Page 100 of Oddly Fine

“What?” Hayes asked, sniffing the air in confusion.

“Bullshit—that boy reeks of it.”

Matthew snorted and shook his head.

Chapter 17

Beckett shared his story of what happened in the parking garage as they rolled down the streets of Montreal in the back of the SUV. At the conclusion, Matthew said, “I admit that when your brother told me you were a grand storyteller—I hadn’t quite understood just how proficient you could be.” He shook his head in amazement.

Hayes watched anger and annoyance cross Beckett’s face. Beckett appeared to be holding back an instinctive response—which Hayes assumed was probably crude and very blunt.

“Storyteller?” Beckett asked instead with a twisted smile. “You think I’m putting on a fucking puppet show, here?” he scoffed, more than a little ticked off.

“You want me to believe my uncle has an armored vehicle with cages inside. Cages harbouring—young women?”

“Well, I didn’t see the girls—I’m just—doing the math,” Beckett said, getting flustered. He turned to look at Hayes for support.

But Hayes wasn’t sure he could buy into this.

“Are you sure they were cages?” he asked calmly, hoping to ease the tension.

“Yes, I’m fucking sure!” he retorted sharply, giving Hayes a hard look of suspected betrayal. “There were bars and shit—”

“Bars and shit—” Matthew parroted with an accent that sounded nothing like Beckett’s, which only added fuel to the fire.

“It was an armored vehicle. Similar to the ones that SWAT uses, except there were no firing ports on it. They aren’t worried about people attacking it—just about something—or someone—getting out,” Beckett stated emphatically as his eyes shot daggers at Matthew.

Well, okay. Hayes could definitely see the logic in that scenario.

“Right—sure, alright,” Hayes agreed quickly, hoping to appease Beckett. “But cages? It seems a little—risky.”

“Risky how?” Beckett asked, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Name one thing more secure than a cage for transporting live things.”

“Risky like—you get pulled over, the van is searched, there’s no explaining people—women—in cages.”

Beckett frowned at that comment and went quiet, his jaw clicking shut.

“It would very much be a—do not pass go, do not collect $200 situation,” Matthew remarked with a derisive snort. He rolled his eyes, adding a layer of disdain to his overall attitude, like he found Beckett patently ridiculous.

“I know what I saw,” Beckett responded with grim determination. “Bars, metallic. Cage- like for sure—” he replied, sticking to his guns.

Hayes sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly.

“Could there be—anything else imported or shipped by, or to, your uncle that would require such intense security measures? Could he have—requested that someone get snatched, or be killed?” Hayes asked. He didn’t really believe any of these theories held water, but he also didn’t know how to reconcile Beckett’s story with reality.

Matthew snorted again and shook his head.

“You both watch too much TV. This isn’t the 80s anymore. If you want someone killed, you lace their cocaine—or roofie their drinks and let them asphyxiate on their vomit—you don’t build armored vehicles with cages. It would involve far too many sets of hands and eyes to do that in this day and age.”

“Then what was the armored truck doing there?” Beckett’s patience was at an end as his green eyes continued to bore holes through Matthew.

“Could be anything,” he shrugged. “Drugs or money, most likely,” he shrugged, casually.

“Is it routine for your uncle to get drugs delivered to the front desk of his legitimate business located in the middle of downtown Montreal?” Hayes asked doubtfully.

“No,” Matthew said, sighing, clearly at a loss. “No, it isn’t,” he admitted. “Perhaps we’ve got it wrong. Perhaps my uncle is looking into alternative modes of transportation. An armored vehicle certainly sounds like an extreme length he might go to in order to ensure his security.”

“What kind of armored vehicles doesn’t have any firing ports? What the hell are you supposed to do if you get trapped inside without them?”