Matanzas

by Garry Ryan

  “She and Brett were boyfriend/girlfriend in high school. He got involved with the FKs and she told me she liked being a gangbanger’s girlfriend because nobody would dare fuck with her and she got a nice car to drive.” Lisa watched Lane’s reaction to her tell-it-like-it-is approach with an intensity that made him look away and smile. “What’s funny?”

  “I’m usually the one doing the sizing up.”

  “Sorry. Occupational hazard. I needed to get out of there. One of the FOBs was shot outside my office last week. I must still be coming down from it.”

  “I’m just catching up on what happened while I was away.”

  “Word got out that Roland Lee was at my office, texts were sent and they were waiting for him when he left the building. Two shots to the head.” She shrugged.

  “Brett Mara was involved?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Brett dropped off the grid four or five years ago. His friend was killed in a drive-by. Brett was in the same car and must have figured he was next. I still get reports of sightings, but nothing solid. It’s thought he and Camille are still together, though.”

  “Until about a week ago.” Lane drank his moccaccino and marvelled at the magic of chocolate on the tongue.

  “Lori said Brett is a person of interest in a killing. So it was Camille?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did you get to be involved?”

  “The Cuban police interviewed us all, then found out I was a homicide detective. We worked together a bit.”

  Lisa nodded. She frowned as she dipped the cookie into her coffee. She managed to get the soggy section of the cookie into her mouth before it disintegrated.

  “Any idea what Brett is into now?”

  “I did hear one rumour, but it was kind of out there.”

  Lane took a sip of coffee.

  “One of my clients said that he saw Brett at one of those seniors residences.”

  “Did he mention which one?”

  “Somewhere in the north. The client was a gang member who was visiting his grandmother. The client tried to get out of the gangs but was gunned down in a restaurant last month.” Lisa looked at Lane and shrugged. “Sometimes the aftermath of this violence gets to me.”

  What do I say to that?

  “I’ll check with some of my contacts and see if I can get a line on Brett.” Lisa dipped another corner of her cookie in the cup.

  Lane looked out the window at the people and their dogs sitting near the sidewalk. Most people live their lives without any firsthand experience of gangs or violence. Sometimes I wish I were one of them.

  Lane stepped back into the office. Lori was away from her desk. He stepped closer to the open door of the office he shared with Nigel, who was saying, “I’m not sure what time I’ll get off work. Can I phone you when I know?”

  Lane stepped into his office. Nigel leaned back in his chair, held his cell phone in his left hand and worked the computer mouse with his right. He lifted his chin in greeting to Lane, who sat down at his desk and switched on his computer. “Love you too,” Nigel said and hung up.

  “No.” Lane felt a mixture of fear and anger boiling up inside of him. Not this time. It’s too dangerous.

  “What?” Nigel looked at Lane.

  “You’re not going to get Anna to help us track Mara down.” Lane pointedly made direct eye contact with his partner. Anna, Nigel’s girlfriend, had helped them in the past, although always unofficially.

  Nigel looked away and fiddled with the collar of his shirt.

  “Anna has been good for you, and I assume you’ve been good for her. Your style has certainly improved.” Lane pointed at the colourful shirt Anna had bought for Nigel. “We’re dealing with gangbangers. They have their own rules. They have eyes and ears in unexpected places. Some of them are cold-blooded killers. There are no rules as far as some of these guys go. If Mara or his buddies get an inkling Anna is looking into their operation, she’ll be a target.”

  “It was about a post office box.” Nigel scratched his cheek.

  Lane waited.

  “I’ve spent the last hour tracking down last known addresses and the one on his vehicle registration. They’re all bogus. The only lead I have right now is a post office box. Anna was going to take a look.”

  Lane shook his head. “I said no. It could put her in danger. If you know where the PO box is, then we’ll head out there and talk to the employees. I have a lead that Mara may be working at a seniors residence. We can work on both of those.”

  Nigel blushed.

