MONDAY, AUGUST 8
Robert Rowe walked south along a barbwire fence line. He turned his brown eyes east when he heard a train whistle. The locomotive thundered and the trailing cars rattled along the track. He reached into the shirt pocket of the khaki-coloured canvas shirt he’d stolen from a clothesline in Olds, the first town south of the Bowden Correctional Institution. He’d escaped from prison the day before. He pulled out a carrot he’d liberated from the garden in the same backyard as the shirt. The shirt was a little large for his five-foot-ten, onehundred-seventy-pound frame, but he figured it was better than too small.
He looked down at the jeans and black leather jacket that were a better fit. He’d pulled them out from behind the seat of a pickup truck. The unlocked truck had been parked near a hotel bar in Olds. He wore a black D&M Align and Brake ball cap he’d found out behind a tire shop. Robert figured he could blend in with anyone he’d be likely to bump into on the way south.
He pulled a magazine article from his other shirt pocket. It showed Kev Moreau at his downtown restaurant in Calgary. I’ll stay away from the roads, Robert thought, keep the railway on my left and make it to Kev’s Calgary restaurant in four or five days.
Lori stood at the open door to Lane and Keely’s office as she said, “The secretary at that high school called back and she has three yearbooks for you. She doesn’t remember Kev Moreau, but she’s going to ask around to find out who might be able to talk with you. She told me it might be difficult because only one of the teachers has dropped by to get things ready for the fall.” She crossed her arms, then crossed one ankle over the other and leaned against the door jam.
Lane stood up from behind his computer and reached for his jacket.
Keely grabbed for her cup. “Guess that means we’re on the move.”
Lori flipped her blonde hair. “Did you notice?”
Lane looked at her pink jacket, white blouse, floral skirt and red pumps. “You look great.”
“Love the shoes,” Keely said.
“For a pair of trained observers, you two leave a lot to be desired.” Lori turned her back on them as she walked to her desk.
“The new hairstyle suits you,” Lane said through the door and followed Lori, who was nearing her desk.
Lori turned. “Too late.” She smiled, sat down at her computer and laughed as they trooped past her.
Five minutes later, Lane held Keely’s coffee as she did up her seat belt. She grabbed her keys and started the engine. Once they were rolling west along Sixth Avenue, she reached for her coffee.
Lane looked out the window at people walking along the sidewalk. A mother pushed a stroller. A senior sat on a concrete wall. A teen on a skateboard weaved around pedestrians while she swayed to music from her earbuds.
“You’re quiet this morning,” Keely said.
“This investigation could get very messy.”
“Could you be a little more specific?” Keely guided the car under the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
“Zander Rowe is dead. Birch is dead. Once we get closer to the killer, the violence could get even worse.” Lane looked out across the river.
Keely accelerated. “You offering me an out?” She tucked the empty coffee cup between her seat and the console.
“You really should consider it.”
“What about you?”
Lane shrugged. “I’m in. Once I get the smell of death in my nostrils, there’s no turning back.”
Now is not the time to tell him, she thought.
Fifteen minutes of silence passed before they reached the high school nestled in the valley of the Bow River. Keely parked in front of the main doors.
Lane followed Keely inside to the mezzanine where they turned right. A pair of janitors turned to watch as the detectives opened the door to the office and stepped inside.
A secretary had her back to them as they walked in. She turned and spotted the detectives. “I’m the only one in the office today. What can I do for you?”
Lane said, “We’re from Calgary Police Services.”
“You’re here for the yearbooks, right?” She pointed at an overlarge manila envelope sitting on the counter.
“Yes, please.” Lane took the envelope. “Anyone we could talk with if we have any questions?”
“I asked around.” The secretary pointed a manicured nail at a name and phone number written on the envelope. “She taught English here for many years. She might be able to answer some of them.”
Lane dialed the teacher’s phone number after they got inside the Chev.
“Yep,” a woman said.
“Roberta King?” Lane asked.
“That’s right.”
“Detective Lane. I’d like to talk with you about some of your former students.”
“Which ones?”
“Kev Moreau and Lionel Birch,” Lane said.
“Birch is dead.”
