Glycerine

by Garry Ryan

  “What?” Nigel asked.

  Lane glared at Nigel.

  Nigel began to speak to the man in the purple shirt, who lifted his round face and brown eyes only once to look first at Nigel, then at Lane.

  “Oscar Mendes,” the man in the purple shirt said.

  Nigel asked, “¿Cómo se llama?”

  The man in the purple shirt said, “Miguel.”

  “¿Qué sabe usted de los premios Oscar,” Nigel said.

  Miguel began to talk. The words fell out rapidly. Lane caught the odd word like blanco and grande.

  When Miguel was done, Nigel asked Lane, “Anything you want to ask him?”

  “Just his phone number if we need to get in touch with him.”

  Nigel asked, “¿Cuál es su número telefónico.”

  Miguel told him and Nigel tapped the number into his cell phone.

  “Anything else?” Nigel asked.

  Lane handed Miguel his card.

  Miguel looked at Lane, who said, “Gracias.”

  Nigel chuckled. Miguel smiled.

  “What?” Lane asked.

  “Your Spanish accent is horrible,” Nigel said.

  Five minutes later, Lane and Nigel sat under the trellis at a local coffee shop. Potted plants bloomed in reds and blues in a wooden half-barrel next to their table. A cowboy twirling a lasso was painted on the glass beside them.

  Nigel took a sip of his vanilla latte. “Miguel thought we were looking for illegal immigrants, and he was warning the other guys. Apparently Oscar entered Canada illegally. Oscar was a welder. He hired himself out to contractors who paid him cash. He lived in a basement suite with Miguel and four other guys from Guadalajara. Oscar got a welding job out of town. The job was north and east of Edmonton, near a lake. He’d worked for the guy a couple of times before. Miguel said that Oscar didn’t like working for this guy, but the money was good. He called one of the men de largo cabello plateado.”

  Lane waited for a translation.

  “Long silver hair.”

  “What kind of welding was he doing?” Lane asked.

  “Miguel didn’t know. He just said that Oscar would make enough money so that he could go back to Guadalajara after he finished the job.”

  “No specific location?” Lane reached into his pocket and handed Nigel’s gun back.

  “Miguel kept saying that Oscar would talk about the bush.” Nigel took the Glock in one hand and lifted his coffee cup with the other.

  “We need a map.” Lane downed the remains of his coffee and stood up.

  “What for?” Nigel pushed his chair back.

  “To see what’s within a ten-hour radius of Calgary.” Lane walked toward the Chev.

  ×

  Chris Jones stood in line at a supermarket on the western edge of the city. He put a divider across the black conveyor belt and placed seven bags on the belt, each with its own twist tie. Each twist tie was wrapped precisely three times around the neck of each bag.

  There were seven carrots, sticks of celery, tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, cobs of corn, and red peppers. He followed that with a box of oat bran cereal and two litres of milk. He put a divider behind his food and looked at the lady in front of him.

  She was somewhere between sixty and seventy-five, weighed perhaps a pound over one hundred, and wore black leather, red high heels, and blonde hair.

  “That’s all?” the clerk asked.

  The woman nodded at the clerk, then lifted her black leather purse, unzipped it, and reached inside for a black leather pocketbook. She unzipped one side of the pocketbook. Chris saw that the back of her left hand was a river system of purple veins dotted with liver-spot islands. The woman made a point of snapping each bill between her thumb and forefinger before handing it to the clerk.

  Chris took a long, slow breath. He looked to his left and then down at the grey linoleum.

  To his left and behind him stood a boy of two or three. Two blue eyes studied Chris from under a red baseball cap.

  Chris looked back at the black-leather woman when she said, “Just a moment, I have the change.” She closed one side of her pocketbook, turned it around, and unzipped the other side. She used a sapphire fingernail to dig into the change purse.

  Chris breathed out slowly. Sweat rolled along his hairline. He felt a tug at the left knee of his jeans and looked down.

