by Garry Ryan
“Liu,” Melissa said.
Nigel said, “Megan Newsome and her husband were murdered last night.”
Lane put his hand on his partner’s shoulder.
Melissa blanched. Beth looked to her father. David said, “Fuck.”
“Go ahead, say it.” Nigel drove along Elbow Drive. They were climbing out of the river valley. The car slipped, then gripped as tires searched for traction. The hard-packed snow had turned to ice after the steady passage of vehicles.
Lane shook his head. What the hell were you thinking?
“You think I shouldn’t have mentioned the Newsomes.” Nigel put his foot down on the accelerator. One tire whirred, whining as it spun on the ice. He backed off the pedal.
“We need to talk with next of kin first.” Lane took a long, slow breath. Getting angry with him won’t help the situation.
“I wanted to know if they were involved in the Newsome killing. That’s all.” Nigel reached the crest of the hill. The Chev began to accelerate.
“Well?”
“My gut tells me they weren’t.”
“What about Aunt Peg?”
“Her I’m not so sure about.” The light ahead turned red. Nigel took his foot off the accelerator. He coasted up to the lights, looking in his rear-view mirror.
“What?”
“Big pickup behind me. You know, knobby tires, jacked-up frame, winch, dark paint. All I can see is the grille.”
With the roar of a diesel engine, the truck moved within centimetres of the Chev’s rear bumper. The truck driver put his foot on the brakes, pressing the accelerator. The wind carried a cloud of coal-black soot forward. Lane undid his seat belt and, as the cloud diffused, opened his door, walked around the front of the Chev, and pulled out his ID, holding it above his head. He slipped on a patch of ice, regained his balance, stepped up to the side of the truck, and knocked on the middle of the door. He stepped right of the door, noticing Nigel had the blue-and-red flashing lights on. Lane felt the nip of the January air on his fingers and ears. He put his free hand on his Glock.
The door cracked open. The face of a forty-year-old man glared down at Lane. The detective held up his ID so the driver could get a closer look. “Bring your licence, registration, and insurance when you step down, please.” Lane looked over his shoulder to see how traffic was doing behind them. A man in a sub-compact with snow on the roof smiled at Lane. He looked left as the pickup driver climbed down from the cab. He was a full head shorter than the detective, wearing a backwards-facing ball cap and a red-and-black prairie dinner jacket. Lane gestured the man should follow him to the sidewalk.
“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were a cop.” The man handed his paperwork over, tucking his hands under his armpits. He was round in the face and belly.
Nigel appeared on the passenger side of the Chev. Lane shook his head, leaning it to the left. Nigel headed back into the Chev.
Lane read the name on the driver’s licence. “Bill?”
The man nodded, stepping up onto the curb. Then he looked back at the detective. They were eye to eye. Lane looked down at his toes where they bumped up against the curb, but he remained at pavement level.
Bill looked down at his feet, then back at Lane, who saw an expression of confusion.
Surprise, Lane thought. “I’ve got murders to solve.”
Bill pointed at his chest with his right forefinger. “I . . .”
Lane shook his head and held out Bill’s ID, waiting for the man to grab it. “I’ve got no time for this shit.”
Bill nodded. “Thanks for that.” He looked down at his feet.
Lane shrugged, turned, and got back in the Chev. The light turned green. Nigel eased into the intersection. Lane turned, watching Bill following at a very safe distance.
“You sure you still want to go to Platinum? It’s Sunday. They’ll be closed.”
Lane looked ahead as the road took a dogleg to the right. “I have an idea and I want to get the lay of the land.”
MONDAY, JANUARY 27
chapter 8
Child Abductors to Appear in Court
Efram Milton, his wife Alison Milton, and Lyle Pratt appear in court in Calgary tomorrow to answer charges of attempted child abduction.
The three were arrested last Wednesday night at the Foothills Medical Centre. They allegedly attempted to abduct a newborn boy with the intent of transporting him to an undisclosed location in Utah. All three are members of Paradise, a polygamist community approximately 150 kilometres south of the city.
Crown Prosecutor Lilian Choi said, “These three plotted to kidnap an infant and hide him from his mother. The accused pose a considerable flight risk. I will ask that they be remanded in custody until a trial date can be set.”
A fourteen-year-old female accompanying the trio was released into the custody of her uncle.
Lori stood up from behind her computer screen. She held up the newspaper, pointing at an article. Lane could see she wore a blue knit sweater, a white scarf, and blue wool slacks. “You still have a way to go before you’re back in my good books.”
Lane set down the cardboard tray of drinks he’d brought with him. He lifted a cup of tea out of the tray, setting it next to Lori’s keyboard.
“Really?” Lori folded the paper into quarters, setting it down next to the tray. She pointed at the headline. “Just what gives them the right to come after Indiana?” Lori’s complexion moved into the red zone.
