Foxed Page 4

  “Like what?” Lane wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Like how much he was paid to do the job. And how well he knows Kev Moreau.” Keely stretched her arms, stood up and put money on the table. She looked at her watch. “It’s early. Let’s give him a try right now.”

  Lane set his share of the meal money on the table and followed Keely outside to Stephen Avenue. The morning sun reflected off City Hall and the windows of other buildings. They walked east down the mall, turned south at the corner, walked up to the car and got in.

  She drove them west, out of the downtown core along the south side of the river and past the hospitals on the hill.

  When they pulled up next to Lionel Birch’s house, it looked much the same as on the previous day. The Starbucks umbrella was neatly wrapped up, the gate was closed and so was the back door. His truck was parked along the east side of the house.

  “Let’s see if he has a clearer mind when he’s just gotten out of bed.” Keely got out of the car. “We might get more from him this way.”

  Lane got out on the other side. “Let’s try the front door.” Lane felt the hand of the sun on his shoulders as they approached the truck. The day held the promise of heat. A faint scent of grease and cigarettes rose as they walked by the Ford. They stepped onto the grass and around to the front door.

  Lane looked inside the front room window. Lionel was on the living room floor. Sunlight lit his face. His eyes were open. There was a hole between his eyebrows. “Wait,” Lane said.

  Keely heard something in Lane’s tone and reached for her Glock. “What?”

  Lane saw that his weapon was in his hand. “We just back away, call for backup and then get in touch with Fibre.”

  Within fifteen minutes the house was cleared, Fibre had arrived, the roads were blocked and the media was setting up beyond the yellow tape.

  Lane stood kitty-corner from Lionel’s house watching the arrivals. He turned his focus to the windows and curtains of the neighbours’ houses. One bungalow was painted pale yellow; the garden was green and weeded, and the grass was perfectly trimmed. A sprinkler slowly swiped its way over the lawn, then worked its way back. He could see the roof of a vehicle through the garage window.

  “What do you see?” Keely asked.

  “A curiosity.” Lane checked for traffic and walked across the street.

  “Are you going to let me in on this?” Keely asked.

  “It might be nothing.”

  “Or?”

  “Let’s see whether anyone’s home.” He pointed at the yellow house as he walked up the sidewalk to the front door. All of the drapes were closed, as were every one of the windows. The glass set in the front door was opaque.

  Lane knocked and watched through the glass.

  A shadow fell along the floor of what Lane assumed was the kitchen. The shadow shifted.

  He knocked again. “Keep an eye on the back door.” He reached to touch his pistol.

  “Weapon out?”

  Lane nodded. “Just look around the back corner of the house. Keep out of sight.”

  The shadow moved.

  Lane knocked. He could hear footsteps. The shadow moved closer. The door opened.

  The man had a triple chin that looked like turkey skin. He weighed maybe two hundred twenty pounds and came up to Lane’s nose. What was left of his hair was white. He looked at Lane’s right hand resting on the Glock. “No need for that,” he said as he opened the door. “Besides, I didn’t see nuthin’.”

  Oh yes you did. Lane stepped inside the hallway. The house smelled of fried food and percolated coffee.

  The man crossed his arms. “I live alone.”

  Lane reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “I’m in. Come to the front door.”

  “Who’s that?” the man asked.

  “My partner. She’ll be here momentarily.” He put his phone away and looked the man in the eye. “Detective Lane.”

  The man shrugged.

  Keely knocked on the front door.

  “Let her in,” the man said.

  Lane opened the door for his partner. He turned to the man. “This is Detective Saliba. What’s your name?”

  “Walter.”

  “Last name?” Lane asked.

  “Shane.”

  “We have some questions.” Lane looked around. The inside shone like the outside. There’s a curious lack of colour in here, Lane thought.

  “You can ask.” Walter took a deep breath.

  “You knew your neighbour, Mr. Birch?” Lane asked.

