Glycerine

by Garry Ryan

  Lane heard the threat in the man’s tone and checked for traffic before he began to cross the street. Roz followed behind.

  Donna moved toward the front of the grey pickup truck backed up onto the driveway.

  The man at the other end of the mirror wore a red-checked shirt. He spotted Lane, who turned to nod at the big man, but the man looked away.

  “This is my business. I live in this neighbourhood. I live across the street, and you assholes are taking advantage of an old man who just lost his wife.” Donna looked over her shoulder and spotted Lane.

  Big man heaved his end of the antique onto the tailgate. “Listen, bitch, I told you to mind your own business.” He made a step toward Donna.

  Lane said, “At this point the real issue is whether it’s theft under five thousand dollars or theft over.” He caught a sweet whiff of alcohol on the breeze running down the street. Roz moved to his right and hit the end of her leash.

  Big man hesitated and looked at Lane. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Another neighbour.” Lane pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  The big man looked at Donna, who was standing at the other end of the pickup. He turned back to Lane. “What do you know about theft over?”

  “It all depends on what the appraiser says about the value of an item. If it’s theft over, then it’s more serious than theft under five thousand dollars.” Lane held his thumb over the face of the phone.

  The man in the red-checked shirt set down his end of the mirror. “The old guy said we could have it.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we ask him just to make sure there’s no crime here.” Lane pointed his phone at the big man.

  Big Man and his red-checked partner looked at each other.

  Donna said, “And we should get him to call his daughter, Linda. Her mother told me that bedroom set was promised to a member of the family.” She turned to Lane. “Rhonda died six months ago, and the house went up for sale just last week. Her daughter Linda found a place for her father in Arbour Lake. He’s in the early stages of dementia.”

  Lane looked at the big man, who was lifting the mirror off the pickup’s tailgate.

  “Until we can verify everyone’s story, how about the two of you gently set the mirror down in the garage?” Lane moved closer as the second man set his end of the mirror on the grass, let go, and moved to the passenger door of the truck.

  The big man made his move toward the pickup as Lane grabbed for the mirror. He managed to reach it before it could smash against the concrete.

  Donna grabbed the other end.

  Two truck doors slammed. The truck started. Big Man shifted into gear, the engine roared, the tires chirped, and Red-Checked Shirt stuck up his middle finger. It remained framed in the middle of the rear window as the truck sped through the playground zone. On the trailer hitch, a pair of silver balls rocked back and forth.

  “Assholes,” Donna said.

  Lane pressed a button on his phone and held it to his ear. “Detective Lane. UHG 222. Will exit either at Nose Hill Drive and Ranchlands Boulevard or Ranchlands and John Laurie. Suspected impaired driver. Ask traffic to follow and stop for any and all infractions.” Lane pressed another button and put the phone in his pocket. “Let me tie Roz to the railing, and we can move this back into the garage.”

  Roz whimpered and tugged against the leash as they hefted the mirror inside the garage and leaned it against an inside wall.

  “How come you did that?” Donna gave her hands a swipe down the front of her coveralls.

  “Did what?” Lane followed her out of the garage and into the sun.

  “Got involved. You could have just walked past.” Donna went up the front steps and knocked on the door.

  “It looked wrong, and I’ve walked by your house a few times. You always say hello. Those two guys looked out of place. It wasn’t because I thought you needed help.” Lane smiled.

  The door opened and a man with a full head of white hair and vacant eyes asked, “Lisa?”

  “Lisa was my sister,” Donna said.

  “Oh.” The old man looked confused.

  “Who were the guys taking the mirror?” Donna pointed at the antique.

  “They said they were furniture movers,” the old man said.

  “I’m gonna call your daughter. Can you close the garage door until she gets here?” Donna backed down the steps.

  Lane and Donna waited until the garage door closed.

  “Alzheimer’s?” Lane ventured.

  “Looks like it. Rhonda was able to handle him on her own, but then she got sick and died. Now he’s lost,” Donna said. “Got time for a beer?”

