by Garry Ryan
Here we go. These two can’t stand to be in the same room. I should have come here on my own. Lane looked sideways at Nigel, who tried to smile and failed.
“Are you two up for this?” Harper looked at Lane and then at Nigel.
The question from his former partner startled Lane.
“The shooting was what, six months ago? You were cleared. But you look a bit worse for wear. I need to ask —” Harper held his palms open and there was an apology in his eyes.
“Look. I thought about shooting Cori Pierce in the head while I had her cuffed and the snow was all around. My toes were screaming as they warmed up and she kept whining about how her husband forced her. I figured she might pull a Homolka and make a deal. McTavish pulled up and put her in the other truck and that made the decision for me.” Lane looked at Harper and then at Nigel. They both look stunned. “I haven’t told that to anyone, including the shrink. I still get flashbacks, especially when I do some practice shooting.”
Harper looked at the ceiling. “I just came from a meeting. Cori Pierce’s trial starts next week. Donna Chiu will be testifying. I ran into her. She says her boys are back to normal. The older one is playing his guitar and the younger one is into hockey. She wanted me to say hello and thanks to the pair of you.”
“She’s a tough one,” Nigel said.
“She’s a mother who appreciates what you did for her kids.” Harper stared right at Lane.
“Can we get this fucking Mara guy off the street before he kills someone else?” Lane asked.
Harper smiled. “So I guess you are doing okay.” He turned to Nigel and asked, “Have you got his back? Cori Pierce should never have been allowed to leave Donna’s house. I wanna know that it won’t happen again.” He pointed at Lane without taking his eyes from Nigel. “He got me out after I was shot on some crazy asshole’s front step. My partner at the time hid behind the blue and white waiting for backup while I was bleeding. The shooter was on the other side of the door with his rifle. Lane walked up, dressed my wound and got me the hell out of there. I wanna know that you’ve got his back because it’s a safe bet this case will get nasty.”
Nigel nodded and looked at the floor.
“The reason you’re still here is because Lane vouched for you. He says you did what you were trained to do. You hear me?”
Nigel nodded.
Enough of this! Lane thought. “Back off, Cam. Nigel did exactly what needed to be done in that situation. I trust him. There was no collateral damage. Now, can we work on getting this guy off the street, please?”
Harper nodded. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out about Rogerson.”
Lane got up and shook Harper’s hand. There was the briefest of smiles on his face. He was playing me!
“You understand I had to ask.” Harper looked Lane in the eye.
Lane smiled and nodded.
When they reached their car parked on the street, Nigel asked, “Why did you smile and shake his hand?”
Lane opened the passenger door and got in. He waited for Nigel to get behind the wheel, then said, “He was doing his job, seeing if you and I were still on our game. If this case means we are going after the solicitor general, then Harper will be in it up to his eyebrows. He was making sure we are okay after the shooting. He knows what it’s like because it took him a while to recover after he was wounded. Now, we need to see Fibre.” Fibre — more formally Dr. Colin Weaver — was head of the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. Lane pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to dial the doctor’s number.
“Thank you.” Nigel put on his seat belt and started the car.
“I explained already. You didn’t fire because you weren’t supposed to. You followed your training. Harper wasn’t there. You and I were. We did what had to be done.” Lane leaned back and closed his eyes. He was struck by a flashback of the bullet hitting Pierce’s eye and his body falling. The blood on the floor. Two boys screaming. The stink of urine. Lane opened his eyes. “We need to get some Crave Cupcakes.”
“For Fibre?”
Lane nodded.
“I thought he liked Nanaimo bars.” Nigel looked over his shoulder and backed up.
“We have two favours to ask this time.” Lane looked down the road as traffic collected at a red light. “We need to sweeten the deal.”
Nigel shoulder checked and pulled out. “Kensington and then Foothills?”
Lane nodded.
“You’re gonna give the guy type-two diabetes.” Dr. Weaver had the physique of a male model.
Lane smiled. “Everyone needs at least one guilty pleasure.”
“So we’re stopping for a coffee at the same time?”
