by Garry Ryan
“What would motivate someone to label the dumpster with Jennifer’s name?” Harper turned the wheel and parallel parked between two cars in front of one of the coffee shops along Kensington Road.
“Or how would the person know where the body was? The killer wouldn’t be sharing that information.” Lane opened his door. “Maybe someone’s onto the killer? Let’s get a coffee first, then look around.”
“First things first.” Harper made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice as he led the way up the stairs and into the coffee shop.
“Haven’t seen you two in a while.” Bryan greeted them from behind the espresso machine. His black hair was cut so short he could have moved south of the border and joined the Marines. “Nice eye, by the way.”
Lane smiled and nodded.
“Thought we’d drop by for a visit. Got time to talk with us?” Harper asked.
“Let me start you with a couple of coffees first. One rolo and one black?” Bryan smiled at Lane.
“Good memory.” Lane sat down at a table next to the window jutting out over the sidewalk running alongside Kensington Road. He looked out at the people walking along the street and the cars searching for a place to park.
“Bryan usually knows what’s going on around here, so maybe he’ll know where to find a graffiti artist or two.” Harper sat down. His chair complained without surrendering to his weight.
“Who else besides the killers would know where the body was dropped? You’d think the plan would be to have Jennifer end up in the landfill and never be found,” Lane said.
Bryan brought their coffees over. Lane’s mouth watered when he saw the caramel crisscrossing the layer of whipped cream.
“So, how you guys been?” Bryan looked over his shoulder to see who was within earshot.
Lane took a sip and closed his eyes with pleasure. Bryan is an artist, he thought.
“We’re looking for some help,” Harper said.
“You heard about the body found in the back alley?” Lane asked and opened his eyes to study Bryan’s reaction.
Bryan smiled, pretended to wipe the back of his hand across his lips, and handed Lane a napkin. “Yes.”
Lane licked whipped cream and caramel from his top lip, took the napkin, and finished the job.
“We were wondering if you’d heard anything. We’re looking for someone who’s into graffiti.” Harper set his coffee down.
Bryan looked out the window. He appeared to be studying the traffic.
Lane took in the room. People were drinking their coffees, eating, reading, talking, or working on laptops. No one was paying them any attention.
Bryan smiled. “Just a minute.” He turned, walked alongside the counter, and into the kitchen.
Harper exhaled. “How come we always end up in a damned coffee shop?”
“Coffee’s good. Great place to get information. Lots of people go for coffee, and they feel the need to talk. Graffiti artists are a closed community. This is as good a place as any to start finding out what we need to know.” Lane sipped thought-fully. “My guess is you’re going to need that computer.”
Harper sighed and reached into the jacket pocket of his sports coat. He pulled out his palm-sized computer. “Ready.”
The door to the kitchen pushed open. Bryan carried a couple of plates. As he worked his way toward the front of the shop, he dropped off the plates and picked up wooden spoons with numbers painted on them.
Bryan stopped at their table. “Malcolm. You look for a guy named Malcolm.”
“That’s all?” Harper asked.
“That’s all he said. ‘Tell them Malcolm is the guy to talk to.’ The cook’s pretty busy back there.” Bryan looked around as a foursome climbed the steps and looked for an empty table.
“How come he gave us the name?” Lane asked.
Bryan smiled and leaned closer. “He’s part of the Tran family. You guys have a good reputation with the family. Remember? The word is to help you two out when asked. The word comes from Uncle Tran himself.”
“Oh.” Lane sat back and thought, I wonder how Uncle Tran’s family is doing?
“You kept your mouths shut, and you were fair. The family remembers stuff like that. The kids were taken care of and nobody came down on Uncle Tran. You guys did a good thing when you protected the kids first. Everyone in the family appreciated it. And Uncle Tran has one big family. Cheers.” Bryan left.
“Malcolm?” Harper looked at Lane. “A first name. That’s next to nothing to go on.”
