WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26

chapter 10

“I’m trying to get a hold of Lisa. You have a message from a Gloria.” Lori held up her hand with a written note. Lane grabbed the note as he walked past her desk and into his office. He sat down, picked up his phone and dialed.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice asked.

“It’s Paul Lane.”

“Thank you for calling me back. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Go ahead.” He leaned back in his chair.

“I would like to give my baby a proper burial. I know it’s an unusual request. You’re the only one who has any understanding of the situation and might be able to tell me where to start or who to ask.”

Lane winced at a childhood flashback of his mother taking the belt to him. “Was it a homicide?”

“Yes. My mother admitted that she smothered my baby.” Her voice was as empty as a rain barrel in the middle of a summer drought.

“I need you to come in and do some paperwork. Then I’ll contact a friend who may be willing to do the exhumation.” How come you sound so clinical? Gloria has been living with this as long as you have. It has left a stain on both of our lives. “I’m sorry. Could we discuss this over a cup of coffee? How about tomorrow morning, early?”

“Where and when?”

He told her and hung up.

Lori stood in the doorway and waved a piece of paper at him. “I’ve got a name and number for you. From now on you contact Lisa through me. She’s taking a week off. She can’t shake the shock of the shooting that happened outside of her building.” She handed the note to Lane. “Christy Mackenzie called. She says she was friends with Camille.”

Nigel took time to track down background information on Christy Mackenzie, who lived at the ever-expanding southern edge of the city and worked downtown within five blocks of Lane’s office. They walked east along 6th Avenue to The Bow. Fifty-eight floors of crisscrossed steel, curved glass and concrete in the shape of a bow. “She works for Encana.” They rode the elevator to the eighth floor and asked the receptionist to see Ms. Mackenzie.

They sat in plush comfort for five minutes until a woman dressed in a pale-blue jacket with matching skirt and navy-blue heels came to fetch them. “Christy Mackenzie.” She reached out her hand and shook with a wiry grip.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.” Lane followed her down the corridor. He watched her shoulder-length blonde hair swing from side to side as she walked. She stopped in front of an open door, then held her left hand out for them to go in first. She shut the door behind them.

“I heard about what happened to Camille.” She sat down behind a glass-topped desk, crossed her left leg over her right and straightened her skirt. Christy raised her brown eyes and looked right back at them.

She definitely has the no-nonsense approach down pat. “We understand that you might be able to provide some background on Brett Mara.”

Christy nodded at the detectives. “Camille was my cousin. We went to the same high school.”

You must know about the FKs as well.

“We’re trying to contact her husband,” Nigel said.

Christy leaned her head to the right and studied the younger detective. “That son of a bitch Brett killed her, didn’t he?”

That façade sure left in a hurry. Lane said, “He is a person of interest in the investigation into her death. We are trying to locate him.”

Christy shook her head and made a backhanded swipe at her eyes, then reached for a tissue. “We knew it. Brett was a gangbanger from way back, and she wouldn’t listen to any of us when we tried to tell her what he was like.”

“It happened in Havana,” Lane said.

“I saw her a week before she left. She was looking forward to the trip. Said she was thinking of leaving him. There was this new guy. She said she had stuff on Brett that made him easy to manipulate.” Christy dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

“We would like to talk with Brett,” Lane said.

The sound Christy made was somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Good luck. The only way Camille and I could stay in touch was when she would call me once every two weeks or so. Her phone number always came up as unknown. That’s how I would know it was her. We would always meet at the mall or a restaurant, never at her place.”

“Do you have the name of the new guy?” Nigel asked.

Christy shook her head. “She did say it was a friend of Brett’s, but she wasn’t worried because she could blow the whistle on Brett’s latest scam and then he would end up in jail. In fact I think she was planning to do exactly that.”

“Did she give you any information on the scam?” Lane asked.

“She said something about old people and their grandchildren. She started to explain the last time we met. Then her phone rang and she had to leave. She said she would fill me in when she got back. There was something she wanted to take a look at in Cuba, a property, I think.”

“Do you know anyone who might be able to help us locate Brett?”

Christy looked at her cell phone set to the right of her keyboard. She picked it up and pressed a button then flipped through two pages of apps. “Carlo.”

