Malabarista

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.

I wonder how Fibre will react to my new circumstances?

Fibre stepped cautiously over the cracked surface of the slough bottom, testing to see if it would support his six-foot frame. He pulled his mask down to his throat as he reached the cattails at the edge of the slough. He held up the bag. “I believe it’s a metal case. I cracked it open. It looks like there may be identification inside.”

“What was holding the body down?” Lane asked.

Fibre looked over his shoulder. “Two cinder blocks. One chained to the torso, the other to the knees. If it weren’t for this dry summer, we might never have discovered it.”

“How long has it been there?” Lane asked.

Fibre shook his head and looked in the direction of the mountains, the grey peaks distorted in the haze. “From the state of decomposition, close to a year. You understand that is a very rough estimate?”

Lane nodded.

Fibre pulled back the hood of his bunny suit. Perspiration made his blond hair stick to his scalp and forehead. He held up the bag. “Drive me back to the Foothills Medical Centre and we’ll see what’s inside of this container.”

Lane waited at the Chev as Fibre changed out of his bunny suit and rubber boots. The detective watched the two assistants as they severed the chains with bolt-cutters and painstakingly gathered the remains. Lane could see that a jacket held most of the torso together.

Fibre opened the passenger’s door and took a seat. Lane pulled the keys out of his pocket and got in the driver’s side. He pulled the seat belt over his shoulder.

“Smoke’s motives are transparent. You’ll be exonerated,” Fibre said.

Lane turned to face the doctor. Fibre’s expression was non-committal. When did you become my friend? Lane wondered.

Fibre turned to look south at a stand of trees. “It’s the time in between being accused and being exonerated that’s difficult.”

Lane inhaled. The stench of decomposition and slough mud filled the interior of the Chev. “The problem is, some of the mud always sticks.”

Fibre shook his head. “Each case is different. An objective analysis of the situation reveals that any type of emotional reaction will cloud your judgment.”

Colin, is this still part of your self-imposed penance for what you said to Christine? Lane started the car, shoulder-checked, and accelerated.

“I want to apologize again for what I said to your niece,” Fibre said.

Lane held up his hand. Fresh anger lit him from within. He glared at Fibre, who looked down the road.

“I had no right to say that. I understand you’ve taken in a niece and a nephew. That you and your partner are raising them. That you are very protective of children in general and these two specifically. That is why what I said was particularly odious.” Fibre’s right knee was dancing up and down as he spoke.

Lane shook his head. Who would believe this? Fibre running off at the mouth to me. And he’s been doing some digging into my background.

Fibre held up the bag. “I got a glimpse of the id. It’s protected with a clear plastic laminate. I should have some answers relatively quickly. You can accompany me into the lab if you like.”

No thanks. “I don’t like labs. You’re the expert.” I won’t be able to get the stink out of my skin for weeks.

Lane gave the doctor his cell number before dropping Fibre off at his office on the northern end of the Foothills Medical Centre. Then he drove down the hill into the river valley for a cup of coffee and some lunch. He found a place to park west of the café and walked back, past the ice cream shop and across the cul-de-sac overfilled with parked cars.

Inside the café, he ordered a mochaccino and a sandwich before finding a table near the window. As he waited, he observed the people chatting in public privacy. He’d consumed half the sandwich and more than half the coffee when his cellphone rang.

“Dr. Weaver?” Lane asked.

“Correct. I have names for you. Do you want them over the phone?”

Lane looked around him. “Want me to bring you a coffee or a sandwich?”

“Not necessary.”

Lane heard uncommon emotion in Fibre’s reply. The detective looked at the remains of his lunch. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Good.” Fibre hung up.

Fibre was waiting at his desk in an office so sterile it seemed the air was sanitized. Despite the sunshine streaming through the windows, Lane couldn’t see a single speck of lint or dust in the air.

Lane set a paper bag down on the desk. Fibre pulled it toward him and opened it. “Nanaimo bar!” He smiled, and nodded for Lane to sit.

“We have several forms of identification. The small metal case provided added protection against decomposition for the plastic licence and another piece of identification that was, fortunately for us, laminated. Here’s the driver’s licence.” Fibre slid a photocopy toward Lane. “And we have this.” He slid a second photocopy next to the first.

Both photocopies showed the face of the same man. Similar weight, same height. The second card used the Cyrillic alphabet. The man wore a military uniform and what appeared to be an officer’s cap.