  “Knew?” Walter leaned against the wall and wiped at the sweat on his forehead.

  He’s trying to look nonchalant, but he’s sweating too much. “That’s correct. Mr. Birch is dead.”

  “Nuthin’ to do with me.”

  Lane decided to increase the volume of his voice. “I didn’t say it had anything to do with you.”

  “Then what the hell are you sayin’?” Walter leaned away from the wall.

  Keely said, “That you saw something, you’re scared and you’ve closed up your house even on a hot day like today.”

  “No law against it,” Walter said.

  Lane saw a tightening around Walter’s mouth. The lines in his forehead appeared to be a centimetre deep.

  “I’m not afraid! Who the hell do you think you are?” Walter’s blood pressure seemed to pump him up so that he gained at least three centimetres.

  Lane thought, Now whisper! “The fact is we have two murders. One was a young boy. The second is Lionel Birch. We think that the two may be related. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is that more people will die. Your answers have convinced me that you’re not telling me all you know. If we walk out the door right now, we’ll be back. If we come back, people in the neighbourhood will notice and word will get out.” Give him time to chew that over.

  Walter breathed. There was a whistling from his lungs.

  Good, keep breathing. It means you’re thinking. “You see, if we walk out your front door and move on to the next house, then whoever is watching will think that we learned nothing from you. If we come back to you tomorrow and the day after that then it looks like you’ve got too much to say. The decision is up to you. The smart move is to tell us what you know now. Then we move on to the next house and come back only if you call for us.” Lane reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. He held it out in front of Walter’s eyes.

  Walter looked at the card, took it, pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket and read. He took his glasses off and stuffed the card into his shirt pocket. “I was watering the flowers in the backyard. Less evaporation in the morning so the plants can soak up the moisture, and it’s quiet. I was behind the honeysuckle when this guy pulled up in a fancy car. He parked out front of my house. He had a couple of coffees in one of those trays. The guy went up to Lionel’s house, went around the back and came out about twenty minutes later. He was whistling. As he walked he was working his hands. Then he put something round into one jacket pocket and a gun in the other. He was smiling. I saw him look around at the trees and flowers. He even closed his eyes like he was enjoyin’ the moment. I remember that the birds were singin’. Then he got in his car and drove away.” Walter looked at the door as if expecting someone else to come in.

  Keely asked, “Did you recognize him?”

  Walter looked away. “He looked familiar. Like I’ve seen him around somewhere.” He lifted his glasses out of his shirt pocket and shrugged. “My eyes aren’t so good.”

  “Could you identify him?” Keely asked.

  “And you saw a gun?” Lane asked.

  “It sure looked like a gun. It’s just that . . . Well, the guy was so calm. So cool. Then you showed up and now it’s a circus.” Walter shook his head. “I don’t want no trouble. It’s summer. I just want . . .”

  “You don’t want to get shot,” Keely said.

  Walter glared at her. “Who would want that?”
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  “It’s a thoroughly forgettable experience.” Lane forced a smile.

  Walter turned to him. “You’ve been shot?”

  Lane turned his shoulders, pointed at his backside and said, “One of the most embarrassing events of my life.”

  “The pain?” Walter asked.

  “Actually, it was what happened after I took the painkillers that caused the most embarrassment.”

  Walter chuckled and shook his head. “The problem is I can’t be sure. I’ve seen the guy around but I can’t be sure.”

  “Can you give us a name?” Keely asked.

  Walter shook his head and tapped his head. “My memory isn’t so good. It might come back and it might not.”

  “Will you call if it does?” Lane asked.

  Walter took a breath. “Yes.”

  “Any specifics you can give, like the time?” Keely asked.

  “Five-thirteen. It was five-thirteen.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Keely asked.

  “I always know what time it is.” Walter pulled up his sleeve to reveal a watch with a dial that would make Mickey Mouse proud. Walter’s face glowed with embarrassment. “I can read the numbers on this one.”

