Malabarista Page 7

  What the hell — if she wants to know, I’ll tell her. “It was a Sunday afternoon. A church picnic. My parents were talking with friends. My brother and I were down by the river bank throwing rocks into the water.”

  “Your brother’s name?” the doctor asked.

  “Joseph.” Lane looked out the window, remembering the details of that day. “It was windy. I threw a rock into the water. The wind carried the splash back at us and Joseph got most of it. He started yelling at me. Calling me a queer, a freak. Then he lunged at me to shove me into the river. I stepped to one side. Joseph lost his balance and fell into the water. The river was running fast, and it swept him downstream. I started screaming for help and running down the trail along the bank. Joseph never could swim very well. He was splashing around, trying to keep his head above water. He hit a rock or something and went under.” Lane closed his eyes so that he could see it. “I ran down ahead of him. There was a branch leaning out into the water. I got into the river, held onto the branch, and grabbed Joseph by the arm. He was panicking and punched me in the face. I just held on until help came to pull us both onto shore.”

  “What was it like, after?”

  You’ve got a knack for cutting to the heart of it all. “At first, it was exhilarating because we were alive. Then my mother asked what happened.”

  “Well?”

  Lane looked back at Alexandre. Alexandre waited.

  “In front of everyone, Joseph accused me of pushing him into the river. My father punched me in the side of the head. They took me home in disgrace. No good deed goes unpunished.” Lane felt his voice wavering. That’s odd. I haven’t felt much of anything in the past two months. Now I’m feeling what I felt that day.

  “Did any recent events cause this memory to resurface?” Dr. Alexandre asked.

  “My father died recently. Joseph and his wife Margaret want to make a deal so I won’t contest the will.”

  “Really?”

  “I told them that unless they make provisions for Christine and Matt’s education, I’ll get a lawyer.” Lane shook his head.

  “Christine and Matt are your niece and nephew?”

  “That’s right.” Lane looked at his watch.

  “Could we meet again?” Alexandre wrote on the back of her business card.

  Lane nodded.

  “Before then, I want you to think about what else might have triggered the memory of your brother in the river.” Alexandre handed Lane the business card with the appointment scrawled on the back.

  Keely sat at the head of the conference table and sat Lane just around the corner. The faxed pages were fanned out in front of them. Lane looked at the printed copy of his map of names and events.

  Keely sat behind her laptop. “Well, it looks like we might have Mladen’s last name.”

  “Nezil. His name is on several of the documents.” Lane pointed at an oval on his diagram.

  “Didn’t you have trouble reading some of these first-hand accounts?” Keely watched for Lane’s reaction.

  “You mean the execution of Mladen’s brother, uncle, and father? The rapes of his mother and sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t what was especially disturbing.”

  “What was so disturbing, then?” Keely tried unsuccessfully to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

  Lane took a breath and let the automatic angry reaction to sarcasm fade from his eyes and voice before he answered. “This part.” Lane pointed at a quote he’d highlighted on one of the faxes and read it. “The militia took a break, drank some plum brandy, and a few even napped after they returned from executing the men. Then they were ordered by Borislav Goran to systematically rape the females and a handful of the boys.”

  Keely stared at her computer screen.

  “It’s so cold-blooded,” Lane said. “It was like the militia treated murder and rape as if it was a job that included a necessary coffee break. That’s what was particularly disturbing for me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Keely tried to smile and failed.

  “If Goran is the name of the dead man we found, and if this is the same Mladen who watched what happened to his family, it certainly appears to be a motive for murder.”

  “His mother was so badly beaten during the rape that she died within hours. Mladen ended up in a refugee camp. It doesn’t say what happened to his sister.” Keely pointed at her screen.

  “And it doesn’t explain how Mladen ended up in Spain or how he lost his leg.” Lane looked for his coffee, checked the inside of the empty cup, and tossed it in the garbage.

  “There’s something else here that I wonder about.” Keely looked at Lane’s map to see if he’d noticed it as well.

  “What’s that?”

  “There was a female who was a member of the militia. She guarded the women and children of Mladen’s village while the militiamen drank and slept. Witnesses describe her as a sniper. They also say she was Goran’s wife.”

  “You think it’s important?” Lane asked.

  “Might be. I haven’t met Jelena yet, but if Goran changed his identity to get into Canada, Jelena could have done the same.”

  This is getting muddier instead of clearer. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “You’re right, of course, but. . .”

  Keely stared at him. “What?”

  “Mladen has a motive.”

  “I still think we need to check out the woman.” Keely frowned and crossed her arms under her breasts.

  “I was hoping for answers and all we’ve got is more questions,” Lane said. “So we need to talk with Jelena again, and we need to find out if this last name will help us find Mladen.”

  “I wanted to thank for coming over to my place,” Keely said. “Things went well with my parents after you left.”

  “Your dad’s talking to you?” Lane asked.

  Keely smiled. “Dylan phoned my mom to tell her what happened. My dad phoned to see if I was okay. Then he came over, and we started to talk.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Good.”

