The Detective Lane Casebook #1 Page 23

  “So, the investigation will have to remain open,”

  Harper said.

  “That’s right,” Lisa said.

  They walked a narrow path lined by trees planted in parallel rows. The evergreens reached up more than thirty metres.

  “It’s funny,” Harper said.

  “No it’s not,” Lisa said.

  “No, you don’t understand. I got a fax this morning from the police in Jamaica. There was a fire at a resort during Bobbie’s second trip. Two sisters and a GO died of smoke inhalation. The police attributed the fire to careless smoking,” Harper said.

  “GO?” Lisa asked.

  “Guest organizer,” Harper said.

  “Gigolo?” Lisa asked.

  “You catch on fast,” Harper said.

  “Do you have the names of the victims?” Lane asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “We’ll need them and any other details that might help,” Lisa said.

  “Keep in touch.” Lane smiled at Lisa.

  “I hear you’ve got an addition to the family.” Lisa smiled back. Her tone softened. “Arthur and Loraine talked on the phone. She said he’s really excited about having his nephew staying there.”

  “And that’s not the half of it. We’ll have you and Loraine over when things settle down a bit,” Lane said.

  Their feet crunched over the uneven gravel in the parking lot. Lane studied the fender liners of their Chevy. He remembered what he’d seen coating the wheel wells of Bobbie’s Chrysler. “You know, Bobbie’s place is maybe ten minutes away.”

  After saying goodbye to Lisa, Harper drove north up Nose Hill Drive. “I forgot to tell you, some vet has been calling. Wants to see us. Says it’s important. She keeps leaving messages.”

  “That’s it, nothing more?” Lane asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “We need to get a look at Bobbie’s car,” Lane said.

  “How are we gonna do that without a warrant or naming her as a suspect?” Harper asked.

  “We could ask her.”

  Harper pulled up to the red light near Crowchild Trail. “Maybe she’s not even home. She’s probably at the radio station.”

  “She does an afternoon show. Let’s give it a try. Do a quick check as we drive by. I remember seeing something the first day we went to meet with Bobbie.”

  “What’s that?” The light turned green. Harper pulled ahead.

  “The day I was sick, Bobbie’s car was freshly cleaned and waxed, but there was dust stuck to the wheel wells. It looked a lot like the dust stuck on this car after we drove out to see the bodies of Charles and Kaylie.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Harper looked across at his partner.

  “I didn’t think of it until just a few minutes ago.”

  Within five minutes, they approached Bobbie’s house.

  “That doesn’t look like her car in the driveway,”

  Harper said.

  “It’s a new Acura,” Lane said.

  “About fifty-thousand dollars worth of automobile,” Harper said.

  Both looked at the black two door gleaming on Bobbie’s driveway. The rear license plate read SPK 2ME.

  Harper clicked the mouse. They sat in a borrowed office in the Silver Springs District Office. Lane sat next to him and studied the screen. Harper said, “She got the Acura yesterday. The news on the Chrysler is unusual, though. Looks like it was scrapped.”

  “But it was only two years old.”

  “You wanna check out the junkyards or phone the vet?” Harper asked.

  Ten minutes later, they drove down John Laurie Boulevard. The sign at Bobbie’s church had a new message: I won’t fall to pieces, I’ll just fall at the feet of my Saviour. Lane read it and recalled the look on Cole Reddie’s face when he heard the news of his sister’s death.

  “How come you never listen to the radio?” Tony asked. After their last class, rush-hour traffic on Crowchild Trail was just beginning to build.

  “There’s so much crap on the radio.” Jay turned up the music. “We’ll be early for work. Wanna grab a slurpee?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I’ve never once been in this car when you listened to the radio. You’ve always got your own music on. And, come to think of it, I’ve never seen you read a newspaper.” Tony leaned against the passenger door and studied his friend.

  Jay looked over at Tony, “Fuck! I hate the papers! I hate the radio! Isn’t that good enough for you?”

  Tony looked ahead, “Okay. If you don’t wanna talk about it, you don’t wanna talk about it. Man, we used to be able to talk about anything. Maybe you need to talk to Bobbie on the radio for advice.”