  As Lane and Keely walked to the next house, she said, “He knows who the shooter was.”

  “He does, and if the shooter is that well known around here, then we have a pretty good indication of who killed Lionel Birch.” Lane walked up to the front door of the next house.

  “You’re not going to have a Nanaimo bar?” Lane sat across from Keely at a coffee shop down by the Bow River in Parkdale. Across the street, cyclists and joggers roamed up and down the trails running along either side of the river. Lane wiped his mouth with a napkin after eating a bowl of soup and half a sandwich. The sandwich was thicker than most burgers.

  She frowned at her salmon sandwich. “I can hardly finish this.”

  Lane nodded and looked at his empty cup of coffee.

  Keely covered her mouth. “Yes, you should have another cup. After interviewing fifteen different households, you deserve it.”

  “It didn’t take Walter long to pack up and leave.”

  “I wonder if we’ll ever see him again.”

  “Probably not, if he saw who I think he saw.”

  “Dude! You are so full of sh — !”

  Lane and Keely looked across the restaurant where three teens sat around a table near the window.

  “Don’t say it! We got kicked out last time, remember?” This boy was maybe fourteen and wore glasses and a ball cap with an Avro Arrow jet fighter on the crown.

  “At least let me finish my coffee this time, Bryce.” This sardonic remark came from the middle-sized one with black hair and freckles.

  Bryce had sandy-coloured hair that hid most of his face. He was the largest of the three and his voice was the deepest. “Okay, sorry. It’s just that you’re so wrong, Sebi!”

  Sebi, the dark-haired one — his voice was changing — asked, “What makes you so sure of yourself?”

  “You agree with me, don’t you, Alex?” Bryce asked the one with the ball cap and glasses.

  Alex frowned. “You’re both wrong!”

  “No way!” Bryce said, then leaned back on his chair.

  “You’re both wrong!” Alex said.

  Lane looked around. The entire coffee shop was tuning in to the conversation.

  Sebi said, “There’s no way we’ll still be friends when we’re in our forties. And who knows if we’ll live that long?”

  Bryce poked the index finger of his right hand in the air. “My dad’s still friends with the guys he hung out with in high school. They’re like . . .” He brought his hands together and interlaced the fingers.

  “That close!” Sebi pretended to shiver.

  “Sebi, you’re so sarcastic! One of these times you’re gonna go too far and somebody will beat the shit out of you!” Alex looked sideways to see if anyone had heard. He turned red when he saw all eyes on him.

  Bryce pointed at Alex and laughed.

  Sebi shook his head and pointed at his friends. “When we’re forty? Yeah, right!”

  Lane lifted one eyebrow and chewed the inside of his cheek.

  Keely said, “What?”

  Lane stared at the three young men.

  Alex said, “Speaking of forty, it’s my mom’s birthday tomorrow. She’s all stressed out ’cause she’s turning the big four zero. She doesn’t want anyone to know.”

  “Forty’s, like —” Bryce searched for the right word “— really old, man.”

  “Lane!” Keely said. The boys turned to look at her.

  Lane focused on his partner. “What?”

  “You’ve got that look.”

  “What look?” he asked.

  “That look that means you just figured something out.”

  Lane nodded. “We have to find out who went to school with, umm —” he looked around the restaurant “— our suspect.” He looked at his empty coffee cup. “We gotta go.”

  Four minutes later, Keely drove them west on Parkdale Boulevard. The remains of their sandwiches were in a paper bag at Lane’s feet. “Well?” Keely changed lanes.

  “We need to see who Moreau went to school with. He came from the same neighbourhood as Zander Rowe and Lionel Birch.” Lane stared ahead as if trying to imagine how they would manoeuvre around the roadblocks they were certain to encounter.

  “When are you going to tell me about what happened to Matt?” Keely asked.

  “When are you going to talk to me more about what happened with Dylan?” Lane asked.

