by Garry Ryan
Lane eased the ice up against his eye.
She smiled at him. “You probably still won’t listen to me, but here’s the truth. James loved that girl. I know all about the kind of men who hurt women. James isn’t that kind. He’ll tangle with you two, but there’s no way he would have hurt her.”
“Tell that to him.” Lane took the ice from his eye and pointed at Harper.
“You guys cornered him,” Carley said.
“And what would he do to Jennifer if she cornered him?” Lane asked.
Carley leaned to sweep the glass into a pile. “I knew you wouldn’t listen.”
To Lane, her voice sounded more resigned than accusatory. “We need his address,” Harper said.
×
“It’ll take a week to get that glass out of your hair.” Lane drove as Harper looked in the mirror and picked crumbs of glass from his clothing and scalp and flicked the bits out the window.
“Should’ve seen it coming.” Harper rolled a booger-sized bit of glass between his thumb and forefinger.
“My hindsight is very accurate too.”
“There’ll be more than a few laughs about this. Two cops beat up by one suspect. And that eye of yours is going to be plenty of pretty colours in a day or two.” Harper looked at the swelling above and below Lane’s left eye.
“Still think we should go see the parents, looking like this?” Lane stopped at a red light just below the Children’s Hospital. The building’s red and yellow squares gave the impression that it was constructed of a child’s building blocks.
“I already phoned the parents. Just after we put out the call on James Sanders. Don’t see how we can put it off.” Harper straightened his collar.
The Towers’ residence was a brick bungalow just north of a golf course. Lane parked out front. The driveway was filled with two late-model Fords. One was a sedan, the other a pickup.
Harper got out, gingerly removing more glass from his hair. He looked at Lane. “How do you want to handle this?”
“At this point, we probably need to listen more than anything else.” Lane knocked on the front door.
Harper stood behind him on the bottom step.
Lane looked down on Harper to see particles of glass reflected in his hair and on his shoulders. The door opened. Lane turned.
The woman studied Lane through the glass of the storm door.
“I’m Detective Lane, and this is Detective Harper. We’d like to ask some questions about Jennifer Towers. Are you her mother?” She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks, Lane thought.
“Yes, I’m her mother, MaryAnne. Come in.” She stepped back into the shadows as Lane opened the door.
It took a moment for Lane’s eyes to adjust to the lack of light in the front room. MaryAnne stood nearly five feet tall. Her short black hair was flattened on the left side.
“Is there any news?” she asked.
Lane heard emptiness in her voice. “Not yet.” He looked around the living room, where pictures of Jennifer’s life covered one wall. He looked at MaryAnne Towers as it dawned on him that Jennifer was an only child.
“Tea? Coffee?” MaryAnne asked while walking toward the kitchen.
“What is easy for you?” Harper asked her.
“My Jennifer back.” MaryAnne didn’t bother looking back.
They followed her into the kitchen.
Lane looked back as an oak floorboard creaked.
“Who are you?” The man in the hall stood over six feet tall. He had a full head of red hair.
“They’re detectives, Don.” MaryAnne turned on the tap to fill the coffee pot.
“Any news?” There was hope in Don’s voice.
“Not yet.” Harper shrugged.
Don sat at the kitchen table. “Sit down.”
Lane and Harper sat on either side of him. The coffee maker sputtered. The scent of arabica beans filled the room.
MaryAnne turned around. “This is not like her. She always phones.”
Don asked, “Did you talk with her boyfriend?”
“James Sanders?” Harper asked, then looked at Lane.
Don nodded. “That’s right.”
“Less than an hour ago,” Lane said.
Don got up, then returned with spoons, sugar, and milk. He sat down, got up again, and returned with four coffee cups.
“It didn’t go well.” MaryAnne said.
Lane noticed that it was a statement rather than a question. He looked closely at Jennifer’s mother.
“You have swelling around your eye. Your partner’s got bits of glass in his hair and on his clothes.” MaryAnne sat.
Harper checked one shoulder of his sports jacket then the other.
“What was their relationship like?” Lane asked.
Don and MaryAnne looked at one another.
Don said, “I didn’t like his short temper.”
Neither did I, Lane thought. He looked at MaryAnne.
“He’s kind. He’s angry. He and Jennifer would have arguments. She’s as stubborn as he is. As far as I know it never got physical. I think he loved her.” MaryAnne looked at the coffee machine.
Don got up to grab the pot and pour coffee for each of them. “Jennifer was mad at me after her last argument with him. She asked me what I thought of James, and I told her. She didn’t like the answer.” Don put the coffee pot back and sat down.
“What did you tell her?” Harper added sugar and milk to his coffee.
“The same thing I told you two about his temper. She said I should mind my own business, then she stopped talking to me.” Don looked out the window when he heard a car drive by.
Looking to MaryAnne, Lane asked, “What was he angry about?”
“Being rejected by his family. They kicked him out right after high school. I think he’s looking for a home. A family.” MaryAnne lifted her coffee and took a sip.
“Do you know where we could find him?” Harper asked.
