Foxed Page 5

  She brushed back her red hair and smiled. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing. Busy day at work is all,” Russell said.

  “Really?”

  Lane leaned against the railing at the top of the Ranchlands Arena seating. The Zamboni driver was making his final pass. The ice was perfect — a light shade of blue. The Zamboni braked and eased through the gate. The driver appeared seconds later to scoop away a miniature mountain range of slush. The gate doors closed.

  A player stepped out of the dressing room, into the players’ box and onto the ice. His skates cut fresh lines in the ice.

  Lane felt he’d like to put on his skates and take a few turns around the rink. Instead, he watched and waited while more players made their way onto the ice.

  Matt was one of the last. He wore his new red, white and sage goalie mask. Howling foxes ran around the top and back of the mask. The chin, face and sides were painted with the jaw, nose and ears of a fox.

  So that’s what your new mask looks like. Lane tucked his hands under his arms and waited for the game of shinny to begin.

  He watched Matt move to the blue line and begin his stretches. Lane shivered as he thought of the eleven-year-old Zander feeling the cold metal gun barrel against his forehead. At least he wouldn’t feel the cold of the hole he was put in. Lane zipped up his jacket and tucked his hands into his pockets.

  His mind turned to the case. He rummaged through the details, the interviews, the memories being unearthed while thinking over the files he’d written more than a decade ago.

  Lane shifted his focus when he heard a puck ping off a post. He saw Matt looking over his shoulder as the puck went into the mesh above the glass. The puck dropped back onto the ice.

  The unearthing of Zander’s body stirred more images from the silt of memory. Tight-lipped school children and the parents who had taught them not to talk to the cops. A mother and father in grief. Zander’s brother, Robert Rowe, staring blankly back at Lane as he interviewed him in prison, saying, “You don’t understand. Our neighbourhood was fuckin’ written off by the rest of the city. Parents from up the hill didn’t send their kids into the valley to go to our schools. The police patrolled the streets. It seemed to us they wanted to keep the fuckin’ child molesters and drug dealers in our neighbourhood. You think I’m talking to you about what happened to Zander? No way. We deal with our own shit.”

  Lane heard someone yell. He looked to the ice where an opposing player broke clear of Matt’s defencemen. The shooter wore a white jersey and black pants. He shifted the puck from one side of his stick to the other. Then he snapped a shot. There was a thump when the puck hit Matt’s blocker and the puck ricocheted into the corner.

  After the game, Lane helped Matt lift his equipment bag into the back of the Jeep. Matt held a black bag under his arm. The helmet bag protected the finish of Matt’s prized possession.

  “How did the new helmet work?” Lane asked.

  “Great. It fits better than any mask I’ve had before.” Matt smiled despite allowing ten goals.

  “How come you kept the mask a secret?” Lane walked to the passenger door and opened it.

  Matt opened the driver’s door. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  Lane climbed in and put on his seat belt.

  “I’ve had the idea for the mask for a long time. It took even longer to save up the money. And I’ve been away from the game for a while.” Matt turned his intense expression on his uncle. “I can’t explain it. I saw this guy’s internet site, sent him some ideas and this is what he came up with.” He reached back and set the mask on the back seat.

  Lane closed his door. “How come a fox?”

  Matt put the key in the ignition. “I don’t know if I can explain that either. It’s just —”

  Lane waited.

  “— that foxes are survivors.”

  Lane said, “Fergus’s dad, Hamish, phoned me while I was waiting for you to come out of the locker room.”

  “And?”

  “He said he’s not going to charge you or Fergus with theft. Hamish has been trying to get Fergus to think before he does something stupid. This is Hamish’s chance to force Fergus to think about what he’d done and the mess he got himself into.” Lane studied Matt’s reaction.

  Matt took a long breath. “I embarrassed you in front of those other cops.” He stared through the windshield.

  “I wasn’t embarrassed. I was just glad no one was hurt.”

