by Garry Ryan
Penny nodded and smiled. “She could always make you smile.”
Walter lifted his chin in Cora’s direction. “What’s wrong with her?”
Penny looked over her shoulder, then turned back to face Walter before she said, “I don’t know. Maybe Brett will be able to make her feel better.”
“Where is Cora’s eldest granddaughter?”
Penny set the emery board down. “I think she’s gone for a holiday in Mexico.”
Walter shuddered when he remembered the front-page picture of his daughter and the headline CALGARY WOMAN MURDERED IN MEXICO.
Penny’s cheeks turned red and she watched Walter’s face to read his expression. She touched his arm. “Sorry, Wally.”
Walter shrugged and studied Cora’s eyes while she watched Brett and nodded at what he was saying. Walter read her lips as she said, “I can get the money tomorrow.”
Freddy McQuade rolled up beside Walter, who looked over at the ancient man and said, “I thought you were dead.”
Freddy’s weight had dropped to about one hundred twenty pounds. He reminded Walter of a Holocaust survivor wearing a Stephen Harper toupee. Freddy revealed a mouthful of whitened teeth, then said, “Fuck you, Wally! I’m havin’ a good day!”
Walter smiled. Penny said, “Good to see you, Freddy.”
“Not for long!”
Penny looked over at Brett, who was waving her closer. She got up and walked over to sit on the other side of Cora.
Walter reached inside his shirt and leaned close to Freddy. He held out the white fentanyl packet with the purple lettering. “I need another one!”
Freddy focused on the packet and watched as Walter tucked it away. He looked at his old friend and asked, “What for?”
Walter raised his eyebrows and smiled.
Freddy shrugged. “Okay.”
Lane parked just in front of the yellow tape running from a fence post across the alley and around a telephone pole. The white-and-blue-striped forensics van was parked between two garages and another stretch of tape. They were one house south of the home Lane had grown up in. The detective got out of the Chev and looked over the fence at the corner window that had been his bedroom. He walked alongside the van. The soles of his shoes crunched on the gravel. Memories and their accompanying emotions were overwhelming.
“Over here.”
Lane stopped and looked up at Fibre. He leaned on a cedar fence in his white bunny suit. “Find anything?” Lane asked.
“About one metre down. The mother told me the child was buried in a metal container. I used a metal detector. Didn’t need ground radar like I first thought.” Fibre pointed at a black body bag. It was flat at both ends but the middle was round.
My mother used to keep her flower and sugar in metal bins. “Was the container white?”
“Yes. It was white on the inside of the lid.” Fibre studied Lane. “You look pale.”
Lane inhaled slowly, then took as long to exhale. He looked up at the window of his room and had a flashback of his mother swinging the leather belt. His right hand felt for the small of his back. “I only asked her what happened to the baby.”
“What?” Fibre asked.
Lane saw the hole in Pierce’s eye socket after the bullet hit. He stepped back and put one hand on the hood of the van. There was a kind of brilliant haze in his eyes, making it impossible to see what was directly in front of him. It was followed by a powerful wave of nausea.
“Detective?”
Lane heard Fibre’s voice. About thirty seconds later the doctor had Lane under the arms and was sitting him down. A sharp piece of gravel dug itself into Lane’s right butt cheek. He lifted his cheek, dug out the stone and tossed it. It smacked against the fence.
It took twenty minutes for the medical examiner’s van to arrive and for Fibre to return the scene to its former condition. He parked Lane’s car out on the street, then drove the forensics unit van north and west. Lane sat in the passenger’s seat with his hand over his eyes. He winced when the van hit a bump.
“The acetaminophen should help with the pain, but you still need to go home and sleep. When you wake up you will feel much better.” Fibre turned onto Sarcee Trail and accelerated. “Do you get migraines very often?”
“Almost never.” Lane peeked out between his fingers to see they were headed down the long hill into the Bow River valley. The pain was sharper now, and he closed his eyes. “I owe you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Fifteen minutes later, Fibre pulled up in front of Lane’s house, got out of the van and helped the detective up the stairs.