“Then let’s start by checking out Mr. Sanders’ address,” Lane said.
×
He wiped black from his hands with a rag that had a patch or two of white on it. A tattooed dragon ran up his arm and inside his oil-stained T-shirt. His head was shaved; he stood as tall as Harper, and looked like he worked out. He stood in the shadow of an open overhead garage door. Lane saw that he was working on a motorcycle with a white number painted on the side. “Yes?” he asked as the detectives approached.
“We’re looking for James Sanders.” Harper stood in the sunlight, to Lane’s right, just outside the garage. He reached inside his jacket.
“Don’t worry, I don’t need to see any id. I’m Mike.” He stepped outside. “Man, that sun feels good after the snow. Can’t believe how quick it warmed up.”
Lane looked inside the garage. There was a red toolbox on wheels, various motorcycle parts hanging from the wall, and more pieces sitting on the bench. “We need to talk with James.”
“You the one he hit?” Mike pointed at Lane’s bruised eye.
“Actually, he got both of us.” Harper smiled and rubbed his ribs.
Lane thought, This one is cagey, trying to show us how much he knows. Let him talk. He waited.
“This is James’ home address?” Harper looked over his shoulder as a car passed.
“He lives here. At least he used to. Haven’t seen him since Thursday.” Mike moved into the garage, scooped a pack of cigarettes off of the toolbox, and came back outside.
“And you know what happened to us.” Lane laid it out like a fact.
“Of course.” Mike struck a match and lit a smoke.
“We need to talk with him.” Harper put his hands on his hips.
“You mean you want to arrest him.” Mike took a deep pull on the cigarette, held it in his lungs, and blew smoke between the detectives.
Lane thought, Time to cut to the chase. “We need to establish if he had anything to do with Jennifer’s death.”
Mike pointed his cigarette at Lane and then Harper. “He wouldn’t hurt her. He’d fight you two if he thought he had to, but he wouldn’t hurt Jennifer.”
“We still need to talk with him.” Lane pulled out a business card and handed it to Mike.
Mike took the card and tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. He nodded. “Sure.”
×
“I wonder when Roz will stop trying to pull my arm out of its socket?” Arthur wrapped the leash around his waist to take the pressure off his wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Roz wheezed harder.
“We’re almost there. Want me to take her the rest of the way?” Lane looked at the sky. The sun was low in the west, but the remaining heat of the day made it possible for them to wear light jackets. “It’s hard to believe it was snowing a couple of days ago.” Lane looked for evidence of white under trees and in the lee of houses. There was none.
“Look at the buds.” Arthur pointed at a tree. The tips of its branches were ripe with green.
“What’s with Fergus?” Lane asked.
They crossed the road. Roz wheezed. Arthur let her off the leash. She bolted up the hill with her nose low and tail high.
“His parents are in Cancun for two weeks. He’s looking after himself til they get back.” Arthur rolled up the leash.
“So, he’s living with us?” Lane asked.
Arthur looked at Lane. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s good.” Lane watched Roz digging in a tree well.
&nb
sp; “Why?”
“It’s spring.” Lane thought, I hope I don’t have to start drawing pictures for you.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s in love with Christine.”
Arthur stopped. “What are you talking about?”
For once I’m the one who spotted the obvious, Lane thought. “He’s always showing off for her. Not a whimper out of him when he puts a knife through his foot. Smiles all the way to the clinic while she has her arm around him in the back seat of the Jeep.”
“Oh my God! He can’t live with us!” Arthur looked for Roz. “We have to send him home!”
“Relax.” Lane wasn’t sure if he should laugh or be alarmed.
“Christine’s very vulnerable right now! Roz! Come Roz!” Arthur waved at the dog. She lifted her head, then went back to digging. Arthur rushed toward her.
“You don’t think they’ve been up to something, do you?” Lane asked, finding himself on the same panicked wavelength as Arthur.
