by Garry Ryan
Harper got up and stepped behind his desk. “So you think Bertoulli’ll give up Mara to protect his own ass? We may be here for a while. How about some pizza?”
“These guys work by a different set of rules.” Lane stood up and looked out of the window. Below, the street was choked with vehicles. “They look after number one first. And it’s about status and the lifestyle. Rogerson and Bertoulli will see Mara as a threat now. They’ll be in damage-control mode. We know about Mara’s operation. They’ll cut him loose before we can connect all three of them to the MCSC deal. Being connected to a serial killer is bad for business. Their MCSC partners will want no part of this because they are already facing a class-action lawsuit in the States. There will be phone calls back and forth, but a cutting of ties with Brett Mara is inevitable.”
TUESDAY, JULY 2
chapter 16
Legislative Insiders Say Calgary Police Chief Will Accept Nomination
Calgary Police Service Chief Jim Simpson has accepted the nomination to run as the Progressive Conservative candidate in next month’s by-election in Calgary Varsity.
Simpson himself has not made a public statement, but his office says a formal announcement of his plans can be expected shortly.
If elected, Simpson has been widely touted as the replacement for solicitor general Bill Rogerson, thought to be out of favour with the premier. Recent controversy over a private member’s bill introduced by Rogerson has caused the government considerable embarrassment.
Opponents insist the bill allows private companies to exploit the province’s elderly. One of these companies, Mi Casa Su Casa, is facing a class-action lawsuit in the United States involving the surviving families of more than 300 former MCSC residents. The plaintiffs seek $1.5 billion US in damages.
Lane woke up to Norah Jones. He rolled over and shut off the clock radio so Arthur could sleep in. He expected to feel pain behind his eyes and was relieved that it was gone.
After a coffee, quick breakfast and shower, he headed out the door and walked to the LRT station. As he walked by the schoolyard, a coyote crossed the street in front of him. The grey-and-tan neighbour paid Lane absolutely no attention. At the station Lane waited, enjoying his anonymity, and watched people in their crowded cocoons of thought.
The sun shone on his face so he wore his sunglasses on the ride downtown. He checked the time and headed for Terri’s kiosk. The morning air was refreshing. He could see her face from a block away and she was ready with his moccaccino when he handed her a five. She handed him the change. “You look a lot better today.”
Lane smiled, sipped and lifted his cup. “Thank you.”
He found himself alone when he entered the office, sat down and logged onto his computer. He pulled up the map of the Mara case and scanned the various bits of the investigation.
There was a knock at the door. Lane looked up and saw the close-cropped hair, the narrow face and the smile of Chief Simpson, who wore a blue sport shirt and pants. “Just dropped by to say hello.”
Lane stood up, then sat down when Simpson closed the door and sat in Nigel’s chair. Lane asked, “What’s up?”
“I already told Cam. Now I’m telling you. I’ve resigned.” Simpson started to tap his left hand on Nigel’s desk.
Lane waited. He’s got something more to say. Keep quiet and let him say it.
Simpson moved his lips side to side as if chewing on the words. “When Smoke resigned, the guys in the Scotch drinkers’ club thought he’d done it to himself.”
Where’s this going?
“Rogerson is another matter. His position gave the good ol’ boys plenty of clout because of their connection to him. Your investigation has made the boys in the club nervous. They’re afraid of what you might dig up about them.” Simpson looked at Lane for a moment. “I thought I’d better let you know because the ol’ boys like being in power. Now that the premier is a woman and not playing by their rules, there is likely to be fallout. You might become one of their targets. Keep your eyes open. If I get elected, I should have more clout to make situations like this a little less likely.”
“Have you heard about anything coming this way?” Lane asked.
“Nothing specific. These things tend to blindside you. Some of these guys play the game the way Smoke did.”
“I’ve been thinking in a different direction.”
“Go ahead.”
“The MCSC deal would make a great deal of money for those involved. Having the deal connected to a mass murderer will ruin reputations. The information I’m working on says Mara holds some incriminating evidence that will tarnish anyone connected to the deal. The loss of investment and the potential loss of status for those names revealed as MCSC investors —”
“— puts Mara’s life at risk. Seems kind of —”
Lane nodded. “— ironic.”
Simpson smiled. “It is that. Mara had such a callous disregard for life. Now he is expendable.” He got up and shook Lane’s hand. “There will be a formal announcement. I wanted to give you a heads-up first.”
Nigel and Anna sat across from each other in his kitchen. The house was nestled between 14th and 10th Streets, just across the river from downtown. The kitchen had white granite countertops and walnut cabinets separated with bright multicoloured Mexican tiles.
Anna wore a grey T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Nigel wore a light-blue shirt and navy-blue pants. Anna pulled her hair together and tucked it back. “I took a close look at MCSC.”
“Lane said he didn’t want you anywhere near that.” Nigel shook his head.
“I know. You know what I do. I’m good at getting in and out of sites undetected. When you were talking about the connections between those three guys, I got curious and started to check a few things.” Anna went over to the coffee pot to top up her cup. “You know that I’ve gone after some pretty unethical bastards. Well, these particular bastards are right up there.” She lifted her free hand above her head for effect.
