The Detective Lane Casebook #1 Read online

  “‘Speak to me’ Bobbie?”

  “That’s right,” Jay said.

  Rosie looked over the roof of the car.

  “That’s how it works. As soon as I mention her name, people have their doubts. They think Bobbie is some kind of saint. You might have believed all of what I just told you, up to the point where I mentioned her name.”

  Rosie looked at him again. “You came back for me. Everyone else ran, and you came back for me. All my friends, even some of my relatives, left me there. The police would never have caught you, if you hadn’t come back for me.”

  Jay leaned his head to the left and wondered what was coming next. Usually, I’m the one running away, he thought. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying . . .” she began, then thought for a moment. “You figure it out.”

  “I hope someone will help Cole when he figures it out,” Jay said.

  “Cole? Who’s he?” Rosie sounded exasperated with the ever-expanding list of complications in Jay’s life.

  “My nephew. If anyone knows what really happened to Kaylie and Charles, Cole does,” Jay said.

  Rosie watched Jay.

  “It’s only a matter of time before he disappears. He’s smart. He figures things out. The kid was reading at four. People think because he doesn’t say much, there’s not much going on in his head. They’re wrong. Cole used to talk with me. He’ll know what Bobbie did. And she’ll know it too. Cole will have to be dealt with before he says something to the wrong person.”

  “Come on. Get behind the wheel. Follow me,”

  Rosie said.

  “Why?” Jay asked.

  “Uncle Tran has got you an apartment. It’s definitely a step up from this place.” Rosie looked inside Jay’s car. “It’s even partially furnished. And, it has a bathroom. You could use some cleaning up, cracker.” She laughed and walked toward her car.

  Monday, October 26

  Chapter 18

  “I’LL PICK UP Matt at school after she calls,” Arthur said.

  “The room ready?” Lane dug into a grapefruit.

  “It’s all ready.” Arthur stood up from the kitchen table then sat back down again. “I’m worried.”

  “About your sister?” Lane went to pick up his glass of orange juice, then waited for Arthur to finish.

  “Yes. What are we going to do? I mean, if . . . ?”

  Arthur asked.

  Lane waited.

  “I mean if Martha doesn’t make it?” Arthur’s eyes filled with tears. He used a paper napkin to wipe them.

  “Then, we take care of Matt, I guess,” Lane wiped a non-existent speck off his black-wool slacks.

  Arthur touched the side of Lane’s face. “Thank you.”

  Lane shrugged.

  “And I’m worried about Mrs. Smallway,” Arthur said.

  “What? She’s got another party planned?”

  “No. Well, maybe she does. She talked to Matt the other day. Apparently, when she was on Bobbie’s radio show, you were the main topic of conversation whenever they were off the air.”

  An hour later, Lane and Harper met for coffee at the coffee shop on Kensington. Bryan, the manager of the coffee shop, with the blond-tipped and gelled hair, stood behind the counter. Bryan said, “The usual. A Rolo and and a regular. Black.”

  Harper said, “You got it.” They sat down by the window. Outside, the traffic was lined up to the traffic lights more than a block away. Tail lights glowed an eerie red in the sunrise orange.

  Harper pulled a folding keyboard from his pocket, set it on the table, and folded it open.

  “It seems like every time I see you, you’ve got a new piece of equipment,” Lane said.

  “It seems like every time I see you, you’ve got bigger circles under your eyes. Anyway, this baby has a camera and voice recorder along with word processing. After we interviewed Jay, I realized this will come in handy the next time we need to record a conversation.”

  Lane laughed. “Does it dance?”

  “No but you can dance if you want. It plays music, and it’s wireless.”

  “Here you go.” Bryan slid their coffees onto the table.

  “Thanks.” Thank god for coffee, Lane thought.

  “No problem.” Bryan left.

  “We need to go back over what we’ve done so far, to see what we’ve missed.” Lane lifted his coffee and closed his eyes with the pleasure of that first sip of the morning.

