Smoked

  Garry Ryan

  SMOKED

  X

  A Detective Lane Mystery

  NEWEST PRESS

  COPYRIGHT © GARRY RYAN 2010

  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–

  Smoked / Garry Ryan.

  Also available in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-897126-62-2

  I. Title.

  PS8635.Y354S62 2010 C813’.6 C2009-906221-6

  ×

  Editor for the Board: Douglas Barbour

  Cover and interior design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

  Author photo: Karma Ryan

  Copyediting: NJ Brown

  Proofreading: 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, 8540–109 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 10

  FOR

  ALLAN ,

  DEBBIE ,

  COLE ,

  DAYNA

  Contents

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  Acknowledgments

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 30

  chapter 1

  “Where is she?” Arthur looked at the phone, expecting it to ring.

  Lane looked at the clock; it read 3:30 AM. “I have no idea.” He rubbed at the remains of his ear lobe. A drunken, abusive husband had bitten off the rest during a domestic dispute call.

  Arthur pulled the curtain back and looked out the window of their front-to-back split-level home. The light outside the front door highlighted his pear-shaped silhouette. “Matt didn’t shovel the sidewalk.”

  “Want me to do it?” In an attempt to wake up, Lane rubbed his face with his open palm. Matt must be hoping the sun will come out and clear away the snow. There’s warmer weather in the forecast, he thought.

  Arthur let the curtain close and turned to face Lane. “No.”

  Roz’s nails tapped the floor. She looked at Lane, yawned, and stretched with her paws way out front so that her back and tail curled. Lane rubbed her head and the thick fur behind her ears. She wagged her tail in thanks.

  “Want me to make some coffee?” Lane asked as he went into the kitchen.

  “Sure.” Arthur sat on the couch. Roz moved over and sat next to him.

  When the knock came, the volume and the force of it told Lane what and who to expect.

  Unfortunately, Arthur opened the door before Lane could get to it. “Oh no!” His face paled as he stepped back from the door.

  Lane moved past Arthur. He looked at Christine’s face, or, actually, the top of her head and its fresh dye job. Today, her natural black was a silver azure. There was no makeup on her face. Lane put his hand on her shoulder.

  She looked at him.

  He studied her eyes to read what words might not tell him.

  Christine looked back at him with a mixture of embarrassment and rage. She shrugged his hand away.

  Good, no permanent damage and no drugs, Lane thought.

  He recognized the officer dressed in his blues. Noted checked his nametag: McTavish. Lane looked at the officer’s face. The intense lights at the front door illuminated McTavish’s salt and pepper hair. “Come in,” Lane said.

  Christine brushed past Lane. McTavish handed Christine’s backpack to her uncle.

  “Are you okay?” Arthur asked her as she unlaced the combat boots she’d bought with money from her first job.

  Christine didn’t answer. Instead, she sat on the couch and glared at each of them in turn.

  “Cup of coffee?” Lane asked McTavish.

  “That would be nice,” McTavish said.

  “Please, sit down.” Lane indicated the living room. “Christine? You want a coffee?” He moved into the kitchen.

  “Yep. And, by the way, this is bullshit!”

  Lane poked his head back into the living room to glare at Christine.

  She closed her mouth.

  A minute later, Lane brought out a tray with four coffees, milk, brown sugar, and spoons. He set the tray on the coffee table so each of them could doctor their drinks. Then, they sat at opposite corners of the living room and studied one another.

  “Well, now that everyone has talked my ear off.” Arthur attempted to make a joke and shrugged his round shoulders when it flopped.

  Lane looked at McTavish, remembering their last meeting. Lane thought, He’s probably remembering the same thing. He looks a little greyer since the blockade.

  McTavish said. “When I asked her where she lived, and who she lived with, I remembered your name. What’s the relationship?”

  “I’m her uncle.” Lane nodded at Arthur, who was getting some colour back in his face. “We’re legal guardians.”

  McTavish nodded, gripping the cup. It disappeared in his large hands.

  “Christine, what happened?” Lane asked.

  Christine crossed her arms under her breasts then crossed one leg over the other.

  “The facts,” he said.

  “I was in Kensington. I took my can of paint out and tagged a dumpster. He,” Christine nodded in McTavish’s direction without making eye contact, “cuffed me, put me in the back of his car, asked me some questions, and brought me here.”

  Lane looked at McTavish.

  “That’s exactly what happened.” McTavish went back to sipping his coffee and watching.

  Lane looked at Christine. What do I say next? he thought.

  “How come this is bullshit?” McTavish asked, recalling Christine’s earlier words.

  “The whole idea is.” Christine looked at Lane to gauge his reaction.

  “What idea is that?” Arthur leaned forward.

  Lane noted the dark circles under Arthur’s eyes.