Lane nodded. He took off his winter jacket, put it over his arm, and lifted the tray with two coffees. The detective cocked his head to the right. Lori followed him into his office. He hung his jacket over the back of his chair, set a coffee down on Nigel’s desk, then pulled out the last cup, took a sip, and closed the door. “Sarah, my sister’s daughter, said they were planning to take Indiana to some compound near St. George, Utah.”
“In the desert north of Vegas?” Lori pulled the tea bag from her cup, swinging it with a wet thunk into the garbage can.
Lane nodded. “Apparently there are polygamist communities near there. Indiana is home now.”
“And you think I’ve forgiven you for keeping this to yourself?” Lori set her tea down so she could cross her arms.
Lane opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Your entire family must still be on edge after what happened to Matt.”
Lane shrugged. “They are.”
Lori gave him a look, the Lori look that said Don’t bullshit me.
“I need your help. I want you to go and get your hair done.”
Lori laughed. “You need my help? You think you can change the subject by telling me to get my hair done? That’s pretty pathetic.”
“Four of the women killed have the same hairdresser.”
“Four? I thought it was two.”
“Four.”
Lori laughed again. “You want me to get my hair done so I can be number five?”
“I just want to send you to the salon. You get your hair done and tell me what you see while you’re there.” Lane took a sip of coffee. “Nigel and I will be right next door.”
“What’s next door?”
“A bicycle shop.” Lane felt his face heat up.
“You don’t think hanging around in a bicycle shop in the middle of January will look a bit suspicious?” She shook her head and picked up her tea, watching Lane.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“You betcha. Next time you let me know what’s goin’ on. That’s how I stay so well connected. And that’s how
I keep your ass out of the flames. So, you think if I get out of the office to get my hair done, all will be forgiven? This is a funny way of saying you’re sorry.”
“The woman’s name is Donna Liu, and she works at Platinum.”
“Is she the killer?” Lori looked left at Lane’s extra-wide computer screen.
Lane shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s Cori I want you to watch.”
Lori nodded. “Will I use my real name?”
“No. Use a fake name. I’ll get you a cell phone with a new number you will use to contact Donna. That way you won’t be traceable. If you see any sign of trouble, I want you out of there.” Lane set his coffee down. “You can say no for any number of reasons, including the fact this is outside your job description and outside of normal procedure.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
Lane smiled. “Because I trust your judgement, and you know people.”
“I do know people.” She pointed a finger at Lane. “You got a phone number?”
Lane handed her a compact pink phone. She took it gingerly. “Where’d you get this?”
Lane raised his eyebrows.
Lori dropped her chin, lifted her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes.
“Okay. I’ve got some phones left over from when Matt and Jessica were kidnapped. That’s one of them.”
“Was that so hard? Now, what was Platinum’s number again?”
Lane read out the number, and Lori dialed. She gave him the thumbs up when the phone began to ring. “Hello, I’d like to make an appointment for a cut and trim with Donna.” She raised her eyebrows. “A cancellation? This afternoon?” Lori looked at Lane, who nodded. “I’ll take it. Two o’clock? My name? Ute. That’s right. New client. See you this afternoon.” Lori looked at the phone, pressing the end button. “We’re on.”
Lane smiled. “Ute?”
Lori rolled her eyes. “Ute was my grandmother’s name.”
Lane and Nigel sat in a Vietnamese restaurant within a snowball’s throw of Macleod Trail. Lane looked at the traffic easing along the six-lane roadway leading either to the centre of town or south toward the US border. Hoods and windshields glinted in the sunlight. Exhaust swirled from tail pipes. On either side of the road, pedestrians wore mitts, toques, and winter jackets to hold out the cold. Inside the restaurant, a man at a nearby table slurped spicy noodle soup. Nigel frowned at the noise. “I still can’t believe you did this.”
Lane reached for his water. The waitress, who looked to be seventeen, had rouge on her cheeks, blue makeup around her brown eyes, a ponytail, and graceful fingers. “Ready to order?” She adjusted her white blouse to reveal the top of a blue camisole.
“What’s your best soup?” Nigel asked.
“You like spicy?” There was a husky edge to her voice.
Nigel nodded.
“The satay beef will warm you up on a day like this.” She looked at Lane.
Nigel said, “I’ll go with that.”
“Me too. And thank you.” Lane handed her his menu and smiled.
The waitress smiled back, taking both menus and walking to the counter outside the kitchen. A middle-aged man with a round face and body to match watched from behind the counter, smiling at Lane.
“Male or female?” Nigel asked.
Lane looked back at Nigel. “Does it make a difference?”
“Just wondering. She looks like a she, but her hands and her voice lead me to believe otherwise.” Nigel reached for his water.
Lane shrugged. “She is who she is, and she is very nice to us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lane shook his head. “You hit a nerve.”
Lori thumbed through a magazine on hairstyles. Perfect faces, perfect teeth, perfect makeup appeared on every airbrushed page. She thought, I hope Donna is good at what she does. If she fucks up my hair, Lane is going to get an earful.
