Foxed

by Garry Ryan

  “This friend’s name?” Lane asked.

  “I was told the information in confidence.” Gordon crossed his arms.

  You can protect your friend, for now. Lane asked, “How did he know about the room under the floor?”

  “It’s wired and plumbed. He did the job.” Gordon lifted his chin.

  “He told you this?”

  Gordon shook his head. “No, he told me to look behind the sink. The rest I figured out on my own.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve known him since high school. He’s the kind of guy who does jobs under the table. People come to him because he works for cash. His specialty is electrical and plumbing. He lives in a house that’s paid for. Likes to live a quiet life with few distractions.” One of Gordon’s eyelids dropped a little lower than the other.

  “Hydroponics?” Lane asked.

  “Yep.”

  “A little thieving on the side?” Lane asked.

  Gordon gave Lane a practised blank look.

  “So you checked behind the sink and found —?” Lane asked.

  “There’s a hole in the concrete. Behind that is an opening —”

  “And?” Lane asked.

  “There was a smell.” Gordon looked at the floor.

  Lane waited.

  “It smelled of something old, something . . .”

  “Dead?” Lane asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So your friend worked for the former tenants?”

  Gordon looked relieved. “Yes. They were evicted about six months ago. I moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Did you know the former tenants?” Lane asked.

  “Knew of them. They rebuilt classic cars but never had any vehicles parked out front. Were in business for eight years but never rebuilt a car.” Gordon looked directly at the detective.

  “How did you know this?” Lane asked.

  Gordon smiled. “My old shop was two blocks north. I drive by here at least twice a day.”

  “So, you know the neighbourhood pretty well?” Lane asked.

  “You might say that.” Gordon planted his feet shoulder width apart.

  “What do you think happened to the victim?”

  “There were lots of rumours around the time Zander disappeared.” Gordon looked over Lane’s shoulder.

  “Any one of the rumours make more sense than the others?”

  “Zander’s brother was in jail. It was common knowledge that Robert belonged to a gang and that he was involved in a few drive-bys before the kid disappeared.”

  “What are you saying?” Lane asked.

  “Payback.” Gordon frowned.

  “Payback?” Lane waited. Let him fill in the blanks for you.

  “Four guys were killed in those drive-bys. Every one of the guys killed had friends, family.”

  “You know these families?”

  “No, but I went to school with some of the gang members. They had a kind of code. Mess with one of them and the others would come after you. Other than that, they’re a great bunch of guys.” Gordon looked in the direction of the office. “It was my wife’s idea to call you guys, not mine.”

  Lane went to reply and stopped himself. Leave an opening for the next time you talk to him. “Mind if I look at the room now?”

  “Fine with me.” Gordon turned around to work on the pickup.

  As Lane stepped down to the next level, Gordon picked up an air hose and connected it to an air wrench. He stepped under the front end of the truck. There was a metallic click. Then the shop filled with the sound of exploding air and metal twisting off metal as the wrench loosened a bolt.

  Down the stairs and inside the bathroom, the noise was muffled. Light shone through a hole chiseled out of the concrete wall. Lane crouched to look inside an opening that was, at one time, hidden behind the bathroom vanity. He caught a faint and familiar odour.

  Dr. Colin Weaver — Fibre, as he was referred to — was an angel lit from two sides by portable lights, making his white bunny suit glow. He bent over a hollow in the gravel floor. Fibre used a trowel to work his way around the plastic the body had been wrapped in. Sensing Lane’s presence, he turned to the detective and said, “I’ve got a headache.”

  “From the smell?” Lane asked.

  “No, from the air tools.” Fibre leaned his back against one of three walls that still had marks from the shovel blades used to dig the room. Even though his blond hair was stuck to his scalp, he still looked like he should be smiling from the cover of a fashion magazine.

  Lane looked up at the rough underside of the concrete floor. Then he saw the outlet boxes for power, the pipes for plumbing, and asked, “Was this space ever used to grow weed?”

  “I don’t think so.” Fibre sniffed for effect.

  “How close are you to removing the body?” Lane asked.

  Fibre did a mental calculation. “Once my assistants return, we should be able to remove the remains by this afternoon.”

  “Are you sure it’s Zander Rowe?” Lane asked.

  Fibre nodded. “There was an identification card. It was made of plastic and stuck inside a fold in the material the body was wrapped in. It has his name and school on it. We will still need to do tests. We have dental records. That kind of confirmation will take time. You understand?”

  “I understand.” Lane put his hands on his knees. “You’ll keep me up to date?”

  “As always.” Fibre bent over the remains.

  Lane heard the metal trowel scraping against stone. His spine shivered at the noise. He stood and looked at the light pouring out of the hole in the concrete.

  “I got a name.” Keely sat across from Lane at a picnic table. He’d just bought each of them a coffee at a shop next to Northmount Drive and close to 14th Street. Traffic produced a background hum.

  Lane smiled. “The name of the guy who did the work on the plumbing and power?”

  “That’s right.” Keely looked toward the west. “His name’s Lionel Birch.”

  “How did you come up with a name?” Lane asked.

  “I asked Louise,” Keely said.

  “Louise?”

