A Delicate Matter

A Jack Taggart Mystery

Don Easton

• Publisher: Dundurn Press
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781459734296
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Kriminal- & Mysterienliteratur

In the tenth Jack Taggart Mystery, Taggart goes head to head with a longtime enemy who's been eluding him for years … Jack Taggart is once again going head to head with his nemesis, Damien Zabat, national president of the Satans Wrath Motorcycle Gang. Taggart and Zabat's lives have long been intertwined by a violent history of retribution and murder, dependent on unwritten rules of conduct — rules far outside the parameters of the law, but that each man feels are just. To Taggart, Zabat represents an unspeakable evil. He has eluded justice and left behind a trail of death.
As Zabat approaches retirement, his son, Buck, joins the gang. When Taggart obtains evidence to send Buck to jail, he gives Zabat two days to disclose the details of a new European cocaine connection in exchange for his son's freedom. Zabat's refusal leads Taggart to gamble with his own life in a desperate attempt to destroy the man he has long been after. It is a gamble he wishes he had never taken.

Chapter One

It was the second Wednesday in September and a sprinkle of rain caused many of the shoppers to quicken their pace as they went to and from their cars. Young moms were enjoying the freedom of having their children back at school, and this morning the mall parking garage in Surrey, British Columbia, was busy. For one man it was the ideal time to go hunting. He selected his prey and kept his head down so that the hoodie he wore hid his face.

He guessed she was in her early thirties. Her raincoat was open, revealing an attractive figure, and her black hair cascaded over a white blouse. Her slacks were charcoal-coloured. She carried several shopping bags from high-end clothing stores. Expensive tastes … exactly the kind of snooty rich bitch I’m looking for.

He approached her. She hesitated at the elevator beside the stairwell, then cast a glance in his direction. She turned and walked up the ramp in the parkade, taking the more visible and open route designed for cars.

What’s the matter, bitch? Aren’t I your type? He felt the blood surge in his groin and took the stairs two at a time to the second level, then eyed her through the glass pane in the door. She had one hand rummaging through her purse, probably seeking her keys, while she continued walking to the third level. He scampered up the stairwell again and saw her stop at the end of a row of cars and hold out a key fob. The trunk to a white Lexus obediently opened and she bent over to tuck her packages inside.

He pulled the drawstrings on his hoodie tight around his face as he crept toward her. He was within a couple of steps before he saw her body momentarily freeze, then spin around, her eyes riveted on his. He gave an evil grin when her gaze shifted down to his open fly and his engorged penis.

“How ’bout you bend over again and I pack this in your trunk, bitch!”

The woman looked curiously at his penis. “Why is it so tiny?”

“What?” he spluttered as his penis promptly wilted. “What did you say?”

“Is your problem achieving an erection due to feelings of insecurity around women? Do you only achieve physical gratification and a feeling of empowerment over a woman if she displays fear — or are you hoping to arouse me?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “You whore!” he snarled, stepping forward with his fist raised.

“I don’t mind if you talk dirty to me.” Her voice had turned sultry. “I’ve fantasized about this moment. Hoping it would happen.”

He stopped. “You have?” He lowered his fist.

“Yes,” she answered while rummaging in her purse again. “Would you like to join me in the back seat of my car?”

“Are … are …,” he stuttered before finding the words. “Are you serious?”

“Definitely. I hope you’re into bondage,” she added, taking a set of handcuffs from her purse.

He heard a van door slide open two spaces down and turned to see a couple of men leap out. He looked back at the woman. The cuffs were gone and she was pointing a pistol at him.

“You’re under arrest!” she yelled. “Put your hands over your head!”

“You fucking bitch!” he screamed, ignoring her command and running for the ramp. When he saw other police officers closing in on him, his mouth fell open in panic.

Seconds later Constable Sophie White’s jaw also went slack when her suspect ran to the edge of the parkade, gave a glance back, then leaped over the side of the retaining wall. She, along with her colleagues, rushed to the wall and looked down. Three storeys below, the culprit lay sprawled face down on the sidewalk.

“Think he’s dead?” one of the officers asked in a tone that showed his indifference.

“Maybe,” Sophie replied. “Glad he didn’t land on anyone.”

As they watched, the culprit squirmed and rolled over onto his side.

“Nope, guess we don’t need the coroner,” Sophie said, taking a portable radio out of her purse.

The culprit managed to stand on one leg. After a few failed attempts to put his other foot down, he started to hop away.