  “Shut up!” Jay’s face was lipstick red.

  “Okay man, have it your way. You still comin’ for dinner on Sunday? Uncle Tran doesn’t invite everybody, you know.”

  Jay took a deep breath and thought about Rosie.

  “Rosie’ll be there. Don’t worry. I saw the way you looked at her,” Tony said.

  “What the hell’s your problem?” Jay felt like Tony was reading his mind.

  “You know what?” Tony asked.

  “What?” Jay pretended to study the road.

  “She was watchin’ you pretty close too.”

  BOBBIE: Good afternoon. It’s Bobbie on the ride home. Friday’s here, and the weekend’s looking good.

  Let’s talk about renewal. Doing something nice for me. You know, taking care of the one who cares for everyone else. Come on callers, what do you do to put a smile on your face? I could use some help.

  “I like this kind of fall day,” Harper said.

  “No bugs,” Lane said as they pulled onto the gravel lot and parked in front of Idaho Metals. The sky was clear. The temperature was twenty degrees Celsius. The Idaho Metals office was a single-wide trailer in front of a six-foot chain-link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire.

  Inside, they were greeted by a woman, maybe thirty years old, who looked up at them as they entered.

  “Cops,” she said under her breath.

  “Detectives Lane and Harper.” Lane looked at her, sensed anxiety, and decided a change in approach might be the best way to go. He spotted a photograph on her desk. “Twins?”

  “Yep. It’s an old picture. They’re ten now,” she said.

  Lane looked at her left hand and, seeing no rings, said, “It’s tough raising kids these days.” Lane read the triangular sign on her desk. “It’s Joan isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. And, I’m lucky. They’re good boys. How can I help you?” She stood.

  Lane spotted the sweat stains under her arms. It’s not that hot in here, he thought. “We’re looking for information on a late-model Chrysler owned by Bobbie Reddie.”

  “I see.” Joan swallowed.

  Harper looked at Lane, then back at Joan.

  “Could you tell us anything about its present location or status?” Lane asked.

  “You’d have to ask Mike. He’s out in the yard. Just go out the door and walk through the gate.”

  The yard was a maze of wrecked cars, through knee-high grass and weeds. The hum of traffic on the freeway was constant.

  “She was getting a little nervous,” Harper said.

  “That’s for sure,” Lane said.

  “Wonder what she has to feel guilty about?” Harper asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it has something to do with the car and maybe not. So, it’s Mike we’re looking for, right?” Lane walked next to Harper between rows of cars. Those with damaged back ends were usually missing hoods, grills, and bumpers. A few were missing engines. One sat with its entire front end removed right up to the firewall. At the end of the row, a man in blue coveralls sat inside the engine compartment of a pale-blue pickup. One of his boots was propped on a fender. He wore a ball cap with its brim pointing backward.

  A cellphone rang.

  Lane and Harper looked at one other, wondering whose cell was ringing.

  “Hello
,” the man in the coveralls said. “Yeah we got one of those. It’s near the fence, on the north side of the shredder. The windshield’s good.” He listened for a moment then looked at Lane and Harper. “They’re here.”

  “Mike?” Lane asked.

  “Yep.” Mike flipped the phone shut. He rested his nose on the back of his right wrist.

  Harper leaned on the fender of the truck. Lane stood next to the side mirror. It was leaning at an odd angle because one of the brackets was broken. He watched Mike’s face.

  The silence stretched out before anyone spoke.

  “You remember a champagne-coloured, late-model Chrysler brought here by Bobbie Reddie?” Harper asked.

  “Yep,” Mike said, then waited.

  “Look,” Harper said, “we’re just here for information.” Mike smiled and nodded a couple of times as if to say, “Sure you are.”

  Lane noted the wariness behind Mike’s blue eyes, and the sense of humour revealed by the crow’s feet. The man was clean-shaven, and his fingers looked like they had been turning wrenches for most of the last two decades. Lane said, “You want to get out of there? It doesn’t look too comfortable.”

  Mike said, “I’ll get out of here when I get this goddamned alternator out. Ask your frickin’ questions.”

