by Garry Ryan
In fifteen minutes, they found themselves across the street from the tiers of the sandstone retaining wall where two kits were visible in a nook and a cranny.
Roz studied the young foxes. One of them yawned. The other stood up. At this age the kit was round, like a stuffed toy, and it bounced rather than ran.
Lane looked at Roz and held the leash with both hands.
“What’s up?” Matt called.
Lane turned.
Matt approached them. He was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt. He tried to catch his breath. “Uncle Arthur said you were upset.”
Lane shook his head. I can’t get away even for a moment.
Matt stood on the other side of Roz. He turned to watch one kit as it plopped onto a patch of grass. Matt tried again. “What’s the matter?”
“Arthur signed me up for yoga.” Why am I so pissed off about this? It’s just once a week.
“Like he just signed you up to ref my hockey games when I first moved in with you guys?”
“Exactly,” Lane said.
“And you found out about Daniel and Christine?”
“You knew that too?” What else is going on that I don’t know about?
“Yep. Here comes the mom.” Matt pointed at the gaunt mother fox. She had something in her mouth. She trotted effortlessly along the ledge. She dropped something in front of the kit who had gotten to its feet. The kit went to work devouring its meal. “What is that?”
“Probably a mouse or a vole. She looks worse than last time.” Lane felt Roz’s tense wariness through the leash.
“It won’t be long before the kits will have to be looking after themselves. They have to have pretty amazing survival skills.” Matt knelt and rubbed the fur on Roz’s neck. “How’s my girl?”
Lane smiled at Matt. Then he watched the mother fox. She turned, licked her lips, yawned and headed back to the full-time job of feeding her family.
“Can we hurry back? Fergus is coming to pick me up.” Matt turned and Roz followed behind, forcing Lane to do the same.
“This car smells great,” Matt said. “Has anybody sat in the passenger seat yet?”
Fergus sat behind the wheel. He wore his red hair in a Highland fro that made his head appear to be twice as big as it actually was. His freckles were more pronounced in the summer. He still weighed less than he should have at six-two. Fergus said, “My dad picked it up this morning. He took me for a ride this afternoon.” The light turned green, and he touched the accelerator. “Five hundred horsepower!”
Matt was shoved deeper into the cashmere beige leather seat. “Whoa!” His right hand gripped the Mercedes-Benz armrest.
Fergus backed off the accelerator. “I want to see how it drifts.” He turned left into a shopping mall parking lot.
Matt felt himself being gripped by the three-point safety harness. “This thing handles great.”
Fergus slowed to ease over the incline and onto the freshly paved parking lot. “I’ve been keeping my eyes open for a fresh patch of pavement. This place clears out at night.”
Matt looked ahead. Streetlights illuminated the pavement with a soft glow. Shops lined three sides of the lot. “Have you ever drifted before?”
“Nope.” Fergus accelerated.
“Doesn’t this thing have all-wheel drive and stability control?” Matt asked.
They approached the far end of the lot. Fergus pulled the emergency brake, turned the wheel and stepped on the accelerator. The Mercedes surged forward and they skipped over a speed bump. There was a shower of sparks as the front suspension of the car bottomed out and scraped the pavement.
Fergus took his foot off of the accelerator and stomped on the brakes.
The car jumped the sidewalk before plowing though the glass front of the Hallmark card shop.
Matt took everything in as if it were happening in slow motion.
The airbags deployed.
For an instant, shattered glass was suspended in a spider’s web of opaque silk.
The nose of the Mercedes hit a display of greeting cards, then stopped.
Debris pounded the roof and trunk. A display teetered and fell against the windshield on the driver’s side of the car. A hole appeared in the glass.
The engine raced. Fergus turned it off.
“Help me out of here.” Fergus brushed crumbs of safety glass from his fro. As he rubbed his hair with his palm, blood began to smear his hair and hands.
Matt released his seat belt and bent his neck forward, letting his head dangle. The airbag had knocked the wind out of him and smacked him in the balls. “Give me a second.”
Fergus undid his seat belt, leaned into his door and shoved his shoulder against it. “My dad is gonna kill me.”
Matt raised his head. “I thought you said your dad gave you the keys.”
“Actually, he told me I could take my mom’s car, not the Mercedes.” Fergus pushed against his door. “It won’t open.”
“This car is only a day old.” Matt sat back against the leather, thankful that the pain was no longer so insistently pounding through his brain and groin.
“Let me out.” Fergus lifted his right leg over the console.
Matt opened his door and stepped out. As he stood up straight, the inside of the card shop was lit with flashing headlights and rotating red-and-blue lights. He stepped gingerly over the glass and outside to the sidewalk.
Twenty minutes later, Matt was sitting in the back of a police cruiser when Lane and Arthur arrived.
An officer, who began to point at the Mercedes, intercepted his uncles.
Matt heard Arthur say, “We need to see our nephew before we do anything else.”
Matt opened the door and stepped out.
He heard an officer say, “Crashing into a Hallmark store with daddy’s brand-new Mercedes. Everyone downtown will love this!”
Another voice said, “Hey, shut up. That’s Detective Lane. You know, the guy who took Smoke down.”