Sophie rolled her eyes, then clicked the transmit button.

Constable Chuck Field was in a car near the parkade exit when he received the call.

“Field, we tried to arrest our man,” Sophie radioed, “but he leaped over the wall on the opposite side of the building from where you are. Drive around and pick him up. We’ve got the eye from up here.”

“You got it.”

The sound of screeching tires echoing up from the street said that Field would not take long. His voice crackled over the radio again. “What’s he look like?”

“If you see a guy hopping down the street on one leg with his dick hanging out, that’ll be him.”

Chapter Two

Corporal Jack Taggart drove into the parking lot of the Steinhouse Pub in Port Coquitlam. The pub was about a forty-minute drive from Vancouver, where he worked undercover for the Intelligence unit of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

He was driving a black SUV with tinted windows. Constable Laura Secord, who was both his partner and subordinate, sat beside him. Today her long auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a green rain jacket over blue jeans and a denim shirt.

Jack had shoulder-length hair and a bushy beard that was showing a hint of grey. He wore a black T-shirt under an open brown kangaroo jacket and black jeans.

Both Jack and Laura had received special training by the RCMP to work undercover. Their assignment was to combat organized crime. At the top of their list was Satans Wrath, a motorcycle gang involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, murder, and a host of other criminal activities.

Satans Wrath had developed over the years into a sophisticated criminal empire with seventy chapters in forty countries around the globe. It had, for the most part, insulated itself from its criminal activities by using other gangs as middlemen. Satans Wrath would use a puppet club to do its dirty work for a few years, after which some puppet-club members might be selected to join Satans Wrath. At that time the remainder of the puppet club would soon find it in its best interests to disband. In September, during the Labour Day ride, it was noted that the Gypsy Devils had been invited to tag along.

Bikers wear their club logo, called their “colours,” on the backs of sleeveless jackets, which for the Gypsy Devils was a skull adorned with a green bandana and a black patch over one eye. The name of the club, or the “top rocker,” was above the skull, while the “bottom rocker” beneath denoted the area they’re from. For the Gypsy Devils it simply read “Poco,” to denote Port Coquitlam.

Satans Wrath colours bore a full face-on skull with horns, purple eyes, and a sinister grin. Their bottom rockers bore the names of countless cities from many regions of the world.

Probationary members of the clubs, referred to as “prospects,” had only bottom rockers on their jackets. Prospects generally took part in the riskier areas of Satans Wrath’s criminal activity and then, after they’d been thoroughly screened for a couple of years, Satans Wrath members would vote on whether to allow the prospects entry into the club. If accepted, a prospect would receive the top rocker and complete logo, which was known as getting the “full patch,” or “colours.” Currently, the Gypsy Devils had nine full-patch members and three prospects.

What surprised Jack was that the Gypsy Devils tended to represent the more degenerate and filthy image of what outlaw biker clubs were thirty-five years ago. Although Satans Wrath didn’t hesitate to use extreme violence to protect its turf or expand its criminal tentacles, the members generally wore clean clothes and tried not to attract police attention and thereby jeopardize the financial gains from their criminal activity. The Gypsy Devils had not displayed the same intelligence.

In the past clubs like the Gypsy Devils would receive a warning from Satans Wrath to shut down, and if they didn’t the ramifications would involve lengthy hospital stays — if they were lucky.

Jack felt that Satans Wrath had displayed a friendlier attitude toward the Gypsy Devils than it had other puppet clubs. He believed the Gypsy Devils had something Satans Wrath wanted and he intended to find out what. All bikers were well aware of police wiretaps and seldom said anything of value over their phones. Biker informants were also a rare commodity, as loyalty and devotion to their respective clubs was extremely high.

Today Jack hoped that surveillance might lead to his discreetly busting someone the Gypsy Devils dealt with. He intended to try to turn that person into an informant and work his way up from there.

Laura eyed the cluster of Harley-Davidson motorcycles in the pub parking lot. One of the bikes, which had the logo of the Gypsy Devils painted on the gas tank, belonged to the club president, Carl Shepherd. “Looks like we’re in luck today,” she said.

Jack gave a satisfied nod. “This is their favourite watering hole. They were bound to turn up sooner or later.”

“You sure you want to go in there alone?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jack assured her. “These guys don’t know me. Besides, I’ve got Smith and Wesson to help, if need be. Stay put, collect the plate numbers, and act like the paparazzi.”