“Yes,” Lane said, “I know.”
“When do you want to meet?” she asked.
Lane decided to adopt her abrupt style. “Now.”
“I live just down the hill from the Foothills Medical Centre. Can you be here in ten minutes?” Roberta’s voice had the raspy sound of bourbon and tobacco.
“Yes.”
“Good, I’ll put the coffee on.” She gave Lane the address and hung up.
Eight minutes later, Keely and Lane stood on Roberta’s doorstep. It was a two-storey house set into the hillside sloping down from the Foothills Medical Centre to the river. They knocked on a varnished wooden door decorated with hand-carved leaves.
The door swung open.
A black, white and tan dog greeted them. It appeared to weigh more than one hundred pounds. One ear stood straight up and the other flopped like a combover.
“Come in. Wally won’t bother you.” Roberta stood behind Wally, facing them. She was silver haired, somewhere between sixty and eighty, and stood at least as tall as Lane’s six feet. Roberta turned around and walked toward the kitchen. Her clothes fit loosely and a belt held up her white slacks. “Close the door behind you.”
They followed her inside. Lane heard Keely close the door.
Wally led the way into the kitchen where Roberta was pouring coffee into three cups. Sunlight poured into the kitchen through French doors that looked across the river valley.
“Quite the view,” Keely said.
Roberta sat at the head of the table and sipped her black coffee. She pushed at her hair. Wally flopped down with a sigh. “We’re interrupting his walk.”
In other words, let’s get down to business, Lane thought before he asked, “What can you tell us about Kev Moreau, Lionel Birch and any of the other members of Moreau’s social group?” He picked a coffee, added cream and sugar, and stirred. Keely poured milk and spooned sugar into her own cup.
Roberta looked through the detectives and into the past before saying, “Moreau was a real charmer. Good-looking kid. Even I was fooled by him for a time. Caught him cheating on a paper once. He smiled at me. Polite as anything, he asked if he could rewrite the paper, even if it wasn’t for marks, and then he left. After school I went out to my car and all four tires were flat.”
“Moreau did it?” Keely asked.
Roberta nodded. “Couldn’t prove it, but it was him. It was a pattern repeated several times over a couple of years. One of the girls disagreed with him in one of my classes. She had a car.”
“Four flat tires?” Keely asked.
“Yep. A few of the kids also told me that he was behind the drug sales in the school. Had the market cornered. He never got caught but it was common knowledge.” She glanced at the dog, who harrumphed with his chin on the floor. “Don’t you worry. You’ll get your walk, Wally.”
“Do you have any recollection of the time when Zander Rowe disappeared?” Lane asked. Roberta focused on him. “Moreau was in on that?”
“We’re looking into all possibilities,” Lane said.
She smiled. “It’s more than a possibility or you wouldn’t be here. Just like it was more than a possibility that he supplied the drugs, cut my tires and burned down my garage.”
“He burned down your garage?” Keely asked.
Roberta looked at each of them in turn. “I caught him cheating a second time. The garage burned the next day with my car inside.” Roberta looked through the French doors at the river valley. “Again, I couldn’t prove anything, but he let me know it was him.”
“How?” Keely asked.
“He’d look at you a certain way. Smile at you a certain way. You just knew.”
“Do you remember any other people besides Lionel Birch who were close to Moreau?” Keely asked.
“There weren’t many who didn’t try to get along with Moreau. The kids knew, the teachers knew that if you crossed him it would cost you. His buddy was Stan Pike. One of those lost kids who latch onto someone like Moreau,” Roberta said.
“After we take a look at the yearbooks, could we come back and ask a few more questions if we need to?” Lane put his business card on the table.
“Better hurry up if you’ve got more questions to ask. I’ve got cancer. Terminal. The doctor gave me six months. That was three months ago.” Roberta stood up, followed by Wally. “The worst part isn’t losing your hair. It’s this damned wig. It’s hot and itchy.” She took the wig off, revealed a smooth scalp and donned a black ball cap.
After Lane and Keely got back in the Chev, Keely asked, “What was that all about? The whole cancer thing was kind of odd. She was so casual about it.”