“Are you okay?” Lane asked Matt.
Matt heard the emotion behind the question. “I’m okay.”
Arthur hugged his nephew. “We were so scared when we got the call.”
Matt cringed as his uncle squeezed his body. It was beginning to ache where the seat belt had held him back. The airbag had hit him hard and the resultant bruising was beginning to reveal itself.
“He’s hurting, Arthur.” Lane put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go sit in the Jeep while we talk with the officer?”
Matt walked to the Jeep. He saw Christine and Dan sitting in the back seat with the windows open. He opened the door.
Christine said, “Uncle Lane said we had to stay here.”
Matt heard accusation in her voice. “How did this get to be about you?”
“At least I’m not the one who embarrassed Uncle Lane in front of the police officers like you did.”
Just let her get the last word in, Matt thought. Besides, she’s right.
He sat in the front passenger seat in the silence, watching Lane and Arthur listen to the traffic officer.
“How’s Fergus?” Dan asked.
“An ambulance took him to emergency. He needs some stitches.” Matt leaned back against the headrest.
Lane and Arthur turned and walked toward the Jeep. Lane opened the driver’s door. Arthur squeezed in next to Christine.
“What did they say?” Matt asked.
Lane put on his seat belt and started the Jeep. “Fergus’s dad is deciding whether or not to charge the pair of you with auto theft.”
Matt felt his intestines dropping somewhere south of his navel. How will I ever make this right?
THURSDAY, AUGUST 4
chapter 4
“Sorry I couldn’t see you right away.” Harper sat down in a chair on one side of the knee-high coffee table in his corner office. He filled it up and appeared uncomfortable in the deputy chief’s uniform. His hand dwarfed the paper cup as he picked up the coffee Lane and Keely had brought w
ith them. After a sip, Harper said, “You still know how to find a great cup of coffee.”
Lane asked, “When’s the baby due?”
“Two months. Erinn can’t wait for it to be over and Jessica is all excited. Glenn is moving out into his own place but not very far away. He’s moving in with —” he glanced in Keely’s direction “— a friend.”
“It’s not a problem,” Keely said.
Lane smiled. “My new partner is gay friendly.”
“Good.” Harper looked out of a window and turned serious.
“We’ve got a line on Kev Moreau. We may be able to connect him to the disappearance and murder of Zander Rowe,” Lane said.
Harper looked at each of them in turn. The phone rang. He ignored it.
A moment later there was a knock at the door. Harper’s secretary opened the door and poked her head in. “It’s the chief.”
“Urgent?” Harper asked.
She flipped her black hair over her shoulder and shook her head. “No.”
“I’ll call him back.” Harper took another sip of coffee.
Lane’s cell rang. He flipped it open, read the number and said, “It’s Fibre.”
“Take it,” Harper said.
Lane pressed the face of his phone. “Hello.”
“Early indications are that we have a probable cause of death,” Dr. Weaver said in his usual monotone.
“Is the body positively identified?” Lane asked.
“Yes, of course. It is definitely Zander Rowe. The dental records confirm it,” Fibre said.
“And the cause of death?”
“There is a precise hole in the skull consistent with a bullet wound. We have recovered several metal fragments and are analyzing them now.”
“Anything else?”
“There is a nick in one of the ribs. There may have been two gunshot wounds.” Fibre hung up.
Lane looked at Keely and Harper then said, “It appears Zander was killed by a gunshot to the front of the head, and there is some evidence he was also shot in the chest.”
“Execution style,” Harper said.
Lane looked at Keely. She was watching the deputy chief.
“Zander’s brother is still in jail?” Keely asked.
“I assume so,” Lane said.
“Can you check that out?” Harper asked.
“How come you two are tiptoeing around this one?” Keely asked.
Lane looked at Harper.
Harper shrugged as if to say, Your call.
“Moreau is really well connected in the city. You —” Lane looked at Keely “— already know from your undercover work that he’s a member of the old boys’ network that used to drink Scotch with Chief Smoke. He’s also connected with various business and church organizations. The alderman in Moreau’s riding is in his pocket. We also believe he has one or two contacts within the police service. The style of killing — a bullet to the head and one to the chest or heart — fits a pattern established since high school. Moreau was a suspect in several drive-bys during his mid to late teens. Unfortunately, we could never connect him to the killings. We have to keep our investigation quiet and move carefully. If it is Moreau who was involved in the execution — and Keely, you and I believe that to be the case — then there are too many possibilities for leaks if we don’t keep things on a need-to-know basis.”
“The pair of you aren’t usually this cryptic,” Keely said.
“Take a look at this.” Harper handed each of them a magazine. Lane took it and read the front cover of the City Insider. Moreau’s face smiled back at them with his green eyes. The headline under the face said, Person of the Year. The first issue of the magazine promised to keep the reader informed about the movers and shakers in the city while providing a taste of the good life.
Lane and Keely began to read while Harper leaned back in his chair.
Meet Our Person of the Year!
A different kind of developer has come to the fore and his name is Kev Moreau. From humble beginnings, this homegrown maverick is helping to revitalize his old neighbourhood. It is now a thriving community on the city’s west side.
