Glycerine Read online

  Glycerine

  OTHER DETECTIVE LANE MYSTERIES

  Queen’s Park

  The Lucky Elephant Restaurant

  A Hummingbird Dance

  Smoked

  Malabarista

  Foxed

  OTHER NEWEST MYSTERIES

  Business As Usual, by Michael Boughn

  The Cardinal Divide, by Stephen Legault

  The Darkening Archipelago, by Stephen Legault

  A Deadly Little List, by K. Stewart & C. Bullock

  A Magpie’s Smile, by Eugene Meese

  Murder in the Chilcotin, by Roy Innes

  Murder in the Monashees, by Roy Innes

  West End Murders, by Roy Innes

  FOR MORE ON THESE AND OTHER TITLES,

  VISIT NEWESTPRESS.COM

  Garry Ryan

  GLYCERINE

  ×

  A Detective Lane Mystery

  NEWEST PRESS

  COPYRIGHT © GARRY RYAN 2014

  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 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–, author

  Glycerine / Garry Ryan.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-927063-68-2 (pbk.).— ISBN 978-1-927063-69-9 (epub).—

  ISBN 978-1-927063-70-5 (mobi)

  I. Title.

  PS8635.Y354G59 2014 C813'.6 C2014-901645-X

  C2014-901646-8

  ×

  Editor for the Board: Leslie Vermeer

  Cover and interior design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

  Cover photo: (pipeline) © KONG / photocase.com (smoke) © almogon / photocase.com

  Author photo: Luke Towers

  NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for support of 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

  for

  SHARON,

  KARMA,

  BEN,

  LUKE,

  INDY,

  and

  ELLA

  Contents

  MONDAY, JULY 5

  THURSDAY, JULY 8

  FRIDAY, JULY 9

  SATURDAY, JULY 10

  SUNDAY, JULY 11

  MONDAY, JULY 12

  TUESDAY, JULY 13

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 14

  THURSDAY, JULY 15

  FRIDAY, JULY 16

  SATURDAY, JULY 17

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ×

  After nearly a decade of trying to “kill the Indian” in him, the teachers at Gordon Tootoosis’s residential school finally expelled him, according to his daughter Alanna. Her father’s transgression: singing powwow with some other students in a music room that Tootoosis and his pals thought was soundproofed. It wasn’t. The teachers were outraged when they heard the traditional chanting and singing because it meant that they had failed to transform the kids into docile, English-speaking Roman Catholics.

  Obituary of Gordon Tootoosis

  Written by Sandra Martin

  Globe and Mail

  Saturday, July 9, 2011

  ×

  MONDAY, JULY 5

  chapter 1

  Father and Brother of

  Victim Charged in Killing

  Shefic Abdula, father of sixteen-year-old Shafina Abdula, and Mohammed Abdula, Shafina’s eighteen-year-old brother, have been charged with her murder.

  The body of the sixteen-year-old female was discovered in her home on Saturday night. EMS was unable to revive the girl when they arrived at the Abdula home in response to a 911 call.

  Shafina was a grade eleven student at Sir John A. Macdonald High School.

  Story continues page B3

  ×

  THURSDAY, JULY 8

  chapter 2

  “We want you to work with Nigel Li,” Harper said.

  Lane studied Deputy Chief Cameron Harper before answering. Cam’s height and athletic physique filled the office. Behind his black moustache, now sprinkled with grey, his round face was a mask.

  Chief Jim Simpson’s more delicate features were similarly blank.

  Lane looked down at the round table in Harper’s office and then at the triangle formed by the chairs they sat in. His eyes focused on the mochaccino in the white paper cup. He could smell the chocolate. Now it all makes sense. He looked at Harper and Simpson again and sensed their discomfort.

  “Think about it.” Simpson wore his uniform jacket with all of the necessary braid. His blond hair was trimmed short.

  “For a day.” Harper lifted his coffee with hands that made the cup look like a child’s.

  “We were hoping to hang on to Detective Saliba.” Simpson studied Lane’s face. “The RCMP wouldn’t listen to us. They said that her particular skill set was required elsewhere.”

  “But we understand why she moved down east to get a fresh start.” Harper put his cup down, sat back, and squirmed in his dress uniform.

  “And it’s important that we continue the process of passing on your skills, your techniques, to a younger detective.” Simpson looked sideways at Lane.

  Lane was surprised at his annoyance with their use of the word we and thought, Get to the point. Both of you are so worried about following the rules that you’ve handcuffed yourselves. “Who is Nigel Li, and what are you holding back?” He raised the mochaccino, took a sip, and smiled. “Don’t think you can buy me with one good cup of coffee.”

  Simpson blinked and smiled. He stood up, loosened his tie, took off his uniform jacket, and hung it on the back of his chair.

  Lane spotted the darker blue patches under Chief Simpson’s arms.

  Harper stood up, took off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. “Li is a colossal pain in the ass.”

  “And a brilliant one. He speaks English, Spanish, and Mandarin.” Simpson sat down again and reached for his coffee. He used his left hand to hold back his tie as he sipped.

