Blackfly Season

52

THE FAXPHOTO CAME IN JUST before noon the next day; it was Delorme who picked it up.

The picture showed a young man, maybe thirty, thirty-one, with a narrow, hawklike face. High cheekbones gave him a slightly Indian look. His stare into the camera gave nothing away. “Guess,” it seemed to say, “guess what I might be capable of.”

The caption at the bottom of the photo said Raymond Beltran. Underneath this, the date of the photograph. It had been taken eighteen months ago when he had been arrested on a weapons charge. He didn’t look too worried about the outcome.

Delorme showed it around the squad room. To McLeod, to Szelagy and to the ident guys, Arsenault and Collingwood. None of them recognized Raymond Beltran. She drove over to Corporal Clegg’s office in the federal building.

“You must like it here,” she said, “if you don’t even take off for weekends.”

Clegg was feeding documents into a shredder. He grinned at her over his shoulder.

“Since me and the wife broke up, I’m not in a big fat rush to get home, you know what I mean? I don’t see a ring. You married?”

“No.”

“Ever been?”

“No. I have something to show you.” Delorme dug in her satchel.

“Maybe you and I could go for dinner sometime. After you wrap up this case, I mean.”

“Thanks. But I have a policy against going out with guys from work.”

“Makes it kinda tough to meet people, don’t you find?”

“Yeah,” Delorme said. “It does. Listen, we really need to find this guy.” She handed him the photo.

“‘Raymond Beltran,’” Clegg read. “Latino, right?”

“He’s Cuban. Cuban heritage, anyway. Raised in Toronto. But he’s also spent time in Miami. Where, incidentally, he’s a suspect in three murders much like Wombat’s.”

“You’re kidding me. He cut them up?”

Delorme nodded. “And he didn’t wait till they were dead, either.”

“That’s not nice. Not nice at all.”

“Can you help us out? Have you come across this guy? If he’s the one that did Wombat, he’s likely deep into the drug trade.”

Clegg scanned the caption.

“Taken a while ago,” he said. “Of course, people can change their appearance quite a bit when they want to.”

“Yeah, but it’s a distinctive face—the eyes, the cheekbones. Maybe I could go through your files, look at some mugs?”

“I don’t have any mugs here,” Clegg said. “That’s all in Sudbury.”

Delorme looked at the dented file cabinet by the window.

“Just paperwork in there,” Clegg said.

“Must be pretty inconvenient.”

“The RCMP is a federal organization. Nothing about it is convenient. Did you hear about our fire the other night?”

“You had a fire?”

“Sudbury. Property shed went up in flames. We don’t even know how much evidence we’ve lost.”

“Was it arson?”

“They don’t know yet, but I doubt it. Plain old incompetence is more likely. Guy in charge of that place is about ninety years old and practically blind.” Clegg held up the photo. “Can I hang on to this?”

“Sure. I’ve got copies.”

“I’ll take a dive into our incredibly detailed and bureaucratic records and get back to you.”

Delorme drove up Sumner to the bypass and then out to the OPP detachment. Jerry Commanda was at his desk, on the phone. With the receiver jammed between ear and shoulder, he pulled a chair from another cubicle and motioned for her to sit down.

When he hung up, he swivelled around to face her.

“I bet you’ve come to talk about the interagency ball game.”

“Sorry,” Delorme said. She pulled out the photo of Beltran. “You said you’d been working a lot of drug stuff, lately. Have you run across this character?”

Jerry took the photo from her and held it at an angle to catch the window light. “I can’t say for sure. What do you want him for?”

“Cutting up Wombat Guthrie, for one.”

“Really?” Jerry looked closer at the picture. “Well, there’s one guy it might be.”

He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a buff-coloured file folder. There was a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white photos inside. He fanned them out on the desk like a deck of cards and selected one. It showed a group of young men sitting around outside a diner. Three of them seemed to be watching the fourth man, who had very long hair and was dressed all in white.

“Rosebud Diner,” Jerry said. “Reed’s Falls. We’ve been keeping an eye on that place for a few weeks now. We think there’s a lot of dope moving through the people that hang out there. We have theories, but we’re not a hundred-percent sure where they’re getting it from, and we don’t know where they stash it. Take a look at the guy with the long hair.”

Delorme picked up the photo. “But this guy’s an Indian, no?”

“Calls himself Red Bear.”

“Yeah, we had a tip from a junkie there was an Indian hanging around with Leon Rutkowski.”

“Guy’s not from around here, I can tell you that. Rumour is he’s from Red Lake, and I’ve been checking on that.”

“I recognize the other guys,” Delorme said. “Leon Rutkowski, and Toof Tilley, may he rest in peace. And the guy on the right is Kevin Tait.”

“You’re kidding. Related to our former Jane Doe?”

“Her brother. He has a prior for intent to traffic out west. We think he’s the reason Terri came here in the first place.”

“We’ve been wondering who the hell he was,” Jerry said. “I might even think you guys are pretty good, except I got the fax that said Terri Tait is missing again.”

“I’ll get to that.” Delorme was holding the two pictures side by side. “The Indian guy could be Beltran. It’s hard to be sure, though.”

“I think we’ve got a better picture in here somewhere.” Jerry shuffled through the glossy images. “Here we go.”

This one was a two-shot. It showed the long-haired man and Kevin Tait. Tait was laughing, but Beltran—and there was no doubting his identity now—was looking dead serious. The same high cheekbones, the same broad brow. And, most of all, the almost transparent eyes.

“I hope this doesn’t disappoint you, Jerry. But it looks like your Indian is actually a Cuban.”

“That’s interesting …”

Jerry swivelled away from her and stared at the ceiling for a few moments. Delorme waited. Finally, Jerry swivelled to face her once more. “As it happens, I called the chief of the Red Lake band. I didn’t tell him I was a cop. Told him I was a banker checking background for a loan. And the chief vouched for the guy. Called him Raymond Red Bear. Said he was born and brought up right there on the Red Lake reserve.”

“Why would he go to all that trouble? I heard status cards are easy to fake.”

“They are. Which is why you might need someone to vouch for you. Might even pay someone to vouch for you. Sometimes it can be useful to have First Nations status,” Jerry said. “For purposes of employment, for example.”

“Very funny, Jerry. What exactly are you talking about?”

“Up until fairly recently, the Viking Riders used to get their dope from Montreal. Then they made the mistake of disagreeing with the Hells Angels.”

“No more dope.”

“No more dope from Montreal. But being bikers, and dedicated entrepreneurs, they worked out a deal with some Native Americans just across the Michigan border. Started early last summer. They fly the stuff across Lake Huron, then up the French River to Lake Nipissing. If you do it right, you never leave Indian territory.”

“A good way to keep it out of everyone’s jurisdiction.”

“You have a dirty mind, Detective Delorme. That’s what I always liked about you.” Jerry held up the photo. “Nice touch for him to dress up like a Hollywood Indian. Should set us back a couple of hundred years.”

“So Beltran comes on like an Indian, complete with a status card and a chief in his pocket, and he takes over the Viking Riders’ import business.”

“That’s our theory.”

“And now you’re going to tell me where we can find Beltran, right?”

“Sorry. We don’t have surveillance on him yet. We’ve just been watching the Rosebud.”

“Well, I’ll tell you the other reason we’re looking for Beltran. We think he’s got Terri Tait and he’s going to kill her.”

Jerry grabbed the phone and punched the intercom button. “I’m going to get an all-points on him, Lise. Minute we hear anything, you will too.”