The Detective Lane Casebook #1
Page 18
“Mmmhmmmm.”
Scout stepped into the hallway, leaned on her front paws and stretched.
“You have to catch the 11:30 bus. Randy pulled some strings to get us an appointment. We can’t miss it.”
“I know.”
“You went to bed at nine last night.”
“I think so,” Ernie said.
“And you slept right through?”
“Yeah.”
“No . . . No dreams?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll see you at the doctor’s office at one? I’m not taking my lunch hour till then, so you can’t be late.”
“Mom? How am I supposed to tell a stranger what happened?” “We’ve been over this.”
“I don’t like it, Mom. What’s she going to think?”
“Look, we agreed last night it was best to talk to someone who can help you. Help both of us.”
“I don’t know.”
“Non me’ rompere i coglioni,” Beth said.
Ernie smiled at a memory of Nonno. Then, a flashback of his Uncle and the knife pushed all other thoughts away.
Saturday, August 26
CHAPTER 30
“That was Harper on the phone,” Lane said. He stepped over Riley and onto the paving stones in their back yard. He wore shorts and a T-shirt. There won’t be many more evenings like this, he thought. It was a little after eight and the sky was darkening. Across the alley, a few of the leaves on a poplar tree were beginning to yellow. Classical music and conversation from Mrs. Smallway’s back yard created an oasis of noisy confidentiality for Lane and Arthur.
“What’s new?” Arthur said and, “Thanks,” when Lane set a sweating glass of beer on the table for each of them. Sweat also gathered on Arthur’s forehead.
“They traced the Swatsky money. It all ended up in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands.”
“So, Judy Swatsky pulled it off,” Arthur said. Riley sauntered over and flopped. Arthur used his toe to rub the dog behind the ear.
“I can’t help but think if I’d started talking with Ernie earlier on it would have helped the case and him,” Lane said.
A particularly loud male voice from the yard next door said, “It works! Good God, viagra works!”
Lane choked on his beer.
Arthur said, “They started when you were on the phone. It appears Mrs. Smallway is having a get together. They just turned on the music. I can’t believe it, they chose Bolero. The world is filled with injustice. Mrs. Smallway abuses perfectly good music, Ernie gets a shrink and Judy gets 15 million.”
“Actually, closer to 16. And, Canada has no extradition treaty with the Cayman Islands, so as long as Judy stays there, she’ll be able to escape prosecution.” Lane stretched his legs.
“Oh yes!” another voice said from Mrs. Smallway’s yard.
“Want to go inside?” Lane said.
“Let’s stay out here a little longer. It’s too hot inside. Who knows, Mrs. Smallway’s party might be worth a chuckle or two,” Arthur said.
“Some lawyer in Red Deer is looking for ways to tie up Judy’s money but it doesn’t look promising.”
“I talked with Beth Rapozo today. She and I both know what losing a family can be like. Beth was happy because Ernie gained four kilos. Come to think of it, Beth will probably be relieved that Judy can’t be extradited.”
“Why?” Lane said.
“Because neither Judy nor Lisa can come back to Canada. Beth and Ernie will be free of those two. Besides . . . ”
“Who’s next!” Mrs. Smallway said.
“Not me!” Arthur said. The voices next door went silent while Bolero played on.
Lane laughed.
Arthur said, “ . . . that means Lisa can’t leave either. She and her mother are stuck with each other.”
Acknowledgments
For medical advice
thank you
Bruce
Colleen
and Maureen.
For Italian translations
thank you
Marie.
For great advice
thank you
Cheryl.
Thank you
U of C
writer in residence
Eden.
Don
thank you
for the insights.
Policeman Gary
thank you for
the tips.
Thanks to
creative writing students at
Lord Beaverbrook
Alternative
Forest Lawn and
Queen Elizabeth
High Schools.
Thank you
Ruth
for the phone call and
Doug
for the editing.
The Lucky Elephant Restaurant
The Lucky Elephant Restaurant
A DETECTIVE LANE MYSTERY
Garry Ryan
Copyright © Garry Ryan 2006
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced,
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording
or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of
the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying
or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be
obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Ryan, Garry, 1953-
The Lucky Elephant Restaurant / by Garry Ryan.
ISBN-13: 978-1-896300-97-9
ISBN-10: 1-896300-97-9
I. Title.
PS8635.Y354L82 2006 C813'.6 C2005-907686-0
Board editor: Michael Penny
Cover and interior design: Ruth Linka
Cover image: Garry Ryan
Author photo: Karma Ryan
NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts
and the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry
Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.
