Red Rover, Perdition Games Read online

  Worried about losing his balance again, he looked around for something to hold onto so he could lean into the staircase to get a sense of how far it descended. Perched on the landing wall was an electrical box, and the rusted metal door was open. He shifted the pipe to his left hand and tugged on the door. It seemed firmly attached to the box so he grasped it, leaned into the stairwell, and peered down. Beneath the fifth step was pitch black. Impossible to guess how many stairs remained before reaching the cellar floor. He couldn’t risk using his cell to light the staircase because he didn’t know exactly where Graham was working. The clanging echoed in the old cellar and seemed to be coming from every direction.

  He let go of the breaker box door and transferred the metal pipe to his right hand. Slowly, he descended. He counted seven stairs. The suffocating reek of sewage was stronger, and he struggled not to gag. Two more stairs and he reached the bottom. Cold liquid sloshed across the top of his shoes. He didn’t want to imagine what floated in the water. A flashlight beam illuminated the back wall, about ten metres from the stairs. He could just make out Graham crouched in front of a sump-pump.

  Roger’s breath came in small gasps. He could just go back up those stairs, assume that Brenda was safe, and hope her abusive husband wouldn’t act on his threat to ruin him. Against the darkness, he imagined the looks of disdain on the faces of his esteemed colleagues. A public accusation by an irate husband would be the demise of all of his hard work and dreams. Years of medical school for nothing. Massive legal bills to defend his reputation would leave him penniless. He’d lose his house, his car, his friends. Sniggering ridicule would follow him for the rest of his life. He gripped the pipe in both hands and licked his lips, telling himself that it was only a matter of time before Graham seriously injured Brenda, maybe even killed her. He had a responsibility to protect her. He swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. He had to decide what to do. Any minute, Graham could turn around and see him.

  Roger took a deep breath and made his decision, knowing it would change his life forever.

  Chapter One

  Reece

  AT SEVEN-THIRTY on Saturday morning, Reece was wandering through the crowd at the St. Lawrence Market on Front Street. Unable to sleep again, he’d left the loft at five a.m. and walked the sixteen blocks to the Saturday farmers’ market. He’d learned to leave the car at home. No parking. Anywhere. Ever.

  He mumbled “excuse me” and “pardon me” as he tried to carve a path to the organic butcher kiosk. He didn’t need to visit the butcher, but there wasn’t any reason to race home. Sam was swamped with PhD work and spending the day at the university. Reece didn’t have any friends in the city, and a boring weekend alone stretched ahead of him. Again.

  After moving to Toronto last year, the market had become his favourite place in a city he hated. The building was over two hundred years old and housed a ton of artisans selling gourmet wares from stalls set up in a vast space with steel-beamed ceiling rafters and cement floors. His eyes roamed across the crowd; a throwback to being a cop. Spring sunlight streamed through the many windows set high against the old walls. Reece wished he were outside in a backyard doing lawn work. Instead, he was stuck in a gigantic city hoping a scumbag wasn’t lying in wait to mug him.

  It wasn’t Toronto specifically or Torontonians that Reece distrusted—it was any metropolitan area. He was a country boy at heart, and quiet towns suited him better. But he’d tendered his resignation as an inspector with the Ontario Provincial Police at the Uthisca detachment to be with Sam, a private investigator from Toronto. Being in love with an urban dweller meant adapting. For Sam’s sake, he was trying. It wasn’t going well.

  What Reece hated was the lack of parking, constant crowds, indifference, and noise. He felt disconnected from people and nature but was trying hard to find positive attributes about city living. Watching Abigail—the only one of Sam’s friends Reece liked—dance with The National Ballet of Canada was fun. So was the historical tour of the city he and Sam had taken. That was about it. Along with his dissatisfaction with city living, he also wasn’t keen on PI work. He had an offer on the table from Toronto Police Services but wasn’t sure homicide detective was his destiny either. Truth was he didn’t know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Living in a state of limbo sucked.

