Sea of Cortez

by Garry Ryan

  Arthur remained standing. “Are our kids okay?”

  Cam nodded. “They’re fine.”

  Arthur sat.

  Lane sat and looked out the window. Take a good look: this will probably be the last time you see this view. Some horizontal snowflakes blew across the glass.

  Cam sat down. “Want some coffee?”

  Lane nodded and reached for a cup. He could see Arthur glancing at him, then back at Harper.

  Cam said, “Ottawa, Mexico City, Edmonton and Washington have been calling.” He put his hands on the arms of his chair. “They want to know how much money there was and what happened to it.”

  Arthur held his hands up. “Not about the people who died?” He took a breath and saw Cam exhale and nod. “A bit more than three point five billion went to schools and communities on either side of the Sea of Cortez.”

  Harper rolled his eyes. “How exactly?”

  Arthur lifted his shoulders. “We worked with some locals who divided up the money from Bonner’s various accounts, then set up what are essentially trust funds to provide schools and communities with steady and reliable incomes for the next fifty years.”

  “What happens after fifty years?”

  “That depends. If the investments do well, the money will continue.” Arthur emphasized with his hands. “If not, the communities will have had fifty years to establish local economies with trained people to support them.”

  “You know that I have to ask you this.” Harper waited for Lane or Arthur to respond. When they didn’t he asked, “What did you two get out of it?”

  “T-shirts,” Lane said.

  “What?” Harper looked at Arthur.

  Lane unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a blue T-shirt with La Luna Cortez San José in white across the front. “They gave one to me and one to Arthur.”

  Cam rolled his eyes. “You two had your hands on three point five billion dollars and you got a couple of T-shirts?”

  Lane shrugged. “Technically we did have the account numbers to ourselves for maybe an hour. We accepted the T-shirts as a symbolic gesture.” He smiled.

  Cam leaned his head to one side. “Who exactly were you working with? Alejandro?”

  Arthur scratched his forehead. “And some other people.”

  Lane stood up. “We had a window of opportunity. We found out where Bonner kept his money. The banks and account numbers were on the labels of wine bottles from his hacienda. We took the bottles, got together with some people with particular skill sets, then drained the accounts before Pike or any of the narcos could interfere. We put the money into San José and Culiacán.” He pointed at Arthur. “The idea was to put the money into those communities so there would be other economic opportunities for the locals. If we’d waited, the money would have been gone. This way, the money may do some good. Besides, the locals didn’t want the narcos in San José. After Bonner and Fuentes killed a whale calf and Santa was shot, the locals wanted nothing to do with the narcos.”

  “What? Who killed Santa?” Cam asked.

  Lane looked out the window. “A couple of Angels who thought they were killing me.”

  Arthur leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. “Like the guys who tried to shoot us an hour or so ago.”

  Cam looked at Lane. “I’ve heard there was some pretty fancy driving.”

  Lane pointed at Arthur. “That was all him. He’s the best driver.”

  Arthur leaned forward, then groaned when he hit vertical. “Does this mean there’s no one else after us?”

  Cam looked at Arthur, then at Lane. “Nope, that’s not what it means, unfortunately. It looks like Pike is headed back here and he’s offering a substantial paycheque for you, Lane.”

  Frederick sat in front of the computer; he wore checked pajama pants, a T-shirt and sandals. His bedroom door was shut. From upstairs came the muffled sound of his parents’ favourite reality show, about some family living out in the country who hunted, preached and always had Sunday dinner together. He’d never seen a whiter family. They seldom had any contact with other people, let alone people from another culture, but talked as if they had all the answers.

  Frederick plugged in his noise-cancelling headphones and put them on. He listened to some Elvis and Bowie while checking the major news pages. The story about the pair arrested south of the city caught his attention. There were few details beyond the two men being in custody.

  He checked his phony email account. There was a new message from 11404.

