Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best way to read books txt) 📕

what she knew or suspected about the suspicious fire and get them to use their contacts to keep her informed.

She drew up a list of possibilities and made some calls. The last one was to a well-connected court reporter she’d once dated, and they chatted for a while about old times. When Cat brought up the East End fire, he told her there were no official statements from the police yet, it was still too early. It was not an unusual story for the big city, a fire in a working-class neighbourhood resulting from a propane explosion. With one fatality and one person severely injured it did move up the newsworthy scale a little. Maybe even a short clip on the evening news, if they could find a family member able to produce leakage on demand. Cat told him that there were suspicious circumstances, remnants of what appeared to be Molotov cocktails had been found, and arson was a distinct possibility. He thanked Cat for the tip and promised to work it with his sources and let her know if he heard anything new.

What else could she do? She was fiercely angry about Joseph’s death and would do everything in her power to ensure his murder received top priority. She knew all about pressures on police resources, an understaffed and overworked detective division, and the political priorities of limited budgets in the real world. Investigating the possible murder of a First Nations centenarian in the East End wouldn’t be right up there at the top of the department’s to do list. She knew Clarke was all in on it, but there was no guarantee he would be given the resources required to do a full-blown investigation.

Cat thought about it for a while and came up with the perfect solution for applying pressure to the police department. He might be a little ticked off with her, given the circumstances of their last meeting, but she was sure she could jolly him along. He was a man, wasn’t he? With a faint smile, Cat picked up her cell phone and dialled the private number he’d given her. It rang on and she was about to give up when James Albright finally picked up.

“Your Thomas Rodgers is an interesting fellow,” Merlynn said. “An Oxford graduate, no less. Received his degree in fine arts, and was active in their theatre group. He played Cyrano de Bergerac in a well-reviewed production in his graduation year, if you can believe it.” Merlynn had her tablet out and was busily clicking away.

“That must have been before his nose got spread all over his face,” Danny said.

Merlynn continued. “Came from a titled family active in British political circles. They disowned Thomas when he took up professional wrestling for a lark. It turned out he had a flair for the game and after a couple of years working in England he moved to America and created the Slab character. He made some serious money over his career and invested heavily with the Ivery family’s merchant bank.”

Her finger flicked over the screen. “They became close friends over the years, and he was appointed the boy’s godfather. After the accident, he retired from the wrestling circuit and took charge of Ronald’s care. It was Rodgers who oversaw all the renovations to the building, put in the therapy pool, set up a first-class gym, and badgered Ivery into partial mobility. I’m told they’re very close, more like father and son than employer and employee. It’s a private company, but word on the street is that Ivery made Rodgers a partner a few years ago. He’s an interesting character, there’s been a lot written about him over the years.” Merlynn took a sip from her drink and went back to her search.

“Give me some scandal,” Clarke said. “And another drink if you don’t mind.”

It had been three long days since the fire and everyone was on edge. There had been no further sightings of Arrow in spite of a widespread search, and the waiting was grinding them all down. The world had moved on, new crimes had occurred, and finding Jared was no longer a number one priority of the police.

They were seated at a table in the Queens Own bar drinking martinis served from a chilled glass pitcher. Even Clarke had been converted. I’ll be wearing a straw boater and gathering around the piano to sing Noël Coward ditties before long, he thought, but obediently held out his glass as Merlynn poured. Damn, they were some good. Merlynn had given strict instructions to the bartender. She continued with her report.

“One dropped assault charge against Rodgers a few years back, apart from that nothing on the official records. The location of the dispute was a little odd, it occurred at a dive in the East End that is well known to the vice and drug squads. You have to wonder what he was doing there, a man with his background and money. Not the kind of place he would normally frequent. He racked up half a dozen fellows; put two of them in hospital. Nothing ever came of it as nobody was willing to press any charges . . . Hang on, one of the men in the brawl was Louie Tardif.”

“So that’s the second time his name has come up in connection with Rodgers,” Clarke said. “What are the odds of that? Unfortunately we can’t question Louie as he’s no longer with us.”

Merlynn said. “There are six names here. Weren’t the other two in the van Albert and Ernest? I remember thinking, Bert and Ernie, Sesame Street, at the time. Albert Villeneuve and Ernest Gagnon are listed in the court documents. It’s the same guys. So the other three involved in the bar fight are probably connected with them. Right?”

Merlynn was excited. Sometimes she missed the old days of court intrigue.

“Sounds about right to me,” Danny said.

“I’ll call the office,” Clarke said. “Meanwhile, whose round is it?”

“I’ve got this,” Danny