  With a sigh, he reminded himself that the only problem he needed to solve today was how to plot a course to the butcher on the west side of the crowded market. He wished Abigail had been available to meet him. The ballerina’s ethereal beauty caused mobs to part in awe. Abby was a sweet woman who seldom spoke and had tremendously sad eyes. Reece hadn’t met her girlfriend, Talia, and hoped he’d hit it off with the Canadian Armed Forces officer when she returned from overseas. Having some friends might help him settle into Toronto.

  He finally reached the butcher kiosk, feeling flustered and out of sorts. His phone chirped. Reece dug it out and glanced at the caller ID. Unknown number. With a frown, he answered and barked, “Hash.”

  “The dew of the morning, sunk chill on my brow,” an unfamiliar voice quoted. “Early rising is a residual effect of country living, I presume. Regrettably, I called Sam first and woke her.” The man chuckled. “She dispatched an eloquent reprimand prior to furnishing me with your cell number.”

  Reece didn’t have a clue who would call him to quote poetry. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I call on bended knee to implore you to assist me. How are you with a hammer?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Roger.”

  It took a minute before it clicked. Roger Peterson, a psychiatrist friend of Sam’s. She’d introduced him months ago at a Christmas party, and Reece had immediately labelled the man an ostentatious stuffed shirt. “I’m at the market. Didn’t recognize your voice.” He refrained from adding, which should be a given since we only met once.

  “Ah, the next contestant on Master Chef.” Another chuckle.

  “What’s up, Roger? That one,” he added in response to the butcher’s question, pointing at a lovely duck.

  “A barn raising. Well, a deck raising, at my place. Cold beer on ice and steaks on the lunch menu. I know that it’s short notice, but I do hope you’re available this afternoon,” Roger said primly. “I’m also inviting Jim Stipelli. You two get on well, I believe?”

  “Yeah, Sam and I worked for him on a murder case a few months ago,” Reece said.

  Jim was great when he wasn’t around his harridan wife. Lisa Stipelli, Sam’s best friend, was a passive-aggressive woman who milked sympathy by portraying herself as a hapless victim. Worse, she treated everyone who enjoyed a glass of wine with dinner as an alcoholic. It was impossible to get a word in edgewise, busy as she was lecturing you on your shortcomings. If you tried to defend yourself, she’d snipe about how you monopolized the conversation. Reece couldn’t stand her, and it baffled him that Sam was friends with the hateful woman. More bewildering was why Roger, a passionate professional in self-help, tolerated Lisa’s antics. The last thing Reece wanted to do was to hang out with Lisa.

  “Sorry, Roger, we can’t make it. Sam’s tied up today,” Reece said.

  “I know. She told me she’s spending the day at the university, which works because I was planning a boys’ afternoon.” Roger paused and then added, “Lisa won’t be here.”

  Reece handed over his cash, accepted the bag, and waved at the butcher, who ignored him as usual. The next man in line hip-checked him out of the way and shouted his order. A woman loudly objected, insisting it was her turn. Reece picked his way through the crowd to the back wall of the building.

  “Why the short notice? If you want to build a deck, it’ll take planning,” Reece said.

  “The project’s planned. Listen, Sam told me you might be at loose ends today. I’ve been meaning to invite you over for weeks. I’d like to get to know you.” He laughed. “After all, you never know when I might need the services of a private investigator.”

  Jim Stipelli was
Toronto’s top defence attorney. Why was Roger inviting a criminal lawyer and an ex-cop to his house without notice?

  “Roger, is everything okay?”

  The man’s response was a bit fast. “Sure. Everything’s fine. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “Well… okay,” Reece agreed, curiosity getting the getter of him. “I picked up wild mushrooms that I’ll bring over to go with the steak. I have to drop by the loft first though.” Roger lived downtown, he knew. Reece checked his watch. “How’s eleven o’clock?”

  “Great. I’m in Cabbagetown on Wellesley Street East—”

  A rude shopper plowed into Reece, and he fumbled for his phone before it smashed onto the cement. He caught it and brought it back to his ear. “I’ll get the address from Sam, no worries. See you later.”

