Vigilante Page 12

  “I see,” Eileen stiffly responded, obviously becoming uncomfortable.

  “Well,” Chris stood as he spoke. “Unless Eileen has anything else to say, I think that we put her through enough for today. How about it, Dave?”

  “I guess you’re right,” McCall admitted with resignation, recognizing that the girl suddenly felt cornered.

  “I agree with both of you,” Eileen announced rising to her feet as she looked gratefully at Chris.

  “Mademoiselle, gentlemen, then we shall be on our way,” Chris stated as he bowed slightly, thus formally ending the meeting.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he added to McCall and they were leaving.

  “So, anything?” Frank queried once their guests had left.

  “At least, now we’ve got a picture,” Dave answered, handing over the sketch. “It’s not a Polaroid but it’s the best we’ve had in seven months.”

  He gazed at Frank and continued to wonder about him.

  * * * *

  Into the parking lot, Eileen grabbed onto Chris’ arm.

  “Thank-you for getting me out of there. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been with me.”

  “I aim to please,” he replied with a warm smile. “However, don’t thank me too quickly. It’s my fault that you’re in this mess.”

  “True,” she nodded. “But it’s the right thing to do so, thanks anyway.”

  “That was the deal,” he reminded her. “You help me, I help you.”

  They reached her car and he waited while she unlocked the door which he gallantly opened for her. She slid in to the low seat and he pushed the door shut as she started the engine. A thought suddenly crossed his mind and he tapped in the window to get her attention. She lowered her window, gazing up at him as he spoke.

  “By the way, Eileen. That envelope I gave you. It might be a wise idea to get rid of it. Not the kind of documents you want lying around the house.”

  With a grin, she replied, “I’m way ahead of you, Mr. Barry. I burned everything in the fireplace last night. Not to worry. See ya.”

  * * * *

  3:32 p.m. Giovanni Morretto shuffled aimlessly in the library of his Pierrefonds residence, a broken man. This was not a time to be working; it was a time to mourn. He was not taking the loss of Paulo well at all and still could not comprehend what had happened, nor could he accept it.

  At the age of seventy-two, his health was not at its finest and this recent blow had hit hard. His doctors, family and associates remained quite concerned that he might have another heart attack. Having already suffered three in the last seven years, the doctors had been clear in explaining that the next one would be the last. He was not to get excited for any reason.

  Gino and Rupert had just left, looking like sad puppies with their tails between their legs. They had spent the last hour profusely apologizing to Morretto, emphatically explaining how they had been ambushed, how they were not at fault. In response, Giovanni had assured them that he did not hold them responsible for the death of his son.

  Perry, Giovanni’s under-boss, closed the doors of the library behind the two departing men and turned towards his superior.

  “Make sure they’ve told us everything that could be useful about this Vigilante cocksucker!” Giovanni quietly rasped. “Then, kill them, the stupid fucks! After that, find him. He’s got to pay for taking Paulo’s life.”

  Chapter 20 - Thursday, July 18, 1996

  He drove along the now familiar gravel road and slowed to turn into the barely visible opening among the trees. He appreciated the winding pattern of the narrow path as it headed downwards towards the lake and was certain that it had been designed as such for privacy. Coupled with the extreme density of the forest which surrounded him, within seconds, his vehicle was no longer visible from the road above.

  After several hundred feet, the trees thinned and he could see the house and the lake ahead. Pulling up in front of the double garage doors of the impressive residence, he turned off the engine and got out.

  He was alone, of that, he was certain. The owner only used this place on weekends and during his vacation. He surveyed the area and was quickly satisfied that he would not be disturbed. No other cottages were visible from this spot on the lake. The shoreline formed a small inlet which ended in a natural beach, directly behind the house and both sides of the beach were heavily wooded, making this a very private place.

  Walking to the main entrance, he effortlessly unlocked it and entered, closing and relocking the door behind him. With no time to lose, he scanned the walls of the foyer, looking for the alarm pad. He quickly found it and punched in a four digit code. The red indicator immediately stopped flashing, replaced by a steady green one.

  Moving into the house, he proceeded upstairs, studying the layout as he went; bedroom, bathroom, a den of sorts. It was a nice place; lots of space, ample rooms. He returned to the ground floor, examining the comfortable dwelling from where he stood in the living room. This level was open-air, with modern kitchen, dining area and living room all forming a large continuous L.

  To his left was a door which opened to the garage; four-wheeler, mini-bike, snow-mobile. He strolled through the kitchen and headed down a spiral staircase to the basement and into a large game room, equipped with a billiard table, entertainment system, bar and easy chairs. Two doors, one on either side of the stairs, opened up to a storage area and a combination laundry/bathroom. A third door, set in the front wall of the basement, left him puzzled.

  “Underground cold-room?” he wondered aloud, walking over to investigate.

  He turned the knob and pulled, realizing with surprise how heavy the door was. Although, when closed, it looked like any other door, it was actually six inches thick, steel covered and fit with precise rubber insulation on all sides.

