Indiana Pulcinella

THURSDAY, JANUARY 30
chapter 11

“How’d it go with the doctor?” Lane asked when Nigel walked into the office and sat down at his desk.

“I had an MRI. The doctor told me to stop boxing or I’m risking permanent brain damage.” Nigel looked at Lane.

It sounds like he wants my advice. “What do you think?” Coward! Just tell him.

“I know that the hammering -” he tapped the side of his skull “- isn’t healthy. I was hoping you would know why I do it. You’re good at figuring out motives.”

Shit! Lane looked at his partner, wondering what would come of what he was about to say. “You probably won’t like it.”

Nigel nodded, holding the palm of his right hand open for his partner, indicating Lane should go ahead.

“It’s something you probably need to figure out for yourself.”

“Please, just say it.”

Lane inhaled. Don’t do it! “I think you feel responsible for what happened to your mother, and your emotions say you need to be punished even though you know -” Lane tapped the side of his head “- in your mind you are not responsible.”

Nigel stood up, catching the tops of his thighs on the underside of his desk. He howled with pain.

Lane recoiled at the sound, the wail of an animal whose wound is exposed after being protected by layers of scar tissue.

Lori opened the door seconds later. “What the hell is going on here?” She spotted a doubled-over Nigel, turned her anger on Lane. “What did you do?”

Nigel rubbed his thighs. “Nothing. He did nothing.”

Lori looked at Lane, then back at Nigel. “Bullshit.” She crossed her arms, waiting.

Nigel got up, grabbed his coat, and walked around his desk. “I need some air.”

Lori looked at Lane and shook her head. “What did you say to him?”

“Hello? Detective Lane? This is Donna Liu.”

Lane looked across at the people sitting on the C-Train. One was reading a book. Another was listening to music. A man leaned against the glass and napped. The air smelled of warm clothing, sweat, and electric heat. “Hello.” Lane stared at his reflection in the glass. The buildings of the University of Calgary formed a backdrop.

“Can you talk?”

Lane heard the hollow sounds of road traffic, guessing Donna was in her car. “I can’t but you can.”

“Shit! Sorry, some guy just cut me off. That was close.”

Lane waited.

“There was talk at work today. Another of the Nine Bottles is going to have a party. Well, it’s five bottles now. Or is it four? Anyway, there’s a party at Brockington House. Can you believe she has a title for her house? I can get back to you with more details if you like.”

“Yes, please. How’s your son?”

“The same. Talk with you in a day or two. Bye.”

About a kilometre away, Nigel walked into the Nose Hill Public Library. At night, the blast of warm air at the entrance created a bit of fog as winter elbowed its way through the doors. He stepped through the second set of doors, removing cap and gloves, unzipping his coat, and looking for Anna. What Lane said made you angry because it was the truth. You asked him to tell you, and he did. Get over it.

He found her standing over a man who had made the unfortunate mistake of sitting in Anna’s chair. She wore a faux-leather fighter pilot’s helmet, a pair of steampunk glasses with red and violet lenses, mitts, and a brown faux-leather bomber jacket. Anna leaned over the arm of the chair, breathing on the man’s head. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“You’re sitting in my chair.” Anna’s volume made several people turn to look. She flicked down a violet lens overtop the red one.

A few regulars stared angrily at the man. He frowned, looking at his book, then settled deeper into the chair.

Anna leaned closer, took off her mitt, and hung it between two fingers. She brushed the mitt against the man’s left ear. He swatted at it, but she was too quick. She brushed his ear again. He swatted, missing.

“Okay! Shit! Have the chair!” He stood up – all six foot four and two hundred ninety pounds of him – grabbed his coat, and stormed off.

Anna took off her coat, helmet, and mitts. The she pulled her laptop computer out from under her white cable turtleneck. She sat down and opened the laptop.

Nigel took off his coat and sat across from her. No need to mention what just happened. She’ll already have moved on. Just get right to the point. “What have you got?”

Anna looked up at Nigel, setting the laptop on the round table in front of her and pointing at the screen. “Milton has fourteen bank accounts in the US, Canada, and the Grand Cayman Islands. He also has three insurance policies and five numbered companies. Then there are the businesses.”

Nigel got up, walked to her side of the table, and crouched beside her. She had all the information itemized on a spreadsheet. “Any idea on the total amount stashed away?”

“Twenty-seven point six seven million using today’s rates of exchange. He uses mostly US and Canadian dollars, but a few of the investments are in gold.”

Nigel looked at the spreadsheet. It’s all there.

“Not surprising when you realize he has a very large and very cheap labour force at his disposal.”

“He does have that.”

“What’s the baby’s mom like?” Anna asked.

“Young. It’s her first child. She escaped the polygamist community and was excommunicated.”

“Then why do they want her baby?”

Nigel shook his head. “Maybe her mother wants to punish her some more for not being obedient. Obedience is a big thing for the women. I think it’s called being sweet. Apparently it all started when Christine cut her hair short. That was a big deal for her mother.”

Anna nodded. “What does the baby look like?”

“I’ve only seen pictures, but he has lots of black hair and brown eyes.”

“Olson.”

“What?” Where is she going with this?

“The alias on the passport. The birthdates are the same. The last name is Olson on the false passport, but not on the credit cards. Ditto Williams. Not very imaginative.”

“We’re talking the killers now?”

Anna nodded.

“Thanks. Now I can check the passenger lists.”

“You have to see this video. It’s a baby laughing.” Anna didn’t wait for him to respond. She tapped the track pad. A full-screen video of a round, laughing baby in diapers came into focus. Anna laughed and heads turned. Nigel heard the echo of her laughter bouncing off the walls and the ceiling. He was unable to stop smiling.

“Olson? You’re joking?” Lane talked on the phone as he sat upstairs on the couch. All was quiet at home, at least for the moment.

“No joke. The names match flights to New York, Toronto, and Cancun. Olson and Williams were there at the time of each of the murders.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.”

I need to apologize. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“And?” Just listen. Let him talk!

“You might be right.” Nigel hung up.

Lane got up, went down the stairs to the family room and then down into the basement office where he sat down, logged on, and typed an e-mail message.

Keely,

Hope you and Dylan are surviving the winter and enjoying yourselves.

I was hoping you could help with a case. We have a male and a female who may have false passports. I don’t want them to be aware we are taking a close look at them. Their names are Andrew and Cori Pierce. Aliases are Clayton Olson and Karly A. Williams.

Our investigation is leading us to believe the couple may be linked to a series of homicides. Are you able to confirm they have travelled under two or more separate identities?

Christine’s baby is home and doing well.

Say hello to Dylan for me.

Lane