  “We need to know where the car is,” Harper said.

  Mike pointed at a mountain of shredded metal at the end of a conveyor belt. “In there.”

  “You shredded a new car?” Lane asked.

  “She came in here sayin’ she wanted her car shredded. Started cryin’. Said it was her way of gettin’ rid of bad memories. We tried to talk her out of it. Then Joan, she’s the secretary, pulled me over and said, ‘The woman just lost her little girl.’ So we took the serial numbers, drained the gas tank, took out the battery, and did as she asked. Then, Bobbie left.”

  “Did you salvage anything else from the car?” Lane asked.

  “Just the tires.” Mike lifted his cap, revealing a receding hairline.

  “What happened to those?” Harper looked hopefully at Lane.

  “One of the guys grabbed them. The tires had quite a bit of wear left, so he put ‘em on his car. Nice wheels,” Mike said.

  “Did you wonder at all about her request?” Lane asked.

  Mike chuckled, “The whole thing was weird. New car. Grieving mother who cried a lot. She stopped cryin’ like someone had turned off a tap, when we agreed to do what she wanted. By the time she left, she was grinnin’ from ear to ear. Either it was grief, or there was something freaky goin’ on.”

  “Like what?” Lane asked.

  “Well nothin’ adds up. She cries about being all alone and losing a child. Says she doesn’t know what she’s gonna do now that she’s a single mom. Then she shreds a car worth more than $15,000. We pay her nothin’ for it. We make so much per-tonne on the scrap. She doesn’t care. ‘Just take care of it,’ she says. When bits of metal start comin’ out of the shredder, she’s gets this big shit-eatin’ grin on her face. If she’s so grief-stricken and broke, how come she’s smilin’ from ear to frickin’ ear? It just doesn’t add up.”

  “You’re right,” Harper said.

  “How’s that?” Mike asked.

  “It doesn’t add up,” Harper said.

  Sure it does, Lane thought. As they walked away, he said to Harper, “We’re not getting the whole story here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Harper drove down Blackfoot Trail. The plan was to scoot around the Stampede Grounds and then downtown. “So, if we can’t get the car, it rules out a fibre match. Now, we can’t even look at the dirt stuck in the tire treads. The guy who got the tires could have driven anywhere.”

  “You’re beginning to think Bobbie is a suspect?”

  Lane said.

  “It’s a definite possibility. I just don’t want to exclude all suspects other than Bobbie.” Harper glimpsed symmetrical rows of seats in the Stampede Grandstand on their right.

  Lane smiled. “Point well taken.”

  “We could stop in and pay her a visit. The radio station is maybe ten minutes away.”

  “All right.” Lane was quiet the rest of the way.

  “I was wrong, it took eleven.” Harper parked in front of Bobbie’s radio station located near the river.

  They walked through the revolving front doors of the cable TV and radio station. Ten storeys above their heads, a skylight illuminated the foyer.

  Harper made eye contact with Lane and cocked his head, “Look at that.”

  Lane turned to see the flowers, stuffed animals, and white crosses arranged around a framed photograph of Kaylie Reddie.

  Harper walked over to the security guard who stood behind a semicircle of countertop on a raised platform. Harper looked up at him, “We’re here to see Ms. Reddie.”

  Lane pulled out his identification and showed it to the guard.

  The guard wore a grey shirt, black tie, and a matching frown. He put his hands on his hips, “I’ll have to call upstairs.” He looked to his right and up the stairs.

  “We’d rather you didn’t,” Lane said.

  The guard smirked. “If I wanna keep my job, I’m gonna have to call.” The guard lifted his chin and looked over Lane’s shoulder.

  Lane turned and spotted the red-carpeted stairway leading to the second floor. He turned to Harper who was smiling at the guard.

  The guard leaned across the counter and whispered, “Do I have to draw you guys a map? I need this job. The number one rule around here is don’t mess with Bobbie. The best I can do is give you a head start!”

  Leaning back, the guard picked up the phone and raised his voice. “I’m gonna call her right now. You two had better wait!”

  “We’ll just head upstairs,” Harper said.

