Indiana Pulcinella Page 5

  “Do you know the kid has been picking up the slack for you because you’re busy with the new baby?” Lori put her fists on Lane’s desk. Her posture revealed her ample cleavage.

  “I didn’t know.” Lane leaned forward. You want to fight? Let’s fight!

  “Do you know Netsky’s been whining about you taking on this investigation? It’s obvious he thinks he fucked up on his end, and he’s trying to make the shit stick to you. Nigel has been running interference for you and countering Netsky’s bullshit with facts.” Lori stood up, crossing her arms under her breasts.

  “I didn’t know that.” Lane sat back in his chair and exhaled. But it’s to be expected.

  “Now you know.” Lori looked over her shoulder. “When do I get to see some pictures of this new baby?”

  Lane picked up his cell phone, found the photos, and handed the phone to Lori.

  “He looks like you, apart from the fact that he has more hair.”

  Lane laughed. “I don’t know who he looks like, but he sure does have lots of hair.”

  The meaty side of a fist pounded Lane’s office door. It startled Lori, who launched the cell phone into the air. She managed to catch it with her fingertips before it hit the floor.

  Lane opened the door. Harper stood there, red faced. “What the hell is your sister up to?”

  Lane felt Lori’s eyes on him. “My sister and her — what do you call Milton if he has multiple wives? Spouse? Anyway, we took care of it and now Christine, the baby, and Dan are all safe. Alison, Milton, and some guy named Pratt are in jail.”

  “Someone tried to take Indiana?” Lori looked from Lane to Harper, who moved deeper into the office.

  “Someone tried to take your baby?” Nigel stood in the open doorway with a cardboard tray of coffee and tea.

  “My sister —” Lane started to explain all over again.

  “— must be absofuckinlutely out of her mind.” Nigel moved past Harper, handing a coffee to Lane, a tea to Lori, and another cup to Harper.

  Harper took the cup from Nigel. “Where’s yours?”

  “He gave it to you,” Lori said.

  Harper went to hand the coffee back.

  Nigel put his hands in the air. “It’s all good.” He turned to Lane. “How come you didn’t tell us about the baby?”

  “The baby is fine. We stopped them from getting close to Indiana.” Lane took a sip of mochaccino, noting the people in the room were eying him with expressions ranging from disbelief to cut the bullshit.

  “ ‘We’?” Harper asked.

  Lane took the cup away from his mouth. “Dan’s mother was there.”

  “Lola?” Lori asked.

  Lane nodded.

  “The two of you stopped them?” Harper took a sip of coffee. Evidently liking what he tasted, he looked at the cup and took another sip.

  “Actually a security guard stepped in and took down Pratt. A couple of nurses took care of Alison. And Lola, Dan, and I were between the crazies and the baby.” Lane looked at the faces of his colleagues.

  “So you didn’t bother to mention this to any of us because . . .?” Lori asked.

  How do I answer that one? Lane took another sip of coffee instead.

  “Good thing you didn’t try to talk your way out of that one.” Harper pointed his coffee at Lane.

  “I’ve got some names here.” Nigel pointed at his computer screen.

  Lane looked at Nigel, and for an instant they connected. Lane thought, You’re changing the subject to get me out of this mess.

  “I’ll print out the list. There are four people on both the party list and the airline passenger lists. We’ve got some work to do.” Nigel pressed a button, heading out the door to retrieve the list from Lori’s printer.

  Lori pointed a manicured finger at Lane, smiling. “Do you need to be reminded we are a team in this office?”

  I had that coming.

  It took Lane fifteen minutes to find Indiana’s hospital room. It was hidden within the red, yellow, and blue Lego architecture of the Children’s Hospital. He knocked on the door. Dan opened it while holding a finger to his lips. He pointed at Indiana asleep in the crib, and Christine asleep on a bed near the window. Dan stepped into the hallway, carefully closing the door.

  “How are they doing?” Lane smelled sweat and unwashed clothes.

  “Christine is afraid her mom or somebody else from Paradise will show up to steal Indiana.” Dan looked down the hall as a woman approached with flowers, then stepped into a nearby room. A security guard poked his head out from around a wall next to the nursing station. Dan nodded and waved.

  “Why don’t you take a break? Get something to eat. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things while you’re gone.” Lane took his winter jacket off.

  Dan looked at the door, frowning.

  “Go on. I’ll be here. Take a break.”

  Dan smiled, turned, and walked down the hall. Lane saw the exhaustion curving across his shoulders and down his spine.

  Lane opened the door, closed it, and hung his coat on the chair. The breathing of the baby pulled him closer to the crib. He leaned against the top rail, watching the rise and fall of Indy’s chest. He listened for each inhale and exhale. He listened for the door. Time passed. He heard Christine sit up. Lane turned toward his niece and saw her smile. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

  Lane nodded, unable to speak.

  “Uncle Arthur was up earlier with Matt.”

  He nodded again.

  “And Lola just left. She helped protect us yesterday, didn’t she?” Christine got up, stuffing her feet into a pair of pink slippers. She wore a red T-shirt and black pajama bottoms.

