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  “Walter was a friend,” she said as she read his reaction.

  “I think it’s him.” Nigel tapped Lane on the shoulder.

  Who? Lane heard the sound of clogs on the concrete floor. “What?”

  Nigel said, “Hold on!” then ran back down the hall the way they’d come.

  Lane turned. “What the hell’s going on, Nigel?” He pointed to his right. “The bodies are over here.”

  The man in blue was running. He wore clogs with spring-loaded heels. As the nurse approached the corner, one clog came off and the other heel skidded. The man fell onto his right hip, then crashed feet first into the wall. A couple of sheets of coloured paper fluttered to the floor.

  Lane trotted up the hall and stood over Nigel. Nigel had the man in blue face down on the floor, his knee planted in the man’s back. Lane grabbed one wrist and locked it with a handcuff; then he grabbed the other arm and finished the job. Lane swallowed hard when the floor began to shimmy. He breathed deeply to quell the nausea.

  Nigel rolled the man over, sat him up and pushed his back to the wall. Looking up at Lane, he said, “This is Brett Mara.”

  The man in blue shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

  Lane closed his eyes, opened them again and looked at the face of the man he’d last seen on a tour bus in Cuba.

  Colleen stood at Lane’s elbow and looked from Brett to the detectives. She opened her mouth and then closed it.

  Another woman arrived. She had tightly curled white hair and wore stretchy brown pants and a floral patterned sweatshirt. If she weighed one hundred pounds, it would only be after a Thanksgiving dinner. She held a cheque in the air and waved it. “What are you doing to him? He saved my life. He’s the one who can save my granddaughter and my great-grandkids! They’re in Mexico! I have to give him this cheque or they won’t be able to get out of jail!”

  Colleen’s eyes narrowed, then focused on Brett. She turned to the white-haired woman. “Come with me, Cora. Your granddaughter left me with an emergency contact number. Let’s see if we can talk with her before you hand over that cheque.”

  Twenty minutes later, Lane looked at the photograph of Walter on the wall next to the door handle leading to his room. The detective knocked.

  “Just one moment!” Fibre said.

  Lane looked down the hall where a round woman in a fuchsia top and pants pushed a man in a wheelchair. She looked up at Lane. He saw her hair was tied in a ponytail at the back. She studied the detective as he watched her. She turned the wheelchair, rolled the man into his room and disappeared.

  Fibre opened the door and nodded at Lane. “What?”

  “If you have time, I need preliminary observations.”

  Fibre rubbed the top of his white bunny suit’s hood. “Why?”

  “I have a suspect to interview.”

  “Oh.” Fibre looked over his shoulder. “It appears that the resident taped fentanyl patches to the insides of his wrists.”

  “Fentanyl?”

  “About a hundred times stronger than morphine. It’s frequently indicated for cancer patients in palliative care.”

  “Did Walter have cancer?” Lane looked past Fibre, taking in the room. Both beds were pushed against the far wall. An elderly man lay face up on the floor, his eyes open, a white film of froth around his lips. A younger man in a grey business suit was curled up with his back to the older man. The ripped curtain dividing the room in half hung from two hooks. Pillows, pictures and bits of plastic and glass from a flat-screen TV completed the chaotic scene.

  Fibre shook his head. “Don’t know. He appears to have died from myocardial infarction, while the younger man may have died from an overdose of fentanyl. It will take a tox report to confirm that. There is evidence of a prolonged and violent struggle between the men. Those are my preliminary findings.”

  Lane lifted his chin. “Thanks.” Fibre shut the door. The detective took his time turning to the right. His eyes were slow to focus and any movement threatened to induce another bout of nausea.

  “Are you the police?”

  Lane stopped and turned around. The woman with the long ponytail stood in front of him. She was a head shorter than the detective. “Yes.”

  “That’s Wally’s ex-son-in-law in there. Robbie. I saw him go in to see Wally earlier. Wally told me his daughter Linda was going to leave Robbie after they got back from Mexico, but she died down there. Wally blamed Robbie for her death. Said he murdered her down there and got away with it.”

