Serpents Rising Page 3

  Cobb found a parking spot between a couple of sub-compacts and we stepped out into a maze of buildings three quarters of a century old or older. The not-so-good part of Inglewood: a military surplus store, a couple of warehouses, what was once a hotel, a few shelters, the Salvation Army, street counsellors, a couple of community churches run out of very non-church-like buildings. I’d been here before when researching stories and I guessed that Cobb, even if drugs hadn’t been his focus as a cop, was not unfamiliar with the area.

  I suggested we start with the shelters. Blevins had said Jay had taken off before, sometimes for fairly long periods of time. He’d need a place to sleep, would know what was out there.

  A couple of people hanging around outside the Sally Ann knew Jay Blevins; he had stayed there a few times. But if they knew where he was now they weren’t willing to share that information.

  Cobb and I headed inside. I knew one of the people who worked there — a pastor who ran twelve step programs out of the Sally Ann and a couple of other rehab centres in other parts of town. I’d interviewed Scott Friend a few times, and found him to be optimistic without the over-the-top cheery you see on the religion channels. I knew he spent a lot of time on the street and hoped he’d be in.

  He was. He was sitting at a wooden desk working on a sandwich and tapping at a keyboard. He looked up, recognized me, and stood up, smiling.

  “Adam, how’ve you been?” He extended a hand.

  I shook it. “Good, thanks, Scott. This is Mike Cobb. Mike, Scott Friend.” They shook hands. “We’re looking for someone,” I told him. “I wish we could take time to visit but it’s kind of urgent.”

  He looked at me. “No need to apologize. I hope I can help.”

  Cobb showed him his P.I. card, then held out the picture of Jay Blevins. “Know him?”

  Friend took the picture looked at it for several seconds, handed it back, and nodded. “Sure, I know Jay.”

  Cobb tucked the picture back in a jacket pocket. “Seen him lately?”

  Friend shook his head. “Not in … I’d say a month, anyway. Is he in trouble?”

  “We’re not sure. Just need to talk to him. A family matter.”

  Friend looked at me. “But urgent.”

  “Yeah,” I said

  “I heard he had an OD episode. I’m guessing he must be okay or you wouldn’t be looking for him.”

  “Yeah, he recovered from that,” Cobb said.

  Friend nodded. “And he’s back on the street.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Using?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “We get a lot of people looking for family members. Some hire guys like you.” Friend said it casually. “Most don’t find the people they’re looking for. Mostly because the people they’re looking for don’t want to be found.”

  “He attend your meetings regularly?” Cobb asked.

  Friend shook his head. “He’d start with the best of intentions, come to a couple of meetings, then drop out of sight and go back to using. That happened three, maybe four times.”

  “Any idea where Jay lives when he’s on the street? Where he stays?”

  Another head shake. “Sorry, I’d like to help but I really don’t know where you might look … other than maybe the other shelters.”

  “How about a guy about the same age as Jay? Name’s Max Levine. They were friends. Or a girl named Carly? Don’t have a last name. Probably younger than Jay or Max.”

  Scott Friend thought, then shook his head slowly. “Sorry, can’t help with either of them. Maybe try some of the folks outside.” He pointed at the people we could see through the windows that faced the street.

  “Thanks, Scott,” I said. “Good to see you again.”

  Cobb handed him a business card. “If you happen to run into him or hear anything about where we might look, I’d appreciate a call. And thanks.”

  Friend took the card, nodded. “Any time.”

  We had no luck on the street with Max Levine or the girl named Carly. It seemed to me there was a less cordial feel to our second pass through the people outside the Salvation Army building.

  Cobb and I split up to cover more ground faster. We mapped out two routes that would take us to several places where a runaway kid might hang out. We’d meet up two hours later outside a take-out pizza joint on 9th Avenue.

  I got two hours of nothing. A couple of times I thought the person I was talking to knew something but wasn’t about to tell me. Code of the street people.

  When I got to the rendezvous point, Cobb was already there but he wasn’t alone. He was engaged in a conversation with a short, bearded man wearing a bundle of winter clothes, none of which were what could be called colour coordinated, including his mitts, one of which was tan and huge, the other not a mitt at all but a glove, orange with blue trim.

  The conversation was one-sided. Cobb was doing the talking, his voice low and controlled but forceful. He saw me, paused, and indicated I should come over.

  “Adam Cullen, meet Ike Groves, the Grover.”

  I nodded. Ike Groves did not respond.

  “Now Grover, we’ve talked about the importance of manners. Say hello to the gentleman.”

  Groves growled something that approximated hello. Cobb turned toward me without removing a hand from the shoulder of a coat that may have been tan once but was now the grey-brown of undercooked hamburger.

  “Grover here was just about to tell me what he knows about a particular house not far from where we’re standing where some enterprising people are selling illicit products, isn’t that right, Grover?”

  Groves looked around … worried.

  “My friend Grover lives in the neighbourhood and knows everything, but sometimes he’s reluctant to share information with his friends. I was just reminding him about his involvement in an ill-advised scheme involving a number of automobiles that didn’t belong to him but somehow turned up in a storage garage he was renting.”

