For the second time in two days, Mia met with Mr. Frank. This time the meeting was brief and they met in a stairwell of an underground parking garage. Mr. Frank was too cautious to ever speak inside a vehicle or any other place he thought could be subject to electronic surveillance.
“The wine you spilled on my blouse was the reason the police came,” said Mia with a scowl on her face. “It’s your fault! The police also asked if I had taken drugs.”
“Keep your voice down,” cautioned Mr. Frank, nervously peering up the stairwell. “There is nothing to worry about. The matter will be looked after.” He tried to soothe her by patting her shoulder. She pulled away in anger. Perhaps his gesture would have been more convincing if the tone of his voice had not betrayed his nervousness. He knew he was to blame and feared the fatal consequence it could have for him.
“My first court appearance is next Friday,” continued Mia. “That is only a week away. They are charging me with possession. I was told they had even considered charging me with possession for the purpose of trafficking.”
“That is one good thing,” Mr. Frank remarked.
“Good thing?” She seethed. “If I end up with a criminal record …”
“I would never allow that to happen. It will be dealt with. Everything will be okay.”
“How?”
“The police are corrupt. You know that. A payoff will have to be made to the station commander, but that is all. I will look after it.”
“So I don’t need to show up next week?” asked Mia.
“These things take time,” he replied. “Show up and plead not guilty. The matter will be resolved long before any trial takes place. The important thing is that nobody finds out.”
“The Rolstads only know that I skipped their party because I was in an accident and was too upset. So don’t give me a bad time for not going to the party when I returned —”
“No, I understand. Did you tell your mother what happened?”
Mia sighed. “No. I was too embarrassed to tell her.”
“Embarrassed? Because you had an accident?”
Mia studied his face closely as she responded. “No, I was embarrassed that I accepted a drink from you when I didn’t watch it being poured. Mom taught me better than that.”
“What are you saying?” asked Mr. Frank angrily.
“That I felt too strange for only having one glass of wine,” she retorted, suspiciously.
“Do not blame others for your own mistakes,” replied Mr. Frank. He shook his head in admonishment. “It was your nerves. I saw that at the time, which was why I wanted you to stay and help prepare you for your assignment.”
“Bullshit! I know what you wanted to do with me,” snapped Mia. “And don’t deny it!”
Mr. Frank shrugged. “I’m not denying it. I’m human. You dressed provocatively … sending out mixed signals. I thought you wanted me to come on to you.”
Mia frowned. “I was dressed for the Rolstads, not for … well, either way, let’s put it behind us. I don’t want my mom to know because I don’t want her to worry.”
“And there is no reason for you to worry, either. Do not give the matter another thought.”
Mr. Frank stared after her when she walked back up the stairwell. He knew he had a problem. He was not acquainted with any corrupt police officers. Action would have to be taken, but he could not jeopardize his own position. It was time to ask for a favour.
It was two o’clock Wednesday afternoon the following week when RCMP Corporal Connie Crane of the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team arrived at the scene. She flashed her identification at a uniformed officer to allow her access through the security perimeter tape and walked up the street.
She was the second member of I-HIT to arrive. The first member, Constable Stan Boyle, was new to the team and had asked for Connie’s assistance. She saw him talking to another uniformed officer farther down the street. Boyle was a big man whose gut hung over his belt and he forever had bits of sleep in the corners of his eyes. Connie didn’t care about his appearance, providing he was capable of doing his job — something she had yet to determine.
Boyle spotted Connie and broke off his conversation and ambled toward her. As he approached, she glanced at the yellow emergency blanket up ahead on the sidewalk. The body — or bodies, as she soon discovered — were still sprawled on the concrete.
Boyle muttered to himself and shook his head as he looked at Connie, somehow expecting her to know what was troubling him.
“What’s up?” asked Connie. “I thought it was a simple hit and run?”
“It is,” replied Boyle, “but uniform is trying to say otherwise. The guy is being really obstinate. If I hadn’t called you, he said he would.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Some jerk. A Corporal Dave Rankin. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Connie was introduced to Rankin. He was a uniformed policeman assigned to traffic and was the first on the scene when the 911 call came in.
After the initial greeting, Connie asked, “What makes you think this isn’t anything more than a hit and run?”
Rankin shook his head. “Because it’s not.” He pointed down the block. “The broken remains of a cheap bottle of wine are farther down the sidewalk where the car first jumped the curb at the entrance to that apartment building. It then travelled this way at a high rate of speed down the sidewalk, hit the victim, then veered back onto the road at the next apartment entrance.”
“Must have been going fast for the victim not to get out of the way,” noted Connie.