  Lane tried to place the woman’s accent. “Who are you?”

  “Penny. I looked after Wally. He talked to me. His wife died four or five years ago. Then his daughter. Wally was very lonely.”

  “Do you know the son-in-law’s last name?”

  “Van Leenan.”

  Lane took out his pen and wrote the name on his left palm. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  Penny reached into the pocket of her uniform top and handed it to Lane, who said, “I just need the number, please.”

  She told it to him and he wrote it down on his palm under Robbie’s last name. “I will need to interview you later.”

  Penny shrugged as she put her phone back into her pocket. “I’m a Canadian citizen now, so I’m not worried.” She looked over her shoulder. “Mrs. Wong needs me.”

  Lane nodded. “I’ll get back to you.” He eased himself around her and went down the hall to find Nigel.

  Lane sat in one corner of the interrogation room. Brett Mara sat in another. He still wore his spring-loaded clogs and his blue shirt and pants. He studied Lane with his green eyes.

  Lane looked at the red file he had face down on the tiny table in front of him. He turned to look over his left shoulder and up at the camera. “Just to confirm, you have agreed to talk without a lawyer present?”

  Brett nodded and stretched his six-foot frame. “These chairs are uncomfortable.”

  “Kind of get me right here after a while.” Lane eased his right arm around to touch his lower back.

  Brett smiled. His brown hair was tipped with blond highlights.

  He’s confident and he doesn’t recognize me from Cuba. “Just want to clear up a few things. Cora from the seniors residence says that you saved her life?”

  Brett leaned forward. “That’s right. After she regained consciousness, she asked, ‘Am I in hell?’ It was hilarious.” He laughed.

  You like having power over life and death. “Also, you were scheduled to bathe Walter Riley this morning.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You’ve worked at Bow Valley for how long?”

  “About two weeks.”

  “And before that?”

  Brett looked at the ceiling as if trying to remember. “I had my own window-washing company.”

  Lane nodded. Just pretend you believe him. “Did you enjoy your vacation in Havana?”

  Brett looked at Lane and smiled. “This is where this whole misunderstanding confuses me. I’d sure like to go to Cuba, but I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Lane turned over a photograph and handed it to Brett. “Just to refresh your memory. This is a picture of you and Camille on a street in Havana.”

  Brett looked at the photograph. “Sure looks like me, but it isn’t me. My father got around, you know. People keep telling me I look like someone else. Guess dad made a trip to Cuba and I have a half-brother there.”

  Lane stood up and taped the photograph to the wall. He turned over another and handed it Brett. “This is you shoving Camille into a moto volqueta.”

  Brett feigned disinterest as he took the photo, then held it closer. He tossed the photo onto the table. “Like I said, that’s not me.”

  “She died of her injuries.”

  “Very unfortunate.”

  Lane turned over another photograph. “This was taken by Cuban Immigration after your flight landed at Varadero airport.”

  Brett crossed his arms and yawned.

  “I can testify I was on the bus with
you on the tour of Havana.”

  Brett looked directly at Lane. “You must be mistaken.”

  Lane stood up and taped the photographs to the wall. “I also have statements from families of elderly residents of various seniors facilities who say you killed their parents or grandparents.” He lifted the documents and taped them to the wall.

  Brett shrugged his shoulders. “Like I keep saying, it wasn’t me.”

  Lane took a Sharpie pen, then a blank piece of paper, and wrote MONSTER across it. He stuck it to the wall.

  “I’m not a monster,” Brett said.

  “I’ve talked with some of the families and they think you are.”

  “They weren’t there like I was. Some of them only visited once a month if that.”

  Gotcha! Lane passed Brett another document. “You are an investor with Mi Casa Su Casa.”

  “Those guys are the monsters, not me. They prey on the elderly. Half of my patients asked me to help them die. They were depressed and when they were lucid, they wanted me to help them die.”

  You just can’t help yourself, can you, Brett? You have to get in the last word, and you don’t like being called a monster. “Circle the names of the ones who asked you to help them die.” Lane handed Brett a list of names and a pencil. The killer began circling.