  After he hung up, he gazed at the chaos before him.

  Yeah, he thought, a change of scenery would be good right about now.

  * * *

  THE CIRCA-EIGHTEEN-HUNDREDS homes on Roger’s street were striking. The charming neighbourhood had been part of the historical tour Reece had taken with Sam. Protected by the Cabbagetown Preservation Association, the area on the east side of downtown Toronto was a spectacular example of one of the largest Victorian housing districts in North America. Gentrification had begun in the 1970s, and many of the restored semis, row houses, and detached homes on the narrow streets now sold for millions of dollars. Remarkable, considering impoverished nineteenth-century Irish immigrants had grown cabbages on their front lawns to feed their families.

  Roger’s home was a two-and-a-half-storey brick structure with elaborate cornices. A peaked roof capped the dormer attic window, gorgeous dentils decorated the facade, and rounded columns supported a delightful second-storey portico. Elegant ivy hugged the stone around a protruding bay window. It was, in a word, stunning.

  Reece pulled into Roger’s lane and manoeuvred his Toyota beside a brand new Audi convertible. Nice ride, but much too fancy for Reece’s taste. Squeezing his six-foot-three frame out of his car to avoid even touching the Spyder, he cursed the city and its tight spaces.

  “Salutations, Reece.”

  Reece jerked at the sound of his name and looked over at Roger, who had opened the gate in the back fence.

  “Great house,” Reece said. “Architecture is a hobby of mine, and she’s a beauty.”

  “Most visitors park on the street.”

  Nice welcome, Reece thought, glancing up and down the street. There wasn’t any available parking. Annoyed by Roger’s rudeness, but not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, Reece asked, “Is there a side street you’d recommend?”

  “You may as well leave it,” Roger said with a sigh of annoyance. “I’m surprised you failed to see the sign.”

  Reece had indeed seen the sign but assumed it was to protect the parking pad from strangers, not to prevent the homeowner’s guests from parking there.

  Instead of going through the gate, Roger walked to the front door and held it open. When Reece entered the house, a sense of déjà vu engulfed him. Hemlock floors ran throughout the open main floor, and the wood had the same unusual grey stain as those in the loft he shared with Sam. The walls were the same shade of grey with smoky white trim, and even the modern, minimalistic furniture style was similar. He trailed along behind Roger and stopped to gawk at the kitchen. Carrara marble countertops, identical to the stone in Sam’s kitchen. Same cabinetry and backsplash. The light fixtures were different, but the similarities between Roger’s decor and Sam’s were striking. Creepy, in fact.

  “Something wrong?” Roger asked.

  “Ah… no. Nice place. Did you design it yourself?”

  “Not entirely. I bought it six years ago,” Roger said. “The den is my creation.” He gestured to the left of the eating area at the back of the kitchen.

  Reece crossed the room and peeked through the door. A masculine space with a brown leather sofa, a heavy walnut desk, and plaid curtains. It didn’t match the sleek, minimalistic design of either the front room or the kitchen. It also didn’t fit Roger, who was a bit effeminate. He was a short man, maybe five-seven, with a slight build and blond hair styled just so. He wore expensive designer clothes and purple paisley socks. Last time Reece had seen Roger, the socks had been orange with white polka dots. Sock fetish aside, Roger reminded Reece of Niles Crane from the show Frasier. The resemblance was in part because Roger was a psychiatrist, but also because of his prissy appearance, persnickety mannerisms, and condescending tone.

  Reece wandered back to the kitchen where Roger was fussing with an elaborate coffee machine. “It’s amazing how similar your house is to Sam’s loft,” he said.

  “Really?” Roger looked surprised and pleased.

  “Haven’t you been to her place?”

  He shook his head. “In what way is it comparable?”

  “The floors, paint colours, fixtures, stuff like that. How come you’ve never been to the loft?”

  Roger shrugged. “Sam’s protective of her space and privacy. She isn’t fond of entertaining.”

  Correct on both counts. Still, it was peculiar she’d never invited one of her five childhood friends in the three years she’d lived there.