  Update on the Lane contract. Two hundred large provided the job is completed and I am witness to it. Most recent intel is that Lane is back in his hometown.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24

  chapter 22

  Lane and Arthur sat in the kitchen. Arthur sipped a London Fog and Lane finished his first latté. Indiana wore one-piece dinosaur sleepers and sat in his booster chair eating grapes and raspberries. Lane looked through the opening in the kitchen wall and into the dining room, which was stacked with furniture and cardboard boxes.

  “It’s a little cozier than when we left,” Arthur observed.

  Lane got up, put a gentle hand on Indiana’s cheek and walked over to the espresso machine. He turned it on, then ground some beans and locked the portafilter into place. He turned to look out the window. An unmarked unit rolled past. Then a man walking a large German shepherd–border collie cross made a point of not noticing Lane and Arthur’s house. “I need to go in to work.”

  “I thought you were going to retire.” Arthur cut a grape in half for Indiana.

  Lane poured milk into a stainless-steel pitcher, put it under the spout and turned on the steam. “I need to talk with Nigel and Lori.”

  “I’ll call Tommy while you’re out.” Arthur lifted Indiana then set him on his knee. “He needs to know about our legal complications.”

  Lane nodded as he watched the milk and listened for the rumbling grumble telling him it had reached the right temperature. He looked out the window and across the street. The recently rented neighbouring bungalow was occupied with twenty-four-hour Calgary Police Service protection.

  Lane parked at the CPS office in northeast Calgary. It was in a white two-storey building connected to a fire hall. To the north and across the street, a shopping mall sprawled. A leisure centre buzzed with activity on the east side.

  He looked at the sliding glass doors of the district office. Things change so quickly. You used to be part of all of this. Soon you’ll be on the outside.

  He walked inside. A thirty-something uniformed officer with a puffy white face and bulbous nose asked, “Can I help you?”

  Lane recognized condescension behind the British accent and read his nametag. Daniels. “Lori is expecting me.”

  The officer picked up a phone. “Have a seat and I’ll give her a ring.” He turned his back on Lane, who sat down on an aluminum-framed chair. He looked beyond the counter and the glass. A door opened behind Daniels. Lori appeared with an eye-popping flash of red jacket. Lane knew the rest of her outfit would be coordinated with that exact shade.

  Lori pointed at Daniels. “George! Why the hell are you making him wait? He’s one of our homicide detectives.”

  Daniels reddened and puffed himself up. “He didn’t identify himself!”

  Lane stood up and smiled at his friend. She opened the door next to the counter. She wore red leggings and boots to match the mid-thigh-length jacket. “So you did get a tan! Come on, I’ll show you the new digs.” She ignored Daniels, gave Lane a hug, then waited for Lane to hold the door for her as she led the way to a large room with a series of cubicles. At the front were three whiteboards already covered with notes, photos and papers.

  Lori pointed at an office behind glass. “Your desk is there. With the restructuring, everything had to move fast. I hope I got everything from your old office. They were very careful with the computer and the oversized monitor.”

  “Thank you.” He walked to the whiteboards and began to absorb information. He not
iced the picture of a young man next to the faces of four older men. He recognized one of the four from Mexico and another from yesterday on the highway. “What’s this group all about?”

  “They are all suspected of taking contracts on your life.” Lori crossed her arms and leaned her rear up against a desk.

  Lane looked around the room. “Is Nigel here?”

  She nodded in the direction of a windowless metal door. “They’re in the conference room.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “They have. Your investigation got bigger than expected. Harper and the mayor are worried about a gang war. Welcome to a new way of doing things. Want me to introduce you?” She turned her head to one side and lifted her eyebrows.

  Play along. “If you like.”

  She leaned close. “You’re a big boy. Just knock.” She turned and headed for her desk.

  Lane took another look around the room at the cubicles, the whiteboards, the tinted windows and the grey carpet. He walked up to the door, knocked, then eased it open.