Lane watched Wally pull Roberta down the hill. “I think she was telling us that Moreau can’t get to her anymore. That the cancer has freed her of her fear of him. Or she doesn’t care what anyone thinks anymore and just says whatever is on her mind.”
Keely started the engine. “You really think that she’s telling us she’s no longer afraid?”
“It’s the most likely conclusion. Cancer changes the way you look at life.”
“There is another possibility, you know,” Keely said.
Lane put on his seat belt. “What’s that?”
“She called Moreau on cheating again after he cut her tires. She must have known he would retaliate.”
Lane studied his partner. “That’s true.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like people who mess with her. And maybe Moreau is a bit of unfinished business as far as Roberta is concerned.”
Lane nodded. “You may have a point. People often have more than one motive. Let’s get back and check out some of the names and faces in the yearbooks. Then we can ask her about any unfinished business.”
“I thought you had the day off,” Mary said to Russell as she sat next to Joshua in their kitchen. Their son was wearing most of his rice cereal. She used the spoon to take some of the white from his lips, chin and nose. He reached for the bowl. She pulled it out of his reach.
“Pike called and said we’re short staffed.” Russell pulled on his jacket, then put his hand on Mary’s shoulder.
“Pike doesn’t make a move without checking with Kev first.” Mary shook her head.
“Kev bought this house for us.” Russell caressed Joshua’s head and turned to leave.
“And you worked for it. It was supposed to be a reward for your hard work and talent.”
“So?” Russell pulled his hand away from his son.
“How come we have no mortgage but you keep having to pay Kev back?”
“He’s my boss.”
“It’s more than that and you know it.” Mary went back to feeding her son. “Kev may own you, but he doesn’t own me.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“He owns you. He uses you. He thinks you’re bought and paid for.” Mary looked in Russell’s direction, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“You’re being ridiculous.” Russell’s back was stiff with rage as he walked toward the garage door.
Mary shook her head. “You’re forgetting what you say in your dreams.”
Russell stopped but didn’t turn, opened the door to the garage and said, “I haven’t forgotten.”
The door closed behind him.
“Kev Moreau won’t own my son,” Mary said. Joshua waved his arms, stuck his lips together and blew. A gob of pabulum landed on the right breast of her T-shirt.
She thought about the day Kev had picked them up and drove them to this house. Moreau was all smiles, saying things like, “It’s about time you had a place of your own. The restaurants are doing well because Russell is such a talented chef. I’ve designed this house with the two of you in mind.”
Then there were the eyes of the contractor when Kev pulled out a thick envelope of cash and told everyone within earshot how he was rewarding the loyalty of a long-time employee and talented chef.
Mary remembered how she felt obliged to smile even though she realized — at that moment — she was being bought along with the house.
Calgary Builder Wins Two Awards
Moreau Homes won two awards at the annual Calgary Home Builders’ Association gala yesterday evening. Kev Moreau, CEO of Moreau Homes and local restaurant owner, was there to bask in the spotlight that shone on him instead of more established builders.
What’s a successful restaurateur doing designing and building houses? That’s the question any buyer might ask when looking for a home built by Moreau.
The answer will be found at the three Morningside show homes in the city’s southwest. “We’re relatively new to the game. We design homes that are meant to stand out. Homes that people want to own. In particular, we are targeting home owners who want something a bit out of the ordinary without paying a premium price,” Moreau explained after accepting the awards for Best New Design and for Initial Quality.
Kev Moreau stands out in his tailor-made Italian suit and piercing green eyes. And his homes are as unique as he is. Moreau is integrally involved in every aspect of construction and design. He explains, “I was very involved. I was part of the process from conception to the completion of the finished product. Had I been afforded better educational opportunities, I might have been an architect or designer.”
When asked about his future plans for development he says, “We’re working on a few designs in the area of town where I grew up. It’s part of a community revitalization project I’ve been involved in for the past few years. I’ve done quite well for myself and it’s time for me to give back.”
“See anyone you recognize?” Keely sat at her desk leafing through one of the yearbooks.
