by Garry Ryan
A waitress brought their Sasquatch bread sandwiches and vanilla lattes. “Enjoy,” she said as she left.
Stacie lifted one half of her turkey sandwich and took a bite. “How come this is such a honky town?”
Donna choked on her coffee, reached for a napkin, and wiped her chin. “Mom, keep your voice down.”
Stacie looked around. “Am I wrong?”
Donna looked around at the white faces in the crowd and shook her head. “No.”
“I like Calgary. Remember my friend Harvinder? I miss her. I don’t understand why she died of cancer and I survived. She had the prettiest skin. There was gold in it. I like that, you know. I like colours.” Stacie swallowed and took another bite of Sasquatch.
Too bad you have no idea which ones work with the others when you mix and match clothes and shoes.
“It bothers me here.” Stacie dropped her voice to a whisper. “It bothers me that there are so many crackers in this town. So many rednecks with their big pickup trucks.”
Donna looked around and saw that no one was paying them any attention. “Mom, you just can’t say that kind of stuff. Besides, you’re as white as anyone else in here. Next time I’ll take you out for a falafel on Main Street.”
“What’s a falafel?”
“Mediterranean food. Fresh vegetables. Great bread.” Donna took a bite of sandwich.
“You mean lesbian food?”
I can’t believe I came from your vagina, Donna thought. “No. Lebanese. It’s run by a Lebanese guy.”
“I hate it when you roll your eyes like that. I’ve never had Lebanese food before.” Stacie wiped her lips with a napkin.
“Beats the hell out of haggis, Mom.”
“That’s not saying much. Everything tastes better than haggis.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Okay, then.” Stacie leaned forward. “What are those vans for? You think I’m blind? You think just because I say stupid stuff, I can’t see that you’re up to something? Lisa’s anniversary is coming up. You’re going to make some kind of statement. What is it?”
Donna looked past her mother, realized she’d been set up, and peered through the window. “Nothing.”
“You think I’m going to sit around, act like nothing is going on, pretend I don’t see that you’re planning something big for the anniversary of her death, pretend just so that we can be polite?” Stacie put her sandwich down, picked up her coffee, and blew steam across the top. “I’m not pretending anymore. I know we’re not very close, but you’re still my daughter. I know you laugh at the way I dress, and the way I buy more shoes and purses than I need, and all the stupid shit I say. I also know you better than anyone alive. I used to rely on Lisa to let me know what was going on with you. Now Lisa is gone. You think I’m gonna give up on you?”
“No, Mom, I don’t think you’re ever gonna give up on me. And nothing is going on.” Donna set her sandwich down.
“I can always tell when you’re lying. Are you building a bomb?”
Donna rolled her eyes and felt sweat gathering under her breasts. “Christ, you are a huge pain in the ass!”
“Well, at least we’re being honest with each other now!” Stacie stood up and left the restaurant.
×
Lane sat in front of his computer in the office he now shared with Nigel. Through the glass he saw he had the entire place to himself. He looked at his computer screen and a recent photo of John A. Jones. Then he looked at the photo with Chris Jones. Lane’s phone rang. He checked the number. “What’s up, Keely?”
“Another piece of the Jones puzzle, and a break for us, I think. An Edmonton driver was pulled over for speeding. His licence plate is registered to John A. Jones. The driver claimed to know nothing about it. My guess is that Jones switched plates to make it harder for us to identify his vehicle. I’ll send you the stolen plate number and get the word out.”
“Jones is here,” Lane said.
“Is that your intuition speaking?” Keely asked.
“Partly.” Lane studied the face of John A. Jones on his computer screen.
“And?” Keely asked.
“His son Chris is here. His wife is dead. His community fell apart. Jones has a history of moving on when things don’t work out for him. And he thinks the oil industry is responsible for his wife’s cancer. He’s a suspect in a series of bombings. The ingredients for a bomb are most probably in Chris’s hands. I get the feeling that John A. has little to lose and wants to make a big splash. The big oil companies have their offices here. It’s Stampede week — you know, the greatest outdoor show on earth. Jones knows how to make headlines, and he’s the kind of guy who likes to see his face on TV or the front page.”
