Malabarista Page 14

  “Sounds good.”

  After the thirty-five-minute drive, Keely went into a coffee shop while Lane waited inside the truck. Then they drove to the parking lot of the private golf course across the street from Jelena’s condo complex. The detectives parked under a tree to drink their coffees and watch the luxury cars carry members to and from the club.

  Lane looked at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock. How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

  “She’s what, fourteen??

  Lane nodded. Keely laughed. “If she’s up by noon, we’ll be lucky.”

  Keely was off by fifteen minutes. At 11:45, Lane’s phone rang.

  “Thank god — if I have to look at anymore golfers practising their swings in the parking lot, I’ll have to shoot one of them. All those guys at the Scotch drinkers’ club were golfers.” Keely sat up and started the engine.

  Lane listened to the officer on the phone. “The subject is on foot and headed south.”

  Keely pulled out of the parking lot and drove one kilometre to the main road, then turned south. They spotted Zacki walking along the sidewalk running along the east side of the roadway. Keely drove past her and into the parking lot where a bank, supermarket, pizza joint, and gas station were situated at each of the four corners of the mall. They parked next to a van. Lane watched the girl through a pair of binoculars.

  “She always wears black?” Keely asked.

  “Not sure.” Lane watched as Zacki walked in the front door of the gas bar and walked out three minutes later with a red plastic fuel container. An attendant followed her, filled the container, and took a bill from Zacki. She waited until he returned with the change.

  “What does she need that for?” Keely asked.

  “I’m guessing diesel fuel and fertilizer.”

  “So?” Keely started the engine.

  “Mix the two together, insert a detonator, and you’ve got an explosive device.” Lane watched as Zacki switched the container into her left hand and struggled up the sidewalk. “This will take a while.”

  “How do you know so much about explosives?” Keely asked.

  “Spent a summer with my cousins on my uncle’s farm in Saskatchewan. They mixed diesel fuel and high-nitrogen fertilizer and used it to blast a hole in the ground so they could make a cold room to store vegetables.”

  “And they say Muslims are terrorists. Sounds like your family had its own cell in Saskatchewan. Do you think that maybe the Branimirs have a lawnmower?”

  “Those run on gasoline. Besides, they live in a condo complex. Someone is hired to cut the grass.”

  They watched Zacki walk up the hill, stop, set the fuel down, switch hands, and continue walking. It took her ten minutes to reach the gap in the fence she used as a shortcut to get back to her home.

  “Maybe we should head back to the golf course,” Keely said.

  Lane’s phone rang. “Yes?”

  Keely tried to hear the other end of the conversation.

  “Good, we’ll wait here.” Lane turned to Keely. “She put the fuel in the garage, then headed out again. She’s. . .” He looked through the field glasses. Zacki appeared through the gap in the fence. “. . .coming our way.”

  About three minutes later, Zacki turned the corner across from the service station and waited at the bus stop. She reached into her pocket and began to talk on a cellphone.

  “Here comes the bus,” Keely said.

  The bus stopped. As it pulled away, Keely turned on the engine and followed it down Crowchild Trail, then accelerated to reach the train station ahead of Zacki.

  “I’ve got my phone.” Keely pulled up at the train station, put the truck in park, picked up her purse, and got out. She glanced at Lane.

  “I’ll be right behind you.” Lane slid over behind the wheel. He watched Keely as she walked across the bridge and down to the platform level. Three cars of the C train pulled up. Lane drove to the exit and waited at the lights. He put his phone on the seat next to him. When the light turned green, he turned left and followed the train as it rolled down the centre of Crowchild Trail.

  Lane’s cell rang. He watched the road as he flipped it open. Keely’s voice was on the other end. “Oh. Hello. Yes, I’m on my way downtown.” She stopped talking for a full ten seconds as if she were listening to another person speak. “Yes. I’m meeting a friend.” She waited. “I’ll phone you back after we get off.” She hung up.

  Okay, so now we’re watching Zacki and a friend.