  “Wow!” he breathed softly, looking through the doorway.

  It was not a cold-room. Ten feet wide and eight feet high, the tunnel stretched horizontally about 150 feet deep. A wire cable, mounted on a pulley system, lined the complete length of the tunnel’s ceiling. A folding counter blocked the access, six feet past the door. Cases mounted on the walls on either side of him housed a rather impressive collection of automatics, semi-automatics, rifles and handguns. The man had a private shooting range.

  Heading back upstairs, he took one last look around before leaving, making sure he had properly memorized the layout. He left the house as he had come in, careful to re-arm the alarm and lock the door.

  As he drove back up the path to the road, he thought approvingly about the house he had just visited. It was a nice place, secluded and that shooting range; that could come in very handy.

  Chapter 21 - Friday, July 19, 1996

  3:15 p.m. Although nothing had really changed yet, McCall was encouraged with the recent developments in the case. Copies of his artist’s rendition of the Vigilante had been made and distributed to all the precincts in the city and surrounding suburbs. He and Harris had met with Gino and Rupert the preceding afternoon and though Morretto’s goons had not been much help, at least when Rupert had seen the sketch, he had agreed that it might be the guy.

  Seated in his office, Dave was contemplating on whether or not to release the sketch to the media when his phone rang.

  “McCall, Homicide.”

  “Lieutenant McCall, Lieutenant Honer from the Stanton station in Westmount.”

  “What can I do for you?” asked McCall.

  “I may have something of interest for you,” Honer replied. “We busted a bunch a kids this afternoon, drinking and smoking dope in King George Park. They were young, twelve, thirteen, so we hauled them all in to give them a scare. We had them broken up two by two in a few rooms, making them sweat, interrogating them. I start talking to two of them and they’re really shitting in their pants. One of them suddenly breaks down and blurts out to his friend, ‘We should have listened to that cop the night Zack died.’ So I ask, ‘Zack who?’ and he says, ‘Zack Roberts’. Then,
I ask, ‘What cop?’ and he comes up with a story about a cop, gold shield, who had stopped them on the street, just after ten, the night Roberts got whacked. Cop took away their drugs and made them promise never to do it again. Now, the thing is, we had nobody in that area that night. That’s a quiet neighbourhood. We’ll have a patrol car do the streets every few hours, maybe, but not a detective roaming around.”

  “Could it have been a cop going home?” asked McCall, intrigued.

  “Checked our records,” responded Honer. “None of our guys live here. Can’t afford it. I didn’t check with Personnel at Headquarters but I doubt any cop would be living in this area. This is rich city.”

  McCall made no comment.

  “Anyhow,” continued Honer. “It might be nothing, but I thought you might want to talk to these kids. There might be some connection with your case.”

  “You still got the kids there?” enquired McCall, holding the phone with his shoulder as he fumbled into his jacket.

  “Yes sir. And they’re not going anywhere until we say so. We want to make sure they never smoke a joint again.”

  “Give me half an hour and I’ll be there. Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  He hurried out of his office, calling out to Joanne on the way.

  “Yeah, boss?” she turned to him.

  He hesitated then replied, “Never mind. I got an errand to run. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Later.”

  It was best that he go alone. He had not spoken to anybody about Frank yet and Frank still wasn’t in the clear.

  * * * *

  Frank Bakes’ childhood had not been easy. Life at home had been difficult, with his mother working long hours at the local supermarket, mostly to support her boyfriend’s alcohol habit. They had lived in the tough neighbourhood of St-Henri and Frank had learned early on how to take care of himself.

  It was during his last year of high school that he had decided he wanted to become a cop and his application to the programme had been accepted. While he was completing his last year of college, he had met his wife-to-be, a rich girl. They had married during his first year on the force.

  To date, Frank had been content with his life. He enjoyed being a cop, had his computers to play with and, thanks to ample old money investments from his wife’s side of the family, was able to afford the finer things in life. He also had his secret pastime to keep him busy and, until recently, he had been certain that nobody was aware of that.

  Throughout the week, Frank had continued to get that strange feeling from McCall and his uneasiness had grown. He had reviewed conversations they’d had, things they had done, meetings they had attended, looking for something he might have said or done wrong. He could find nothing.

  He had been tempted to go to McCall and ask him flat out what the problem was but he hadn’t for fear that Dave might tell him. And though he worried that McCall might know something, Frank couldn’t figure out how that could be possible. He was always so careful.

  He tried to convince himself that if Dave had any knowledge of his activities, he would have confronted him by now. However, he knew that his boss was first and foremost a good cop whose primary goals were stopping crime and getting justice. This being the case, Dave would only come forth once he had solid proof against him which would result in criminal charges, no more career….

  He shuddered at the possibilities. His anxiety continued to increase.

  * * * *

  McCall had questioned the two kids at the Stanton station but they had not been able to tell him much about the ‘cop’ who had stopped them the night Zack Roberts had been murdered.