  “I know. But a couple of officers were laughing and they said . . .”

  “They said what?” Lane asked.

  “They said you were the guy who took the bomber down and that you were the guy who stood up to Chief Smoke. They even thought you got rid of Smoke somehow. Then they said it was funny the way you could handle those two but you couldn’t handle your own kids.”

  Lane smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” Matt asked.

  “My own kids. I like the sound of that.” Matt’s already feeling bad enough about what happened. He doesn’t need me to add to the load of guilt.

  “I didn’t like the way they said it,” Matt said. “I’m gonna make it up to you.”

  “I was thinking about what you’ll do to make it up to yourself. Besides, once I learned to accept who I was, I found it mattered less and less what others said about me.” Lane waited for Matt to start the Jeep.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 7

  chapter 7

  “Come on, Jessica, Daddy’s in the car waiting for us.” Erinn stood at the closet next to Lane and Arthur’s front door. Her cheeks were flushed red. She blew air out the side of her mouth to move a strand of red hair from her face. “Arthur, the meal was wonderful as always. Thank you.”

  Arthur smiled. “Our pleasure.”

  Matt came up the stairs with Jessica. Erinn and Cam Harper’s daughter was a clone of her mother. Same red hair. Same blue eyes. Same stubborn, independent personality. She had her arms wrapped around Matt’s neck.

  “Jess, time for us to go.” Erinn smiled through clenched teeth.

  “No!”

  “Jessica Harper, don’t start!” her mother warned.

  Matt smiled at Erinn. “Jess, it’s time for you to go home. You know you can call me on the phone any time you like. Come on, let’s get your shoes on.” Matt set the three-year-old on a dining-room chair.

  Erinn handed him the shoes.

  Matt bent to put Jessica’s shoes on.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Matt. She won’t do a thing I ask.” Erinn shoved her fists onto her hips.

  Matt helped Jessica to her feet, holding her hand. The heels of her shoes flashed red. “Jess, you can call me later before you go to bed.” Matt picked her up and handed her to Erinn.

  Jessica wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck.

  Erinn mouthed Thank you and backed out the door.

  When the door closed, Arthur patted Lane on the shoulder. “I need a nap.”

  “We’ll take care of the dishes.” Lane picked up the plates from the dining-room table and carried them into the kitchen.

  “What’s the matter with Arthur?” Christine asked as she opened the dishwasher door.

  Lane handed her a supper dish. “What do you mean?”

  “Usually he relaxes after dinner. Has an aperitif or a coffee. Tonight, he just went up to his room.” She held her hand out for the next dish.

  “He gets tired. The operation took a lot out of him, and he needs his rest. Yesterday’s yoga class really did him in.” Lane reached for dirty glasses and cups.

  “That’s not it.”

  Matt brought the last of the dishes from the dining-room table. “She’s right, that’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?” Lane asked.

  Roz scratched at the back door. Daniel opened it and held the dog by her collar while he wiped her paws. “Arthur’s scared.”

  “Of what?” Lane asked.

  Christine frowned at Lane and rolled her eyes. “
Of getting cancer again.”

  MONDAY, AUGUST 8

  chapter 8

  Robert Rowe walked south along a barbwire fence line. He turned his brown eyes east when he heard a train whistle. The locomotive thundered and the trailing cars rattled along the track. He reached into the shirt pocket of the khaki-coloured canvas shirt he’d stolen from a clothesline in Olds, the first town south of the Bowden Correctional Institution. He’d escaped from prison the day before. He pulled out a carrot he’d liberated from the garden in the same backyard as the shirt. The shirt was a little large for his five-foot-ten, onehundred-seventy-pound frame, but he figured it was better than too small.

  He looked down at the jeans and black leather jacket that were a better fit. He’d pulled them out from behind the seat of a pickup truck. The unlocked truck had been parked near a hotel bar in Olds. He wore a black D&M Align and Brake ball cap he’d found out behind a tire shop. Robert figured he could blend in with anyone he’d be likely to bump into on the way south.