  Groves squirmed but the hand remained firmly attached to his shoulder, and even with the coat as padding I guessed that the shoulder was in some discomfort.

  “Happily for Grover the police never learned about the vehicles in question,” Cobb turned to Groves in mid-sentence, “but who did know all about the operation and chose not to inform the authorities about what was going on in that garage, Grover, who was that again? Speak up, I’m having trouble hearing you.”

  “You, Cobb, and I appreciate it but I can’t say —”

  “Oh, now see Grover, there’s a word I hate — that word but. Now what would have happened on that stolen auto thing if I’d been thinking, ‘I don’t really want to turn my friend Grover in for doing something very illegal, but …’ Thing is, Grover, there was no but then and there really shouldn’t be a but now. You can see my point here, can’t you?”

  Groves winced and I was fairly sure the grip on the shoulder had just got tighter.

  “Alls I know is that there’s a guy owns a few houses around here. Maybe three or four. That’s one of them. He buys places cheap, fixes ’em up a little bit, rents ’em to people who have … business interests.”

  “Crack houses,” Cobb said.

  “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “This particular house — you know the tenants?”

  Vigorous head shake. “Uh-uh, and that’s the truth, man. From what I hear I don’t wanna know.”

  “Bad guys?”

  “There’s bad guys and there’s bad guys. These are guys people like me stay away from.”

  Cobb said, “Jay Blevins.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “That’s my line, Grover. You know him?” Cobb held out the picture.

  Groves studied the picture, thought for a few seconds. “I’ve seen the kid. Didn’t know his name. Pothead, crackhead, maybe other shit too.”

  “He ever buy from you?”

  “Aw, come on, Cobb, you know I don’t —”

  Louder. “He ever buy from you?” />
  “Naw, I’ve seen him on the street a few times. Goin’ in and out of shelters. I don’t pay attention to them kind.”

  “Because he’s not one of your customers?”

  “Punks like that attract the wrong kind of people. Parents, cops, guys like you. Like I said, I steer clear.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Another shrug. “No idea. Month ago maybe … or maybe two.”

  “Where?”

  “Told you man, I don’t pay attention to punks like him. Bottom feeders. Low life, you know?”

  “I can see how having to associate with riff-raff like that would be upsetting.”

  “Yeah, so now you know what I know and you can let go of my shoulder.”

  “I need a name, Grover.”

  “What?”

  “A name. I’ll buy your story that you don’t know the people in the house. But I need the name of the owner. The guy with several properties.”

  Groves shrugged. “Shit, how would I know that?”

  “Guy owns three or four places around here that house the kind of businesses you described. You know who owns them.”

  “Jesus, man …”

  “The name.”

  Groves winced again, looked over at me, and leaned closer to Cobb, whispered something. Cobb let go of the shoulder, took a step back. “Now, Grover, I’m hoping you aren’t thinking that you can mess with me, because if that happens, it will come back to haunt you.”

  Groves feigned indignity. “I wouldn’t do that. You know me better than that, Cobb.”

  “One last thing, Grover — you hear anything, I mean anything about that house or the people in it, I’m your first phone call. You got that?”

  Grover didn’t answer and started moving quickly away from us.

  Cobb and I watched him walk away, flexing the shoulder, rubbing it with the other hand.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Yeah,” Cobb managed a half smile. “We’re real tight. He was one of my informants back in the day. And I wasn’t kidding — there isn’t much that happens in this part of Calgary that Grover doesn’t know about. Kind of fortuitous running into him.”

  “You think he knows about the shooting?”

  “If he doesn’t he will soon. The question is, will he call like I told him to.”

  I looked down the street. Groves had already disappeared. I looked back at Cobb. “How’d you make out?”

  “Like the song says, ‘I got plenty of nothin’.’ You?”

  “Zeros. I asked some guys that looked like regulars on the street person circuit. A couple of vague, ‘Yeah, I think sos’ as far as having heard the name, but that’s it. Scouted the area under the train bridge. Three or four people sleeping. A couple of guys just sitting, not talking, not sleeping — just sitting. They didn’t know Jay. At least that’s what they said. They didn’t change it up even after I told them the kid could be in danger, so maybe they really don’t know him. Hard to say.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be easy. And if Jay’s old man has tried to find him before, the kid might be pretty practiced at leaving no trail.”

  I nodded. “Could be.”

  “Looks like I’ve got a stop to make before we carry on with looking for the kid. Follow up on what my friend Grover told me. Won’t take long. Care to come along?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Gifford Sharp was a realtor, his office located in a strip mall not far from the University of Calgary. We’d caught a break in traffic. In just under a half hour we were parked in front of Sharp’s office, the Jeep nose in to a tired two-storey, red brick building, flanked by a hair stylist and a computer repair place that didn’t look open.

  Cobb sat, not moving, staring at the window that said “Gifford M. Sharp, Realtor, Million Dollar Club.”

  “Million dollar realtor, fifty dollar office,” Cobb said as he climbed out of the Jeep. I followed him onto the sidewalk and through the door that took us into the office.

