by Garry Ryan
“Exactly.”
“I’m glad Christine went out last night. She needs to do that more often.” Matt turned right at the corner. Sam and Lane followed. They walked in the snow along the side of the road where traction was better.
Lane’s phone rang. He reached into his pocket, didn’t recognize the phone number, frowned, pressed the answer button, and put the phone to his ear. “Hello.”
“Paul, is that you?”
“That’s right.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Lane looked at Matt, who stopped to listen to the conversation. “Who is this?”
“Joseph. Your brother! Don’t you recognize my voice?”
Obviously not. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know how you did it, but it has to stop now!”
“You’re talking about the court case?” Lane looked at the stars. In all of the infinity of possibilities, how did I get stuck with you and Alison for siblings?
“You know damned well I’m not talking about the court case. I’m talking about the money!”
“Whose money?” Lane held the phone several centimetres from his ear.
“My money! Milton’s money!”
Lane looked at Matt, who rolled his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Money from my account and Milton’s account has been donated to the Children’s Hospital and the Red Cross.”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “That’s very kind of the two of you.” Shit, you went right ahead and said it.
“Listen to me, you fucking Pauline! Stay away from our money. In particular, stay away from my money!”
“I’ll say this one more time. I don’t know what you are talking about. And tell Milton and Alison to stay away from my family!” Lane looked at his phone.
“She has a right . . .”
Lane pressed end, then shut off the power to the phone.
“What was that all about?” Matt stood with his arms crossed. Sam sat looking up with a quizzical expression.
“Joseph is upset.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious. What’s really going on?”
“Apparently someone has been getting into Joseph and Milton’s accounts and donating their money to charities. Joseph thinks I’m responsible.”
“Are you?”
“No.” Lane took a step. Sam followed.
Matt held the leash. “You know who is responsible, don’t you?”
Lane stopped and turned. “I think so.” Sam looked from one to the next.
“Who is it?”
“I don’t want to say until I’m sure.”
“And you’ve got a killer to catch.”
Lane nodded. “That too.”
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 4
chapter 16
Calgary Lawyer Donates to Red Cross
The Red Cross has received a belated Christmas gift by way of a million-dollar donation from Calgary lawyer Joseph Lane.
Red Cross spokesperson Mary Latourneau says, “This gift and other recent donations will go a long way toward helping us provide for refugees around the globe. I would like to thank Mr. Joseph Lane for his very generous donation.” The role of philanthropist is new to Lane, and he wears it well.
When contacted about his extraordinary generosity, Lane said, “The Red Cross does admirable work all over the world. My family has done very well by working and living in Calgary. It’s time for us to give back.”
Letourneau says, “January and February are often slow months for us. This year we have been overwhelmed by the generosity of Albertans.”
“Have you got both kits together for Saturday night?” Cori sipped a cappuccino. The morning light reflected off the white cupboards and the white arabescato corchia marble countertop in their kitchen. She tucked in the top of her white robe.
“I’ll do that tonight. First I need to pick up some new gloves and booties. I did check the ammunition. We’ve got plenty. I’ll be able to pick up some more on the drive south.” Andrew wore his grey Meyer pants and blue tailor-made shirt. He fiddled with the stainless-steel cappuccino machine. “Are the passports ready?” He stepped sideways, opening the fridge door. The milk carton was in the door above two plastic blood bags. He grabbed the milk, closing the door with his foot.
Cori nodded. “I’ve got to get an outfit for Saturday’s party, especially those shoes. Then I’m off to work.”
“Another protégé to instruct?” Andrew turned, smiling at her.
Her eyes sparkled as she set her cup down. “If the opportunity presents itself.”
“Want me to leave a cheque for Roza?”
Cori shook her head, winking. “Payday isn’t until next Monday. We get free maid service this month.”
Lane and Nigel parked down the street from the Pierce home. Nestled under the limbs of a spruce tree, they had a clear view of the two-storey infill with its river rock front, copper pillars, peaked roofs, and oval windows. The combined effect gave the impression that the home was afloat on a white prairie sea.
“You enjoying going back to school?” Nigel worked the heat dials of the white Jeep as he sat in the passenger seat. It appeared impossible to find a comfortable temperature. He unzipped his jacket, then rolled down the window.
“To tell you the truth, it’s been fascinating. The guy’s teaching about the psychology of bullying, then exhibits the same aggressive behaviours he describes in his lectures. And he appears to be totally unaware of the contradiction.” Lane saw the light come on at the front of the three-car garage.
“Sounds like my dad. He saw himself as being fair minded and logical. His behaviour was the opposite.” Nigel zipped up his coat.
Now’s the time to ask. “I got an interesting call last night while Matt and I were walking the dog.”
Nigel took his gloves off. “Oh?”
“My brother phoned to ask why I was messing around with his and Efram Milton’s money.”
Nigel pulled on his toque. “You’re kidding.”
