by Garry Ryan
The Toyota changed lanes again and cut off a white minivan. The van braked and skidded sideways. It straightened out when its driver released the brakes.
Jay closed on the Toyota.
A fist appeared in the truck’s rear-window.
Rage focused Jay. His mind was temporarily uncluttered. He swerved into the right lane.
The Toyota cut in front of him.
Jay hit the brakes and made a feint left.
The truck swerved to block him.
The Lincoln roared. Jay passed on the right. He waited until he was sure he passed the Toyota. Then, he cut left and pressed the brake pedal.
For an instant, he thought the Toyota would rearend the Lincoln. The truck skidded to avoid a collision. It swerved, bounced over the curb, and onto the grass. It leaned up on its left wheels, before rolling onto its side.
Jay glanced in the rear-view mirror. A cloud of dust obscured the accident scene. His heart pounded with adrenaline. He eased into the far lane, accelerating away from Crowchild Trail.
Chapter 3
“WATER GOOD?” HARPER lifted his glass. The tumbler was nearly opaque from scratches and repeated washings. He looked closely, searching for floaters. First, he held the glass up to the window, then swung it the other way to see if anything showed up against the red cedar on the opposite wall. He set the glass back down, shaking his head with disgust.
Lane took a sip of water.
“You’re getting some colour back,” Harper said.
Lane leaned against the upholstery and waited.
“You got the flu?” Harper looked around to see where the washroom was.
Lane shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“What the hell’s the matter then?”
Lane took another sip of water, looked at his partner and shrugged. “Flashbacks.”
“Oh.” Harper remembered the months of mental reruns following his recovery from being shot.
Watching his blood drip down four concrete steps while a screaming man aimed a high-powered rifle.
Harper flinched as he recalled what it felt like to be waiting for the muzzle flash.
“Ready to order?” The waitress might have been sixteen. She had a gold stud in her left nostril and another in the right eyebrow. Her hair was crimson, except along the part where the black had grown back in.
“Special looks good.” Harper nodded in the direction of the menu printed in red on a whiteboard next to the bar.
“It’s better than good.” She turned to Lane.
He thought the pink T-shirt shouldn’t go with the lime-green slacks, but somehow the fashion faux pas worked for her. “Chicken fried rice, please.”
“Drinks?” she asked.
“Water’s fine,” Lane said.
“Bottled water,” Harper said.
“Perrier?” She carbonated the word with sarcasm.
“Long as it’s in a bottle.” Harper’s voice was low.
His ears turned red.
“Okay.” She turned, took four steps, and pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.
“Proof is in the food. It’s great.” Lane looked at the three-year-old calendar, chipped green linoleum, and the table next to them. It had three mismatched chrome they came from a garage sale.
“Despite the decor.”
Harper asked, “You gonna explain about the flashback?” Lane stared at his glass. “My first year on the street.
I found Candy’s body in a garbage bag. She was three.” He experienced a return to the overwhelming dread he had felt in Bobbie’s kitchen. “It took six months until I was able to sleep through the night. I kept waking up, remembering the smell. I kept seeing the look on Candy’s face. I couldn’t stop thinking about what life must have been like for her.”
“Those mental carousels go round and round. Believe me, it’s hard to get off the ride after when those thoughts get stuck in your head,” Harper said.
“Giving advice or trying to change the subject?”
“A bit of both. You’re pale. Thought maybe you didn’t want to go there again.”
“One special.” The waitress set an oval plate of rice and ginger chicken with salt-and-pepper vegetables under Harper’s nose. “Chicken fried rice.” She pushed the second plate over to Lane. The heat breathed a cloud of condensation up the side of his water glass.
“That was quick,” Harper said to the waitress.
“And delicious.” She slid a bottle of Perrier in front of Harper.
The detectives ripped open paper-wrapped chopsticks. Harper said nothing for a full five minutes while demolishing the special. “Man, this is the best Chinese food I’ve ever tasted.”
Lane swallowed a mouthful of fried rice. More than three-quarters remained. “My kind of place.”
Harper cocked his head to the right to study Lane.
“Decor is nothing at all like the food,” Lane said.