  “The last time I tracked down a gangbanger, he kidnapped Matt and Harper’s little girl.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” Lane heard the quiet anger in his voice.

  Nigel took a breath and released it slowly.

  “Call Anna right now. I want to talk with her.” Lane crossed his arms and waited.

  Nigel picked up his phone and began to dial.

  “Sorry it took so long. The longer I do this, the busier it gets.” Harper came around from behind his desk and shook Lane’s hand. “How was the wedding, and your holiday?” Harper wore his dress uniform. The jacket hung on the back of his chair. The top of his desk was scattered with multicoloured files. Lane could see Post-it notes stuck all around the edges of his computer monitor. He also saw that Cam’s belly stretched tight against his belt and his hair was trimmed short, due, at least in part, to an ever-expanding bald spot.

  Lane felt the firm grip of his friend’s hand, squeezed back and smiled.

  “Well?” Cam asked.

  “The wedding went off with a hitch or two, but it went off.” Lane smiled at the memory of the sun, Christine in her wedding gown and Indiana in his tiny tux.

  Harper used his right hand to indicate that they should sit in the leather chairs arranged in a circle around a knee-high coffee table. “What happened?”

  Lane sat. “Mother-in-law drama and a murder.”

  “Someone murdered Christine’s mother-in-law?”

  Lane laughed until he wheezed, then began to cough. “I’m sure that more than one person was tempted, but no, it wasn’t her. Arthur and I went on a tour to Havana. One of the guys on the bus shoved his wife into what’s called a moto volqueta. She died of head injuries. We were able to track down a photograph of the husband shoving her. The Cuban police have a copy of the photograph.”

  “What the hell’s a moto volqueta?” Harper leaned back in his chair.

  “Like a tiny dump truck with a box out front.”

  Harper tapped his fingertips together.

  “The husband’s name is Brett Mara. He used to belong to the FKs.”

  Harper leaned forward and his eyes narrowed.

  “He left Cuba somehow, and we’re working on the assumption that he’s either back here or on his way.”

  “Any leads?”

  Lane shook his head. “No fixed address.”

  “You need protection for your family.” Harper stood up and went to his desk.

  Lane nodded. You don’t need to remind him what happened last time.

  Harper picked up his phone and pressed a button. He looked at Lane.

  This job has aged him.

  “Mark? I’ve got a priority for you.” Harper nodded at Lane. “I want twenty-four-hour surveillance for a homicide detective’s home and family.” He hung up. “Now you won’t have to worry.”

  When it’s family, you always worry.

  Lane opened the door. Sam poked his nose around the corner, then moved into a downward dog. Even his tongue curled. Lane rubbed the side of the dog’s head and scratched him behind the ear. Sam raised his right hind leg and scratched a rib. A clump of hair was dislodged and floated to the floor. “Come on outside!” Lane said and went to the back door so Sam could shed in the yard. He closed the door and listened to the silence. Everyone must be asleep. I wonder how long it will take for them to spot the unmarked vehicles? He opened
the fridge door, grabbed a sweating jug of lemonade and went looking for a glass. He could hear Arthur snoring as he drank the lemonade.

  Sam scratched at the door. Lane opened it and Sam sat. Lane closed the door, put his glass down on the counter, went to the closet and grabbed the leash.

  Five minutes later they were walking along a sidewalk running between backyard fences. They walked through an opening and followed the sidewalk that paralleled John Laurie Boulevard. Lane found his mind settling into the rhythm of the walk and began to relax. Traffic whispered by. A Jeep rolled by with its top down, a man driving and a pair of toddlers strapped into car seats in the back. A motorcycle crackled. Its rider wore a red mask over his face, a red helmet, red leather jacket and pants. His knees were at right angles from the gas tank. Looks like Spider-Man. A silver BMW sedan approached. Its windows were heavily tinted. The car slowed down and signaled a move into the nearest lane. Lane’s breathing slowed. He waited for a window to roll down. He glanced left at the six-foot fence. He forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. The car rolled on by. Lane looked over his shoulder and watched the BMW stop at the traffic light. Brett Mara doesn’t know you exist. Keep it that way. No one in that car was trying to hurt you or your dog. Be ready for the real threats, not the imagined ones.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 25

  chapter 9

  “I’ve got a line on Brett Mara — or in this case, Brett Livingston.” Nigel was waiting in the office with a set of car keys dangling between his thumb and forefinger.