“Robert Rowe, brother of Zander Rowe.” Lane held up the yearbook so that she could see a photo. “Here’s Lionel Birch, Kev Moreau, Stan Pike.”
“I’m going to start running names and see who’s still alive.” Keely reached for her mouse.
“There has to be some kind of connection here. Someone who knows what happened ten years ago.” Lane stuck a sticky note next to Lionel Birch’s face.
“But will anyone talk?” Keely stared at her screen and typed in the first name.
“There has to be someone willing to tell us what happened. Finding that person is the problem.”
“Are you going to have any money left in a week?” Christine asked. She sat across from Matt and next to Daniel at the food court in the mall. She used a plastic fork to spear the last tomato in her Greek salad.
A toddler pushed his stroller past them. He was followed by the ordure of dirty diaper and his mother calling, “Come back here!”
Daniel — seemingly unaffected by the stink — demolished his second burger.
Matt pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. It was white and the latest model.
“Thin as a cracker,” Daniel said between bites.
“What did you call Matt?” Christine’s face turned red.
“The phone is nicknamed a ‘cracker.’ He’s not calling me one.” Matt gripped the phone between thumb and forefinger. “It’s thin and fits almost anywhere.”
“How much?” Christine asked.
“None of your business.” Matt focused on his fries.
“You just bought that fancy goalie mask and now the new phone. Do you have anything left of your paycheque?” Christine asked.
“Since when did you become my accountant? I thought Uncle Arthur was the only one in the family.” Matt glared at her.
“I just want to see you save some money.” Christine looked to Daniel for support.
Daniel tried to talk, but his mouth was full.
“Since we’re talking about putting money away, how much of each paycheque do you save?” Matt demanded.
Daniel choked.
“That’s not the point.” Christine patted her boyfriend on the back.
“God, you’re annoying when you get like this,” Matt said.
“Like what?” Christine looked at Daniel, who was red in the face and pointing at her. “What?”
Daniel wheezed. “You just told me you were broke, and you got paid last week.”
“Shut up!” Christine smiled as she punched him in the arm.
Matt shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m not the one who thinks a new mask makes him an NHL goalie.” Christine pretended to be looking for someone in the crowd.
Daniel shook his head, took a long breath and rolled his eyes.
Matt’s face turned red. “You always have to get the last word in, don’t you?”
Christine said, “You bet!”
Daniel stood up. “Will you two shut the fuck up?”
Christine’s mouth dropped open.
Matt leaned back in his seat.
Daniel rolled the burger wrappers up in a ball, stood up and pointed at Matt. “You did spend a lot of money on the phone and mask.” Then he pointed at Christine. “And you blew your paycheque. Get over it!”
Robert Rowe was south of Didsbury and estimated he was about forty kilometres north of Calgary when he found the garden.
It was half an acre of potatoes, peas, cucumbers, carrots and raspberries. The garden was next to seven round galvanized steel granaries and a long-necked grain auger.
He gathered a few potatoes, carrots and peas, and then sat on shady side of a granary. After rubbing the vegetables clean on the thighs of his jeans, he bit into a carrot and felt his dry mouth fill with juice. Then he took his time shelling the peas and popping them into his mouth.
“Don’t worry, Zander, I haven’t forgotten about you. I’m just taking a bit of a rest. I’ll be on my way after I dig into those fresh raspberries. You loved raspberries. Remember?” Robert looked south.
Lane rubbed his eyes. Then he used the cool base of his beer glass to cool his eyelids. He sat on the deck, sipping suds and watching Roz as she chewed on a rawhide bone.
We have at least two hundred people from Moreau’s high school to check out. How can we narrow down the list?
Roz lifted her head. Her ears pointed toward the neighbour’s house.
Christine, Matt and Daniel are out for the afternoon. Arthur is having a nap. Enjoy the quiet. He closed his eyes.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice interrupted.
Lane opened his eyes. A petite woman stood on the other side of the chain-link fence running between their houses. She was wearing black high heels, black stockings, red panties, a red bra and strawberry-blonde hair.
Lane closed his eyes. You picked the wrong guy to get dressed up for, sister.
“Hi. I’m your new neighbour, and I’ve locked myself out of the house.”