  They stood in the shade of a pair of towering evergreens on either side of the bungalow’s front sidewalk. The house had a fresh coat of green paint on its stuccoed exterior. It was one of a trio of meticulously manicured homes in Little Italy, a neighbourhood just north of the Calgary Zoo that had become trendy as people with money sought out homes closer to the city’s core. Lane knocked on the door while Keely stood one step lower.

  There was an intermittent thump as someone approached the front door along what sounded like a long hallway. The door opened to reveal Leo, in a pair of sweatpants, leaning on his crutch. His bare shoulders were broad and his arms were knotted with muscle. Leo smirked, revealing a mouthful of perfect teeth. “Been expecting you. Come in.”

  Lane and Keely followed Leo down the hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house.

  Leo leaned on his crutch near the sink, opened the tap, and filled the coffee maker with water. “Want a cup?”

  “Please,” Lane said.

  Keely lifted her eyebrows, creating several creases in her forehead. Lane shrugged and sat at the kitchen table. Keely hesitated.

  Leo finished with the coffee machine and turned. “What happened to the other guy?”

  “Other guy?” Lane asked.

  “You know, your partner. The guy with the mustache.” Leo pulled out a chair and leaned his crutch against the wall. He reached for a black T-shirt on the back of the chair, put it on, and sat.

  “Detective Saliba is my partner now.” Lane felt Keely’s eyes on him.

  “Take a load off, Saliba.” Leo pulled out another chair. Keely sat.

  Okay, Lane thought, Let’s get to the point. “We’re looking for Mladen Nezil. This is his last known address.”

  “Of course you are.” Leo hooked one arm over the back of his chair. “Mladen lived here for over a year.”

 
Get as much information as possible before asking for Mladen’s new address. “I think I know why he reacted the way he did when I asked about Borislav Goran.”

  “Okay.” Leo stopped smiling. He appeared to be sending a challenge to Lane.

  “Goran ordered the massacre.” Let’s see how much he knows.

  “The murders. The rapes. Mladen and his sister were the only members of their family to survive that one.” Leo got up when he heard the coffee maker splutter. Lane gathered three cups from the counter. Leo poured.

  After he sat down, Leo said, “Mladen told me to tell it all to you. Answer all your questions.”

  “How come he’s not here to answer them himself?” Keely asked.

  “He saved up enough to buy his own place. Moved there a couple of weeks ago.” Leo watched the detectives’ reactions.

  “What happened to Mladen’s surviving sister?” Keely asked.

  Nice move.

  “She was killed by a mortar. Mladen and his sister traveled to the Canadian headquarters in that area. The Canadians were there on a peacekeeping mission. Mladen and Zara were talking to the soldiers outside the building. The Canadians were behind a sandbag wall. A mortar round dropped on them. It decapitated Zara. A surgeon amputated Mladen’s leg. The Canadians had a kind of operating theatre set up in the car park under their headquarters. When Mladen was well enough, he was transported to Spain, where he went to school and applied to come to Canada.” Leo took a sip of coffee.

  “Where does he live now?” Lane asked. I wonder if he’ll tell us.

  “First, you need to know this: Mladen still has nightmares about what happened to his family and to him. The soldiers raped him as well as his sister. He came to this country to start fresh and now the past has caught up to him in a particularly horrible way. There’s a fragile strength to the guy. He looks like he’s healthy, but the scars left by what happened to his family open up at the most unexpected times.”

  Lane waited.

  “Will you treat him with dignity?” Leo asked.

  Lane nodded.

  “He might not be home. He works two jobs. We’ve got a gig on Friday night at Marda Loop.” Leo grabbed a piece of paper and began to write. “This is Mladen’s address and phone.”

  Keely took the paper and handed it to Lane.

  “What time’s the performance on Friday?” Lane asked.

  “Eight.” Leo stood up and reached for his crutch. “I need to get to work.”

  Lane and Keely sat in the sub shop, ate their sandwiches, and drank their coffee while watching the comings and goings across the parking lot at Jelena’s Alterations.

  Keely wiped her mouth with a napkin. She glanced at Jordan, who was creating sandwiches behind the glass. “When do you want to go and talk with her?”

  “She’ll come over here for a coffee and a smoke. I’d like to question her away from her shop. Besides, that’ll give you more time to check Jordan out.”

  Keely blushed and looked out the window as if to prove she hadn’t noticed Jordan’s romance-novel good looks. “Here she comes.”

  Jelena blew smoke into the air as she puffed her way across the parking lot. When she got closer, Lane and Keely could see a furious faraway look about her. She set the half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray on the picnic table outside, opened the door to Jordan’s sub shop and walked past the detectives without noticing them.

  “Coffee?” Jordan asked.

  Jelena nodded.

  “Lunch?” Jordan asked.

  Jelena shook her head. She held out a five-dollar bill.

  “You can’t live on cigarettes.” Jordan smiled as he handed her a coffee and took the five. He looked over her shoulder in the direction of the detectives.

  “You’d be surprised at what you can live on.” Jelena appeared to miss Jordan’s warning glance. “When I was in the war, I lived on cigarettes and plum brandy for two weeks. We called them field rations.”

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Jordan said.

