by Garry Ryan
The north wind bit the back of his neck, and he pulled up the collar of his winter jacket. Ahead, the curved metal- and-glass station looked like the back end of an ocean wave. He stepped inside, bathed by a blast of warm air.
Twenty minutes later, he stepped off the LRT and walked across 7th Avenue, down the block into the teeth of the wind funneling between the buildings, and into the sand-coloured concrete building housing the Calgary Police Service.
He unzipped his jacket and took off his black cap.
Lori greeted him as he entered the office. She wore a red suit jacket, a white scarf and blouse, and black slacks. “How’s that new baby?”
He smiled. “Perfect. He’s got a head full of black hair. His skin is so soft.”
Lori said, “So he’s turned you into a real softy?”
Lane frowned. “I guess he has.”
“Don’t worry. It suits you.”
“What’s new around here?” Lane put his cap and gloves on the countertop, shucking off his winter jacket.
Lori leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Fred Netsky has been wandering around trying to play the victim since the Chief gave you his old case. But so far, no one is biting. In fact, the others are beginning to avoid him. Looks like they’re adopting a wait-and-see policy since you’re the boss around here.”
Lane nodded. “Thanks.” Then he went inside his office, hanging his coat and hat behind the door. What was I doing when Byron Thomas was arrested?
Lane looked at the date on the file in front of him. That was at the height of Chief Smoke’s reign. I was persona non grata around here. The only person who would speak with me or make eye contact was Lori. Things sure have changed. Now the detectives answer to me.
He looked more closely at the file. The evidence was straightforward. Byron Thomas was found a couple of blocks from the scene. The victims’ blood was found in the treads of his right shoe. Jewellery from a separate robbery was in his pockets. His voice was a match to the 911 call made fifteen minutes earlier. After questioning, Byron confessed to the murders.
Lane read on, spotting an inconsistency in the times of death. The coroner’s report said the victims died at least four hours before Thomas’ 911 call.
Lori opened the door, looking at Nigel’s empty desk. “There’s a call for you. Someone claiming to be your sister. Says her name is Alison.”
Lane frowned, feeling his stomach begin a slow aerobatic manoeuvre. “Thanks for the heads up.”
Lori closed the door. A few seconds later his phone rang. He took a couple of slow breaths before picking it up.
“Paul?” Alison asked.
“How are you?” Lane asked.
“Is it true?” she asked.
She’s wound up tighter than last time she called. Was that three years ago, or four? “Is what true?” Lane asked.
“Did Christine have a baby boy?”
Lane heard the sarcasm in her tone. “Yes.”
“And you think I will allow you to turn my grandson gay?”
Lane wasn’t sure if he reacted to the sanctimony, the ignorance, or the sarcasm. He was sure he felt a breach in a dam holding back years of resentment at the way he’d been judged then abandoned by members of his family. Emotions began to overwhelm his self-control. He took a long breath to help him channel the overpowering emotions. “You mean the child of the daughter you abandoned?”
Alison inhaled sharply.
Go for it! “The daughter you excommunicated? If memory serves, you didn’t even bother to get out of the van. Wasn’t that visit squeezed in between trips to shopping malls?”
“YOU DARE JUDGE ME?”
Lane moved the phone away from his ear, but kept his mouth close. “How dare you call me with your phony concern for a grandson after you abandoned your daughter? How many years has it been?”
“It was for her own good. God spoke to me. He told me what needed to be done!”
Just another zealot, like John A. Jones, who blew himself up with his own bomb. “How can you say God told you it was for her own good?”
“Because God knows!” Alison said.
“God knows you abandoned your daughter. God knows you signed over legal guardianship to Arthur and me.” Why are you baiting her?
“God knows!” she said.
Enough of this. “What do you want?”
“My lawyer is going to take my grandchild away from you. The child needs protection from you and your Arthur.”
He heard her tone of triumph. “That’s funny, because you and your husband claimed you couldn’t afford to pay your legal bills when Paradise was investigated for polygamy and tax evasion. Were you lying for the Lord?”
“How did you know about that?” Alison said.
“The lying or the money?” Lane stared at the phone, feeling an overwhelming weariness.
“God knows that my grandson needs my protection!”
Give it a rest, Alison. “What is your grandson’s name?”
Another abrupt inhalation from Alison.
“Christine has just had a baby boy. If you threaten her or the child in any way, you will have to go through me first.”
“I have rights! I am the grandmother! I will get a lawyer!”
“Go ahead. Get a lawyer.” Lane waited for her reaction. Just hang up. No, you’ve got to let her focus her anger on you instead of Christine.
“I’m going to pray. God will tell me what to do.” Alison hung up.
Lane felt something akin to relief at finally saying what he’d wanted to say to his sister. Then he dialed the office of his lawyer, Tommy Pham.