  The screen flickered on Harper’s new toy. He leaned forward. “It’s all here. I downloaded the information last night. Remember the minister’s wife? We haven’t seen her yet. First on the list.”

  Lane said, “Good place to start. And, what about Jay Krocker’s lawyer? I’ve got more questions I’d like to ask the kid. We’ll have to run that by the lawyer first.”

  “Got his number here.” Harper pointed and smiled.

  Lane decided Harper was just a big kid with his new toy.

  Harper typed, sipped his coffee, and scrolled down his notes. “Two question marks here.”

  “Question marks?” Lane asked.

  “You know, when we think we’re not getting all of our questions answered, I put a question mark.” Harper turned the screen so Lane could see them.

  Lane said, “Idaho Metals?”

  “Remember how nervous the woman behind the counter was? Her name was Joan.”

  “And his was Mike,” Lane said.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re right, she was way too uptight. What’s the other question?” Lane asked.

  “The case,” Harper said.

  Lane heard the nervous tension in Harper’s voice.

  Harper said, “You started out being sure that Bobbie was responsible. Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, if we start out thinking one person is guilty, then we may only see the evidence that makes our case.”

  Lane thought, How can I explain that I just knew?

  I knew Bobbie was guilty in a way I can’t define. I lived with someone a lot like Bobbie. I knew when I saw Cole, when I saw that sanitized kitchen. I knew something was wrong there. “Almost everything we’ve found out has pointed at Bobbie. The deaths of her parents.

  The fire in Jamaica. The destruction of a perfectly good car. Eddie. And, don’t forget about what Jay had to say without any prompting on our part.”

  “You have to admit, Eddie’s connection is pretty thin,” Harper said.

  “Not if the DNA comes back as a match,” Lane said.

  “I’m just saying we’ve got to be patient.”

  “You’re right,” Lane said and thought, I know in my bones there’s something really twisted about Bobbie, but I can’t tell Harper that, I can’t tell anyone that because then it would mean I’d have to explain why.

  “You’re sweating.”

  Lane took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “It’s hot in here.”

  “You call the minister’s wife, and I’ll call the lawyer. We’ll see what we can set up for today,” Harper said.

  “What about the auto wreckers?”

  “They’re next on the list,” Harper said.

  An hour later, through light traffic, they travelled northwest out of the downtown core. Harper drove.

  “What were her directions again?” Harper asked.

  “Go along John Laurie. Pass the sign by the church.

  Take the next right,” Lane said.

  “Can’t believe it took that long to get a hold of her.

  Who could be stuck on the phone for that long?”

  Harper asked.

  “There’s the sign,” Lane said.

  They read this side of the sign: Evil cannot touch me because I walk at the right hand of God.

  Lane looked back and read the other side as they passed.

  “What’s it say?” Harper asked.

  “Friends of Bobbie show your support,” Lane said.

  “What’s that mean?” Harper turned right.

  “I don’t know.
We go up the hill, take a right and then another,” Lane said.

  Within two minutes, they pulled up next to a green two-storey house with lightning rods on the roof. They got out to walk the paved trail leading to a cluster of evergreens. Within the shelter of the trees, there was a bench. A black-haired woman sat there and studied them as they approached. She wore a blue-nylon winter jacket. It was open at the front, revealing a white blouse to go with her grey skirt. Lane guessed her age between thirty-five and forty.

  “Mrs. Whyte?” Harper asked.

  “Mary,” she said.

  “This is Lane and I’m Harper.”

  “Sit down gentlemen,” she said. They sat on either side of her. “So, you’ve tracked down the anonymous Jamaica tip.”

  “It was a reasonable conclusion.” Lane turned slightly to watch her eyes. They were green and looked directly back at him.

  “You must be wondering, then, why I didn’t meet you at the church or at my home.” Mary tucked her black hair behind her ears and looked at each of them. She shivered, tucked her hands between her knees, and took a deep breath.

  “Yes,” Lane said.