There was a slight intake of breath before he answered and a bit of a quiver in his voice. “He was pretty agitated.”
“Money often gets people motivated.”
“I said I didn’t know what he was talking about.” Lane watched as the garage door opened.
“Keep in touch.” Nigel climbed out, shut the door, and walked back to a nondescript Chevy SUV.
Your non-answers are answers, Nigel.
Lane looked through the glass at the wood fire. A chef in a white coat hefted a wooden paddle, slipping it under a pizza inside the oven, removing it, and sliding it onto a plate. Then he used the paddle to check under a second pizza. The detective’s eyes moved to take in the poster-sized black- and-white photographs on the walls. People were frozen in the day-to-day activities of Naples. In one, a man kissed a woman on the cheek. Her eyes were not amused.
“Lane? How was work today?” Lane turned to face Dan, who sat on the white bench holding a sleeping Indiana.
You look tired. “I spent the day sitting for the most part.” Surveillance is tedious in the extreme.
“Here, let me hold him.” Alex sat between Lane and Matt. She had insisted they all go out for supper.
Dan looked at Christine, who nodded. He lifted the baby over the table. Arthur put his hand underneath just in case. Alex tucked Indiana in the crook of her left elbow, caressing his cheek with her knuckles.
The waiter escorted a couple to a nearby table. The couple glanced, smiling at the ba
by. Five pairs of adult eyes assaulted them. Their friendly smiles straight-lined and the couple looked away.
Alex asked, “Can we relax? You told me this was the best pizza place in town. How about we just enjoy a night out? And Matt, your black eye is scaring people.”
Dan smiled. “It does look remarkably sinister.”
Christine laughed. “Matt will scare the monsters away from Indy’s closet.”
Two waiters dressed in white shirts and black pants arrived with pizzas. “Quattro stagioni?” Dan raised his hand. The thin-crust pizza was placed before him. He inhaled, rolling his eyes with pleasure.
“Romana?”
“Please.” Lane pointed at the place setting in front of him.
“What are those things?” Alex nodded at Lane’s pizza.
“Anchovies.” He cut a pie-shaped slice, waiting for the inevitable response.
“What?” Alex grimaced.
“Tiny stinky fishies.” Christine shook her head.
A second round of pizzas arrived, followed by Matt’s calzone. He got busy cutting up Alex’s pizza for her.
Alex looked at the dark-haired waiter. “What does pulcinella mean?”
The waiter smiled as if he’d been waiting for someone to ask. “A funny guy who makes people laugh.”
Indiana smiled. Alex looked down at him, pointing. “He’s our funny guy. I’ve already written about him on my blog.”
Lane had been inhaling the scent of tomato sauce, oregano, and basil. He suddenly looked up, eyes wide. He stared blankly at the waiter, who asked, “Is there a problem with the pizza, sir?”
“No, he’s just had an epiphany. Or an orgasm. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with him.” Arthur rolled up a wedge of pizza and closed his eyes, chewing then covering his mouth with his open left hand. “Thank you, Alex! This was a wonderful idea.”
The waiter’s eyebrows met in the middle; then he rushed away.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 5
chapter 17
This is Shazia Wajdan.
A daring daytime escape occurred on Crowchild Trail this morning. Eyewitness Wayne Long describes what happened.
CUT TO WAYNE LONG “I was following the sheriff’s paddy wagon. Two pickup trucks cut me off, then forced the paddy wagon to the side of the road. Guys jumped out of the trucks with long guns. I called 911.”
Another eyewitness, who declined to appear on camera, said one of the guards and a prisoner got into one of the pickups and were driven away. The guard in the driver’s seat was taken to hospital with undetermined injuries. So far there is no word on the identity of the escaped prisoner.
Shazia Wajdan, CBC News, Calgary.
Lane set the phone in its cradle, turning to a waiting Nigel. “Efram Milton escaped.”
Nigel leaned away from his computer. “How?”
“Milton was being transported. The transport van was forced off the road by two pickup trucks. Milton and one of the guards are missing. The other guard is in hospital suffering from a concussion.”
Nigel looked at the ceiling. “The missing guard was in on it?”
Lane shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”
Lane followed Dr. Pierce along one of the walkways connecting the education building to the library tower. A machine with a rolling blue brush threw a cloud of white into the air as it spun snow from the walkway. Pierce was bareheaded, wearing a calf-length cashmere overcoat, a blue scarf, and black leather gloves.
Dr. Pierce turned left, opening one of the heavy glass doors leading into the library foyer. Lane watched as Pierce opened his coat, turning away from the escalator. He walked through a door on the south side of the library.
Lane opened the door, feeling the rush of warm air, but kept his toque on as he followed. Through the open door he saw a room filled with computers. Pierce sat down at a computer with his back to the wall.
Lane backed out of the door, moving to the far side of the escalator to wait. He unzipped his jacket and took off his gloves.
Twenty minutes later, Lane was scratching his head while checking the time on his phone. This toque is so damned itchy!