“That’s right. We’ve got some thinking to do.”
After picking up a dozen Crave Cupcakes, they stopped for lunch at Kienna in Kensington. They sat just inside the door and near the window. Lane had a croissant and Nigel had a sandwich. Lane finished about half the croissant and waited until he saw that Nigel had a mouthful of food. He said, “When I was six or seven, the girl next door had a baby. I used to hear the baby crying when I was in my room. One night I even saw the baby with its mother. She was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen.”
Nigel nodded, chewed and watched his partner.
A two-year-old girl in pink shorts and a purple top pounded across the wood floor followed by her white-bearded grandfather. Lane smiled at the scene. “A couple of months later, I saw her brothers digging a hole in the back garden. I asked my mother about it and she took a belt to me. The rest of that summer there was a smell in the air — especially after their dog dug a hole back there. I didn’t recognize the smell until my first murder investigation. Anyway, I ran into the baby’s mother in Cuba and she asked if I could help give the baby a proper burial. I agreed to help.”
Nigel wiped his lips with a napkin. “That’s the second thing you need to ask Fibre?”
Lane nodded and took another bite of croissant.
“Okay. I’m in.”
They met Fibre twenty minutes later in his antiseptic office where three framed drawings hung on the right-hand wall: one piece of original art by each of his triplets. Fibre sat behind his glass-topped desk, perfectly groomed with manicured hands atop a sheet of paper as if the nails were set out to dry. Parenthood certainly appears to agree with him. He’s still got a full head of blond hair. Lane glanced at the photographs of the triplets. And each one has his blue eyes.
Nigel set the dozen assorted cupcakes on the nearest edge of the desk.
Fibre leaned forward and pulled the cupcakes to his side of the desk. He looked at Lane. “How are you feeling?”
I can’t remember him asking me a question like that before. “I’m okay.”
“That’s not really an answer.” The doctor undid the ribbon wrapped around the clear plastic cupcake container.
Just give it to him straight up. “I’m learning to live with being a killer. On a logical level I understand that I did what needed to be done to protect a family and myself. On an emotional level I sometimes wonder what separates me from the people I hunt.”
Nigel remained uncharacteristically silent. Fibre lifted his head. “Which is the predominant response, logic or emotion?”
Lane shrugged. “Depends on the day.”
Fibre picked out an angel food cupcake with strawberry icing and popped it in his mouth. He chewed, studied the detectives, reached for a tissue, spat the paper cupcake wrapper into it, rolled the tissue into a ball, leaned over and dropped it in the garbage.
Don’t smile! And for damn sure, don’t laugh, Lane thought. He felt a giggle tickling him somewhere near his lowest rib. He coughed into his hand. “We have a suspect who may be preying on the elderly in seniors residences. Would you be willing to look at some deaths to see whether they may have been misdiagnosed as myocardial infarctions?”
Fibre picked up a chocolate cupcake with chocolate icing. This time, he carefully peeled off the paper cup before popping the delicacy in his mouth.
He covered his mouth with his right hand. “Yes.”
“Nigel will be your contact?” Lane took a deep breath. Hang on! Don’t laugh!
Fibre closed his eyes and nodded.
Hurry up! “Also, I’d like you to look into a cold case. I believe we know where the body of an infant is buried in a backyard. I was hoping you would help with the exhumation. The mother is requesting a proper burial.”
Fibre opened his eyes and took a long look at the drawings on the wall. He reached to pick up and unwrap another chocolate cupcake. He closed the container with his free hand and popped the treat in his mouth with the other, then looked at Lane. “Get me the specifics and as accurate a location as possible. How many years have passed?”
“Nearly forty,” Lane said.
Fibre chewed, then licked his fingers, opened a drawer and pulled out a wet wipe. He carefully cleaned each finger. “We may need some ground radar.”
“Thank you.” Lane stood up but did not offer his hand until Fibre did. They shook. “How are the kids?”
Fibre beamed. “Beautiful.” He tapped the box of cupcakes. “Crave Cupcakes are their favourite.”
