The Detective Lane Casebook #1 Read online

  Queen’s

  PARK

  Queen’s

  PARK

  A Detective Lane Mystery

  GARRY RYAN

  © Copyright Garry Ryan 2004

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced,

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior

  consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In

  the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material,

  a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Ryan, Garry, 1953-

  Queen’s Park : a Detective Lane mystery / Garry Ryan.

  ISBN 1-896300-84-7

  I. Title. PS8635.Y35Q84 2004 C813’.6 C2004-903618-1

  Board editor: Douglas Barbour

  Author photograph:

  Cover photograph: Garry Ryan

  Cover design: Ruth Linka

  Interior design: Marijke Friesen

  NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the

  Arts and the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts

  Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial

  support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing

  Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

  NeWest Press

  201–8540–109 Street

  Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6

  (780) 432-9427

  www.newestpress.com

  1 2 3 4 5 07 06 05 04

  PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA

  For

  Sharon,

  Karma

  and

  Ben

  with love

  and

  gratitude

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I’m uneasy when 140 kilos up and disappears,” Lane said and glanced at the line in the downtown coffee shop. It stretched to the door. He took a grateful sip from his cappuccino.

  Lisa said, “Just started digging on this one. Where are you, anyway?”

  “Having a coffee,” Lane said and knew she’d be sitting at her desk. Her RCMP uniform would be ironed just right. Her blonde hair would be cut short with every hair in place. She would be sitting at attention. Ever since he’d known Lisa, she’d carried herself like a soldier. “The Swatsky case makes me feel like we’re always playing catch up. Something could be happening right now. If we’re lucky, we’ll find out about it in a month.”

  “That’s one reason why we keep in touch. Gives us a chance to catch up. What’s your next step?” Lisa said.

  “Think I’ll see the grandmother. She was in the house when it happened,” Lane said.

  “What about the boy?” Lisa said.

  “Hard to say. Only he knows how much he can remember.

  After what happened, the kid has to be in shock or denial.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Ernie,” Lane said.

  “That’s right. I’ll keep you posted. We still on for Tuesday?” Lisa said.

  “Yep. Loraine coming?”

  “She wouldn’t miss it. Loraine always likes an opportunity to analyze. She’s says you’re enigmatic.”

  “Arthur can help her with her analysis while you and I talk shop,” Lane said.

  “See you then,” Lisa said and hung up.

  “Calgary 62 kilometers,” Marvin said.

  “Oh shit, do you have to read every god damned sign along the highway?” Lester said.

  “How’d you get the gun?” Marvin said while reaching down the front of his pants.

  “Would you quit playin’ with yourself?” Lester said.

  “Gettin’ hot in here.” Marvin eased his balls up and away from thick thighs.

  “Ahh,” Marvin pulled one hand out and aimed the vent between his legs. “How’d you get the gun?”

  “Freddy.” A semi passed them on the left. It pushed a wave of air into their lane. Lester gripped the wheel tighter.

  “Freddy who?” Marvin said.

  “Freddy whose wife left him. She wanted alimony. I took the rifle out one night. Put a bullet through her kitchen window. The old lady got the message. Saved Freddy some money and he brought a Smith and Wesson 9 mm Sigma back from the States.” He patted the holster under his left arm.

  “Let me see,” Marvin said.

  “No way.”

  “How come?” Marvin lifted his knees and rested them against the dash.

  “You’re so stupid, you’ll shoot a hole in something.”

  “Not stupid enough to trust Bob,” Marvin said.

  “I had to sign those papers!”

  “For half, right?” Marvin said.

  “That’s right. Half a million.”

  “Your name’s on all the documents. The newspapers say Bob stole over three million. Half of three million is not $500,000.”

  Lester lifted his sports jackets to reveal the butt of the pistol. “Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson will help us find Bob.”

  “If the cops can’t find him, what makes you think we can?”

  “Think,” Lester tapped his temple. “Mom always said you were a few bricks short of a load. The last place he was seen was the old lady’s. Papers make it sound like Bob disappeared after screwin’ golden boy.”

  “Golden boy?”

  “The old lady’s favourite grandchild. Judy was always pissed because golden boy got the best of everything,” Lester said.

  “So, what do we need the old lady for?”

  “Think! Judy’s gone. Bob’s disappeared. The old lady’s still there. We go talk to her and the kid. See what we can find out.”

  “She’s not gonna talk to us,” Marvin said.

  “She won’t have a choice when I shove a gun into golden boy’s mouth!”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Whose name, you stupid son of a bitch?”

  “Golden boy’s,” Marvin said.

  “Ernie.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “He calls it his mate,” Ernie dropped into the swiveling recliner facing the fireplace.

  “I don’t know how you can ride in the back seat with that doll in the front.” Nanny took a quick gulp of oxygen. Her face was a geological map of a life in shades of cookie dough.