“Trying to teach me another lesson?” Harper asked.
“What would that be?”
“Look past appearances.” Harper pointed a pair of chopsticks at his partner.
“Wasn’t really thinking about that.” To himself, Lane thought, Now that you mention it.
“So, what’s our next move?”
“Find out more about the father,” Lane said.
“And?”
“Bobbie.” Lane looked thoughtful.
“What about her?” Harper asked.
“We need to talk with people who know more about her.”
A cellphone rang. They both reached inside their jackets.
Lane flipped his open. “Hello.”
“It’s me,” Arthur said.
“Something the matter?” Lane asked. Arthur almost never called him at work. There was anxiety in his voice.
“Are you going to be very long?”
“Could be there in a half-hour,” Lane said.
“Good,” Arthur said.
“What’s going on?”
Arthur said, “It’s not the kind of thing to be explained over the phone. I’m fine. Riley’s fine. A surprise arrived on our doorstep.”
“On my way.” Lane closed the phone. He looked at Harper.
“Don’t look at me. The baby started kicking. I’m heading home to see Erinn.”
The odour tweaked Lane’s nose when he walked around the side of their house. Arthur had the flowerbeds ready for winter. The perennials, mostly wildflowers, were trimmed back. The rest were replaced with freshly-turned earth. This new odour wasn’t the manure Arthur mixed with the soil. This was sweat. Old sweat. Athlete sweat.
At the back doorstep, Riley had his nose jammed into a blue-and-white equipment bag. The shaft of a goalie stick poked out one end. Riley was deep in the nose zone. He could get so hooked on a scent that he became oblivious to all else. In the summer, it had earned him a snoot full of porcupine quills.
Riley looked at Lane, drooled, and barked once.
Loping over, he wagged his tail and got a scratch under the chin from Lane. Then he turned, ran, and stuck his nose back inside the bag. Lane pulled the bag onto the grass and Riley followed. The screen door was open part way. Lane heard an unfamiliar voice.
“Dad’s a fag! Dumped my mom. She can’t have any more kids. He says he’s a leader in the community. If she can’t have any more kids, he has the right to marry somebody else. Two days ago, he told her he wanted a divorce. Then he put her stuff in the garage and changed the locks. When I called him a hypocrite, he kicked me out too. Mom thinks he’s got some woman pregnant and wants to marry her,” the young male voice said.
“How’s your mother?” Arthur asked.
“Fine. Stayin’ with a friend. Had to get out of that small town. Everyone is talkin’ about her, blamin’ her ’cause my Dad’s tellin’ everybody she drove him to it. It felt good to get out of there.”
Lane thought, I must look ridiculous eavesdropping at my own backdoor. He opened the door and said, “Hello.”
&nb
sp; There was the sound of a chair being pushed back.
Lane put one shoe on the second step, bent to untie the lace, then shifted feet.
Arthur stood at the top of the steps, in a blue T-shirt and black sweatpants. The crotch hung halfway to his knees. Light reflected off his thinning hair and round, Mediterranean face. “Matt is here,” Arthur said.
Lane heard a mixture of shock and hope in Arthur’s voice. Lane thought, Matt who?
Reading the question on Lane’s face, Arthur said, “My sister’s son.”
All Lane had just heard fell into context. He stepped into the kitchen, studying the boy sitting at the table eating a cowboy-sized mouthful of sandwich. Matt looked to be fifteen with blond hair in desperate need of a brush. Lane spotted a green garbage bag in the corner. It’s full of Matt’s clothes, Lane thought.
In order to get a better look at Lane, Matt hooked his arm across the back of the chair. His face was round like his uncle’s. The skin around his eyes was puffy from crying. There was a pimple sprouting at the end of his nose.
Tentatively, Lane reached out with his right hand. Matt took it in a quick, firm, herky-jerky grip before releasing. The boy smelled like the country. Lane slipped off his sports jacket. The black butt of his handgun poked out from its holster.
Matt’s eyes widened as he noticed the Glock.
“Ever seen one of these?” Lane asked.
Matt shook his head, “Nope.”