  “Gordon’s wife. She runs the office.” Keely swirled the contents of her cup.

  Lane took a sip of coffee and watched the traffic rolling by. How come you have big, dark circles under your eyes?

  “She’s sick of him covering for his friends. Louise is worried the business might go under because of his so-called buddies and the investigation into Zander’s death.” Keely took a sip of coffee.

  “What’s up with you?” Lane asked.

  “What do you mean?” Keely looked him in the eye, then glanced away.

  Lane heard the wariness in her voice as the defences went up. “You’re not yourself.”

  “Dylan moved out,” Keely said.

  “How come?”

  “My dad’s been after him for months — ever since we got engaged — to convert to Islam.” Keely looked at the street as if something there could give the situation more clarity.

  “And?” Lane glanced at her left hand. He saw that her engagement ring was missing.

  Keely looked at Lane, focused on his eyes. “Dylan decided to convert. My dad was happy. I told them both to screw off.” She spat out the last two words.

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Two guys get together and make this big decision. They take months to work it out and neither one asks what I think. Maybe Dylan’s more like my dad than I thought. Anyway, I’m not devout. In fact, now that I’ve been thinking about it, organized religion has been a pretty shitty deal for women. You know, it’s like what Christine said about her needing to be ‘sweet’ to fit in at Paradise. I was supposed to be sweet and go along with what the guys decided. It really pisses me off!” she finished. She’d been talking with her hands, and some of the coffee squirted out of the hole in the lid of her cup.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Keely shrugged, licked the coffee of the back of her
hand and said, “Dylan’s staying with a friend. My dad can’t understand why I’m pissed.”

  “What does your mom think?”

  “She’s so busy at work, she’s hardly home. I haven’t had much to say to her either. At least my brother is still talking to me.” Keely looked east at a point in the distance.

  They found Lionel Birch at his home located on the flood plain near the Bow River on the west side of the city. He lived in a community called Montgomery, which used to be its own town before being swallowed up by Calgary.

  Lionel was sitting on the back porch of his green bungalow, eating his lunch at a picnic table shaded by a purloined Starbucks umbrella.

  Lane watched Lionel study them as they pulled up and parked across the street. The man looked to be around five and a half feet tall and wore a Blue Jays ball cap and at least two days’ five o’clock shadow. He had one hand wrapped around a sandwich and the other around a bottle of Big Rock beer.

  Lane and Keely walked side by side as they crossed the street and stood just outside the gate of Lionel’s chain-link fence.

  Lionel watched them with what appeared to be a lack of interest.

  “I’m Detective Lane and this is Detective Saliba. May we come in?” Lane asked.

  “Is this about Gordon’s place and the work I did there a few years back?” Lionel set his beer down with exaggerated care.

  Lane waited outside of the gate. Don’t get into a power struggle with this guy. Just answer his questions. “Yes.”

  “Are you here to arrest me?” Lionel asked.

  “Did you have anything to do with the abduction and murder of Zander Rowe?” Keely asked.

  Good work, Keely, Lane thought.

  Lionel shook his head. “No.”

  The detectives waited.

  “Are you here to arrest me?” Lionel asked.

  “If you had nothing to do with the abduction and murder, then we have no intention of arresting you.” Lane put his hand on the gate.

  “Come on in, then.” Lionel stood up and indicated the detectives should sit across from him.

  Lane and Keely sat down. The spruce bench boards of the picnic table creaked and groaned.

  Lionel lifted his beer, smiled and asked, “Want a beer?”

  Lane smiled back. Lionel’s a talker. So let him talk.

  “That job at Gord’s shop was a cash deal. The room was dug when I got there. I just put in the flex pipe so they could move the sink in and out. Then I wired and plumbed the inside. It took four or five days, if I remember right. Of course it wasn’t Gord who paid me to do that job.” Lionel took a healthy bite from the sandwich, followed by a satisfying swig of Big Rock.

  “Who paid you to do the job?” Lane asked.

  Lionel smiled, put the beer bottle down and said, “Rather not say. Besides, all you have to do is check with whoever owns the building, and she’ll give you the name. She’s a widow. I can’t for the life of me remember her name.”

  “We need the names of the former tenants,” Keely said.

  “Pretty bad for business if I start giving out the names of my customers to the police.” Lionel wiped crumbs from his face with an open palm. “Considering the kind of work I do.”

  “Pretty bad for business if we pass your name on to Revenue Canada and suggest they audit you,” Lane said with a smile. “Considering the kind of work we do.”

  Lionel took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich, chewed, covered his mouth and asked, “What do you want?”

  “We want to know who killed an eleven-year-old boy and buried his body in the room you wired and plumbed.”

  Lionel rubbed his forehead like he was trying to rub away a headache. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “We need to know who paid for the room to be made hydroponically friendly,” Lane said.

  “It was a cash deal.”

  “Who paid you?”

  Lionel looked around his backyard and then murmured, “Kev Moreau.”

  Lane sat back. Finally, we’re getting somewhere.

  Fifteen minutes later, as they drove downtown, Keely sat behind the wheel and said, “Moreau was a regular at the Scotch Drinkers’ Club. Always very smooth. Always very charming. Always the centre of attention at any table. He loved to talk about architecture and his latest renovation project.”

