep me posted.”
After she disconnected, she stared into space. Maeve, who was bent over her harvest table elbow-deep in bread flour, looked over questioningly. “They found something?”
“Lots. Wow. Someone hired a PI to tail me. But damnit, I’m about to start my tour, and I’ve got no time to make sense of all this. There are so many unknowns, so many secrets and cover-ups. Is the PI looking for Jonathan too, or does he want to know what I’m up to? Chris thinks I’m not in danger. Maybe not from the PI, but what about from the person who hired him? Is it one of the Oaks family? Or is it someone from the Fort McMurray days? I’ve talked to a lot of people and turned over a lot of rocks. It could be someone who thought he’d gotten away with murder thirty years ago and is now afraid it will all come to light.” A chill stole over her. Someone like Sean O’Regan.
“The stalker holds the key,” she said. “That’s the guy I have to find.”
“You have a name?”
“Sean O’Regan.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He’s not from around here. But I’m on my way to Drumheller to meet the group’s plane. I can’t do anything more until the tour is over. Damn!”
She was back in her room doing last-minute packing when the answer came to her. She picked up her phone to call.
“Matthew! Buddy!”
“Problems?” he asked. How well he knew her and how easily he recognized a hidden agenda in her tone.
“No. Everything is on track, but I’ve got a favour to ask. Well, two favours, actually.”
“Of course you do.”
“I need your amazing sleuthing skills again. Can you try to track down this guy Sean O’Regan that Hank Klassen mentioned? I’m not sure how it’s spelled. Hank said he was the site manager in Fort McMurray when Jonathan and Shelley were there.”
“What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Maybe lots. I don’t have much time to explain, but remember, he was harassing Shelley, there was a huge blowout, and Jonathan and Shelley were fired? I think more happened between them all, and I need to talk to this guy.”
“Amanda …”
She heard the lecture in his tone, and her temper flared. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. So far, every single thing I’ve learned, I’ve turned over to the police. They wouldn’t know anything if it weren’t for me.”
“Do they have Sean O’Regan’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe let them run with it.”
“What’s the harm in a little poking around on the Internet? Maybe making a few phone calls? I promise, I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’ll be out in the boonies with the group. I just want to know where he is and what he’s up to.”
“And what makes you think he’s up to something?”
“Because that’s the second favour. A private eye from B.C. is tailing me. Name of Jack White.” She filled him in on the white truck and Chris’s license plate search. “Can you find out who he is and who hired him?”
Matthew had been surprisingly quiet throughout her explanation. “That’s not going to be public, Amanda.”
“I know, but maybe you can find out if he has any connection to oil companies or to the Oaks family. Or to this guy Sean O’Regan. I can’t think of anyone else it could be.”
Matthew was hurt and angry. He adored Amanda and believed in what she was doing, but sometimes he felt like nothing more than an errand boy, always there to fulfill her every whim, asking nothing in return and getting precious little. He’d barely seen her since he came out to Calgary to work on the tour. She’d spent two weeks shacked up with her Mountie and only a couple of afternoons with him. Yet she thought nothing of phoning him up to dump more tasks in his lap.
He’d been reluctant to agree. He wasn’t a wuss. Ten years chasing stories in violent hellholes had taught him to be as tough and unbending as steel when he needed to be. But he’d never been able to say no to her. Never been able to hold her in check when she got caught up in a mission. Not when they were both overseas, him as a foreign correspondent and her as an aid worker trying to expose a tragedy or right a wrong, and not now that he’d joined her charitable crusade. As with all other times, he decided to go along with it. He told himself that keeping track of her was better than letting her sail into dangerous waters on her own.
But if he were honest, he’d do whatever she needed to keep her close to him.
In his spare time over the course of the next two days, he dug around on the web. He started with a general Google search of Sean O’Regan that proved too broad, even when he used qualifiers like Alberta, Fort McMurray, Norsands, and oil. He tried social media with the same results. Who knew there were so many Sean/Shawn/Shaun O’Regan/O’Reagans? He figured the man had to be at least fifty-five years old, which eliminated many who seemed too young, but the remaining profiles were too vague and numerous to show promise.
He tried a search on the Norsands site itself but turned up nothing. But a lot could have happened in thirty years in an industry famous for mergers, partnerships, and subsidiaries. Norsands was owned by Sandstar, itself owned by a tangled web of other mega-companies, both foreign and domestic. With his expertise in site management, Sean O’Regan could have moved around from project to project.
He checked a couple of databases, including Canada 411, and noted down a few promising candidates, but cold calls to each yielded nothing. Phone calls to Norsands, Sandstar, and a couple of other major oil interests also yielded nothing. A lot of people had lost their jobs during the downturns in the eighties and nineties, but if Sean O’Regan had been employed anywhere more recently, there was no record.
He phoned Hank Klassen to ask what he remembered about Sean O’Regan. Family, hometown, club memberships? Hank said he could hardly remember the guy, especially since he quit shortly after Shelley Oaks’s firing. Hank didn’t remember him talking about family and friends and remembered no pictures of wife and kids tacked above his site desk.
“But he was an east coaster. He hung around with all the other east coasters. They were always talking about home. Maybe he went back there.”
“Where on the east coast?”
“No clue. We had guys from all over.”
Matthew dropped his head in his hands with a groan. There were four east coast provinces, all of them full of Irishmen. The man could be anywhere!
He turned instead to the private investigator Jack White. The name was too common for an easy search, so after scrolling through dozens of Jack Whites on Facebook and Twitter, he tried LinkedIn. No Vancouver-area PIs named Jack White. For a businessman, he sure kept a low profile!
He looked up the address on Google Maps and discovered it was a modest house in a mixed residential-commercial area. He tracked down a telephone number, tempted to make a cold call, but something about the number rang a bell. The area code was 778. It took him a moment to remember where he’d seen it before.