by Garry Ryan
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s just say if the people who were screwed by Bernie Madoff and other Ponzi schemes hired her, they would be smiling today.”
“How smart is she?” Lane opened his jacket to cool off. He looked left, spotting a guy wearing shorts and a hoodie walking along the river pathway with a package in his arms.
“I don’t know the numbers, if that’s what you’re asking. All I know is she bought her house and lives in a suite in the basement in Brentwood. She has this strict routine she lives by, and does jobs for people who need their money traced. She always has meetings with clients at the public library near her house. To keep the library happy, she makes a sizable donation every year.”
Why are you telling me all of this? Lane looked at the river poking a mini-mountain range of ice up along the edge of the Bow.
“I’m telling you this because she traced proposed murder blogs back to Dr. Pierce’s personal computer. We can’t use the evidence, but now I’m sure we’re after the right pair.” Nigel glanced to his right to gauge Lane’s reaction.
Before you tell him it was wrong, remember how you never revealed what you know about Uncle Tran, and how it has benefitted victims, you, and your family for years. “Is Anna in danger? If she’s taking money away from ruthless people, they aren’t going to be happy about it.”
“I don’t think so. Anna is very good. She explained that Milton has over twenty million — well, now it’s down by five. She’s also going after the money the Pierces have stashed away.”
“What!?”
“Haven’t you been reading the paper? Donations have been made to the Children’s Hospital, the Red Cross . . .”
“Shit! It was you!”
“It was Anna. I told you, it’s an ethical thing with her. She researched Milton, who publicly claimed all of the money raised in Paradise goes to support his community. She traced several private accounts in his name where the money is stashed. Anna says he’s lying, she knows where the money is, he exploits the women and children in his community, and she’s going after what he values most. She’s getting ready to do the same with the killers. Keep watching the papers. In the next week or so you may see reports of more donations to various local charities.” Nigel eased into the left lane, putting his foot down on the accelerator as they climbed out of the river valley.
“It’s dangerous work.” Lane watched the LRT scoot up the hill alongside them.
“She says she’s very careful about being a ghost.”
“I’m talking about both of you.”
Nigel glanced at Lane as they crested the hill. “How so?”
“You’re walking a tightrope. Be careful which side you come down on.”
They travelled in silence along Bow Trail, past the golf course and condos, then up the hill into Cougar Ridge. They parked across the street from Donna’s two-storey home. The chinook had eaten away at the snowdrifts on either side of the driveway. Water dripped from the tips of snowdrifts hanging from the roof. It ran down the gutters and cascaded into storm sewers. Lane pulled the phone out of his pocket and saw it was five after eleven. A white SUV pulled up and parked in Donna’s driveway. She got out of the driver’s side and her son, still wearing a neck brace, climbed down out of the rear seat. Lane saw him turn his back on his mother and walk to the front door.
Donna shook her head. Her shoulders sagged. She stood in her black leather coat and black high-heeled boots watching him go.
Lane climbed out of the Chev, stepping through the slick crust of a snowdrift. He leaned on the side of the car as he walked around and onto the treacherous surface of melting ice and snow. Donna turned, saw the approaching detectives, and waited with her purse hung over her shoulder. The wind plucked the edges of her red skirt. She waved at them to follow as she walked around the side of the house and back to her shop. They waited as she reached inside of her purse, took out her keys, opened the door, and turned on the lights.
Lane closed the door behind them, standing next to Nigel on the carpet.
Donna dropped her purse onto one of the chairs, took off her coat, and hung it on the door leading to the rest of the house.
Lane noted the room was nearly completed. “How’s Hansen?”
“The doctor says he’s doing well and the brace can come off in a week.” She crossed her arms, shaking her head.
Lane waited.
Nigel asked, “What’s up?”
“Cori sold their Alpha Romeo. A guy came around to Platinum, gave her a wad of cash, and drove away. About an hour later, one of the teachers from the school down the road — the school where some of the work experience kids come from — came looking for Robert. I told her to go down the hall into the back. She went. We all watched the teacher stand at the washroom door. She got really red in the face when she heard what was going on. Then she started pounding on the door. Finally, Cori and Robert came out of the washroom. There was a big screaming match. The teacher took Robert away. And Cori, she came back into the salon and gave me this look. It’s hard to describe. The bitch gave me that high school look you get when one girl thinks you’re fucking her boyfriend.” Donna looked over her shoulder as a reflex, checking to see if her son was listening at the door. Instead they heard him clumping around upstairs. “I’m not going back to the shop. I told the contractor if he finishes this weekend I’ll pay extra.”
“What do you want us to do?” Lane asked.
Donna’s phone rang. She moved to her right, reaching into her purse. Lane caught a glimpse of an envelope, and the brown polymer sheen of hundred-dollar bills.
Donna pulled out her phone, closing the purse. She watched the detectives as she said, “Yes, we just got back from the doctor. He says Hansen is doing well. He’s still pissed because I won’t let him play hockey.” She listened then said, “They’re here right now.” She hung up. “My husband. He told me to call you. He thinks Cori and her husband are selling the cars so they can leave town. He thinks you need to know before someone else gets hurt.”