  The toddler in the red cap was pointing his forefinger at Chris. The boy said something.

  “What?” Chris asked.

  “Booger!” The child went to wipe his forefinger on Chris’s pants.

  Chris stepped back. Panic gripped him just below the ribs. He backed into black-leather woman, who spilled her change over the counter and onto the floor.

  “What is your problem?” She glared at him as she and the cashier began picking up the spilled coins. “Look what you’ve done!”

  He looked again at the toddler, who was still hovering and focused on the green at the tip of his forefinger. Behind the child, the mother was reading a magazine as she leaned on a shopping cart and blocked Chris’s other avenue of escape. He could feel his heart thumping, the air wheezing in and out of his lungs.

  Chris turned, faced the counter, and leapt onto the conveyor belt. He glanced down at the clerk, who backed away open mouthed.

  Chris tiptoed gingerly between vegetables and milk. He walked past the black-leather woman, reached the back edge of the counter, and leapt onto the floor. He turned in the direction of the exit, noting the stares of patrons and employees, and ran.

  ×

  Lane’s phone rang as he and Nigel spread a map of British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan over the conference room table.

  Lane reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Lane.”

  “Colin Weaver here. There has been a development.”

  He almost sounds excited. “I’m listening.”

  “The bullet fragment taken from the unknown victim —” Fibre said.

  “— Oscar Mendes,” Lane said.

  Fibre hesitated for a moment. “The fragment taken from Mendes was a match to a bullet involved in a death near Lac La Biche, where a young woman was shot and killed as she rode in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. The shooter has yet to be identified and charged.”

  “Where did this happen, exactly?”

  ×

  Donna lifted the mitre saw off the tailgate of her pickup and stepped onto the curb. She balanced on a ten-foot two-by-ten board as she walked over a freshly poured concrete driveway and into the garage. With practised efficiency, she set the saw atop its stand and clamped it in place. She went back outside to gather the rest of her tools.

  Donna clipped on her tool belt and walked up to the front door where she had to balance on another two-by-ten board to keep her boots out of the mud. She hitched up the legs of her khaki overalls so she could stretch to reach the first step leading to the front door.

  Inside, she checked the soles of her work boots and stepped into the front room with its twenty-foot ceiling and fireplace. The maple hardwood floors were covered with cardboard. She walked along the hallway and into the kitchen with its blue-tiled floor, maple cabinets, and blue-pearl marble countertops. She looked around the kitchen at the pantry and the windows. I’ll start in here.

  Two hours later, her compressor filled the house with its clatter as she finished nailing the last section of trim around the kitchen windows.

  She set her nail gun on the floor, turned, and measured for the next piece of trim along the floor.

  “Ready for a break?”

  Donna looked over her shoulder. Del Saunders stood in the middle of the kitchen with two cups of coffee.

  “Perfect timing.” She reached for a cup.

  “Looks good, as always.” Del stood on the other side of the kitchen in faded jeans and a tan work shirt. His blond hair was close cropped. His eyes took in the work she’d completed around windows and doors.

  Donna took a sip of coffee and smiled.

>   “Where you been the last couple of weeks?” Del asked.

  Donna looked past him at the kitchen cabinets, planning the angles and cuts she would need to make to frame them.

  “Cut that out! You always do that when you don’t want to answer a question. You let your mind wander back to the job,” Del said.

  Donna blushed and focused on him. “Getting ready for an anniversary.”

  “Lisa’s?” Del asked.

  Donna nodded.

  “A big one?” Del asked.

  “Very big.” Donna nodded as she looked at the cup in her hand.

  “There’s something else I need to ask you about,” Del said.

  Donna watched his eyes as she sipped her coffee.

  “I’ve got lots of work to do, and I’ve found a pair of finishing carpenters.”

  He’s not making eye contact, Donna thought. “What’s the catch?”

