by Garry Ryan
The talk began as soon as everyone had a coffee or water in hand. They gathered around the dining table.
“Fuentes moved into a house just down the hill from Bonner at Palmilla,” Gonzalez said.
“A permanent move?” Arthur sat across from Gonzalez and next to Lane.
Karen pushed her long black hair from her shoulder. “When the narcos move in, it’s permanent. They start to intimidate the business owners. They drive their big SUVs and collect money from people nearby who are working hard just to make a living. It’s already happening here. Fuentes’s men want a percentage from the timeshares we sell. Two of our salesmen now work for him.”
Gonzalez wriggled his fingers into the air and said something to Emir, who nodded. “They are wrapping their tentacles around us.”
Alejandro said, “Then the narcos sit back on their fat asses while everyone else works for them. The people have no choice because they’re too afraid of what might happen to their families if they say no. We’ve already seen how ruthless they are.”
The bodyguard said something in Spanish. Karen pointed at him. “This is Victor. He says that Fuentes’s men already killed a restaurant owner in San José. They left his body inside and burned the place to the ground. Now the restaurant and shop owners in San José are saying they have no choice but to pay up. It’s the same in San Lucas. Victor’s family moved here to get away from all that in his home town in Sinaloa.”
Lane put his coffee down. “We have some information on the business that Pike, Fuentes, Bonner and Posadowski are in. We were wondering if you could help us with how best to handle the problem. Arthur —” Lane pointed at his partner “— thinks our best strategy is to go after the money. The big problem is what happens after we deal with the four of them. Usually another crime group moves in and takes over the business. We hope that by working together we might be able to work out a more permanent solution to the problem here and back home in Canada. We are very close to a gang war in our city. Pike comes from Calgary. He has taken over as the head of his family’s drug distribution business. Now he seems poised to take control of most of western Canada.”
Gonzalez waited for Emir’s translation, then asked, “How well do you know this Pike?”
Lane said, “He used to be a police officer, but I don’t know him well.”
Arthur said, “It appears that Pike has hired a killer to eliminate Lane.”
Alejandro smiled. “So you are in the same soup as we are?”
Karen shook her head and looked at Lane. “We are in a mess and you call it a problem. How can we talk about solutions if all our lives are at risk?”
Lane thought for a moment. “I saw what happened to Celia Sanchez. I’ve seen what people like Pike do. I have a talent for hunting down people like Pike and Fuentes. I think that if we understand the primary problem and come up with a solution, we should be able to eliminate this threat and perhaps future ones as well.”
“You haven’t dealt with someone like Fuentes before,” Alejandro said.
Arthur shook his head vehemently. “Lane hunted down and shot a man who was about to murder a child. He hunted down a man who killed more than twenty-five people both in Canada and in Cuba. He helped get rid of a corrupt police chief.” He put his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “He can help you hunt down Fuentes and the others.”
Karen asked, “You said you wanted a more permanent solution for the problem so that more narcos do not come along to take the place of these men?”
Lane nodded. “That’s correct. We need your help to find a way to get rid of the narcos and their profit motive. If they can’t make money here, then they will have no reason to be in Los Cabos.”
Alejandro leaned his elbows on the table. “So we have to make this place bad for business.”
Karen frowned. “But the tourists are good for Fuentes and Bonner’s business.”
“They are after bigger markets,” Arthur said. “This area is one piece in the transportation network. Airport security is becoming problematic, so they are looking at the water. Their boats Wind and Fire are important tools for transporting. Posadowski and Pike play their part at the other end of the network. If we can figure out how the money works, we should be able to figure out a way to take away the profit.”
Karen used an elastic band to tie her hair back. “Money is what motivates them. What would make them walk away from that?”
Lane pointed at her. “We have a plan and hope you can help us with it. There may be a way to reverse the money flow.”
“If we follow the plan and it works out, then you know what that means?” Lane sat on the deck as the sun came up. The waves had a silver sheen to them. The wind blew white manes as the waves pounded the beach.
“Things almost never go as planned.” Arthur sat next to him. He looked at his watch.
“It means I’ll probably need to resign from the Calgary Police Service.” Lane sipped the coffee in his right hand, then put the cup on the table.
Arthur didn’t answer for a full minute. “It’s amazing how the sun gets so hot so fast here. It would be cool back home for at least an hour or two after the sun rises over the horizon.”
“Did you hear me?”
Arthur nodded. “Would it be a bad thing if you retired?”
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19
chapter 17
Nigel got the call a little after three in the morning. Anna lay asleep beside him. He walked to the bathroom where his work clothes hung behind the door.
After showering quickly, he brushed his teeth and dropped the toothbrush in the sink. It clattered against the bowl. He grabbed it and waited. Anna’s breathing hesitated for an instant; then she fell back to a deep sleep.
Fifteen minutes later he was on Crowchild Trail rising up onto the flyover connecting it to Glenmore Trail. The heated seat was uncomfortable so he turned it off. The exhaust of the car in front of him puffed white.
He crossed over the reservoir bridge. The water was still open. Not for much longer.