Dr. Pierce appeared in the doorway, buttoning his coat and arranging his scarf.
Lane turned, watching Pierce’s reflection in the glass. He waited for the professor to walk outside, then followed him to the parking lot south of the education building where his Porsche was parked. The detective made his way to the Jeep, two rows over with a clear view of the Porsche. Lane climbed into the Jeep, pushed in the clutch, and started the engine. I wish this thing had heated seats. He turned on the windshield defroster, then grabbed the gearshift.
Pierce drove toward the south exit facing Father David Bower Arena, turning toward Crowchild Trail. Lane followed the Porsche when it was momentarily out of sight behind a stand of evergreens. Pierce turned onto southbound Crowchild. Lane kept a white pickup between him and the Porsche as they followed Crowchild Trail’s descent into the Bow River Valley. When they stopped at a red light, Lane picked up his phone and dialed Lori.
“Yes, Paul?”
“Can you and Nebal check the social media accounts of Cori and Andrew Pierce for any recent entries?”
“Will do.” Lori hung up.
The light turned green. Pierce turned left, heading toward Kensington.
Pierce parked in front of the Plaza Theatre. It was a white building built in 1935, nestled between a newer building housing a pair of restaurants and the open face of Pages Bookstore.
We’re getting back to where we started. Lane turned down a side street, parking out of sight of Pierce, who walked to the front door of the theater. The billboard above the door announced that The Big Sleep was playing. The detective’s phone rang. “Lane.”
“Nigel. Cori Pierce just parked across from the street from you.”
Lane checked his rear-view mirror, seeing her getting out of a grey BMW X5. She wore an ankle-length silver fox fur coat. The collar was tucked up over her ears.
“Got her. Thanks.” Lane undid his seat belt.
“I’m down the street to the west.”
“The professor went to the Plaza. That’s probably where she’s headed.”
“I’ve got a good spot here to watch the front door. You want to take the back?”
Lane recognized the smile in Nigel’s voice. “You’ve got a nice warm spot?”
“Gotta love these heated seats. The suspects are out in front of the theatre. Keep close to the storefronts, then duck into the bookstore. But first, look up.” Nigel hung up.
What the hell does that mean? Lane didn’t see Cori Pierce near the front of the Plaza. He climbed out of the Jeep, locking it. Then he pulled on his toque, stepping over a pile of crusty snow left by a plow, and walked across the street, making for Pages Books. If memory serves, they have a fire escape looking down over the rear of the Plaza. He opened the front door of the bookstore, spotting several patrons lined up at the counter. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and nodded at Sarah. He glanced at the stairs. She smiled. Lane climbed the stairs, unzipping his coat and taking off his toque and mitts. The wall was adorned with black-and-white photographs of writers in literary poses.
He got to the top of the stairs, turned right, and looked out the rear window. A spider’s web of power lines crisscrossed the alleyway. Lane used his right hand to push back a curtain and open a metal door. He stepped out onto the staircase and closed the door behind him. A woman wearing a tan wool coat stood halfway down the fire escape. Looking out over the cars parked below, she brought a cigarette to her lips. Simone glanced over her sho
ulder, taking another hit of nicotine and nodding at the detective. “Come out to enjoy the sky?” She tipped her head to the right.
Lane looked at the belly of a smoky-blue chinook, then to the west, where the edge of the arch met blue sky. That’s what Nigel was talking about!
“Can you feel it warming up?” Simone tapped the filter tip of her cigarette on the railing.
The wind was shifting, coming from the west. He felt its warm hand on his face. He smiled. “I was wondering if I could borrow your staircase.”
Simone looked to her left as if listening to a conversation. She put her forefinger to her lips, signalling him to join her.
Lane tiptoed down the stairs. Simone pointed between the buildings. A foot-wide gap separated the cinderbrick wall of the bookstore and the brick wall of the theatre. At the far end of the narrow opening stood several metres of wall. Voices carried over the wall, along the gap between the buildings, to their ears.
Lane leaned closer to the Plaza Theatre’s white wall.
“We’re set for Saturday night, then?”
It’s a woman’s voice.
“I think everything is ready.”
That’s Andrew Pierce’s voice.
“I’ve got the passports ready,” the woman said.
“Still want to do the two-fer?” Pierce asked.
“More than ever. It should launch us internationally. Then we do a D.B. Cooper.”
“What’s our weekend total?”
“Five.”
“I’ll need some extra FlexiCuffs,” Pierce observed.
“Get them after the show. I’m finished my smoke. Let’s go in.”
Simone stepped away from the wall. “That’s the woman who wanted the books on Olson, Williams, and Homolka. I saw her coming down the street. Did you hear something you can use?” Simone asked.
“Unfortunately, their conversation would be easy to explain away.” Lane looked at the belly of the chinook. Pierce is getting extra FlexiCuffs. They’re planning for two scenes this time.