“Fergus needs to get back into his own house! We’ve got to get him away from her.” Arthur whistled at the dog.
“If we get rid of him, won’t that make him all the more attractive to Christine?”
×
“I’ll give you a ride home, Fergus, right after supper.” Arthur handed over a plate of Greek salad with half a loaf of French bread.
“Thanks.” Fergus grabbed the plate with his left hand and continued to channel surf with his right.
Arthur left the family room and went back to the main floor. “He eats fast. I’ll go start the Jeep. You bring him out.” He grabbed his keys and coat, stuffed his feet in his shoes, and proceeded out the front door.
Lane looked at Roz, who lay on the floor with her chin resting on her front paws. She raised her eyebrows at him.
A belch rumbled up the stairs.
“Finished?” Lane called to Fergus.
“Yep.”
Lane went down to the family room and steadied Fergus as he hopped up the stairs. “Thanks for giving me a ride home.”
Lane watched the steps. “No problem. It’s not like you could walk.”
“And the food’s great here. That salad was…” Fergus was lost for words.
Lane guided him outside and into the front seat of the Jeep.
“I’m buying some new practice knives tomorrow. And some steel-toed boots.” Fergus smiled as he put on his seat belt.
“See you, Fergus.” Lane shut the door.
Arthur eased the Jeep down the driveway.
Lane watched until they turned the corner at the end of the block.
The phone was ringing when he went inside. He checked the caller id and picked up the phone. “What’s up?”
Harper said. “Jennifer Towers’ funeral is tomorrow. Just got the call. Interment is at Queen’s Park Cemetery.”
“We’d better be there in case Mr. Sanders shows. What time?”
“Ten in the morning. I’ll pick you up at seven.” Harper hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, Lane heard Christine walk in the front door. “Where’s my baby? Where’s my puppy?” she asked.
In the family room, Lane watched Roz hide behind the couch with head and tail held low. “We’re down here,” he said. Lane could hear Christine drop her purse, shoes, and jacket at the front door.
Christine came down the stairs to where Lane sat reading a book.
“Where’s Fergus?” she asked.
“He went home.” Lane put the book down and waited for a reaction.
“Good.” She sat down in the chair and swiveled so that she was facing him. “Where’s Roz?”
Lane said, “Good?”
“I thought he was gonna move in.” Christine crossed her legs and tucked them under her thighs. “Look, I know you think I’m crazy because of Paradise and everything. And sometimes when I think about it, when I think about what they did to me, I get angry. But that doesn’t mean I’m interested in Fergus just ’cuz he’s interested in me.”
Lane closed his mouth and thought, Now she’s reading my mind!
“He needs someone to look out for him, that’s all. So I’m gonna ask Matt to invite him over again. Fergus needs people around.” Christine cocked her head to one side, waiting.
“What do you want to do about your father?” Lane felt tightness in his chest. He reached up and tried to rub it away.
“I want to go and see him. I checked it out. He’s supposed to be coming to town. I don’t need to meet him, just see him. Maybe it’ll…” Christine’s voice was choked off.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Would you?” she asked.
×
“Maddy?” Andrea’s voice was a little angry.
She’s overtired, Maddy thought. “Yes?”
“Where you go at night?” Andrea rolled over so she could see Maddy better.
“How did you know that?” She turned and watched Andrea’s expression.
She looked at Maddy with those overlarge eyes. Andrea wore white and red pajamas. Her blonde hair was cut short. “Because.”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe. I’m the only one with a key to the door. Besides, I’m never far away.”
TUESDAY, MAY 6
chapter 7
“Any idea why he wants to see us?” Lane watched the C-train rumble across a downtown intersection. The rails bobbed as the wheels traveled over a soft spot. A pedestrian ran across the tracks just in front of the train.
Harper shook his head. “People always want to beat that damned train. As far as us visiting Smoke, I have no idea why he called us. I’m totally out of the loop when it comes to the whys and hows of the new top cop. You do know who Chief Smoke’s new assistant is?” The light turned green.
