by Garry Ryan
“You’re awfully quiet.” Nigel peeled back some of the paper until one tip of the calzone was accessible.
“Thinking.” Lane unwrapped the top half of his calzone and bit. The blend of flavours — spiced Calabrese salami, tangy tomato sauce and melted buffalo mozzarella wrapped in pita bread — wiped every other thought from his mind.
“This is amazing,” Nigel said between bites.
Lane took another bite. Less bread meant more of the meat and sauce combination intensified the experience.
“Partyinthemouth.” Nigel’s mouth was full and the words were garbled into something vaguely obscene.
“Who you talkin’ ’bout?” Ronnie the cowboy moved to stand over Nigel.
Lane looked at the anger in Ronnie’s face and saw that Blair had his friend’s back. Lane spotted the hearing aid in Ronnie’s ear. The detective set his sandwich down and swiveled to face the pair. He stood up and wiped his lips with a napkin, then held out his hands. “A misunderstanding.”
“I’m talkin’ to him.” Ronnie pointed at Nigel and moved closer.
This would be laughable under normal circumstances, Lane thought as he caught the stink of rye whiskey on Ronnie’s breath.
“Blair! These are yours!” Everyone within half a block turned as Carlo stepped off the truck with a calzone in each hand. He was six feet tall and three feet wide. His brown eyes were black with foreboding.
The man is built like a brick. Carlo dwarfed the pair of cowboys as he handed them their calzones. He lifted his chin. “Who’s driving?” He looked at Blair.
“I am.” Blair reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys.
“Good. See you next time.” Carlo watched them walk over to the truck and climb inside.
Carlo turned to Lane and Nigel. “Christy said you guys wanted to talk with me about Brett.”
“That’s right.” Lane slid over to one side of the bench so Carlo could sit down. Still, Carlo’s shoulder rubbed up against Lane’s.
The pickup started up. The trio turned as the supercharged diesel wheezed, the tires spun and Ronnie flipped them the bird out the rear window, his finger framed inside the white outline of Cape Breton.
“Fuckin’ guys wouldn’t know which end of a horse was which. All they’d be good at is fallin’ off.” Carlo waved as the truck farted black smoke, the rear wheels shuddered and the pair pulled away.
“These calzones are awesome.” Nigel held up his and smiled.
Carlo smiled back. “My grandmother taught me how to make them from scratch. From dough to sauce and everything in between.”
“You’re lucky,” Nigel said.
“I know. She saved my life. Then Brett killed her after he got nearly fifty-five thousand out of her bank account. I went to Cancun for a holiday. Brett told her I had been arrested in Mexico and needed money to get out of jail. The day I got back, my grandmother was found dead. They said it was heart failure, but it wasn’t. Brett was covering his tracks. It was just too much of a coincidence that she died when she did. She would have talked to me about him. He must have known it so he killed her and then moved on.”
“Do you know of any other seniors residences where he worked?” Nigel asked with thumbs at the ready to enter the information on his phone.
Carlo lifted his left hand and counted off fingers with his right. “The Point in Edgemont, Floral Gardens on the east side, Buena Vista in the south, Scenic Settings in the west.”
“Who did you talk with?” Lane asked.
“You gotta understand, most of the seniors homes are owned by an outfit down east. They’re tomato counters.” Carlo exhaled slowly.
“Tomato counters?” Nigel looked up from the keyboard on his cell phone.
“Some guy down east decides they’re spending too much on food so the residents are told they can have only one cherry tomato per salad.” Carlo made eye contact with Lane. “I have kitchen connections. They tell me how things work.”
Lane lifted his chin. “You said your grandmother saved your life.”
Carlo nodded. His neck was as wide as his head. “When I was sixteen I was hanging around with Brett and some of the FKs. My aunt’s cousin was the resource officer at the school. She told my grandmother. She took me out of school and put me to work at the restaurant for a year. I worked six days a week for ten months. Then she put me into Saint Francis where I could play football and the family could keep an eye on me.”
“The family?” Nigel asked.
“Francis has lots of Italians. My grandmother has some connections. They watched who I was hangin’ with. After high school, she sent me to university where I played some more football and got my master’s.”
Nigel opened his eyes and pointed. “You were drafted into the CFL.”
Carlo nodded.
“What was your major?” Lane asked.
“MBA.”
Nigel asked, “How come you never played in the CFL?”
“My grandmother had seen other guys from Francis go pro and they all got pretty banged up. One still has problems with concussions. She said I would do better with my own business.” He pointed at the truck. “She bought it for me. Her restaurant did well.”
“These other places where Brett worked, what did you find out?” Lane took a sip of coffee and another bite of calzone.
Carlo leaned his head to the right. “Brett would arrive — you have to understand these places are crying for qualified staff — and charm everyone. Then a handful of seniors would get real quiet, some of the staff would get suspicious, there would be a cluster of deaths, usually attributed to heart attacks, and afterward some of the families would show up asking about money missing from their parents’ bank accounts.”
“Did you get a line on anyone working with Brett?” Lane asked.