The condo tower was just beyond Heritage Drive. He pulled up and parked out front. The medical examiner’s van — an innocuous black minivan with tinted windows — was parked outside waiting to transport the bodies. The Forensic Crime Scene Unit van was parked next to it. Nigel spotted the death inspector’s car.
He climbed out of his Honda Ridgeline and closed and locked the doors. He walked up to the glass front door of the condo tower and stepped into the heat.
“Where’s your sidekick?” The uniform at the door had hung her winter jacket on the chair behind her.
Nigel remembered her name just in time. “He’s on another job. How are you doing, Harris?”
Harris stood over six foot two, weighed in at a muscular two thirty and had a round face with striking hazel eyes. She shook her head.
“You were first on the scene?”
Harris nodded. Her face told the rest.
“That bad?”
Harris nodded again.
No smartass macho remarks from her. To her credit, Nigel thought.
“Eighth floor,” Harris directed.
Nigel took the elevator. The doors opened. His nose caught the smell first, a raw sewage stink. He looked left. Blood pooled beneath bodies. One of the living, a woman in her late forties or early fifties, lifted her chin in greeting. He recognized the blue eyes of the death inspector, a retired nurse named Linda who often attended events like this. She wore a surgical mask. He caught the scent of tobacco smoke on her as she moved closer. “Five deceased.”
Nigel watched as Dr. Colin Weaver photographed the scene in the hallway. Dr. Weaver — or Fibre, as Nigel and Lane called him behind his back — was a whisperer as far as the dead were concerned. His face belonged on the big screen. Interactions with the living continued to mystify him, though. He turned, spotted Nigel, then nodded.
He usually ignores me. If he talks, I have to keep my mouth shut or he’ll turn off like a light, leaving this investigation and me i
n the dark. Nigel waited by the elevator and hoped his nose would adjust to the stink. He saw the feet of one of the deceased who had sagged into the corner by a closed condo door. The body wore a pair of cross trainers with grey uppers and a webbed pattern on the soles.
Fibre turned and approached Nigel. “Dr. Weaver.”
“We have one body out here in the hallway,” Fibre replied. “The other four are in an adjacent unit. It appears the shooters used weapons with a rapid rate of fire. So far we’ve collected almost thirty shell casings. The four have multiple wounds. The body here —” he nodded at the young man with black hair, open eyes and a hole in his forehead “— has a single wound.”
“Any idea how many shooters?” Nigel asked.
“At least two. Some shell casings are nine-millimetre. Others are forty-five calibre.”
Nigel nodded. “Any ID on any of the bodies?”
“All four in the room have been tentatively identified. Two are Vancouver residents, one from Winnipeg and one with an apartment registered in his name. I’ll get IDs to you as soon as I’m finished with the pictures.” Fibre turned and went back to work.
Five minutes later, a man in a white bunny suit, mask and hood handed Nigel a bag with IDs in it. “You wanna take a look in the condo now?”
Nigel followed the bunny suit down the hallway, past the body in the doorway and into the apartment.
Lane,
Hope you are safe wherever you are.
It appears that the war started by Frederick Lee’s employer has escalated. Five people were killed early this morning.
There are several anomalies, which lead me to believe this is a different shooter.
1. It appears there were two shooters. Two different weapons were used. Early indications suggest a Steyr SPP and a Glock .45 were on scene. Both are atypical of our original shooter. Neither weapon was left behind after the killings.
2. It appears four of the victims knew the shooters. The four victims in one unit were on their knees and shot execution style. Each had multiple wounds from what may have been a silenced weapon. The witness called after she heard a single gunshot.
3. The Glock .45 was used to kill the fifth victim who was found outside in the hallway. He was likely unknown to the other victims.
4. So far, we’ve identified Raymond Lyle of Calgary (he appears to be a bystander); Charles Ford of Vancouver; Nicholas Ford of Vancouver (brother of Charles); Wesley Ng of Winnipeg. The Ford brothers and Ng were all known to police.
5. The fifth victim has yet to be identified.
I have a meeting with Harper and the gang suppression unit in fifteen minutes. I’ll keep you informed.
Nigel
After reading Nigel’s email, Lane stared at Arthur for a long time, then looked out the sliding glass doors to the ocean beyond. “I need a cappuccino.”
Arthur looked up from the file he was reading. Gonzalez had brought a folder full of documents obtained from a local business associate. “Feeling like a prisoner already?”
“I said I wanted a blended margarita!” The voice drifted up from below. Lane walked onto the balcony, moved to the railing and looked out between the pool and the red roof of the bar. A man reclined on a blue lounger. He wore a red shirt and white shorts. A broad straw hat hid most of his face except for the tip of a white beard. He was pointing at one of the waiters.
“Sorry, señor,” the waiter apologized.
The man with the booming voice looked like a turtle on its back as he struggled to get up out of the lounge chair. The waiter offered his hand. The man slapped it away as the wind blew his hat off.
“My hat! Get my hat!” The man had white shoulder-length hair and a full white beard. The waiter chased the hat onto the beach.
He looks just like —
“Santa. What the hell is Santa doing by the pool?” Arthur asked.