Lane turned so Matt could get a better look at the Glock.
Matt leaned closer.
Arthur said, “No guns in this house! I don’t ever want it in the house again.”
After Matt went to bed, Arthur and Lane sat in the living room. Arthur had his feet up on the coffee table. His fingers were wrapped around a cup of tea. The cup rested under his breasts atop the curve of his belly. He sat at one end of their L-shaped couch with Lane at the other.
Lane said, “I was only showing the gun to Matt. I’ve never met the kid before, and I could see the interest in his eyes.”
“The boy’s fifteen, his parents just split up, and I don’t want that damned thing in the house! Is that too much to ask?”
“Where’s your sister?” Lane asked.
“She’s staying in town. Don’t try to change the subject. That fucking gun can’t stay here anymore!”
“Why?” Lane asked.
“Because when I was fifteen I put a goddamned gun in my mouth. If it hadn’t been for Martha, I would have pulled the trigger. Lock it up somewhere safe. I won’t be able to sleep with the damned thing around. Oh, and that was on the doorstep when I got back from picking up Matt at the bus station.”
“What are you talking about?” Lane asked.
Arthur pointed at the newsletter under the coffee table. “I saw Mrs. Smallway bring it over.” Arthur got up and left.
Lane picked up the folded paper. As he read, he noticed that someone had taken the trouble to underline some of the editorial page from The Daughters of Alberta Newsletter.
SWATSKY CASE MAY REVEAL
DISTURBING BIAS IN
CALGARY POLICE FORCE
Important questions surrounding the death of Robert Swatsky remain unanswered.
Amid charges of fraud, missing money (estimated at $13 million), the disappearance of the victim’s ex-wife, and accusations aimed at the ex-mayor, the truth behind Robert Swatsky’s violent death has yet to be revealed.
It appears that a powerful group within the Calgary police force prefers to keep it that way. A powerful group with a flagrant disregard for family values.
The main question remains unanswered. Who killed Robert Swatsky? The coroner’s report was inconclusive. The prime suspects, Ernesto Rapozo and Leona Rankin, died under suspicious circumstances, and within minutes of one another. They have become convenient suspects.
It would have been impossible for the sixty eight-year-old Rankin (who suffered from emphysema) to kill Swatsky. The seventy-yearold Rapozo would have had difficulty disposing of Swatsky’s three-hundred pound body.
Rapozo and Rankin are unlikely criminals. Apparently, the police have closed this case. Internal sources confirm that the reasons for this lie at the feet of the senior police detective in charge of the case. A detective who may have his own reasons for hiding the truth.
Sunday, October 11
Chapter 4
JAY DROPPED THE wet mop into the bucket of soapy water. White froth heaved from one side to the next. The castered wheels rocked back and forth. His nose filled with the raspberry scent of chemical soap. On one side of the aisle were rows of bras in flat, perfectly-proportioned cardboard packages sporting vertical smiles. On the other, dresses and pantsuits hung on mannequins. It was three hours after store closing, and his shift would soon be over.
He reached for the tape player on his hip and flipped the cassette over. While resolving to buy new technology, he started side two of today’s psychology lecture. Hope this gets my mind off what happened to the guy in the Toyota, he thought. Jay said out loud, “Why do I always have to run away?”
Dr. Peters’ voice was a familiar blend of gravel and a long-time acquaintance with single-malt scotch. “According to the dictionary, a sociopath exhibits a lack of social or moral responsibility while a psychopath is characterized as amoral and/or antisocial. The reality, as is often the case, is quite different from the dictionary definition.” Jay wrung the water out of the mop. He began a long series of wet lazy figure-eights braided into a shiny, liquid coating over the linoleum. Dr. Peters said, “Individuals with the aforementioned pathologies often appear to be well-adjusted, even successful.”
A tricycle swept past on Jay’s left. Startled, he slipped. His legs and arms windmilled to keep him from falling.
The tricycle spun on the wet floor. Tony hunched over the handlebars with knees and elbows bent at odd angles. His black hair spun out with the centrifugal force. The trike stopped. Tony’s hair fell around his eyes. He eased off the child’s toy till he stood about one-hundred-and-eighty centimetres. “Hey Jay.”