  When they got off the train downtown at City Hall, Lane saw that Zacki’s friend was wearing blue. She was a head taller than Zacki, and her hair was blonde.

  He watched them walk north toward the river, followed by Keely, as the lunch crowd walked the opposite way toward various office buildings. The girls talked nonstop, walking side by side, oblivious to anyone else trying to navigate the sidewalk. They came to an intersection and stepped into the crosswalk. Tires squealed, a horn blared, and the blonde girl yelled at the driver.

  Keely waited for the light while the girls entered a hobby store occupying a two-storey sandstone building stuck between two office towers. From beneath the eaves, gargoyles looked down on passersby.

  The driver behind Lane honked. Lane maneuvered the truck into an alleyway and parked.

  Five minutes later, Zacki and her friend walked out of the hobby store, each carrying a bag. They jaywalked across the street and ducked into a coffee shop. Keely crossed the street inside a crowd of pedestrians, walked south to the coffee shop, and went inside.

  Lane stood beside the front fender of the truck, watching and waiting.

  Forty-five minutes later, Zacki and her friend walked out of the shop with their bags and headed toward City Hall.

  Lane got into the truck. His phone rang. “It’s Keely. I thought those two would never stop talking. Can you pick me up? We’ve got a DNA sample for Fibre.”

  Lane closed the phone, started the truck, and turned north onto Centre Street. Keely jaywalked and climbed in when he pulled up to the curb. She held a paper bag. “Got her DNA on this cup. You can always count on teens to forget to clear their table.”

  Lane waited while she put on her seat belt.

  “All I had to do was sit there and drink coffee. It was like her friend was hooked up to a microphone. She talked so loud and asked so many questions.” Keely sat up straight. “Can we stop soon?”

  “Too much coffee?” Lane asked.

  Keely’s face turned red. “There’s a restaurant at the top of the hill. Dylan and I go there. I’ll show you.”

  She must have had more than a few cups of coffee. She’s talking a thousand words a minute. “What did the friend say?”

  “She asked about the stuff they bought at the hobby store. Apparently it’s fuel for RC models.”

  “RC meaning remote control?”

  “I think so. Then Zacki began to talk about how weird her mom was. Zacki explained about having to buy diesel fuel this morning. Jelena just started planning a trip yesterday, out of the blue. So the two of them are going to the passport office later on today or tomorrow.” Keely crossed her legs.

  “Almost there.”

  “How long does it take to get a passport?” Keely asked.

  “At least three days, I think.”

  Keely held on as Lane turned left and pulled up to the curb. She handed him the bag. “Hold this.”

  She left the van, slamming the door shut behind her, and ran up the sidewalk into a Vietnamese restaurant. Lane’s phone rang. He opened it. “Hello?”

  “It’s Lori. Stockwell wants to talk. Apparently he’s being very insistent. How soon can you get back here?”

  Lane looked at the bag with the sample. “Ninety minutes?”

  “I’ll let them know.” Lori hung up.

  Stockwell probably wants a deal. But what is he offering?

  Keely opened the passenger door. “Thanks.”

  “Stockwell wants to talk,” Lane said.

  “So?�
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  Lane frowned. “We’ll see if he’ll say anything else of interest.” He shoulder-checked and pulled out. “But we need to get that DNA sample to Fibre first.”

  Twenty minutes later, Lane drove past the turnoff to the hospital. “You missed the turn!” Keely cried out.

  “It’ll only take a minute to pick up some Nanaimo bars for Fibre.” Lane looked at his partner and raised his eyebrows. “I’m betting it will save us time in the long run.”

  “We need a rush on the sample, and the treat will get things moving along?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think I’m getting the hang of this.” Keely smiled.

  They found Fibre folding his lunch bag, wiping the crumbs off his desk into his palm.

  “We have a favour to ask.” Lane held the sample in his hand.

  “And a treat.” Keely held up the Nanaimo bars.

  “Bribery?” Fibre asked.

