Matanzas Page 16
“By Bertoulli and Rogerson you mean . . . ?”
“Ben Bertoulli, the lawyer who just dropped me as a client, and Bill Rogerson, the solicitor general who won’t take my calls. Rogerson drove, Bertoulli sat in the back seat and I pulled the trigger.”
“The three of you kept in touch over the years since high school?”
Brett tipped his head from side to side. “We’d keep in touch from time to time. Then Ben saw an opportunity and decided we should go into business together with MCSC.”
Keep your tone level. Don’t lead him into his answers. Be patient. Wait!
“I had it figured out. If I invested in MCSC, I could live in Cuba with Sonja, have a steady income — I already have a house there — and forget about the winters. I just needed fifty thousand more. One more week and I would have gotten it.” Brett looked at the door and then at Lane.
The detective frowned.
“Rogerson didn’t invest directly. He’s too smart for that. Bertoulli and me —” Mara pointed at his chest for emphasis “— agreed to give him a percentage in cash at the end of every year.”
Lane had a flashback of the old woman picking up the phone at Bow Valley and beginning her one-sided conversation without entering a number. How vulnerable she was. He shook his head. Just a bit longer. Keep focused. “If you averaged fifty thousand per person you murdered, then that works out to one point three million.”
“Except for the first guy, I didn’t look at it as murder. I was doing the geezer a favour. You have to see it through my eyes. I saw the way they lived. If I ever get to be like that, I hope someone will do the same for me. Besides, I didn’t kill everyone I scammed. There were lots of geezers who forgot about the money the day after the deal was done. After I made a bit of money I began spending more and more time in and around the Caribbean on holidays. Then I went to Cuba and met Sonja. Her family was pretty happy when we got married.”
“You want to serve your sentence in Cuba?”
Brett laughed. “No way. Have you seen what a Cuban prison looks like? Besides, I won’t live that long.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The deal’s already been made.” He pointed his finger at Lane. “This is payback.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re the detective. You figure it out. I’m tired and I’m hungry. I’m done for the day.” Brett crossed his arms and closed his eyes. “I’ll talk some more tomorrow.”
Lane walked alongside Nigel, who grabbed his partner’s arm when Lane tripped over an uneven section of sidewalk on Stephen Avenue Mall. “You gonna be okay?” Nigel asked.
Lane shook himself, took off his sports jacket and slung it over his left arm. “The guy was telling me about what he’d done.” Lane looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. “There was so little passion in his voice. It was all so matter of fact. So pedestrian.” He looked around at the people sipping coffee, people pushing baby carriages, a man walking his dog (both owner and pet had round, flat faces), people checking their phones, a guy with a plastic bag leaning over a garbage can and pulling out a plastic bottle, a woman in red stilettos announcing her passing. It’s hard to get back to seeing the world as it is after an interview like that. He turned to Nigel. “I never said thanks.”
Nigel looked startled. The freckles on his cheeks were more pronounced when his face was tanned. “For what?”
“For seeing Brett when I walked right past him at Bow Valley.”
“No problem.” They walked up to Terri’s coffee cart. “My treat.”
“My mind was still fuzzy from the migraine.”
“That’s why we work together. We have each other’s backs. What one misses, the other sees.”
Terri looked over the espresso machine at them. “The usual?”
Nigel held up a ten and she took it in her right hand.
“We need to get back to Carlo and Anita about their grandmothers.” Lane looked down along the avenue.
Nigel pulled out his phone and checked an app. “Carlo’s a ten-minute walk away.”
“You still have your copy of the confession?” Lane asked.
Nigel nodded and tapped his heart.
“Here you go, boys!” Terri handed over the cups and Nigel’s change. They walked west along the mall until they crossed 5th Street and spotted Carlo as he swung open the awning and locked it in place.
Lane threw his empty cup in the trashcan, put his hand on Carlo’s shoulder and felt the power in the man’s muscles. “Got a minute?”
Carlo looked back and down at Lane. His dark hair was cut short. He wore a white T-shirt and black shorts. “You get him?”
Lane nodded. “It’s not public knowledge, but he confessed to killing your grandmother.”
Carlo nodded, then leaned his arm up against the side of the food truck and began to sob.
Lane’s phone rang. He stepped back as he pulled out the phone. “Lane.”
Lori said, “The uniforms found the motorhome just where Mara said it would be, but it was empty. The forensics team is on its way.”
“Thanks.” Lane hung up and waited for Carlo, who turned, wiped his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his T-shirt and looked at the detectives.
Nigel reached into his pocket and handed Carlo a tissue. The white disappeared in the man’s massive hand as he worked to wipe his face, then moved closer and hugged them both. “I figured you guys would write my nana off.” I can’t breathe! This guy is all muscle and marshmallow, Lane thought. Then Carlo released them, saying, “Come on. I’m gonna feed you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lane felt optimism seeping back. He held half a calzone in his right hand. He watched a young woman in yoga tights hand her empty water bottle to a man wearing hand-me-down pants, shirt and shoes as he approached a garbage can. The man returned the favour with a toothless smile. Lane looked up at a clear blue sky and took another bite of Carlo’s heavenly mix of fresh bread, tomato sauce, buffalo mozzarella and spiced meat. His phone rang just before Nigel’s. They both fumbled for phones and read a text message from Lori. We need you back now. Brett Mara is missing.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at Lori’s desk. She lifted her eyebrows, then said, “They found him.”