  He pulled a magazine article from his other shirt pocket. It showed Kev Moreau at his downtown restaurant in Calgary. I’ll stay away from the roads, Robert thought, keep the railway on my left and make it to Kev’s Calgary restaurant in four or five days.

  Lori stood at the open door to Lane and Keely’s office as she said, “The secretary at that high school called back and she has three yearbooks for you. She doesn’t remember Kev Moreau, but she’s going to ask around to find out who might be able to talk with you. She told me it might be difficult because only one of the teachers has dropped by to get things ready for the fall.” She crossed her arms, then crossed one ankle over the other and leaned against the door jam.

  Lane stood up from behind his computer and reached for his jacket.

  Keely grabbed for her cup. “Guess that means we’re on the move.”

  Lori flipped her blonde hair. “Did you notice?”

  Lane looked at her pink jacket, white blouse, floral skirt and red pumps. “You look great.”

  “Love the shoes,” Keely said.

  “For a pair of trained observers, you two leave a lot to be desired.” Lori turned her back on them as she walked to her desk.

  “The new hairstyle suits you,” Lane said through the door and followed Lori, who was nearing her desk.

  Lori turned. “Too late.” She smiled, sat down at her computer and laughed as they trooped past her.

  Five minutes later, Lane held Keely’s coffee as she did up her seat belt. She grabbed her keys and started the engine. Once they were rolling west along Sixth Avenue, she reached for her coffee.

  Lane looked out the window at people walking along the sidewalk. A mother pushed a stroller. A senior sat on a concrete wall. A teen on a skateboard weaved around pedestrians while she swayed to music from her earbuds.

  “You’re quiet this morning,” Keely said.

  “This investigation could get very messy.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?” Keely guided the car under the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

  “Zander Rowe is dead. Birch is dead. Once we get closer to the killer, the violence could get even worse.” Lane looked out across the river.

  Keely accelerated. “You offering me an out?” She tucked the empty coffee cup between her seat and the console.

  “You really should consider it.”

  “What about you?”

  Lane shrugged. “I’m in. Once I get the smell of death in my nostrils, there’s no turning back.”

  Now is not the time to tell him, she thought.

  Fifteen minutes of silence passed before they reached the high school nestled in the valley of the Bow River. Keely parked in front of the main doors.

  Lane followed Keely inside to the mezzanine where they turned right. A pair of janitors turned to watch as the detectives opened the door to the office and stepped inside.

  A secretary had her back to them as they walked in. She turned and spotted the detectives. “I’m the only one in the office today. What can I do for you?”

  Lane said, “We’re from Calgary Police Services.”

  “You’re here for the yearbooks, right?” She pointed at an overlarge manila envelope sitting on the counter.

  “Yes, please.” Lane took the envelope. “Anyone we could talk with if we have any questions?”

  “I asked around.” The secretary pointed a manicured nail at a name and phone number written on the envelope. “She taught English here for many years. She might be able to answer some of them.”

  Lane dialed the teacher’s phone number after they got inside the Chev.

  “Yep,” a woman said.

  “Roberta King?” Lane asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Detective Lane. I’d like to talk with you about some of your former students.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Kev Moreau and Lionel Birch,” Lane said.

  “Birch is dead.”

  “Yes,” Lane said, “I know.”

  “When do you want to meet?” she asked.

  Lane decided to adopt her abrupt style. “Now.”

  “I live just down the hill from the Foothills Medical Centre. Can you be here in ten minutes?” Roberta’s voice had the raspy sound of bourbon and tobacco.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, I’ll put the coffee on.” She gave Lane the address and hung up.

  Eight minutes later, Keely and Lane stood on Roberta’s doorstep. It was a two-storey house set into the hillside sloping down from the Foothills Medical Centre to the river. They knocked on a varnished wooden door decorated with hand-carved leaves.

  The door swung open.

