The Lucky Elephant Restaurant

Monday, October 19
Chapter 12

“ARTHUR? HARPER JUST called. Things are really hopping. I’m meeting him for coffee. Are you and Matt going to be okay?” Lane was just out of the shower, and he noticed a few damp spots coming through the front of his shirt as he was knotting his tie.

“I’ll drive Matt to school,” Arthur said.

Matt sat eating cereal, across the table from Arthur. The boy nodded at Lane.

The phone rang.

Arthur reached for it. “Hello? Lisa. Yes, we’re fine.

It has been interesting. Yes, I’m sorry too, but… Lane’s right here.”

Lane took the phone. “Hello, Lisa.”

“I just got a call from Dr. Fibre. You know, the forensics genius with absolutely no social skills. He looks like something out of a male model magazine but can’t pick a pair of pants to match a shirt or tie,” Lisa said.

“I met him once.” Lane took a sip of coffee.

“He said he got some fibres off of Kaylie’s clothing. A few were animal; canine. And some were consistent with the material used to carpet the trunks of latemodel cars. He’s confident he can make a match, if you can find the vehicle. Fibre confirmed that her upper body was wrapped in a plastic consistent with the material used to manufacture garbage bags.”

Lisa sounded better today, more optimistic, Lane thought. “The car’s a problem. Bobbie had her old car shredded. She’s already bought a new one.”

Lisa said, “The car was only a couple of years old. Sounds like a calculated move. Destroying evidence. Staying one step ahead of you.”

“Looks like it,” Lane said.

“Pretty damning when you think about it.”

“Damning but not the kind of evidence that would be damning in court,” Lane said.

“Probably not. I’ll keep you informed from this end. Something else may turn up.”

“I’ll keep you up-to-date on what we find,” Lane said.

“Good. Take care.” Lisa hung up.

Lane and Harper met twenty minutes later at a coffee shop on Kensington. A table by the window offered privacy.

Lane sipped a Rolo, with its delicious blend of espresso, chocolate and caramel.

Harper said, “We may have caught a break. Bobbie has a brother. Name’s Jay Krocker. He’s nineteen. Problem is there appears to be no fixed address. It may take a while to track him down. And get this, their parents died when Jay was fifteen. It was a house fire attributed to careless smoking. Jay claimed his parents had quit smoking. Still, the investigators couldn’t find a cause other than careless smoking. I’ve asked for the file so we can take a look.”

“That’s three,” Lane said.

“Three?” Harper asked.

“Two fires attributed to careless smoking and a burned-out cigarette butt in the camper. It’s beginning to look like a pattern.” Lane stirred the whipped cream and caramel into his coffee.

“I got two more messages from the vet. She wants us to call her,” Harper said.

“We’ve got to find the brother. He may be able to give us some insights into Bobbie. The vet may have to wait.”

“So, I hear you’ve got a big game tonight. First night as a ref. Nervous?” Harper asked.

Lane thought for a moment. He remembered he still had to get new skates. “Arthur’s buying me a referee’s jersey and a pair of pants. But I’ve got to get a new helmet and skates.”

“Have you ever skated without toe picks?” Harper smiled.

“No.”

Harper smiled some more.

Harper continued smiling for the rest of the day until nearly four o’clock. It was a day of phone calls, faxes, and computer searches. As planned, they met in a conference room to compare notes.

Lane set several folders down on the table. Harper did the same. They sat next to one another with sleeves rolled up and jackets on the backs of their chairs.

Harper opened his top folder. “I’ve got a driver’s license and photo of Jay Krocker. He’s fifteen years younger than his sister. Owns a twenty-year-old Lincoln. I phoned the address on his driver’s license. The woman who lives there said he drops by every month or so for mail. Apparently, he hasn’t lived there for several years. Another place we might be able to find him is the university. He’s registered there, and I’ve got a copy of his timetable. We should be able to wait around one of his classes, pick him out, and sit him down for a chat.”

“And the report on his parents’ house fire?” Lane asked.

“I did find some notes. The kid was barely fifteen at the time. He said his parents quit smoking. Bobbie had fought with them over money a couple of days before the fire. The firemen were able to save Jay because he was sleeping downstairs. But his parents died of smoke inhalation. According to the report, the batteries in both fire detectors were dead,” Harper said.

“Who did the kid live with after the fire?”

“That’s something we’ll have to ask him,” he said.

“We’re short on physical evidence. Dr. Fibre has some physical evidence. Until we can supply him with evidence connecting individuals to crime scenes, he’s not going to be able to help us much,” Lane said.

