Sea of Cortez

by Garry Ryan

  Chris pointed at Nigel’s phone. “I haven’t seen one of those before. What does it do?”

  “It has a bullshit app.” Nigel looked up from his phone and smiled. “Stop wasting our time and get to the point or we’re out of here.” The smile remained.

  Here we go!

  “Just trying to make conversation. I get tired of talking to the same people all the time.” The smirk never left Chris’s face even though his eyes focused too long on Nigel.

  “What’s your sister’s full name and address?” Nigel had his finger poised over the face of his phone.

  Chris recited it.

  Nigel entered the address. “What is your uncle’s address in Duncan?” Nigel leaned back.

  “How did you know he lives in Duncan?” Chris asked.

  “I read your file. You spent a summer there after your first kill. What’s the address?”

  Chris gave it.

  “Now what do you have for us?” Nigel looked up when he finished entering the address.

  Lane sat back and watched Chris’s eyes. They revealed the shifting focus of a brain with a miniscule attention span and the ability to analyze situations rapidly.

  “I know who yesterday’s shooter is.” Chris fiddled with his handcuffs. “These things get on my nerves.”

  “Well?” Lane waited for Chris to shift his focus.

  “I want a chocolate milkshake first.” Chris looked sideways at Nigel. “I’ve been dying for a DQ chocolate milkshake. That’s part of the deal.”

  “Fuck off.” Nigel looked at Lane. “I’m tired of being jerked around.” He turned and moved toward the door.

  “Frederick. The guy’s name is Frederick. He lives with his parents. A delivery guy recognized the kid because Frederick goes to the same high school as his son.” The smirk remained glued on Chris’s face.

  Nigel waited at the door. “What delivery guy and why should I believe you?”

  Chris smiled and this time his eyes smiled as well. “I have better contacts than you do. My guy delivers fresh vegetables from a local greenhouse. He spotted Frederick in the restaurant parking lot when he dropped off some produce.”

  “Which high school does Frederick go to?” Lane asked.

  Chris pointed out the window. “The one right over there.”

  Lane stood. “That’s it, then.”

  Chris stood. “When I hear that Melanie is safe on the Island, then I’ll tell you who’s running Frederick.”

  Nigel walked over to the door, opened it, then slammed it shut. He turned on Chris. “We’re not playing games with you. Either we get all you know right now or the deal’s off.”

  Lane watched the smile on Chris’s face. He just never stops with the smiling.

  Chris held his cuffed hands together. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try us,” Lane said.

  “Sean Pike.” Chris’s eyes leapt from Lane to Nigel.

  Nigel shook his head, opened the door and walked out.

  Chris pointed at Lane and began to speak so quickly Lane had trouble following. “Sean Pike thinks you are the reason why his brother was killed, the reason why the woman who killed him was never charged. I’d watch out if I were you.”

  “Pike’s dead.” Lane heard the door open as the Corrections officers entered.

  Chris laughed so hard he began to cough. He covered his mouth with his forearm pointing at Lane. “Yeah, right!” He lifted his chin, looking more predatory than before. “You’re supposed to be this great detective. I can’t believe how fuckin’ gullible you are! You’re unfinished business for Pike. He’s the fuckin’ Godfather, man!” Lane stepped out of the door as Chris hollered, “Dead man walkin’!” The door closed behind him.

  Lane and Nigel were hustled into Harper’s office despite the frowns of senior officers already sitting and waiting. This time Cam leaned his backside against the front of his desk with his palms resting on the top. “What did you find out?” “Besides the fact that Tuck is a bullshitter?” Nigel took a slow breath and waited for the inevitable blast from the Chief. When it didn’t happen, he pointed at his partner. “He said Lane is in Pike’s sights and we should look for a kid named Frederick at the local high school.”

  Harper nodded. “So he doesn’t think Pike is dead?”

  Nigel shook his head. “He gave us the impression that we would have to be stupid if we thought Pike was really dead.”

  “Who’s the resource officer at Thirsk High School?” Lane asked.

  Harper frowned and shook his head. “We need to keep this in this room. The officer at Thirsk, well, it would be . . . We wouldn’t want to tip off who you’re looking for.” He shook his head and looked at Nigel. “Do you have a way of accessing the Calgary Board of Education’s records?”