  “Yes, and we have a reason. Our suspects may be getting ready to leave the country. We need a comparison with Andelko Branimir’s DNA.” Lane put the evidence on Fibre’s desk.

  “Then it’s a priority.” Fibre stood up, wiped the crumbs off his hands as he leaned over the garbage can, and picked up the sample. “I’ll take those.” He grabbed the Nanaimo bars from Keely. “It might take as long as a month for the lab to get us the results.” Fibre smiled at them and was gone.

  The door closed. Lane laughed. “A lot of good that’s going to do us.”

  Keely nodded. “We’ll have to find some other way.”

  It took forty minutes to drive back downtown and find the interrogation room where Stockwell waited with Roper, his lawyer. Lane and Keely went into a nearby room and watched the pair on the monitor.

  “Where’s the union rep?” Keely asked.

  “Perhaps the Scotch drinkers’ club is culling Stockwell from the herd.” Lane looked at Keely. “Is Buck here?”

  “There they are.” Keely pointed at the TV.

  Buck and Lesley walked into the interrogation room. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Buck said. He turned as another person entered. “This is Brad Williams, the crown prosecutor.”

  Williams nodded and crossed his hands at his belt. He wore a suit, a frown, and about two hundred pounds on a football player’s frame. Roper nodded back.

  “You wanted to talk with us?” Buck sat down across from Stockwell, who was wearing sweats and a T-shirt.

  “I’ve got some information that will help you.” Stockwell looked at the camera. “I can testify that you were set up by Smoke when he initiated the investigation into the missing Glock. That getting Harper to investigate you was a calculated move to discredit both of you.” Stockwell looked at his lawyer.

  Roper said, “In exchange for my client’s testimony on your behalf, he will serve no jail time.”

  Williams pointed at Stockwell. “You set off an explosive device. You are going to jail.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with the second bomb!” Stockwell’s face turned white. “I can’t go to prison.” He rubbed his forehead with the open palm of his right hand.

  The imagination can be a wonderful motivator, Lane thought as Buck let the silence stretch out, like maple syrup on snow.

  Stockwell stared at the wall. “I can prove where I was the morning the second bomb went off. And I was there in the room when Smoke thought up the plan to have you investigated. Gregory was there too.”

  “That still doesn’t prove you had nothing to do with the construction of the second bomb. Besides, the second bomb was detonated with a cellphone. You didn’t have to be there.” Williams shook his head.

  “I’ll plead guilty to sending the letters, making the calls, painting the garage door, and making the first pipe bomb, but I had nothing to do with the second bomb. I don’t know who did that.” Stockwell looked at Buck.

  Buck never mentioned the graffiti on the garage door.

  “In order to detonate the second bomb at the right time,” Roper said, “the bomber would have had to be close by. My client was one hundred kilometres away. We have witnesses.”

  Buck looked at Roper. “Have you got a card?”

  Roper fished a business card from his pocket. Buck took it. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “What is RC fuel used for?” Lane thought aloud. He and Keely sat in their office with the door closed.

  “You don’t think Stockwell tried to kill us?” Keely sat next to Lane behind her desk.

  “No. At least, my gut tells me that. And the fact that he admitted to painting your garage door. That wasn’t mentioned in the first interview. The problem is, we need more evidence to back that up.”

  “He was just trying to scare me?” Keely hesitated for a moment. “And he’s not capable of being a killer?”

  “He’s definitely capable. I’ve seen him kill. But if he was going to kill you, why not kill you with the first bomb? All he had to do was wait for you to get into the car.” Lane checked the interdepartmental phone list on the computer. He reached for his cellphone. “I want to check one thing.” He dialed. “Yes. It’s Detective Lane. I have a question about explosives.” He waited. He covered the mouthpiece and raised his eyebrows. “I’m on hold.”

  Lori came to the door and handed a folder to Keely. “From The Hague.” Keely opened the folder.

  Lane took his hand away from the phone. “I have a question about the fuel used to power remote control models. Does it act like diesel fuel when mixed with fertilizer that’s high in nitrogen?”