  Nigel and Lane walked along the Stephen Avenue Mall. The older detective wore sunglasses and walked on the shady side.

  Nigel asked, “You happy with the way the interrogation is going?”

  Lane nodded. “The next step is to get him to turn on Rogerson.” He turned to Nigel. “You’ve got the sworn statements and the banking information?”

  Nigel nodded. “All done up in bar graphs so they’ll be easy to read.”

  “Thanks, and thanks again for spotting Mara. I walked right past him.” Lane spotted Terri’s coffee kiosk set on the shady side of the avenue. “This migraine has me in a bit of a fog.”

  Nigel pointed further down the mall. “Want to try a food truck? Looks like Steakout is here.”

  “Not really hungry. You go ahead. I’ll get the coffees.”

  Nigel stepped out into the sun and walked down the mall. Lane got in line for a cup of coffee. He watched short-haired Terri as she took orders, handed out coffees, worked her magic with the espresso machine and banged the used coffee grounds against a metal bar. The tail end of the lunch-hour crowd was checking the time. A few butted out cigarettes.

  “You’ve got some colour back. Why didn’t you go home?” Terri asked as he handed her a twenty and she handed back the change. He dropped a loonie in the tip cup.

  He shrugged. “Something’s come up.”

  “You’re a detective, right?”

  Lane studied Terri, who was measuring and tamping coffee grounds for a moccaccino and a latte, then looked over his shoulder. “That’s right.”

  “It was good what you did to save that family in January. Anyone can see what it’s cost you, but what other choice was there?” Terri locked the portafilter and set two small cups under it. She turned on the steam. It screamed then gurgled as she heated the milk. “You gotta ask yourself what woulda happened if you hadn’t been there because that professor and his hairdresser wife killed so many others.”

  “I still don’t feel right about what I had to do.” Why did you say that?

  Terri poured the espresso into a pair of paper cups, added the steamed milk, then squirted chocolate into one, stirred it with a long-handled spoon and passed both over. She held onto the cups as Lane took hold of them and said, “Of course killing someone doesn’t feel right. That’s because you have a conscience.” She released the cups. “You wouldn’t expect to feel any other way, but you have to admit that you did what needed to be done.”

  The next customer placed an order. Lane went to sit on a shaded bench. He watched people as they got up and headed back to work. Nigel joined him a few minutes later with his prime rib on a bun. Lane sipped his moccaccino and handed the latte to Nigel. Nigel polished off the prime rib, then wiped his fingertips with a napkin. “What’s next?”

  “Remind me to call Deylis and let her know what’s happened.”

  Lori leaned left and eyed Lane from behind her computer screen. “Is there a reason why you left your phone in the office?”

  Lane tapped his jacket pocket, rolled his eyes and winced. “Shit.”

  “Ben Bertoulli wants an appointment ASAP.” Lori stood up. “His words, not mine. He’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

  The big-time defence lawyer with the eyes that seem to look in two directions at once. The bulbous nose that arrests attention. And the whitened teeth meant for accentuating distractions. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. The guy who drives cops, prosecutors, judges and juries crazy is on his way to see you. Can’t wait to meet him in the flesh.” Lori shook her head. “Someone hired the big gun to defend Mara.”

  Nigel trailed Lane into the office. “What’s up?”

  “You have thirty minutes to find out all you can about Ben Bertoulli. I especially want to know if he has any elderly relatives in seniors facilities. While you’re doing that, I’ve got some calls to make.” Lane opened the door to their office, set down his coffee, took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. Then he picked up his phone and dialed. “Could I speak with Tommy, please?”

  Ben Bertoulli smiled and shook hands with Nigel, Lane and Harper when they met in the conference room. He took off his blue pinstriped suit jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He left it with the label showing above the chair back. Lane read the label: Ozwald Boateng No. 30 Savile Row. Bertoulli turned one eye to spot Lane inspecting the suit and flashed his whitened teeth. The expression seemed out of place. “You should go to London, Mr. Lane. You look like a man who would appreciate a fine suit.”