Lane looked at Lori’s face. This is bad news.
“At the bottom of one the elevator shafts.” Lori raised her eyebrows. “They can’t find the officers who were escorting him or the elevator repairman.”
Lane lifted his chin. A planned operation! Where are the tapes? He turned to Nigel. “Check your computer to see if the Mara video is still there.”
He turned to Lori, “Anyone been in our offices?”
She shook her head.
Lane pointed at her. “We need Nebal.”
Lori lifted her phone to contact their trusted computer expert.
Lane stepped into his office and watched Nigel working furiously on his computer. He took a memory stick and attached it to his monitor.
Lane hung his jacket on the back of his chair.
“I’ve got it.” Nigel wiped his forehead with his fingers.
“Make sure all of it’s there.” Lane reached into his desk drawer and pulled out another memory stick. “I want a copy too.”
Nigel ejected his flash drive and attached Lane’s.
Lane said, “Nebal is on her way. We need to get a copy of the files to Harper right away.” This will rattle the place down to its foundation.
“What about the Po family?” Nigel asked.
“The priority is to secure the files first.” Lane looked at his desk to see if anything had been disturbed.
Nigel said, “This is a mess and we have a power vacuum at the top. Looks like someone decided to take advantage of Simpson’s leaving.”
They found Harper at the centre of the storm. His door was guarded by Jean, a five-foot-one, one-hundred-twenty-pound, silver-haired fifty-year-old secretary whom no one was prepared to mess with. The waiting-room chairs were fill
ed with a pair of plain clothes RCMP, another pair from the Alberta Serious Incident Response Team and a pair of uniforms standing across the room from each other keeping an eye on the comings and goings. Jean pointed at Lane. “He wants to see you two right now!”
Nigel followed Lane past the heavy oak door and took in the room. He heard Jean shut the door behind them. Wearing his tie and dress uniform, Harper sat behind the desk. He held a phone in his right hand and waved with his free hand that they should sit at the coffee table.
Lane sat next to Nigel.
There was a knock at the door. Jean opened it and pointed at the coffee table. One of the uniforms placed three coffees in paper cups on the table and left. Lane recognized the cups from Terri’s kiosk. He looked at the sides of the cups, saw one was labeled ‘M’ for moccaccino and helped himself.
“Okay. Will do.” Harper hung up the phone, stood up, closed his eyes, leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. “Fuck!”
“Join us?” Lane asked.
Harper shook his head and smiled. “My first day as acting chief and there’s a shit storm.”
Nigel opened his mouth to speak. Lane stopped him by raising his eyebrows.
Harper sat down and stared at the cup in front of him. Then he looked at his former partner, shook his head and reached for his coffee. “We’ve got a dead prisoner and precious little else. I was hoping you two would have something so when ASIRT and the RCMP come in here, I’ll have something to tell them.”
Lane nodded at Nigel, who pulled the flash drive out of his inside jacket pocket. “Nigel made copies of our interview with Brett Mara.”
Harper looked at the flash drive, his face turned red and he glared at Nigel.
Lane said, “I asked him to.”
Harper reached for his coffee instead of the flash drive. “It’s a procedural breach.”
Lane nodded. “Mara confessed to twenty-seven murders. He also implicates Bertoulli and Rogerson as accomplices in one of the murders.” Lane patted his coat pocket. “I have the signed list here. Nebal is in the process of backing up the video of Mara’s confession.”
“So Mara’s killers are not aware of what he told you?” Harper sipped his coffee and closed his eyes.
Lane said, “Apparently not.”
“That’s something.” Harper looked sideways at Nigel. “What have you got to say?”
Lane inhaled and waited.
Nigel said, “Rogerson, Bertoulli and Mara were up to their necks in this MCSC deal. When Mara got caught, they needed to shut him up. He got wind of it, talked to us first and screwed up their plan.”
“So it’s good news and bad news.”
Lane tilted his head right and then left. “Depends on how you look at it.”
“What do you mean?” Harper leaned forward and studied Lane.
“Mara isn’t killing anymore, and we have solid evidence on two of the accomplices involved with Mara. And, if he’s elected, Simpson may be the next solicitor general.” Lane sat back and took a pull on his coffee.
“That still leaves a prisoner’s body at the bottom of the elevator shaft. That’s not going away.” Harper looked at the ceiling as if seeing something up there for the first time.
Lane said, “Desperate people make mistakes. They shut Brett Mara up after we got the confession. That means we’re a step ahead. Now all you have to do is let ASIRT and the RCMP do their jobs while we build our case against Rogerson and Bertoulli. Nigel has already started looking at some of the financials.” Lane turned to Nigel.
Nigel blushed.
“What?” Lane asked.
“I’ve been meaning to talk with you about that.”
“Oh shit.” Harper rolled his eyes.