  “The idea that you can’t say what you think. Can’t write what you think. Somebody is always telling you what to say. What to think. Usually it’s hypocritical men telling me how to live my life. That’s bullshit.” Christine took a sip of her coffee and looked over her cup at the men, daring one of them to disagree.

  “You and I agree so far as restrictions on freedom of speech go,” McTavish said.

  Arthur turned to McTavish. “You agree with her?”

  “Of course. Saying what you think, especially when you write it down, is probably the best way for anyone in our society to get into trouble.” McTavish put his empty cup on the tray.

  Lane looked at McTavish, then at Christine. “So, what are our choices?”

  “We’ve had lots of complaints from Kensington busines
ses about graffiti. Most don’t like having their property tagged. If Christine wants to clean up her tags, there won’t be any charges. If she chooses to leave them, then she’ll be charged.”

  “See what I mean? It’s bullshit!” Christine shook her head. “You guys don’t understand a damned thing!”

  McTavish stood up. “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Saturday morning okay for us to clean up?” Lane asked.

  “No problem.” McTavish turned to Christine. “How many did you tag?”

  “Twelve or thirteen.”

  McTavish went to the door. “Thanks for the coffee.” He opened the door and stepped outside.

  Lane followed him. He shivered and tucked his hands under his armpits. “McTavish?”

  The officer turned and smiled.

  “Thanks.” Lane held out his hand.

  McTavish shook it. His grip was firm. “Thank you. I’ve seen what happens to kids who end up on the street. One of my nephews ran away last winter. It was the coldest night of the year. He got frostbite. Almost lost all of his fingers.” The officer stepped down to his car. He turned as he got to the car, looked back at Lane, hesitated, and went back up the steps. “Might be a good idea to keep your eyes and ears open the next little while.”

  Lane cocked his head to one side. “What’s up?”

  “Looks like we’re getting a new chief.” McTavish looked past Lane to see if anyone was hanging around the front door. “You know him. The guy who lives to network.”

  “Smoke?” Lane watched McTavish’s eyes.

  McTavish nodded. “Watch your back.” He turned, walked down the steps, got into the car, and drove away.

  Lane came inside just in time to see Christine run up the stairs and slam the door to her room. “What happened?”

  “I said, ‘When are we going to talk about this?’ She yelled at me and ran upstairs.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “What time do you have to be at work?”

  Lane looked at the grandfather clock. “A couple of hours.”

  ×

  The phone rang as Lane pulled on a shirt. He picked up the receiver before it could wake Arthur. “Hello?” Lane looked down and saw water soaking through the blue fabric of his shirt where he hadn’t completely dried after the shower.

  “It’s me,” Harper said. “We’ve got a missing woman.”

  “Any specifics?” Lane pulled on socks, then grabbed his keys and cash from the dresser.

  “She’s twenty-one. Reported missing by her parents. She left for work Monday morning. That’s the last time they saw her. She phoned home at lunch to say she’d be home for supper. When her parents drove to her office, the daughter’s car was there. The first place we need to go is a dental office a few kilometres from your house. It’s called Rockwell Sedation Dentistry.”

  Lane looked out the window. The sky was gradually turning from purple to pink. “That’s right next to Kuldeep’s coffee shop,” he said. “We need to pay both of them a visit. Is the dentist open yet?”

  “In an hour. I’ll pick you up in twenty.” Harper hung up.

  Lane put the phone down.

  “What are we going to do about Christine?” Arthur was facing away from Lane, as if he were speaking to the wall.

  “Sorry I woke you.” Lane pulled on his sports jacket.

  Arthur rolled over. “Well?”

  “What time does she get home from class?”

  “Four-thirty or five.” Arthur put his feet on the floor.

  “We’ll sit down when I get home.” Lane made for the door.

  “Better put your pants on.” Arthur rolled over.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Lane and Harper pulled up in front of Kuldeep’s coffee shop. Lane turned and looked at the mountains as he stepped out of the Chev. They were heavy with snow, waiting for the spring sun and resultant runoff.

  Inside the shop, Lane closed his eyes and imagined the first sip of coffee. Kuldeep makes a good cup, he thought.

  “The usual?” Kuldeep had her black hair pulled back into a bun.

  “Yep,” Harper said.

  Lane looked around. The shop was empty. He sat down next to the front window where he could keep an eye on the comings and goings outside. “Do you go to the dentist next door?” Kuldeep poked her head around from behind the espresso machine. “What?”

  “Do you go next door for dental work?”

  Kuldeep’s smile died. “No way.” She went back to making coffee.

  Harper sat down. He studied Lane’s face. “What happened to you?”

  “Remember McTavish?” Lane rubbed his eyes.

  “The tactical guy?”

  Lane nodded. “He brought Christine home this morning at about three o’clock. She’d been tagging dumpsters.”

  Kuldeep brought them their coffees. “There you go.” She set them down on the table.

  “Do the people who work at the dentist’s office come here?” Harper asked.