The door opened. Through the haze of pain, Lane heard Christine ask, “What do you want?”
“He’s helping me out,” Lane said.
Fibre said, “I think he has a migraine. I’ve given him acetaminophen. He needs rest.”
Lane grabbed Christine’s wrist. Her gentle and usually pleasing perfume almost made him gag. He covered his mouth. “Thank him for me, please.”
“No way!”
She still remembers her fight with Fibre. Lane turned, opened his eyes, stepped out onto the front step and spotted Fibre at the front of the van. “Thank you!” Then Lane leaned over the railing and threw up into the juniper.
MONDAY, JULY 1
chapter 15
Police Chief Expected to Run in By-Election
Sources inside the Progressive Conservative party confirm Calgary’s Police Chief Jim Simpson has been asked to run as their candidate in the upcoming by-election. The retirement of Bill Smith in Calgary Varsity had political watchers wondering who the PCs would select to replace him.
Simpson is considered a prime candidate because of his solid public reputation and ability to communicate with media.
Unconfirmed reports suggest the Premier is looking to replace solicitor general Bill Rogerson, who has embarrassed the government with a private member’s bill that has drawn strong opposition. Party insiders say Simpson’s law and order credentials make him an excellent contender as a replacement, should he win the by-election.
“You look like shit!” Terri ran her own coffee kiosk on the Stephen Avenue Mall. She offered unsolicited comments that often shocked and sometimes entertained. She frowned at Lane from behind her espresso machine.
“I’m actually feeling a bit better.” Lane looked over his shoulder to see the next person in line — a hefty guy in a black suit — was smiling. Lane blinked slowly. His sunglasses were taking the edge off the intense morning sun.
“The usual?” Terri.
“Please.” Lane handed over a bill. Terri took it, then went to work her magic with a flash of polished steel, the rumble of a grinder and a hiss of steam.
Terri handed over Lane’s moccaccino and said, “You should go home.”
“This will help.” Lane smiled, lifted his cup and headed down the mall. When he walked into the office, Lori looked up, leaned back in her chair and looked at him sideways. He lifted his eyebrows, said, “Mornin’,” then headed into his office where he set his cup down, hung up his jacket and sat down gingerly.
Lori stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, wearing a new white dress and a pair of black pumps. She waited.
“I think I had a migraine yesterday.”
“You think?”
“I couldn’t see and my eyes still hurt.”
Lori nodded. “You had a migraine. You look like —”
“— shit. Terri told me that already.”
“The coffee lady?”
Don’t nod. Your brain feels like it’s bruised. “That’s right.”
“If the shoe fits.” Lori looked over her shoulder. “Did you read this morning’s paper?”
“No.”
“It looks like Simpson is moving into provincial politics.” Lori frowned. “Just when this place was getting back into some kind of shape.”
Lane reached for his coffee as Nigel walked in. He asked, “Going old school with those Wayfarers?”
Walter tried for the thirty-second time to tear open the fentanyl packet. He stared at his purple swollen hands and wished he had the use of them again for maybe thirty seconds. All it would take would be a thumb and a forefinger. He looked at the TV where the top ten catches of this baseball season were being replayed.
Two toes and the front end of a wheelchair entered the room. The driver misjudged and scraped the wall. The bottom half of Freddy’s face appeared. The Stephen Harper toupee flopped over and covered his eyes. He used his right hand to push the toupee back into place, then backed up and made a successful run into the room. Freddy looked at Walter. “Got another one for you!”
Walter nodded and tried to smile as he used his fists to push himself up in bed.
Freddy manoeuvred the chair alongside Walter’s bed and crashed into the frame. The bed shifted one way and Walter nearly tumbled out the other side.
Freddy said, “Here! Let me help you with that!” He took the fentanyl packet from Walter, ripped the top off, then handed the packet to Walter. “The last couple of days I’ve been feelin’ pretty chipper. The pain is givin’ me a break and I don’t need the hallucinations these things give me!” He threw another open packet on Walter’s lap.