  They had not seen his face as he had stayed behind them the whole time, insisting that they not turn around. Yes the shield and I.D. card had looked real. Yes, it was a gold shield. No, they did not remember the name on the card. They had been scared as hell.

  McCall had taken advantage of the opportunity to give the boys a twenty minute lecture about drugs, addiction, prison and death, then thanked Honer for his help and left.

  As he climbed into his car to head back downtown, he forced himself to think about Frank for a moment and immediately felt a burning queasiness in the pit of his stomach.

  Frank lived in Westmount in this very neighbourhood.

  * * * *

  6:05 p.m. Carl’s fear continued to increase on a daily basis. Highly nervous and edgy, he was holed up in his office, behind locked door where he worked furiously at the keyboard, cursing impatiently under his breath at the milliseconds required for the Pentium processor to execute his commands. A few more keystrokes and he was done.

  With tonight’s scam, he now had $3.8 million in the Cayman account. His goal was five million and he prayed he could make it but knew he would have to hurry. Soon, real soon, he would have to cease his activities and disappear because he was convinced someone was onto him. There simply was no other explanation.

  He lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply in an effort to calm his frazzled nerves. After a moment, feeling a little more relaxed, he turned off his computer for the night. He was happy to get out of there and hoped that he could get his mind off things enough to enjoy his evening.

  * * * *

  9:15 p.m. McCall stopped the rented car a half dozen houses away from that of Frank Bakes, his sixth parking spot on the street over the last three hours.

  This was crazy. He couldn’t be constantly watching Frank single-handedly, yet, he was not willing to speak to anybody about his doubts until he was relatively certain that Frank was involved.

  Wearily, he glanced at his watch again. 9:20. That was it. It was Friday, after all, and he did have a life besides his job. He started the engine and headed for home.

  * * * *

  9:30 p.m. He entered the den where he found Sandy curled up comfortably on a couch, reading a book.

  “You going out?” she asked, looking up from her reading.

  “Yeah, just for a bit,” he answered, bending over to kiss her on the cheek.

  “Coming home late?” she enquired.

  “No, my dear,” he replied. “I just have a little situation to resolve. I’ll be back before midnight.”

  “Good,” she approved. “I rented ‘The Client’ this afternoon. We can watch it when you get back?”

  “Consider it a date,” he agreed.

  There was nothing like their Friday nights together to rid him of the week’s accumulated stress.

  “Be careful, okay?” she quietly pleaded as he left the room.

  Stopping in the doorway, he turned back and gazed at her with a gentle smile.

  “All the time,” he promised.

  * * * *

  As is often the case with sensational news, the story had received extensive media coverage at the time the events had occurred. As is usually also the case however, the news had quickly grown old and the press and population had moved on to other scandals, forgetting about Margaret Slater and her abusive landlord, Peter Myers.

  As the reporters had recounted, Mrs. Slater, a 72 year old widow, had been experiencing a number of problems with her apartment. The heating was inadequate, the wiring faulty and the plumbing in major need of repair. Several steps of the staircase leading down to her basement flat were broken, the wood having rotten through.

  She had brought these problems to the attention of the owner and landlord, Peter Myers, on many occasions. On each of her visits, he had responded by verbally abusing and threatening the old woman. Finally, she had had enough and had submitted a formal complaint to the Rental Board.

  Myers had been furious and had called Mrs. Slater, requesting that she come to his apartment to discuss the issue. Unfortunately, she had complied and, upon reaching the sixth floor, Myers had been waiting for her.

  For starters, he had slapped the old woman in the face, delivering a blow of such force that it had broken her jaw. The impact had caused her to fall and tumble head over heels down the stairs to the landing below. Not yet satisfied, the enraged land
lord had come after her. After kicking her several times, he had picked her up and literally thrown her down the next flight of stairs.

  Thankfully, having heard the commotion, other occupants of the building had come out of their apartments and subdued Myers while someone called the police.

  Mrs. Slater had been taken to the hospital with a slew of injuries; internal bleeding, a shattered jaw, cracked ribs, a broken arm, two broken legs and a hip fracture. Two months later, she remained in the hospital, in serious condition and the doctors were quite certain that she would never walk again. At her age, bones did not mend well.

  Myers had quickly been arrested and arraigned. However, due to the over-crowding of the prisons and courts, his trial had not been scheduled to take place for many months. Since he had no previous record and his sole source of income was his apartment block, which he had inherited upon his father’s death, the court was confident that Myers would not be in a hurry to disappear. He had therefore been released, without bail, on his own recognizance.

  Due to his rather vile temperament, Peter Myers did not have many friends, which suited him fine. He didn’t particularly like people to begin with and much preferred to be alone. His favourite pastimes were drinking beer and watching television, both of which he was practicing around 10 o’clock on Friday evening when someone knocked at the door of his apartment.

  “What the fuck now,” he slurred as he dragged himself out of his easy-chair.

  Taking a moment to steady himself, he was into his sixth beer since finishing dinner, he staggered uncertainly to the door. He opened it to find himself face to face with stranger, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.