by Garry Ryan
Lane shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“What happened to your ear?” a voice asked.
They looked over at the little boy, who had chocolate ice cream on his nose and cheeks and down the front of his shirt. He stood at the end of their table. His mother said, “You’re supposed to say thank you for the ice cream, Isaac.”
Lane smiled and reached for his missing earlobe. “No worries. I hope you liked the ice cream.”
The boy smiled, turned and climbed back up onto his chair.
Arthur touched Lane’s hand. “You think Lola would have the compassion to do what you did for that little one?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You really need to learn how to listen to the people who are worth listening to and delete the rest.”
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 4
chapter 2
They finished the ear-popping descent into the mountain valley of Kootenay National Park. Highway 93 levelled out and the trees on either side of the highway leaned in close. To the west, the trees climbed the side of a mountain range. To the east, the trees thinned in the rocky soil, providing brief glimpses of the Kootenay River.
Lane smiled and looked at his phone. The parkway was a dead zone as far as phones were concerned. Norah Jones, Corinne Bailey Rae, Jenn Grant, Bruce Springsteen and Hannah Georgas sang instead. He set the cruise at ninety-five kilometres per hour and settled into the seat. The road ahead was free of traffic. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Three black wolves loped across the highway in single file as they headed for the river, their tails and noses forming one straight line. The trio of black ghosts disappeared into the trees one by one. The entire event took less than two seconds.
“See anything on your trip?” Matt finished off a slice of meat lover’s pizza. He was letting his strawberry blond hair grow long and it now covered the tops of his ears. I wonder if he’ll ever gain any weight, Lane thought as Matt got up from the table, hip-hop-skipped to the fridge and grabbed a jug of orange juice. He twisted off the cap, went to put it to his lips, caught a disapproving glance from his Uncle Arthur and instead grabbed a tumbler and sat down to pour the juice.
“I saw three wolves this morning.” Lane poured himself some orange juice and offered the container to Arthur, who shook his head.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Arthur said.
Lane shrugged. “It lasted all of two seconds in the rear-view mirror.”
Matt smiled, picked up another slice of pizza and pointed it at Lane. “So the big-city hunter saw some of his relatives. I’m surprised you didn’t stop and follow them to share some tracking tips.”
“Them and the bear,” Arthur said.
“You saw a bear?” Matt chewed the end off the triangle of pizza.
“It was a black bear fishing for kokanee. Didn’t take any notice of us.” Arthur looked at the pizza box, reached for it then pulled his hand away.
“And we saw a wizard.” Lane sipped his orange juice. I wonder what Indiana is up to?
Matt leaned back in his chair and lifted one eyebrow with frank skepticism. “Where?”
“Radium. Same place he —” Arthur pointed at his partner “— ate two plates of ribs.”
“Mister fruits and vegetables ate two plates of ribs?” Matt covered his mouth and opened his eyes wide to complete the effect.
Lane shrugged. “It was kind of a disconnected, one-surprise-after-another trip.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “You find connections in the most obscure places. Won’t be long before you’re telling us how it was all part of a bigger picture. You know, the hunter, the spawning kokanee and the magic that brings them all together.”
The phone rang. Matt pressed pause on his game controller and picked up the phone sitting beside him on the ottoman. “What’s up?”
“What are you doing?” Christine asked.
“Watching TV.”
“Which video game is it?”
“It’s a car race. What do you want?” Matt restarted the game.
“They get home okay?”
“Yep.” Matt leaned into the turn as his Porsche skidded around a hairpin.
“Was it a good trip?”
The Porsche fishtailed, exited the turn and accelerated onto a straightaway. “They saw kokanee, wolves, a bear and a wizard.”
“They went to see beer?”
“The fish, not the beer. Kokanee the fish were spawning.”
“Oh, sounds exciting.”
“How’s Indy doing?”
“He’s sleeping, finally.”
“Rough day?”
“He’s getting new teeth.”