  “She did.” Lane wanted to touch Indy’s cheek but was afraid of waking him.

  “It’s good to have family standing up for you, isn’t it?”

  Lane nodded. “It is.”

  She put her arm around his shoulder, leaning her head against his neck.

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 24

  chapter 5

  “What have you got?” Lane set a coffee down on Nigel’s desk, sipping from his own cup.

  Nigel looked up, puzzled, and took the cup. “I’m trying to understand the connections between the lists. There are some. They just don’t make any sense.”

  “What doesn’t make sense?” Lane looked over Nigel’s shoulder at the computer screen, frowning at the layers of open windows of data on his screen. “Send it over to me bit by bit. I’ll divide it into manageable portions.” He went to his desk, sat down, and double clicked on an icon.

  Five hours later, Lori opened the door. “Aren’t you two going for lunch?”

  Nigel looked up at her. “Do you know how we can get one of those big monitors?”

  Lori lifted her chin as Lane looked up from his small monitor. She said, “Give me a couple of minutes.”

  Thirty minutes later, one of the department’s tech specialists knocked. Nigel opened the door. She wore a black blouse and slacks, a pair of pumps, and a tool belt.

  The black-haired woman had an exotic accent, rolling her Rs. “You ordered a bigger monitor?”

  Lane nodded. “That’s right.”

  She pointed at them. “Give me a hand with this new one, then get out of my way.”

  “Who are you?” Nigel asked.

  “Nebal. Lori sent me.” She put her fists on her hips, pursing her red lips.

  Lane saved what they’d been working on. “Want me to shut my computer down?”

 
Nebal nodded, moving into the office. She stood behind Lane’s monitor, watching as he shut down. When the computer’s cooling fan slowed, she disconnected the monitor.

  Nigel and Lane picked up the new black-framed monitor from the flatbed cart in the hallway, manoeuvring it into the office. Nebal eased past them as she took the old monitor out. She smelled of incense. The detectives set the new monitor on Lane’s desk. It came within centimetres of spanning from one corner of the desk to the other.

  Lori stood in the doorway. “Nebal, have you met these two before?” The tech stood up from behind the new monitor.

  Lane turned, seeing Netsky looking over the top of Lori’s head. The detective glared as he took in the scene. “New toy?” There was sarcasm in his tone.

  Lori turned. “Haven’t you got work to do, big boy?”

  Netsky moved on down the hallway.

  Lori turned back to face the men and pointed. “This is Detective Lane, and this is Detective Li.” She pointed at the tech. “This is Nebal.”

  “How did you make this happen so fast?” Lane asked.

  Lori gave Lane one of her you-don’t-really-want-to-know looks. “Get out of here and get some lunch so she can do her job.”

  Lane and Nigel grabbed their winter coats and made their way outside. The sun sat low in the western sky, reflecting off the snow and making them reach for sunglasses as they walked west down the Stephen Avenue Mall toward the Greasy Spoon, a restaurant that never lived up to its name. A breeze blew down the mall, turning exposed flesh white and carrying their frosty breath away.

  Nigel opened the door to the Greasy Spoon. They stepped inside, greeted by a blast of warm air and a curtain separating patrons from the cold.

  A dark-haired waitress spotted them. Lane held up two fingers. “This way,” the waitress said, leading them past the counter and up the stairs to a table. “Coffee?”

  “Please.” Lane took his jacket off, stuffing mitts and cap into the sleeve and hanging it on the back of his chair.

  Nigel sat down across from him. The waitress returned with menus and a carafe of coffee. Both detectives stared at the steaming black liquid filling their cups. Neither spoke until the coffee had been doctored with cream and sugar and the first few sips of the narcotic’s warmth began to work its magic.

  “I don’t think like you do.” Nigel set his cup down.

  The waitress stopped to check whether they were ready to order, then left again.

  “How’s that?” Lane wrapped his fingers around the cup, absorbing as much heat as possible.

  “I see the details, the little things. You see the big picture. You like to think about what’s happening, and I need to talk about it.” Nigel looked nervously around him.

  Lane saw the worry lines across Nigel’s forehead. “You think we have a problem?”

  “I think I’m not helping the way I should.” Nigel hesitated as the waitress returned.

  “Ready now?” She smiled.

  Lane said. “Bacon and eggs. Eggs over medium. Wholewheat toast, please.”

  The waitress turned to Nigel, who said, “Same with scrambled eggs, please.”

  Lane waited for the waitress to leave. “I think it’s just the opposite, actually. We come at the case from different points of view. It means we’ll see more angles if we work at it from both viewpoints.”

  Nigel frowned. “I’m not sure.”

  “Look.” Lane put his coffee cup down. A passing waitress filled it up. Nigel shook his head. “You look at the details, and you like to talk it out. I look at the big picture and like to think it out. When those two different approaches come together, we have a better chance of finding the key to unlocking this one.”

  “So, you think we have a key?” Nigel asked.