Lane looked at Roz. Instead of barking, the dog cocked her head sideways and looked at Lane.
The woman continued. “I just slipped out the back door to put the garbage out. I’m cooking a special dinner. It’s our anniversary. We just moved into the house. The back door swung closed. We haven’t had time to introduce ourselves, and I . . .”
Lane shook his head and remembered his manners. “I’ll get you a housecoat.”
“And a phone, please. I need to call my husband. He has a house key.” She crossed her arms to cover her breasts.
Lane opened the back door, went inside to get a phone and returned, handing the phone through the fence to the woman.
She took the phone. “Thanks.” She dialed, fluttered black eyelashes and glanced at Lane. “My name is Maria.”
“Mine’s Lane.” Then he went inside and upstairs to rifle through the closet, where he looked for, and found, a white housecoat.
“Lane? Is there someone here?” Arthur rolled off of the bed and stood up.
“It’s our new neighbour. She just needed to use the phone. It’s okay.” Lane went downstairs with the housecoat. He opened the back door.
“Yes, right now! I’ve got supper on the stove!” The woman used her thumb to end the conversation and then held the phone out to Lane.
Lane opened the gate, walked across to Maria’s gate, handed her the housecoat and took the phone.
He turned and walked back to his deck. When he looked back at her, she had the housecoat on and was looking up at her kitchen window. She looked at him. “Do you hear that?”
Lane heard the sound of an oven timer. “Yes.”
“My husband won’t be here for half an hour.” She stared at the window as if expecting smoke to start billowing out of her kitchen. “This is a disaster.”
Lane thought, Don’t get involved!
She turned to him. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve embarrassed you. Thank you for the phone.”
“Not necessarily.” Oh shit, here we go, getting involved in a neighbour’s life. It always gets messy. Remember what happened last time? You ended up with your house burning down.
“Pardon?”
“Not necessarily a disaster.”
The woman lifted her eyebrows and stared back at him with a question on her lips.
“I’m a detective with the city police service. I know how to break into your house.”
The woman pursed her lips, considering her options.
Lane waited.
She looked up at her window. She looked back at Lane. “How long?”
“Sorry?”
“How long will it take?”
Arthur stepped out the back door, approached the fence and said, “Hello, I’m Arthur.” He held out his hand as if meeting a new neighbour in her housecoat happened every day.
“Maria.” She moved to the open gate to shake Arthur’s hand.
“Not long. I’ll get a bar.” Lane stepped inside, went down to the basement and returned a few minutes later with a metal crowbar. By then, Arthur and the woman sat across from one another at the deck table, sipping coffees. Arthur winked at Lane. “You should always offer a guest a drink.”
Lane looked at the crowbar. “The back door will probably open easier because you didn’t set the deadbolt.”
The woman stood and offered her hand. The sleeve of the housecoat was rolled up to her elbow. “Thank you, Lane.”
He shook her hand and noted that her fingernails were painted red. “You’re welcome.”
By the time that Lane was able to work Maria’s back door open, the smoke detector was screaming. “It’s open!”
He waited for Maria who said, “Come on in.”
Lane and Arthur followed her through the family room and up the stairs to the kitchen.
She removed a smoking pot of burnt chocolate from the stove.
Lane and Arthur opened the windows.
“Shit! It’s ruined. He loves chocolate-dipped strawberries.”
Lane looked at her through the clearing smoke.
Arthur handed her a tissue. “What’s in the oven?”
“Lasagna.”
Lane opened another window.
“Is it okay?” Arthur asked.
Maria dabbed mascara from her cheeks and then opened the oven. “It looks fine.”
“Lane, go to our house.” Arthur dictated a list that included cream and chocolate.
Twenty-five minutes later, the candles were lit, the table was set, Maria had reapplied her makeup and the smoke had cleared. Fresh bread, chocolate-dipped strawberries and a bottle of red wine were strategically positioned at the table. Lane and Arthur were back in their kitchen.
Arthur asked, “What was she wearing under the housecoat?”
Lane told him.
Arthur began to laugh. In a neglected cubbyhole in Lane’s mind, an idea germinated.