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  Garry Ryan

  MALABARISTA

  A Detective Lane Mystery

  NEWEST PRESS

  COPYRIGHT © GARRY RYAN 2011

  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

  Malabarista : a detective Lane mystery / Garry Ryan.

  ISBN 978-1-897126-89-9

  I. Title.

  PS8635.Y354M35 2011 C813’.6 C2011-901968-X

  Editor for the Board: Doug Barbour

  Cover and interior design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

  Author photo: Karma Ryan

  Copyediting: NJ Brown and Paul Matwychuk

  NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

  #201, 8540109 Street

  Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6

  780.432.9427

  www.newestpress.com

  No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

  printed and bound in Canada 1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11

  FOR JIM

  AND MARYANNE

  Ordinary riches can be stolen from a man. Real riches cannot. In the treasury-house of your soul, there are infinitely precious things, that cannot be taken from you.

  OSCAR WILDE,

  “The Soul of Man Under Socialism”

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15

  CHAPTER 2: THURSDAY, AUGUST 16

  CHAPTER 3: FRIDAY, AUGUST 17

  CHAPTER 4: SATURDAY, AUGUST 18

  CHAPTER 5: SUNDAY, AUGUST 19

  CHAPTER 6: MONDAY, AUGUST 20

  CHAPTER 7: TUESDAY, AUGUST 21

  CHAPTER 8: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 22

  CHAPTER 9: THURSDAY, AUGUST 23

  CHAPTER 10: FRIDAY, AUGUST 24

  CHAPTER 11: SATURDAY, AUGUST 25

  CHAPTER 12: SUNDAY, AUGUST 26

  CHAPTER 13: MONDAY, AUGUST 27

  CHAPTER 14: TUESDAY, AUGUST 28

  CHAPTER 15: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 29

  CHAPTER 16: THURSDAY, AUGUST 30

  CHAPTER 17: FRIDAY, AUGUST 31

  CHAPTER 18: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1

  CHAPTER 19: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 2

  CHAPTER 20: TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

  CHAPTER 21: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

  CHAPTER 22: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7

  CHAPTER 23: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15

  chapter 1

  “This is the only way the two of you can stay in touch. Glenn passes Cam’s message to me, and I pass it on to you. Since Cam’s the one heading up the investigation into the charges against you, he has to keep his distance until it’s done.” Matt pulled on the leash, as Roz, their Australian cattle dog, dragged him along on their walk.

  Lane had to move quickly to keep up to Matt, who appeared to be about to fall after each awkward step. They turned off the sidewalk and down a trail just wide enough for them to travel single file. Matt bent to let Roz off the leash. She lunged ahead.

  The air was cooler in the shadow of the trees. Lane grabbed a mosquito out of the air and crushed it in his fist.

  “Do you miss Harper?” Matt stopped in a clearing to sit on a toppled tree trunk. He rubbed his beard: a first attempt. It was black, the same shade as what was left of the hair on his Uncle Arthur’s head.

  Lane sat down next to him. “Yes.”

  “Glenn said that his uncle is pissed about Chief Smoke demanding an investigation of the lost Glock, but can’t do anything about it. Yet. Glenn told me to make sure I remembered to say ‘yet’ with lots of irony. And he wanted you to know that Smoke is trying to do a number on both of you after your last case embarrassed him. Smoke wants Harper to look like he’s turning on his old partner.” Matt turned to study his uncle’s reaction.

  McTavish warned me to watch my back, Lane thought.

  “He also said that Harper will do the investigation by the book,” Matt said.

  Of course, Lane thought as he looked down the trail. Roz came galloping back to see what was holding them up. You can trust Cam Harper. You trusted him with your life. Being investigated could turn out to be a stroke of luck, if you can survive all of the crap in between. “Leaving the Glock behind was a show of faith.”

  “What do you mean?” Matt asked.

  “We all put our guns down as a show of faith. We were all putting our weapons into a pile to be destroyed. It was the only way to put an end to the killings.” Lane watched as Roz backed up with her tail tucked under her belly. She sat between them and looked back the way she’d come.

  “Do you think Uncle Arthur’s biopsy will be okay?” Matt asked.

  Lane looked at his nephew and saw the worry in the lines across his forehead. Lane tried to smile but found he couldn’t. How do I explain this nagging sense of foreboding?

  They heard the bark of another dog as it crashed into the clearing. The black fur at the back of its neck stood up like it was gelled. The dog was at least twice the size of Roz. Its head was low with its muzzle brushing the ground as it glared at her.

  “Back off!” Matt said.

  “She’s friendly.” A man entered the clearing. He was dressed for golf. His grey hair was cut close and his face was clean-shaven. The dog’s leash was looped around his neck. “Isn’t that right, Chief?”

