Authors: Cheryl Kaye Tardif
"You're right, Natassia. Sorry."
They waited in silence until the doctor appeared. Behind him stood Porter Sampson, his unshaven face pale and his breath shallow. Fear was etched into every furrow on his brow.
"Maybe you should sit down," she said gently.
Sampson puffed up his chest. "Just tell me."
The doctor consulted a file. "The test came back negative. No bruising or injury. No sign of sexual assault."
Sampson deflated instantly, heaving a visible sigh of relief. His eyes watered and he turned away.
"We'll take you home now," Ben told him.
On the drive back to Sampson's house, Natassia studied the man in the passenger seat. Porter Sampson was a man of power and authority, a Member of Parliament, someone who followed the laws and helped set legal standards in Canada. Today was his wake-up call. He'd have to be more careful, maybe hire a bodyguard since he often spent time with the public, co-workers, his assistant or Lorraine. He couldn't take any unnecessary risks now. Someone had gotten to him, taken advantage of him. Not sexually, but someone had managed to drug him, move him without his knowledge and take away his memories.
When they finally reached the modest house at 501 Linden Terrace, she watched Sampson stumble toward the door, then hesitate on the porch. He seemed smaller, less sure of himself. At last, he went inside.
"He's going to have a long, tough recovery," she said.
"It always is for a victim of crime," Ben replied.
Natassia heaved a sigh. "What does this perp want?"
Jasi was wondering the same thing as she checked out the bars near Britannia Park. There were five in total. She had already visited an Irish pub and a hotel bar.
No one had seen Sampson.
The next place on her data-com checklist was the Britannia Yacht Club, located on Cassels Street. It was worth the visit just to see the uniquely designed bar counter constructed from an authentic 30-foot Dragon sailboat. She'd never seen anything like it.
A stooped man with a bushy white beard appeared in a doorway behind the bar. When he noticed her, he slid on a pair of thick-lensed glasses and gave her a wide smile, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.
"Can I help you, young lady?"
She slid Porter Sampson's photo toward him. "Have you seen this man in here recently?"
The bartender scrunched his eyes. "Don't think so. Is he a member?"
"No. But he might have been meeting someone here."
"Haven't seen him. Sorry." He paused. "I'm only here during week days. Maybe the night bartender's seen your man."
"When will the night guy be in?"
"He's already here. Paul Cahill. The kid over there." He pointed to a preppy college kid sitting at a table with an older man.
"Who's the guy in the suit?"
"Paul's father."
"Well, isn't that ironic?" she murmured.
Victor Cahill, the owner of the speedboat she'd spotted near the Winkler crime scene. She had him slated for an interview later that day.
Now I can kill two birds with one stone.
The bartender leaned close, his breath a mix of pepperoni and beer. "Victor Cahill's the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada, and one of the richest men in the city."
"Is he a member of this yacht club?"
"Whole family is. The Cahills have three crafts docked here. Two fancy yachts and one of them racing boats."
"Thank you for your help."
She briefly scanned the room. Other than the bartender, who was possibly the oldest person in the bar, there were two male customers occupying the barstools and a few others sitting near the pool tables. She was the only woman.
As she approached, Jasi carefully observed the younger Cahill. From the expensive gold-trimmed pool cue that rested against a nearby wall and the reversed ball cap on his head, she guessed that Paul's occupation would best be described as 'slacker.' Even from a distance he had that spoiled rich kid attitude, an attitude of entitlement.
"Paul Cahill?" she said.
"I'll be anyone you want, sweetheart." he drawled, eyeing her from head to toe.
There was no denying that Paul Cahill was a handsome young man. Too damned handsome for his own good. He was also well-built and naturally bronzed, the kind of tan one would get from habitually lazing by a pool, horseback riding and boating. Based on his clothing style and intelligent eyes, she'd bet anything he was educated at one of Canada's best colleges or shipped overseas
Probably has a hefty trust fund from dear Daddy.
She slapped her badge on the table.
Paul Cahill jerked back in his chair, then guiltily gazed at his father. "I didn't do anything. I swear."
"Probably not," she agreed. "Have you seen this man in here?"
"Never. Guaranteed. I've been working here for two years. I know all the regulars and most of their guests."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Paul's father staring at the photo. "What about you?"
Victor Cahill was an older version of his son. Good looking, wealthy and educated.
"I haven't seen him here, but I do recognize him. That's Porter Sampson."
She nodded, unsurprised by the man's admission. As a judge, Cahill would be familiar with many of the MPs.
"Can I see your badge again?" Victor Cahill asked.
She handed it to him and his eyes lit up.
"Ah…Agent McLellan. Don't we have an appointment this afternoon?"
"Yes. I had no idea you'd be here."
"You might as well pull up a chair."
"Thank you, but I'd rather stand. I have a few quick questions."
He studied her with heavy hooded eyes. "Ask away."
"Do you know Porter Sampson personally?"
"No, but I've seen him around."
She angled her 'com so he could see a second photo.