“How so?”
“The seniors buy their apartments starting at just under two hundred thousand dollars. After that, they pay for any service provided. When the senior dies, the money they used to purchase the apartment goes back to MCSC.” Anna pulled out an oak chair, lifted her knees, sat yoga style and sipped her coffee. “Then they sell the apartment to the next person and begin again.” Anna pointed a finger at Nigel. “After they are charged for repainting, cleaning and moving expenses.”
“So it’s a cash machine for investors.” Nigel looked out the window.
“And a money-laundering machine. Brett Mara was close to becoming a major shareholder in this publicly traded company. So was Bertoulli. I couldn’t find any evidence linking Rogerson to MCSC, though.”
“It’s looking like his connection is either a kickback as a reward for the private member’s bill or he’s being blackmailed into fronting for MCSC.”
“Whatever the connection is, Bertoulli and Rogerson and all of the other investors have a whole lot to lose if someone shines a spotlight on MCSC.” She hesitated and set down her coffee. “I’ve gone ahead and done something.”
Nigel lifted his eyebrows.
“Remember my contacts at YYC News?”
Nigel exhaled. “No.”
Anna lifted her eyebrows.
“You didn’t.”
“I did. YYC will look into this and we both know what they’ll find.” Anna lifted her cup and drained the remains of the coffee.
Nigel took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “I hope you’re right.”
Lori stood in Lane’s doorway. She pushed her fingers back through her blonde hair. “What? Sometimes a girl needs a little time in the morning to brush her hair! There’s someone to see you.”
Lane frowned, threw his empty coffee cup at the garbage and missed. Then he got up, tugged at his missing earlobe, picked up the cup, threw it in the can and followed Lori.
Gloria with the violet eyes stood with her hands on a volumi
nous purse. She nodded and smiled tentatively.
Lane said, “Come on in,” and took her by the elbow. She smelled of berries and soap. He pulled out Nigel’s chair so she could sit, shut the door and sat down. “What’s up?”
“I went to the funeral home and made arrangements. They contacted the medical examiner, who expects to release the body on Wednesday. The funeral home director said that the ME told them you had made a request that sped up the process. I came here to thank you and to invite you to the memorial on Friday.” Gloria took a tissue out of her pants pocket and wiped at her eyes.
Lane waited.
She looked at him, and he saw a tear had made a translucent spot on her white blouse. “I thought the grief would go away, but it never has. But this —” She waved the tissue at him and waited for the words to come. “I’m sleeping better for the first time. I haven’t slept through the night for so long —” she rubbed her eyebrows with her thumb and forefinger “— that I was a bit shocked when I woke up this morning and the sun was shining through a gap in the curtains. I’d slept right through the night. I wanted you to know what a difference you’ve made.”
“I wish I could have somehow helped you when the baby was crying.” Lane looked at his left knee as it danced. He tried to hold it still with his left hand.
“My mother was the one who needed to be held accountable. Not you.” She pointed at him, then herself. “Not me.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died in her sleep about a year ago.”
Lane nodded.
Gloria looked at Lane’s bouncing knee. “I know my brothers and I weren’t the only ones scarred by what happened to my daughter.”
Lane stared back at her and felt tightness in his chest. He could not speak because he could not breathe.
Gloria handed him another tissue. “I didn’t come here to upset you. I came here to thank you.”
Lane took the tissue, wiped his eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. “You’re right. It never goes away.”
“But it does get better.”
About ten minutes after Gloria left, Lori stepped into Lane’s office. “You okay?”
He nodded.
“Can I ask what that was about?”
Lane motioned for her to sit, took a breath and told her the story.
When he’d finished, she asked, “And you’re going to the memorial?”
“I think so, as long as work doesn’t get in the way.”
“Speaking of work, what are we going to do now that Simpson is going? The good old boys think this is an opening for them.”
He leaned his head to the right. Lori always knows what’s going on. “Maybe and maybe not. This other case we’re working on may have them running for the shadows.”
“Tell me more. Maybe I can help.”
Nigel walked into the interrogation room with coffees and a smile. “Moccaccino for you.” He set one cup in front of Lane. “And vanilla latte for you.” He set the second cup in front of Brett Mara, who wore an orange jumpsuit. Mara nodded and picked up the coffee. Nigel backed out the door.
Lane loosened his red tie, hung his grey jacket on the back of his chair, then sat down and sipped his coffee. “You wanted to talk?”
Brett nodded and put his cup down. “Thanks for the coffee.” He looked up at Lane. “I want to tell my story.”
“Okay.” Why the change?
“Ben dropped me as a client.”
Lane nodded.
“They put a Kevlar vest on me when they brought me here.” Brett looked at the camera. He swiped at a spot on his orange leg.
Lane waited.
“Me, Bertoulli and Rogerson were friends in high school.”
Lane nodded.
“Before I talk about them, what can you do for me?”
“If you’re asking for a deal, you need a lawyer.”
