by Garry Ryan
“The famous twins?” Lane asked.
“The twins had their own web site rating the sexual performances of the GO’s at the various resorts,”
Harper said.
“GO’s?” Lane leaned back in his chair.
“Don’t you remember? Gigolos. Buff guys hired by resorts to entertain the guests. Apparently, the fabulous twins, Frank—the GO Bobbie fell for—and Bobbie drank into the wee hours. A few hours later, there was smoke coming out of the twins’ room. Frank and the twins were found dead inside. Bobbie left on the plane later that day.”
“Autopsy reports?” Lane asked.
Harper tapped a folder. “Faxed copies are in here. Frank and the twins died from smoke inhalation. All three had blood-alcohol levels of point-two-zero or higher. Both twins were smokers. The investigators attributed the cause of the fire to a cigarette left on the couch.”
“A lot of careless smoking happens when Bobbie’s around. Did your contact add anything else?” Lane asked.
“Just that the resort wants it all hushed up. It’s bad for business when the tourists die. There were lots of rumours circulating the day after the fire. Bobbie packed up and left in the morning even though her flight didn’t leave till seven o’clock.”
“We need to talk with Bobbie’s brother,” Lane said.
BOBBIE: Good afternoon. It’s Bobbie on the ride home. I need your advice. How do I survive a life-threatening illness? It seems like when it rains, it pours. What do I do when my doctor tells me I’ve got cancer? It’s Bobbie. Tell me your story and give me your advice.
The arena smelled of sweat, propane fumes, and artificial ice. Arthur was waiting in the foyer and handed Lane a black bag. Arthur said, “Your new jersey, elbow pads, whistle, and pants are in there. You have to get your own helmet and skates.” Arthur looked nervous as he eyed the door leading to the stands.
Lane said, “Thanks. Is Matt here?”
“He’s getting changed.” Arthur was sweating in spite of the chill in the air. “Never was very comfortable in places like this.”
“Guess I’d better get changed.” Lane walked down a hallway and knocked on a door labelled REFEREE.
“You need a key.”
Lane turned. He was greeted by a fifty-something woman in a red and black flannel shirt, stretchy blue jeans, and running shoes. She looked like a gravel-truck driver and had the brushcut to prove it. “I’ll open up for you today, but next time check in the office to pick up a key. Name’s Cheryl.” She stuck out a hand.
“Thanks.” Lane shook her hand. Cheryl nearly broke his fingers with her grip.
She opened the door with a key on the end of a chain tied to her belt. “I’m the rink attendant. Gotta run. Game’s almost over, and the ice needs a fresh coat.”
Lane was lacing up his skates in the changing room, when a key turned in the lock.
“Hello,” Lane said.
Bob, the head referee who’d taken an early dislike to Lane during the training sessions, walked in.
“How’d you get in here?” he asked in his best drillsergeant voice. “Cheryl the dyke let you in? Still got the figure skates I see.”
Lane felt the heat rise on his face. He thought, Just take a deep breath and ignore the jerk.
“For the first few games the experienced refs come around and help the new guys out.” Bob put his black equipment bag down. “You’ll do the lines. I’ll wear the red.” He pulled out his jersey and pointed at the red band stitched around one arm.
Lane said nothing, did up his skates, and went outside. He held his whistle and Harper’s ancient helmet in his right hand. Cheryl maneuvered the Zamboni off the ice, jumped down to scoop up a line of slush, then closed the gates behind her. The ice was blue-perfect. Lane felt a thrill of anticipation as he opened the gate and stepped down. His blades bit into the ice while he accelerated and put on his helmet.
Halfway into the game, Lane began to feel as if he were into a rhythm. He covered offsides at the blueline, fetched iced pucks for Bob, and thought only about the game. He was energized with a clear mind and the old, familiar feel of the ice underneath his blades. Looking the wrong way on a breakout play, Lane was blind-sided by two fifteen-year-old giants who collided, and slid into his knees. He found himself flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, staring at the lights hanging from the arena ceiling. As awareness of his surroundings gradually returned, the two players got up and said, “Sorry Ref.”
