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  “You smelled it too?” Harper asked.

  Lane nodded. He remembered McTavish’s voice when he’d said, “Watch your back.”

  ×

  “This has to be the worst part of the job,” Harper turned right and followed a procession of vehicles into Queen’s Park Cemetery. Evergreen trees lined either side of the road.

  Lane thought back to another case. I wonder if Randy still works here?

  “Remembering our first case?” Harper asked.

  Now, he’s reading my mind! Lane thought. “I wonder if we’ll bump into Randy?”

  Harper looked to the left, then looked ahead as they trailed the procession of limousines and a somber parade of other vehicles. “All of the other unmarked units are waiting at the exits. They have a description of Mr. Sanders.”

  “I’m not sure I want him to show up.” Lane looked across the valley as they started down the slope. Many of the trees had a haze of green in their branches from buds waiting to erupt. The evergreens wore a coat of winter dust and pollution as they waited for the spring rain.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’ll probably run. Chases usually end badly.” Lane saw the hearse stop near a mound of earth. The trailing drivers stopped in a line behind it.

  Harper turned left at the bottom of the hill, then made a quick U-turn. “Now we’re ready if we have to leave in a hurry.”

  Lane grabbed the Nikon binoculars. Harper took the digital camera with the long lens. They took up positions where they could get a clear look at the mourners gathered around the grave.

  Lane heard the shutter of Harper’s camera as he began to pick his targets. They worked methodically though the mourners listening to the minister.

  “You guys must love hangin’ around here. Kind of expected you to show up this morning.”

  Lane looked to his left as he worked his way around the rotund tree trunk. “Hello, Randy.” He hasn’t changed much.Yet, there’s something quite different about him.

  “It’s been a year or two.” Randy took his green hard hat off and used the inside of his elbow to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  “Haven’t changed your wardrobe, I see.” Lane smiled.

  Randy looked down at his green nylon jacket and green cotton work clothes. “Not a lot of imagination around here when it comes to style.”

  Lane chuckled. “How are Ernie and Beth doing?”

  Randy’s face turned red.

  Oh, I never saw that one coming. Randy and Beth are an item now, Lane thought. “We’re looking for a suspect. He’s a little under six feet, barrel-chested, powerfully built, blond hair.”

  “That’s where you got the eyeshadow?” Randy asked.

  It was Lane’s turn to blush at the memory of James leaving the bruise under Lane’s eye. Same old Randy putting me on the defensive, he thought.

  “That’s what I thought. Is there anyone covering over there?” Randy pointed north along the pathway that exited at the northeast corner of the cemetery. “The one you’re looking for has dyed his hair black. He parked his motorcycle next to the fence.”

  “Thanks.” Lane waved to get Harper’s attention.

  “No, I’ve been meaning to thank you. Ernie and Beth are thriving.” Randy threw the comment over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Harper turned in Lane’s direction. He pointed in the direction of the crowd dispersing from the gravesite. One of the mourners was walking north. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket. He ducked behind a gravestone, then reappeared with a black helmet that he promptly put on before adjusting the chinstrap.

  Lane began to follow. He could hear Harper talking into his radio, “The suspect is headed northeast along the pathway.”

  The man in black looked over his shoulder, spotted Lane and Harper, and broke into a run.

  Lane tucked the binoculars in the crook of his arm and gave chase. The May breeze licked his face and bit at his lungs.

  The suspect ducked in behind an evergreen tree next to the chain link fence.

  The wind carried the wail of approaching sirens.

  Lane was twenty metres away from Sanders when he heard a starter whine and the motorcycle engine rev. The bike shot out from behind the tree and skidded on a patch of grass. The rear tire chirped as it hit the paved pathway. The rider opened the throttle, balanced on the rear wheel, and threaded his way through the opening in the fence. He dropped the bike back down onto both wheels and turned right.

  Lane ran past the trees, down the path, and out onto the sidewalk. He looked at the intersection. The traffic light was yellow. The motorcycle accelerated. A police cruiser was closing in. An oncoming car turned left in front of the motorcycle.