“I don’t get it,” Lane said.
“What don’t you get?” Arthur sat across from him at their kitchen table. It was made of maple and had gathered an assortment of artifacts: an unused diaper, a letter addressed to Matt, a battery, a coffee cup, two light bulbs, three plates, a salad bowl.
The scent of salmon cooked with butter, maple syrup, and lemon juice filled the kitchen. Lane picked a piece of cucumber from the salad bowl, holding it in front of his mouth. “I don’t get the fact that I don’t hear from Alison for — what is it, three or four years? — and then she calls and goes crazy.”
“In Alison’s mind, Christine was supposed to be punished.” Arthur popped a forkful of salmon in his mouth. He looked at Sam, who sat next to him with an expression suggesting he hoped a morsel or two would come his way. Roz, their older dog, reclined on the throw rug in front of the sink.
“It’s crazy. The kid left Paradise. She was excommunicated. She’s supposed to be punished for the rest of her life?” Lane used a large spoon to put some salad on his plate.
“You’re supposed to be punished for the rest of your life.” Arthur covered his mouth, pointing his fork at his partner. “You were excommunicated from your family. You were supposed to be miserable without them. They probably expected you to have an epiphany and come back straight. You didn’t, so in their minds you continue to need to be punished. Why should Christine be any different?”
Lane shook his head. “This is fucked up.”
Arthur chuckled. “Now you get to see Indiana and Alison doesn’t. He’s her grandson, and you haven’t seen the light, changed your wicked lifestyle, left me. In her mind —” he pointed the fork at Lane and then at himself “— we’re the ones who’re fucked up.”
“But we’re no threat to anyone. Why is she so threatened?” Lane poured dressing on the fresh greens.
“There’s a new leader in Paradise. Your sister no longer has
the influence she once had.”
Lane shrugged. “Who told you this?”
“Christine. She still talks with some of the people who live or once lived in Paradise. The power Alison used to have is fading. Apparently she married this new guy named Milton after the other guy died of a heart attack. The younger wives have Milton’s ear. Now Alison finds out she has a grandson she can’t see, and she’s angry at you because your life is better than hers.” Arthur put another forkful of salmon in his mouth.
Lane shook his head. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not going to make sense. You’re upset because it’s your sister, you came from the same parents, you grew up in the same house, and you still don’t understand the way she thinks. The situation is not going to change, so you might as well think about something else. “Where’s Matt?”
“He insisted on picking up Alex at the airport.”
“I forgot. Alex gets in at what time?” Lane thought about how Christine would react to the arrival of her half-sister who shared the same father.
“She landed about two hours ago.”
“Where are they?” Lane looked out the window, seeing a cloud of white rising from the chimney of the neighbour’s furnace.
Arthur shook his head. “Alex is an aunt for the first time.”
“They’re at the hospital.”
“And she’s catching up with her sister,” Arthur said.
“They won’t be home any time soon, then.”
“Exactly.”
The front door opened and winter air flowed down the stairs. Lane felt the cold lick his ankles as they watched TV. Something heavy thumped the floor above them.
“I forgot. This is Canada. I have to take my boots off at the front door.” The voice was female with a slight Boston accent.
“It’s Alex!” Arthur threw off his comforter, sitting up on the couch. Lane stood up.
Sam yawned. Roz barked. Arthur followed Lane to the foot of the stairs.
Alex stood at the top, put her hand on the railing, and stepped down.
She looks like a Cossack princess. She was wearing a full-length grey Russian military coat with a double row of polished gold buttons. On her head, she wore a round faux-fur hat.
Alex floated down the stairs then embraced each of them.
Lane caught the scent of Jean Patou’s Joy. Only the best for you, girl.
“Hold me close, boys, this girl hasn’t been warm since she left the States!” Alex undid her coat. Matt took it for her, waiting for the hat. Alex flipped her hat over her shoulder without a backward glance, stepping into the centre of the room. Lane watched Matt retreat upstairs to the closet with Alex’s coat and hat.
Alex sat down in front of the gas fireplace, gathering her black skirt and tucking it between her legs. “Who is this handsome fellow?” Alex pointed at Sam, who was rolling on his back, his front legs pawing the air, his rear legs splayed.
“That’s Sam.” Matt reached the bottom step, sitting in the chair next to Lane. Alex rubbed Sam under the chin.
“Sam!” Matt stood up.
“That boy’s got his lipstick out.” Alex pulled her hand away. Matt shooed Sam upstairs.
“Isn’t my nephew the most gorgeous little man you’ve ever seen in your life?” Alex spread her arms, her black hair backlit by the fire.
She could be Christine’s twin. Well, if Christine were as much of a dame as Alex.
“We think he’s perfect.” Arthur pointed at Lane and Matt.
“He is that.” Alex leaned back, closing her eyes.