“The big question is what is his target. If we know that, we can get ahead of him,” Keely said.
“It will definitely be an attack on oil and gas holdings. Oscar Mendes was a welder, so he may have been building some kind of container for a bomb. I’ve been doing some research on the missing chemicals and the process used to make nitroglycerine. It’s more stable when it’s kept cool. That means it would need a very specific kind of container made of stainless steel. Mendes was probably killed because he figured out that Jones was making a bomb and he wanted nothing to do with it.” Lane looked at a map with the locations of the bombings around Lac La Biche.
“You want to meet for a bite? You’re already helping to fill in some of the gaps for me. Maybe we can help each other out some more,” Keely said.
“Sure. I’ll call Nigel, and we can talk with someone else I’ve been meaning to see. By the way, do you have a description of Jones’s truck?”
“Let’s see. Here we go. Red Chrysler four-door pickup with a diesel engine,” Keely said.
They met an hour later at the Lucky Elephant restaurant. The windows were painted with cowboys roping calves, cowboys riding broncs, and cowboys in chuckwagons.
Inside, the restaurant doors and windows were framed with rough-cut planks.
Lane saw Nigel and Keely were already sitting across from one another. He sat down between them. “Where’s Uncle Tran?”
Nigel smiled. “He’s at the Stampede.”
“You’re kidding.” Lane nodded a thank-you as the waiter put a glass of water and menu in front of each of them.
Nigel said, “No, not a bit. He’s a huge Stampede fan. Has the boots and hat to prove it. Even drives a pickup. Pearl — she’s a seamstress — makes his tailored western shirts. Stampede is Uncle Tran’s Christmas. This year the family bought him a pass so he could see all of the grandstand shows and rodeo events. He even got to ride on a float in the parade. Most of the people he helped to start over in Canada are doing well now, so they got together and bought him the gift.”
The waiter took their orders and left.
Lane smiled as he imagined Uncle Tran the cowboy at the Stampede.
“He talks about the rodeo horses all the time. It’s like they’re his kids,” Nigel said.
Lane turned to Keely. “How’s your brother?”
“He sold the restaurant and went into business with a couple of his friends. And he has a new girlfriend. How’s your clan?”
“Christine and Dan are hardly there, Matt is depressed — I think it’s a kind of post-traumatic stress thing after being kidnapped — and Arthur has become a cancer victim instead of a survivor.”
Nigel stared open mouthed at Lane.
Keely smiled.
“What’s funny about that?” Lane asked.
“You’ll find a way to fix it,” Keely said.
“I had no idea things were so rough for you right now. How do you keep your personal life and work separate?” Nigel asked.
“I don’t.” Lane laughed.
“Satay beef noodle soup?” the waiter asked.
Nigel pointed at Lane.
Keely breathed in the plate of satay chicken and salad rolls that was put in front of her. “I’ve really missed this place.”
“What’s our next move?” Lane spooned a mouthful of broth and waited for the spicy heat to reach his toes.
“Find the Jones boys,” Nigel said.
“Track the glycerine,” Keely said.
“What about finding their target? I’d like to get ahead of the Joneses.” Lane’s phone rang. He checked the call display before answering. “Colin?”
“It appears the manager at Foothills Fertilizers was right about the amount of missing nitric acid,” Fibre said.
“And?” Lane asked.
“We moved very quickly on this one. You should assume that you are looking for as much as one hundred and fifty litres of nitroglycerine. We confirmed that fifty litres of nitric acid are missing from Foothills Fertilizers,” Fibre said.
“How did you know this case was high priority?” Lane asked.
“The amount of man power applied to this case is out of proportion with an ordinary case.”
“How are the triplets?” Lane asked.