  Chief moved closer to Roz and growled. Lane grabbed Roz’s collar. “Put Chief on his leash.”

  “Chief’s friendly.” The dog’s owner sounded offended.

  Chief moved closer. He growled and bared his teeth. Roz backed up. Chief lunged, snarling and snapping at Roz’s throat and Lane and Matt’s knees. Roz dodged left, tearing away from Lane. The dogs stood growling and spitting as they raised themselves onto their hind legs. Roz lunged. One of the dogs whimpered. Chief was on his back. Roz stood on his chest and bared her teeth.

  “Call your dog off!” the man said.

  Matt moved forward, grabbed Roz’s collar, and pulled her back to the log. The man hooked the leash
into Chief’s collar. “You gotta watch your dog. He’s dangerous.”

  “She,” Lane said.

  “What?” The man backed down the path.

  “Our dog is a she.”

  “Better learn to control her better.” The man walked back the way he’d come.

  Matt looked at his uncle. “But Chief came after Roz.”

  Lane rubbed Roz behind the ears. “It’s funny how the aggressor acts after getting the worst of the fight.”

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 16

  chapter 2

  “Detective Lane, you’re responsible.” Staff Sergeant Gregory delivered the assignment as an edict.

  The order was delivered from above, Lane thought. It was well-known that Gregory was a member of the Scotch drinkers’ club, a network of “elite” officers who gathered once a month with like-minded citizens to drink Scotch and advance their careers.

  Gregory sat at the head of the conference table. His freshly shaved head shone and his neck was red, either from sunburn or a tight collar. “Get on it. The Forensics Unit is at the scene.” His manicured fingers propelled the file across the tabletop to Lane, who sat apart from the other detectives. Gregory shared a smile with the other detectives, implying a private joke. “You’re dismissed.”

  Lane looked up from the file to the faces of his colleagues. One looked at the door. Another developed an interest in his fingernails. A third smiled at Gregory and nodded at the joke.

  Lane saw his face reflected in the glass wall. He saw the close-cropped black hair with a hint of grey here and there, the missing earlobe, and the blue eyes. It’s as if I’m seeing someone else across the table. I’ve lost weight.

  “See you later, princess,” Gregory said.

  Lane picked up the file, stood up, pushed his chair back in, walked to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. Take your time. Close it very, very softly. It’s amazing how quickly word got around that I was under investigation.

  Twenty minutes later, he was driving north out of downtown, up out of the river valley, and passing the outlet shops downwind from the city dump. Lane tried to concentrate on the case at hand. At a stoplight, he glanced at the map on the passenger seat. A month ago, Harper would have been driving and I would have been giving directions.

  He turned west. The Chev hummed, finally free to stretch out along a straight, two-lane section of highway.

  Another turn south and he found the Forensics Unit, a mobile landmark with its blue-and-white paint scheme, parked just off the pavement. Yellow tape encircled the ditch and nearby slough. Inside the barrier, the cattails and grass grew waist-high. The slough had evaporated after a month-long dry spell, leaving a surface of white soil etched with cracks. Here and there were muddy indentations where one of the forensic investigators in their white bunny suits had broken through the surface to expose the mud underneath.

  The remains were situated close to the south end of the slough, within ten metres of the road. Dr. Colin Weaver — or Fibre, as he was nicknamed — knelt beside them, his white hood and gauze mask hiding his expression. Not that there would be one.

  Weaver rocked back on the mud-caked heals of his rubber boots and stood. He turned to one of his white-suited assistants and said, “When you remove the remains, don’t worry if you get some of the soil.” He held up a bag. “I’ll take this in.” Fibre turned his face, as handsome as that of a Hollywood celebrity, toward Lane while his assistants laid the body bag next to the remains.

  I wonder how Fibre will react to my new circumstances?

  Fibre stepped cautiously over the cracked surface of the slough bottom, testing to see if it would support his six-foot frame. He pulled his mask down to his throat as he reached the cattails at the edge of the slough. He held up the bag. “I believe it’s a metal case. I cracked it open. It looks like there may be identification inside.”

  “What was holding the body down?” Lane asked.

  Fibre looked over his shoulder. “Two cinder blocks. One chained to the torso, the other to the knees. If it weren’t for this dry summer, we might never have discovered it.”

  “How long has it been there?” Lane asked.

  Fibre shook his head and looked in the direction of the mountains, the grey peaks distorted in the haze. “From the state of decomposition, close to a year. You understand that is a very rough estimate?”

  Lane nodded.

  Fibre pulled back the hood of his bunny suit. Perspiration made his blond hair stick to his scalp and forehead. He held up the bag. “Drive me back to the Foothills Medical Centre and we’ll see what’s inside of this container.”