  “There’s a phone blitz going on. People have gathered at the church to phone the police stations in a show of support for Bobbie,” she said.

  “So, that’s what the sign was all about,” Harper said.

  “That’s right.” Mary looked south toward the downtown core. Her hands shook as she tried to do up the zipper on her coat.

  “We have some other questions,” Lane said.

  “I thought you might,” Mary said.

  “Your call directed us to investigate Bobbie, and her trip to Jamaica,” Lane said.

  “That’s right. One of the parishioners came to me after the trip. She was one of winners who went along. Apparently, some of the women got involved with the men at the resort. Bobbie was one of them,” Mary said.

  “What was the parishioner’s name?” Harper asked.

  Mary said, “I’d rather not say. She was trying to figure out the contradiction of Bobbie’s actions at the resort with her radio-personality image. My source would face reprisals if her name got out.”

  “You know this for a fact?” Lane asked.

  “Bobbie has many followers in our church. A year ago, a woman came to me. She showed me a scar on her arm. It was from an old burn. She’d been in junior high school with Bobbie. Apparently, the burn was punishment. Bobbie had ordered her to ostracize another student. The woman said no. She reported that Bobbie burned her. No one would believe it. After the woman told me the story, she left the church.” Mary pulled the zipper to her chin and tucked hands into pockets.

  “The stories are what we call hearsay,” Harper said.

  “Since Bobbie joined the church five years ago, the congregation has grown. Every now and then, one of the families will leave. Sometimes, when I call to ask why, I’m told about vague threats made by Bobbie. Very difficult to prove, but threats nonetheless. Again, it’s easier to leave the parish than to call the police,”

  Mary said.

  “Have you discussed this with your husband?”

  Harper asked.

  “He thinks it’s all gossip and innuendo,” Mary said.

  “So, why are you talking with us?” Harper asked.

  “Cole,” Mary said.

  “Cole Reddie?” Lane asked.

  “Yes. He used to play with my son. He told me once that his mother would torture their dog. Bobbie overheard us, and that was the last time the boys played together. Cole is a very bright child. If the stories about Jamaica are true, if Kaylie was not killed by her father, then Cole is in danger.” Mary looked directly at Lane. “If something happens to that child, then his blood is on my hands.”

  Harper said, “One more thing. This phone blitz that’s going on. Can you tell us more?”

  “One of Bobbie’s friends stood up in church yesterday to tell us that Bobbie had been through enough. It was time for the congregation to do what it could to stop Bobbie’s nightmare. We were encouraged to phone the police and say it was time to let Bobbie heal,” Mary said.

  “Oh.” Harper looked at Lane.

  Lane stood.

  “There’s one other question you should ask at this point,” Mary stood up between them. She looked from side to side and waited.

  Harper shrugged.

  Lane said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Bobbie’s friends only act after they first check with Bobbie. I’ve watched them for a year. Bobbie orchestrated the phone-in. Be certain of that.”

  Mary walked away from them.

  Lane and Harper walked back to the car. Harper drove the Chevy toward the city centre. They crested a hill. The golds and oranges of autumn had almost disappeared, leaving behind a soft haze of brown. The city’s colours were leaving for the winter.

  Harper said, “See what I mean. We’ve got lots of something but a whole lot of nothing. About all we got from that is some corroboration for the vet.”

  “And we’ve got up to seven deaths attributed to Bobbie,” Lane said.

  “Or none,” Harper said.

  “Exactly.”

  “So, where does that leave us?” Harper asked.

  “Looking for more evidence,” Lane said.

  The phone rang ten minutes later, as they crossed the river.

  “Hello?” Lane said. “Yes, Chief.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Harper.

  The chief said, “We’ve logged a little over four-hundred calls this morning. Each one encouraging us to close the Reddie case. All of the calls appear to originate from the same general location.”

  “At and near Bobbie’s church,” Lane said.