“Very fine.” Fibre hung up.
“What’s up?” Nigel asked.
Lane picked up his chopsticks. “We are looking for a very big bomb.”
As they worked out the details of dividing up various tasks related to the investigation, Lane’s phone rang again. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the number. “Lane.”
“Miguel Sanchez called for you and asked that you meet with him,” the dispatcher said.
Lane listened to the message, pressed end, and looked at Nigel. “We have to go. You coming, Keely?”
She shook her head as she finished chewing. “I’ve got to get back. Let me know what you find out.”
Nigel drove them out of the city centre, west along the river, then north and west along Crowchild Trail. Lane sat back and enjoyed the quiet as he wondered what Miguel wanted to talk with them about.
As they approached Nose Hill Drive, Lane turned to Nigel. “How come so quiet?”
“Keely said I should listen more and talk less,” Nigel said.
“You’re kidding.” She never was the kind to hold back when she had something on her mind.
Nigel shook his head. “Nope.” He turned left. “Where is the Tim Hortons?”
“Just look for the traffic jam.”
They parked across the street from the Tim Hortons. At least twenty-five vehicles were lined up for the drive-thru.
They found Miguel inside. He sat next to another man who wore a T-shirt and jeans. Miguel recognized the detectives and gave them a nervous smile. The other man looked around and checked for the exits.
“Hola,” Nigel said.
“Esto es Enrique,” Miguel said.
Nigel shook hands with Enrique. “Mucho gusto.”
The rest of the conversation took place in rapid-fire Spanish. Lane studied Miguel and Enrique, who was reluctant to make eye contact with the older detective.
Lane estimated that Enrique was at least a foot taller than Miguel and had longer, finer facial features than his round-faced friend. Enrique looked directly at Nigel as he spoke and would tap his index finger on the table whenever he had a point to make.
Nigel held up his hand and looked at Lane. “These guys need a couple of double-doubles and BLT sandwiches.”
Lane felt his eyebrows rising.
Nigel blushed. “It’s kind of good manners. They’re doing us a big favour. We need to show some appreciation. It’ll be an icebreaker.”
Lane went up to the counter and returned with the sandwiches and four cups of coffee.
Miguel and Enrique smiled, pried open their coffee lids, and dug into the sandwiches.
While they ate, Nigel said, “Enrique was Oscar’s cousin. He says he saw Chris Jones going into a paint store just up the street about an hour ago.”
Lane stood up. Enrique and Miguel looked up in alarm.
Nigel said, “Enrique watched him leave in a red pickup truck. He even gave me the licence number.”
Lane sat down and smiled at Miguel and Enrique.
“Enrique said that Chris Jones found out Oscar was a welder. Chris would drive him up north to do jobs at his father’s place. Oscar was doing one last job for them before he went back home. Oscar told Enrique that the Joneses figured Oscar couldn’t understand English and wouldn’t figure out what they were doing. Enrique says that Chris worked somewhere in Calgary and would take Oscar up north for a week at a time. Oscar didn’t like working for the father, but the money was good.” Nigel tapped numbers and letters into his phone and waited a moment. “The plate Enrique gave us is a match to the stolen plate from Edmonton.”
“Ask Enrique what Oscar thought about John A. Jones. His impressions,” Lane said.
Nigel asked the question.
Enrique shook his head. “Loco.”
Nigel said, “Crazy.”
Lane thought, I know some Spanish! Give me a little credit.
Then Enrique began to talk again, too fast for Lane to follow.
When the Latino finished, Nigel said, “Oscar told Enrique that the older man with the white hair was very friendly at first. He became suspicious when Oscar made a mistake and answered a question in English. That happened about a month ago. Oscar said that more and more the old man became like a jefe. He ordered Oscar around and was always trying to trick him into answering questions in English. And Oscar was really upset when the jefe — apparently that’s what Oscar always called John A. Jones — made threats to two of the women. Oscar thought Jones was especially cruel and demeaning to the women.”