“He’s looking for a blended margarita.” Lane watched the waiter retrieve the straw hat. Santa grabbed it and pulled it back on his head. The waiter walked to the bar and returned with a margarita. Santa took it, sipped, then waved the waiter away.
“So you’re getting to know our regulars?” Karen asked.
Lane and Arthur turned. Karen’s hair was tied back with a gold clasp. She wore a red blouse, white pants, red pumps and a gold bracelet on her wrist. She commands any room she enters, Lane thought.
“Santa’s got a bad attitude,” Arthur said.
Karen stood between them and looked over the edge. The air around her smelled of tropical flowers and citrus. “Oh yes, Mr. Kringle.”
“You’re joking,” Arthur said.
Karen shook her head. “That’s his name. He comes here every fall and spring. He gets very angry if the waiters get his drinks wrong.”
On any femininity scale, Karen is at the top. “He’s certainly living up to his reputation.”
She laughed. It was uninhibited laughter, the laughter of a confident woman. “I came to let you know that Emir was the architect who designed Bonner’s ten-million-dollar home. The work for architects in Palmilla went away so he came to work for us. This is something you need to know?”
Another piece of the puzzle? Lane nodded.
Arthur turned away from the Santa show. “Does he still have a copy of the plans for the house?”
Karen leaned her head to one side. “I’ll ask.” She turned and walked out past the security guard named Ramón, who smiled for the first time as she passed him.
She makes an exit the same way she makes an entrance: with panache.
Arthur pointed at the Pacific. “Are those the same two whales?”
Lane looked out over the water. The glare was intense, and he leaned left to get his sunglasses from the table. One whale surfaced, then spouted a white cloud. The second whale’s back appeared as the first submerged. “I don’t know. They seem to be a little close in.”
“I’ve been watching, and they may be the same two who lost the calf. They stay until a boat appears. Then their tails go up and they dive. It’s as if they’re waiting.”
“For what?”
Arthur lifted his cap and scratched the top of his head. “Don’t know. It just seems odd.”
There was a knock at the door. They both turned. Lane stepped into the room, walked to the front door and waited. There was another tentative knock. He heard the card slide in the lock and saw the handle move. The door opened. Emir stood in front of Ramón, who was looking suspiciously at the black bag in Emir’s hand. “Karen sent me here. I have the plans for Casa Bonner on my laptop.” He opened the zipper.
Ramón leaned over to look inside, then nodded at Lane. “Bueno.” He closed the door and stood back.
“I need to plug in.” Emir looked around for an outlet.
“Is the table okay?” Lane walked over to the dining table and pulled out the chair closest to the outlet. Then he walked to the patio door and told Arthur, “Emir’s here with the floor plans to Casa Bonner.”
Arthur turned with a smile. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Santa’s on his next margarita already.” He walked inside and closed the patio door.
“Here it is.” Emir pointed at the laptop screen.
Lane and Arthur stood on either side looking at the screen. A series of coloured lines showcased a house at the top of the hill in Palmilla.
“How long is that house?” Arthur asked.
Emir drew a line from one end to the other. “Eighty metres.”
Lane looked closely and pointed at what appeared to be a round room. “What’s that?”
“The wine cellar. There are shelves of bottles on four sides. The table and chairs are for tasting.”
Arthur asked, “How do you get from one room to the next?”
Emir pointed at staircases and walkways. “Almost all access is from the outside along a series of pathways.”
Lane leaned closer. “Any safe rooms or hidden storage?”
Emir nodded. “There is a room that he wanted closed up aft
erward. He didn’t like the space. And there is this —” he pointed at a room with eight chairs “— a theatre room. All of the electronics are behind this wall. Another space where something could be hidden.”
“Do you have any photographs?” Lane asked.
Emir minimized the blueprint diagram and moved to a collection of photos. “What would you like to see?”
Arthur said, “The hidden rooms.”
There was the thump of something heavy striking concrete. Ramón pushed away from the door and rushed across the room. He slid the glass door open; it banged against its stops. Lane followed.
“Sonsabitches! I can have another drink! This is all inclusive! I paid for them!”
Ramón looked over the balcony wall. Lane joined him and looked down at the pool. Mr. Kringle pushed away one of the waiters and sat on the rock wall separating the sand from the patio. A white plastic column lay on its side about a metre away from the pool. “I want another margarita! I’m not drunk!”
The head waiter wore a white jacket. He walked over and stood beside Kringle’s waiter, whose hands were on his hips.
Kringle pointed at them. “Get me my drink!”
A boy of five or six wore a red bathing suit. He climbed the steps to the patio and stood near the edge of the pool. “Santa’s drunk!”
“I’m not!” Santa stood to prove his point, stumbled, listed sideways, then waved his arms to catch his balance. He managed to regain some semblance of control but continued to lean to the right as he walked along the edge of the pool, slipped on a metal grate and fell. His belly smacked the water. Two waves parted the surface and headed for opposite sides of the pool. For an instant his back was dry; then the water swallowed him. His arms managed enough coordinated movement to get him to the surface. He spat water, coughed and reached the edge. Two arms tried to pull his three-hundred-pound frame from the water and succeeded — sort of. He ended up beached with his belly on the concrete deck while his knees and feet remained in the water.