“What do you think?” Lane asked.
“I think Cori is one of those people who knows exactly how to get what she wants.” Donna looked past Lane at the primer on the walls. “I’ve got a customer coming in a few minutes.”
Lane took out his phone. “I want you to put my number on speed dial.”
Lori sat across from Lane and Nigel in their office. “McTavish phoned. He’s ready. He’ll have three of his crew down in the furnace room of the house tomorrow morning. They’re equipped to camp out for at least twenty-four hours. Phelps will work with the caterers. Harper is handling communications and logistics. He wants you and Nigel to freelance just in case something unexpected happens. Harper’s a little worried about the weather.” She wore a pair of tan slacks, her leather boots, and a pink blouse.
“What’s up with the weather?” Nigel asked.
Lane pointed his mouse at the weather icon. “Cold front moving in. A risk of freezing rain on Saturday.”
“Harper assigned you a Jeep so you can get around if the weather doesn’t cooperate.” Lori checked the item off her list.
“Anything else on that list, boss?” Nigel asked.
“Yes, it says here, ‘If Nigel is a pain in the ass then you have the authority to . . .’ ” Lori smiled.
Nigel exploded. “It doesn’t really say that!”
Lori handed him the list.
Nigel took a look, blushed, and handed the list back.
“He also told me to tell the pair of you he needs you to be sharp tomorrow. All of the angles are covered, and now you are to go home and get some rest.” Lori made an ov
ersized check mark in the air above her list, stood up, and left the office.
“Sarah phoned me today.” Christine manoeuvred the oversized stroller over clear sidewalks, concrete covered in ice, residential streets covered in soup. Indiana was dressed in a sleeper, stuck in a poncho, and wrapped in a blanket. His eyes were just visible where the blue toque and scarf didn’t touch. They walked in winter coats and boots in the silvery half-light filtering through the thick layer of a chinook arch. Clear blue sky peeked out from under its western edge, revealing the tips of the Rocky Mountains.
Lane held Sam’s leash in his left hand. A grey squirrel bounded across the top of the snow’s hard crust in a neighbour’s front yard. It scampered up the trunk of a poplar tree. Sam hit the end of the leash. Lane’s left arm was nearly yanked out of its socket. Christine used her free hand to grab the leash. Sam danced on his rear legs.
Matt followed along behind with Dan, who said, “He likes cats and rabbits, too.”
After Sam settled down except for some heavy breathing, Christine said, “It was a really weird conversation. She asked if she could see Indy, then asked if we could take him to see my mom.”
Lane kept one eye out for squirrels and rabbits. The other eye watched for pickup trucks with men who looked like they were from Paradise. He leaned into the wind gusting at over thirty kilometres an hour. “You’re joking.”
Christine shook her head. “No, and Sarah sounded afraid.”
“How old is she?” Lane asked.
“Fourteen, I think.” Christine looked at her uncle. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about twenty different things right now.” He looked over his shoulder to see if there was anyone behind Matt and Dan.
“Something big happening with the case?” Dan asked.
Lane nodded.
“You’ll be careful?” Christine asked.
Lane spotted a bearded neighbour being pulled along by a white-breasted boxer with a blue blanket over its back. There was tension in the leash as Sam began to pull.
“Is it the serial killer?” Matt asked.
The boxer planted its front feet, staring at Sam and beginning to growl.
Lane grabbed the leash with both hands the instant before Sam hit the end of the nylon webbing. The boxer began to bark. Sam howled and barked in reply. It was a sound Lane had never heard Sam make before, a sound of wild anger. Sam became seventy-five pounds of muscle and bone fighting to get at the boxer. Lane leaned back into the leash, then reached for Sam’s collar.
“What’s wrong with him?” Christine asked as Matt and Dan helped Lane pull the normally playful Sam back the way they’d come.
Matt said, “There’s something about that boxer that drives Sam crazy.”
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8
chapter 20
Accused Child Abductor Offers Information on Trafficking of Underage Girls
Alison Milton, accused of attempted child abduction in January, has offered to testify about the way young women are traded back and forth across the Canada–US border.
Joseph Lane, Alison Milton’s legal representative, says she has “damning” evidence that Efram Milton transported girls as young as thirteen to the United States with the intent of marrying them to men who were often in their fifties and sixties. Milton recently escaped custody and is being sought by police.
Lane says, “Alison also worked as a mid-wife. She delivered a baby for a girl who had just turned fifteen. Alison Milton is willing to testify the girl was coerced into marriage with Efram Milton.”
When asked if Alison Milton plans to plead guilty to the abduction charge, Mr. Lane said, “Alison’s defence may reveal more about the coercive nature of her marriage.”
“I wish we could take the espresso machine with us.” Andrew Pierce poured fresh beans into the stainless-steel coffee grinder. “I’m taking this grinder.” He turned on the machine. It growled, grinding the coffee beans into grains for the espresso machine.