  Lane held the door to the office open, then followed Nigel after he walked through.

  “On the hunt?” Lori asked.

  Nigel waved at her as he said, “We’re going to Floral Gardens on the east side.”

  It was a twenty-five-minute drive out of downtown, onto Memorial Drive, along the particular madness of Deerfoot Trail, turning east up the hill along the Trans-Canada Highway to the ever-expanding edge of the city. Lane spotted the building just beyond an overpass. The two-storey green-and-white structure was similar to a condo building or roadside motel. Nigel turned off the highway, along a two-lane road and then onto the driveway leading to a parking lot. The sign read Floral Gardens Seniors Residence. Nigel parked in the visitors parking. They got out and walked toward the automatic sliding doors and then were stopped by another pair of doors. Nigel held up his badge, pressed the button on the wall and waited as the receptionist looked up from behind her desk. The door slid open and she waited. Her hair was long, sleek and black. Her face was oval shaped, and her dark eyes watched them with minor interest. She flicked her hair over her shoulder revealing neon-blue nails. “Can I help you?”

  Nigel tried to speak but croaked.

  “We’d like to see the manager, please.” Lane smiled.

  “And who should I say is waiting?” The young woman lifted her phone and glanced sideways at Nigel, who blushed.

  “Detectives Lane and Li.” Lane looked at the lineup of seniors waiting patiently at the dining room doors.

  “Two detectives to see you.” The receptionist looked at her silver watch. Several gold bracelets jingled and she looked lazily at Nigel.

  The time is displayed on her computer. Why is she looking at her watch?

  She said, “It’s five minutes before the doors open for breakfast.”

  They heard the click of heels on tiles, quickly muffled by carpet as a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, a pinstriped suit jacket, a knee-length skirt and a blistering smile walked up to the detectives. She turned to the receptionist and said, “Thank you, Anita.” The woman faced Lane and Harper, then extended her hand. “I’m Laura Mancuzi.”

  She has a firm, practised grip and manicured fingernails, maintains eye contact and smiles. I don’t trust her.

  “Follow me.” She turned and walked past the line of seniors waiting for breakfast. “Good morning, Mr. Markham,” she said as she passed a white-haired man leaning forward on his walker. A man about five metres away turned, looked at her with a wry sideways glance and said, “Markham was deaf as a post and he died last week!” Mancuzi didn’t miss a beat as she walked down a carpeted hallway to a heavy wooden door.

  This place is every shade of green, Lane thought as he followed her and noted the knots of muscle in the backs of her calves. She either runs or works out.

  She opened the door. Her name was embossed in gold on the dark oak. “After you.”

  She waited for Lane and Nigel to sit down in a pair of heavy oak chairs before going to sit behind an oak desk the size of a queen-sized bed. “You have some questions.”

  Lane said, “We understand you have a Brett Livingston working for you.”

  “We did about six months ago.” Mancuzi tapped her mouse and looked at her computer screen.

  “Do you know where he works now?” Lane asked.

  Tiny pressure lines appeared around Mancuzi’s lips as she shook her head side to side.

  “Do you have an address for him?” Lane asked.

  Mancuzi looked at her screen, moved her mouse and tapped. “Twenty-six Canyon Crescent NW.”

  Nigel tapped at the screen of his smartphone as he wrote the address down.

  “How long did he work here?” Lane asked.

  Mancuzi lifted two freshly plucked eyebrows. “Two years.”

  “Was he close to any of the other staff?” Lane asked.

  “Kept to himself,” Mancuzi said.

  “Could you give us any insight into why he left?” Lane asked.