Lane looked at Harper’s face. There was no hint of a smile. Lane waited.
“Stockwell.” Harper gave his head a disgusted shake and turned left into a parking lot fenced in by chain link. The detectives’ chins dipped as the car bounced over a speed bump.
Five minutes later, they found themselves sitting across from Stockwell, who sat behind a semicircle of a desk that took up more than half of the space in the waiting room. He’d greeted them with a nod as he typed on the keyboard beneath a top-of-the-line computer screen. There was a black earpiece and threadlike microphone attached to the right side of his face.
Lane took in the room. Everything about this place screams change. He looked at Harper, who was frowning.
“Chief’ll see you now.” Stockwell, with trimmed eyebrows and gelled hair, didn’t look up from behind his designer glasses.
Harper launched himself from his chair. Lane followed.
The inside of the chief’s office seemed bigger somehow. Pictures of the new chief and various current city celebrities were carefully aligned along one of the oak walls.
Smoke’s six-foot frame was swallowed by a high-backed black leather chair behind a bird’s-eye maple desk. The desk dwarfed a computer screen even larger than Stockwell’s. Smoke’s back was to the window overlooking the downtown. He glanced at the reflection of his gold braid in the mirror-like polish of the speckled wood.
Lane squinted as he tried to read the features of Smoke’s face, which were overexposed by the glare of the day’s intense sunshine.
Smoke stood. Leather sighed. He reached across the desk to shake their hands. Lane felt Smoke’s limp grip and noticed his manicured fingernails.
Smoke sat down first. “Please sit down, detectives.”
Lane and Harper sat in the oak chairs arranged across the no man’s land of Smoke’s desk.
“It’s a new policy of mine to check with detectives and stay abreast of investigations. The high profile of your last two cases encourages me to initiate a proactive approach.” Smoke leaned back in his chair.
What new policy? Lane looked at Harper to see if he’d heard of the new policy.
Harper’s puzzled expression was enough of an answer.
“It’s an integral and key component of my new and innovative approach to law enforcement,” the chief said.
Lane looked beyond Harper to a photo on the wall. Smoke, Bishop Paul, and Dr. Jones posed with raised crystal glasses of amber. They smiled with self-assured superiority as they looked up from a table. A waiter stood behind them holding a bottle of scotch that Lane would have guessed to be a quarter of a century old.
Smoke moved from behind his desk to stand between Lane and the photograph.
Lane focused on the chief’s smile. It’s the same one he gave me when the officers were beating the hell out of that guy on the dirt bike.
“How are you progressing on the Towers case?” Smoke asked.
Lane felt Harper’s eyes on him.
Lane said, “Initial indications are that the boyfriend may be a person of interest.” He sensed Harper struggling to maintain his composure.
“That’s very good news!” Smoke slapped his hand on the desk. He moved closer and stood over Lane, who caught a sweet shock wave of alcohol, aftershave, and mouthwash. “I’ll expect an update if there are any new developments. You can depend on my full support.”
Sensing they were being dismissed, Lane and Harper stood.
“Would you like a daily or weekly update, sir?” Harper asked.
“Weekly will suffice.” Smoke’s tone had changed. He obviously had more important matters to deal with.
Lane and Harper stepped into the waiting area. Stockwell remained focused on his monitor. Lane spotted a game of solitaire on the screen just before it changed to an official-looking document with the city’s coat of arms on top.
The detectives maintained their silence in the elevator where they, along with other officers and city workers, were whisked down to street level.
They stepped outside the controlled air of the building and walked to the unmarked Chev.
They were driving out of the downtown core before either spoke.
“If this is a new and improved approach to policing, why does Dr. Jones belong to Smoke’s old boys’ network?” Lane asked.
“And why is Stockwell Smoke’s right hand man?” Harper asked.
“The other question is why is the chief using aftershave and mouthwash to hide the smell of booze?”