“Sorry.” Matt downshifted near the end of the straightaway. The Porsche skidded off the end of the track and bounced off the barrier. “Want to talk with Uncle Lane?”
“I don’t think he wants to talk with me.” Christine hung up.
Frederick waited in a car parked outside the Sleeping Dragon restaurant. He was seventeen. An hour ago, he’d slipped out of his parents’ three-thousand-square-foot two-storey home with its three-car garage. His bedroom was beneath theirs and he could hear them fucking. Flesh slapping against flesh. Headboard smacking the wall. It reminded Frederick of their mantra: A better life for the boy. A better life for the boy. A better life for the boy. The code inherited from his grandmother, who’d come to this country when she was twenty-five to find a better life for her son. The grandmother who raised him while his parents worked. Gran, who loved him, pampered him, then deserted him at fourteen when she died from a three-pack-a-day heart attack.
He thought of these things as he leaned back in the leather seat of a black Infiniti with tinted windows and a sunroof. The front door of the Sleeping Dragon opened. A couple walked out and climbed into their SUV. He heard the sound of the LRT whispering along Crowchild Trail. Then the SUV’s engine started. Frederick reached inside the front pouch of his black hoody. The weight of a Beretta with an illegal twenty-round magazine settled there. He pulled his gloved right hand out and touched his pants pocket. The spare magazine was there. Forty rounds would be more than enough, but he palmed another clip and tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans as he climbed out of the Infiniti.
“Pike ordered this one,” Anan had said when he thought Frederick was out of earshot. Frederick had better-than-average hearing and never let on he had this advantage. In fact, he played hard of hearing, forcing people like Anan — the twenty-five-year-old who ran the operation, gave the orders, passed out cash and spoke for Pike — to speak louder than necessary. Everyone knew that Pike kept his hands clean so Anan would be left with bloody fingerprints if anything went wrong. Anan had been doing this kind of work before things went wrong for Moreau and Pike’s brother, Stan. Anan was beginning to believe he was a survivor.
Not a good way to think in this business. Frederick took a long look around the parking lot. Only a black Land Rover and a white Escalade were parked in front of the restaurant. He set pink earplugs in each ear, put on a balaclava, pulled his hood up, walked to the restaurant, put his hand around the butt of the Beretta and opened the door.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5
chapter 3
It was just eight a.m. when Lane saw the pictures on the metre-wide screen of his computer. The bodies were in a booth. Four male corpses propped up against one another and the wall, as if the victims believed leaning away from the shooter would offer them a better chance of survival. All four had been shot in the head. Two in the face, one in the side of the head and the last in the back of the head. No one else, including the lone waitress, the manager and the cook, had been injured. When they saw the man with the balaclava enter the front door, they retreated to the kitchen. Six shell casings and the handgun — a 9-mm Beretta with fourteen bullets remaining in the clip — had been left behind.
Detective Nigel Li sat in his chair behind the next desk. In large part because of his superior intelligence and fluency in multiple languages, Nigel was quick with a quip — or a jab — and had offende
d all of his former partners. He waited for Lane to analyze the scene.
Lane looked across at his partner. “How come you didn’t call me last night?”
“Technically it was this morning.” Nigel looked Lane in the eye. “There was no point in both of us seeing the brains on the wall.”
Lane turned back to the pictures and shrugged. “Looks like the shooter left very little evidence.”
Nigel inhaled and lifted his eyebrows. “The four victims are all known FKs — Fresh Off the Boat Killers.”
“Do me a favour?” Lane got up and sat on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms and faced Nigel. Nigel had put on a few pounds since quitting boxing. He’d also allowed his black hair to grow out slightly, wore more colourful shirts and smiled more often since Anna had moved in with him. He looks so much healthier now.
“What’s that?” Nigel sat up straighter.
“Quit trying to make my job easier.”
Nigel glanced left.
Oh shit. “Lori’s standing in the doorway, isn’t she?”
“She is,” Lori said.