“Ute?” a voice called.
Lori continued to look at the styles and faces in the magazine.
“Ute?”
That’s me! Lori stood up, grabbing her purse and looking at a woman with shoulder-length black hair wearing a yellow shirt reaching mid thigh. Donna wore black tights under the shirt and a pair of tan high-heeled boots reaching her knees.
“Come on over. I’m Donna.” She led the way to a chair in the middle of three, facing a counter and a mirror the size of a coffee table.
Lori sat down, tucking the heels of her boots over the bar at the bottom of the chair. Donna took out a black cape to cover Lori, attaching it snugly around her neck. Lori watched in the mirror as Donna touched her hair.
Donna said, “What are you looking for?”
A killer. “A trim, and touch up the grey. And . . . make me look twenty years younger.”
“If I knew how to do that, I would have a big office, a chef, and a personal trainer for hot yoga.”
Lori laughed, then saw a white cell phone dancing on the counter.
Donna hesitated.
“Go ahead.”
Donna reached for the phone. “My mom is on her way to China. I asked my brother to call when they get there.” She pressed a button on the phone. “You made it okay?” Donna listened.
Lori tried not to be obvious while listening in.
“So, Mom’s feeling okay? She’s hungry? That’s a good sign. Thanks for calling.” Donna put the phone back on the counter.
“You’re close to your mom?”
“Yes. She’s back in China for the first time since we left over thirty years ago. It’s a big deal for her.”
“You’re lucky to be close to your mom.”
“Very.” Donna lifted a strand of Lori’s hair, making eye contact in the mirror. “Short? Long?”
“I like it longer.” If this turns out to be a mistake, Lane will owe me ’til the day he retires!
“How about the colour? You want it a shade darker or lighter?” Donna studied her client’s reaction.
Lori saw the intensity in those eyes, recognizing the intelligence behind them. “What do you think?”
Donna looked at Lori in the mirror. “I’d go just a shade darker.”
“Okay.”
A woman of approximately forty-five in yoga pants and a tight-fitting top pushed open the swinging half doors leading to a smallish lunchroom with a fridge, sink, and hand-me-down chrome kitchen table. Lori spotted the blonde woman with the short hair and felt the tension in Donna’s fingers.
The woman said, “Here, I’ve got these for you. Give them a try.” She walked over to a woman with tin foil in her hair, handing her a black wrist strap. The customer sat on a black faux-leather couch, reading a magazine.
“Who’s that?” Lori used a volume and a tone only Donna would be able to hear.
“Cori. A stylist. She sells magnetic bracelets and anklets on the side.”
Lori heard the dismissal in Donna’s tone. “What’s your mom like?”
“Cool.”
“You’re lucky. Mine was a manipulative, psychotic, self-centred narcissist.” Lori watched Donna looking across the salon where Cori watched herself in the mirror as she styled the client’s hair.
Donna began adding layers of silver paper to Lori’s hair. Donna said, “There’s a lot of that going around.”
That began a fifteen-minute discussion of mothers. They laughed at a few of Lori’s funny stories and more of Donna’s.
Donna finished up with the colour. The chemical stink of it c
aught at the back of Lori’s throat. Donna reached for a timer and set it. “You want coffee or tea while we wait for the colour?”
“Tea, please.” Lori sat down on the black couch where she had a good view of Cori’s chair.
“How do you take it?” Donna asked.
“Just tea, please.” Lori picked up a magazine, sitting back, pretending to flip through it while observing Cori.
A boy of fifteen or sixteen with black hair, tight jeans, and a blue smock set three folded towels down on the countertop. Cori looked at the towels, reaching over and patting him on the cheek. “Thank you, Robert. You’re a doll.”
Robert’s face turned red. He retreated to a back room.
Cori turned to her client. “You should try that sometime. Young bucks like Robert have endurance.” She smiled, beginning to take the silver paper out of her client’s hair.
Robert’s younger than my son! Lori thought.
Cori’s client was a woman between fifty-five and sixty with blonde hair, weighing maybe one hundred thirty pounds. She asked, “What does Andrew have to say about that?”
Cori stopped, smiling at the woman in the mirror. “We have an agreement. I go along with his excursions, and he allows me my diversions.”
Donna’s timer began to ding. She hustled over, took the silver paper from Lori’s hair, then guided her to the sink. Lori sat back. Donna used warm water to wash her hair. Donna’s fingers worked their way around Lori’s scalp. She began to relax as the scalp massage did its magic. When Donna finished, Lori opened her eyes. “Would you teach my husband how to do that? He thinks that foreplay is something hockey players do at the other end of the rink.”
Donna laughed while wrapping Lori’s hair in a towel. “Let’s get you trimmed. And after I get you looking your best, maybe you’ll get some.”
Lori saw Cori was moving to the front of the salon. “Sounds like she’s looking to get some from Robert. That kid is younger than my son.”