  Keely read the information from the folder.

  Lane hung up. “That fuel Zacki bought yesterday at the hobby shop.”

  Keely looked up. “Yes.”

  “Bigger bang. The explosives expert thinks that RC fuel was used in the second bomb. He said it’s more powerful than diesel fuel mixed with fertilizer.” Lane looked at the folder. “What have you got?”

  “There’s very little information on the woman who fought with the Tarantulas, but there is another picture.” Keely handed it over to Lane.

  He studied the photo. Men holding automatic rifles and wearing combat fatigues posed around the front of a tank. A man and a woman sat on the turret . Lane looked at Keely.

  “The girl sure looks a lot like Zacki,” Keely said as she flipped through a second document. “And it says here that the remains of Andelko Branimir were found in a mass grave a month ago.”

  “So Goran stole Branimir’s identity?” Lane asked.

  Keely nodded. “Definitely a possibility.”

  “We need to talk with Mladen.” Lane stood up and tapped his pocket to make sure he had the truck keys.

  “Do we need to show him this picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d better hurry. You’ve got an appointment, remember?” After that, Keely was quiet until she aimed the pickup down Eleventh Avenue. “Harper said this would happen.”

  “What did Harper say?”

  “He said at some point you’d start to figure it all out. You’d put all of the pieces together, and I should watch how you do it.” Keely pulled the seat belt away from her chest.

  “Harper told you that?”

  “Of course. He told Simpson that you and I should work together. Let me in on what you’re thinking, will you?”

  “If Stockwell didn’t detonate the last bomb, and if Mladen isn’t involved, then we’d better be very careful with Jelena. She’s getting her daughter to stock up on fuel.” He looked at his watch. “If Jelena is buying fertilizer and components for a detonator on the way home from work, we’re in trouble. She’s obviously had some military training and appears to have the survival instincts.”

  Keely looked at the dresses in the windows of several bridal shops along Eleventh Avenue. “So how do you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  Keely shoulder-checked. “Put it all together.”

  “Information. Gather as much of it as possible, then. . .” Lane looked ahead without seeing
the traffic.

  “Then?” Keely asked.

  “It comes together.”

  “Very scientific.” Keely looked out the windshield. “Jelena is very protective of her daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mothers can get pretty ferocious when it comes to protecting their children.”

  There was no parking in front of the photo shop where Mladen worked, so Keely pulled into the alley at the back.

  Mladen was sitting in a lawn chair with his eyes closed. He held a can of pop. He opened his eyes when the detectives opened the doors of their truck.

  “Coffee break?” Keely asked.

  Mladen nodded. He sat up straighter.

  “Would you look at another picture for us?” Lane asked.

  “Tarantulas?” Mladen’s voice was filled with what sounded like inevitability.

  Keely offered the picture. Mladen took it, but waited before examining it. When he finally looked back at the detectives, it was as if he had aged a decade.

  “The girl in the picture?” Lane asked.

  “She was the one with Goran. A sniper. The Tarantulas killed up close. She killed from a distance.” He handed the picture to Keely.

  “How old was she at the time?” Lane asked.

  Mladen shrugged. “Sixteen, seventeen.”

  “Can you remember anything else about her? Anything she said?” Lane asked.

  Mladen looked down the alley, into the past. “‘It is war.’ While she kept her rifle aimed at us, she kept saying, ‘It is war.’ It was if she was saying that we should accept what was happening to us, because we were in a war and someone else had control over life and death. That it was the war which was responsible, not her.”

  “Would you be able to identify her if we asked?” Keely slipped the picture back into a manila envelope.

  Mladen nodded.

  Lane handed him a card. “If you remember anything else, please call.”

  Mladen took the card and stared at the detective. Lane began to leave, then turned back to Mladen. “When’s your next performance?”

  What might have been a smile under different circumstances appeared on Mladen’s lips. “Saturday. Eau Claire.”