  “They speak Spanish.” Del noticed the disapproving tell around Donna’s mouth and continued. “I’ve worked with them for a week. They’re really good. Meticulous like you. You’d help me out if you would take them under your wing. Having two people working with you would really speed things up. I’ve got more work than I can handle, and I’d like to get things caught up again.”

  Donna shrugged.

  “That means you’ll think about it?”

  “I’ll think about it.” Donna chewed her bottom lip. Now is a good time to ask him. Sort of a favour for a favour.

  “Great! Thanks! I have to do an estimate on another job.” Dell picked his phone out of his shirt pocket. “Christ, I’m late. Talk to you later.” He turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  She heard him move through the living room and shut the front door. Shit. Why didn’t you just ask him?

  ×

  Lane used his palms to flatten the map. “What did Fibre’s e-mail say about the time of death?” he asked.

  “About ten hours before the body was buried.” Nigel stood across the table from Lane and studied the map.

  Lane looked around the room. “We need to draw a circle of about one thousand kilometres around Calgary. I wonder if Lori has some string in her desk?” He looked through the glass to see Lori glaring at him over her computer screen.

  “What did you do?” Nigel asked. “I’ve never seen her look at somebody that way before.”

  “Guess I’d better find out.” Lane moved away from the table and stepped outside the conference room.

  Lori held up a red folder. “You were supposed to pick this up and read it. Then you were going to read the e-mail I sent you.”

  Lane could feel heat rising up from his neck to the tops of his ears. “I forgot.”

  “You’re going to take this right now and read it as soon as you’re finished with the map.” She handed him the folder. Lori reached into her desk and handed him a roll of string. “What would you do without me?”

  Lane tucked the folder under his arm and took the string. “I have no idea.”

  “Read what’s in the folder. I’ll send Nigel for coffee, and you sit down and read.” Lori went back to typing.

  I’ve been dismissed. Lane walked back into the conference room.

  “What’s that?” Nigel pointed at the folder.

  “Some reading I have to do as soon as we draw a circle.” Lane put the folder on the seat of a chair and began to measure the string using the scale at the bottom of the map. He took the length between the thumb and forefinger of his hands and put the left end on Calgary.

  “Here, you’ll need one of these.” Lori poked her head into the room and tossed a pink highlighter to Nigel. “How do the two of you think you’re going to find a killer using such high-tech tools?” She shut the door.

  Lane looked at Nigel, who watched the thumb and forefinger of Lane’s right hand as he made the circle.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this pissed off,” Nigel said.

  Neither have I. He stood back to look at the pink circle on the map. It encompassed parts of Saskatchewan, BC, the northern US, and most of Alberta.

  “It’s a huge area,” Nigel said.

  Lane nodded.

  “Biche.” Nigel pointed at a spot on the map. “Miguel kept saying Biche.”

  Lane looked closely at Lac La Biche. He thought for a moment, turned to Nigel, and closed his eyes. That was where the girl was shot. Lane opened his eyes. “I want you to find out all you can about a thirteen-year-old unsolved shooting of a young woman near Lac La Biche.”

  “Now?” Nigel asked.

  Lane glared at the young detective.

  “Okay.” Nigel left the conference room.

  Lane looked at the red folder and sat down to read.

  Half an hour later he reread the sections he’d highlighted from the police report.

  Upon our arrival, the fifteen-year-old son (Nigel Li) opened the front door and discovered the body. He indicated that he had initiated the 911 call. He then led us to the kitchen where his mother was lying on the floor in front of the refrigerator. Her eyes were open, pupils fixed and dilated, and her blood was drying on the floor. The EMTs arrived approximately one minute later. Attempts at reviving the mother were unsuccessful.

  I sat down with Nigel in the front room because the kitchen was becoming quite crowded. At that time he said, “My dad was mad at her because she said she was going to move out. They had a fight last night. The fight started up again when I was leaving for school this morning.”

  When I inquired about the location of his father, Nigel said, “Probably at work. He’s obsessed with his job.”

