“No worries.” Nigel pulled away. The Chev’s tires crunched over the compacted snow.
“What have we got?” Lane unzipped his jacket.
“Two bodies, a male and a female. They’re both sitting on an outside stairway in a back alley.” Nigel looked sideways at Lane. “That’s a first.”
“What?” Lane tried to peer through the fog of exhaust as the cars in front of them accelerated when the light turned green.
“You haven’t shaved.”
Lane reached up, rubbing the shadow on his cheek. “Busy night. Indiana and I stayed up late working on the case.”
Nigel steered the car down Sarcee Trail. They looked over the valley where the exhaust from chimneys puffed into the arctic air. Lane looked east at the downtown where white smoke rose above the cigarette-shaped high-rises. The smoke flattened out at about five hundred metres.
Nigel said, “It’ll be nice when the warmer air decides to come down to ground level.” He steered the Chev along Crowchild Trail on their way into Kensington. Ten minutes later, he pulled into an alley running parallel to Memorial Drive with houses on the south and businesses on the north. They stopped behind a white-stuccoed two-storey building with black-framed windows and a metal stairway. It switch-backed to a second-storey door. Two forms huddled facing each other where the switchback turned east to west within a few feet of the white cinderbrick wall of the Plaza Theatre.
Down below, Fibre’s Forensic Crime Scene Unit was parked beside a red Volvo. Nigel left the Chev running as they got out, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape and zipping their jackets to shield against the cold. Nigel pointed at the Volvo’s licence plate. “Kind of ironic.”
Lane spotted the LVS4EVR Alberta plate, looked more closely at the scene. “Another tableau.”
Nigel turned to him. “You really think so?”
Lane nodded. “It’s staged. The bodies were carried up to where the stairway turns back on itself. Look at the set of tracks leading up to the stairway. The licence plate on the car is another convenient coincidence. It’s got the earmarks of a staged scene.”
“Lives forever.” Nigel shook his head. “This is one sick bastard.”
Lane watched Dr. Weaver, wearing his white bunny suit, step onto the bottom rung of the staircase. The metal steps thrummed on contact at this temperature. He looks like the Michelin man. He must be wearing a skidoo suit under there. Fibre stepped onto the second rung, taking photographs at each step. He made his way up to the first body dressed in a black wool overcoat. The body leaned up against the railing where it sat with its hands hanging between its knees. He called down to his assistant sitting in the cab of the van. “Male. Bullet wound to the forehead.” He stepped around the first body and onto the landing, looking down. He reached into the pocket of his bunny suit, set down a ruler, and snapped another photograph. He turned to the second body, which leaned against the wall of the building, facing the first. This one was dressed in a grey evening gown. “Female. No apparent entry or exit wound.”
“Try the mouth,” Lane said.
Fibre looked down at Lane, then turned back to the body. He put his left hand on the deceased’s jaw. “Frozen. It looks like there is some gunpowder residue on the lips. It will have to wait for autopsy.”
Lane felt dread at the pit of his stomach. “Any ID on the bodies?”
Fibre stared at the detective when he heard the tone of Lane’s voice. “I haven’t checked the pockets. No purse at the scene.”
“May I come up?” Lane asked.
Fibre looked down at the metal steps, then glanced to the right. “There is a patch of ice up here with a layer of snow and a footprint. Be careful of that.”
Lane reached for the railing. He watched where he put his feet on the sawtooth tread of the stairway. The metal sang out each time the sole of his boot made contact. He eased past the body of the man, looking into the frozen face of Megan Newsome.
“You know who it is, then?” Fibre asked.
“I do.” Lane eased down the steps, looking down between his feet, calculating the placement of each backward step.
Fibre did the same. “Name?”
“Megan Newsome. The male will probably be her husband.”
Fibre walked over to the cab of the van. Lane and Nigel couldn’t hear what he said to his colleague over the rattle of the diesel engine.
The cab door of the van opened. Fibre approached the detectives. “The store owner’s inside waiting for you. Use the front door.”
“How are the kids, Colin?” Lane worked at keeping his voice calm. The woman’s voice at the funeral. ‘But I saw you there that night.’ It was Megan Newsome.
Fibre smiled. “Good. How is the baby?”
Lane looked at the doctor. “How did you know?”
Fibre tapped his nose with a forefinger. “I have my sources.” He walked to the back of the van, opened the door, and pulled out a toolbox.
Nigel and Lane walked east along the alley, turning left and then left again at the lights. They walked past restaurants and the Plaza Theatre before entering via the front door of Pages Books. They stepped into the warmth. The hardwood floors creaked as Lane took in the rows of books and the stairway to the second floor.
Two women sat behind the counter. One had dark-brown hair and wore a black-and-red shawl around her shoulders. The other had shoulder-length grey hair and sat behind a computer screen. They eyed the detectives with a combination of annoyance, interest, and distrust.
“Which one of you discovered the bodies?” Lane took off his gloves and toque.
The grey-haired woman looked at the other woman, who said, “I did. Wouldn’t it be easier if we started with names?”
“I’m Detective Lane, and this is Detective Li.” Lane waited.
The brown-haired woman took a long breath. “Simone.”
“Sarah.” The grey-haired woman sitting behind the computer screen stood up.
Lane looked at the women, thought for a moment, looked out the back window, then turned to look across Kensington Road. “Anybody want a Rolo?”
“Took the words out of my mouth.” Simone went to the back of the store, grabbed two coats, and handed one to Sarah.
“Any sign of a break-in?” Nigel asked.
“None.” Sarah pulled on her coat, stepping out from behind the counter. She wore tan leather boots reaching her knees. Her black slacks and top looked stylish and practical.
Simone pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of her red coat. She lit up as she opened the door, waiting outside for the detectives to follow. Sarah locked the door.
They picked their way through the snow piled alongside the road by a passing snowplow, waiting for a gap in traffic, crossing the road, and climbing the stairs to Higher Ground. Simone carefully stubbed out her cigarette on the stone railing. Inside they found a fire burning in the centre of the room, light streaming through the glass ceiling to the left, various conversations at the tables, and a line-up for coffee. Nigel took the orders, then looked at Lane. “I’ll get this. You see if you can find a table.”
They found a pair of leather chairs near the back under the glass roof. Lane borrowed two chairs from other tables. He found himself sitting across from Sarah and Simone.
Sarah said, “I got to the store first. Didn’t notice anything wrong.”
Simone hung her winter coat over the back of her chair. Lane got the distinct impression Simone had a poor opinion of police officers. “I parked at the back of the store and saw the couple on the stairway. We get all sorts of neighbourhood regulars around here, but they didn’t look familiar. I got out of the car, called out to them. When they didn’t answer, I went closer and saw the man’s eyes were open. Then I saw the third eye.”
“She came in the back door and called 911.” Sarah crossed one leg over the other.