  Nigel looked at Lane, then at Harper. “I do.”

  Harper said, “The Resource Officer at Thirsk is one of Smoke’s good ol’ boys.”

  “I can get Anna to check it out.” Nigel looked out the window at the blue sky.

  Harper turned to Lane. “So Pike is alive?”

  Lane shrugged. “Tuck seemed certain that Pike was still in the game.”

  “Not much of a surprise, really.” Harper rubbed his face with his palm.

  “I don’t think so. I still want to go to Los Cabos and see what’s up.” Lane looked at Nigel when he raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m not sure how.” Harper pushed himself away from the desk.

  “You forget how good I am at blending in.” Lane smiled.

  Nigel said, “In Mexico a fresa stands out like a turd in a hot tub.”

  Harper laughed and Nigel’s eyes opened wide.

  “That depends on how many fresas are in the tub,” Lane said.

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 6

  chapter 4

  “There is a Frederick Lee in grade twelve at Thirsk. The other possibility is a Fred Robertson and he’s in grade ten.” Nigel sat at his desk and pointed at the message on his screen.

  “Can you send me the pictures? I’ll put them on the map.” Lane opened up his email and waited for the message.

  Nigel tapped a few keys. “Lee is getting top grades. Robertson is a solid C. Neither has an arrest record.”

  Lane downloaded the pictures and placed Fred and Frederick side by side next to a picture of the Sleeping Dragon restaurant. “How long will it take to get detailed profiles on both? I’d like to look over any comments made on their report cards.”

  “Anna sent those too. On their way now.” Nigel pressed a key and leaned back in his chair.

  Lane waited for the message to arrive, then opened it and began to read.

  “Your essays are due on Tuesday,” Ms. Baker reminded her students as she glanced at the classroom clock.

  Frederick’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled the phone out and read the text. 11:30 tonight at the Caboose. The bell rang. Frederick stood, picked up his books and walked out the door. Despite the Friday afternoon crush, at least a metre remained between him and the people in front and behind.

  In the hallway, eyes looked away when they saw Frederick approaching. He hid a smile behind a blank expression and walked down the centre of the hallway in a bubble of private space. One gangly grade ten boy was talking to a friend and did not see Frederick. The boy’s friend grabbed him by the arm. The boy’s spotted face turned white when he saw Frederick just before they avoided colliding.

  Up ahead, a clutch of football players approached in black leather team jackets. Each of them outweighed Frederick by at least fifty pounds. He walked directly toward them. They parted, and he passed through a cloud of aftershave and body wash, his eyes watering. He blinked as he walked out the rear door and into the parking lot. His black Mercedes M-class SUV sat in its regular parking spot. He climbed in the right-hand side and set his books on the passenger seat. He started the engine, turned the heater on high, then checked his look in the mirror. His black hair was trimmed close on the sides, gelled Elvis on top; his skin w
as clear, face round and eyes brown.

  There was a knock on the passenger window. He looked left and saw Brittany. Her blonde hair was tied back and she wore a black bustier under a red leather jacket, skintight red jeans, red leather knee-high boots and the gold necklace he’d bought her last week. He opened the door and picked up his books; she sat down with her voluminous Gucci purse. “Some day I’ll get used to getting in on the wrong side.”

  “The right side in Japan.” He tossed his books onto the back seat and looked out the tinted windows. He noted surreptitious glances aimed his way from passersby.

  Brittany closed her door, set her purse on the floor and put on her seat belt. “I can’t believe how cheap a Mercedes is when you ship it in from Japan.”

  Frederick shifted into reverse and shoulder checked. “I have to work tonight.”

  Brittany flicked her hair, then turned to focus on him with her green eyes. “But I made a reservation.”

  “Cancel it.”

  Lane held the phone and nodded while Nigel waved him over with one hand and pointed at the computer screen with the other.

  Arthur said, “We’re ready to go. Just need to drop by Mountain Equipment Co-op to pick up a few things.” Lane stuck his left finger in his ear while Arthur continued talking into his right. He looked around the office. How the hell will we get everything done by Monday? “There’s something else.” Arthur hesitated. “We’re going out for dinner with Christine, Dan, Indiana and Matt.”