“The driver’s license says he’s Andelko Branimir,” Fibre said. “And it gives a local address. The other IDID says he’s Borislav Goran.”

“You can read this one?” Lane pointed at the photocopy with the Cyrillic letters.

Fibre blushed. “I learn languages. It’s a hobby of mine.” He pointed at the military IDID. “It appears the victim served in a paramilitary unit.”

“War crimes?” Lane’s mind worked to understand the implications.

“Too little information to reach any conclusions as of yet. But yes, I’ve done a preliminary check, and this unit was implicated in various war crimes.” Fibre opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a large manila envelope and slid the photocopies inside.

“Anything else inside the metal case?” Lane asked.

“Pulp. Whatever else was in there was reduced to pulp.” Fibre handed the photocopies to Lane. “After the clothing and remains have been analyzed, you’ll get a comprehensive report.”

Lane stood up to leave. Fibre touched the paper bag. “Thank you. Nanaimo bars are – ”

“Decadent,” Lane said.

“Deputy Chief Simpson wants to see you. He’s in charge until Chief Smoke gets back. The appointment is at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Lori smiled at him from behind her desk. She was blonde, somewhere between forty and fifty, had three kids of her own, and treated the detectives like they were part of her extended family.

Tomorrow I get fired or suspended, Lane thought. It’s just like Smoke to delegate his dirty work to the second in command. And I feel nothing. No disappointment, nothing.

Lori stood and waved for Lane to follow her into the storage room where the photocopy machine was. “Come into my office.”

Lane stepped inside. Lori looked up at him. “I’m not telling you this, but something is up.”

Lane waited. I wonder how much pension I’ll get?

“Things are hopping in the deputy chief’s office. A couple of members of the police commission have been in to see him. Harper’s been in there too.” Lori leaned right to see if anyone else was nearby.

“Any idea what it all means?” Lane asked.

Lori shook her head. “All I know is that the deputy’s secretary has been fielding calls all morning. Way more traffic than usual. All of them from bigwigs. She’s even had calls coming in from the States.”

Lane shrugged. “And the deputy chief wants to see me?”

“That’s right.” Lori’s phone rang. She pushed past Lane to answer it.

Lane walked toward his office. “Lane?” He turned. Lori was holding the phone against her breast. “I checked on Andelko Branimir for you. It looks like his family still lives in town. And I could find nothing on file for a missing person named Branimir or Goran.”

“How can he not have been reported missing?” Lane asked.

Lori shook her head. “Don’t know. And…” she hesitated. “…how’s Arthur?”

Lane shrugged. “We’re waiting to find out.”

Fashionably late. That’s what his sister-in-law would call it. A busy schedule is essential. As a result, arriving late is, well, expected of one. Being on time would be a social faux pas. Lane looked around the inside of a restaurant he hadn’t visited for nearly a quarter of a century. Hardwood, leather upholstery, waiters and waitresses dressed in black and white, and stained glass windows that prevented passersby from seeing inside. He didn’t need to look at the menu to know it would hold all manner of steak and potato entrées. Instead, he added cream and sugar to his coffee and waited.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his cheek. “So good to see you.” The scent of Margaret’s perfume was almost as overpowering as the artificial sweetness in her voice. Lane felt his appetite disappear.

“Good to see you.” Joseph stood above Lane and to his right. He offered a smile and his hand.

Lane fumbled with his napkin as he rose. He stood, blue eyes to blue eyes, with his brother as they shook hands. Joseph tried to crush Lane’s fingers but found he could not.

Joseph released his brother’s hand and went to pull out the chair for his wife. Lane watched the lunch patrons studying Margaret and Joseph Lane. It was obvious that everyone knew they moved in the most exclusive of social circles. Joseph adjusted his tie and hung his pinstriped navy blue jacket on the back of the chair before he sat. He ran his hand over the shine of his hairless scalp.

“So sorry we’re late. This is such a busy time for us. The meeting with the theatre council went long, and Joseph is working with a client on a merger.” Margaret’s voice was just loud enough to carry to the next four or five tables.

She really needs everyone to hear what’s going on in her life. He looked at her strawberry blonde hair and bronzed skin. “Nice tan.”

“Thank you.” Margaret glanced at Joseph. “We’re planning to winter in Phoenix, so I’ll be able to stay tanned year round.”

Keep talking at that volume, and even the people on the sidewalk will know your plans.

