investigative work by provincial police and the RCMP for reference. But the Wild Roses were an unknown commodity; very little is known about them because they’re relatively new. Crowe was Charles’s Bay of Pigs.”
“What do you mean?”
Singer smiled like one of his old professors right before they started pontificating. “When Kennedy invaded Cuba, he did so with poor intelligence, and he paid a high price. I believe the same happened in this situation. Charles knew about Crowe, of course, but it appears he severely underestimated him. It would seem Charles paid the ultimate price for his mistake.”
Alex thought about that for a moment. Maybe his blind faith in Chuck Palliser had been misplaced. Alex had been looking for someone to kick ass and take names when Tom Ferbey was killed. His outrage as a witness, as a journalist – hell, as a human being – demanded that someone take charge of the situation and make sure that Ferbey hadn’t died in vain. To see that justice was done. To reassure him that the world worked the way it was supposed to, that bad guys got what they deserved, and that decent folk could sleep easy at night, knowing that they were protected.
Chuck had been given the case the day after the murder. He was seconded to the Organized Crime task force after more than ten years undercover. When Alex told police what he’d seen – Rufus Hodge pulling the trigger on Tom Ferbey in cold blood – Chuck had been the one who took the single blurry, dark photo that Alex had managed to snap and enhanced it to corroborate Alex’s description. Chuck was the one who painstakingly uncovered the meth distribution system that started in labs near the oilfields up in Fort McMurray, and tied them to the Highland Storage Yard in Calgary, which was the hub of distribution. From there it went as far east as Winnipeg, as far south as the U.S. border, and as far west as Banff. Chuck was the one who had investigated Richie Duff, had browbeat him and slapped him with evidence until he finally broke down and admitted that Hodge had been nowhere near his house on that fateful October night, and that he had lied on the stand for money and status within the Wild Roses.
But now . . . now Alex was left with the very real possibility that maybe Chuck wasn’t the all-powerful super-cop that he had wanted him to be. Maybe, when the bullet hit the bone, he was just a guy, like everybody else. A guy who made mistakes like everybody else. Except Chuck’s mistake had cost him his life.
And it could very well cost me mine, too .
“Look, Leslie, I need to know everything you know about Crowe.”
Singer nodded. “Yes, you do.”
“Really? Just like that? You’re not going to pull the ‘ongoing investigation’ card on me?”
“Alexander, your life is in danger, as is mine. We don’t have the luxury of following the constraints of jurisprudence and media relations.”
“Speak English, Leslie.”
“Fuck the system, is what I mean. We must speak freely, and of many things, my boy. First, Jason Crowe. I hate to admit that we know very little about him other than the fact he spends a great deal of his time with Rufus Hodge. According to his admittedly short paper trail, he was born in Quebec. He is thirty-eight years old and has lived in Calgary for the past two years, has never been arrested and, according to his tax records, is a mechanic. Before that, he was a professional student at half a dozen universities, again, according to his tax records.”
“What’s his actual status in the gang?”
“It’s difficult to know. You see, gangs in Eastern Canada and the U.S. are very much about status, both within the organization and in relation to other gangs, which makes it easier to predict their behavior. Members often go through elaborate rituals to get promoted – they may have to endure a savage beating from the rest of the club, for example, or offer the sexual services of their girlfriend to the leader.”
“What do you mean?”
Singer smiled like one of his old professors right before they started pontificating. “When Kennedy invaded Cuba, he did so with poor intelligence, and he paid a high price. I believe the same happened in this situation. Charles knew about Crowe, of course, but it appears he severely underestimated him. It would seem Charles paid the ultimate price for his mistake.”
Alex thought about that for a moment. Maybe his blind faith in Chuck Palliser had been misplaced. Alex had been looking for someone to kick ass and take names when Tom Ferbey was killed. His outrage as a witness, as a journalist – hell, as a human being – demanded that someone take charge of the situation and make sure that Ferbey hadn’t died in vain. To see that justice was done. To reassure him that the world worked the way it was supposed to, that bad guys got what they deserved, and that decent folk could sleep easy at night, knowing that they were protected.
Chuck had been given the case the day after the murder. He was seconded to the Organized Crime task force after more than ten years undercover. When Alex told police what he’d seen – Rufus Hodge pulling the trigger on Tom Ferbey in cold blood – Chuck had been the one who took the single blurry, dark photo that Alex had managed to snap and enhanced it to corroborate Alex’s description. Chuck was the one who painstakingly uncovered the meth distribution system that started in labs near the oilfields up in Fort McMurray, and tied them to the Highland Storage Yard in Calgary, which was the hub of distribution. From there it went as far east as Winnipeg, as far south as the U.S. border, and as far west as Banff. Chuck was the one who had investigated Richie Duff, had browbeat him and slapped him with evidence until he finally broke down and admitted that Hodge had been nowhere near his house on that fateful October night, and that he had lied on the stand for money and status within the Wild Roses.
But now . . . now Alex was left with the very real possibility that maybe Chuck wasn’t the all-powerful super-cop that he had wanted him to be. Maybe, when the bullet hit the bone, he was just a guy, like everybody else. A guy who made mistakes like everybody else. Except Chuck’s mistake had cost him his life.
And it could very well cost me mine, too .
“Look, Leslie, I need to know everything you know about Crowe.”
Singer nodded. “Yes, you do.”
“Really? Just like that? You’re not going to pull the ‘ongoing investigation’ card on me?”
“Alexander, your life is in danger, as is mine. We don’t have the luxury of following the constraints of jurisprudence and media relations.”
“Speak English, Leslie.”
“Fuck the system, is what I mean. We must speak freely, and of many things, my boy. First, Jason Crowe. I hate to admit that we know very little about him other than the fact he spends a great deal of his time with Rufus Hodge. According to his admittedly short paper trail, he was born in Quebec. He is thirty-eight years old and has lived in Calgary for the past two years, has never been arrested and, according to his tax records, is a mechanic. Before that, he was a professional student at half a dozen universities, again, according to his tax records.”
“What’s his actual status in the gang?”
“It’s difficult to know. You see, gangs in Eastern Canada and the U.S. are very much about status, both within the organization and in relation to other gangs, which makes it easier to predict their behavior. Members often go through elaborate rituals to get promoted – they may have to endure a savage beating from the rest of the club, for example, or offer the sexual services of their girlfriend to the leader.”
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