“Aren’t you gonna ask about the cops in Jamaica?”

“Well?” Lane asked.

“The officer I talked with has a cousin who works at the resort. There was a fight when Bobbie arrived for the second time. It was an argument between Bobbie and the twin sisters who died in the fire. Later, Bobbie was seen drinking with Frank-the GO-and the famous twins.”

“The famous twins?” Lane asked.

“The twins had their own web site rating the sexual performances of the GO’s at the various resorts,”

Harper said.

“GO’s?” Lane leaned back in his chair.

“Don’t you remember? Gigolos. Buff guys hired by resorts to entertain the guests. Apparently, the fabulous twins, Frank-the GO Bobbie fell for-and Bobbie drank into the wee hours. A few hours later, there was smoke coming out of the twins’ room. Frank and the twins were found dead inside. Bobbie left on the plane later that day.”

“Autopsy reports?” Lane asked.

Harper tapped a folder. “Faxed copies are in here. Frank and the twins died from smoke inhalation. All three had blood-alcohol levels of point-two-zero or higher. Both twins were smokers. The investigators attributed the cause of the fire to a cigarette left on the couch.”

“A lot of careless smoking happens when Bobbie’s around. Did your contact add anything else?” Lane asked.

“Just that the resort wants it all hushed up. It’s bad for business when the tourists die. There were lots of rumours circulating the day after the fire. Bobbie packed up and left in the morning even though her flight didn’t leave till seven o’clock.”

“We need to talk with Bobbie’s brother,” Lane said.

BOBBIE: Good afternoon. It’s Bobbie on the ride home. I need your advice. How do I survive a life-threatening illness? It seems like when it rains, it pours. What do I do when my doctor tells me I’ve got cancer? It’s Bobbie. Tell me your story and give me your advice.

The arena smelled of sweat, propane fumes, and artificial ice. Arthur was waiting in the foyer and handed Lane a black bag. Arthur said, “Your new jersey, elbow pads, whistle, and pants are in there. You have to get your own helmet and skates.” Arthur looked nervous as he eyed the door leading to the stands.

Lane said, “Thanks. Is Matt here?”

“He’s getting changed.” Arthur was sweating in spite of the chill in the air. “Never was very comfortable in places like this.”

“Guess I’d better get changed.” Lane walked down a hallway and knocked on a door labelled REFEREE.

“You need a key.”

Lane turned. He was greeted by a fifty-something woman in a red and black flannel shirt, stretchy blue jeans, and running shoes. She looked like a gravel-truck driver and had the brushcut to prove it. “I’ll open up for you today, but next time check in the office to pick up a key. Name’s Cheryl.” She stuck out a hand.

“Thanks.” Lane shook her hand. Cheryl nearly broke his fingers with her grip.

She opened the door with a key on the end of a chain tied to her belt. “I’m the rink attendant. Gotta run. Game’s almost over, and the ice needs a fresh coat.”

Lane was lacing up his skates in the changing room, when a key turned in the lock.

“Hello,” Lane said.

Bob, the head referee who’d taken an early dislike to Lane during the training sessions, walked in.

“How’d you get in here?” he asked in his best drillsergeant voice. “Cheryl the dyke let you in? Still got the figure skates I see.”

Lane felt the heat rise on his face. He thought, Just take a deep breath and ignore the jerk.

“For the first few games the experienced refs come around and help the new guys out.” Bob put his black equipment bag down. “You’ll do the lines. I’ll wear the red.” He pulled out his jersey and pointed at the red band stitched around one arm.

Lane said nothing, did up his skates, and went outside. He held his whistle and Harper’s ancient helmet in his right hand. Cheryl maneuvered the Zamboni off the ice, jumped down to scoop up a line of slush, then closed the gates behind her. The ice was blue-perfect. Lane felt a thrill of anticipation as he opened the gate and stepped down. His blades bit into the ice while he accelerated and put on his helmet.

Halfway into the game, Lane began to feel as if he were into a rhythm. He covered offsides at the blueline, fetched iced pucks for Bob, and thought only about the game. He was energized with a clear mind and the old, familiar feel of the ice underneath his blades. Looking the wrong way on a breakout play, Lane was blind-sided by two fifteen-year-old giants who collided, and slid into his knees. He found himself flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, staring at the lights hanging from the arena ceiling. As awareness of his surroundings gradually returned, the two players got up and said, “Sorry Ref.”