  Four people were sitting at a square table. Lane recognized two. Nigel looked at a screen as he typed information into his laptop. Malik Wajdan sat nearby. He was just over six feet tall and had dark hair, brown eyes and an angular face. He was the first member of his family to be born in Canada. Lane had been there when he was interviewed for a position in homicide.

  Nigel said, “This is our person of interest in two separate gang-related shootings. He has no record and is — I’m not making this up — presently in grade twelve.”

  Lane watched as a photograph appeared on the screen. The boy had a round face and hair straight out of an Elvis movie. “His name is Frederick Lee,” Nigel said.

  The guy at the table with the strong chin wore a navy-blue jacket and pants. “This is the one planning on cashing Lane’s contract?”

  Nigel sat up in his chair. “We have recorded confirmation. Pike has offered two hundred thousand.”

  “What do we need to get Lee off the street?” Malik asked.

  Nigel tapped the keys of his laptop. “Blood evidence was found in the Mustang used in the Stoney Trail killings. We need to get DNA evidence from Lee to begin with.”

  Lane inhaled. “Do you want me to ask him for a sample? I really don’t like being a target or having people like Pike and his Angels taking potshots at my family.”

  The guy with the lantern jaw appeared unaffected by Lane’s arrival. “You know, that might be the way to go. Lee thinks he’s under the radar. Having Lane confront him would change the psychology of the situation. Lee is a predator and not accustomed to being hunted.”

  A woman sitting next to Lantern Jaw said, “You know, Dave, Lee handled himself pretty well against those two guys on Stoney Trail. They’re dead. Lee’s alive.” The woman appeared to be in her early thirties; she had blonde hair and an angelic face. The face and the blunt honesty of the voice were incongruous. She sounds like a truck driver when she opens her mouth.

  “As long as we think this through and kill the snake instead of scorching it,” Malik said.

  Trucker Voice snapped, “Will you quit quoting fucking Shakespeare?”

  Nigel stood up. “Maybe we should do some introductions.” He walked around the table. “This is Paul Lane.” He pointed at Trucker Voice. “Angela Olsen. You know Malik Wajdan and this is Dave Sugar.” The three nodded a greeting.

  Dave leaned forward. “Where’s the money?”

  Get to the point. I like it. “Invested in the communities of San José and Culiacán.”

  Angela pointed a finger. “What about handling fees?”

  Lane shrugged and shook his head. “We came home with our suitcases.” He held his hands out palms up. “Got a ride to San Diego, then a motorhome delivery to Calgary. There’s this network of people who are trying to make things better in Mexico. Up until a week ago I didn’t know it existed. All the money we recovered — three point five billion dollars — went into the communities.” He lifted his hands. “Mexico’s reputation for corruption to the contrary, no palms were greased.”

  Malik pulled out the empty chair next to him. “Want to sit down?”

  Lane looked at Angela, then at Dave. “Sit down,” Angela said.

  Dave looked at her. “Maybe he would like a cup of coffee?”

  Angela’s blue eyes turned glacial. “If you want a fucking cup of coffee, you can get your own!”

  Laughter blasted the room. Angela smiled, took off her right shoe and waved it at Dave. When the laughter died, she looked at Lane. “I guess you know Pike is offering Lee extra if he gets to watch your execution.”

  Nigel tapped the table with a pen. “We have a plan we’d like to run past you.”

  Lane sat in his new office. The windows looked out across the tops of a grey cubicle maze. Tinted windows allowed a limited amount of natural light to enter. He switched on his computer and adjusted the oversized screen. It took a moment for the screen to come to life.

  Lane’s phone rang. He reached into his jacket pocket, read the incoming number and tapped the face of his smartphone. “What’s up?”

  Arthur chewed on some kind of nut. “Tommy Pham called.”

  “And?”

  “He wants to meet with us this afternoon at three. He says it’s very important to get out in front of something like this, get the truth out and let people know what really happened. Otherwise he thinks we’ll be on the defensive when the accusations come.”