  She lifted the clear plastic oxygen tubing over silver hair and dropped it. The tube left grooves in the flesh on her face.

  “Nanny . . . ” Ernie said.

  She reached for the pack of menthols. Curling her hand around the lighter, she flicked the wheel. With the cigarette between two hooked fingers, she lit and inhaled. Her eyes widened as the nicotine fille
d what remained of her lungs. “I think it’s sick paying $6,000 for a doll.” Her voice was a rasp on oak, tearing away at each word. “He’s got better things to spend his money on.”

  Ernie rubbed his palms on denim. “Says she never talks back, never tells him how to drive and doesn’t say anything when he picks his nose.”

  “He should put some clothes on her if he’s gonna take her wherever he goes.” Nanny took a pull on the cigarette.

  He picked a dog hair from his black T-shirt. “Says she understands his problems.”

  “Sick old bastard! Why do you have to tell me all of this?”

  “Because you always ask.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs.

  “Heard the news about your Uncle?” She pronounced the ‘your’ as if Bob Swatsky was Ernie’s fault.

  He rubbed the bruise on his left cheek and wondered how long it would take to fade.

  “Police found your Uncle Bob’s car and they’re still looking for the money.” Nanny nodded in the direction of the TV. MUTE was written across the bottom of a man’s belly. The man on the screen bit into a hot dog dripping ketchup, onions and mustard. He smiled and chewed while gripping the bun with thick fingers.

  Ernie’s eyes slid out of focus as the flashback filled his mind. Uncle Bob’s sausage fingers gripped Ernie high on the thigh. Then, fingers pulled at Ernie’s belt. A knife blade ran across the bridge of Ernie’s nose. The smell of onions on Bob’s breath. Ernie focused on the open collar of his Uncle’s white shirt and the hollow at his throat. Ernie’s free right hand automatically crossed forefinger over index; the way he’d been trained to do it in karate. He pulled his elbow back. A roll of flesh sagged beneath Bob’s chin.

  “On your knees,” Bob said.

  Ernie struck. Both fingertips disappeared into the flesh at the base of Bob’s throat. Bob gurgled and dropped the knife, put his hands to his throat and fell forward. His suffocating weight fell on top of Ernie. Bob’s chin struck the boy on the cheek. His head hit the oak floor.

  Ernie heard Scout whimpering.

  He looked right. The scratches on the glass sliding door were nearly a half a meter long. Behind them sat his dog with her rear legs to one side and front paws trembling to hold the pose. She whimpered some more. Second hand smoke caught at the back of his throat.

  “Aren’t you going to let her in?” Nanny said.

  He stood. Grabbing the handle of the door, he looked down and saw the dog’s tail sweeping the deck. He opened the glass. Scout jumped up. “Down!” he said. He pushed Scout back across the deck and sat in a white plastic chair.

  Scout sat next to him, lifting her chin so Ernie could scratch her throat. The dog’s ears were miniature sails. They turned to catch the sound of the gate squeaking open. A growl grew in her throat. “Hey,” Ernie said and stood. The hair on the back of the dog’s neck lifted. He caught the sound of heavy footsteps on the sidewalk. His heart pounded. He looked left, ready to escape into the house. His hand reached for the handle of the screen. His nostrils filled with the stench of fear, onions and sweat.

  “Hello there, Scout.” The voice was friendly and commanding.

  Scout backed up. A hand appeared, followed by the sleeve of a tweed sports jacket and the face of Detective Lane. His short hair was thinning on top. “Hi Ernie,” he said. His knees crackled when he crouched to offer his open palm to the dog. She moved forward to sniff his clothing. He smiled at Ernie and said, “I guess she smells my dog.”

  Ernie reached for the sides of his chair, his legs like rubber.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Ernie wondered how the detective noticed so much while looking at Scout.

  The detective’s eyes were dark brown. “Got some questions for your Grandmother.”

  “Nanny, Detective Lane is here,” Ernie said.

  “What the hell does he want?”

  Lane smiled broadly and walked towards the doorway. Another five centimeters in height and he would have to duck. Ernie spotted Lane’s missing earlobe. “What happened?” He pointed a finger at the mangled ear.

  Lane turned and lifted his left hand to the side of his head. “This? Domestic dispute.” He pointed to the scratches on the glass door. “What happened here?”

  “Scout . . . ” Ernie said. The dog trotted over. “When Bob came after me, she tried to get in.”

  “YOU WANNA TALK OR NOT?” Nanny’s voice was an engine without a muffler.

  “Hello Leona,” Lane said and slid open the screen door.

  Its wheels squealed as he closed it.

  Scout dragged a paw across Ernie’s knee. She rolled and he leaned to scratch the fur along her belly. “How come no one wants to ask me what happened?”