  Lane waited at the Chev as Fibre changed out of his bunny suit and rubber boots. The detective watched the two assistants as they severed the chains with bolt-cutters and painstakingly gathered the remains. Lane could see that a jacket held most of the torso together.

  Fibre opened the passenger’s door and took a seat. Lane pulled the keys out of his pocket and got in the driver’s side. He pulled the seat belt over his shoulder.

  “Smoke’s motives are transparent. You’ll be exonerated,” Fibre said.

  Lane turned to face the doctor. Fibre’s expression was non-committal. When did you become my friend? Lane wondered.

  Fibre turned to look south at a stand of trees. “It’s the time in between being accused and being exonerated that’s difficult.”

  Lane inhaled. The stench of decomposition and slough mud filled the interior of the Chev. “The problem is, some of the mud always sticks.”

  Fibre shook his head. “Each case is different. An objective analysis of the situation reveals that any type of emotional reaction will cloud your judgment.”

  Colin, is this still part of your self-imposed penance for what you said to Christine? Lane started the car, shoulder-checked, and accelerated.

  “I want to apologize again for what I said to your niece,” Fibre said.

  Lane held up his hand. Fresh anger lit him from within. He glared at Fibre, who looked down the road.

  “I had no right to say that. I understand you’ve taken in a niece and a nephew. That you and your partner are raising them. That you are very protective of children in general and these two specifically. That is why what I said was particularly odious.” Fibre’s right knee was dancing up and down as he spoke.

  Lane shook his head. Who would believe this? Fibre running off at the mouth to me. And he’s been doing some digging into my background.

  Fibre held up the bag. “I got a glimpse of the id. It’s protected with a clear plastic laminate. I should have some answers relatively quickly. You can accompany me into the lab if you like.”

  No thanks. “I don’t like labs. You’re the expert.” I won’t be able to get the stink out of my skin for weeks.

  Lane gave the doctor his cell number before dropping Fibre off at his office on the northern end of the Foothills Medical Centre. Then he drove down the hill into the river valley for a cup of coffee and some lunch. He found a place to park west of the café and walked back, past the ice cream shop and across the cul-de-sac overfilled with parked cars.

  Inside the café, he ordered a mochaccino and a sandwich before finding a table near the window. As he waited, he observed the people chatting in public privacy. He’d consumed half the sandwich and more than half the coffee when his cellphone rang.

  “Dr. Weaver?” Lane asked.

  “Correct. I have names for you. Do you want them over the phone?”

  Lane looked around him. “Want me to bring you a coffee or a sandwich?”

  “Not necessary.”

  Lane heard uncommon emotion in Fibre’s reply. The detective looked at the remains of his lunch. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good.” Fibre hung up.

  Fibre was waiting at his desk in an office so sterile it seemed the air was sanitized. Despite the sunshine streaming through the windows, Lane couldn’t see a single speck of lint or dust in the air.

  Lane set a paper bag
down on the desk. Fibre pulled it toward him and opened it. “Nanaimo bar!” He smiled, and nodded for Lane to sit.

  “We have several forms of identification. The small metal case provided added protection against decomposition for the plastic licence and another piece of identification that was, fortunately for us, laminated. Here’s the driver’s licence.” Fibre slid a photocopy toward Lane. “And we have this.” He slid a second photocopy next to the first.

  Both photocopies showed the face of the same man. Similar weight, same height. The second card used the Cyrillic alphabet. The man wore a military uniform and what appeared to be an officer’s cap.

  “The driver’s license says he’s Andelko Branimir,” Fibre said. “And it gives a local address. The other IDID says he’s Borislav Goran.”

  “You can read this one?” Lane pointed at the photocopy with the Cyrillic letters.

  Fibre blushed. “I learn languages. It’s a hobby of mine.” He pointed at the military IDID. “It appears the victim served in a paramilitary unit.”

  “War crimes?” Lane’s mind worked to understand the implications.

  “Too little information to reach any conclusions as of yet. But yes, I’ve done a preliminary check, and this unit was implicated in various war crimes.” Fibre opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a large manila envelope and slid the photocopies inside.

  “Anything else inside the metal case?” Lane asked.

  “Pulp. Whatever else was in there was reduced to pulp.” Fibre handed the photocopies to Lane. “After the clothing and remains have been analyzed, you’ll get a comprehensive report.”

  Lane stood up to leave. Fibre touched the paper bag. “Thank you. Nanaimo bars are — ”

  “Decadent,” Lane said.

  “Deputy Chief Simpson wants to see you. He’s in charge until Chief Smoke gets back. The appointment is at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Lori smiled at him from behind her desk. She was blonde, somewhere between forty and fifty, had three kids of her own, and treated the detectives like they were part of her extended family.