  “He’s got a plan?”

  “Yes. A Melissa Ng will be contacting you.”

  Lane tapped the mouse with his free hand, put the phone on speaker, set it down and entered his computer password. “Who’s she?”

  “Part of Uncle Tran’s family. She works for the CBC.”

  “I don’t much like reporters.” He leaned back in his chair and opened his mapping program. I can start filling in names and details, then take a look at the big picture.

  “Tommy recommends her. Says she’s tough and fair.”

  Lane sat next to Arthur in Tommy Pham’s conference room. The windows looked across the river into Chinatown with office towers in the background and the Rocky Mountains peeking out around the edges.

  Tommy Pham wore a white shirt, a red tie and about twenty more pounds than the last time they had met. His hair was still black, his eyes revealed an intelligence coming from the far right of the bell curve and he moved like a dancer in brogues. He shook hands with Lane and Arthur, then sat down across from them. He looked at his watch. “She is on her way.”

  Arthur looked at Lane. “Melissa Ng is going to be here. I forgot to tell you.”

  Lane looked at Tommy, who was watching him. “She is your cousin?”

  Tommy nodded.

  The door opened and in stepped a round-faced woman with short black hair. She wore a red blouse, black knee-high boots and black yoga pants. She closed the door. It rattled back and forth against the lock. She smiled, took in the room and pointed at Lane. “You’re the detective and you are Arthur.” Melissa gave them both firm handshakes and sat down at the head of the table with Arthur on her right and Tommy on her left. She pulled an iPad from her red leather purse and set it on the table. Then she rolled out a keyboard. Melissa tapped the face. “Where’s the money?”

  Arthur asked, “If we tell you, what will you do to protect the schools and communities from having the money taken away from them?”

  Melissa studied them. “Explain.”

  Arthur closed his mouth. Lane looked at Tommy, who nodded. The detective turned his eyes back to Melissa. “We found cartel account numbers and banks. We worked with some people who were able to transfer the funds from Bonner’s cartel accounts into —” He looked at Arthur.

  Arthur looked out the window. “A kind of trust fund. The money will gather interest while communities and schools are provided with extra money every month for their budgets.”

  “How much?” Melissa tapped the keypad.

  Lane said, “Thr
ee point five.”

  “Million?”

  “Billion,” Arthur said.

  Melissa glanced at Tommy, who lifted his eyebrows. She looked at Arthur. “How much did you keep for expenses?”

  She sounds skeptical.

  Arthur turned to face her. “None. All of it went into the communities so that they can support and build local economies separate from the drug trade. Now, what can you do to make sure the various governments and the narcos won’t be able to take the money back from the communities?”

  Tommy interlocked his fingers and waited for Melissa to reply.

  She frowned. “There are no guarantees.” She looked at her keyboard then at Tommy. “I need to verify your story before getting the word out. And that’s assuming Mr. Bonner’s cartel money actually ended up where you say it did.”

  Keep your mouth shut and let her do the talking. Lane scratched the tip of his nose, then gave a gentle shake of the head to Arthur. I hope he understands.

  Arthur took a deep breath. “You can assume what you like. You can assume a couple of Angels tried to kill us on the highway just north of Nanton. You can also assume that if we give you the names of people who helped get the money to the communities in Mexico — and these are by no means wealthy people — that their lives will be in danger as well.”

  I guess he didn’t get the hint.

  Melissa sat back and studied Arthur for a minute. “So it is true. A couple of Hells Angels tried to carry out a contract on you.” She pointed at Lane.

  He looked at her, shrugged, then looked at his partner. “Arthur took care of them.”

  Arthur shook his head. “We worked together.”

  Melissa pointed a finger at Arthur. “So you won’t give me specifics. What else can you tell me?”

  Lane shook his head. “Not much. If we give you much more, we put people’s lives at risk. The Angels shot Santa outside the resort we were staying at because they were looking for a guy with a beard.”