“There is a rumour . . .” Nigel began.
Lane looked at Nigel. Wait!
“I’m not talking about rumours. I’m talking about what I know. Are you guys serious about this case? I mean, are you going to arrest Brett and then back off or are you going to fuckin’ solve this case?”
Lane looked right at Carlo. “We want to solve the case.”
Carlo looked around to see if there was anyone within earshot. “One of the FKs has something on an MLA. There is a private member’s bill before the legislature. It would allow a company from the States to open a couple of seniors homes. A few of the FKs want to move to Cuba. The first part of their plan is to invest in this American company. Then they can go to Cuba and live off the profits from their investment. It’s like freedom thirty-five for gangbangers.”
“How come you’re telling us all of this?” Lane asked.
“Christy told me you were asking around and she told me what happened to her cousin. I figure that if you find Brett before I do, it’ll save you tracking me down for murder.”
Lane laughed even though he knew Carlo wasn’t joking. He lifted the calzone. “Just when I was starting to enjoy this. I want to be able to come back for more.”
Carlo slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. He reached into his pocket and handed Lane a card. “In case you need to get in touch.”
Lane pulled a card out of the inside of his jacket pocket with his left, took Carlo’s card with the index and forefinger of his right. Then he stood up and moved closer to the man. “If you hear where Brett is, then let me know right away. I want you to be able to go back to Moraine Lake whenever you want.”
Carlo studied the detective for several seconds. “You’re the first person who recognized my favourite spot. Used to go there with the family for barbecues. My grandmother really knew how to do pork ribs on a wood fire.”
“Call me first,” Lane said.
Carlo nodded, then walked back to the truck.
Walter watched the Blue Jays turn a double play. The shortstop scooped up a grounder and in one graceful motion flipped the ball to the second baseman, who tagged the base and leaped into the air to avoid the sliding runner. In
midair, the second baseman threw the ball to first in time to beat the hitter. The runner slid face first into the base a tenth of a second too late. Walter lay in his bed and waited for the slow-motion replay. After yesterday’s shock, he needed to rest and recoup after lunch.
He looked over at Marvin, who was dying. They had a dove over his name outside the door. Every morning and evening the nurse would come to give Marvin a pain patch. Walter wondered if it was to make it easier for Marvin and his pain or easier for the staff because Marvin was more compliant when he was drugged. At least he’s not pissin’ all over the bathroom, Walter thought. Marvin’s Parkinson’s had caused him to piss more in the general direction of the toilet than in it. The guy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.
He spotted the approaching spring-loaded clogs. It was one of the things he’d noticed about Brett. That and the royal-blue pants and shirt. No one else in the institution wore either those shoes with the springs in their heels or that shade of blue uniform. Walter let his upper eyelids drop eighty percent of the way to his cheeks and waited.
Brett entered the room, glanced at Walter and then the TV. He walked to the window near the empty bed. Walter knew that Marvin’s bed would soon be taken by someone new. His only hope was that the new guy’s aim was better.
Brett turned from the window and stood next to Walter. He saw the hand reach for his orange juice. When the glass reappeared it was a quarter full. Brett gave Walter a predatory tap on the shoulder. The old man concentrated on remaining still until Brett left the room.
Walter opened his eyes in time to see the Blue Jays’ centre fielder stretched out at the warning track. The ball disappeared into the centre of his mitt. Then he slid in the sand and rolled onto his back with the glove held up and the ball inside. Anticipation. That is the key. Anticipation, focus and patience, Walter thought.
The germ of a plan formed in his mind. He felt alive for the first time in months and hoped the feeling would last long enough for him to die feeling that way. He looked over at Marvin and saw the skeleton that once was a man. Someone who had gone to war, survived, come home, raised a family and worked for over forty years. A dog wouldn’t be allowed to suffer like this. Why treat Marvin worse than a dog?
THURSDAY, JUNE 27
chapter 11
They watched a young woman cross the street. She wore a red dress made of sheer fabric. The sun shone down the street to reveal her black thong.
Gloria wore blue shorts, a white long-sleeved blouse and sandals. She asked, “Were you ever young and unaware?”
Lane thought about her question as he sipped his coffee. They sat outside at a round black metal table. It was a rare morning with the cool promise of plus thirty by noon.
She smiled. “I can’t remember either.”
Gloria seems to want to talk, so let her talk. He took another sip and watched her as she turned to face him. I wonder how she managed to hang onto her kindness after what her mother did to her?
“Looking after my baby’s remains has been on my mind for many years. I was taught that she couldn’t go to heaven because she wasn’t baptized. I don’t believe that anymore.” She frowned at the coffee in her paper cup as if it might help her to find the right words.
Lane waited.
“Seeing you in Varadero brought back so many of those memories.”
Lane nodded. We are both haunted by memories of that time.
“When I talked with Arthur, I found out you were also scarred by what happened to my baby.”
“You talked with Arthur?” Lane felt perspiration gathering under his arms and it wasn’t just because of the sun’s hand on his back.
“Yes. You were in Havana or Matanzas and I was having a margarita. He joined me and we began to talk.”