“The car came from behind her, so she wouldn’t have had much time to react … but it was going fast. She was also walking a dog. I think she panicked and got the leash tangled in her legs and fell before the car hit her. Considering the type of vehicle involved, if she had been standing, she would have gone over the car or into the windshield. She didn’t. She was dragged under the car for quite a ways. Her and the dog.”
“Witnesses?”
“One. The offending car was a blue Honda Accord. The witness was two blocks farther down the street, driving in the same direction when the Honda passed him at a high rate of speed. He caught a glimpse of two people in the car, both wearing baseball caps and he thinks dark sunglasses. He also thought they were Asian because of their black hair, but he wouldn’t swear to it. He never got a plate.”
“So what makes you think it wasn’t some punks who were out drinking and lost control?”
“Because the driver didn’t lose control. Anyone else accidentally hitting a curb and bouncing onto a sidewalk would have tried to veer back. There aren’t any signs of that.”
“Maybe going too fast,” offered Connie. “Once committed, the next available escape route past all these parked cars was the next apartment entrance.”
“There is also no sign of braking and they would have had a clear view of the victim prior to hitting her. I don’t think they were drunk. We were supposed to think that. Bet there aren’t any prints on the broken bottle.”
Connie studied the route the car had taken. None of the vehicles parked along the curb appeared to have been hit. There were a few broken branches from a hedge, but other than that, the car had managed to drive down a narrow pathway.
“That’s the other thing,” said Rankin, after Connie looked at the scene. “To take that route and not hit anything significant isn’t the sign of a drunk. It took some skilful driving.”
“Or lucky,” suggested Boyle.
Rankin shook his head. “As I told you before, I’ve been doing this work for twenty years. I’ve been to hundreds of fatalities and thousands of accidents. Believe me, this was no accident.”
“Who’s the victim?” asked Connie.
“A seventy-four-year-old woman who was walking her sister’s dog. The dog was killed too.”
“You run the vic’s name?”
“Yes. It’s Betty Donahue.” Rankin frowned. He knew what he had to say didn’t fit his theory. “There’s nothing on her. Not even a parking ticket. She lives in West Van and is a retired schoolteacher. So is her husband.”
“What’s the sister like?” asked Connie.
“Nancy Brighton. She was one of the first ones on the scene. She’s still bawling her eyes out. I got someone to take her back home and sit with her.” He pointed and said, “She lives in the house halfway down the block between the two apartment buildings. The one with all the flowers.”
“Anything on her?” asked Connie.
“Nope. Also retired. Used to be a Crown prosecutor.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, but it was long before our time. I feel sorry for her. Her husband passed away two years ago from cancer. There are only two entries on the system for her address. One four years ago from her husband complaining of a noisy party from one of the apartments. The other was from Nancy last week. She spotted some woman stashing dope under one of the bushes in her front yard.”
“How much dope?” asked Connie, with obvious interest. “Maybe someone got the wrong person?”
“That’s just it. The woman was only charged with possession, so it couldn’t have been much. She had a non-injury MVA and the other driver called the police. She then panicked and tried to hide the dope before the members got there, but Nancy spotted her doing it and tipped them off when they arrived.”
“Straight possession. Hardly worth killing someone over,” noted Boyle.
“Who was charged with the drugs?” prodded Connie. “Any gang connections?”
“No gang connections noted on the system. It was a university student by the name of Mia Parker. She also doesn’t have any record … or won’t unless she’s convicted.”
Connie looked at the long streak of blood, skin, and hair on the sidewalk from where the bodies of the woman and the dog were dragged under the car. She gave a nod of her head where the trail ended at the emergency blanket. “You’re positive it was intentional?”
“Yup, I’m positive.”
“Then how would they have known when to drive down the street at the precise time to run over her?” mused Connie. “They were two blocks away when they passed the witness.”
“I don’t know,” replied Rankin. “Maybe they kept circling the block.”
“If they were professional enough to set all this up to make it look like an accident, they would be professional enough not to draw attention to themselves by driving round and round the block,” said Connie. “I want the plates of every vehicle on the street.”
“Already done,” replied Rankin.
“Have any left since you arrived?” asked Connie.
“No. I didn’t think I should let anyone leave until you gave the go-ahead, but so far, nobody has even tried to leave.”
“Good job.”
“So you believe me that it was intentional?” asked Rankin.
“Not yet,” replied Connie, “but I won’t rule it out, either. I’ll treat it as a homicide for now and see where the investigation takes us.”
Connie looked at Boyle. “Start canvassing the neighbourhood for other witnesses.”
Boyle let out a big sigh and frowned at Rankin to show his disgruntlement.
