“How close is it?”
Ray pointed with the cigarette, “Just down the road and to the right. ‘Bout a block away.”
They walked the road as it descended into the valley. “It’s like an oasis in here,” Lane said.
“Good for the soul.”
“Anybody else close to Ernesto?” Lane said.
Ray’s eyes glanced at the Customer Service Center. He took another pull of smoke and exhaled out the side of his mouth. It hung in the air behind them. Ray’s eyes smiled, “He and Randy were pretty close. You could try him.”
“Where would I find Randy?”
“Probably up by the mausoleum.”
“Which way?” Lane said.
“Follow this road to the bottom of the hill and up the other side.” Ray pointed in the general direction.
Lane pulled the notebook out of his pocket. “What’s he look like?”
“Big. Wears a red hard hat. Moves like a jock.” Ray’s heals clicked against the pavement.
The detective wrote down Randy’s name.
“Used to play in the NHL. Every Canadian kid’s dream.”
Ray’s words were thick with sarcasm.
Lane waited.
“Hates the NHL but helps coach hockey for little kids.”
Intrigued by the apparent paradox in Randy, Lane made a mental note.
“Here she is.” Ray pinched the end off his cigarette. Carved on the same stone, on the right side was ERNESTO RAPOZO 1935-. At the foot of the stone, orange and yellow marigolds bloomed in a glass jar.
Ray said, “Got to get back to work. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”
The click of Ray’s boots receded and Lane realized how little the man had told him about Ernesto.
Lane returned to the car. He drove around the grounds, finding the green artillery gun between two grey monuments and taking a tour of the pagodas in the Chinese cemetery. Finally, he arrived at the front of a squat sandstone coloured building with silver framed windows and QUEEN’S PARK MAUSOLEUM cut into concrete. Lane parked and walked around the outside of the building. He found a man in the shade, sitting with his back against the wall. A red hard hat and green thermos sat next to him. He sipped from the battered green and silver screw-on cup. Lane sensed the power in the man. His eyes were on Lane from the moment he appeared around the corner.
“Randy?” Lane said.
“That’s right.” Randy looked beyond Lane as if waiting for someone else.
“I’m Detective Lane. Can I ask you a couple of questions?” “Nope.”
Lane waited.
“I already told the police all I’m gonna tell. Lived through it once. Television. Trial. Questions. The gawking looks on people’s faces. All the lies he told to try and get out of it.
He’s in jail. All I know is he’d better not come near me when he gets out,” Randy said.
Lane watched while Randy flicked what was left of the coffee onto the grass. He screwed the cup back on top of the Thermos and stood. Even though Lane was an even six feet tall, Randy stood a head taller. The detective said, “I’m sorry, I should have explained, it’s about Ernesto Rapozo. I was told you and he are friends.”
“Ernesto?” Randy said.
“Yes.”
“He’s okay?”
“Yes,” Lane said.
“Then why are you here?” Randy said.
Lane watched as Randy erected a wall. The detective could feel it forming around the other man. “I have a few questions.”
“You can ask.” Randy said while implying that not much could be expected in the way of answers.
“Was Ernesto here a week ago last Wednesday?”
“He often comes on Wednesday to see his wife.” Randy leaned over to pick up his hard hat.
“Was the doll with him?”
Randy brushed off the seat of his pants. “Yes.”
“What was Ernesto driving?”
“He owns a red van.” Randy stuck his free hand in his pocket. “Look, I gotta get back to work. Some holes need digging. Two funeral parties are set to arrive soon.” He walked past Lane and around the corner of the building. The detective stood in the shade realizing why Ray had sent him to see Randy. Then he checked his notebook and was reminded of Ray’s nervous glance at the Customer Service Center near the entrance to the cemetery.
Within five minutes Lane was inside. He saw bundles of flowers in a cooler and in pots on the floor inside the front door. The smell of fresh cut flowers filled Lane’s nostrils.
“Hello?” A man with pruning shears appeared.
Lane detected an Italian accent.
“What kinda flowers you want?” The man pointed at a bucket of carnations.
“I’m not here to buy flowers, I’ve got some questions to ask. I’m Detective Lane. You are?”
“Tony.”
Lane heard none of the wariness he’d picked up from Ray and Randy. He wondered why Ray had not mentioned Tony. Surely Ernesto and Tony would have talked with one another. “Ask.” Tony leaned back on a stool and crossed his arms.
“Do you know Ernesto Rapozo?”
Several creases appeared across Tony’s forehead. “Retired almost a year ago.”
“You knew him well?”
“He was from the south. I’m from the north. People from the north and south of Italy, don’t see eye to eye.”
“Oh?”
“Ernesto was a big shot like all those guys from the south. Just last week he drove up in a fancy car.”
Lane felt an almost electric tingling inside his chest.
“What kind of car?”
“Lincoln. A big shot car. Got no idea how come he can afford that on a pension. Had that doll with him too. He’s a sick man. Talks to her all the time.”
“Was this a week ago Tuesday?”
Tony studied the ceiling. “Maybe. Ernesto usually comes to see his wife on Tuesdays.”
“What’s your last name, Tony?” Lane reached for his notebook. “Ruggeri.” He spelled it for Lane. “You gonna arrest him?”
“For what?”
“Gotta be a law against having a doll like that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“She’s usually naked,” Tony said.
Lane smiled and said, “I’ll look into it. Thanks, Tony.”
“No problem.”
When he got close to his car, Lane remembered Randy’s words, “He owns a red van.” Lane opened the door and sat. He wondered why Randy had mentioned the van at all. He hadn’t lied, exactly, but it was beginning to look like he had tried to mislead. Tony mentioned the Lincoln without any prodding. Lane reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the ignition key and started the engine.
CHAPTER 18
Lane stared without focusing on the spring green painted on one wall of their living room. The colour made him think of wine.
He found the colour appealing, just as Arthur had said he would. It had been Arthur’s idea. Lane had resisted at first, but gave in when it became apparent he had no good reason for disagreeing.
Arthur had a gift for colour and, after the initial period of adjustment, Lane had found he liked the decor. It was kind of like the way he and Arthur had started off almost 20 years ago. After a bit of adjustment, they’d liked the way things worked out.
Freed of jacket, tie and gun, Lane poured a beer for himself and another for Arthur who sat hunched over the coffee table. He was reading a photocopied newspaper article.
Lane sipped his beer. “This is the best batch so far.”
“Hmmmm.” Arthur kept his eyes on the article with the headline, PLAYER CONVICTS COACH WITH VIDEOTAPED EVIDENCE.
Riley took a deep, long breath to voice his impatience.
“He’s mad because we haven’t taken him for a walk yet today,” Lane said.
“Ummm. He’ll get over it just like you’ll get over being mad at me. Maybe Riley’ll stay away from porcupines.”
Lane ignored the gibe and pushed the glass closer to Arthur. He lifted his own beer, glancing at the rising golden bubbles. “Looks good.” He took a sip. “Tastes better.”