  Jelena stood perfectly still. Lane watched as she studied their reflections in the display glass before putting a lid on her coffee and turning to face them.

  “More questions?” Jelena asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lane stood, wrapped what remained of his sandwich, picked up his coffee, and held the door open. Jelena walked past him and sat at the picnic table. Lane and Keely sat across from her. Jelena filled her lungs with tobacco and looked at Keely. “Who’s this?”

  “Detective Saliba,” Lane said.

  Jelena studied Keely with a mixture of hatred and fear. Then she turned to Lane, acting as if Keely didn’t exist.

  “We have some questions about Borislav Goran,” Keely said.

  Jelena pretended not to hear the question. No matter what you do, you’ll offend one of them, so go with your gut. “Tell us about Goran.”

  “He was a cousin of my husband, as I told you before. Borislav was in the militia during the war. He was killed near the end.” Jelena took a sip of coffee, then butted out her cigarette. She reached into the side pocket of her jacket to get another.

  “You saw him die?” Lane asked.

  Jelena nodded while lighting another cigarette. “He was hit by an artillery shell. Not much left to identify.”

  “Very convenient,” Keely said.

  Jelena blinked but gave no other indication she’d heard the remark.

  “Borislav Goran is named in a series of war crimes. Do you have any knowledge of these crimes?” Lane asked.

  “What have these questions got to do with Andelko?”

  “Your husband was in the militia with Goran.” Lane made it sound like fact.

  She smiled. “Lots of people were in the militia.”

  “You saw Borislav die, so you were in the militia as well,” Keely said.

  Lane heard the anger in Keely’s voice. Felt the tension between the two women.

  “It was war. One survives in war.” Jelena put the cigarette to her lips and allowed a lazy wisp of smoke to rise into the summer air.

  “Was your husband a war criminal?” Lane asked.

  She exhaled. “No.”

  “Were you a war criminal?”

  “No.”

  “Were you and Andelko married during the war?” Lane asked.

  “No.” Jelena looked at the ash on the end of her cigarette and stubbed it into the ashtray. “Have you ever been in a war?”

  “No,” Lane said.

  Jelena stood, reaching for her coffee. “Then you have no idea what it is like. Have you found the juggler yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He wanted to kill Andelko.”

  With that, Jelena walked away. Lane and Keely watched her cross the parking lot and open the door to her shop.

  “She acted like you didn’t exist. Is it because your name sounds like it might be Muslim?” Lane asked.

  Keely frowned and nodded. “Probably. I wondered if you noticed.”

  “We know that Mladen’s family was Muslim.”

  “Yes they were.”

  “And many Muslims were ethnically cleansed.”

  “That’s right.” Keely watched a pickup truck as it slowed to bounce over a speed bump.

  “So now we have to find out more about Jelena Branimir and Mladen Nezil. Want to take a drive past Mladen’s place?”

  It took less than half an hour to find the bungalow on the east side of town. Lane knocked on the front door, and Keely tried the back. No one was home.

  “How is Keely working out?” Arthur asked.

  Lane sat at the kitchen table while Arthur put the finishing touches on supper. “She’s got a mind of her own. And it looks like she’s smart.”

  “Sounds pretty good to me.” Arthur put the salad on the table.

  “And as stubborn as she is smart.” Lane picked a tomato from the salad.

  Arthur chuckled. “That could make things interesting.”

  “It already has. First there wasn’t e
nough information. Now there’s too much. On top of that, someone is threatening her. It looks like it’s either a guy with connections to a group of bikers or someone inside the police force.”

  Arthur turned his head as he washed his hands in the sink. “What makes you think it’s from the inside?”

  “Access to her personal information.” Lane picked out a slice of cucumber. Roz licked Lane’s feet.

  “Is this dangerous or just messy?”

  Lane considered the question. “Probably both. Where are the kids?” He looked down at the dog. Roz looked up at Lane, then continued licking the salt from his ankle.

  “Matt’s asleep downstairs, and as for Christine. . .” Arthur shrugged.

  “So it’s just you and me?” Lane smiled.

  Arthur put on the oven mitts and pulled chicken from the oven. The scent of butter and thyme filled the kitchen.

  “Smells great,” Lane said.

  “I’ve decided I want a double mastectomy,” Arthur said.

  Lane waited.

  “If I get both done at the same time, I won’t have to worry about going back to have the other done in the future. And I won’t have to go through the whole thing again if they don’t get all of the tumour the first time.” Arthur looked directly at Lane.

  Lane turned as he heard the front door open.

  “Come on in,” Christine called.

  Lane stood. Arthur placed the chicken on a hot plate in the middle of the kitchen table.

  “This is Daniel,” said Christine, nodding toward the young man whose hand she was holding. “Can he stay for supper?”

  “Hello.” Daniel tried to smile. He was dark-haired and stood a head taller than Christine. He looked at Lane, then Arthur, then back at Lane. “It’s kind of short notice.”

  Lane saw the bruise on the right side of Daniel’s chin. And he saw intimacy in the way Christine looked at him.

  “We’ve got lots.” Arthur poked Lane in the ribs and said, “Be sociable.”