  Kuldeep paused and looked at each of them in turn. “A few.”

  How come her defenses are up all of a sudden? Lane wondered. She must hate going to the dentist.

  “Apparently, a dental assistant named Jennifer didn’t make it home last night.” Harper looked at Lane, then looked away.

  He notices the change in Kuldeep too, Lane thought.

  “Jennifer?” Kuldeep looked outside at a patron getting out of his Cadillac.

  “Yes,” Lane said.

  “She came in around three o’clock yesterday afternoon. I could see that she had been crying. She ordered a large coffee and went back to the office.” Kuldeep watched the patron adjust his tie, button his blue suit jacket, and approach the door.

  “How come you don’t send your family next door for their dental work?” Lane asked.

  Kuldeep’s eyes opened wide. “I’m not crazy.”

  The door opened. The patron in the navy blue suit stepped inside. Kuldeep went back behind the counter.

  A black, late-model Mercedes pulled into the parking lot and stopped to the west of the coffee shop. Lane watched as the driver got out. He had a goatee, round face, and close-cropped blond hair.

  “What’s happened to the chief?” Lane waited for an answer as Harper put down his cup.

  “She’s going in for a bypass. Smoke’s the acting chief until she’s back.” Harper shook his head.

  “What’s the long face about? Last night I was told Smoke was the new chief and got a warning to watch my back.”

  Harper frowned. A crease ran across his forehead. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Smoke’s a climber. Well-connected politically. Meets regularly with Bishop Paul, local businessmen, and like-minded cops. They have a scotch drinkers’ night once a month. Cops who join the club have been the people getting all the promotions lately.”

  “I ran into him once or twice when I was starting out,” Lane said.

  “And?” Harper waited while Lane looked out the window.

  “My first year on the force we were trying to catch this guy on a motorcycle. He would bait cops by stunting right in front of them. A chase would ensue. He’d escape down a bike trail or he’d go cross-country. Most of it happened on this side of the river. One afternoon, the rider got caught. I was late getting there. I could see Smoke holding back traffic and bystanders. When the arresting officers brought the rider back, he had a bloody nose and one of his eyes was swollen. He was holding his ribs. The officers took him to the hospital and two of his ribs were broken. The officers said he fell off his bike while trying to escape. I looked at the bike. There was no evidence of recent damage to it.” Lane continued to stare through the window into the past.

  “So, you think the arresting officers laid a few licks on the motorcycle rider?” Harper asked.

  Lane nodded. “And the rider refused to lay charges.”

  “What’s this got to do with Smoke?” Harper asked.

  “I went to him and explained about the bike. He shrugged it off and said, ‘Don’t ask
too many questions.’ A few years later we were both up for a detective’s job. I got it. A week later, I was outed.” Lane looked directly at Harper.

  “You think it was Smoke?” Harper looked across at a customer who was waiting for his coffee.

  Lane nodded. “I was being taught a lesson for getting the job he wanted.”

  “How do you know it was him?” Harper asked.

  “You know when you go into a room and someone has been smoking, but no one has a cigarette? No one will own up to it. It’s like that. There’s the smell of smoke in the air but everyone’s acting innocent. Still, it stinks, and it smelled strongest around the new chief.”

  Harper chewed at his lip. “When I worked in the chief’s office, Smoke had a partner who quit the force. The chief interviewed her. It was one of those rare times the chief confided in me. She said, ‘Smoke’s partner was too scared to tell me why she’s quitting. She just said she wanted out.’ By that time Smoke had made quite a few political connections. He was on his way up.”

  “There always seems to be the scent of back-room deals, good ol’ boys, and twelve-year-old scotch around Smoke,” Lane said.

  Harper turned his head and watched Kuldeep. “There you go,” she said and handed a customer his coffee. As the customer left, she leaned to look out the window. Kuldeep made eye contact with Harper then cocked her head to the right. Harper lifted his chin. “Come on,” he said to Lane. “Our man’s arrived.” He stood and picked up his coffee.

  Lane followed Harper out the door.

  The driver of a black Mercedes wore black gloves and a black leather jacket. He pointed his key at the lock of the dental office.

  “Hello.” Harper waited until the man turned.

  Lane watched the man’s eyes.

  “I’m Detective Harper and this is Detective Lane.” Harper pointed at Lane with his coffee cup.

  Lane tried to study the man’s reaction, but there wasn’t one. Interesting, Lane thought.

  “Dr. Joseph Jones.” Jones turned his back, opened the door, stepped inside, and hooked his foot around the metal doorframe to hold it open. “Come in.”

  They followed him past a copper waterfall stretching from floor to ceiling. The carpets were burgundy and the walls sea foam. Paintings of idyllic homes surrounded by flowers and white fences were carefully aligned on either side of the waterfall. The scent of lavender and aftershave followed in Jones’ wake.