  “Smartass.” Keely focused on the road ahead.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 6

  chapter 6

  “Now keep your jaw loose. Remember to breathe and hold the pose,” said Tonya the yoga instructor. She was about thirtyfive and had more curves than a foothills highway, with a voice brimming with compassion.

  Lane’s legs began to quiver. He could hear Arthur’s laboured breathing. They were supposed to be doing a pose called cowboy surrender. Their legs were spread, their upper arms parallel to the floor and their forearms at right angles. He looked around the room in the basement of Karma House. Eight other cancer survivors created their own versions of cowboy. Arthur was one of two survivors who had managed to coax a partner to the yoga classes. He, Lane and one other man were outnumbered by six females.

  “Okay, you’ve all worked hard enough, it’s time to get ready for Shavasana,” the instructor said and watched as her students lay down and tucked bolsters under their knees and blankets under their heads.

  They all lay on their backs, eyes closed and hands limply at their sides. We must look like we’re dead, Lane thought.

  Tonya turned on gentle flute music, saying, “Remember the breath. Start the inhalation down by your pubic bone and bring it up all the way to your collarbone before exhaling.”

  Lane concentrated on his breathing. The heat of the room and the gentleness of the music nearly emptied his mind before haunting memories arrived on tiptoes. For a moment he saw himself buried in a shallow grave. His nose, eyes, lips and chin were just above the earth. He began to wonder if anyone would ever find him. Next, Lane thought of the body of an infant buried in a backyard garden. I wonder whether it’s still there?

  Russell Lowell watched the customers at Kev’s. The southfacing window was open to the terrace and then to the noises of the street. He could see people staring through the glass as they walked by, hoping for a glimpse of celebrity.

  With two movies being shot in the city, it’s the best place in town to spot an international or local celebrity, he thought.

  He watched six people at a round table next to the waterfall where the spotlights and the copper-coated wall turned a sheet of water into a dance as it rippled its way over the ridges and dimples in the metal. The water disappeared into a blown glass base set up off of the floor. The light from the water reflected on the guests whose eyes widened as the food arrived. Con
versation died. Knives and forks were raised. Morsels greeted lips and tongues. Eyes closed with pleasure.

  Russell smiled. Mary’s right. I live for moments like this. When people’s faces are transformed by the food I’ve prepared.

  He sniffed at the sleeve of his shirt, wondering what spice Mary would find on his clothes and what part of the fabric Joshua — their ten-month-old son — would moisten with his milky drool.

  Time to go home, he thought as he looked up at the wide-screen television. Immediately, he recognized the face of the eleven-year-old boy smiling optimistically from the past.

  Guilt drove a locomotive through Russell’s chest. Zander.

  On the way home along the freeway, he accelerated to a hundred forty kilometres per hour. Flashing yellow lights warned of an obstruction at the side of the road. The lights reflected off the yellow skin of a lowboy trailer carrying an oversized Caterpillar on its back. The tracks of the Cat hung over the sides of the trailer.

  Russell’s right foot shoved the accelerator to the floor.

  He turned the wheel and aimed for the rear of the trailer.

  Mary brushed at the long strands of blond hair at the top of Joshua’s head. She stuck one stubborn tuft down with a lick of spit. He momentarily opened his green eyes — eyes the colour of his father’s — gave his thumb a quick suck and closed his eyes again.

  The hair popped up again like a palm frond.

  Her ears picked up the sound of a car door closing. She heard footsteps and waited in the shadows created by the outside light shining through the front window.

  A key entered the lock. The door opened. The foyer light made her blink. She heard his footsteps on marble.

  She watched Russell’s grinning face appear around the corner. He said, “Sorry I’m late. Has he been asleep for long?”

  Mary smiled and stood while holding their baby close. She walked closer to Russell, hugged him with Joshua in between and said, “You smell of coriander tonight.”

  Russell smiled and reached for the baby. He brushed his hand across his wife’s breast as he took hold of his son.