Lane saw the way Matt watched Alex and was oblivious to all else. Oh no!
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 22
chapter 3
“Anything new?” Lane stepped into the office.
Nigel’s face glowed blue against the reflected light of the computer screen.
Lane took off his winter jacket, tucking his black gloves into the sleeves before hanging it up. As he turned he saw Nigel frown, then lean back, reaching forward with his hands, tilting upright, tucking his head forward, and locking his fingers behind his head.
The knuckles are red. He’s been boxing again. Lane stood across from his partner and waited.
“The Randalls’ son and daughter are coming in tomorrow morning for an interview.” Nigel looked at the ceiling.
“What’s up?” Lane stepped closer to Nigel’s desk.
Nigel made eye contact. Lane almost recoiled at the intensity of Nigel’s rage.
“I’ve been doing some research.” Nigel looked to the right. Lane waited.
“There’s a series of similar events.” Nigel made eye contact again.
Lane stood still. This case is becoming a nightmare.
Nigel looked at the door. Lane turned and closed it.
“Netsky fucked up.” Nigel said it so matter-of-factly, and with such vehemence, it landed like a punch.
Lane sat in his chair, turning to face Nigel. “Explain.”
Nigel pointed at his computer screen. “I’ve done a cursory search on two databases. Approximately six months after the initial murder, there was a similar event in Toronto. Then six months after that, one in New York. And another in Playa del Carmen.”
“Where was the last one?”
Nigel frowned. “Mexican Riviera. Lots of Canadians holiday there in the winter.”
“So there have been four similar murders since Byron Thomas was convicted?”
Nigel nodded. “So far.”
Lane stared at the door. I remember the one in Mexico. It became a big story here. They arrested a local who killed himself in prison. “Any of them solved?”
“Just the one in Mexico.” Nigel rolled his eyes.
“Sensitive about tourism dollars?”
“Maybe. It’s hard for people up here to understand how it works down there.”
Lane waited and, when Nigel said no more, asked, “How does it work down there?”
Nigel looked into the distance within the room. “Part of it is about the belief fresas can afford it, so it’s okay to rip them off.”
“Fresas?”
“Strawberries. Wealthy, snobby, elitist, entitled tourists.”
“And?”
“Part of it is survival. Lots of jobs depend on a safe place for fresas to spend their money and support the local economy. Families go hungry if the tourists stop coming.”
“And investors lose money.”
Nigel nodded. “The same as here. People in power want to protect their money. There, the corruption is systemic, especially in the way many of the police operate. It creates an environment where justice is quick on the draw but often off the mark.”
“So it looks like maybe they found a patsy.”
“Just like we did.”
“Exactly.” And because we didn’t get it right the first time, more people are dead.
Nigel pointed at his computer screen. “There’s another interesting bit of information.”
“Okay.”
“Each of the dead couples has a residence in Calgary.”
“Any more connections?” Lane asked.
“That’s it so far except, of course, for the fact that all of the victims were well off.”
“You keep gathering up the details until we hear from Fibre.” He got up, walked to the door, opened it, and poked his head out.
Lori sat at her desk. She turned to face him with a nail file in her right hand.
“
Do you still have a contact at WestJet?” he asked.
Lori nodded, continuing to run the file over her nails. “No time to say good morning?”
Lane smiled.
“I’ll call Angela. You gonna get the paperwork rolling?” Lori finished her nails and set the file down.
“Nigel will get the dates to you, and I will get the paperwork for Angela.”
Lori picked up the phone with her right hand, dismissing him with her left. “Go on. I can do this without some big strong detective looking over my shoulder.”
Lane went back inside his office, noting Nigel’s smile, and got down to work.
I’m standing in front of the scene of Calgary’s latest homicide, discovered on Monday morning. Robert and Elizabeth Randall have now been identified as the couple found murdered in their home.
The Calgary Police Service has released no other details about the victims except to say the investigation is ongoing.
Robert Randall and his wife Elizabeth were well respected in the Calgary arts community. The couple shied away from the limelight but were strong supporters of various charities and initiatives in Calgary.
CUT TO JANE MANN, CALGARY ARTS COUNCIL “The Randalls were such lovely people. [pause] They gave generously to so many causes. Their loss is a tragedy, and they will be deeply missed.”
The surviving members of the Randall family have asked for privacy as they make funeral arrangements.
This is the fifth murder of a prominent Calgarian couple in the last three years.
Shazia Wajdan, CBC News, Calgary.
“He latched on right away this morning.” Christine sat in a chair next to Indiana’s crib. The IV stand supported a blue machine dispensing antibiotics. The medicine came from a clear plastic bag, snaking through a tube and ending in the needle entering the vein in the baby’s forehead. She adjusted the blanket draped over her shoulder, covering her breast and Indy’s face.