“Carlo?”

Christy turned the phone so they could see it. There was a picture of a truck with Carlo’s Calzones written across the top. “Talk with Carlo. He contacted me and was looking for Brett.”

Carlo’s truck was glacier blue. The blue Lane had seen just once at Moraine Lake a thirty-minute drive away from the more famous Lake Louise. Thankfully he didn’t put a calzone on the truck. It would have looked —

“Obscene. The calzones are supposed to be so good, it’s —” Nigel looked at the face of his phone. “The guy scores ninety-five percent on customer satisfaction.”

Carlo’s name was written in green above the open windows. Below that, a horseshoe of mountains cradled a glacier. It is Moraine Lake.

A voice from inside the truck asked, “What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?”

“Two calzones. Two coffees.” Lane handed over a twenty and got back a toonie and two loonies. He dropped a loonie in the tip cup and pocketed the rest.

“Name?” the voice asked.

Lane saw the shadow of a person inside. How does a guy that size move around in there? “Lane.”

“Ten minutes.” A hand the size of a spaghetti bowl handed over a napkin. Lane stuffed it in his pocket.

Nigel handed one coffee to Lane. He stepped aside to open the way for the next in line and said, “I’ve been wanting to try out this one. It’s becoming a bit of a legend around town. Some of the complaints from the established restaurants have gotten louder. They say the food trucks are hurting their business. Now we can find out for ourselves.”

Lane watched the lunch crowd checking their watches and phones, rolling up wrappers, grabbing pop cans then lining up to drop the recyclables in their proper containers. Nigel leaned closer. “Think we look like cops?”

Lane smiled, looked at his right hand and spotted a note written in black on the napkin. “He’ll meet us after the lunch crowd leaves. Christy must have called him.” Lane sat down across from the cast sculpture of the chess player who stared forever at the pieces on the table.

“Think he’s winning?” Nigel sat next to the statue.

“No idea. I’m not much of a chess man.”

“That’s funny. Sometimes you make me think you’re working several moves ahead.”

Lane shook his head. He turned as a diesel pickup parallel parked a couple of cars ahead of the calzone truck. The engine clattered off, the doors opened and a pair of alligator boots was followed by Wrangler jeans, a leather belt with a Stampede belt buckle, a white shirt with silver buttons, a black cowboy hat and a tanned face with a five o’clock shadow. The driver came around the front of the truck, stepped up on the curb and put his hands on his hips. He was dressed in black from cowboy boot toe to crown. He slapped his friend on the back. “Hey, Ronnie, let’s get us a calzone.”

Nigel heard the accent, spotted the white outline of Nova Scotia on the rear window of the pickup, then said just loud enough for his partner to hear, “East Coast cowboys.”

Lane shook his head as the pair sashayed their way up to Carlo’s truck. Ronnie reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a fifty and said, “Couple of calzones for me and Blair.”

The fifty disappeared; the massive hand reappeared with the change. Ronnie said, “Thanks, pardner.”

Nigel chuckled. “It’s fuckin’ ridiculous what people from the rest of the country think they know about this town.”

Lane smiled as he watched the East Coast cowboys stand with hands fisted on their hips. The cowboys kept checking to see who was watching.

“Lane!” A man appeared at the passenger door of the food truck. His hair was black, his face was angular and he filled the interior of the cab.

“How does that guy move around inside of that truck?” Nigel asked.

Lane shrugged, got up, walked to the open door, took the paper-wrapped calzones, thanked the man with biceps the size of cured hams and returned to the chess man. He handed one of the calzones to Nigel.

“You’re awfully quiet.” Nigel peeled back some of the paper until one tip of the calzone was accessible.

“Thinking.” Lane unwrapped the top half of his calzone and bit. The blend of flavours — spiced Calabrese salami, tangy tomato sauce and melted buffalo mozzarella wrapped in pita bread — wiped every other thought from his mind.

“This is amazing,” Nigel said between bites.

Lane took another bite. Less bread meant more of the meat and sauce combination intensified the experience.

“Partyinthemouth.” Nigel’s mouth was full and the words were garbled into something vaguely obscene.