  “So, which is it? Is he brilliant or a pain in the ass?” Lane looked at the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

  “Actually, he’s both.” Simpson smiled as he gauged Lane’s reaction.

  Before Lane could ask his next question, his phone rang. He raised his hand, pulled the phone from his jacket pocket, and read the name on the display. He looked at the men in front of him. “It’s Lori. I have to take this.” He pressed a button. “Hello?”

  “Tell those two bigwigs that we need you,” she said.

  ×

  Twenty minutes later Lane pulled up behind the Forensic Crime Scene Unit on a residential street. The unit was a white box with ribbon-like blue stripes and a blue-and-white cab up front; its nickname was Big Mac. It was parked out front of a new home being built on an old lot in Hillhurst, one of the more established districts near the river and on the edge of downtown Calgary.

  Lane got out of his Chev and walked toward the house. Stepping over a chunk of two-by-six with nails sticking up out of its splintered end, he looked up at the house with its fresh grey coat of stucco. It was two storeys high with a
two-car garage around back. A man in a white crime-scene bunny suit stepped out the front door. “You’re okay to enter the main level. And the steps into the basement are okay. I’m working on the top level next.” He moved aside so the detective could enter.

  Lane climbed the front stairs and walked inside where his footsteps echoed on the unfinished floors and uninsulated walls. He followed the familiar stink of rotting meat to the basement door and started downstairs. The steps swayed. They were suspended about a foot from the gravel floor. The wood creaked as he stopped on the bottom step. The concrete walls glowed from the hurricane lamps focused on a spot near the centre of the floor.

  A woman in a bunny suit knelt, clearing away gravel with a brush. An ever-expanding section of blue tarp was visible. A man in a matching bunny suit stood behind the woman, videotaping the process.

  The kneeling investigator pulled at the tarp to lift away more of the gravel. A bloody hand and forearm came into view, and the stink of rotting meat intensified.

  The investigator with the camera stopped, turned, and looked at Lane. The detective met the eyes of the camera operator and recognized him. Lane nodded. “Colin.”

  Dr. Colin Weaver, the head of the Forensic Crime Scene Unit, was nicknamed Fibre, despite that he was completely unaware of the moniker and equally unaware of the effect his Hollywood face had on women who met him for the first time. “We’re just getting started. You’re welcome to watch or wait upstairs.”

  Lane turned and went back to the main floor. He turned left into the kitchen and saw two men sitting on the back step. One had his head shaved so it shone. He wore a red-and-black–checked work shirt and khaki bib overalls. He stared into the backyard and sipped from a stainless-steel thermos. The other, his back to Lane, had short black hair and wore a blue sportcoat. He talked with his hands, each of which held a paper coffee cup.

  Lane turned the doorknob. Do it quietly and listen, he thought as he opened the back door.

  “So you’re saying that the body had to have been buried last night, because you just finished levelling the gravel yesterday afternoon?” the young man with the coffee cups asked.

  The man in the work clothes turned to look at Lane. There were lines across his forehead and his brown eyes were weary despite the fact that he looked about eighteen.

  “Detective Lane?” The other man turned, stood, and offered a cup to Lane.

  Lane asked, “Who are you?”

  “Nigel Li.” He continued to hold the cup in front of Lane. “Are you going to take it or not? Lori told me what you liked. Don’t worry, it’s still hot.”

  Lane took the cup, held it close to his nose, smelled the chocolate, and took a sip. “Perfect.” Does everyone think they get on my good side by buying me a mochaccino? He took another sip. They’re probably right.

  “She said it would be a good icebreaker,” Nigel said.

  Lane took a close look at Nigel’s freckled round face, unruly black hair, and brown eyes. He stood easily six foot two. Lane offered his hand, and Nigel took it with a smile. He looks relieved, Lane thought.

  Nigel glanced at the man in the work clothes. “This is Jim. He discovered the body.”

  Lane looked at Jim, who stood up and offered his hand. Lane felt the calluses on Jim’s hand as their palms and fingers gripped.

  Nigel continued. “He says he finished up work at about six o’clock last night, then came to check on the job this morning before the concrete was poured. He noticed that . . .”

  Lane thought, However you react, it will probably make or break your relationship with Nigel. He put his hand on Nigel’s shoulder. The young officer gave Lane a puzzled look. Lane smiled at Nigel, then turned his attention to Jim.

  Jim stared into the backyard.

  Lane sat down on the step and waited for Jim to do the same.

  Nigel stepped down onto the dirt. He watched the older detective and the witness.

  Lane glanced up at Nigel, then looked to see what Jim was staring at. He saw that the garage door was open. There was darkness behind the open door.

  “Do you know who it is?” Jim’s eyes turned away from the garage.

  “Not yet,” Lane said.

  Jim nodded, looked at Lane, and sat down next him. “I finished up levelling off the basement last night. This morning I could tell someone had been there afterward. I went to level the floor again. That’s when my rake hooked on an eye at the corner of the tarp. There was that smell. It’s been so hot lately, and it was hot in there yesterday.”