Joseph waved at the waitress hovering nearby, then looked at Lane. “Have you ordered?”

The waitress stood next to Margaret and smiled. “Are you ready to order, Mrs. Lane?”

Neither Margaret nor Joseph looked at the menu. Joseph nodded at Margaret. “I’ll have the veal,” Margaret said, then leaned back so the waitress could take the menu.

“Prime rib. Medium well. Baked potato.” Joseph looked across the table at his brother.

Lane reached for his menu and looked over the salads. “Greek salad, please.” He handed his menu to the waitress.

“Very good. And to drink?” the waitress asked.

Margaret said, “I think a bottle of your best white would be nice.”

“I’ll stick with the coffee,” Lane said.

“Not going to join us in a glass of wine?” Margaret asked as the waitress left.

Lane heard the condescending tone and thought, To hell with you! “No.”

“We’ve been thinking about Dad’s will,” Joseph said.

Thanks for getting right to the point.

“Although you’re not mentioned in the will, we…” Joseph smiled at Margaret. “…would like to make provisions for Christine’s education.”

Margaret said, “She is part of the family, after all.”

“We think the amount we’ve set aside is quite generous,” Joseph said.

The waitress freshened Lane’s coffee. A waiter showed Margaret the label on the bottle of wine. With her nod of approval, the waiter uncorked the bottle. He poured a taste into Margaret’s glass. Mrs. Lane took a sip, smiled, and accepted more.

Lane added a touch of sugar and cream to his coffee. He stirred and sipped. The coffee is remarkably good. Lane put his cup down. “We have a nephew as well.” Lane looked at Margaret.

She blessed Lane with a patronizing smile, then nodded at Joseph who was apparently the one to deal with any and all unpleasantries.

“We have no legal obligation to him,” Joseph said. “Besides, your relationship with your boyfriend does not obligate us in any way to look after his nephew.”

When Lane had time to think back, he realized it was the way his brother said the word “boyfriend”- the condescending, dismissive tone with which Joseph summed up his relationship with Arthur – that triggered what happened next.

Lane focused on the coffee for a moment. “Arthur and I are, in reality, the parents of two teenagers.” He took a breath to restore a measure of calm to his voice, but it did nothing to quell the anger. “We have a responsibility to consider both Christine and Matt. To act in their best interests. Christine is my blood relative. Matt is Arthur’s. They’re our family – my family – and you dismiss them as if they’re of no consequence!”

Margaret sniffed, which Lane interpreted as a gesture of divine arrogance. “Well,” she said, “I’m sure everyone in this room has a different notion from yours when it comes to defining family.”

“Actually, the sarcasm isn’t appreciated.” Lane pushed his chair back and stood. He pulled a fifty out of his pocket and tucked it under his coffee cup. He pushed his chair in and walked away.

“There is really no need to make a scene!” Margaret said. “Your mother always said you were overly emotional. If memory serves, she even made some comment about your right to exist. You see, I was your mother’s confidante.”

Lane stopped. He walked back to the table, leaned forward, and looked at his brother. “Arthur and I have two children. Let’s see how high the legal fees will run when I contest the will.” He glanced left and watched Margaret’s tanned face blanch to the colour of a skinned almond. “And I’m sure the media will love to hear all about the way the wayward, overly emotional Lane boy has tarnished the family name and is being cut out of the family fortune.”

He walked away, ignoring Margaret calling after him: “There is no reason for you to leave like this!”

“How was lunch?” Lori asked as Lane stepped into the office and stood across from her reception desk.

“The coffee was good,” he said.

“Don’t kid a kidder.” She leaned her elbows on her desk.

“I walked out on the condescending bastards!” He sat down in a chair next to the wall.

She reached down into her desk drawer and pulled out a jar of pistachios. “Snack on these.”

As he reached for a handful of nuts, he thought, You’re the one good thing about having to spend so much time back in the office. If everybody had a mother like you, homicide detectives would be unemployed.

“How are the kids?” Lori split open a pistachio shell with her front teeth, dropped the nut into her palm, and popped it into her mouth.

“Matt’s going to university, and Christine is going to college.” If I’d kept my big mouth shut, at least one of them would be paid for.

“I checked out the location of Andelko Branimir. It wasn’t as easy as I first thought it would be. Looks like the family has moved. I’ve got a new address for you. So far, nothing on Borislav Goran. I’ll keep digging.” She pointed a finger at Lane. “Try a couple of hours on the sites – the ones I emailed to you – and see what you can find. It’ll get your mind off the other stuff. Take these with you.” She handed him the jar of nuts.