  “Sounds about right,” the chief said. “This volume of support and reaction is unprecedented. It appears that our suspect may not be as clever as first indicated. Orchestrating this much pressure aimed at closing a case may be more of an indication of guilt than innocence. You and Harper are the investigators. What you’re doing is making someone uncomfortable. Keep it up.”

  “All right,” Lane said.

  Twenty minutes later, Harper parked behind a Vietnamese restaurant on Centre Street. “All this fresh air sure works up an appetite.” Harper got out of the car.

  Lane’s phone rang. They stood in the parking lot. Lane listened and pointed at the car with his left hand.

  Harper climbed back inside.

  Lane opened his door and said, “Remember the school down the road from Bobbie’s house? Cole Reddie has just been reported missing.”

  Harper used the lights and siren, while manoeuvring along narrow inner-city streets. When they made it to the boulevard, he opened it up. Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of Saint Fatima Elementary. It was a brick and red-roofed, single-storey elementary school. They’d seen four police cruisers within a couple of blocks of the school. Now two were parked in front and a police van blocked the entrance to the parking lot. An officer spotted Lane and Harper. He eased the van forward. They pulled into the parking lot between the school and the community’s outdoor hockey rink. Sergeant Stephens greeted them. “Hello you two.”

  “What have you got?” Lane stepped out of the Chevy.

  “Not much.” Stephens stood almost as tall as Lane. Her auburn hair was braided and tucked up under her cap. “Officers are searching the hills and trees.” She indicated a pair of hills rising about seventy-five metres behind the school. Two officers were visible on a trail running between the hills. “The principal is waiting inside to talk with you. Apparently, Cole was playing there.” She pointed at the playground at the base of the hill to the west. “He left when a man appeared up there.” Stephens pointed up along a path leading to the top of the hill.

  “Where’s the office?” Lane asked.

  “Through the doors, past the gym, and on the right,” Stephens said.

  Harper opened the side door. They heard the sound of children playing in the gym as they passed. The principa
l was waiting when they entered the office. He had a round face to match a round body. His hair was thick and black, like the plastic rims of his glasses. “Jack O’Malley.” The principal held out his hand.

  Lane and Harper shook hands and introduced themselves.

  “Sammy is in my office. He and Cole were on the playground.” O’Malley guided Harper and Lane into his office.

  Sammy sat with his hands on the arms of the chair. His red hair was cut short. He looked up when they entered the office. His eyes opened wider.

  “Hello,” Lane said.

  “Hi.” Sammy swung his feet back and forth while waiting for the detectives to sit down in the chairs arranged around a circular table.

  “You were on the playground with Cole?” Harper asked.

  “Yes.” Sammy studied his white running shoes.

  “Can you tell us what you saw?” Lane asked.

  “Okay,” Sammy said.

  Lane waited. Harper followed his lead.

  “We were playing on the monkey bars. Then he was going up the hill. Someone was waiting for him on the hill.” Sammy stuck his hands in the pockets of his black pants.

  “Did the person call Cole’s name?” Lane asked.

  “Don’t know,” Sammy said.

  “What did this other person look like?” Lane asked.

  Sammy frowned and shrugged.

  O’Malley said, “Mrs. Dakin is Sammy’s teacher. I’m going to ask her to join us.”

  Lane was about to disagree when Harper smiled and said, “That would be a good idea.”

  Mrs. Dakin looked to be about fifty years old. Her hair was cut short, and her eyes were red from crying. She wiped her nose, looked at the officers, and bent down to hug Sammy who immediately began to cry. It took five minutes before the child could speak again. Mrs. Dakin glared at the officers. “Sammy’s scared you’re going to take him to jail. Tell him he’s done nothing wrong.”

  Harper said, “Of course he’s done nothing wrong. Sammy, we just need you to tell us what you remember, so we can find Cole.”

  Mrs. Dakin said, “Sammy? They just need your help. Can you remember anything else?”

  Sammy sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his nose.

  “The man on the hill waved at Cole.”

  Lane said, “What was he—”