Walter looked at the fentanyl patch. “How do these damned things work?”
“Let me know exactly what you’re up to and I’ll show you.”
Nigel looked over his partner’s shoulder at the map Lane had put together on his big screen. He pointed at the image of a food truck. Nigel said, “We haven’t heard from Carlo. Should I give him a call and see if he’s found out anything more about the connection between Rogerson, Brett and MCSC?”
Lane nodded. “Good idea.”
Nigel reached for his phone sitting at the corner of his desk. “I’ll do that right now.”
Lane used the mouse to work his way around the map, then shrank the image so it fit inside the screen. There were still at least thirty seniors residences they had yet to visit with no guarantee Brett Mara would be found at any of them. He leaned back in his chair and eased his head gingerly from side to side to release a bit of tension. There was still a bit of tenderness behind his eyeballs. His appetite hadn’t returned, but he felt better.
Nigel pressed end on his phone. “I’ll try texting Carlo.” His fingers did a dance on the phone’s face.
“You up for a drive?” Lane leaned forward, put his palms on the desk and stood up slowly.
Brett poked his head inside Walter’s room. He wore a navy-blue top and pants. Walter took a long breath to steady his nerves. Brett held up a couple of fresh white towels, looked at his watch, set the towels at the foot of the bed, put one finger in front of his face and left.
Walter waited for thirty seconds then checked the fentanyl patches Freddy had taped to the insides of his forearms. They were close to the crooks of his elbows, where he felt he still retained some power in his arms.
Lane’s phone rang as they travelled west along 4th Avenue, then over the Louise Bridge. He picked the phone out of his jacket pocket, glanced at the number, looked sideways at Nigel, pressed the green button and held the phone a few centimetres from his ear. “Lane here.”
Harper said, “The rumours are true.”
Lane asked, “We’re being played?”
“If we are, then the game is much bigger than I expected and the stakes just got higher. Thought you might want a heads-up. Looks like the premier or her party caught wind of Rogerson’s old gang connection before we did.”
“It does look that way.”
Harper asked, “You all right? You sound a little off.”
“I’m okay.”
“Any news on your end?”
“Not yet.”
“Keep in touch. Oh, and it looks like Simpson is making a move.” Harper hung up.
Walter took long slow breaths. I hope I can hang on.
A figure in a dark-grey business suit walked into the room. His hair was styled and gelled into deliberate disarray. His eyebrows were dyed the same shade of black as his hair. His beard was trimmed and sculpted to accentuate a weak jaw line. There was an electric blue tie at his throat. He smiled.
Walter’s eyes glanced to the right where his daughter’s picture leaned on the end table. He closed his eyes and remembered the headline: MURDERED IN MEXICO. He opened his eyes and saw Robbie pick up Linda’s photo. He remembered what she’d said the day before she’d left for Cancun. “Dad, I’m thinking that when I get back I’ll be looking for my own place. Do you think I could borrow the money for a down payment?”
Walter looked at Robbie and watched his former son-in-law’s lips moving. “Just thought I’d drop by and say hello.” There was a new white gold wedding band on his finger. “Wally, we never were very close but we were family.”
Family doesn’t do what you did! Walter thought. He glanced at the fentanyl patch on his left arm and rolled his forearm so it wouldn’t be visible to Robbie. Then he resumed watching Robbie’s lips.
Robbie said, “Since Linda died, I’ve gotten on with my life.” He reached for the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “These are some papers I need you to sign, Wally.” Robbie’s fingers opened the folds.
Walter saw the words “Enduring Power of Attorney.” He smiled. I had my will rewritten four months ago. All that I have left goes to the Children’s Hospital. But you don’t know that!
Robbie smiled and pulled a silver pen from his shirt pocket. “It’s time for you and me to make amends.”
Walter waved Robbie over. Come closer.