"Recognize this?"
The judge shrugged. "Looks like my boat. Why?"
"It was spotted near a recent crime scene."
"Well, it might be mine, might not. But I haven't taken it out in over two weeks." His gaze narrowed and he glanced at his son. "Paul, did you use the speedboat?"
Jasi sensed that Daddy wasn't too pleased with Junior.
"You know I'd never take it out without your permission first," Paul Cahill said defensively. He looked Jasi in the eye. "I swear I didn't use it. My father has the only key."
Her eyes narrowed in the Judge's direction.
"Like I told you," he said. "I didn't take it out either." He rummaged through his jacket pocket, then tossed his keys on the table. "The silver one is for the speedboat."
"Does anyone else have access to your keys?"
"They could," Paul cut in. "He usually hangs his jacket up over there." He pointed to an open wall cupboard with hooks.
"Where were you between eleven p.m. and two a.m. Friday evening?" she asked the younger Cahill.
"I was here. I work weekends." He scratched his chin. "I don't get out of here until close to two."
She wasn't sure whether she believed him.
"I can vouch for him," his father said.
"Of course you can."
Victor Cahill frowned. "I'm not sure I like what you're implying, young lady."
"Simply an observation. And it's Agent McLellan, sir." She eyed both Cahills. "Thank you for your time. If I have any more questions, I'll be in touch."
She had moved a few steps away when angry voices rose over the music. Peering over her shoulder, she saw the Cahill men facing each other. Neither looked happy.
"I told you, someone stole it!" Paul Cahill snapped, tamping the end of the pool cue on the carpeted floor for emphasis.
"Who would steal an old dingy?" his father demanded.
"I haven't got a clue. Maybe you forgot to secure it to the yacht and it drifted away."
Victor Cahill pursed his lips. "I doubt it."
"Why? You think I'm the only one who slips up and makes mistakes?"
The judge said nothing.
"Fine, Dad. I'll buy you another one. But so you know, I never touched the Goddamn dingy." He slammed the cue into the carpet one last time.
Paul Cahill stalked past Jasi. His father followed close behind, barely acknowledging her. That was fine with her, though. Her mind was elsewhere. Something bothered her. The problem was she couldn't quite put her finger on it.
Outside the Britannia Yacht Club, Jasi activated the recorder on her data-com and left some notes. She'd add them to the official file later.
"Not enough to pull a warrant on either Cahill regarding their speedboat seen near the crime scene. And neither appeared to be lying. Also, look into Paul and Chief Justice Victor Cahill. Is there a connection to Winkler or Sampson?"
She pulled up the checklist. The stripper bar was only two blocks away, so she walked. Signage outside the bar boasted dollar drinks after midnight and five dollar lap dances. The marquis above the bar door read 'Bottoms Up.'
"Why didn't I let Ben take this one?" she groaned.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The first thing that hit her was the smell. Stale beer and sex. The lunch she'd eaten earlier on the pier threatened to end up on the floor and join the miscellany of unrecognizable stains on the worn burgundy carpet. Even though smoking had been banned from public places years ago, the stench of old cigars and cigarettes still wafted from the carpet.
"They need an Extreme Bar Make-Over," she mumbled.
Even the four intoxicated businessmen who sat around the raised dance floor were oblivious to the sad state of the bar. They were too busy ogling a half-naked redhead with cellulite buttocks and over-inflated bare breasts. The stripper hung upside-down, her legs wrapped around a pole in a position that no human body should be able to accomplish.
Jasi strode toward a man sweeping the floor.
"Is the owner of this…uh, lovely establishment here?"
"You're talkin' to him."
Jasi was a bit surprised. The man looked more like a banker than a bar owner.
"And you are?"
"Ernest Hemmingway," the man snapped.
"Well,
Ernie
…I have a few questions for you."
"Shoot." He gave her a sly look. "Officer."
"I'm not with OPS. Agent McLellan, CFBI."
Ernest, or whatever his name was, shrugged and continued sweeping. "Same thing. One look at you and I knew you were a cop."
Ignoring a sudden throbbing pain in her left arm, she shoved the photo of Sampson in his face. "Did you see him in here this past week?"
"I don't see anyone." He snorted. "This ain't the kind of place where we get all friendly, you know. Guys who come here wanna be left alone. Well, except by the girls, if you know what I mean."
"Take another look."
The man leaned the broom against the wall. His pudgy fingers reached for the photo, then he pushed it into her hands. "Nope, couldn't tell you if he was here or not." He turned his head away. "Stella! Get over here!"
The buxom redhead slid down the pole and staggered to her feet. With a giggle, she patted one of her customers on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.
"You want a lap dance?" Stella hollered as she approached. "Don't get many ladies here, but I'm game if you are."
Scowling, Jasi showed the stripper the photo.
"Don't know him, lady. Sorry."
"Maybe one of the other dancers―"
"There aren't any others," Ernest said impatiently.
Stella laughed. "Yup, I get these men all to myself."