“The key to identifying the psychopath—” Dr. Peters was interrupted when Jay shut the tape off.
“Listening to music?” Tony asked.
Jay hooked the headphones around his neck.
“I got finished early and decided to take a spin.
Sorry about the floor.” He picked up the trike by one handlebar and tiptoed off the wet to stand beside Jay.
“Hey!” Walter said with his best-boss voice. “You FOB prick! What are you doin’ down here? You’re supposed to be upstairs!”
Jay and Tony turned to face Walter. His hair was blond and combed over to hide an ever-expanding bald spot. “I could fire you right now.”
Jay leaned out. He swept the mop over the marred surface till it shone once again. “For what?”
“For being down here when he’s supposed to be working upstairs.” Walter jammed his fists onto his hips.
“You should be rewarding him for finishing ahead of time. Besides, what exactly does FOB stand for? You wouldn’t be saying fresh off the boat, because you wouldn’t make a racist remark like that! I mean, our employer must have some policy against discrimination in the workplace,” Jay said.
Walter’s eyes narrowed. He pointed a finger first at Tony, then at Jay. “I’m gonna keep a close eye on you two.” He turned, unhitched the keys attached to his belt and walked away.
“Sorry man. Didn’t know he was hangin’ around,” Tony said.
“It’s okay.” Jay dipped the mop in the bucket.
“What kind of music you listenin’ to?”
“It’s a lecture on psychopathy.” He tapped the tape player.
“Is there a case study about Walter?” Tony asked.
“Haven’t got into obsessive-compulsive disorders yet.”
Tony picked up the trike. “Thanks for sticking up for me. You’ve been doing that since we were in high school.”
“What are friends for?”
Tony sat in the passenger seat. “You’ve gotta meet my Uncle Tran.”
They drove north on Macleod Trail. “Why the big rush?” Jay was a bit taken aback by Tony’s insistence. And afraid. Afraid of what Tony might discover.
“I phoned him. Told him how you stuck up for me and stood up to Walter. Uncle Tran said, ‘It’s time to bring that Jay to see me’. You don’t understand what a big deal this is.”
Jay looked right at St. Mary’s Cemetery then to the Chinese Cemetery on the left. He thought about where he was going to sleep tonight. He almost turned the radio on to find out if the Toyota driver had been hurt and if the police were looking for him. No, leave the damn thing off, Jay thought.
“It’s real close to where you drop me off in Chinatown. The food’s free. So is the parking,” Tony said.
“Okay.”
Ten minutes later, they stood outside The Lucky Elephant Restaurant. The neon sign was off and a closed sign was in the window. The lights were still on inside. Tony tapped on the door. A man stood. Jay almost missed him at first. He was in the corner, in shadow. His hair was white. He stood within a couple of centimetres of five feet. He wore a blue shirt, a pair of black Levi’s, and white running shoes. The man smiled widely and opened the door. He said, “Please, come in.” He had a gentle, singsong accent that Tony sometimes imitated.
“My name is Lam Tran. Uncle Tran.” He gently shook Jay’s hand and indicated they should sit at the back of the restaurant. Tony and Jay sat on either side of Uncle Tran.
The face of the cook appeared in the window of the kitchen’s swinging door.
Jay noticed Tony’s unnatural reticence.
“You like satay soup?” Uncle Tran made conversation sound like music. “It’s the best in the city.”
Jay hesitated, going over the words in his mind, making sure he understood the accented English. “Sure.”
Tran lifted three fingers. The cook nodded and disappeared. “Tea?” Uncle Tran asked. His black eyes never left Jay.
“Please.” Jay glanced at Tony who looked elsewhere as if to indicate that Jay was on his own. Tran poured tea into three small cups. He met Jay’s eyes with steady appraisal. On Tran’s cheek, a finger-wide scar ran along the bone beneath his right eye. Jay asked, “What happened?” “You have to remember, Uncle,” Tony said, “Jay has ADD. It’s called attention deficit disorder. He means no disrespect. He just blurts out whatever is on his mind.”