  Smoke boiled around the rear tire of the motorcycle as the rider braked. The back end of the bike twisted to catch up to the front. When the motorcycle slammed into the rear fender of the car, the rider was launched over the trunk. He skidded across the intersection on his chin, rolled onto his back, and lay still.

  Lane looked around the intersection. An eastbound cruiser braked and blocked traffic. Another skidded on a patch of gravel, creating a cloud of dust that swept across the intersection. Lane ran into the cloud and found the rider trying to get up. The rider rolled, sat down, and took off his helmet. James Sanders looked up at Lane.

  Lane stood over him. They were momentarily alone inside the dust cloud. James wiped the back of his hand across his face. Dirt mixed with tears and left streaks of mud across his face.

  Lane pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  “I think I broke my leg.” James held out his hands.

  Lane looked at the pale face and the leg bent at an unnatural angle below the knee.

  Lane put the cuffs away.

  An officer approached with his hand on his revolver. “Need an ambulance?”

  James began to shiver.

  Lane nodded. “And a blanket.”

  ×

  “We need to be there when he’s in recovery.” Lane paced the floor in the waiting room of the Foothills Medical Centre emergency room.

  “Look, I’m going to get a coffee. You want one?” Harper reached into his pocket for money.

  Lane nodded. “I’m staying here. We can’t miss this chance.” He watched the clock and then the tv in the corner. Patients ambled in, the automatic doors opened and closed, a woman snored in a chair, and Lane paced.

  Harper returned. “Here.” He offered Lane a coffee.

  “Thanks.” Lane took his and sipped. He closed his eyes. Maybe the coffee will help, he thought.

  “Talk,” Harper said.

  Lane turned to his partner. Harper guided him over to a pair of chairs set apart from the others in the waiting room.

  “What do you mean?” Lane asked.

  “Look, you don’t get like this unless you’re on someone’s trail or your world is turning upside down. So talk.” Harper leaned back, crossed his ankles, and waited.

  “Christine’s father is coming to town, and she wants me to take her to see him.” Why was that the first thing that came out of my mouth? Lane wondered.

  “You’re worried about losing her?”

  “Or her getting hurt. I mean my sister has already abandoned Christine. Her father hasn’t ever wanted to have anything to do with her. In fact, he’s denied being her father.” Lane looked at the wall.

  “It’s out of your hands, then?”

  Lane thought for a minute. “I guess so.”

  “Just like this case?” Harper turned as a nurse stepped out of emergency to scan the crowd.

  “None of it makes sense. It would take two normal-sized people to put the body in the dumpster. I have no idea how Sanders could transport a body on a motorcycle. People keep vouching for James. I pick up really weird vibes from the dentist. Yet, why would the car be left outside of the dentists’ office? It’s so obvious. The killer can’t be that stupid. And then there’s the tag on the dumpster. What kind of killer would advertise where the body wa
s dumped? Absolutely nothing adds up.”

  The nurse walked over to Lane and Harper. “I was asked to let you know that James Sanders is on his way to recovery. You wanted to talk with him. The surgeon had to put a rod in his leg. The tibia was broken in several places. So you need to keep the visit short.”

  Within five minutes they were outfitted in masks and gowns designed to fit everyone and no one.

  James was on a gurney. There was one other patient in the room. The stink of disinfectant, vomit, and blood was in the air.

  Harper asked, “We’re not going to use this testimony, right?”

  Lane watched the suspect. “Of course not, but we may at least find out where to look after this. It’s pretty difficult to lie when you wake up from anesthetic.”

  James’ eyes began to open.

  Lane pulled a couple of chairs over beside the gurney so they could sit eye-to-eye with James. Harper sat down next to Lane.

  “James?” Harper asked.

  James’ eyelids took at least ten seconds to open. He licked his lips. His eyes appeared unfocused. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  Lane looked around, spotted a kidney-shaped green plastic bowl, and reached for it. He put it against James’ cheek. Sanders lifted his head and heaved. Harper found a tissue to wipe mucous from the boy’s mouth.