  The guard said, “You’d better stop right there!”

  Lane looked left. The eyes of at least twenty people were following Lane and Harper as they made their way upstairs.

  The guard’s voice chased them, “Two policemen are on their way up to see Ms. Reddie!”

  Harper looked back and smiled.

  At the top of the stairs, they stepped onto a tiled floor. The hallway was lined with life-sized portraits of singers. One poster watched them from the end of the hall. It took up an entire wall. Bobbie’s image smiled at them. The caption said, Talk to me!

  Overhead speakers carried the sounds of a radio show in progress. Lane recognized Bobbie’s voice. He concentrated on the conversation.

  CALLER: I know it’s not today’s topic but I’m worried about my daughter. Things are getting pretty intense with her and her boyfriend.

  BOBBIE: I’ve got a suggestion. Does your daughter like Oreos?

  CALLER: Loves them.

  BOBBIE: Tomorrow morning, sit her down at the kitchen table.

  CALLER: She’s stays out late and sleeps in.

  BOBBIE: Get her up early. Bring out the milk and Oreos.

  CALLER: Okay.

  BOBBIE: Offer her an Oreo, but before you hand it to her, open the cookie and lick the filling. Then put it back together. Hand it to her. When she says, “Yuck!” say, “Nobody wants a girl who loses her

  virginity.”

  CALLER: Thanks, Bobbie.

  Lane and Harper stood on the outside of a wall of glass. Bobbie sat behind a desk the size of a small car and in front of a microphone. She was dressed in white.

  Across from Bobbie, behind another glass wall, sat the producer. Bobbie’s producer looked to be twentyfive years old and weighed maybe fifty kilograms. Lane watched for a reaction. There was none.

  BOBBIE: I’ll be back after a short break.

  Harper knocked on the glass.

  Bobbie looked up and stared at the officers.

  The producer opened the glass door to Lane’s left.

  Lane and Harper stepped inside.

  Bobbie glared at her producer.

  “Hello Ms. Reddie,” Lane said.

  “I’m very busy.” Bobbie leaned forwar
d, blinking several times.

  “There is one question.” Lane moved closer. Harper moved to his right.

  Bobbie leaned back. She looked behind the detectives. “We’ve just come from Idaho Metals. We wondered what made you decide to shred your car?”

  Bobbie wiped at her eyes. She looked beyond Harper and Lane.

  Harper looked over his shoulder and said to Lane, “We’ve got an audience.”

  Lane focused on Bobbie’s eyes.

  “Have you ever lost a child?” Bobbie’s voice wavered.

  Lane thought, She’s playing me and whoever’s behind me. “We’re here about the car.”

  “Just what are you accusing me of? I’ve lost my child! I’m the victim here!” Bobbie stood up. She pointed at the door. “I’ve got nothing to hide!”

  Lane sensed that Bobbie was performing for an audience. He turned and saw the glass wall lined with faces. Not one of them was smiling. Lane looked left at the producer. She looked back at him with the same neutral expression she’d greeted him with earlier.

  Five minutes later, Harper drove toward the centre of downtown. “That went well.”

  “I know you think it didn’t.” Lane watched a young woman skateboarding down the sidewalk. She weaved her way around and between pedestrians.

  “You think it did?”

  “Why wouldn’t she answer the question?” Lane asked.

  Harper thought for a minute. “A shredded car rules out a fibre match. It also means we can’t even look at the dirt stuck in the wheel wells.”

  “So, Bobbie’s covering?”

  Harper checked the rear-view mirror. “It’s a definite possibility. As I said, I just don’t want to exclude all suspects other than Bobbie. Anything you want me to keep my eyes out for over the weekend?”

  “If you want something to do, see if they can fax more of the details about the Jamaica fire. If you want a laugh, come and see me at referee school.”

  “You’re joking,” Harper said.

  “I wish.”

  “Man, before you know it you’ll be a hockey dad!”

  “Not even a remote chance of that,” Lane said.

  Saturday, October 17

  Chapter 10

  IT FEELS GOOD to be back on the ice, Lane thought, even though I haven’t had time to buy new skates.