Lane blinked. He did a mental inventory of bones and muscles.

Bob bent over him and said, “Gotta keep your eyes open, buddy.” He skated away without offering Lane a hand up.

On the next play, both of Matt’s defencemen fell as they shifted from skating forward to skating in reverse. The opposing forward skated in on a breakaway.

Matt pushed himself out to the top of the crease. One shoulder was hunched higher than the other. His elbows were cocked too high.

Bob skated down the opposite side, getting into position to call the play.

The forward deked left.

Matt stood still.

The forward shot high on Matt’s stick side.

His stick and blocker jerked up. There was nothing smooth about the motion. It appeared to be a hopeful swipe in the air in the vicinity of the puck. The puck bounced off Matt’s blocker, over the glass, and through a gap in the net.

Bob blew the whistle.

Lane skated to the timekeeper for another puck. He returned to the face-off circle. Both centres were already in position.

Lane stopped and dropped the puck into Bob’s waiting hand.

Bob smiled, “A cripple in net. Now I’ve seen everything!” Even as Lane reacted, part of his mind told him not to. His right hand gripped the front of Bob’s jersey. Lane’s right skate hooked around and behind Bob’s right ankle.

Both of Bob’s hands gripped Lane’s wrists. The veteran referee was pushed off balance and backward. Lane leaned forward, and knelt with a white-knuckled grip on Bob’s jersey. Lane stopped Bob’s head when it was a few centimetres from the ice.

Bob’s eyes were wide open. Lane knelt close to Bob’s ear and said, “That cripple is my nephew. Lay off!” Then, Lane lifted Bob up till he was momentarily vertical, with his skates off the ice, before setting him back on his feet. The entire incident happened so fast that nearly everyone who witnessed it assumed Lane had saved a falling Bob from hitting his head on the ice.

Matt’s centre skated over to the goalie, said something only Matt could hear, and skated back for the face-off.

The game ended in a scoreless tie despite the fact that Matt’s teammates ran out of steam with ten minutes remaining. Matt made one save after another, always having some part of his body in the way when the puck looked like it must go in the net. There was nothing graceful about his style. There was, however, an uncoordinated determination in the way he positioned himself to face skaters and the puck.

Two surprises awaited Lane when he left the ice.

“Hey, Ref!” Matt’s coach called Lane over and offered his hand. “I’m Larry.” He had a head carpeted with grey curly hair, evidence of the aftermath of teenaged acne on his face, and a pair of hearing aids. “Would you consider teaching the guys how to skate?

It’s gonna be a long season if they don’t learn.”

The second came after both referees changed in the locker room. Bob broke the silence, “Sorry man, what I said was outta line.”

Too shocked to reply, Lane simply shook the hand Bob offered.

Inside the Jeep, on the way home, Arthur drove with his window rolled down, and the heater on high. “You two stink.”

Matt turned in the front passenger seat to face Lane who sat in the back. Matt said, “Chad told me about what you said to the other ref. Thanks.”

Arthur asked, “What did he say?”

Matt said, “The Ref called me a cripple. Uncle Lane shoved him to the ice and told him not to do that again.”

Arthur said, “You what? Everybody in the stands thought the guy fell and you saved him.”

Matt smiled. “I had a better angle.”

For a change, Tony drove the Lincoln on the way home from work. It was close to eleven o’clock.

“Man, I’m tired,” Jay said.

“So, I’ve got it all figured out for Friday,” Tony said.

Jay opened his eyes. They passed the Stampede Grounds. “This is the last time, right?”

“Sure. But it has to be good and this plan is great.” Tony smiled while glancing sideways at Jay. “But we need a third person this time.”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked.

“Somebody to keep the stairs clear,” Jay said.

“Who’d you have in mind?”

“Rosie.”

Tony shook his head, “No way.”

“It won’t work then. Somebody’s always going up or down those stairs.”

“Uncle Tran wants to talk about you getting your own place.”

“I’ve got a place to live. And don’t change the subject.” Jay sat up straight and adjusted the seat belt.

“A car, even a boat like this, isn’t a place to live. Havin’ your own place goes with being part of the family. You get a place to live and tuition is paid for. Uncle Tran’s rules.”

“What if I say no?” Jay asked.

Tony laughed. “We both know you’re not gonna do that.”

Jay shook his head and smiled.

“Now, have you got the masks?” Tony asked.

“In the trunk,” Jay said.

“Good. We just need one more thing and we’re ready.”