“Who you talkin’ ’bout?” Ronnie the cowboy moved to stand over Nigel.

Lane looked at the anger in Ronnie’s face and saw that Blair had his friend’s back. Lane spotted the hearing aid in Ronnie’s ear. The detective set his sandwich down and swiveled to face the pair. He stood up and wiped his lips with a napkin, then held out his hands. “A misunderstanding.”

“I’m talkin’ to him.” Ronnie pointed at Nigel and moved closer.

This would be laughable under normal circumstances, Lane thought as he caught the stink of rye whiskey on Ronnie’s breath.

“Blair! These are yours!” Everyone within half a block turned as Carlo stepped off the truck with a calzone in each hand. He was six feet tall and three feet wide. His brown eyes were black with foreboding.

The man is built like a brick. Carlo dwarfed the pair of cowboys as he handed them their calzones. He lifted his chin. “Who’s driving?” He looked at Blair.

“I am.” Blair reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys.

“Good. See you next time.” Carlo watched them walk over to the truck and climb inside.

Carlo turned to Lane and Nigel. “Christy said you guys wanted to talk with me about Brett.”

“That’s right.” Lane slid over to one side of the bench so Carlo could sit down. Still, Carlo’s shoulder rubbed up against Lane’s.

The pickup started up. The trio turned as the supercharged diesel wheezed, the tires spun and Ronnie flipped them the bird out the rear window, his finger framed inside the white outline of Cape Breton.

“Fuckin’ guys wouldn’t know which end of a horse was which. All they’d be good at is fallin’ off.” Carlo waved as the truck farted black smoke, the rear wheels shuddered and the pair pulled away.

“These calzones are awesome.” Nigel held up his and smiled.

Carlo smiled back. “My grandmother taught me how to make them from scratch. From dough to sauce and everything in between.”

“You’re lucky,” Nigel said.

“I know. She saved my life. Then Brett killed her after he got nearly fifty-five thousand out of her bank account. I went to Cancun for a holiday. Brett told her I had been arrested in Mexico and needed money to get out of jail. The day I got back, my grandmother was found dead. They said it was heart failure, but it wasn’t. Brett was covering his tracks. It was just too much of a coincidence that she died when she did. She would have talked to me about him. He must have known it so he killed her and then moved on.”

“Do you know of any other seniors residences where he worked?” Nigel asked with thumbs at the ready to enter the information on his phone.

Carlo lifted his left hand and counted off fingers with his right. “The Point in Edgemont, Floral Gardens on the east side, Buena Vista in the south, Scenic Settings in the west.”

“Who did you talk with?” Lane asked.

“You gotta understand, most of the seniors homes are owned by an outfit down east. They’re tomato counters.” Carlo exhaled slowly.

“Tomato counters?” Nigel looked up from the keyboard on his cell phone.

“Some guy down east decides they’re spending too much on food so the residents are told they can have only one cherry tomato per salad.” Carlo made eye contact with Lane. “I have kitchen connections. They tell me how things work.”

Lane lifted his chin. “You said your grandmother saved your life.”

Carlo nodded. His neck was as wide as his head. “When I was sixteen I was hanging around with Brett and some of the FKs. My aunt’s cousin was the resource officer at the school. She told my grandmother. She took me out of school and put me to work at the restaurant for a year. I worked six days a week for ten months. Then she put me into Saint Francis where I could play football and the family could keep an eye on me.”

“The family?” Nigel asked.

“Francis has lots of Italians. My grandmother has some connections. They watched who I was hangin’ with. After high school, she sent me to university where I played some more football and got my master’s.”

Nigel opened his eyes and pointed. “You were drafted into the CFL.”

Carlo nodded.

“What was your major?” Lane asked.

“MBA.”

Nigel asked, “How come you never played in the CFL?”

“My grandmother had seen other guys from Francis go pro and they all got pretty banged up. One still has problems with concussions. She said I would do better with my own business.” He pointed at the truck. “She bought it for me. Her restaurant did well.”

“These other places where Brett worked, what did you find out?” Lane took a sip of coffee and another bite of calzone.