Lane lifted his chin. How come you didn’t tell me, Arthur?
“I thought that if my baby received a proper burial, maybe we could both feel a bit better about what happened.” She raised her eyebrows as if inviting a response.
“What can you tell me about how the baby died?”
Gloria looked out at the cars passing on the street. “I woke up after my mother had said she would look after my baby. When I got up my mother said the baby had stopped breathing. She said that happened to some babies. My mother told my brothers to bury her in the garden. I was crying. She told me to shut up, that I’d gotten myself into this mess and she would deal with it.”
“You said before that the child was murdered.”
Gloria nodded, turned to Lane and began to speak in a voice devoid of emotion. Its lack was revealing. “We put my mother in a home a few years ago. She was suffering from dementia. She started to talk about the baby girl she smothered and then had buried in the garden.”
Lane lifted his chin. How did you survive?
“It’s funny.” Gloria made an attempt to smile. “I often wondered if you would survive. You were nothing like anyone else in your family. Your sister and brother tormented you constantly, and your mother —”
“Was much like your mother.” Now my voice has gone monotone.
“I’ve done a lot of reading. I took classes at the university, mostly psychology. Hoping they would help me figure it all out. I came to the conclusion that you and I were in the same boat. We both had mothers who were sociopaths.”
She looked across the street at a cyclist who carried a clear plastic bag of cans and bottles slung over one shoulder. He swerved in between and around pedestrians. “How come we didn’t end up living on the street?”
Lane smiled and shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“I drove by the old house. There is still a garden in the backyard. I know where my baby is buried.”
Lane nodded. “I’m going to need to talk with your brothers.”
“To verify my story?” Gloria crossed her arms under her breasts.
“That, and for your protection.”
Gloria lifted her chin and frown lines appeared above her nose.
Give her a minute to put it together.
“That way I can’t be charged with murder?”
“That’s correct.”
“That thought hadn’t even occurred to me.”
Lane lifted his coffee with his right hand and raised his eyebrows. “That’s because you’re not in my line of work.”
“When and where do you want to meet my brothers?”
“Here,” Lane put the flat of his right hand atop the table. “This time tomorrow if possible. Do they still live in town?”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, they do.”
“Will you let me know if they can meet? Earlier is better.”
“You haven’t asked her name.”
Lane frowned and waited.
“Christine. Her name was Christine.”
It took Lane a moment before he was able to think. What would have happened to my Christine if Arthur and I hadn’t been there?
“I’ve been checking out Mi Casa Su Casa seniors residences. Someone has set up a site that lists the problems family members and residents have had with the company.” Nigel sat back and sipped the latte Lane had set in front of him.
Lane sat at his desk. “Is that the company from the States that’s trying to get into Alberta?”
“Yes, and it looks like they run quite the scam. You pay for your suite like you pay for a condo. Then after you die, the property reverts to MCSC. Residents still pay money each month for any and all services. Nobody in their right mind would buy into this.” Nigel pointed at the screen as he took a sip of coffee.
“Maybe the people who do sign up aren’t in their right minds.”
“This MCSC business model is structured to rip off old people every time they get up in the morning. It rips them off even if they don’t get up some morning.”
“If Carlo is right, then that’s why Mara was looking to buy in. The return on his investment would be very high.”
“So high that he could live on a tropical island, and live very wel
l.”
Lane nodded. “Like Cuba.” So it’s just another scam, only this one involves murder. I wonder if we’ll ever know how many victims there have been.
“Or Mexico, or even the Bahamas.”
“Who’s the politician behind the private member’s bill?”
“Bill Rogerson,” Nigel said.
Christ! The solicitor general. Lane leaned forward. “We need to talk with Harper.”
Ninety minutes later they sipped coffee and waited in Harper’s office. Lane looked out at the blue prairie sky, the river valley and the towers. The door opened, Harper rushed in and the door closed behind him. “What’s up?” He tossed his cap onto the shelf next to the window. His face was lean, his head was shaved and he’d lost the moustache. He shucked off his uniform jacket, hung it on the back of his chair and sat down.
“We need to bring you up to speed on a new case.” Lane put his coffee down and saw Nigel reach for the folder of information on the coffee table.
“Go.” Harper shook his head, got up from behind his desk and walked around to sit in one of the two remaining chairs at the coffee table.
“We’ve been tracking Brett Mara regarding the murder of his wife.” Slow down. This is Harper. No reason to be intimidated.
“The woman killed in Havana?”
“That’s right,” Nigel said.
Harper glared at the younger detective, then turned back to Lane. “Why are we investigating a Cuban crime?”
Lane took a breath. “Because we think Brett is back in town. Our investigation is uncovering claims he has been killing seniors. He runs a scam to get them to dip into their savings, then kills them to erase his trail. It also appears that he may be connected with Bill Rogerson.”
Harper sat back. “The solicitor general and minister of public security?”
Nigel said, “Kind of ironic if you think about it.”
Harper’s face turned red, then his scalp. He looked out the window and took a breath.