  Lane thought, I should go home but Arthur has turned into a cancer victim and Matt, well, he’s . . . “I’d love a beer.” He untied Roz and followed Donna across the street.

  He spotted her pickup parked on the street in front of a white van. The words Beauty could use a little help to save the world were painted in pink along both side panels.

  She led him to the back of her two-storey house. The yard was tidy, and two chairs sat on either side of a glass-topped table on a red-brick patio bordered by blue flowers. “Have a seat,” Donna invited.

  Lane sat down, and Roz lay down on the grass with a harrumph. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your walk.”

  Donna returned with two long-necked bottles and two glasses. She poured one beer and handed it to Lane, then poured one for herself and raised her glass. “Thanks for the help. It was lucky you came along.”

  Lane shrugged. “It’s my neighbourhood, too.” He took a sip of the beer and caught the sweet, subtle taste of honey. He looked through the glass at its amber colour. “This is very good. Where did you get it?”

  “Made it.”

  Lane took another sip and looked past her through the open kitchen door. On the wall was a picture of a woman wearing desert camouflage. “You were in the forces?” he asked.

  “No, but my twin sister was a medic in Afghanistan.”

  Was? Lane thought. From the tone of her voice, she doesn’t want to talk about it. “What kind of work do you do?”

  Donna used her left hand to rub Roz behind the ears. The dog closed her eyes and crawled closer to Donna. “I’m a finishing carpenter.”

  Lane nodded.

  “It’s my own company. Started up a few years ago, and I’ve been busy ever since.” She smiled. “I found out I like working for myself. How about you?”

  This is where the conversation usually gets interesting. “I’m a homicide detective with the Calgary Police Service.” He watched her hand and saw it hesitate for a moment before she went back to rubbing Roz’s ear.

  “So that’s why you knew how to handle those two thieves with the pickup truck.” She took another sip of beer.

  “Years of practice at learning how to read people.” He lifted his glass and tipped it toward Donna.

  Donna raised her glass and tilted it toward Lane. “Years of practice at learning how to think of all the angles before starting a job.”

  ×

  Arthur was watching TV when Lane got home. Lately, Arthur stayed up until two or three in the morning. Then he would sleep in until ten or eleven. The pattern had emerged over the winter and now appeared to be his routine.

  Lane went to bed. He thought the clatter of an aluminum ladder woke him up around one o’clock.

  SATURDAY, JULY 10

  chapter 4

  Suspected Bomb

  Plotters Arrested

  In a joint operation, the RCMP and CSIS have arrested five people suspected of plotting to bomb targets in the Greater Toronto Area.

  Four men and one woman were detained in a series of coordinated arrests late Friday afternoon in and around the GTA.

  Sixty circuit boards for detonating explosive devices were seized at the same time.

  Police have not yet released the names of the suspects. Police spokesperson Staff Sergeant Roly Greene says the suspects may be part of a larger organizatio
n.

  Story continues page A7

  ×

  Lane’s phone rang. He gripped the newspaper in his left hand and picked up the phone. “Mornin’.”

  “It’s Harper.”

  Lane leaned forward when he heard the no-nonsense tone in his friend’s voice. He set the paper down. “What’s up?”

  “It appears we have a problem. We received a complaint from the manager of Foothills Fertilizers. This morning he reported that approximately fifty litres of nitric acid are missing. We also have the recent theft of fifty litres of sulphuric acid from a chrome shop. Two pharmacies in the northwest have reported unusually large sales of glycerine. As you know from Keely, this combination of ingredients is a red flag. She’s on her way to Calgary.”

  “Do you want me to pick her up at the airport?” Lane asked.

  “No. I want you and Li to make this Foothills Fertilizers investigation priority number one. I know it’s not your normal type of work, but I want you on it. There are indications we’re working against the clock on this one.”

  Lane waited when he sensed Harper had more to say.

  “John A. Jones has dropped out of sight. The local RCMP detachment stopped by for a visit, and no one was on site. We don’t yet know whether any of these events are connected. My hope is that you will tell me they aren’t, and then we don’t have a problem.”