  Inside, Lane sat down on the black slate ledge at the mouth of the fireplace. For a little over two seconds, his eyes took in the flat plastic container with a separate compartment for each day’s medication. Kleenex, cigarettes and lighters were scattered across the coffee table. He noted Leona seemed to be shrinking inside her blue jogging suit and wondered if she noticed how frantic Ernie was. The boy had a magazine cover Latino face. Ernie’s beauty was a terrible gift, Lane decided.

  Nanny blew smoke over the table top.

  Lane studied the plastic tube at her feet. An oxygen machine hummed.

  “Haven’t blown up yet,” Nanny wheezed.

  “Can’t imagine it would be a pleasant experience for Ernie.”

  “Leave him out of it.” A clot of phlegm appeared on Leona’s top lip and got caught in the mustache.

  “I wasn’t aware he was involved.”

  “He’s done nothing.”

  “Didn’t say he had.”

  Leona took a short sniff of oxygen, gathering herself, “Then, why are you here?”

  “We can’t find your son-in-law.” Lane leaned forward now, putting his palms on the knees of his grey slacks.

  “Bob’ll turn up. Always does.”

  Lane considered the anger and regret woven into her reply. “Sounds like you wish he wouldn’t.”

  “After what Bob’s done to my family, why would I want him back?” The end of her cigarette glowed.

  Lane leaned closer, “What did he do, exactly?”

  Leona looked at him for a moment, considered the last quarter of the cigarette. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Ernie and began a personal litany of painful memories. “My daughter, Judy, was 18 when she met Bob.” She pointed an arthritic finger at Lane. Her voice rose in volume as emotion elbowed its way in between the words. She stabbed the filter tip into the ash tray. “We had our store then. Macleod’s Hardware. It was our dream to own our own store. Saved for 15 years. The dream lasted three.” She leaned forward to put the oxygen tube back on. “Judy met Bob in grade 12. Did you know she had a bad leg?”

  “No.”

  “She did. God, that kid was always fighting. Her legs never seemed to work right and the kids used to pick on her somethin’ terrible. Judy never had a boyfriend till Bob came along. I tried to tell her he was no good for her but . . . ” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, “Couldn’t tell her a thing. She ran away three times. Bob would hang around the store with his big, tough friends, Lester and Marvin. They’d sit in the back of a pickup and just stare. We even had a break-in. Knew it was them but the RCMP couldn’t prove a thing. Then the rumours started.”

  “Rumours?”

  “Someone started the rumour we were cheating our customers and that’s how come our daughter ran away. Business dropped off to nothin’. You ever lived in a small town?”

  “No.”

  “We had to sell. Judy kept comin’ back to the school to see Beth. She was only 13 then. Kept it all to herself. Tore Beth up inside. She gained 40 pounds in six months. All because of the upset. I was sick by that time. Ended up in the hospital and in bed for a month. Beth had to take care of me and do all the housework. The doctor told Beth if she ever ran away like Judy did, it’d kill me.”

  Cha
ir legs scraped over wood. Lane glanced to his left. Ernie was standing.

  “Don’t know what I woulda done without her,” Nanny said.

  Lane watched as Ernie looked at his grandmother. The detective saw rage and wondered what was behind the boy’s anger. Ernie jammed his feet into running shoes and grabbed the blue leash off the white table. Scout’s tail wagged.

  “Are you listenin’?” Leona said.

  Lane nodded.

  “What did I say, then?”

  “You don’t know what you would have done without Beth.”

  Leona’s eyes held him for a minute—a silent challenge. “Didn’t see my Judy for five years after that. Not until her baby was born. The visit lasted 15 minutes before we started to fight. You know, if my brother was still alive he would have been able to help. Got killed in the war, though. Italy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lane said automatically and wondered where Ernie went when he was angry.

  “After that, every time we got together with Judy I’d get in a fight with her or Bob would say somethin’ to get me goin’.”

  “So, you wanted him dead?” He locked onto Leona’s pupils, waiting for her reaction.

  She stared back at him without blinking, took a gulp of air and wheezed, “You bet.” She took another gulp of air, “Thought you said he disappeared.”

  “Do you know where Bob Swatsky is?”

  “I’d bet he’s crawled into a hole someplace.” She reached for her cigarettes.

  Lane noticed a slight dilation of the pupils but it wasn’t enough to make him sure she was lying.

  “Doesn’t she piss you off when she does that?” Ernie said to Scout.

  She licked her lips and wagged her tail.

  The leash bit into Ernie’s hand, “Slow down!” He pulled and she faced him, tongue hanging. Her saliva evaporated when it hit the concrete. “Doesn’t she piss you off?”

  Scout sat, head tipped to one side, both front paws on the ground, one rear leg cocked under her rump, the other held out like an outrigger. Her tail swept the cement.

  “I mean, Nanny tells the same story over and over. Makes me want to scream!”