“I also want to check every apartment security camera within a four-block radius.” Connie looked at Rankin and said, “If you’re right, the only way they could have known when to strike would be to have a spotter. Maybe we can pick something up from a security —”
Connie quit talking when Rankin raised his hand for her to pause as he answered his portable police radio. A blue Honda Accord had been located minutes ago. It had been reported stolen yesterday, but was found abandoned in an alley after being set on fire.
Connie frowned as she recorded the licence plate from the car in her notebook. Too coincidental for it not to be the same car. Would a couple of drunks out joyriding in a stolen car think to torch it? Possible. She looked at the narrow distance that the car had travelled before driving over the woman and the dog. If Rankin is right, what’s the motive? Petty possession of drugs doesn’t seem serious enough …
Two hours later, Connie and Boyle reviewed the security-camera footage from two different apartment buildings at each end of the block. The apartment at the end of the block showed a white delivery van going past on the street moments before the blue Honda Accord roared into view on the sidewalk and bounced back out onto the street.
Connie zoomed in on the licence plate on the Honda from where it drove out of the apartment entrance. She wasn’t surprised that it matched the stolen car. The glare off the Honda’s windows made it difficult to see who was inside, only that the passenger was wearing a ball cap.
She reviewed the footage again. The delivery van had passed the first apartment building five hours earlier before passing the apartment at the end of the street. Like the Honda, it was not possible to see who was driving.
“Maybe the van lives in the area,” suggested Boyle.
“Maybe,” replied Connie.
Neither of the apartment cameras was able to see the licence plates of vehicles passing on the street, but one camera was able to zoom in and give Connie a name on the door of the van. It was for a Vietnamese restaurant in Vancouver called Hanoi House.
Boyle phoned the I-HIT office to check the name of the restaurant and sat with his pen poised over his notebook while Connie continued to review the footage in slow motion.
Connie saw Boyle make a notation in his notebook before hanging up. “I’ve got nothing further,” she said. “What do you have?”
Boyle shrugged. “Nothing, really. There’s a report on the Hanoi House, but it’s three years old. Back then it was simply listed as a known hangout for Asian drug dealers.”
“Was the report put in by Drug Section?” asked Connie.
“No. By the Intelligence Unit.”
Connie grimaced. “Do you know who wrote the report?”
“Yeah,” replied Boyle, glancing at his notebook. “It was a Corporal J.B. Taggart.”
“Fuck,” muttered Connie.
Boyle looked at her in surprise. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Connie sighed. “I know Jack from several other investigations. On a plus side, he always gets results and is considered one of the best undercover operatives the force has. So is his partner, Laura Secord.”
“So? What’s the downside?”
Connie bit her lower lip for a moment. “He’s not so good at following the rules. There is also another problem. Anytime he gets involved, I end up with more work than I started with.”
“Oh?” replied Boyle, unsure what Connie meant. “Well, it’s likely only a simple hit and run anyway.”
“And if it isn’t?” asked Connie. “What about Nancy Brighton? What if she was the intended victim? We can’t sit back and wait to see if they get her next time.”
“People don’t murder someone over a simple possession beef.”
“I agree it doesn’t make sense,” said Connie, “but we can’t chance it. It could be some other reason that we don’t even know about yet. Maybe they did kill the right person.”
“You’re talking like it is a murder.”
“We have to treat it like it is,” replied Connie, gruffly.
“So what do we do about Nancy Brighton? Supply round-the-clock protection for someone when all we might have is a simple case of hit and run?”
“We’re going to have to make sure she’s safe until we investigate further.”
“If it’s over the drugs, it could take a year to run it through court … or longer. It would be ridiculous to protect someone twenty-four-seven over a possession beef. Get someone to pull the charge and be done with it.”
“Pulling the charge isn’t a precedent we can set. It would open the door to have more witnesses whacked.” Connie sighed. “But you’re right, it would be a tough thing to try and justify putting her in the Witness Protection Program.”
“So what the hell do we do? We need answers fast. All we really have is the opinion of some traffic guy who probably wouldn’t know a homicide even if he were the victim. Where do we go from here?”
“We have a report from Jack Taggart,” said Connie.
“That’s three years old,” replied Boyle, with a wave of his hand. “Are you going to call him over that?”
“I don’t have any choice,” muttered Connie. “If it is a homicide, we can’t leave any stones unturned. Besides, like you said, we need answers fast.” She reached for her phone and punched in Jack’s number.
Listen to what my gut tells me … Jack Taggart … oh, yeah, this is a homicide all right. She glanced at Boyle as the phone rang. Poor sap. He’s got no idea of what we might be getting into. Guess I don’t, either … other than to expect more bodies …