  Lane said, “I’ll pick up Nigel and head out to Foothills Fertilizers to see whether we can get a lead on the missing chemicals.”

  “Keep me informed of your progress.” Harper hung up.

  ×

  Chris Jones used an ohmmeter to check the connections on the refrigeration unit. He turned the meter off, wrapped up the wires, set it down, and plugged the compressor in. The unit wheezed, thumped, then settled into a comfortable rhythm.

  He turned to the open laptop he’d set up on the bench against the wall. He pointed the cursor at fifty litres of sulphuric acid listed on the open file. “Just make sure it’s all here.”

  Chris hitched his green camouflage pants and turned to the adjacent wall where a matched pair of twenty-five–litre stainless-steel containers sat on their wooden bases.

  He turned back to the computer and checked the next item on the list. Fifty litres of nitric acid was stored against the opposite wall.

  Chris crouched. His knees cracked. He counted the cases of glycerine stacked beneath the bench. He stood up, saw a snowstorm of stars in front of his eyes, then steadied himself with his hands braced on the bench until the head spins eased. His vision cleared, and he checked the digits entered in the laptop. Then he repeated the counting process four more times.

  When he was done counting, Chris pulled on goggles, a helmet, and a pair of elbow-length PVC gloves. “Should have it all prepared by the end of the day.”

  ×

  Nigel stood on the sidewalk outside of his trendy brick-fronted two-storey infill. It was situated on a hill where mature trees stretched their limbs to touch the leaves of trees on the other side of the street in front of his house. The LRT whispered its way along the crest of the hill two blocks north of Nigel’s home. Below Nigel’s house was the neighbourhood of Hillhurst, where wartime houses were gradually being replaced with new homes.

  Lane pulled up to the curb.

  Nigel climbed in the passenger side. “What’s up?”

  “We have to check out some missing nitric acid.” Then Lane thought, Nigel’s having trouble doing up his seat belt.

  “What about Oscar’s killer?” Nigel locked his seat belt in place and groaned.

  Lane headed down the hill and figured out the best way to get back onto Crowchild Trail. “Harper made this our main priority. Along with the missing nitric acid, sulphuric acid has been stolen, and sales of glycerine have spiked in the northwest.”

  Nigel nodded as Lane pulled up to a red light and stopped behind a black compact. “Look at that.” He pointed and laughed.

  “What?” Lane looked right and left.

  “The bumper sticker on the car ahead of us.”

  Lane looked at the rear of the black car.

  “It says ‘NICE TRUCK’ and then in smaller print, ‘Too bad about the tiny penis.’” Nigel looked to his right and spotted a Tim Hortons. “Want a cup of coffee?”

  I can read. No, we don’t have time for a cup of coffee right now, Lane thought, then demurred: Take it easy on the kid. If I don’t, Lori will take it out on my hide. “What happened to your ribs?”

  Nigel rubbed his left side at the memory. “I was boxing last night. This guy kept hitting me with his right. Feels like I’ve been tenderized.”

  The light turned green. Lane followed the black car onto Crowchild and travelled south.

  “Where is Foothills Fertilizers?” Nigel asked.

  “Way south. How come you’re not asking why we’re tracking down chemicals instead of Oscar’s killer?”

  “It’s kind of obvious. I mean, no offence, but those three chemicals make nitro, it’s Stampede week, and there are always a few crazies around who want to make some kind of statement. We don’t need an Oklahoma or a Twin Towers happening in this city.” Nigel looked down at the river as they drove over the bridge.

  Now. Ask him now. “When were you going to tell me about your Uncle Tran connection?”

  Nigel blushed and turned to face his partner. “I phoned him when I found out I’d be working with you. I asked him what I should do. He gave me one of those maddening bits of advice he always gives. He said the decision was mine to make and that you are a detective who will figure things out. That you will ask me if you want to know the answer. You know what he’s like. He’s a wise man who thinks I need to find my own way. And he gives me nothing but ambiguous clues that leave me wondering what exactly I’m supposed to do.”