Robbie frowned and looked down at the paper-thin man, then forced a smile. He put the document on the bed, placed his right fist onto the edge of the mattress and leaned forward.
Walter hooked one elbow around Robbie’s neck and then added the other arm to complete the lock. He worked his arms so that the patches rubbed against the skin under either of Robbie’s ears. The old man caught the heavy scent of Robbie’s cologne.
Robbie jerked back, pulling Walter out of bed. The old man tightened his grip and closed his eyes. Robbie fell back against the wall. Walter felt the shock of the blow against his right elbow. Hang on!
Walter held his breath and felt his heart pounding.
Then he felt a corner of the bed tear at the skin covering his shoulder blade. It cut him down to the bone. He hung on as Robbie rolled and the pair of them fell onto the floor. Wally closed his eyes, imagining Linda’s smile.
“This the place?” Nigel parked in front of a two-storey red brick home on Briar Hill. Lane saw that although the neighbourhood was more than seventy years old, this house might have been built two years ago. Its white-framed windows and stained-glass door spoke of custom design. The twenty-metre epoxy pebble driveway was done in a deep shade of red to complement the brick. Lane opened his door. “She lives here?” Nigel asked.
Lane walked up the driveway, then the front steps. The door opened before he could ring the bell.
Gloria was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt.
“I have news.” Lane looked inside and saw Gloria’s niece walking along the hallway to stand behind her aunt.
“You found her?” Gloria looked over Lane’s shoulder as Nigel climbed the stairs.
“Yes. The body is at the medical examiner’s. I’ve asked that it be released to you after examination.”
Gloria patted her right hand on her sternum. Her eyes filled with tears. “Can you come in?”
Lane’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the number and gave Gloria an apologetic look. “I have to take this.” He pressed a button.
Lori said, “They need you at Bow Valley. It’s just over the bridge in Bowness. It’s a seniors residence. Dr. Weaver is already on his way.”
“Thanks.” Lane hung up and looked at Gloria. “I have to go.” He frowned and tried to think through the after-fog of the migraine. “You have my number?”
Gloria tried to smile and nodded. Her niece put an ar
m around her aunt’s shoulders.
“I . . .” Lane began. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
He felt a hand grip his bicep. Nigel said, “We have an emergency.” He led Lane back down the stairs, leaned him up against the side of the Chev, opened the door and backed his partner into the seat. He ran around the front of the car, got in and started the engine. They did up their seat belts as he drove downhill to Parkdale Boulevard.
Nigel crossed over the Bow River, slowed and turned left at a brown brick two-storey building fronted by mature evergreens.
A black-and-white police car was parked out front and an officer stood at the door. “All entrances and exits are covered,” she said.
“Thanks,” Lane said as they opened the double doors and entered the main building. In front of them was a hallway leading to a garden with a two-storey roof and skylights. A hutch with rabbits stood to the left, and cheerful red-and-white decorations evoked a Canada Day theme. A woman in a wheelchair rolled past them, stopped, picked up the phone on the coffee table and said, “She’s got a Mennonite boyfriend!”
“I didn’t see her dial,” Nigel said.
“She didn’t.” Lane squinted through his post-migraine haze and saw a brown-haired woman in a black knee-length skirt and jacket turn the corner. Her heels made an important announcement as they approached. “Here comes the manager.”
“Mr. Lane?” she asked, and when he nodded, she indicated he should follow. “I’m Colleen.”
As they turned the corner in the hallway an approaching nurse in a blue shirt and pants turned to tap the screen of a flat-screen computer.
Lane felt Nigel’s thumb in his ribs. What the hell is your problem? Lane thought.
Colleen passed the man in blue, then turned right and stopped at a closed door. “Once we determined that both were deceased, I ordered the room closed and left undisturbed. An inspector was here and confirmed that this is a homicide.”
Lane nodded at Colleen, who had short brown hair, brown eyes and a beaked nose. She looks like she’s about to cry, Lane thought.