I met this twenty-nine-yearold at his downtown restaurant, aptly named Kev’s. If you haven’t seen the restaurant yet, it’s hard to miss. Walls of glass, Italian marble, unforgettable decor and remarkable food.
We sit at a table next to the window overlooking the Stephen Avenue Mall, where we are able to watch the comings and goings at the Centre for the Performing Arts. After tasting the food, I’d say that art is also being performed in Mr. Moreau’s kitchen.
Kev’s clothes are tailored to fit him and those startling green eyes study me from behind a glass of red wine.
Yes — in case you’re wondering — the wine is superb.
I ask him what he thinks of being City Insider’s choice for Person of the Year.
He studies the people on the street through the one-way glass before he answers. “To me it’s an affirmation. I’ve grown up the hard way and to gain this kind of recognition is very satisfying.”
I ask him about any new revitalization plans for the community he grew up in and where he continues to choose to live. Before he can answer, a very efficient waiter refills our wineglasses.
“I feel it’s important for entrepreneurs to give back to the community. A variety of types of business development is what I like to see. It’s locally developed, locally owned, and meets the needs of the people who live and work in the neighbourhood.” Kev takes a sip of wine, then nods at the waiter, who promptly retires to the kitchen.
“Along with the economic prosperity, there has been a decrease in crime — especially drugrelated crime — in my neighbourhood. I think this is my biggest accomplishment because it was done without the support of the police. It was an idea I promoted within the community.”
I asked Mr. Moreau what’s next if business is thriving and drugs are off the streets of his community.
“There are a few surprises coming. I’ll be making some announcements in the weeks and months to come.”
Lane took a minute to study the photographs. Moreau posed in front of a wall of bottles stacked in his wine cellar. Another of him leaning against a gleaming Maserati.
Lane looked at the byline. “Who’s Andrea Wiley?”
“Apparently she’s engaged to Moreau,” Harper said.
Keely flipped to the front of the magazine. “Sue Pike is the publisher. Any relation to Moreau’s man Stan Pike?”
“His sister. Getting the picture?” Harper asked.
“Starting to.” Keely tossed the magazine on the coffee table.
“For more than ten years we’ve been trying to charge Moreau with a series of unsolved crimes. Each time we run into a wall of silence from his community. Witnesses either disappear or refuse to talk. We’re pretty sure he runs his own organized crime network and manages to keep the competition away from his turf.” Harper lifted his cup and drained his coffee. “Moreau thinks he can leave his past behind and move on to bigger projects. The problem is that there is always a body count when Moreau makes a move.”
Lane nodded.
Keely looked at her partner. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Lane looked at her. “He’s a sociopath.”
“So there are no rules?” Keely asked.
“Kev Moreau makes the rules.” Harper turned to Lane. “Is Matt okay?”
Lane nodded at Harper. “A little shaken up. How did you hear?”
“Whenever something like that happens — especially if it involves the family member of a police officer — I hear about it. Besides, Matt is Jessica’s favourite person in the world. I have to keep an eye on her friends.” He smiled, then turned to Keely. “Inspector MacWhirter of the RCMP has been asking me to call him. I think he wants to know when you will no longer be on loan to us.”
“Can you keep him on hold at least until we finish this case?” Keely asked.
Harper nodded. “The two of you need to be
careful. Moreau has a reputation on the street for being ruthless and cold blooded.”
FRIDAY, AUGUST 5
chapter 5
“Okay, what’s happened?” Keely sat across from Lane at a narrow table in The Diner on Stephen Avenue Mall. The restaurant was about five times as long as it was wide at about three metres across. She stuffed a fried potato in her mouth. “These things are so good.” She chased it with a gulp of coffee. “And this —” she said as she held up the cup, “— it’s wonderful.”
Lane sipped from his cup.
The waitress arrived with a carafe and topped up their coffees. “Everything okay?”
Lane nodded.
Keely smiled and popped another fried potato into her mouth.
The waitress left.
“Well?” Keely asked.
Lane shrugged.
“Christine’s on the pill.” Keely pointed her fork at Lane.
“Did Arthur call and tell you?”
Keely shook her head. “Nope. It’s just that you’ve got the same look on your face as my father did when he found out Dylan and I had moved in together.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s not.” Keely’s eyes narrowed to reveal a mixture of anger and hurt.
“Maybe we’d better talk about the case.”
“Or about Matt and the car accident?”
Lane frowned.
“Maybe it would be better if we talked about the case.” Keely lifted her coffee cup.
“We don’t know for sure why Zander Rowe was murdered, we don’t know who did it — at least we can’t prove it — and both parents are dead,” Lane said.
“Both?”
“The mother two years after Zander and the father five years after that.” Lane looked at the wall as if peering into the past.
“Murdered?”
Lane shook his head. “The mother died of breast cancer and the father drank himself to death.”
“And the brother?”
“He talked with me only once, then refused to meet again. Wouldn’t respond to any messages. I’d like to try again but it’s probably a dead end.”
“I’d like to stop in and see Lionel Birch. He’s got lots more to tell us if we ask him the right questions.” Keely drank the last of her coffee and tried to catch the eye of the waitress.