NeWest Press
201–8540–109 Street
Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6
(780) 432-9427
www.newestpress.com
1 2 3 4 5 09 08 07 06
PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA
for my parents
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Acknowledgements
Thursday, October 8
Chapter 1
“YOU EVER LOOK for a missing kid before?” Harper sat up straight as a high-school principal in a grey sports jacket and matching pants. Their black Chevy crested a hill on John Laurie Boulevard. On their right, Nose Hill Park rose two hundred metres to a plateau of prairie where the city people walked their dogs and kept an eye out for coyotes. To the left, and below, houses were hidden behind a grass-covered sound barrier between the roadway and homes. The treetops were a collage of oranges, yellows, and greens. Over Harper’s left shoulder, the downtown high-rises were headstones along the Bow River.
On the western horizon, the Rocky Mountains were white
-tipped. In a couple of hours, the sun would drop behind them leaving about thirty minutes of twilight.
“Lane, have you ever looked for a missing . . . ?” Harper said.
“Once,” Lane said, finally. “This time, the mother says the child has been missing since yesterday afternoon.” He shifted his weight. Looking down the long slope of the road, he spotted a green pickup parked on the shoulder. “Better slow down. Wouldn’t want to get your picture taken.” There was a white Multi-Nova flash after a speeding Honda passed the truck.
“Should’ve known.” Harper braked. His bear-like hands made the steering wheel look tiny.
They passed the truck. Lane caught a glimpse of the officer waving from the driver’s seat. Lane lifted his left hand in return. With his right, he adjusted a purple silk tie. A glimpse in the right mirror assured him that the Windsor knot was at the exact centre of his grey collar.
His hand moved to brush white lint from black wool slacks.
“What else do you know about this case?” Harper asked.
“Not much. The father is missing as well. Apparently, he moved out of the house nine weeks ago. He’s a welder who travels from job to job. Estranged wife says he went on a holiday. She claims he was angry at her for not letting the kids go with him on a camping trip.”
Harper accelerated up another hill.
Lane shuddered. A flashback shivered up his spine and filled his nose with the stench of decay. He saw a length of fence. The boards were sun-dried grey. White paint peeled from the wood. It curled into flakes and coated back-alley dandelions. A galvanized trash can had its side creased with a dent. Lane leaned over the can. His fingernails picked at a knot atop a green-plastic garbage bag. It opened. There was a matted mess of curly-blond hair. He’d been told the child’s eyes were blue but death, and the light shining through green plastic, changed that. They were a colour he’d never seen before, or since. He stuffed his nose into the crook of his elbow. His voice sounded disconnected. “Over here! Oh, Jesus! Over here!”
He stared down at one blue strap of a pair of denim coveralls looped over the child’s shoulder. His heels crunched on gravel. He backed away from the horror and stench of a body swollen by summer heat.
Lane had been there when detectives confronted the father. He’d been drinking. He yelled at Candy. She wet her pants. The father kicked her so hard, she flew into the wall. He put the body in a garbage bag and dropped her into the trash.
Lane remembered getting home that night and throwing his clothes in the wash. Then he scrubbed and shampooed his body till the shower ran cold. For weeks afterward, he smelled death on his clothes, in his hair, and on his hands.
“You look kind of pale,” Harper said.
“Missing kids.” Lane took a breath, shivering as drops of sweat trickled down his ribs. He shook his head. For weeks after he’d discovered the body, a good night’s sleep was a memory. “Candy, her name was Candy.”
“What?”
“Her name was Candy. The name of the child I found in a garbage can. I hate looking for missing kids.
What you usually find is what you can never forget.”
Lane leaned back and studied the grey fabric around the dome light. Many of those sleepless nights were spent watching TV. One was a documentary about WWII in North Africa. A survivor said, “Flies were everywhere. They fed on the dead. When you swatted a fly, it smelled of death.”
Harper opened his mouth to speak, glanced at Lane, and decided against it.
Lane swallowed. The sharp, sour taste of bile caught at the back of his throat.
They stopped at the red light at Sarcee Trail.
Lane said, “Don’t know very much yet. The missing child’s name is Kaylie. Blond. Four years old. Blue eyes. Has a brother who’s eighteen months older. Both live with the mother. Her name’s Roberta Reddie.”
The light turned green. Harper checked right and left before accelerating. “Roberta Reddie. Isn’t that the one on the radio?”
“Apparently.”
“Call me Bobbie?” Harper asked.
“The one and only,” Lane said.
“No leads yet?”
“Nope. All of the neighbours have been interviewed. Nothing. The dad’s nowhere to be found,” Lane said.
“Next left?” Harper entered the turning lane before leaving the boulevard.
“Yep.” Lane felt anxiety snaking its way up his spine and licking at the nape of his neck.
The Reddie home faced west and sat on a corner with an attached garage on its north side. In the front yard, a pink bicycle lay on its back, white handle bars like outstretched palms lying flat on the grass. Its chain was a sleeping snake, curled over the crank and frame. Flies swarmed around the bicycle and its missing rear wheel.
