Garry Ryan
Indiana Pulcinella
The eighth book in the Detective Lane Mystery series, 2016
for
KARMA,
BEN,
and
LUKE
“That is the life.”
– Mafalda Stamile
MONDAY, JANUARY 20
chapter 1
“What are you doing here?” Lori leaned on the doorframe marking the entrance and exit to Lane and Nigel’s office. Lori wore a pair of red knee-high boots, a black skirt, a blue satin blouse, and an attitude. She ran the office, keeping detectives in line and taking a few under her wing.
Lane – remarkable because the six-foot-tall detective appeared so unremarkable – looked at Nigel Li, who sat at the next desk. Nigel raised his black eyebrows, locking his hands behind his neck then rubbing the back of his close-shaved head.
I’m on my own, Lane thought.
Lori shook her head, sighing. “Your nephew Matt called. Your presence is required at the hospital.”
Lane stood up, reaching for the inside pocket of his grey sports jacket. He pulled out his phone. Its face told him he’d missed multiple calls. He looked at Lori, holding up the phone. “But it didn’t ring.”
Nigel rolled his office chair next to Lane and took the phone, flicking a switch on the side. “Ringer’s off.” He handed the phone back to his greying partner and looked at Lori. “He just got it yesterday.” Nigel tapped Lane on the arm of his mauve shirt. “You’ve also got a text message.”
Lane took a second look at the face of his phone, seeing the message from Matt. The text message window asked, “Where the hell are you?”
“Foothills Medical Centre. Fifth floor. They’ll direct you from there.” Lori turned sideways in the doorway. “Repeat it.”
Lane put on his sports jacket, then his winter coat. “Foothills, fifth floor.”
Nigel stood, adjusting the back of Lane’s collar as he made for the door. They were about the same height with a twenty-year age difference.
Lori put her heels against one side of the doorframe. Lane turned sideways to go through the doorway. For an instant they stood eye to eye.
Lori smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re not my type.”
Lane began to laugh. When he got into the Chev parked at the fenced-in police lot, he was still smiling. Why am I so wired? He manoeuvred his way out of downtown by driving under the Centre Street Bridge and over the Bow River. He turned west onto Memorial Drive, thinking about how he’d come to this point. He and his partner Arthur had inherited nephew Matt and then Christine, a niece. Both were teens discarded by their families. Now Christine and boyfriend Daniel were having a baby, and life was about to become even more complicated.
Fifteen minutes later he was parked out front of the Foothills Medical Centre. Within the cluster of buildings stood the original hospital, its three wings roughly in the shape of a Y. Lane locked the car and headed for the entrance, careful not to slip on patches of ice or get run over by people searching for parking spots while talking on their phones. He passed a man wearing a housecoat sitting in a wheelchair. An oxygen tank hung off the rear of the chair. The man lifted a lighter from his lap, lighting what appeared to be a cigarette. He closed his eyes as he inhaled, exhaling smoke and vapour to cloud the mountain air.
Lane recognized the pungent aroma of marijuana. The man pressed the joint between his index and middle fingers, giving Lane a wave with his free hand.
Lane nodded, crossed the street in front of the hospital, and stepped inside. He stamped the snow off his feet under a blast of hot air between the two sets of automatic sliding glass doors. Inside, people lined up for coffee to his right, walked the corridor to Emergency, walked the hallway to the Tom Baker Cancer Centre, bought cards and gifts at a tiny shop, stood waiting in front of the elevators.
Lane stood behind a pregnant woman whose male attendant carried an overnight bag. The woman was taller than Lane and wore a pink T-shirt with a white arrow pointing to BABY. The fabric on the T-shirt was stretched so the arrow was distorted at its point. The woman bent forward, putting her hands on her knees and moaning while her companion rubbed her back. Lane tried not to notice the crack in her backside when the top of her sweatpants drooped.
He followed them into the elevator.
“Fifth floor! Robbie! Fifth floor!” the woman said. Robbie pressed the button. “OOOOOOH!” she said as the doors closed and the elevator climbed. “Ooooooh.” The elevator bounced to a stop, and the doors opened.
Lane followed Robbie, who followed his mate.
The men were content to trail in her wake until Robbie slipped and recovered, Lane veered to one side, and the woman stopped. “My water broke!”
A pair of metal doors stood in her way. On the right was an admittance window.
“Comin’ through!” The woman punched the big round metal button and the doors opened.
“Wait!” The woman behind the counter grabbed the phone and said, “She just went right through!”
Lane followed the pair to the nurses’ desk.
The woman said, “We need a room!”
A tiny grey-haired nurse stood up from behind the counter, looked at the pregnant woman, saw the wet crotch of her sweatpants, and smiled. “A little late for that, wouldn’t you say?” The nurse focused on Robbie and pointed left. “Five zero two. A nurse will be there right away.”
Lane looked up at the names on the white board, spotted Christine’s, then headed for her room.
He found his partner Arthur in the hallway. Arthur was looking thinner around the middle and his scalp shone on top. His brown eyes stared at a closed door. He turned as Lane approached. Arthur’s face was drawn, and there were dark patches under his eyes.
“You’re here.” Arthur held out his hand. Lane took it.
A nurse rolled a cart down the hall, parking it in front of the door to Christine’s room. Lane and Arthur stared at a pair of paddle-shaped metal instruments.
“What are those?” Lane asked.
“Forceps, I think.” Arthur released Lane’s hand.
Lane nodded, tried looking away from the forceps, found he could not. His index and forefinger worried away at what was left of an earlobe. “Where are Matt and Dan?”
“Dan’s in the room. Matt’s gone to get some coffee.” Arthur resumed staring at the door.
“So you walk right by and pretend like you don’t know me.” Matt walked or rather shuffled/skipped/hopped down the hallway; his CP gait was so unique it was often hard to tell what exactly he was doing. Still wearing his winter jacket, he held out a tray of coffees. When everyone had taken a cup, Matt turned to dump the tray in the garbage.
Lane asked, “What about a coffee for Dan?”
“I’m not going in there!” Strawberry-blond, brown-eyed Matt stood about the same height as Lane and about three inches taller than Arthur, but he was obviously intimidated by whatever was happening behind the closed door.
Arthur said, “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Yes, thank you.” Lane took a sip.
The three of them stood watching the door while nurses walked in and out of Christine’s room. A doctor arrived. She looked to be about thirty-five and weighed about one hundred thirty pounds, with red hair and a face that would launch more than a thousand ships.
Fifteen minutes later, Dan opened the door, smiling. “He’s here.” Then he stepped back into the room.
A nurse pushed a cart topped with a clear plastic crib out of the room. A head full of black hair was visible at the top of a blanket.
Lane looked at the pale face of a boy, frowning at the lights.
The nurse said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get him cleaned up. He’s going to NICU. You’ll be able to visit him soon.” She wheeled the cart down the hall.