Don stood up and stepped into the front room so he could see out the front window. “He lives down in Bowness with a couple of other guys. They are all into motorcycles. Sometimes, they go racing in the summer.” He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote on it. “Here’s the address.”
“He talked about visiting some friends out on the west coast once or twice.” MaryAnne looked at the coffee inside her cup as if trying to read the future.
“She should never have hooked up with James.” Don’s head turned as a car drove by.
MaryAnne shook her head. “He is just a kid. I find it hard to believe that he would hurt Jennifer.”
Lane and Harper left after assuring Jennifer’s parents that they would provide them with daily updates.
Inside the Chevy, on their way down Shaganappi Trail, Harper asked, “How are Christine and Matt doing?”
Lane shrugged, remembering what he’d be up to on Saturday morning. “At each other’s throats.”
“Still?” Harper eased into the centre lane.
Lane nodded. “You bet.”
“Think they’ll ever get along?”
FRIDAY, MAY 2
chapter 3
“What’s going on?” Lane stepped over shoes scattered across the blue-grey linoleum inside their front door.
“Matt’s invited some friends over.” Arthur poked his head out from behind the hallway wall before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Lane stepped out of his shoes and followed Arthur. “How come you didn’t tell me?”
“I found out an hour ago.” Arthur reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine which he plopped on the kitchen table.
Music — Lane had never heard this kind before — rushed up the stairs from the family room, followed by a young man whose hair was almost as wild as the music. Lane readied himself for the inevitable curious gaze followed by an awkward conversation.
Instead, the boy stuck out his freckled hand. “I’m Fergus.” A wide smile lit up the boy’s face.
“Arthur.” He wiped his ha
nd on a tea towel before shaking hands with Fergus and smiling.
Fergus turned quickly before releasing Arthur’s hand. “You must be Lane then. Matt brags that you’re a detective.” Fergus released Arthur’s hand and reached for Lane’s.
There’s definitely an energy to this one, Lane thought. “Good to meet you, Fergus.”
“Where’s the can? The one downstairs is…” Fergus looked into the living room.
“Upstairs, to your right,” Arthur said too quickly.
Fergus ran upstairs.
The doorbell rang.
Lane went to the door, where he found two young women and a male. At least Lane assumed it was a male. The trio had hair all of approximately the same length, all dyed black. Their eclectic clothing is a delightful mix and match from the local secondhand store, Lane thought.
“Is this Matt’s place?” the male asked.
“Yes.” Lane was relieved that he’d correctly guessed gender and opened the door.
“See, I knew where I was going,” one of the females said as she stepped inside, kicked off her shoes, and followed the music down the stairs. The other two trailed her.
Lane looked to the bottom of the stairs. The three newcomers were embracing Matt.
“It’s a party for the kids in the play. Matt said he invited a few over, word got around, and it ended up being a cast and crew party.” Arthur set a bowl of salad on the table.
Lane fetched two plates and some cutlery. His mouth watered as he caught the scent of olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, oregano, peppers, onions, feta cheese, and vinegar. “Where did you get the tomatoes?”
“Lucked out at the Co-Op. Fresh ones just arrived when Matt and I were picking up a few things for the party.” The doorbell rang again. “Maybe we should eat out on the deck. It’s almost warm enough,” Arthur said.
Matt hopped up the stairs. “Got it!” He looked to his left. “Hey uncle.” Four young women were at the door. As they stepped in, one kissed Matt on the cheek.
Lane watched his nephew’s neck turn red. The five trooped past, followed by Fergus. The girl who’d kissed Matt stopped at the top of the stairs. She wore a black floor-length dress. She stuck out a hand. “Carol.”
After they’d made their way down the stairs, Lane leaned down to look into the family room. Someone had opened the sliding door. The party was spilling into the backyard. “How many are there?”
Arthur grabbed the salad bowl and wine. “Lots.”
Lane followed with plates, forks, napkins, and glasses. “It’s a good thing it warmed up so fast.”
The deck was still heated by the afternoon sun, but a chill remained from the late-spring snowfall.
Lane loosened his tie and scooped salad onto their plates. Arthur poured the wine.
“How was today?” Arthur took a sip of wine.
“Chasing shadows. No sign of the missing woman or her boyfriend. Harper and I spent a day interviewing people at restaurants and bars in the area. Not one of them remembered seeing her.” Lane guided the first forkful of salad into his mouth. He closed his eyes. “Delicious. Tomatoes that actually taste like tomatoes.”
The back door opened. Christine stood framed in the doorway. She was wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her natural, graceful beauty struck Lane as he remembered holding her for the first time just moments after she was born.
She looked over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“Matt decided the people in the play needed a get-together.” Arthur settled a napkin onto his lap.
“Mind if I join you?” Christine asked.
“Not at all. Lots here. Bring a glass and plate.” Arthur got up and brought another chair to the table.
Roz followed Christine when she stepped back out onto the deck. The dog curled up in a patch of sunshine while Christine put her purse on the deck and sat down with plate and cutlery. “You sure?” she asked again.
By way of reply, Lane took her plate and filled it with salad while Arthur poured her a glass of wine.