Staff Sergeant Gregory opened the door to his office. His shiny scalp was backlit by the morning sun. He smiled at Lori and glared at Lane. “So the case is already solved?”

Lane turned to walk to his office. He heard Gregory ask, “So what’s new, Lori?”

Lori laughed, “A recent study proves that impotence is more prevalent in men who shave their heads!”

Lane looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Gregory turning red and laughing too loudly before he ducked back into his office and closed the door.

Lane parked across the street from the condo with the single-car garage and the number 342 next to its front door. The doorframe was an inoffensive shade of grey and the siding a non-confrontational shade of grey. The trees in the backyards next to the Chev were staked evergreens. Each back deck had room for a barbecue and a single chair. The stripes of sod were different shades of green, some separating from the next where more water was required. A sprinkler head popped up and sprayed the passenger side of the Chev as his phone rang. Lane reached into his pocket and flipped his cell open. “Hello?”

“Dr. Weaver here. Initial indications are that the victim was hit from behind on the right side of the head. There are fractures to the parietal and occipital bones and a depression in the skull. I’ll update you when we have more.”

“Thanks,” Lane said as Fibre hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, Lane spotted a vehicle in his side mirror: a white subcompact with two women sitting in the front and the words JELENA’S ALTERATIONS printed and underlined in red on the side. Lane looked left. The garage door to unit 342 opened and the white car eased through the opening. As the door closed, Lane saw the driver lift her head and study him in the rear-view mirror.

Lane watched the house for a minute, deciding what he would say and how he would say it. He opened the car door. He was struck by the absence of birdsong; the only noise was the hum of city traffic and the hiss of sprinklers. Lane crossed the street, climbed two steps, and rang the doorbell. He waited a minute, then rang again.

The door opened, revealing a blonde-haired woman who could have been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty-five. Lane thought, You were quite beautiful at one time, but that’s past. “Detective Lane. May I come in?”

“Identification?” She pronounced the word carefully with very little evidence of an accent. Lane estimated her weight to be maybe one hundred and twenty pounds. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, opened his id, and waited while she inspected it.

She turned and walked down the hallway. “Come in.”

Lane tucked away his id. “You’re Jelena Branimir?”

“Yelena. It’s pronounced Yelena.”

Lane spotted Jelena’s daughter sitting on the couch. She wore black to match her eyeshadow and hair. Lane nodded. “Then you’re Zarafeta?”

“Zacki,” she said before pulling a pair of headphones over her studded ears. She adjusted the player in her hand.

Jelena went to the kitchen sink. “Coffee?”

“Yes please.” He watched her fill the machine with water and coffee. “A body was discovered. The driver’s licence suggests the victim is Andelko Branimir.”

Jelena froze. She reached down to support her legs as she fell back into a kitchen chair.

“Jelena?” Lane moved closer to the woman, who held her head in her hands. Zacki, meanwhile, had closed her eyes and leaned back her head. She hummed a song Lane didn’t recognize.

“Do you want me to pour you a cup of coffee?” Lane asked Jelena.

Jelena nodded. “Please.”

“What do you take in it?”

“Black.” She looked out the back window at the trees.

She’s seeing something a long way away.

Lane searched out two cups, found milk in the fridge, and waited for a minute before pouring two coffees. Jelena took two sips. “We had a fight. He said he was going back home and then he left.”

“How long ago was this?” Lane asked.

“Last fall. Never heard from him again.” Jelena cradled the cup in her hands while staring out the window.

Lane looked to his right at Zacki, who had turned up her music. He could hear the singer repeating the word “nightmare” over and over again.

Lane’s phone rang as he headed south and away from the posh golf and country club across the road from Jelena’s condo complex. A Cadillac roared past him, almost drowning out Lori’s tearful voice. “Lane? Arthur needs to talk with you.”

“What about?” Lane said.

“Call Arthur.” Lori hung up.

Lane dialed his home number with the thumb of his right hand. “Arthur?”

“Dr. Keeler phoned,” said Arthur. “I’ve got breast cancer.”

It took Lane less than twenty minutes to get home. He found Arthur, Matt, and Christine waiting in the front room, Christine next to Arthur on the couch, Matt across from them in the armchair, staring at the floor. Christine looked up at Lane. “Good, you’re here – it’s about time.”