Carlo leaned his head to the right. “Brett would arrive — you have to understand these places are crying for qualified staff — and charm everyone. Then a handful of seniors would get real quiet, some of the staff would get suspicious, there would be a cluster of deaths, usually attributed to heart attacks, and afterward some of the families would show up asking about money missing from their parents’ bank accounts.”

“Did you get a line on anyone working with Brett?” Lane asked.

“There is a rumour . . .” Nigel began.

Lane looked at Nigel. Wait!

“I’m not talking about rumours. I’m talking about what I know. Are you guys serious about this case? I mean, are you going to arrest Brett and then back off or are you going to fuckin’ solve this case?”

Lane looked right at Carlo. “We want to solve the case.”

Carlo looked around to see if there was anyone within earshot. “One of the FKs has something on an MLA. There is a private member’s bill before the legislature. It would allow a company from the States to open a couple of seniors homes. A few of the FKs want to move to Cuba. The first part of their plan is to invest in this American company. Then they can go to Cuba and live off the profits from their investment. It’s like freedom thirty-five for gangbangers.”

“How come you’re telling us all of this?” Lane asked.

“Christy told me you were asking around and she told me what happened to her cousin. I figure that if you find Brett before I do, it’ll save you tracking me down for murder.”

Lane laughed even though he knew Carlo wasn’t joking. He lifted the calzone. “Just when I was starting to enjoy this. I want to be able to come back for more.”

Carlo slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. He reached into his pocket and handed Lane a card. “In case you need to get in touch.”

Lane pulled a card out of the inside of his jacket pocket with his left, took Carlo’s card with the index and forefinger of his right. Then he stood up and moved closer to the man. “If you hear where Brett is, then let me know right away. I want you to be able to go back to Moraine Lake whenever you want.”

Carlo studied the detective for several seconds. “You’re the first person who recognized my favourite spot. Used to go there with the family for barbecues. My grandmother really knew how to do pork ribs on a wood fire.”

“Call me first,” Lane said.

Carlo nodded, then walked back to the truck.

Walter watched the Blue Jays turn a double play. The shortstop scooped up a grounder and in one graceful motion flipped the ball to the second baseman, who tagged the base and leaped into the air to avoid the sliding runner. In midair, the second baseman threw the ball to first in time to beat the hitter. The runner slid face first into the base a tenth of a second too late. Walter lay in his bed and waited for the slow-motion replay. After yesterday’s shock, he needed to rest and recoup after lunch.

He looked over at Marvin, who was dying. They had a dove over his name outside the door. Every morning and evening the nurse would come to give Marvin a pain patch. Walter wondered if it was to make it easier for Marvin and his pain or easier for the staff because Marvin was more compliant when he was drugged. At least he’s not pissin’ all over the bathroom, Walter thought. Marvin’s Parkinson’s had caused him to piss more in the general direction of the toilet than in it. The guy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

He spotted the approaching spring-loaded clogs. It was one of the things he’d noticed about Brett. That and the royal-blue pants and shirt. No one else in the institution wore either those shoes with the springs in their heels or that shade of blue uniform. Walter let his upper eyelids drop eighty percent of the way to his cheeks and waited.

Brett entered the room, glanced at Walter and then the TV. He walked to the window near the empty bed. Walter knew that Marvin’s bed would soon be taken by someone new. His only hope was that the new guy’s aim was better.

Brett turned from the window and stood next to Walter. He saw the hand reach for his orange juice. When the glass reappeared it was a quarter full. Brett gave Walter a predatory tap on the shoulder. The old man concentrated on remaining still until Brett left the room.

Walter opened his eyes in time to see the Blue Jays’ centre fielder stretched out at the warning track. The ball disappeared into the centre of his mitt. Then he slid in the sand and rolled onto his back with the glove held up and the ball inside. Anticipation. That is the key. Anticipation, focus and patience, Walter thought.

The germ of a plan formed in his mind. He felt alive for the first time in months and hoped the feeling would last long enough for him to die feeling that way. He looked over at Marvin and saw the skeleton that once was a man. Someone who had gone to war, survived, come home, raised a family and worked for over forty years. A dog wouldn’t be allowed to suffer like this. Why treat Marvin worse than a dog?