  Lane smiled. “You should go to Havana, Mr. Bertoulli. You look like a man who might enjoy a mojito.” He sat down on one side of the table. Tommy said the best way to handle Bertoulli is to keep him off balance and say things that are a bit vague, that suggest you know more than you’re telling. Harper sat at one end, Bertoulli at the other, Nigel across from Lane. Nigel opened his laptop.

  Bertoulli took a moment to roll up the sleeves of his white shirt so everyone could see the BB monogram on the tailored cuffs.

  Harper noticed the monogrammed shirt, then looked at Lane as if to say, You’ve got to be kidding!

  Lane said, “You called this meeting, Mr. Bertoulli.”

  Ben leaned forward and hid his hands under the table.

  Tommy said Bertoulli’s hands are a giveaway. If he tucks them under the table, he wants to deal. If he locks them and puts them on the table in front of him, he thinks he has you by the balls.

  Bertoulli said, “I think we can avoid a trial and save the taxpayers the expense. My client is willing to plead guilty to one charge of fraud.”

  Lane nodded at Nigel, who pointed at the Smart board on the wall. “We have sworn statements from two families whose loved ones removed large sums of money from their accounts. The same sums then appeared as deposits in three accounts under three aliases belonging to your client.” Nigel tapped the enter key. A series of cancelled cheques appeared in sequence on the screen. “We also discovered that the occurrence of myocardial infarction spiked while your client worked at a series of institutions. These events followed withdrawals of between twenty and thirty thousand dollars from accounts belonging to the deceased residents.”

  Lane turned to Bertoulli. “We understand that your grandmother is a resident in a seniors residence in Edgemont?”

  “I fail to see the relevance.” Bertoulli raised his eyebrows while he appeared to be looking at Lane and Nigel at the same time.

  Nigel continued. “We also have a series of photographs that show Mr. Mara pushing a woman into a piece of construction equipment in Havana.” The image flashed on the screen. Brett Mara’s profile was clear, as was his extended arm and Camille Mara tumbling int
o the bucket of the moto volqueta. “This document verifies that Mr. Mara is wanted in Havana for murder.”

  Harper said, “Our evidence suggests that you are defending a murderer who defrauded elderly patients and then killed them. He also killed Camille Mara because she knew about his operations and threatened to expose him. We will be charging your client with multiple counts of murder and fraud.” Harper stood up. “The Crown Prosecutor will arrive momentarily to advise you on the details of the charges.”

  Ben held up his hands with the palms facing Harper. “Is that really necessary? Your evidence is obviously circumstantial.”

  Lane nodded at Nigel, who pressed a button on his computer to replay Brett Mara’s recorded confession. Lane’s voice said, “You are an investor with Mi Casa Su Casa.”

  Brett’s recorded voice said, “Those guys are the monsters, not me. Half of my patients asked me to help them die. They were depressed and when they were lucid, they wanted me to help them die.”

  Harper opened the door. “Your client gave us a list of names of people he ‘helped to die.’ Fraud is the least of his worries, and yours since you invested with Mr. Mara. Your partner is a serial killer.”

  Lane stood up and nodded at Ben’s suit jacket. “Don’t forget to take your jacket with you.” He and Nigel followed Harper out the door.

  The four met in Harper’s office. They stared at the cell phone set on the middle of the knee-high coffee table.

  Lori said, “Gee, this is about as exciting as watching John in front of the TV when the Super Bowl is on. No, I’m not running to the store for chips and beer.”

  Nigel chuckled, looked out the window and asked, “You really think Bertoulli is part of the MCSC deal?”

  Harper undid the top button of his shirt. “We’ll know soon.”

  Lane took a long slow breath. “He paid at least five thousand for that suit. My jacket cost less than two hundred on sale. A trip to London for the fitting, staying in a fine hotel, meals, airfare, taxis. That’s serious money. Besides, he went to school with Mara and Rogerson. He was also in the car with them when they did their drive-by.” He nodded at Lori.