  “A lock, at least. I’ve been reading over some of the files. Byron Thomas had jewellery from another break-in. It was a gold necklace from a burglary ten months before. The necklace did not come from the Bannerman house. It was identified as taken from a house in the southwest. The Bannerman murder was in the northwest. How did Byron Thomas get to the house in the southwest? I checked the map. According to one report, Byron liked to work within three kilometres of an LRT station. He would pick cans and bottles out of the blue boxes in the neighborhoods on the days they had garbage pickup. The house in the southwest is ten kilometres from the nearest LRT station and twelve from the nearest bottle recycler. It doesn’t fit his pattern.” Lane added sugar and cream to his refreshed coffee.

  “How did I miss that?” Nigel asked.

  “That’s what I mean. What one of us misses, the other sees. I got that one because I was driving to the hospital from work. I remembered how often I see homeless people near bottle depots. There’s a bottle depot near my place, and last summer I would see a guy going through my blue box early on the morning of the day of garbage pickup. It made me think, and when I looked back at the investigative reports I found the anomaly.” Lane stirred his coffee. “There’s nothing else to connect him to the Bannerman murder. No fingerprints. Nothing but the necklace and the blood on his shoe. The blood can be explained by his being in the house. It doesn’t prove he’s the killer.”

  Nigel sat back, looking at the entrance to the restaurant. “I have an idea I need to check.” He began to stand up.

  Lane held up his hand. “Eat first.”

  After returning to the office, they spent the rest of the afternoon mapping the remainder of the information on the big screen. By the time seven o’clock rolled around, neither one could focus on what was in front of him.

  “See you in the morning?” Lane asked.

  Nigel nodded.

  Twenty minutes later, Lane was driving west along the south side of the Bow River. It was insulated with its winter outfit of ice and snow. Foggy condensation rose over open patches of fast-moving water. Ahead of him was a fog of exhaust from vehicles. Not for the first time, he thanked Arthur for his insistence they get heated seats in this vehicle.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parkade at the Children’s Hospital, leaving the warmed-up car and beginning the long walk to the hallway and the main foyer. He went upstairs, following the red line on the floor. He walked past the paintings on the wall, past the nursing station, opening the door to Indiana’s room. A woman sat in the chair just inside the door. She held her breast up to her infant’s mouth.

  Lane backed out the door. “Sorry!”

  The woman ignored him. The door closed. Lane backed up and his right heel hit the base of the wall. It seemed the organs inside his chest were about to implode. Sweat gathered along his hairline. He looked down the hallway toward the nursing station. Slow down! Stop panicking!

  “Your phone is beeping.”

  Lane looked to his left and saw a small boy with a teddy bear stuck under his arm. He wore a pair of jeans, white running shoes, and a red T-shirt. “This is for my little sister.” He held the bear out front.

  Lane heard his phone beep again. He pulled it out of the inside pocket of his sports jacket, pressing a button on the face. A text message read, “Don’t go to hospital. Indy, Christine, and Dan at home.”

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 25

  chapter 6

  “You look like . . .” Nigel hesitated.

  “Shit?” Lane watched the traffic in the outside lane.

  “Tired. Baby come home?”

  Lane nodded. He doesn’t need to know about the way I reacted when I found someone else in Indiana’s room, freezing instead of using my head.

  Nigel checked left, easing around a green Ford with two women in the front seat talking with their hands. The c
ar swerved into their lane. Nigel hit the horn and the brakes.

  Lane got a glimpse of the wide-open mouth and eyes of the passenger. The driver continued to talk with her hands. The passenger grabbed the wheel. The vehicle straightened out.

  “Hazards of sign language,” Nigel said.

  Lane looked at the clock. “Okay if I take a look around inside while you get the pictures?”

  Nigel nodded, gliding past another vehicle. “No worries.”

  They parked in the LRT station lot, walking across the street to the funeral home. The wind was calm, the sun was out, and the forecast said the temperature was supposed to warm to minus ten. Lane looked at his watch. I wonder if there’s time for a coffee?

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get a coffee after.” Nigel hefted the Nikon with the long lens, looking for an inconspicuous spot where he could snap the mourners walking in.

  “You sure you want to stay outside and take pictures?” Lane adjusted his blue tie to ensure the knot was centred.

  Nigel cradled the camera in his arms. “I’m sure.”

  Lane looked at his partner. Nigel’s eyes darted left and right. His black toque was pulled down over his ears, riding his eyebrows. Lane saw the freckles on Nigel’s cheeks. A cloud of his breath hung in the air. Lane asked, “This case has got to you, hasn’t it?”

  Nigel locked on his partner’s eyes. “Let’s just catch the fuckers.”

  Lane nodded, crossed the street, walked to the entrance of the funeral home, and stepped inside. He knocked the snow off his shoes, unzipped his winter coat, and looked around. To his right was a wall of oak-framed windows and beyond that the chapel with its obligatory stained glass. To his left, the office and a broad staircase leading upstairs. A woman in a navy-blue jacket and calf-length skirt asked, “Can I help you?”

  Lane smiled, reaching inside his suit jacket pocket and pulling out his ID. “I’m with the Calgary Police Service.”

  The woman frowned, then turned her head slightly with disapproving half-closed eyes.