Lane blinked. He did a mental inventory of bones and muscles.
Bob bent over him and said, “Gotta keep your eyes open, buddy.” He skated away without offering Lane a hand up.
On the next play, both of Matt’s defencemen fell as they shifted from skating forward to skating in reverse. The opposing forward skated in on a breakaway.
Matt pushed himself out to the top of the crease. One shoulder was hunched higher than the other. His elbows were cocked too high.
Bob skated down the opposite side, getting into position to call the play.
The forward deked left.
Matt stood still.
The forward shot high on Matt’s stick side.
His stick and blocker jerked up. There was nothing smooth about the motion. It appeared to be a hopeful swipe in the air in the vicinity of the puck. The puck bounced off Matt’s blocker, over the glass, and through a gap in the net.
Bob blew the whistle.
Lane skated to the timekeeper for another puck. He returned to the face-off circle. Both centres were already in position.
Lane stopped and dropped the puck into Bob’s waiting hand.
Bob smiled, “A cripple in net. Now I’ve seen everything!” Even as Lane reacted, part of his mind told him not to. His right hand gripped the front of Bob’s jersey. Lane’s right skate hooked around and behind Bob’s right ankle.
Both of Bob’s hands gripped Lane’s wrists. The veteran referee was pushed off balance and backward. Lane leaned forward, and knelt with a white-knuckled grip on Bob’s jersey. Lane stopped Bob’s head when it was a few centimetres from the ice.
Bob’s eyes were wide open. Lane knelt close to Bob’s ear and said, “That cripple is my nephew. Lay off!” Then, Lane lifted Bob up till he was momentarily vertical, with his skates off the ice, before setting him back on his feet. The entire incident happened so fast that nearly everyone who witnessed it assumed Lane had saved a falling Bob from hitting his head on the ice.
Matt’s centre skated over to the goalie, said something only Matt could hear, and skated back for the face-off.
The game ended in a scoreless tie despite the fact that Matt’s teammates ran out of steam with ten minutes remaining. Matt made one save after another, always having some part of his body in the way when the puck looked like it must go in the net. There was nothing graceful about his style. There was, however, an uncoordinated determination in the way he positioned himself to face skaters and the puck.
Two surprises awaited Lane when he left the ice.
“Hey, Ref!” Matt’s coach called Lane over and offered his hand. “I’m Larry.” He had a head carpeted with grey curly hair, evidence of the aftermath of teenaged acne on his face, and a pair of hearing aids. “Would you consider teaching the guys how to skate?
It’s gonna be a long season if they don’t learn.”
The second came after both referees changed in the locker room. Bob broke the silence, “Sorry man, what I said was outta line.”
Too shocked to reply, Lane simply shook the hand Bob offered.
Inside the Jeep, on the way home, Arthur drove with his window rolled down, and the heater on high. “You two stink.”
Matt turned in the front passenger seat to face Lane who sat in the back. Matt said, “Chad told me about what you said to the other ref. Thanks.”
Arthur asked, “What did he say?”
Matt said, “The Ref called me a cripple. Uncle Lane shoved him to the ice and told him not to do that again.”
Arthur said
, “You what? Everybody in the stands thought the guy fell and you saved him.”
Matt smiled. “I had a better angle.”
For a change, Tony drove the Lincoln on the way home from work. It was close to eleven o’clock.
“Man, I’m tired,” Jay said.
“So, I’ve got it all figured out for Friday,” Tony said.
Jay opened his eyes. They passed the Stampede Grounds. “This is the last time, right?”
“Sure. But it has to be good and this plan is great.” Tony smiled while glancing sideways at Jay. “But we need a third person this time.”
“What do you mean?” Tony asked.
“Somebody to keep the stairs clear,” Jay said.
“Who’d you have in mind?”
“Rosie.”
Tony shook his head, “No way.”
“It won’t work then. Somebody’s always going up or down those stairs.”