A champagne-coloured Chrysler sparkled in the driveway. The freshly-waxed paint was tinged rose by the evening sun. Lane wondered at the dirt stuck like clotted blood to the fender liner around the rear wheel. SPK 2ME was written in red letters against the white of the license plate. “Speak to me,” Lane said.
“What?” Harper shut off the engine and palmed the keys.
“Vanity plate,” Lane said.
Harper looked at the back of the Chrysler. “Oh.”
Lane studied the house as he stepped out of the car. The front window was big enough to drive a small sedan through. White sheers curved along either side. The wall facing the window was filled with family portraits above a colonial-style couch. A TV screen blinked like a cursor in the bottom right-hand corner of the window.
Harper rapped twice on the front door. It opened.
“Ms. Reddie?”
The woman studied them from behind sparkling glass. Her hair was black and shoulder-length. She wore a black long-sleeved cotton blouse buttoned to the throat. Black slacks. Black socks. Black shoes. Her eyelids were outlined with black eye shadow. “Call me Bobbie,” she said. Her voice was low, deep. Bobbie put her back to the wall to let them in. Her generous bust forced them to turn sideways while they inched uncomfortably past her.
Lane’s nose filled with her herbal perfume. It could be described using many words, Lane thought, and none of them would be subtle.
“Have you found her, yet?” she asked.
“We’ve just started,” Harper said.
Lane noted the implied accusation in her voice, and the defensiveness in Harper’s reply.
“Tea?” Bobbie asked.
Lane said, “No thank-you. We have some questions, though.”
A boy sat in a chair across from the television. He did not look their way.
“Of course.” Bobbie indicated the kitchen. “Follow me.”
Harper followed.
Lane felt as if she had added a tablespoon of guilt to the contents of his rebellious stomach. He swallowed hard. He put his hand under his nose in an attempt to filter out her scent.
The kitchen’s white linoleum was spotless, just like the white appliances and cupboards. The air shone with a chemical mix of air freshener, bleach, and Lysol. Lane checked the sink; no dishes, just polished stainless steel.
Bobbie pointed at the upholstered chairs arranged around the oak kitchen table. “Sit.”
Harper sat.
Lane stood.
She moved closer to the sink to fill a kettle with water. “Honey?”
Lane’s stomach heaved at a childhood memory of eating too much cotton candy at the Stampede. His mouth filled with saliva.
“This is Cole,” Bobbie said. “Say hello to the police, son.”
“Hello.” Cole was staring at the toes of his white socks.
Lane noted the sharp creases in the boy’s white T-shirt and khaki pants. Cole’s eyes were blue.
“Would you like some ice-cream, Cole?” Bobbie said the words to her son while smiling at Lane.
“I love Jesus more than ice cream,” Cole said.
Bobbie patted his hair without touching his scalp.
“Okay, honey. Go back and watch some more
television, son.”
Lane spotted the immaculate white soles of the boy’s socks. A bead of sweat crawled along his hairline from forehead to earlobe. “I’ve . . .” He clamped his hand over his mouth and headed for the front door. He spotted Cole sitting erect in the chair in front of the TV. There was momentary eye contact between the two. The boy’s fear was palpable.
Lane spotted the handle on the screen door. He turned the handle, pushed the door open, took two steps down and breathed fresh air. He crossed the lawn and leaned on the cool metal of the Chevy’s rear fender. His belly heaved. He slid his feet back. Lunch poured out onto the pavement. It splattered the black-walled tire and wheel rim. After the fourth heave, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A pair of flies began to circle the edge of the puddle.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Harper asked.
“Don’t know.” Lane shook his head.
On the way back, along the boulevard, Harper had to pull onto the grass while Lane threw up again. They stopped under a sign next to a church. Lane looked up at the sign. Bobbie’s quote for the week was written across the top. Under that, I’m going to heaven. Are you coming with me?
Chapter 2
THREE KILOMETRES EAST of Bobbie’s house, Jay Krocker reached into the bag of almonds on the front seat. Popping the nuts one by one into his mouth, he chewed, and tapped out a beat with his left foot. Six speakers pounded a drum solo against the interior of the Lincoln.
The traffic on Crowchild Trail thinned as the sun ducked behind the Rockies. Purples and reds reflected in the Lincoln’s rear and side mirrors.
Jay rubbed his right ear and counted four silver studs, like stepping stones, forming a ‘J’ along the lobe and auricle. He tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear.
A blur passed Jay on the left. The Toyota pickup cut him off. Jay hit the horn and the brakes at the same time. The rear tires locked and squealed.
The Toyota’s driver was just visible over the top of the bucket seat. His arm reached out the open rear-window and extended one finger.
Jay’s foot punched the accelerator. The Lincoln took a big swig of gasoline.