A Delicate Matter. Don Easton
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think of something.”
Rose raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you would.” She smiled to show she was joking. “The thing is, when it comes to the point of being surreptitious, we’re talking about testifying in court — which means Drug Section should be in control of the investigation, along with the DEA. Ultimately it will be their decision of what should be done and when.”
“Certainly,” Jack agreed, “but I still have a vested interest to protect my informant. Both Drug Section and the DEA will appreciate that.”
“Is your informant in jeopardy?”
Jack grinned. “No, but it’s a good excuse to maintain some control over the investigation.”
Rose nodded. “You said you wanted the trackers and bugs in place by next Tuesday. Do you think that between you and Drug Section you can get a wiretap order prepared that fast?”
“If Laura and I work double shifts we should manage. Sammy will apply for the wiretap, but we’ll help him with the paperwork. His team will also do surveillance on the limo and the truck. Then when the wiretap’s approved, we’ll have an idea of the best time and location for the team to sneak in and plant the bugs and the trackers.”
“Speaking of bug planters, have you checked with their office to see if they currently have the space to monitor the wiretaps for us?”
“I called them. They said they could handle it.”
“Sounds like you have your ducks in a row,” Rose said. “Why are you sitting here? Get to work.”
The next several days were hectic for Jack and Laura, but by Monday afternoon a judge had approved the wiretap order. It named Buck Zabat, Mickey O’Bryan, alias Mouse, Frederick Smith, alias Banjo, and Neal, Bob, and Roxie Barlow. An attempt to obtain a wiretap order on the other Gypsy Devil prospects had been turned down by the prosecutor, who deemed there was insufficient evidence.
By late Monday night, an electronics team was successful in planting a satellite tracker and listening device in Mouse’s limo.
Bob stored his semi in the barn next to his house in Delta, which was about a twenty-minute drive out of Vancouver. A pit bull was observed chained in the yard, and any attempt to place electronic equipment in the semi wasn’t possible because someone had always been home.
At noon on Tuesday Jack was at his desk when he received a call from Nicole Purney, who was a civilian member tasked with monitoring the wiretaps. Informants’ identities were not disclosed in the wiretap, but simply referred to as “informant A” or “informant B.” Nicole knew that Jack was one of the lead investigators conducting a drug investigation involving the named targets with the Gypsy Devils and Satans Wrath, but that was all.
“Banjo made his first call,” Nicole said, “and I’m certain it’s a good one. He asked some guy how many crabs he caught and the guy said seven. The guy then told him to hang onto them and bring them to the party on Thursday.”
“Any idea who Banjo was calling?” Jack asked.
“No, it’s a disposable phone. The guy was complaining that he might have food poisoning. He sounded like he was in pain.”
“Give me the guy’s number. I’ll talk to my informant later and see if I can match it with other names and numbers he might have.” Jack smiled when he saw that the number Nicole gave him was Larry’s number, which he already had in his notebook.
“Hold a sec,” said Nicole. “Banjo has called someone else … asking how many cases of beer the guy is bringing to Thursday’s party.”
“Maybe they’re having a party drinking beer and eating crab,” Jack suggested, pretending to question Nicole’s assessment.
“I don’t think so. Doing my job, you get a feeling for people’s tone of voice after a while. I think these calls are dirty.”
“I believe you,” Jack replied. “Have you told Drug Section?”
“Not yet, but I’ll give Sammy a call.”
“Thanks.” Jack felt his phone vibrate. “I’ve got another call. Talk to you later.”
Jack answered his phone and was pleased that it was Larry, telling him that Banjo had called him to say the delivery was set for Thursday night.
“You’re grunting like you hurt yourself,” Jack noted. “Is something wrong?”
“I’ve been throwin’ up,” Larry replied. “I think I got food poisoning.” He yelped in pain.
“Cramps in your abdomen?” Jack asked.
Larry moaned. “The pain was around my belly button earlier, but it’s now down on my lower right side. Maybe what I haven’t puked is workin’ its way out.”
“It could be appendicitis. You need to see a doctor. If your appendix ruptures and you’re stuck out there, you could die.”
“Yeah, but the weed … Our deal needs to — Shit dat ’urts!” Larry moaned. “I’ve already cleared out most of my hydro equipment and got it back at my apartment. All I need is for Banjo to get the weed. Another two days and — Lard tunderin’ Jesus b’y, she ’urts.”
“Get your ass to a doctor now,” Jack ordered. “Then call me back.”
“But what if you’re right? Won’t they put me in the hospital?”
“Yes, but only for a couple of days if it isn’t ruptured.”
“A coupla days? I gotta be here Thursday. Dwayne can’t handle the delivery. He can’t even drive.”
“One step at a time. See what the doctor says. Maybe it’s nothing, but if worse comes to worst we’ll figure something out. If it’s appendicitis, the GDs will just have to wait or pick it up themselves.”
“They won’t go out in the middle of the night in my dinky little boat to get it,” Larry muttered. “I got six duffle bags of it stored at the campsite now. Got about one more to go.” He hesitated before going on, “Still, me nerves is rubbed right raw wit da pain.”
“Look, if it ruptures, you’ll be a lot worse.”
“You really think it’d kill me?”
“Definitely.”
“That’s all I need is to wake up dead. Okay, I’ll do it. Dwayne can take care of the remainin’ bag. Except …”
“Except what?”
“If I’s gone a coupla days, Dwayne’ll be stranded out there … but guess it’s okay. He’s got food.”
“Give him my number,” Jack suggested. “If you end up in the hospital and he needs anything, tell him to call me.”
“Yeah … okay.”
It was 6:00 p.m. and Jack was on his way home from work when Larry called back and said, “I’m at Vancouver General. You was right, b’y. It’s me appendix. I’m goin’ in for surgery in a few minutes. They think it just ruptured an’ said I’ll be here for at least five days. I better call Banjo and —” A cry of pain and a nurse’s voice in the background interrupted his sentence.
“Forget about Banjo until after your surgery,” Jack said.
“I … okay, okay.”
Two hours later Jack received a call that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“Officer Taggart! Officer Taggart! It’s Dwayne! I can’t get hold of Larry! He won’t answer!”
“It’s okay, Dwayne, settle down,” Jack said calmly. “Your brother had to go to the hospital, but he’ll be okay.”
“I know! He tol’ me, but they’re stealing all our bags,” Dwayne said