Lane let his chin fall before he looked right. Lane and Li’s loyal administrative assistant and de facto head of homicide Lori stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. As always she was impeccably put together. She wore a yellow blouse, black slacks and white pumps. Her hair was recently cut and styled, framing her face. Is she letting some grey show? Lane wondered.
“You’ve been a bit off ever since Christine, Dan and Indy moved out of your place,” Lori said.
You always cut to the chase. “You’ve got me there.” What’s the sense in denying it?
“Well, I’d love to stand around and chat longer, but the Chief called and wants to see the pair of you.”
Nigel sat up straight. “When?”
Lori backed out of the door. “Right now.”
It took four minutes to get upstairs. Jean, the Chief’s ever-present secretary with her close-cropped grey hair, white blouse and ready smile, nodded hello. “He’s waiting for you.” She got up and opened the door.
Calgary Police Service’s new Chief Cameron Harper stood behind his desk looking out the window, his massive bear-like hands clasped behind his back. Harper was Lane’s former partner and one of the few people the detective trusted besides Lori and Nigel. He was back in fighting trim at one hundred ninety pounds, but his short hair was receding and noticeably greyer than it had once been. He turned and waited for Nigel to close the door. “You guys need a coffee?”
“Sure.” Nigel stood near one of the four chairs set around a knee-high oak coffee table.
He’s worried he’s going to piss Cam off again. Maybe there’s hope for the two of them. Lane sat down in one of the chairs. “A coffee would be great.”
Nigel sat down next to his partner while Harper pressed a button on his phone. “Could we please have four coffees? No phone calls.” Cam sat next to Nigel and loosened his navy-blue tie as he crossed one uniformed leg over the other.
This can’t be good.
Harper looked at Lane. “Indications are that we are about to have a gang war.” He looked at Nigel. “What is said in this office stays here?”
Nigel nodded. “Of course.”
“The Gang Suppression Unit is getting word that the FOBs — the Fresh Off the Boat gang — or the FKs are preparing for retaliation after yesterday’s murders.”
Nigel opened his mouth. “Yesterday’s killings are atypical of either gang’s tactics.”
Lane cringed. Harper lifted his eyebrows. “How so?” He looked sideways at Lane.
“The killer acted alone. He left the gun behind and torched the car afterward. Those are not the usual tactics of either the FOBs or the FKs. They always work in pairs and up to this point have never left a weapon behind.” Nigel looked at Lane and waited.
Lane turned to Harper. “What are you hearing?”
“It backs up what Nigel is saying. There’s another player on the street making a move and trying to get the gangs to kill each other off so he can take over afterward.”
Cam stood up as the door opened. Jean handed him a tray with four cups, a carafe of coffee, a pitcher of milk and a bowl of raw sugar. He set the tray down in the middle of the table.
Lane stared at the fourth cup.
Harper sat down, poured coffee into three of the cups and waited as each of them doctored their drinks. “We need to stop the war before it starts. If we don’t, it’s inevitable that innocents will be caught in the middle. I need information and I need it fast.” He sipped his coffee, then used the cup to point at Lane. “And it looks like there’s a connection with one of their suppliers from Culiacán.”
Lane and Nigel leaned forward.
Harper continued. “Ignacio Fuentes thinks he owns the west coast of Mexico and is looking to establish markets in Canada for his product line. We’re getting more reports of drug seizures at the Sweetgrass border crossing. The I-15 highway is seeing more drug traffic and so are Vancouver and Nanaimo.”
“El Guapo,” Nigel said.
“What?”
“Fuentes is called El Guapo. He was on the MCSC list. He’s also supposed to be a chick magnet.” Nigel took a sip of coffee.
“There’s a meeting set for you two.” Harper put his cup down and looked at Lane. “Chris Tuck wants to meet at eleven this morning. He’s coming in from the Remand Center for X-rays. The medical office is on the fourth floor. You two will meet him on the third floor in an empty office.” He handed Nigel a piece of paper with an address.
“What’s he want from us?” Nigel asked.