Lane turned to Arthur. “What did the doctor say?”

Christine pushed her hands back through her black curly hair. “Keeler said that Uncle Arthur has breast cancer, and he sent the information to a surgeon at the Foothills Medical Centre.”

“That’s it?” Lane felt numb from the shock of the news and frustrated with his inability to concentrate. He sat down.

“We should expect a call from the surgeon.” Matt looked up briefly, then went back to staring at the floor.

“What do we do in the meantime?” Christine asked.

Arthur blew his nose and wiped his eyes. “Keeler said the cancer is still small but aggressive. It looks like it was caught early.”

Lane looked at Matt. He lifted his head. Matt was trying to say something with his eyes. Roz went over and poked Matt’s knee with her nose. Lane couldn’t read what Matt was trying to communicate. “What else?”

“All you do is sleep and work.” Matt rubbed Roz under her chin.

“When you’re not sleeping or working, you just sit and stare at the TV.” Arthur leaned forward to put his hands on his knees.

Lane tried to smile. “Is this an intervention?”

“Got a problem with that?” Christine asked.

Lane leaned back in the rocking chair. What is going on here?

“Ever since you and Harper saved those two girls, Harper got transferred, and they made you spend more time in the office, you’ve been like this. Even when we went for a holiday in Vancouver, we had to drag you out of the hotel room to go down to the ocean or out for dinner.” Matt sat up straight. Roz went to the kitchen and whined at the back door. Lane got up to let the dog outside.

Matt stood. “Sit down. I’ll let her out.”

Arthur put his open hand to his chest, just below his throat, and tapped. “We think you’re depressed.”

Matt came back into the room and sat down.

“I phoned Loraine today,” Christine said, “and she said you’ve got the symptoms of depression. You sleep too much, eat too little, have no interest in the things you used to like to do, and Arthur says you haven’t had sex for over a month!” She rubbed Arthur’s back.

“Ewwwww – we didn’t need to know that!” Matt said.

“I’ve made an appointment for you to see Dr. Keeler,” Arthur said.

“Why are you doing this now?” Lane asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Christine asked.

“No,” said Lane.

Matt said, “You know what Uncle Arthur’s like. He wants to know that we’ll be taken care of.”

Lane found it difficult to breathe.

The phone rang. For an instant they were frozen.

It rang again.

Lane stood and picked it up. “Hello.”

“This is Anne from Dr. Dugay’s office. Are you Arthur Mereli?”

Lane had to listen carefully to decipher Anne’s heavy Scottish accent. “No, I’m his partner, Lane.”

“I see. Is Mr. Mereli there?”

Lane looked at Arthur, who was shaking his head and wiping his eyes. “He’s here, but it’ll be difficult for him to carry on a conversation.”

“Could I speak with him for a moment just to verify that I can ask you the questions, then?”

Lane handed the phone to Arthur, who listened and said, “Yes.” He handed the phone back to Lane.

“Mr. Lane, do you have a pen and paper handy?” Anne asked.

Lane snapped his fingers and made a writing motion with his right hand. “It’s on its way. What kind of cancer are we dealing with?”

“At the moment it’s in situ,” said Anne.

“In situ?” Lane asked.

“It hasn’t moved out of its bubble. Indications are that it may not have spread. Dr. Dugay will be able to tell you more when you come for your appointment.”

Christine set pencil and paper on the coffee table in front of Lane. He nodded and mouthed a thank-you. He wrote down Anne’s name and the surgeon’s. “What’s your last name and phone number, please?”

Anne gave it to him along with the address of the surgeon’s office.

“The surgeon, is he any good?” Lane asked.

“The very best,” Anne said.

Lane waited.

“Could I have your cell phone number and email?” Anne asked.

Lane gave her his cell number and Lori’s at work. “She knows how to get a hold of me, even when no one else can.”

“Your appointment is a week from tomorrow at three o’clock.” She gave Lane detailed directions and advice on where to park.

It’s right next door to Fibre’s office, he thought.

“Any other questions?” Anne asked.

“What do I tell Arthur?” Lane asked.

“That Dr. Dugay is well-respected. That your family doctor insisted that Arthur be taken in right away. That we’ll see the two of you a week from tomorrow at three.”

“Thank you,” Lane said.

Anne hung up.

Lane looked at the three pairs of eyes waiting to hear the news, so he repeated Anne’s message word for word.