  “Thanks,” James said.

  Lane set the bowl next to a nearby sink.

  Harper said, “We’ve got some questions.”

  “Did they cut off my leg?” James asked.

  “They put a rod in it.” Harper waited for Lane to sit back down.

  “Oh.” James looked at each of them. “Sorry about the eye, man.”

  “What were you and Jennifer fighting about?” Lane asked.

  “Asshole.” James lifted his arm from under the blanket.

  “What?” Lane asked.

  “I called her father an asshole. She got mad at me. We were supposed to meet at the sports bar after work that day. I waited. She never showed.” It sounded like he had meatballs in his mouth. His speech was barely coherent.

  “When did you talk with her last?” Harper asked.

  “Night before that. On the phone. I apologized. We were gonna meet and have a bite. Talk. I loved her, man.” James’ voice got rough. He cleared his throat.

  “Who killed her?” Lane asked.

  James’ tone was flat. “Don’t know, man. Don’t know. I loved her, man. You didn’t know her. She was determined. Alive. Smart. Who could kill somebody like that?” James began to weep.

  ×

  “Who’s here?” Lane stepped inside the front door. He used his foot to push aside a factory-outlet shoe-store selection of footwear scattered just inside the doorway.

  “Matt, Christine, Fergus, and some friends. By the way, there’s one beer and a frosted glass in the fridge for you.” Arthur sat on the tan leather couch in the living room. He saluted Lane with a glass of beer.

  Lane took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair.

  “How did things go at the hospital? Have you caught the killer?” Arthur put one foot on the coffee table.

  “I don’t think so. His leg is badly broken. He’ll be in the hospital for a week or so. We interviewed him right after he came out of the anesthetic. I don’t think he did it. And there are still too many unanswered questions.” Lane reached into the freezer for the glass and into the fridge for the beer. He opened the bottle.

  They heard a clang.

  “What was that?” Lane asked.

  “Fergus is practicing out on the deck.”

  Lane opened the back door. Fergus looked up as he picked up a knife from beside the barbecue. He was wearing a helmet, heavy work boots, and safety glasses.

  Roz looked out from under the safety of the table.

  Christine sat in the corner on the other side of the deck. “Don’t worry, uncle, the knives are for practice. They’re dull.”

  Fergus stood up and balanced on his good foot. “Arthur said I had to wear all this stuff if I was going to practice out here.”

  Lane poured his beer. On a whim he asked, “Either of you heard of a graffiti artist named Malcolm?”

  Fergus and Christine looked at one another.

  Lane thought, They know the name! He forced himself to concentrate on pouring the beer, and was satisfied with the lack of foam.

  Fergus threw one knife in the air, then added a second and a third.

  Lane stood transfixed by the glitter of the sun off metal. The knives rose and tumbled in their dance.

  “Why do you want to know?” Christine watched her uncle watch the knives.

  “It’s part of the investigation Harper and I are working on.” Lane sipped the beer, smiled, and kept his eyes on Fergus.

  “How did you know I was into graffiti?” Fergus was getting out of sync.

  “I didn’t. We were told to look for a guy named Malcolm, so I thought I’d ask the two of you,” Lane said.

  Fergus caught one knife, a second, and the third clanged off the barbecue. It hit the deck and skittered under the table.

  Roz moved sideways to be closer to Christine. “Enough practicing,” Christine said.

  Fergus crawled under the table to retrieve his knife.

  “So, you know about Malcolm, but you’re not going to tell the police.” Lane sat on the back step.

  “It’s just that…” Fergus began.

  “Graffiti artists don’t talk to the police. That’s just the way it is,” Christine said.

  “So, how do I find Malcolm?” Lane sipped his beer and waited.

  Fergus looked to Christine.

  Roz put her head on her paws and looked at Lane.

  “Try the phone book,” Fergus said.