  Lane nodded. “I know what he’s like.” And it turns out he’s right.

  “I owe him a lot.” Nigel looked out the window as they climbed out of the river valley. “After my mom died, one of my friends at school put me in touch with Uncle Tran. Then Tran got me a lawyer. At that point, things began to turn around for me. Up to that point, I was just a victim.”

  “He’s an unusual man.”

  “The really unusual thing is that the family — Uncle Tran’s family — well, they think they owe you. And when one owes you, they all owe you. Do you have any idea how big Uncle Tran’s family is?” Nigel asked as they passed under an overpass.

  “I don’t know, fifty people?” Lane pulled into the left lane.

  Nigel laughed and stuck his thumb in the air. “Fifteen hundred.”

  Lane looked at his partner and was greeted by a smug smile.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Lane asked.

  Nigel shook his head. “Not at all. We had a family reunion in June. One thousand five hundred and two people showed up.”

  “Where was the reunion?” Lane asked.

  “Out on an acreage west of town. It was the only venue big enough for all of us.”

  “Where do you keep your lucky elephant?”

  Nigel patted his chest. “Right here.”

  “I don’t get it,” Lane said.

  “You don’t get what?”

  Lane eased into the centre lane and then into the right lane so they could make the overpass and join Glenmore Trail. “I don’t get why they said you’re a pain in the ass.” Lane eased off the throttle and coasted uphill to bleed off some speed. He smiled. “Well, I mean, you are a pain in the ass, but not a total pain.”

  Nigel smiled back. “No, I was a real pain in the ass to those other cops.”

  “How come?” Lane eased left as the overpass turned east.

  “They wouldn’t listen to me. Just like . . .” Nigel said.

  “Just like?”

  “Just like the detective who wouldn’t listen to me when I told him that my father killed my mother.” Nigel looked south across the Glenmore Reservoir where sails dotted the surface. “I tried to tell him that my dad was
a control freak, and my mom was going to leave him. I tried to tell him that my dad would be at work carrying on as if nothing had happened. That my dad would have a plausible story to tell them when they went to question him. The detective treated me like a kid who knew nothing and could tell him nothing. He turned out to be just like those other cops I was paired with. So, when they wouldn’t listen, I wouldn’t shut up.”

  Lane looked ahead, did a shoulder check, and changed lanes. Some cops can be like that, but that doesn’t mean being a jerk in response will work.

  “How come you do? Listen, I mean.”

  Lane thought for a moment, then said, “If you listen to what people say and listen to the way they say it — especially if you listen to their tone of voice — you can learn a whole bunch about people, who they are, and what they’re really up to. And usually, it’s way more than the person wishes to reveal.”

  Nigel started to reply, then closed his mouth and sat quietly for the rest of the trip.

  Glenmore Trail eased down under Elbow Drive as Lane continued east, crossed the river again, and travelled into Ogden’s industrial area. They pulled up in front of Foothills Fertilizers, a rectangular white two-storey building with a grey BMW parked out front. A man in a burgundy golf shirt and khaki dress pants looked up from the face of his cell phone and frowned. His hair was black and so was his mood.

  “He’s late for a tee time, and he’s pissed.” Lane opened his door and climbed out. He heard Nigel groan as he got out of the car.

  “I’m Steven Davies. I’ve been waiting for sixty-five minutes. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.” He fingered his goatee.

  Lane reached for his ID. “Mr. Davies, I’m Detective Lane and this is Detective Li. You have some missing nitric acid. Please show us where the chemical is stored.” He walked past Davies and toward the door. Lane opened it before Davies could react. Davies was forced to run to catch up with Lane.

  “It’s this way.” Davies pointed as he ran ahead of Lane and opened a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  The storage area was air conditioned, and the hazardous material containers sat in rows on low shelves. Davies pointed at the largest silver stainless-steel container in the room. “At least fifty litres of nitric acid are missing.”