Lane said, “We need to get to the paint store.”
Nigel thanked the men and got their phone numbers. They shook hands, and the detectives left.
The paint store was on one corner of an intersection and across the street from a car dealership. Nigel eased the Chev into a narrow space in front of the store, and they went inside. The store was brightly decorated with tasteful hues. There was a wall of colour samples on the left. In front of the samples was a table where a couple sat pointing at various shades.
A black-haired woman of about twenty-five looked over her shoulder at the detectives as they entered. She wore a blue apron that was spattered stylishly with reds and yellows. “Can I help you?”
Lane said, “Two men came in earlier. They were driving a red pickup. We have a photograph.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID.
The young woman asked, “Were they bald?”
Nigel said, “Yes.”
Lane frowned.
“I forgot to tell you,” Nigel said.
“Just a moment. Ramona!” The black-haired woman ducked out of sight into the back of the store.
Lane followed her around the counter and into the back where he came upon a woman who was somewhere between forty and fifty with her red hair tied into a ponytail. She was using a rubber mallet to seal a four-litre can of paint.
“Watch yourself. You wouldn’t want to get paint on those nice clothes. Besides, customers aren’t allowed back here,” the redhead said. The younger woman stood behind her.
“Ramona?” Lane asked.
“That’s right.” Ramona pushed a wayward strand from her eyes. She wore a blue apron and shirt like the other woman. Her blue eyes studied the two men. “You’re here to ask me about the father and son with the shaved heads?”
“That’s right,” Lane said.
“Can I see some ID?” Ramona asked. While Nigel reached for his identification, she looked at the other woman. “Go ahead, Sarah. We’ll be fine here.”
Sarah nodded, turned, and walked back to the front of the store.
Ramona sat on a stool next to a wooden bench, which was spattered with more colours of paint than were on display in the front of the store. “You don’t mind if I sit.”
Lane recognized that she hadn’t asked a question. Just get to the point with her. He pulled out the photo of the Jones clan in front of
the log house. “Were any of these people in your store today?”
“I thought I recognized him.” She pointed at John A. Jones with long hair. “He’s the guy from up north who’s fighting with the oil and gas companies. That one could have been the kid who was with him.” She pointed at Chris’s image.
“What did they want?” Nigel asked.
Ramona looked directly at Nigel and smiled. “Paint.” She waited a moment, then added, “And a brush.”
Nigel began to speak. Lane stopped him with a let-me-handle-this-one glance. “Would you be able to share your impressions of these two?”
Ramona looked at Lane as she played with the gold cross she wore on a chain at her jugular notch. He felt an inexplicable urge to cup his hands over his balls.
“Both were bald. The older one had a tanned face, but his scalp was white. He did all of the talking. He noticed my cross and said, ‘I noticed the awards on your wall. Are the awards a show of pride or were they earned in the name of the Lord?’”
Lane waited. Nigel frowned.
“How did you respond to that?” Lane asked.
“I asked him what kind of paint he wanted.” She smiled at Lane.
Lane thought, Enough of this. “How hard do I have to work for this? We’re here because it’s important. It’s pretty obvious that you want to put us in our place because we had the balls to come back here. The fact is we’re short on time, this is important, and we could sure use some answers.”
Ramona straightened her back and stared at Lane before she asked, “What is the older one’s name?”
“John A. Jones,” Lane said.
She nodded. “He’s the kind of man who likes to put women in their place. He got my back up. So much so that I had to come back here to cool off. He’s not like those missionary guys who come in here in their black suits and white shirts. There’s no hint of civility with Jones. I am a woman; therefore, I need to understand I’m in the company of my superior. I’ve met more than a few like him in my time.” She made eye contact with Lane. “He really pissed me off.”
“What else is pissing you off?” Lane asked.
“Shafina was a friend of my daughter,” Ramona said.
“Shafina Abdula?” Nigel asked.