  Nigel opened his mouth.

  Lane silenced him with a glance, a slight shake of the head, and a smile.

  “I saw his face. His eyes were wide open.” Jim focused on Lane. “He’s from Mexico, right?”

  “At this moment, you know more than I do,” Lane said.

  Jim nodded and turned back to staring at the shadow behind the open garage door. “Mexican. Some of the Latino guys come up here to work construction.”

  Lane glanced at Nigel, who appeared to be intently studying the conversation.

  “When I lifted the tarp, I caught a glimpse of his face. His mouth was open. So were his eyes. I dropped the tarp and went back upstairs. Called 911 from my cell phone.” Jim turned to Lane. “From the look on his face, he died in agony.”

  ×

  Fibre pulled back his hood and said, “It’s going to be hot today. I’ll get the results of the autopsy and our other findings to you as soon as they come to me.” He turned his back on the detectives and walked toward the cab of the FCSU vehicle.

  Lane got into the Chev, waited for Nigel to do the same, and watched the van pull away.

  “How come you did that?” Nigel asked.

  “Did what?” He heard a measure of defensiveness in Nigel’s tone, but it was overshadowed by curiosity.

  “You put your hand on my shoulder to stop me talking.” Nigel looked forward.

  He’s asking you a direct question. Give him a direct answer. “I got the feeling he was ready to talk, so I put my hand on your shoulder to give him that opportunity.”

  Nigel nodded. “I do have a bad habit of saying too much.”

  Now see what he thinks. “I have a habit of saying too little. What impressions did you get from the scene and from Jim?”

  Nigel regarded Lane with a hint of disbelief. “You want my opinion?”

  Lane waited.

  “The victim was killed elsewhere and wrapped in the tarp. The killer — I’m assuming it was a he because of the size of the body and the strength required to carry it into the basement — looked for a place to dump the body where it wouldn’t be found. The location was probably picked at random. It’s close to a major traffic artery so it’s a reasonable assumption that he turned off of Crowchild Trail and found a house with a basement floor waiting to be poured. If Fibre’s initial finding is correct, then the victim was probably shot in the back with a hunting rifle. The enlarged exit wound is consistent with that.” Nigel crossed his arms as if he were preparing for Lane to lecture him.

  You sound very sure of yourself, but your body language contradicts that, Lane thought.

  The street was heavily treed, and they moved in and out of shade as they headed for Crowchild Trail. Nigel watched the bicycle traffic rolling along between the Chev and the sidewalk. A young woman rode a neon-green bike with wide handle bars. Her skirt was tucked between her knees. She wore a neon-green helmet and sunglasses. “Do you ride a bike?”

  Lane shook his head. “I walk a dog.”

  “What kind of dog?” They slowed and stopped for a red light. The woman on the bike passed them on the right.

  “She’s a mutt,” Lane said.

  “Like me,” Nigel said.

  “Me too.”

  “No, not like me. Look at that!” Nigel pointed at a black pickup truck travelling north on Crowchild Trail. The truck had a semi’s cab, a pickup’s box, and tires that would fit a tractor. The vehicle stood at least three metres high. “Now there’s du
mbspicuous consumption.”

  “What?” Lane asked.

  “You know, conspicuous consumption that’s dumb.” Nigel turned and held his earlobe, then pointed at Lane. “What happened to yours?”

  “Violent spouse in a domestic dispute,” Lane said.

  Nigel nodded. “A lot of that going around.”

  ×

  “You’d better be nice to him.” Lori sat behind her computer monitor and shook her finger at Lane. She was the detectives’ blonde receptionist and something of a mother to them all. “Some of those so-called tough guys gave him a rough ride. Just between you and me, I think they thought Nigel should shut up and do as he was told. The problem is, he has a mind of his own.” She leaned closer. “And he’s quicker than all of them.”

  Lane opened his mouth, closed it, and indicated that he had surrendered by turning his palms up.

  “Nigel is smart. I know he talks a lot, but he has a lot to say if you take the time to listen.” Lori stood up, continued to wag her finger, and smiled. She wore a black dress, red cowboy boots, a black Stetson, glasses with rainbow frames, and real freshwater pearls. “So you’ll have to tangle with me if I hear that you’re giving Nigel a rough time. The kid hasn’t had it easy, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” What’s the story here?

  Lori cocked her head to the right. “Not my place to say.”

  “So I’m supposed to fly blind on this one?” Lane took a long breath and shook his head.

  “You’re the detective. Do a little digging. I can’t do all of the work around here.” She winked at Lane and raised a pink bottle of bubble solution. “If you’re nice, I might even blow a few bubbles your way.” The phone rang. She smiled, winking at him, and turned to answer it.

  Lane walked to his office. He had an office of his own since being promoted and put in charge of major crimes. He soon found the promotion meant more headaches to go along with a wee bit more money after taxes.

  He sat down behind his computer and looked at the family photograph of his partner Arthur, nephew Matt, niece Christine, her boyfriend Daniel, and Roz the dog.