  Lane ate alone after Arthur left to drive Fergus home. Christine, Matt, and Carol, who was becoming a regular visitor, watched a movie.

  Lane savoured the salmon. Arthur had baked it with honey, lemon, ginger, and sesame oil. He glanced at the phone in the corner of the living room by the grandfather clock. He stood up, went to the clock, and bent down to pick up the phone book. Lane flipped through the directory, sipped his beer, and took another bite of salmon. He found Malcolm’s Custom Body Works in bold black letters. Lane read the address and saw that it was just off Centre Street.

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 7

  chapter 8

  “This is a long shot.” Harper turned off of Centre Street, headed down the hill, and approached Edmonton Trail. Shops, small industries, and a hardware and building supplies store thrived where a drive-in theatre used to exist.

  “He said look in the phone book. The name kind of jumps out at you.” Lane checked the addresses. “Must be a couple of blocks over.” He pointed to the right.

  Harper turned at the lights.

  They found Malcolm’s Custom Body Works sandwiched between an automotive-supply shop and a paper-recycling depot. Vintage car bodies, frames, and engines were arranged in neat rows in front and alongside the south wall of the shop. Some of the cars wore fresh coats of paint, while others were cloaked with rust.

  Harper parked off to one side of a ramp leading to the open mouth of an overhead door. The inside of the shop was hidden in shadow. The whine of tools, powered by compressed air, carried out into the yard. Lane got out of the passenger door and strode up the ramp. Harper followed.

  Inside, their eyes adjusted to the artificial light. They saw car bodies being prepped for paint. The centrepiece was a 1953 Ford pickup truck, customized and lowered to the point where it looked futuristic rather than antique. Its candy-apple red finish glowed from countless coats of clear finish.

  A man poked his clean-shaven head from behind the fender of the Ford. He lifted his safety glasses and focused on the detectives. Lane watched as other pairs of eyes spotted the officers. Then, deciding there wasn’t enough to hold their interest, the workers continued on with their tasks.

  “Over here!”

  Lane and Harper turned toward
the voice coming from their right. The man was at least six feet tall, weighed over two hundred pounds, and wore blue coveralls and a ball cap. He motioned for the detectives to come into the front office.

  Lane closed the door behind them so that normal conversation would be possible.

  “What’s up?” the man asked as he sat in a red office chair that was remarkably free of dirt.

  Lane and Harper sat down on either side of a blue water cooler.

  A blonde woman turned around in her chair to study the detectives. Lane noted her blue eyes appraising him at the same time he studied her.

  She’s about the same age as him: twenty-five to thirty, Lane thought.

  Harper pulled a folded image from his pocket. It was a photograph of the dumpster where Jennifer Tower’s body was discovered. “We’re looking for Malcolm.”

  “You found him.” Malcolm leaned forward in his chair.

  He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but it’s not working. Lane observed the intensity of Malcolm’s eyes and the way his posture changed.

  “Could you help us identify the person who created this?” Harper handed the tag to Malcolm.

  Malcolm took the paper. He carefully placed it on the desk and traced the letters with the pinky finger of his right hand. He looked up. “Okay.”

  Lane said, “We’d like to find the artist. Can you help us?”

  Malcolm handed the picture back to Harper.

  “Well?” Harper asked.

  “Pretty graphic.” Malcolm leaned back. “Have you met Harry?” He nodded at the woman behind the other desk.

  Harry stood, walked around the desk, and shook hands with each of the detectives. “Charmed.” She smiled to ease the sarcasm in her voice.

  Lane thought, There’s no way we’re going to be able to force either of these people to do what they don’t want to do. “What do you mean?” Lane asked Malcolm.

  “Sorry?” Malcolm tilted his head to one side.

  “You said it was pretty graphic.” Lane stood up, took the picture from Harper, and handed it back to Malcolm.

  Malcolm leaned forward to set the tag on his desk. “See here. The way the ‘W’ and the ‘O’ are drawn.” He pointed at the letters.