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