  A black, white and tan dog greeted them. It appeared to weigh more than one hundred pounds. One ear stood straight up and the other flopped like a combover.

  “Come in. Wally won’t bother you.” Roberta stood behind Wally, facing them. She was silver haired, somewhere between sixty and eighty, and stood at least as tall as Lane’s six feet. Roberta turned around and walked toward the kitchen. Her clothes fit loosely and a belt held up her white slacks. “Close the door behind you.”

  They followed her inside. Lane heard Keely close the door.

  Wally led the way into the kitchen where Roberta was pouring coffee into three cups. Sunlight poured into the kitchen through French doors that looked across the river valley.

  “Quite the view,” Keely said.

  Roberta sat at the head of the table and sipped her black coffee. She pushed at her hair. Wally flopped down with a sigh. “We’re interrupting his walk.”

  In other words, let’s get down to business, Lane thought before he asked, “What can you tell us about Kev Moreau, Lionel Birch and any of the other members of Moreau’s social group?” He picked a coffee, added cream and sugar, and stirred. Keely poured milk and spooned sugar into her own cup.

  Roberta looked through the detectives and into the past before saying, “Moreau was a real charmer. Good-looking kid. Even I was fooled by him for a time. Caught him cheating on a paper once. He smiled at me. Polite as anything, he asked if he could rewrite the paper, even if it wasn’t for marks, and then he left. After school I went out to my car and all four tires were flat.”

  “Moreau did it?” Keely asked.

  Roberta nodded. “Couldn’t prove it, but it was him. It was a pattern repeated several times over a couple of years. One of the girls disagreed with him in one of my classes. She had a car.”

  “Four flat tires?” Keely asked.

  “Yep. A few of the kids also told me that he was behind the drug sales in the school. Had the market cornered. He never got caught but it was common knowledge.” She glanced at the dog, who harrumphed with his chin on the floor. “Don’t you worry. You’ll get your walk, Wally.”

  “Do you have any recollection of the time when Zander Rowe disappeared?” Lane asked. Roberta focused on him. “Moreau was in on that?”

  “We’re looking into all possibilities,” Lane said
.

  She smiled. “It’s more than a possibility or you wouldn’t be here. Just like it was more than a possibility that he supplied the drugs, cut my tires and burned down my garage.”

  “He burned down your garage?” Keely asked.

  Roberta looked at each of them in turn. “I caught him cheating a second time. The garage burned the next day with my car inside.” Roberta looked through the French doors at the river valley. “Again, I couldn’t prove anything, but he let me know it was him.”

  “How?” Keely asked.

  “He’d look at you a certain way. Smile at you a certain way. You just knew.”

  “Do you remember any other people besides Lionel Birch who were close to Moreau?” Keely asked.

  “There weren’t many who didn’t try to get along with Moreau. The kids knew, the teachers knew that if you crossed him it would cost you. His buddy was Stan Pike. One of those lost kids who latch onto someone like Moreau,” Roberta said.

  “After we take a look at the yearbooks, could we come back and ask a few more questions if we need to?” Lane put his business card on the table.

  “Better hurry up if you’ve got more questions to ask. I’ve got cancer. Terminal. The doctor gave me six months. That was three months ago.” Roberta stood up, followed by Wally. “The worst part isn’t losing your hair. It’s this damned wig. It’s hot and itchy.” She took the wig off, revealed a smooth scalp and donned a black ball cap.

  After Lane and Keely got back in the Chev, Keely asked, “What was that all about? The whole cancer thing was kind of odd. She was so casual about it.”

  Lane watched Wally pull Roberta down the hill. “I think she was telling us that Moreau can’t get to her anymore. That the cancer has freed her of her fear of him. Or she doesn’t care what anyone thinks anymore and just says whatever is on her mind.”

  Keely started the engine. “You really think that she’s telling us she’s no longer afraid?”

  “It’s the most likely conclusion. Cancer changes the way you look at life.”