Laura frowned. “These guys don’t know you, but some of Satans Wrath do. What if they show up? I know you used to have a goatee, but even with your beard and longer hair, they could still recognize you.”

“I doubt any full-patch members of Satans Wrath would lower themselves to hang out with these yokels. Maybe one or two of their prospects might show up to conduct business, but those guys don’t know me. Besides, even if Satans Wrath members do show up, they aren’t stupid. They’d probably send me a beer to let me know I’d been spotted.”

“Yes, a beer with the date-rape drug so they could bend you over a table and … do you.”

Jack smiled to himself. Despite the years on the job and the type of work Laura did, she seldom used foul language. “Don’t worry if they do show. It’s the Gypsy Devils we need to be concerned about. They’re more dangerous because of their lack of cerebral development. I’ll call you if I need a hand. Speaking of which, time for a radio check.”

Laura flicked on a portable police radio and Jack whispered, “Test, test, test,” into a microphone hidden in his sleeve. His words echoed over Laura’s portable radio. He then tucked a receiver into his ear and covered it with his hair. Laura clicked her portable and Jack heard the click on his receiver. He gave her a thumbs-up and reached for a ball cap.

“The cap makes you look like Forrest Gump,” Laura noted. “You look meaner and tougher without it.”

“I know,” Jack replied. “Looking tough around these guys is inviting trouble. They’d want to find out who I am — or worse, how tough I really am.”

Moments later he wandered into the bar. It was relatively small and well lit. The Gypsy Devils had been forced by law to not display their colours in the pub, but were still easily identified by their appearance. They, along with an assortment of other representatives of the criminal element, occupied one side of the pub, while the other side was favoured by people from local businesses who often came in for lunch.

Jack found a small table on the fringe of where the bikers were and ordered a beer. Sitting alone tended to make him stand out, but Laura was a very attractive woman and he feared she’d attract unwanted attention from the Gypsy Devils. Unwanted attention that’d require a bare-knuckled response … or the need to use the 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol tucked in the back of his jeans and thereby blow his cover.

He’d only taken his first sip when he saw that he’d caught the attention of two women at the next table. One was a brunette in an outfit that looked like a chauffeur’s uniform. The other had her blonde hair in a braid over her shoulder and wore a blouse and slacks. She looked like an office worker.

The women gave him a friendly smile, then each said, “Hi.”

Jack nodded in response.

“You look lonely sitting there,” said the blonde. “My name’s Roxie.”

Yeah, and I guess I look stupid, too. Jack gave a curt nod and stood up. “Excuse me, I have to find a quiet place to make a call.” As he glanced around for another place to sit, he thought, Okay … the ripple effect … fourth table away should be okay. A Gypsy Devil by the name of Thorsen, who was the sergeant-at-arms for the club, was talking to a couple of his buddies at a nearby table. Ah, the guy they call Thor … looks like a gorilla and only half as smart. I better pick five tables away.

The women exchanged annoyed looks as Jack picked up his beer and moved five tables away from the bikers. He was no longer able to hear any of their conversation but he still had a good view.

Some minutes passed and Jack discreetly radioed Laura the descriptions of the few men who’d left the pub after sitting with the Gypsy Devils. He then saw two men enter and walk past him. Both were clean-cut and one was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and the other a light windbreaker. Jack noticed that the man with the bomber jacket had a jailhouse tattoo — a Celtic cross — on the crux of his thumb and forefinger. So his nice-boy image hides a sinister past, he thought.

Once, on an undercover assignment in prison, Jack watched a group of convicts use a lighter to melt a green plastic comb, then dip a pin into the melting plastic. Next they used the pin to make a row of prick marks on the recipient’s arm. The resulting tattoo was less than what one might call professional, but it did the trick.

Both men looked around the bar for a place to sit. It didn’t appear that they knew anyone. They then opted to sit at the table where Jack had originally sat.

Jack whispered into his sleeve, “Laura, you see the two guys who just entered? Black bomber jacket on one and a blue windbreaker on the other?”

“Ten-four. I got close-ups of both their faces. The driver is the one wearing the bomber jacket. I ran his name. He’s got a record for armed robbery and sexual assault.”

Jack grinned when he saw the two men being chatted up by the same two women who’d spoken to him minutes before. Oh, yeah, here it comes.

“You copy, Jack?”

“I copied. Sexual assault, eh? That’s perfect.”

“Why is it perfect?” Laura asked.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Are they with the...