“He says he has information. After the meeting, you two come back here and report what you’ve learned.”
“He’ll want something in return.” Tuck is to be sentenced after being convicted in two drive-bys. He’s going away for at least twenty-five years — longer if he’s classified as a dangerous offender. Lane set his empty cup down and glanced at the carafe and unused cup. “Who else is coming to this meeting?”
“Arthur.” Harper sat back and waited.
Lane pointed at his chest. “My Arthur?”
Harper nodded. “That’s right. I have a favour to ask, and what we discuss with him also has to stay in this room.” He looked pointedly at Nigel.
Nigel shrugged. “No problem.”
There was a tap on the door. Harper got up, put his hand on Lane’s shoulder and opened the door. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.” He closed the door after Arthur stepped in. Arthur was dressed in casual blue slacks and an open-necked mauve shirt. He sat down in the empty chair. The incoming sun reflected off the top of his scalp. “Coffee?” Cam asked.
“No, thank you.” Arthur smiled at Nigel. “How are you?’
“Good.” Nigel frowned and looked nervously at Lane, who lifted his eyebrows. Sweat rolled from his armpits to his belt.
Harper sat and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Erinn says that you two are thinking about a trip to Mexico.”
“That’s the plan.” Arthur looked at Lane. As usual, I’m the last to know when Arthur makes plans for us.
“Most of the major players are meeting in Los Cabos next week. Bikers, Ignacio Fuentes and some of the other players are getting together. I think the Los Cabos meeting and this gang killing that you two —” he pointed at Lane and Nigel “— have inherited are related. I need someone down there to see what’s what and who’s involved.” He turned to Lane. “How much of a beard can you grow by Monday?”
“Did you know Arthur was going to be there?” Nigel drove west on Crowchild Trail. The sun was low and the trees had lost their golds and oranges. Dead leaves collected against fences when the wind blew. Nigel eased onto the off ramp to Nose Hill Drive, then headed north toward Robert Thirsk High School. The grey-and-white brick building stood above the library and YWCA. Nigel turned left at the lights and headed instead for the four-storey office building facing south and west toward the mountains. The white on the peaks
was edging its way down to the tree line, creeping inexorably back into the valleys, foothills and prairie. Nigel parked near the Treasury Branch. They walked up to the office building flanked by a liquor store and a dental office. Inside, they waited for the elevator and rode up to the third floor. They found the empty office and stepped inside. The ceiling tiles were gone, revealing air ducts, electrical lines and PVC pipe normally hidden by a suspended ceiling. Lane felt the dust and grit under his feet. A desk and three chairs sat near one of the windows. A man in orange coveralls perched on one of the chairs with his wrists and ankles shackled. Chris Tuck’s red hair was cut close enough to reveal the scalp underneath. He studied the approaching detectives, his face wearing either a smirk or a smile.
Lane put his hand on his Glock, pulled a chair about a metre away from Chris and sat. Nigel stood to Lane’s left.
“All right if we talk in private?” Tuck nodded at the beefy pair of guards in their blue Corrections uniforms.
Lane glanced at the men, who looked as if they worked out religiously. Their biceps were the size of some men’s thighs. “Okay if you guys wait outside the door for a few minutes?”
The pair nodded and went out into the hallway.
“What kind of phone you got?” Chris looked at Nigel.
Nigel shook his head. “You said you had some information for us.”
“You know about Melanie?” Chris’s eyes shifted from one detective to the other and back again.
Lane recalled the name from Tuck’s file. “Your sister?”
Chris nodded so enthusiastically that the chains on his cuffs rattled. “Yep. My little sister, she’s thirteen.”
I wonder if Tuck smiles when he kills? “And?”
“If I help you, I want you to get Melanie out of the city. Send her to my aunt and uncle’s place. They live on the Island. She’ll be safe there. Too much payback comin’ around in this town.” Chris kept smirking as he watched Lane.
Nigel pulled out his phone and began to tap in a few notes. Nigel, what are you up to?
