Serpents Rising (3 page)

“You want me to provide information that might help you find Jay or assist you in the actual search?”

“Both would be good. I know you've written stories on the drug scene here. If I remember correctly, a couple of them focused on crack. I thought you might know some people who might know some people. Or at least where I might start looking.”

“As in who might be the bigs behind the house on Raleigh Avenue?”

Cobb shook his head, then waved a hand. “Don't get me wrong, that's information I wouldn't mind having. But I don't imagine you know that.” His eyes narrowed. “No, my only real shot is to find the kid before they do. Which is why I mentioned urgency earlier.”

I looked around the room. “Okay, you finish your coffee, while I find my socks.”

“A clean pair not an option?”

“It would be if I'd washed clothes in the last couple of weeks.”

Cobb stood up. “You haven't told me if you're going to help me. If you're not —”

“I can't make important decisions in bare feet.” Trying to lighten the mood. I resumed my search and discovered the socks under an Oklahoma State Cowboys sweatshirt.

“Anyway, you're right. If you read the stuff I've done on the crack industry in our city you know I never really got past the street sellers. Most of the sellers are also users and they protect the guys at the top, first of all because they're the employers, sort of a job loyalty thing, and secondly, they don't want anything bad to happen to their own supply.”

“So, like I said, the only way I can approach this is to find the kid before they do.”

I nodded. “And I'm guessing you may not have a lot of time.”

“Which, as you pointed out, brings me back to you. Any ideas as to where I might start with a kid like Jay? Or Max?”

“Well, there I might be able to help a little. I mean we might start with some of the areas that are hangouts for users. The bigger the user, the crappier the places they tend to hang out. Unless of course the kid comes from money. Those people tend not to be sleeping on the streets and under bridges.”

“I didn't get a sense from Blevins that they're wealthy people.”

“Right. Streets and bridges it is.”

“Sounds like bad movie stuff.”

“What I saw when I was researching my stories was a
real
bad movie.”

Cobb pulled my down-filled jacket off a door handle and handed it to me. “So you're willing to help?”

I took the coat, pulled it on, checked pockets to make sure my gloves were there.

“Yeah, but don't get the idea that I'm all about doing my civic duty or helping the less unfortunate. There might be a story here, maybe a compelling one. I'm not talking about the concerned-dad-shoots-drug-dealers story. Everybody will have that. I'm talking about the what-happens-after-that angle. If it turns out to be good, I want to be the one writing that story.”

Cobb looked at his watch. “Let's go.”

W
e took Cobb's SUV, an older Jeep Cherokee with four wheel drive and the biggest engine Jeep makes. While we drove, Cobb filled in a few more missing pieces.

Blevins had given him an envelope filled mostly with cash — I didn't ask how much — the address of the house on Raleigh, and a picture of his son. Blevins had said the picture was a year old but that Jay hadn't changed much. A little skinnier and a couple of tattoos, rattlesnakes, but they were on his shoulders and upper arm, not visible if he had a shirt on. The envelope also contained the name of Blevins's lawyer (in case the money was insufficient) and Blevins's own business card with his home address on the back.

“What do you think Blevins was wanting to do before he turned himself in?”

“I really don't know. Maybe try one more time to find the kid. Or look after personal stuff, financial stuff. He didn't say. I offered to help him with the surrender to the cops but he said he'd handle it on his own. Besides, he wanted me to get started ASAP with looking for the kid.”

We got where we were going in a hurry, partly because the area wasn't far from where I lived and partly because Cobb seemed determined to test the Jeep's speed capabilities.

We started in a part of Calgary that shoppers and diners don't usually frequent. I reasoned that Jay Blevins would have tried to stay fairly close to where he was buying drugs. Convenience.

Inglewood is Calgary's oldest neighbourhood and has made a comeback from a couple of decades ago when it wasn't a place you wanted to be. Now, as the transformation moves forward, it's a funky mix of mostly good and some not so good — both in its architecture and its populace.

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.