“They said they wanted it furnished, so they get it furnished. We’ll buy new when we get there. I was getting tired of this stuff anyway.” Cori waved at the oak table and chairs. “I had my eye on a cocobolo table when we were last there.” She tucked her passports into the side pocket of the tan Prada bag she had bought in New York after one of their earlier trips.
“We’re ready to go?”
Cori snapped her purse shut. “All we need to do now is decide on where to go for lunch. Then I have a few things to pick up on the way.”
The professor left the coffee machine for a moment, picking up a green duffle bag with black straps. He zipped it open, lifted out items, and arranged them in a line across the kitchen table. The nine-millimetre handgun was on the far left followed by blue coveralls, surgical gloves, white booties, and hairnets. The FlexiCuffs were next, then a package of wipes and a spray bottle of bleach. “It’s all here. I’ll put it by the garage door so we don’t forget it.”
“Remember, I’ve got my eye on those shoes,” Cori said.
Lane and Nigel were dressed causally in clothing designed for warmth and freedom of movement. They listened while Lori checked off points on the fingers of her left hand. “McTavish’s team is in place. She let them in this morning. Phelps is already down at the caterer’s getting to know everyone, becoming part of the crew. The surveillance teams are in place.”
“She?” Lane asked.
Lori nodded. “The lady of the house.”
“What about the husband?” Lane asked.
“Out of town apparently.” Lori saw the frown on Lane’s face. “What?”
“They said five.” Lane looked at the screen on his desk.
“What?” Nigel asked.
“When I overheard the pair of them talking at the theatre, they said five.”
“You sure you don’t have these in a nine?” Cori handed back the red shoes with red musical notes inlaid in white soles.
The sales person, who might have been eighteen, shook her head, tucking back a wayward strand of black curly hair.
“I want you to go downstairs and check again.” Cori stuffed the too-small shoe into the box, thrusting the box at the clerk.
Andrew stood behind her, holding both of their winter coats and her purse.
“It looks like you may not have air cover tonight.” Harper stood inside Lane’s office. The detectives and Lori were going over the final details of surveillance and hostage scenarios.
Lane leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the muscles at the front of his rib cage. He looks worried.
Harper said, “The weather forecast is calling for rain, a wind shift to the north, freezing rain, then snow.”
Lane nodded. “We need to make sure we have the right ground vehicles.”
“I’ll make it happen.” Harper left.
Lane looked out the window. The normally sharp edge of the chinook arch was looking ragged. He checked a Canadian flag tugging at the pole. “The wind’s shifting.”
“Uncle Lane?” Christine’s voice was tense.
Is Indy okay? “What’s happened?” He drove south on Crowchild Trail, easing onto the right lane, taking the ramp to Marda Loop.
“I got another weird call from my half-sister Sarah. She said goodbye.”
Lane could hear Dan in the background. Milton’s making his run. “Call Lori and ask her to put you in touch with the RCMP. Tell them you have information that Milton is going to head south into the United States so he can disappear into one of the polygamist compounds. Also tell her it’s human trafficking.”
“What?”
Lane said, “Call
Lori and explain she needs to talk with Harper. He’ll get in touch with the RCMP. It’s a suspected case of human trafficking. Then tell Lori about Sarah and Milton. Okay?”
Christine’s voice shook. “Okay.”
Lane sipped coffee at Phil and Sebastian’s at Marda Loop between Crowchild Trail and Mount Royal. He watched the cars going past. Their wipers shuddered back and forth, pushing the mist away. White and purple globes hanging on a nearby tree bobbed in the wind.
“Climate change.” Nigel looked at the coffee shop’s cubbyhole wall stocked with clear glass jars of coffee beans.
“Fucking weather,” a man said as he paid for his coffee. “Can always count on Calgary. The weather is shit.”
“What do you think?” Nigel sipped from a paper cup. He wore dark clothing so he would be less conspicuous if they needed nighttime camouflage.
Lane wore a black shirt and pants. A black parka hung off the back of his chair. “If the temperature drops all of a sudden, the soupy stuff on the roads will freeze, and the rain will make the driving more like skating.”
“Icy roads are always fun.” Nigel looked at his phone. “It’s almost nine.”
“The party will probably break up soon because people will be worried about the roads. This place is closing. We’d better get refills.” Lane’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “Hello?”
McTavish said, “The suspects have left the party, headed north.”
“Got it.” Lane pressed End, stuffed the phone in his shirt pocket, put on his coat, and grabbed his coffee. He stepped outside into a north wind turning his breath into smoke, carrying it south as he walked across the street to the Jeep. His ears began to freeze. When he reached the other side of the street, he threw the coffee in a trashcan, zipped up his jacket, lifted the collar around his ears, and tucked in his chin.
Nigel got in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned the wipers on. They swiped at the ice on the windshield, doing nothing to clear the opaque surface. Lane climbed in the passenger side, turned the heat to defrost, grabbed the scraper out of the back seat, got out, and began to chip away at the ice on the windshield. His phone rang. He opened his jacket and pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket, turning his back on the wind. Nigel tried to clear the front glass with windshield-washer antifreeze. The smell of alcohol hung in the air.