Mi Casa Su Casa faces a class-action lawsuit in California. Relatives of deceased MCSC residents maintain their family members were defrauded of their property and in some cases their life savings.
Lawyers representing the survivors argue MCSC is designed to defraud vulnerable seniors, particularly those whose intellectual abilities are compromised by diseases like Alzheimer’s. More controversial, they say MCSC may be a front for organized crime.
According to documents we’ve discovered, Mr. Bertoulli and Mr. Mara were prepared to invest millions of dollars to establish seniors residences in Alberta in partnership with MCSC. An agreement between Mr. Bertoulli and Mr. Mara refers to monthly cash payments to Mr. Rogerson as part of a profit-sharing arrangement with MCSC.
Even more startling is a report that Brett Cameron Mara died today while in police custody. And as this broadcast was going to air, we received reports that Mr. Bertoulli and Mr. Rogerson have been arrested. Obviously there is much more to this story.
Back to you, Stephanie.
The uniforms brought Bertoulli and Rogerson in separately. Both were accompanied by lawyers. Lane prepared to interview Rogerson while Nigel got ready for Bertoulli. Harper was already waiting to watch the interviews on separate monitors. Both suspects and their lawyers appeared unimpressed, constantly looking at their watches, the clients making jokes. Lane and Nigel watched the pairs on Lane’s large monitor in their office. Nebal had set up redundant backup systems and extra levels of security to prevent tampering.
“So, we’re agreed. We start off with the financial evidence to lull them into a sense of bored security?” Lane glanced at his watch. It’s ten minutes to ten. I should feel tired but I’m wired.
“Then we hit them with Brett’s confession where he implicates them and show them a copy of his list of twenty-seven victims. Then give them a minute to realize they will be forever linked to a mass murderer.” Nigel kept his eyes on Bertoulli as he studied the man’s body language. “If he deals first, you buy coffee tomorrow.”
Lane nodded. “We stay calm, confident. Then we wait. The waiting will break them.” Lane studied Rogerson, who leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Let’s get started.”
An hour later, Rogerson was struggling to remain alert. His hair was still cut short but his round face appeared to have gained a few more lines since their last meeting. Rogerson’s lawyer, Robin Blair, was about forty, wore black pants, a white blouse, black shoulder-length hair, red lipstick and a toothy bleached smile. She said, “There is nothing definitive in your evidence. Quite frankly, there is nothing here that justifies detaining my client.”
It’s not so much what she says but the way she says it. Her voice is filled with arrogant condescension. Lane made up his mind. Now’s as good a time as any. He reached over and turned the laptop so that Blair and Rogerson could see it. “This interview was done this morning. It may address some of your concerns about evidence, Robin.” He pressed the button Nigel had marked for him.
Brett Mara’s smiling face is unfocused at first, then the pixels coalesce into a crisp image.
That guy killed one of our friends. He hit our friend over the head with a toilet seat. We went out and evened the score.
We? the recorded Lane asks.
Bertoulli, Rogerson and me.
By Bertoulli and Rogerson you mean . . . ?
Ben Bertoulli, the lawyer who just dropped me as a client, and Bill Rogerson, the solicitor general who won’t take my calls. Rogerson drove, Bertoulli sat in t
he back seat and I pulled the trigger.
Lane closed the laptop, then lifted a crime-scene photograph from a blue folder. The picture showed a body lying on the seat of a car. The steering wheel was visible in the left of the frame. The neck of the headless corpse lay against the passenger-side arm rest. “His name was Stewart Kalyk.”
Lane studied the reactions. Rogerson’s face was a mask, though admittedly a pale mask. Blair held her hand to her mouth. Lane put the photo back in the file, stood up and said, “Perhaps you would like some private time to discuss your options. There is more to the Mara interview if you’d like to watch it.” Lane stepped outside, closed the door, turned and looked up at the uniform, who stood six feet four, weighed about two twenty and looked to be about twenty-two. “They will probably request a private room. If they do —” Lane held up his phone “— text me, then accompany them and remain outside the door. If they want to talk, text me.”
The uniform nodded, Lane glanced at his watch, then walked down to his office. Harper, looking more than slightly rumpled, was waiting there with Nigel. Lane asked, “Where’s the Crown Prosecutor?”
Harper drank from a bottle of water. “On the way. He was pissed about the time until I told him what was up.”
“Who is it?” Lane sat down and reached for another bottle of water. Someone had set a half dozen on his desk.
“Brown.” Harper took a long pull from his water.
“That asshole,” Nigel said.
Here we go! Nigel, couldn’t you just leave it alone?
Harper choked, coughed, wiped his face and smiled, “Yeah, but he’s our asshole.”
Nigel pointed at Lane. “The odds are two to one against you.”
Lane leaned forward and lifted his eyebrows.
Harper wiggled his thumb at Nigel, then at himself. “We both think Bertoulli will cave first.”
When did the pair of you become buddies? Lane wondered. His phone began to vibrate.
Lane opened the door to the room where Blair and Rogerson sat shoulder to shoulder. The walls were grey, and Lane thought he detected some of that colour in Rogerson’s complexion.