“I want a deal with you. I want you to make a promise.”
Lane tipped his chin down and watched Brett out of his left eye.
“I want you to promise that Sonja will be able to go home.”
“Who is Sonja?” Lane asked.
“My Cuban wife.”
Lane frowned. “Did she enter the country legally?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“She could be deported.”
“Nope. That’s not acceptable. She needs a plane ticket home.”
“I will see what can be done.”
Brett smiled. “And I want my story out there.”
Lane shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t make any promises about that.”
Brett leaned forward. “But you will see what can be done?”
Lane nodded. “I will.”
“Okay, then. Ask your questions.”
“If I think you’re lying to me, I’m out the door and all deals will be off.”
Brett nodded.
“What happened in Havana the day you were on the tour with Camille?”
“The day I pushed her into the moto volqueta?”
“Yes.”
“She pissed me off. She was fucking my friend and rubbing my nose in it on the bus. When I said something to her, she asked, ‘What are you going to do about it?’ When I saw the chance I went ahead and shoved her. It was spur-of-the-moment stuff. The opportunity presented itself so I took it.” Brett reached for his coffee, sat back and sipped.
We could be discussing the weather. He is very matter of fact. “Then you killed her boyfriend?”
Brett nodded. “That’s right.”
“How did you get out of Cuba?”
Brett smiled. “If you have the money, you can get a ride on a boat.”
“Out of Matanzas?”
“That’s one way out. There are others.”
“Sonja travelled with you from Matanzas to the US?”
“That’s right.”
So you killed Camille for screwing around and don’t see the hypocrisy of your prior relationship with Sonja. “Is she in Calgary now?”
Brett nodded.
“Where exactly?”
“In my motorhome. It’s parked in a Walmart parking lot. You wouldn’t believe what campgrounds charge per day.”
So that’s what made you so hard to find. You were hiding in plain sight. “Which one?”
“Signal Hill.”
Nigel will be on that. Lane didn’t turn to look at the camera. Instead he looked at Brett. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Leandro?”
“She was one of my patients.” Brett revealed neither anxiety nor boredom on his face or in his tone of voice.
“How did she die?”
“I smothered her.”
“How come?”
“I told her that her grandson was travelling and in trouble. She gave me fifty-five thousand dollars to get him out of trouble. Then he walked in the door one day. I had to shut her up and move on.”
“How about Mrs. Po at Floral Gardens?”
“Same kind of scam. She paid me fifty thousand. I gave her an overdose of insulin.”
“How many in total did you kill?”
Brett concentrated and began counting on his fingers. “Including the guy I killed in high school?”
Lane nodded.
“Twenty-seven.”
Fatigue settled itself on Lane’s shoulders and it took a deep breath to keep them from sagging. He handed Brett a sheet of paper and a pen. “I’d like you to write a second list for me to make sure we haven’t missed anyone. There are families who will want to know.”
Brett took the pen and paper. “Again. All of them?”
Shit, you’d think I was asking for a fucking grocery list. Lane took a long, slow breath. “Yes, please.”
Brett looked at the ceiling, then down at the paper, and began to write. From time to time he would stop, count on his fingers or look at the door, concentrate, then continue to work.
Lane listened to the sound of the pen on the paper and the movement of the air coming from the vent abov
e their heads. “At the end, please write down the total amount of money you scammed. Then we can talk about the drive-by in high school.”
Brett didn’t lift his head when he said, “I’m hungry. I want some food and another cup of coffee.” He handed the list to the detective.
Just keep your cool for another couple of hours. Let him talk. Get it all down. Then you can get the hell away from him. “What would you like?”
“One of those Vietnamese beef subs and a big old cup of Tim Horton’s coffee.”
“And for dessert?” Don’t get sarcastic! You’re not finished yet. Lane managed deadpan.
“A vanilla milkshake would be nice.”
Lane took the list, got up and went to the door. “I’ll make the order.” He opened the door, stepped outside and stood in the hallway. He used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to massage the bridge of his nose.
Nigel came up beside him. “Want me to order his food?”
Lane nodded.
“What’s the matter? Migraine coming back?”
Lane shook his head. “He just admitted to killing twenty-seven people and then ordered a sub, a cup of Tim’s and a milkshake.” He looked sideways at Nigel. “It’s all the same to him. Killing is just like ordering lunch.” He handed the list to his partner.
Nigel took the list of names. “Want me to take over?”
Lane took a couple of long breaths. “I’m not done yet.” He opened the door and went back inside. He wants the story out because he sees it as his legacy. Just let him tell the story. “Food’s on the way.” He closed the door.
“I’m starving. You order, too. I hate eating alone.” Brett looked up at Lane.
If I eat with you, food will never taste the same. “I’m not hungry. Let’s keep talking until the food gets here. Who was with you when you did your first kill?”
“That guy killed one of our friends. He hit our friend over the head with a toilet seat. We went out and evened the score.”
“We?” Lane felt the excitement rising up, a tension just inside the ribcage.
“Bertoulli, Rogerson and me.”