“How did class go today?” Arthur asked.
“Got an A on an English paper.” She reached over, opened her purse, pulled out the folded assignment, and handed it to Arthur.
Arthur began to read.
Lane raised his glass to Christine. “Congratulations.” He smiled at the joy of an infrequent truce.
“It says you write with maturity, and that you’ve got definite talent,” Arthur said as he handed the paper to Lane.
The back door opened. Fergus looked out. His eyes focused on Christine. He smiled, then disappeared back into the house.
“Who was that?” Christine asked.
“Fergus.” Lane shook his head.
“What happened to your eye?” Christine asked.
“A tussle with a suspect,” Lane said.
“A tussle?” Arthur’s tone said he wasn’t convinced even though Lane had phoned him shortly after the incident.
The door opened. Fergus stepped down onto the deck. He held one of Arthur’s blown glass balls in his right hand. The colours in the glass glittered as Fergus made the ball roll along the back of his hand, then up his arm. Impossibly, the ball rolled over his shoulder, across the back of his neck and down to the fingertips of his left hand, where he balanced it before guiding it back the way it had come.
Arthur gasped when the ball fell from Fergus’ shoulder, but the juggler recovered and caught the ball just centimetres from the deck’s surface.
Lane and Arthur clapped. Fergus bowed and presented the ball to Christine. He closed the back door quietly behind him.
Christine began to eat her salad. She turned to Lane. “What time do you want to start tomorrow?”
You have no idea you’ve got an admirer, Lane thought.
SATURDAY, MAY 3
chapter 4
“How about a rolo after we’re done?” Lane asked Christine. They were walking along the alley running parallel to Kensington Road, where shops and restaurants lined either side of the street. Downtown high-rises and condos looked down on them from just across the river.
Christine wore jeans and a T-shirt. “What’s a rolo?”
“Caramel, chocolate, espresso, and whipped cream.” Lane looked to his right. They were crossing a street with a gate designed to reduce traffic into the residential area. The trees running down either side of the street, some with a hint of green buds, touched where they met above the middle of the pavement.
“What do these say?” Lane looked at a series of unique and stylized words sprayed on the side of a transformer.
“Not sure. There’s another one of mine down there.” Christine pointed at a green dumpster with one corner pushed up against a cinderblock building. She shook the green can of spray paint in her right hand.
“How many does that make?” Lane walked beside her.
“Nine or ten.” Christine sprayed green over the stylized yellow letters of paradise and the red letters of hell.
Lane looked down the alley. Another dumpster sat on a concrete pad next to a red brick wall. This time the container was navy blue. “Got the other can of paint?” Lane asked.
“In a minute.”
Lane looked around him. Behind a store, further down the alleyway, a man sat on an upturned white plastic pail. The man stood, glared at Lane, flicked his smoke away, opened a door, and went inside.
Lane caught the scent of marijuana on the gentle breeze sliding through the alley. He walked closer to the dumpster. There was the sweet stink of something else in the air. It triggered memories of other times.
A garbage can.
A dead child.
A camper. Another dead child.
Lane’s childhood, and a resurrected memory.
He looked on either side of the dumpster. The scent of death was stronger now. On the side of the container, he spotted a white message on the blue metal.
Lane looked around the alley for something to stand on.
“Uncle!”
Lane turne
d around.
Christine was only a few metres away. He read the anger in her eyes.
“I’ve been calling you!” She stopped with the can of paint hanging loosely at her side. “What’s the matter?”
Lane pointed at the tag. “What’s it say?”
Christine cocked her head to one side. “‘Towers’ I think, but the ‘T’ is kind of funky. So what?”
“It’s the last name of the woman who went missing. Please, wait right there.” Lane went up the alley and returned with the empty pail. He set it upside down next to the dumpster and stood on it.
“What’s that smell?” Christine asked.
×
“What kind of lock set do you need?” The clerk wore a green canvas shirt that smelled of sawdust.
Maddy shifted her weight. The wooden floor creaked in protest. This place is so last century, she thought. “One to keep my bedroom door locked.” The reply sounded sarcastic even to her. “Sorry.”
The clerk lifted his cap and rubbed a bald spot stretching from forehead to crown. Dust fell from the cap. Particles were illuminated in a shaft of sunlight coming from the windows facing Tenth Street. “Safety an issue?”
Maddy nodded.
He picked a box off the shelf and handed it to her. “This one should do the trick.”
“Do I need any tools?” Maddy cradled the box in the crook of her right arm.
“Got a Phillips?”
“What?” Maddy asked.
“Screwdriver. There’ll be one over here.” The clerk waved at her to follow him.
×
“How do you do this?” Christine wiped her nose with a wad of tissues. She stuffed them in her pocket then pulled them back out to compress them in her fist. “Do you think she was in there when I tagged the other dumpsters?”
Which question do I answer first? Lane thought. “I don’t know if she was there or not. We’ll have to wait until we get more facts.”
“Well?” she wiped at her eyes.
“Well what?” Lane asked.
“How do you do this?” Christine watched him closely.
“Sometimes…” He searched his mind for the right words.