“Uncle Tran wants to talk about you getting your own place.”
“I’ve got a place to live. And don’t change the subject.” Jay sat up straight and adjusted the seat belt.
“A car, even a boat like this, isn’t a place to live. Havin’ your own place goes with being part of the family. You get a place to live and tuition is paid for. Uncle Tran’s rules.”
“What if I say no?” Jay asked.
Tony laughed. “We both know you’re not gonna do that.”
Jay shook his head and smiled.
“Now, have you got the masks?” Tony asked.
“In the trunk,” Jay said.
“Good. We just need one more thing and we’re ready.”
Tuesday, October 20
Chapter 13
“WE’RE BEGINNING TO look like a cliché,” Lane said. They sat at the window of the coffee shop on Kensington. Lane sipped a mocha. Harper drank his house roast.
“You should know better than to use big words around an uncultured cop like myself. Speaking of uncultured, Arthur told me about your little tussle last night. Not very suave, I must say.” Harper sipped from his cup, leaving his pinky extended like a British flagpole. “Do you ever get off the phone?” Lane asked.
“You know me, I keep one ear to the ground and one ear to my cellphone. So, don’t change the subject. What happened?”
“The other Ref called Matt a cripple,” Lane said.
“So, you flattened him?” Harper smiled.
“Sort of.”
“And what did this Ref say after the game?”
“He apologized,” Lane said.
“By the sound of things, Matt thinks you’re some kind of saint.”
“Apparently,” Lane said.
“Enjoy it while you can. Those pedestals get to be pretty tippy. Still, I can see the kid continuing to grow on you. I’ve never seen you lose your cool. Maybe I’ll go to the next game in case it happens again.”
“Not likely,” Lane said.
“It’s funny how we’ll take the nastiest comments about ourselves and not react, but when somebody says it to someone we care about, we go postal.”
“So?” Lane decided to change the subject. “Hear from the chief?”
“As a matter of fact, after Bobbie’s show yesterday afternoon, there were at least a hundred callers wondering why the Reddie case has not been closed.”
“Did she mention it on her show?” Lane asked.
“Not a word. All she had to do was mention cancer, and people all over the city rushed to her rescue.”
Lane’s cell rang. He flipped it open. “Hello.”
“Mr. Lane?” The woman’s drawl came from somewhere south of there.
“Yes,” Lane said.
“You’re wondering how I got your cell number?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Lane said.
“Let’s just say one of my clients has access. I’m Dr. Ellen Dent, veterinarian. I’ve been trying to reach you for almost a week now.”
“We’re happy with Riley’s vet.” Lane made ready to press the end button.
“I’ve never been in a position where it became necessary to solicit patients. This call is about another animal altogether.” The way Dent said ‘animal’ piqued Lane’s interest.
“And?” Lane felt a bit perplexed by Dr. Ellen Dent, her accent, and her condescension.
“I believe a certain ‘animal’ and I might have something to offer you in the way of information about the Reddie murders.”
Lane’s entire mind focused on the conversation. He remembered Lisa’s comment about the canine hairs on Kaylie’s clothing. “Go on.”
“We need to meet. I have evidence, and you need to see it to understand,” Dr. Dent said.
“When?”
“I have an opening in thirty minutes.”
“Where are you?” Lane asked.
“Crowfoot Animal Rescue Emergency. That’s CARE for short,” Dr. Dent said.
“We’ll be there.” Lane thought, This one sounds like she’s crazy.
On the way to CARE, they drove by the sign at Bobbie’s church. There was a new message: Even in the darkest of times, God shines her light on me.
“We’re five minutes late,” Lane said as they parked. The sign outside the office had CARE in metre-high blue letters on a white background. Inside, a grey cat sat on a chair. It held out a paw to reveal blue nail polish.
“Hello. He likes to show off his nails after we paint them.” The receptionist smiled, revealing braces. “You must be Mr. Lane.”
“That’s right,” Lane said.