  “And?”

  “With Lola and John and their daughter Linda. Apparently Linda insists on meeting us.”

  Lane took a long breath. “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.” Arthur hung up.

  “You look pissed.” Nigel rubbed an itchy nose. “Look at this.”

  Lane put his phone down and shifted to his partner’s desk. Nigel pointed at his screen. “In grade ten, Frederick Lee transferred to Thirsk after two months at Winston Churchill. I wonder why?”

  Brittany stopped in front of a window at Market Mall. The sprawling shopping centre was filled with mall-walking seniors, pregnant moms with metre-wide strollers and shoppers stalking deals. This store had a pair of knee-high boots in its window. The polished red leather shone under the spotlights; the stitching was blue as were the soles. She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

  Ten minutes later they left the shoe store. Brittany was wearing a new pair of boots. They checked out at five hundred fifty dollars. Her old boots were in the box under Frederick’s arm. “I need a cup of coffee,” he said, turning in the direction of the elevator to the basement parking lot.

  He was halfway through the caramel macchiato by the time they stepped off the elevator and into the underground parkade. Frederick handed his girlfriend the keys to the Mercedes. “You drive it to your place. I need to have a look around. I’ll meet you there.”

  Brittany studied him, her head tipped to one side. “What kind of work do you have to do?”

  Frederick shook his head. He walked to the front of his black Mercedes, then toward the cars parked at the far end of the underground lot. The exhaust fans hummed as they pumped in fresh air. Tires chirped on the polished concrete surface and there was an intermittent echo of doors and trunks being shut. He spotted a woman loading a toddler into a stroller. The little girl wore pink leggings and a rainbow glitter top made of purple cotton. The mother strapped the child in, put her purse over her shoulder and walked away pushing the stroller. Next to her, a woman stuck her keys in the trunk of a candy-apple-red Mustang and retrieved a parcel. She shut the trunk and walked away. Her three-inch heels telegraphed her progress toward the elevator. Frederick glanced at the keys dangling from the lock and waited until the woman disappeared inside the elevator. He walked to the Mustang, pulled out the keys, got in, adjusted the seat and mirror, started the engine and motored out of the underground parking and into the sunlight.

  “Try this on.” Arthur held out a long-sleeved lightweight shirt. He and Lane were standing in front of a wall of shirts on the second floor of the Mountain Equipment Co-op — MEC, as the locals called it.

  “It’s kind of bland.” Lane regarded the green shirt’s front pockets and side vents skeptically.

  “This isn’t about fashion. It’s about looking like a fresa so people don’t look closely at your face.” Arthur shook his head. “And people say I’m a princess!”

  “Do I have to wear a big camera around my neck, too?” Shit! He’s right. I am beginning to sound like a princess!

  Arthur rolled his eyes and handed Lane the shirt. “Just try it on.” He reached over and lifted a pair of khaki-coloured shorts off the rack. “And these.”

  “Anything else? A fanny pack, perhaps?” Lane took the clothing and looked over his shoulder for the location of the changing room.

  “Any more sarcasm from you and it’ll be socks and sandals on the beach.”

  A forty-something woman in dreads, a T-shirt and baggy khaki pants walked by. “I went to a resort like that. Everyone wore sandals and nothing else!”

  Lane and Arthur waited until she turned a corner, lifting their eyebrows at the same time. Lane said, “And I’m not wearing one of those stupid floppy old-fart hats with the string under the chin!”

  Frederick parked about thirty metres away from the front door of the Caboose. It was a pizza and rib restaurant, the latest eatery in a cluster of strip malls with a parking lot in the middle and furniture, electronics and department stores on each of the four sides of the square. The Caboose was on the inside of one corner. Its decor was accented by one faux brick wall providing the impression it had, at one time, been a train station. The door was set in between railings and under the lip of a peaked roof with Caboose written across the top.