  Lane flipped through the documents Lori had prepared for him. Another highlighted section from a social worker’s report stared back at him.

  Nigel Li has refused to be placed in the care of his uncle and aunt (Richard and Lucy Li). Nigel has proclaimed loudly and repeatedly that he will run away if placed with them. Nigel says, “My Uncle Richard and my father are cut from the same soiled cloth.” Nigel insists that he will continue to live with a friend from school. Nigel has initiated a plan to move into a house near his school after the settlement of property issues related to the imprisonment of his father and death of his mother. In order to expedite the move, he retained the services of lawyer Thomas Pham.

  Lane closed the file and looked through the glass wall of the conference room. He could see Nigel at his desk. The young man’s brown eyes were focused intently on the computer screen.

  Lane turned to look at Lori, who was watching him closely. She stood with her arms crossed as she leaned against the counter in front of her desk.

  Lane thought, How did I become a magnet for every stray human being living in this city?

  ×

  “Where’s Matt?” Lane sat across from Arthur at the kitchen table. His meal consisted of pasta salad and half a chicken breast. I’ll lose weight for sure, but I don’t know about Arthur. He could eat three romaine lettuce leaves a day and still gain weight.

  Arthur covered his mouth with the beefy fingers of his open right hand. “Sleeping.” He chewed a bit more. “Again.”

  “Should I see whether he’s hungry?” Lane asked.

  Arthur set down his fork and turned his hands palms up over his plate. “It’s up to you.”

  Lane studied Arthur’s leaner, tanned face then asked, “What happened?”

  Arthur considered the question before answering. “It’s what isn’t happening. No conversation. No going out. Work and sleep. He’s turning into a hermit.”

  “And Christine and Dan?” Lane asked.

  “They’re out for dinner at his parents’ place.” Arthur rolled his eyes.

  “What happened there?”

  “We were invited.” Arthur emphasized his point by aiming his fork at Lane.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Daniel’s mother called about ten minutes ago to let us know we were invited, but her tone of voice said she was very relieved when I thanked her for the invitation and declined
.”

  “Let the games begin?” Lane waited for some extra clue from his partner in order to figure out what exactly was going on with Christine and Matt.

  “I don’t know. Her reaction was odd. Very cheery. Very polite. Very relieved. The conversation had a weird edge to it. She was inviting us at the last minute, and I got the distinct impression that the entire process was calculated.” He shrugged. “And just when I was getting used to having Dan around.”

  The door to Matt’s downstairs bedroom opened, and they heard him walk across the hall to the bathroom.

  Lane stood up and looked at Arthur. “I’ll see if I can get him to join us.” He walked downstairs to the family room. The TV was on, so he reached for the remote and shut it off.

  Two minutes later, Matt opened the bathroom door and stood in the doorway in his black boxers.

  “Join us for supper?” Lane saw his nephew look away.

  Matt shook his head. There were dark circles under his eyes, and Lane could see Matt’s ribs beneath the flesh.

  “You need to eat something.”

  “No, I don’t.” Matt stepped into his bedroom and shut and locked the door.

  Lane stared at the door, went to knock, changed his mind, and turned to go back upstairs.

  ×

  “What the fuck do you two think you’re doing?” Donna asked.

  Lane looked right and saw Donna in overalls and a black T-shirt. Roz stopped and looked up at him. Lane took in the scene though the green lenses of his sunglasses. A pair of men stood at either end of a dresser mirror. Donna’s voice had stopped them in the middle of the driveway of a two-storey house across the street from her place. A For Sale sign was stuck in the front lawn.

  Donna said, “That’s an antique, a family heirloom. Rhonda told me she was keeping that to give to her daughter. I’ve never seen you guys around here, and now you’re walking out of Rhonda’s house with an antique.” She stood on the sidewalk across the street from Lane and within ten metres of the men with the mirror.

  The taller man at the closer end of the mirror said, “Mind your own business, lady.”