  Apparently being a million dollar club member doesn’t mean you can afford office help. One man sat at the only desk, staring at a computer screen. He was fifty-ish and bulky in a wrinkled grey shirt and loosened red tie with what looked like post-modern penguins on it hanging limply around a thick neck that sported a schematic of prominent red veins. Dirty fingernails. He looked over the top of the computer screen as Cobb stepped up to the desk.

  “Why do I get the feeling you guys aren’t looking for a nice four-bedroom with a spacious yard and several recent upgrades?”

  “Gifford Sharp?”

  The man eyed Cobb for a few seconds before answering. “I’m him,” he said. “If you’re in the market, it’s Giff.”

  “I’m Mike Cobb. I’m a private investigator looking into the shooting at your house on Raleigh.”

  Sharp looked back at the computer screen, tapped a couple of keys, looked up again. “I already talked to the cops.”

  “We won’t take much of your time. Just wondered if you could tell us who your renters are.”

  “I could, but like I said, I already spoke to the real investigators.” He dragged out the word “real.”

  I reached in my pocket, pulled out a notepad and a pen, flipped open the notepad. Cobb saw me do it and said, “This is Adam Cullen, reporter for the Herald.”

  Sharp shifted his eyes to me. “I don’t need no publicity here.”

  I steadied the notebook, pen poised to write.

  “We don’t need to give you any,” Cobb dragged out “need,” a couple of beats longer than Sharp had with “real.”

  Sharp said, “What do you want to know?”

  Cobb said, “Your renters — who might they be?”

  “Outfit called M and F Holdings.”

  I put my notepad away.

  “How long have they been renting the house?”

  “Just coming up on two years. I bought it in January, had it rented by February 1.” Proud of that.

  “How did the rental come about?”

  “Two people walked in here, just like you did, except it was a man and woman.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Smith.”

  Cobb raised his eyebrows.

  Sharp shrugged. “I’m not the government. I don’t ask for ID. People sign a contract, give me the first and last month’s rent and the damage deposit, they move in.”

  “How much rent?”

  Sharp cleared his throat.

  “What was that?” Cobb leaned on the desk.

  “Two thousand.”

  “A month?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a month.”

  “So they gave you four thousand dollars and the damage deposit,” Cobb said.

  A beat.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what exactly?”

  “They … uh … paid for a year in advance.”

  “Twenty-four thousand.”

  “Well, actually, thirty-four.”

  “Sorry,” Cobb said. “You lost me there.”

  “Twenty-four grand for rent, another ten damage deposit.”

  “You normally charge ten thousand dollars damage deposit on your rental properties?”

  Hesitation. “Not normally, no. It was … uh … their idea.”

  “So they wrote you a cheque from M and F Holdings for thirty-four large in advance.”

  “Right.”

  “And no catches?”

  “No…. Well, only one. They told me they didn’t want me coming around the house — no owner drop-in checks or anything like that.”

  “And for thirty-four thousand clams, I’m betting you didn’t see that as any kind of obstacle.”

  Sharp shook his head again. “Look, I got work to do here.”

  “What happened when the year went by? You see the Smiths again?”

  “Just her. She came in a couple of weeks before the lease expired, paid up again.”

  “But just twenty-four thousand this time, right? Because
the damage deposit had already been paid.”

  Sharp looked down, didn’t answer.

  “Let me guess, Mr. Sharp. It was thirty-four thousand again and maybe a reminder from Mrs. Smith that you didn’t need to be coming by the house.”

  Sharp didn’t look up.

  “Mr. Sharp?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” he looked at me. “You ain’t writing any of this in the Herald, right?”

  I tapped my pocket and smiled at him.

  Cobb said, “What did they look like?”

  “The Smiths?”

  “No, Giff, the Obamas. Who are we talking about here?”

  “She was a looker. Classy broad, expensive clothes, tall, dark hair, nice smile, not movie star looks but not far from it.”

  “You see what they were driving?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “What about Mr. Smith? What did he look like?”

  “Hard to tell. I was looking at her, you know what I mean?” He chuckled. Neither Cobb nor I smiled. “Big guy, not in terms of height but broad like a football type, maybe a linebacker, you know? Probably works out or maybe does steroids, what do I know. Hair sort of reddish, I think. I only saw him once, I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Guy writes you a cheque for thirty-four grand, you don’t recall what he looked like? Why am I having trouble with that?”

  “Had one of those noses that looked like it had been broken a time or two. Maybe fights or something. And real big hands, I remember that. Good dresser too, like her that way.”

  “How old?”

  “Mid to late thirties maybe. Both of ’em.”

  “And you never went by the place since that first time they came in.”

  “That was part of the deal.”

  “That isn’t what I asked you.”

  “I might’ve drove by a time or two, just to make sure the place was still standing.”

  Cobb laid the picture of Jay Blevins on the desk facing Sharp. “You ever see this kid? Maybe during one of your drive bys?”

  Sharp looked at the picture, picked it up and handed it back to Cobb. “Never seen him. Who is he?”

  “Missing kid we’re trying to find for his family. A kid who did some buying at the house you rented to the Smiths.”