Garry Ryan
Malabarista
The fifth book in the Detective Lane Mystery series, 2011
FOR JIM
AND MARYANNE
Ordinary riches can be stolen from a man. Real riches cannot. In the treasury-house of your soul, there are infinitely precious things, that cannot be taken from you.
OSCAR WILDE,
“The Soul of Man Under Socialism”
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15
chapter 1
“This is the only way the two of you can stay in touch. Glenn passes Cam’s message to me, and I pass it on to you. Since Cam’s the one heading up the investigation into the charges against you, he has to keep his distance until it’s done.” Matt pulled on the leash, as Roz, their Australian cattle dog, dragged him along on their walk.
Lane had to move quickly to keep up to Matt, who appeared to be about to fall after each awkward step. They turned off the sidewalk and down a trail just wide enough for them to travel single file. Matt bent to let Roz off the leash. She lunged ahead.
The air was cooler in the shadow of the trees. Lane grabbed a mosquito out of the air and crushed it in his fist.
“Do you miss Harper?” Matt stopped in a clearing to sit on a toppled tree trunk. He rubbed his beard: a first attempt. It was black, the same shade as what was left of the hair on his Uncle Arthur’s head.
Lane sat down next to him. “Yes.”
“Glenn said that his uncle is pissed about Chief Smoke demanding an investigation of the lost Glock, but can’t do anything about it. Yet. Glenn told me to make sure I remembered to say ‘yet’ with lots of irony. And he wanted you to know that Smoke is trying to do a number on both of you after your last case embarrassed him. Smoke wants Harper to look like he’s turning on his old partner.” Matt turned to study his uncle’s reaction.
McTavish warned me to watch my back, Lane thought.
“He also said that Harper will do the investigation by the book,” Matt said.
Of course, Lane thought as he looked down the trail. Roz came galloping back to see what was holding them up. You can trust Cam Harper. You trusted him with your life. Being investigated could turn out to be a stroke of luck, if you can survive all of the crap in between. “Leaving the Glock behind was a show of faith.”
“What do you mean?” Matt asked.
“We all put our guns down as a show of faith. We were all putting our weapons into a pile to be destroyed. It was the only way to put an end to the killings.” Lane watched as Roz backed up with her tail tucked under her belly. She sat between them and looked back the way she’d come.
“Do you think Uncle Arthur’s biopsy will be okay?” Matt asked.
Lane looked at his nephew and saw the worry in the lines across his forehead. Lane tried to smile but found he couldn’t. How do I explain this nagging sense of foreboding?
They heard the bark of another dog as it crashed into the clearing. The black fur at the back of its neck stood up like it was gelled. The dog was at least twice the size of Roz. Its head was low with its muzzle brushing the ground as it glared at her.
“Back off!” Matt said.
“She’s friendly.” A man entered the clearing. He was dressed for golf. His grey hair was cut close and his face was clean-shaven. The dog’s leash was looped around his neck. “Isn’t that right, Chief?”
Chief moved closer to Roz and growled. Lane grabbed Roz’s collar. “Put Chief on his leash.”
“Chief’s friendly.” The dog’s owner sounded offended.
Chief moved closer. He growled and bared his teeth. Roz backed up. Chief lunged, snarling and snapping at Roz’s throat and Lane and Matt’s knees. Roz dodged left, tearing away from Lane. The dogs stood growling and spitting as they raised themselves onto their hind legs. Roz lunged. One of the dogs whimpered. Chief was on his back. Roz stood on his chest and bared her teeth.
“Call your dog off!” the man said.
Matt moved forward, grabbed Roz’s collar, and pulled her back to the log. The man hooked the leash into Chief’s collar. “You gotta watch your dog. He’s dangerous.”
“She,” Lane said.
“What?” The man backed down the path.
“Our dog is a she.”
“Better learn to control her better.” The man walked back the way he’d come.
Matt looked at his uncle. “But Chief came after Roz.”
Lane rubbed Roz behind the ears. “It’s funny how the aggressor acts after getting the worst of the fight.”
THURSDAY, AUGUST 16
chapter 2
“Detective Lane, you’re responsible.” Staff Sergeant Gregory delivered the assignment as an edict.
The order was delivered from above, Lane thought. It was well-known that Gregory was a member of the Scotch drinkers’ club, a network of “elite” officers who gathered once a month with like-minded citizens to drink Scotch and advance their careers.
Gregory sat at the head of the conference table. His freshly shaved head shone and his neck was red, either from sunburn or a tight collar. “Get on it. The Forensics Unit is at the scene.” His manicured fingers propelled the file across the tabletop to Lane, who sat apart from the other detectives. Gregory shared a smile with the other detectives, implying a private joke. “You’re dismissed.”
Lane looked up from the file to the faces of his colleagues. One looked at the door. Another developed an interest in his fingernails. A third smiled at Gregory and nodded at the joke.
Lane saw his face reflected in the glass wall. He saw the close-cropped black hair with a hint of grey here and there, the missing earlobe, and the blue eyes. It’s as if I’m seeing someone else across the table. I’ve lost weight.
“See you later, princess,” Gregory said.
Lane picked up the file, stood up, pushed his chair back in, walked to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. Take your time. Close it very, very softly. It’s amazing how quickly word got around that I was under investigation.
Twenty minutes later, he was driving north out of downtown, up out of the river valley, and passing the outlet shops downwind from the city dump. Lane tried to concentrate on the case at hand. At a stoplight, he glanced at the map on the passenger seat. A month ago, Harper would have been driving and I would have been giving directions.
He turned west. The Chev hummed, finally free to stretch out along a straight, two-lane section of highway.
Another turn south and he found the Forensics Unit, a mobile landmark with its blue-and-white paint scheme, parked just off the pavement. Yellow tape encircled the ditch and nearby slough. Inside the barrier, the cattails and grass grew waist-high. The slough had evaporated after a month-long dry spell, leaving a surface of white soil etched with cracks. Here and there were muddy indentations where one of the forensic investigators in their white bunny suits had broken through the surface to expose the mud underneath.
The remains were situated close to the south end of the slough, within ten metres of the road. Dr. Colin Weaver – or Fibre, as he was nicknamed – knelt beside them, his white hood and gauze mask hiding his expression. Not that there would be one.
Weaver rocked back on the mud-caked heals of his rubber boots and stood. He turned to one of his white-suited assistants and said, “When you remove the remains, don’t worry if you get some of the soil.” He held up a bag. “I’ll take this in.” Fibre turned his face, as handsome as that of a Hollywood celebrity, toward Lane while his assistants laid the body bag next to the remains.