  Lane turned to her. “Architecture?”

  Keely nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Surprising,” Lane said. Then he added, “We need a meeting with Harper.”

  “How many restaurants does Moreau own now?”

  “Five, the last time someone counted,” Lane said.

  “And they’re all a front for his drugs?”

  Lane nodded. “Among other things. He always keeps himself at arm’s length from the illegal end of the business. Then he pays the legal costs of his managers or closes down whenever a bust is about to happen.” I wonder whether he was getting warnings from the Scotch drinkers?

  “Except for this time,” Keely said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He paid Lionel with cash.” Keely eased the car right up close to the Bow River as they drove under a bridge.

  Arthur was putting the supper dishes in the dishwasher when he said, “We need to go and pick up a prescription.” He tugged up the waist of his pants and looked at Lane, who was holding his plate and a half-finished glass of beer. “I’ll drive.”

  Lane felt the familiar grip of fear that tugged and tingled his elbows every time Arthur’s health was mentioned. Arthur had lost weight, his hair was thinner and his Mediterranean skin was almost pale despite the summer sunshine. “Why do you need a prescription? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Remember? The surgeon said they got it all. The sentinel node was clear. The oncologist said the chemo worked. I was lucky.”

  Lane drained his beer. Roz’s ears stood up.

  Arthur had the car keys in his hand. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Within five minutes they were halfway to the grocery store. Arthur had his glasses on and had moved the seat forward so that his belly almost rubbed up against the steering wheel. They stopped at a major intersection where the light was extraordinarily long.

  “Well?” Lane asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Who’s the prescription for?”

  Arthur looked sideways at Lane. “Christine.”

  Lane waited.

  “We went to see Dr. Keeler today. We dropped the prescription off and it’s ready.” Arthur checked the red light and looked away from his partner.

  “Would you get to the point?”

  “The doctor prescribed birth control pills.” Arthur turned back to wait for the green light. Lane looked to his right. He saw a woman, a man, a baby stroller and a dog the size of a colt. The woman turned and talked to the white-bearded man. Lane noticed the woman’s flat chest. She’s had cancer too. Now that I know what to look for, it seems it’s everywhere.

  Arthur accelerated, turned left into the grocery store parking lot, parked next to a black pickup, shut off the car and got out. Lane followed.

  “Come on.” Arthur waited at the supermarket door. Again, Lane followed him inside.

  “Daniel sleeps over. They’ve been together for how many months? I mean, do I have to draw you pictures? Christine had a scare.” Arthur grabbed a shopping cart.

  Lane followed Arthur past the shampoo and headache remedies and stopped when Arthur picked up several packs of condoms. Arthur walked up to the pharmacy counter. “Prescription for Christine Lane, please.”

  The tiny dark-haired pharmacist turned, fetched the prescription, read it as she returned and looked confused. She stared at Lane and Arthur, also looking confused.

  The pharmacist opened her mouth and closed it. She stapled the package shut, handed it to Arthur and said, “Use as directed.” She waited.

  Arthur paid for the prescription and dropped the package in the cart. “Come on, we need a few other things.�
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  Thirty minutes later, they walked back into the house. Lane could hear Roz scratching at the back door. Lane asked, “Anybody home?” He looked at the shoes inside the door. He spotted Christine’s running shoes and Daniel’s black dress shoes.

  Lane kicked off his own shoes and carried two bags of groceries into the kitchen. Arthur followed him and opened the fridge to put some fresh milk inside.

  “Where are they?” Lane asked.

  Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask.”

  Lane sat down at the kitchen table. He put his head in his hands.

  “Go out on the deck. I’ll bring us another beer. By the way, there’s something else.”

  “What?” Lane felt his defences going up.

  “I’ve signed us up for yoga.” Arthur ducked his head behind the fridge door as he reached inside.

  “Yoga?” The word popped out even after he’d recognized the no-nonsense tone in Arthur’s voice.

  “It’s part of the rehabilitation after cancer. Apparently the program is experiencing remarkable success. The first session is free to the survivor and a partner. Since you are my partner, I signed you up.” Arthur raised his head from behind the fridge door and focused on Lane.

  Lane recognized Arthur’s I’ve-made-up-my-mind tone this time and, instead of responding, reached for the back door.

  Roz pawed at Lane’s knees as he opened the door. He saw Christine sitting in a lawn chair and writing in a journal. Daniel sat next to her on the deck, reading a graphic novel under the outdoor light. Lane stuttered, “But . . . I thought . . .”

  Christine looked up at him. “You thought what?”

  Daniel looked up, puzzled, waiting for Lane’s answer.

  “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed early. Good night.” Lane closed the door. He walked across the kitchen and to the stairs. There was a whimper. He looked left. Roz sat next to the front door. The leash was in her mouth and her amber eyes were on Lane. He stopped with his right foot on the first step.

  “Shit.” He turned to the dog, stuffed his feet in his shoes, attached the leash to Roz’s collar and went out the front door.

  Sensing his mood, Roz pranced along beside him, not pulling him along as she usually did.