  Mancuzi looked at the ceiling. “I think he found a job closer to home.”

  Lane saw the line of sweat between the makeup on her forehead and her hairline. He stood up. Time to make a point. “A detective will contact you again tomorrow. At that time, you will be more forthcoming with information.” He stood up and left the office.

  Nigel hurried to catch up. “What was that all about?”

  They passed though the foyer. Anita watched them with more than passing interest. The doors swished open. Lane turned right and headed for the Chev. He spotted a business card tucked under the windshield wiper. He walked over to the passenger side, took off his jacket and set it on the hood of the car. Nigel walked to the driver’s side. Lane adjusted the collar of his shirt, picked up his jacket and the business card, then climbed inside. Nigel started the engine and they both opened their windows to let out the heat. Lane locked his seat belt and glanced at the card. “We have a meeting later today.”

  “Where?” Nigel looked over his shoulder as he reversed. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Mancuzi was lying to us to protect her little empire.”

  “Okay. She was way too smooth. So, where are we going?”

  Lane held the card between his thumb and forefinger. “A kitchen renovation company after we check Brett’s address.”

  “This is the address Mancuzi gave us.” Nigel checked the address he’d written down on his phone. “Twenty-six Canyon Crescent NW.” He looked at the freshly poured basement. Parallel floor joists reached across the concrete walls. Nigel shifted into park and kept the air conditioning running. They looked at the houses on either side. One was numbered twenty-two and the other was thirty. “They look to be about fifty years old and nicely renovated.” Mature trees grew in front of the neighbouring houses.

  “We’d better check and see if the neighbours remember Brett.” Lane opened his door.

  “For all the good it will do,” Nigel said.

  In ten minutes they knew that neither of the neighbours had ever met Brett or Camille.

  They found Phoenix Kitchens in Highfield behind a yellow refuse container the size of a wartime house. The one-time industrial area was being remodelled into a haven for small businesses and manufacturers.

  “How did you know how to find this place?” Nigel nosed the Chev in on the right side of the container.

  “Summer job.” Lane got out of the passenger side and looked at the two-storey cinderbrick-and-glass building behind the yell
ow bin. There was a hollow thunk as someone on the roof of the building threw a piece of wood down into the container.

  “Shit!” Nigel jumped at the sound, slipped around the front of the vehicle and looked up to see if there was any more incoming debris.

  Lane looked at the front doors and saw a paper sign taped to the front door. An arrow pointed right. He walked over the fresh black pavement, up onto a concrete step, and opened the door. The drywall of the stairway was freshly taped and sanded, ready for paint. He went up the stairs to the second floor where a plywood floor spread out into something of an open office with second-hand furniture occupying four corners of the room. At each desk sat one person. Each had black hair. Each wore casual clothing. Only one made eye contact with Lane. The man looked to be about thirty, was over six feet tall, had neatly trimmed black hair and wore a blue golf shirt and navy-blue slacks. He stood up from behind his desk, walked toward Lane and extended a hand. “Welcome to Phoenix Kitchens. Sorry about the mess. I’m Neville.”

  Lane shook Neville’s hand. “Anita asked us to meet with her.”

  A voice carried down the hallway to their right.

  Nigel shook Neville’s hand and turned at the sound of the voice on their right.

  Lane gripped his earlobe and made eye contact with Nigel. He’s got it. It was their signal for Nigel to pretend that he couldn’t understand what was being said. Lane guessed that the voice in the hallway was speaking Cantonese or Mandarin.

  Anita stepped out into the hallway followed by a shorter woman wearing black pants and a top made of colourful red fabric bought on sale and sewed at home. She was at least sixty and looked at the detectives with frank distrust.

  Anita said, “These are the men who came to the ask questions at Floral Gardens. This is my Aunt Rose.”

  Aunt Rose stepped into the middle of the room. Even though she was a head shorter than anyone else, she was obviously in charge. The others deferred to her. It was written all over their body language as they took a step back or lowered their eyes. Rose crossed her arms under her breasts.