“Dr. Ellen Dent is waiting,” the receptionist said in a tone that warned the doctor did not like being behind schedule. “This way.” She led them to the examination room at the end of a hall stacked with bags of dog food. “She’ll be right with you.”
Lane and Harper stood inside a small examination room next to a belt-high Arborite table. Behind the table were enough diplomas to cover a living room wall. Lane wondered if all three examination rooms were wallpapered the same way.
“What is it with this Dr. Ellen Dent thing? Who is she trying to impress?” Harper asked.
Lane shrugged. The back door opened, and the doctor arrived. Her grey hair was cut short. She wore an immaculate white smock. Dr. Dent had a chart tucked under one elbow. In the other hand, she carried a small, grey, wire-haired dog of mixed parentage. One of the dog’s ears was bandaged, and its front right paw was in a cast. The dog’s tail wagged.
“I’m Dr. Ellen Dent,” the vet said. She gently set the dog on the examination table and kept her left hand close to protect it. She put on black-framed reading glasses and balanced the open chart in her right hand.
Harper and Lane looked at one another and prepared to be lectured.
Harper said, “Detective Cameron Mitchell Richard Harper at your service, Ma’am. This is Lane.”
Lane watched Harper’s face for a hint of a snicker.
“We don’t have a great deal of time, so I’ll get right to the point,” Dr. Dent said, apparently impervious to Harper’s sarcasm. “This dog’s name is Eddie. I’m trained to observe the dog and its people. This dog is only two years old, and it has been here often. The morning the Reddie child disappeared, we found it at the back door in a cardboard box.” The vet pointed at the dog’s injured leg. “It’s reasonable to assume the dog’s paw was struck with a hammer.” Dr. Dent then lifted the dog’s chin. “This ear was removed. Dogs sometimes have their ears tattooed or a microchip inserted. Remove either and remove any chance at positive identification.”
“You said you had information about the Reddie murders,” Harper said.
“Bobbie Reddie brought Eddie in on six separate occasions. In each case, the children were with her. Each of Eddie’s legs was broken once. Ribs were broken on either side of the rib cage. I know this dog is Eddie, but I can’t prove it. Ms. Reddie always insisted I give her the negatives when we took X-rays. I believe that Bobbie abused the dog to control the children,”
Dr. Dent said.
“The way Eddie shied from Ms. Reddie, and the way the dog tried to stay close to the boy,” Dr. Dent said.
Lane noticed the woman was beginning to shake.
“But how can you be certain of this?”
“You have to understand.” Dr. Dent’s voice began to break. “My father did it to me. I know what she did to this animal. I know it in a way I can’t explain.” She began to sob. Eddie licked her hand. “Someone has to protect that child. This Bobbie, I know what she is.” Dr. Dent’s eyes were dripping tears, and her nose started to run. She had no free hand, so she bent to wipe her nose on the back of her sleeve. “You musn’t think I’m a crazy person. I know that the child is in danger. I don’t know what the law allows you to do, but . . .”
Lane took the file from her and handed her a tissue.
“Could we start with a hair and blood sample from Eddie? We may be able to do a DNA match. It’s a place for us to begin.”
“Of course.” Dr. Dent wiped her nose. “I’ll do it right away.”
Harper asked, “What time was the dog found?”
“When Helen arrived at 7:00 AM,” Dr. Dent said. “Eddie tucked himself close to Cole and never took his eyes off of Ms. Reddie.”
Harper drove as they headed back to the centre of town.
“What the hell was that all about?” Harper asked. “I mean one minute she’s very definitely in control and the next she’s in tears.”
Lane thought while he read the other side of the sign next to Bobbie’s church. This side read: Out of the depths I cry out to you O Lord.
Lane said, “We’ll have to wait for the results of the DNA tests. If Dent’s right, then the dog hairs on Kaylie’s clothing will match Eddie’s.”
“The problem is, none of this stuff is the kind of evidence we need to make a conviction. We’d get laughed out of court with the Jamaica resort story, Eddie’s DNA, and the shredded car. The defense would say we’ve been reading too many tabloids, and they’d be right.”