  Frederick knew his prey was inside because he had parked next to the target’s white Range Rover. All Frederick had to do was wait for the party of four to walk out the Caboose’s front door. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out blue surgical gloves and snapped them on. Then he used his right hand to pick up the Beretta on the passenger seat. He caught a glimpse of a red Dodge pickup truck poised on oversized tires when it passed in front of him. Frederick lifted his eyes to watch the front door of the restaurant. He heard the truck’s engine recede then return.

  Four headlights shone in the Mustang’s rear-view mirror. Frederick looked out of his side mirror. The passenger door of the truck opened. A pair of boots dropped below the open door and touched the pavement.

  Frederick reached for the keys and started the Mustang. He saw the tip of the barrel of a long gun rising from the vertical to the horizontal. He shifted into drive, jammed his foot onto the throttle and cranked the wheel to the left.

  The first blast from the shotgun punched a fist-sized hole through the metal panel behind the driver’s door. Frederick straightened the wheel, the car’s tail end slid around and he swung the wheel to the right. The second blast made a volleyball-sized hole in the passenger door glass before he could steer around the corner of the building.

  Frederick tucked the Beretta under his right thigh. He ran the red light and turned left. Then he reached for his seat belt. Pinpricks of pain were dancing their stiletto heels on his right shoulder. Adrenalin made him jittery. He glanced in his rear-view mirror as he accelerated along Country Hills Boulevard, took the long curve to join the freeway and headed south on Stoney Trail. The four headlights of the pickup truck were about three hundred metres behind him. Frederick looked ahead. Traffic was light. He eased off the accelerator, estimating the pickup would catch up to him before they reached the bridges connecting Stoney and Crowchild Trails. He tested his left shoulder and arm, felt the muscles moving freely. Then he gripped the wheel with his left hand and checked his right shoulder and arm. The pain was becoming intense, but his arm and fingers still moved. He glanced at the speedometer. One hundred and forty kilometres per hour. The wind buffeted against the holes blasted by the shotgun. He looked again in the rear-view mirror
. The truck was gaining. It passed under a streetlight and he noted how high it sat on its oversized wheels. Frederick nodded as the vehicles began the descent into the Bow River valley. Ahead, the moon and city lights illuminated both sides of the valley. He switched open the driver-side window and grabbed the wheel with his left hand and the Beretta with his right. The wind clutched at his shirt and hair.

  The truck bore down on him. He saw the barrel of a gun poking out the passenger window. The truck was within twenty metres. Frederick’s right foot stomped the brake pedal. Several things happened at once.

  The truck’s passenger fired and missed. Frederick aimed, fired twice and hit the truck’s rear tire on the passenger side. The pickup swerved, the driver overcorrected, tires howled and the Dodge swung the other way.

  Frederick aimed for the far left-hand side of the road. He accelerated along the driver’s side of the pickup, fired one round through the Mustang’s shattered passenger window into the truck’s front tire. He pushed his foot to the floor. The engine shifted down and roared. He grimaced at the pain when his wounded shoulder was shoved against the seat back. He moved into the right lane then glanced in the rear-view. The truck was cartwheeling, shedding bits of metal, plastic, glass, rubber and a body as it disintegrated.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7

  chapter 5

  Frederick looked over his right shoulder at the mirror and dabbed white antibiotic cream on his angry red wounds. He’d kept the four pellets the nurse had dug one by one out of his shoulder; he looked at them now sitting at the bottom of a glass half filled with alcohol, the normally clear liquid pink with his blood. He’d left the silent nurse five hundred-dollar bills on the counter of her “after-hours” clinic in a house just west of Centre Street north near 30th Avenue.

  Lane sat down across from Christine. She studied him with her brown eyes but did not smile or speak. Indiana, on the other hand, smiled broadly, drooled on his rainbow T-shirt then pounded on the table with his rubber teething ring. They sat under the Italian restaurant’s photograph of a Napolitano man kissing the cheek of a beautifully reluctant woman who even in black and white exuded tired tolerance of the man with the bristly cheeks. Lane scratched his own cheek. The bristles were getting long enough to change the shape of his face. He looked at the pizza oven door where orange flames were glowing at the back. This could be a long dinner. He turned back to Christine’s husband Dan, who raised his eyebrows and gave a brief smile.