Lane followed Nigel out of the office and onto the elevator. They rode down in silence, did not make eye contact as they walked outside, kept their eyes on the car as they crossed the street and got inside the Chev.
Nigel looked at Lane. “I thought you were going to choke when he spat out the cupcake wrapper.”
Lane smiled and began to laugh. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to do that.
Nigel started the engine. “Where to?”
“Where’s Carlo right now?”
Nigel pulled out his phone, tapped it a couple of times, checked the Street Food app, then said, “We might just make it. He’s over by Deerfoot.”
Fifteen minutes later, they spotted Carlo’s Calzones parked in a line of food trucks east of a warehouse and behind a couple of metal shipping containers. Carlo was lowering the awning. He turned as they parked next to one of the containers and got out of the Chev. The pink Fries and Dolls food truck beeped its horn as it drove away. Carlo waved, then turned to Lane. “What’s up?”
Lane said, “A couple of things.”
Carlo walked to the front of the truck and leaned on the glacial-blue fender.
Lane moved to within a metre of the man who smelled of cheese, tomato sauce and cooking oil. Carlo smiled. “I know, I smell like a calzone.”
Nigel laughed.
“I want you to check our list of seniors residences. I want to see which ones you’re sure he’s worked at already. That way we can shorten our list.” Lane looked over his shoulder at Nigel, who had his handheld computer out so that Carlo could read the screen.
Carlo leaned over to see the list, then lifted his chin at Lane. “Were you the cop who shot that university prof who was going to kill that family?”
Lane nodded. Where’s he going with this? “That’s correct.”
“The trial of his wife begins next week.” Carlo studied Lane.
“Again, correct.”
Carlo looked at Nigel’s list, back at Lane, then at the graffiti on the container. He took about ten seconds, then asked, “Will this be a two-way sharing of information?” His finger pointed at the detectives, then at his own chest.
Lane shook his head. “Probably not. But I will let you know when we have him in custody.”
Carlo pulled his phone out of his pocket. “What’s your phone number and e-mail?”
Lane told him and he entered the information.
Carlo continued. “I checked on some of the other information. I don’t know what Brett and his buddy have on the politician, but the word is that he’s the FKs’ puppet. It’s kind of funny when you think about it: the guy in charge of law and order is working for a gang.”
Nigel didn’t smile. “Fuckin’ hilarious.”
Lane asked, “Can I borrow your phone?”
Carlo shook his head. “No.”
“Then show me while you put my cell number on your favourites. And I want your assurance you will call me first whenever you get more information.” Lane took a half step closer to Carlo, who stopped leaning and glared at the officer. “Your grandmother looked after you and now I’m looking after you. That’s the way you need to see this. I don’t want you to get into trouble by taking care of this on your own.”
Carlo smiled and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “What is your number again?” He entered Lane’s phone number, then turned to Nigel. “Let’s see that list.”
Walter felt his body humming with anxiety as he watched the blonde-haired woman of about forty set up the pen for the rabbits. She prepared the square course once a week to give the rabbit pair some exercise and to provide some entertainment for residents and guests. Walter had had Penny dress him in his best tan sweatpants and a white shirt. He smiled when he spotted the two children entering the south entrance of the atrium. The boy, dressed in blue shorts, red T-shirt and a blue ball cap, stopped to watch the rabbits. His blonde sister wore pink shorts, a pink top and pink shoes. She bounced as she ran and headed for the bench, pulled herself up and began to swing. Stacey, her mother, rushed over before the bench and the toddler ended up in the foliage. Another family arrived. The granddaughter was about six years old and carried a grey stuffed rabbit. She leaned over the enclosure and squeezed the grey rabbit. It announced, “I’m Thumper!”
Staff member Laura walked past with Shauday. They both wore purple tops and pants with white running shoes. Today they wore their black hair long. It reached past their shoulder blades. Walter smiled at the pair. They smiled back, then walked past to sit under a palm tree where they could eat lunch and chat.