  “Well, we’ll have to have you over for dinner sometime,” Reece said.

  “What a delight it would be to partake in the culinary enchantments concocted by such a gifted chef. I dabble in the kitchen myself. Check out the steaks, they’re in the fridge.”

  Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Roger’s highfalutin way of speaking, Reece opened the fridge and took in the array of expensive foodie delights. The three Wagyu sirloins were a thing of beauty.

  “Geez, those must have set you back a few bills.” He closed the fridge and accepted a mug of coffee.

  “You can have two, if you have a large appetite. Regrettably, Jim isn’t available to join us.”

  “That’s too bad.” Reece had been looking forward to hanging out with Jim without Lisa.

  “There’s imported white wine vinegar and fresh tarragon, if you can handle Béarnaise with sufficient technique to avoid breaking the sauce.” Roger blew on his coffee. “Otherwise, I can execute it with ease.”

  Anything you can do, I can do better, Reece thought. It was childish, but he couldn’t squash his growing distaste for the pompous, condescending man. Last time they’d met, Reece had had the same reaction to Roger but had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Seemed his first impression had been right.

  In response to the suggestion of Béarnaise sauce, Reece landed a shot of his own. “Come on, only a novice would smother spectacular beef with a rich sauce.”

  “You think?” Roger shook his head with a smile, as if Reece’s comment amused him. “Classically trained French chefs would beg to differ, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there.” He raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “From what Sam has said, you’re a fine chef. It’s a surprising observation, coming from her. I’ve never considered her to have a discerning palate or much interest in the culinary arts.”

  Reece wasn’t getting into a pissing contest with Roger. He tried a different line of conversation. “So, how did you and Sam meet?”

  “She attended school with my younger sister. Jim and I are six years older than Sam and Lisa,” Roger said curtly, clearly not interested in the topic. “How about we start on the deck. You can let me know what you think of my new grill.”

  Grilling the steaks would take away some of the sting of having to suffer Roger’s company. One of the drawbacks to living in a downtown loft was a lack of barbecue. Reece took his coffee and followed Roger outside.

  Displayed on a cedar deck was a brand new barbecue—flashy cooking surface, gas and infrared burners, warming ovens, and a stainless steel woodchip smoker. Reece knew the price tag for the sleek grilling beauty was well over ten thousand dollars.

  “What do you think?” Roger asked with a pensive gaze, as if he wasn’t proud to own one of the best barbec
ues money could buy.

  Pretentious and superfluous, Reece wanted to say, but instead replied, “It’s something.” He looked around, a little confused. “I thought you wanted to build a deck.”

  “That’s right.”

  The large hexagonal deck, ringed with benches and stairs that led to a small garden, was pristine.

  “What’s wrong with this one?” Reece wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Not a thing. You’re tasked with constructing a lower deck on the grass.”

  “Tasked? You said you wanted help.” Reece took a deep breath and tried to rein in his growing temper.

  “Pish posh,” Roger said dismissively, handing him a magazine. “It looks easy.”

  Reece studied the picture of the ground deck with elevated gardens in Dream Decks and Patios. It didn’t look at all easy. “Do you have plans?”

  Roger tapped the magazine picture with a manicured finger. “Right here.”

  “I can see the damn picture, Roger. I’m talking about building plans.”

  “A depiction suffices for talented carpenters. Don’t you concur?”

  “No, I don’t,” Reece retorted, his temper beginning to get the better of him.

  Roger’s expression implied that Reece was stupid and unreasonable. “Well, perhaps it’s a project best left to a professional. There’s no reason to become confrontational.” His tone was one of exaggerated patience. “I was under the impression you could do it since you’re a man’s man.” He dropped the magazine to the table and sat on a swanky teak patio chair.

  The man clearly didn’t want or need a new deck. It pissed Reece off that Roger had fabricated a ruse to get him over to the house. He was beginning to feel like he was the butt of a bad joke.

  Reece remained standing. “I’m not being confrontational. I’m trying to understand what’s going on here.”