Jack Taggart Mysteries 8-Book Bundle. Don Easton
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Interstate Highway system are also vital links. Vancouver airport is continually expanding to provide international air cargo and passenger transportation across the Pacific and to Europe. Feelers have already been put out with the Russian mafia for potential partnerships. On the home front, they’ve set their sights on politicians. Control of the unions helps with that, since politicians don’t like strikes.”
Leitch sipped on his Starbucks cappuccino and listened carefully as Ray passed on the instructions from The Boss. The anonymous note to RCMP Homicide would be sent immediately. Leitch was all too familiar with police investigative techniques. No prints. Leave no DNA under the seal. Use common bond paper.
“So you see,” said Ray, “the mistaken hit is no longer a mistake. It has worked in our favour. Who would have guessed that such a minor error would cause a policeman to grieve? You would think he would have been pleased that it was not him. It’s really quite extraordinary how the police react in this country.”
Leitch politely nodded his head in agreement, but his thoughts were still on delivering the message.
“I must admit, The Boss has come up with an excellent idea. We will make it look intentional. Murdered simply because he had the same name. Ensure that the police realize that no harm will befall Officer Taggart. Soon, it will be someone he works with or perhaps a friend or loved one. He will become a pariah. Let it be warning to any other officer who is energetic regarding organized crime that they may expect the same.”
“Organized crime is so general,” said Leitch, “that they won’t —”
“Precisely! They won’t know who to blame. Is it Satans Wrath? The Indos, Russians, Vietnamese — who? I think it is quite entertaining, really. Who cares if they do blame any of those groups? It won’t really affect us. The Boss is right. Why turn Taggart into a hero?”
“This will cause quite a stir,” said Leitch.
“Fear: it is the first step in making the law ineffective. The judiciary already appears indifferent. Why, as a policeman, would you want to risk your life or that of your loved ones? They will be both afraid and demoralized.”
Leitch thought about it. The police will concentrate on criminals at the bottom end, who will flourish as a consequence. Legal aid will pay well!
“Are you listening?” asked Ray.
Leitch put his dream on hold and quickly looked up and nodded.
“Naturally,” continued Ray, “we will follow up quickly by disposing of someone connected with Taggart. With his feelings of sympathy for the widow, I bet the chap shows up at the funeral tomorrow.”
chapter eight
There were only a few days left in April. The leaves had been out on most of the trees for a month and the Japanese plum trees were in full bloom. Despite an unusual surge of cold weather, it was a beautiful, sunny morning. Too nice, thought Jack, to be put in a coffin at the age of thirty-two and lowered into the ground. He felt Natasha put her arm around him and he did the same with her.
The church had been crowded, mostly with people who had read about the incident and felt a need to show compassion.
The news media made up the rest of the crowd. He saw Holly clutching Jenny to her side. They look so all alone...
He thought of Charlie in intensive care. Maybe just as well. To see him sitting here ... in a wheelchair at his father’s grave ... I couldn’t handle it.
As the casket was lowered deeper into the earth, he heard Susan sob and instinctively put his other arm around her shoulders, but felt Danny’s arm and withdrew his own. He glanced down at Tiffany, who was clinging to her mother’s leg. Susan was holding Jimmy close to her breast and Jack knew Tiffany felt left out. He nudged her and held out two fingers. It made him feel better when she latched on.
At the conclusion to the service, Jack, Natasha, and the O’Reillys walked down the street toward their cars. Jack’s cellphone vibrated and he answered.
“Oh, I say, ol’ chap, who have I reached here?”
“Jack Taggart.”
“Dreadfully sorry, I think I have the wrong number.”
Jack hung up and saw Holly approaching. She was pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair and Jenny was walking beside her. She gestured for Jack to wait.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I appreciated seeing at least one face in the crowd that I recognized.”
Jack introduced Holly and Jenny to Natasha, Danny, and Susan.
Holly looked at the elderly woman and said, “This is Jack’s mom. Mom, this is...” She stopped, not knowing what to say.
Jack was taken aback for a moment as the realization sunk in, then he stuck out his hand and said, “You’re Jack Taggart’s mother...”
She politely took his hand and tearfully said, “George couldn’t be here today. He’s too sick, you know. I must get back to him.”
“I understand,” said Jack.
“I think we should go,” said Holly. “Thanks again for coming. Thanks to all of you.”
As Holly wheeled Mrs. Taggart away, Jack heard her ask, “Who was that, dearie? You didn’t tell me his name.”
Jack felt a flood of emotion at Holly’s response. It made him feel better but also caused him to bite the end of his tongue to keep from crying.
“A friend of the family, Mom. Just a friend.” Natasha kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Guess you were right, coming here.”
Jack’s cellphone vibrated again.
“Sorry, have I dialled the same wrong number again?”
“You have,” replied Jack, and hung up. He then walked Natasha over to her car so that she could drive to work.
“Jack!” Susan yelled. “Why don’t you come to our place now? I’ll make sandwiches for lunch and you can stay for dinner. We’re having a roast with Yorkshire pudding. There will be lots.”
Jack’s reply was interrupted by a car horn. He saw that the driver had protested his annoyance at being cut off when a green van with tinted windows pulled out from the curb in front of him. A fist, with the middle finger pointing upward, briefly extended out the van window.
Jack accepted Susan’s invitation before kissing Natasha goodbye and walking back to his own car.
Albert Dawson stood beside the bed and brushed the hair back from his wife’s face. At eighty-six years of age, Esther was two years younger than her husband. She couldn’t ignore the pain in her hip any longer and reluctantly decided to follow the doctor’s advice and stay off it for a few days. It was almost noon and the warm sun coming through the window added to her dismay.
Albert saw the frustration in her face. “Won’t be long, Essie, and you’ll be up and about. I’ll make you some soup and tea when I come back. Then I’ll read to you.”
“Take your time. I’ll entertain the mailman while you’re gone,” she replied, sounding gruff.
Albert gave his wife a look of loving devotion brought on by sixty-seven years of marriage.
Esther stared back. She was legally blind and could not see his face, but she remembered the look well and sensed it. She imagined it more as his warm hand squeezed her shoulder and in the gentle kiss that followed. Albert then stood upright, using his cane to steady his balance.
In 1944, Albert had been a rear gunner in a Lancaster flying over Germany. He was smaller and thinner than most men, which suited his cramped quarters in the Lancaster just fine. Unfortunately his position also caused him to receive a fist-sized piece of shrapnel to his knee. Pain was something he had long learned to live