Walter turned back to watch Stacey set the toddler on her feet. Stacey looked to be about thirty, had long black hair with a streak of grey and wore black pants and a blue top. She went over and sat next to Cora, whose hair was tightly curled and silver white. Her husband had died last year, and her granddaughter brought the great-grandkids out on “rabbit days.”
Walter couldn’t hear what they were saying even though he had his hearing aids in. He watched intently and cursed that he’d forgotten to ask Penny to clean his glasses. The toddler climbed up into her mother’s lap as the boy leaned in close to watch the rabbits hop their obstacle course.
Walter looked left and saw Brett watching Cora, Stacey and the kids. There was a smile on his lips as he leaned against the wall and stacked the heel of one clog atop the toe of the other. The kindness of Brett’s round, welcoming face was betrayed by the dark predatory green in his eyes.
Cora began to breathe quickly. Her eyes closed and she slumped forward. Stacey reached out and caught her before she could fall to the cement. “Help me!” Walter saw the fear in Brett’s eyes when he stood up straight, then launched himself forward. He took Cora and set her down on the ground on her back. Stacey watched with her daughter as Brett began CPR.
Soon Laura and Shauday were there. One put a cushion under Cora’s head. The old woman’s eyes blinked open. Walter could see her face looking up from between Laura’s white shoes. He read Cora’s lips when she asked, “Am I in hell?”
Lane had his sports jacket over his shoulder as he finished the forty-minute walk home from the LRT station. The sun was low in the sky yet he could still feel the heat of the day radiating up through the soles of his feet. He looked ahead at his house where mugo pines grew underneath the dining room windows. The street was unusually empty of vehicles. Looks like no one’s home.
Lane went up the steps and saw Sam watching him through the living room window. It was open and he could hear the dog’s tail slapping against the back of the leather chair. Lane smiled as he opened the door. The dog is always glad to see me.
He looked down and saw there were no shoes at the front door. He kicked off his shoes, then scratched Sam behind the ear. “How’s my boy?”
He hung his jacket in the closet and walked into the kitchen, r
ight into a crowd of family and friends. “What the hell?”
Christine held Indiana on her hip and said. “You had no idea, did you, detective?”
“It’s your birthday!” Arthur said.
Lane felt his mouth fall open. It is! Christ, I forgot!
Matt said, “We all chipped in and got you this.” They stepped aside to expose a pair of boxes wrapped in silver paper.
“What is it?” Lane asked.
Dan said, “We’re all waiting for a cup.”
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Arthur had one hand on his hip and pointed a finger with the other.
Lane blushed as he reached for Indiana, who tucked his head next to Lane’s neck. “How are you today?”
Matt said, “We decided on a small party. I hope that’s okay.”
Lane nodded. “Small is better.”
Christine lifted one of the boxes onto the kitchen table. “Hurry up. We want to see what you think.”
Lane settled Indiana onto his right hip and tore at the silver wrapping paper with his left hand. Underneath the paper were the words Rancillio and espresso. He looked around at the expectant faces. “How did you know I’ve wanted one of these?”
Christine rolled her eyes. Arthur looked sideways at his partner and crossed his arms. Matt laughed out loud. Dan shook his head and asked, “You’re kidding, right?”
Lane moved to the second package, pulled at the wrapping and saw that it contained a coffee grinder. Matt pulled the grinder out of its package and Dan did the same with the shiny new espresso machine. Within five minutes they had both machines set up and sitting on the blue pearl granite counter.
Arthur said, “Come on, we’ve got a reservation for dinner.”
They travelled downtown in two vehicles and parked out front of Lane’s favourite Italian restaurant. Lane remembered Nina, the owner’s daughter. She had been terrifically shy around almost everyone through junior high, but began to talk to Lane in grade ten. He remembered the taste of the ham and pineapple pizza Nina’s mother used to make and the Orange Crush he would always drink with his food.
Arthur parked in front of Pulcinella and waited for the kids to arrive. Sam, the manager, wore a white shirt, black slacks, close-trimmed black hair and a five o’clock shadow on a round face. He smiled and asked, “Reservation?”