Lane’s phone beeped.
Matt asked, “Uncle? You okay?”
Lane wiped the tears from his cheeks, nodding. His phone beeped again. He pulled it from his pocket.
Arthur shook his head, reading the number on Lane’s phone. “Kharra alhikum. They can give us a fucking hour, can’t they?”
Matt grinned at Arthur. “Way to tell ’em, Uncle!”
The text message was from Chief Jim Simpson. “See me ASAP.”
Dan opened the door again and stepped out. He was taller than the three other men and had brown hair. His eyes were underlined with fatigue.
“How is she?” Lane asked.
“Tired and happy.” Dan let his chin drop.
“Congratulations, Dad!” Matt said.
Dan raised his head and smiled. “He’s beautiful.”
Lane’s phone rang. He looked at the number, then looked at Arthur, who shook his head then sighed. “It’s Lori.” Lane answered. “Hello.”
“Well? Is the baby born yet? You said you’d call as soon as you knew,” Lori said.
“Yes. The little guy was just born.” Lane smiled at Dan.
“Good. Congratulations. I was asked to get hold of you. We need you,” Lori said.
Chief Jim Simpson’s administrative secretary Jean had immaculate short grey hair. She waved at Lane while pointing at the Chief’s door.
Lane nodded, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it.
Simpson frowned from where he sat across the coffee table. His close-cut blond hair and thin face gave him a boyish quality, despite some grey, but his eyes were a different matter. There was determination there, and an underlying anger.
Nigel Li sat across from the Chief. His head shone beneath the five o’clock shadow of thick black hair. He was tall and barbed-wire thin with a long-standing reputation for his prickly tongue. “There you are.”
Is that relief I hear in your voice? Lane wondered.
There was a knock at the door. Lane turned, Jean handed him a cup of coffee, he took it, and the door shut once more.
“Sit down, please,” Simpson said.
Lane sat down between the pair, putting his coffee on the table.
Nigel said, “We’ve got a -”
Simpson threw his hand up, snapping the palm open in Nigel’s face. Nigel’s eyes narrowed.
Lane looked at Nigel, nodding. Just listen. This isn’t the time to piss off the Chief.
Nigel sat back.
Simpson said, “We have a double murder, husband and wife, last name Randall. He’s the CEO of an energy company, and she’s a benefactor of the arts. The pair were executed, the house was robbed, and their dog was nailed to the wall.” He waited.
Lane looked out the window and across to the curved glass of the city’s tallest building. The words of an old friend, Deputy Chief Cam Harper, came back to him: “We keep turning over rocks and finding another pile of shit left by Smoke.” Then Lane remembered former Chief Smoke facing the cameras when he said, “The speedy arrest of the suspect in these murders means Calgarians can sleep easier tonight.”
Simpson watched Lane make the connection to similar murders, then nodded.
Nigel opened his mouth.
Simpson held up his hand again.
Lane turned to Nigel. “Three years ago, a well-connected couple was killed, their dog hung on the wall, and the house robbed. A schizophrenic homeless man named Byron Thomas confessed to the crime. It was a feather in Smoke’s cap. His guys made the arrest and got a confession. Thomas ended up in jail.”
It was Nigel’s turn to look out the window at the city’s tallest building.
Simpson said, “I need you on this case but can’t tell you to take it. Whichever way it goes, it’ll cost you. Smoke’s old-boy network is still entrenched, and this case has the potential to embarrass them. If you take it, there will likely be a price to pay somewhere down the road.”
Nigel said, “Not everyone looks at it that way.”
Lane sat back and thought, Okay, Nigel. Go with it. I just hope this doesn’t blow up in your face.
Simpson’s face flushed. He turned his eyes on the young officer, taking a deep breath. “What does that mean?”
Nigel looked Lane in the eye and said, “Most of the younger members of the CPS have a different take on this.”
Simpson reached for his coffee, taking a sip.
Nigel continued. “Most of them have worked with Smoke’s good ol’ boys. A few liked being part of the network, but most welcomed the change after Smoke resigned. And you might be surprised at how many of the older officers like the way Lane stood up to Smoke.” He looked out the window as if waiting to be contradicted.
Simpson put his coffee down, taking another long breath. “Will the pair of you take this one on?” He looked at Lane and waited.
Lane looked at Nigel, who nodded. Lane said, “Okay.”
Simpson put his coffee on the table, looking at Lane. “I hear congratulations are in order. Your niece had a boy?”
Lane smiled. “Just saw him this morning.”
Simpson asked, “Mom and baby okay?”
“He’s in NICU. Something called meconium aspiration syndrome. They have him on antibiotics. The nurses say he’ll be fine.”
Chief Simpson frowned. “Does this make you a great-uncle?”
Lane shrugged. “Just happy.”
Simpson looked at Nigel. “You two can say no.”
Nigel looked at Lane, who said, “It’s our job.”
The Chief handed Lane an address. Lane glanced at the paper and said, “It’s about two blocks from where I grew up.”
Nigel drove the unmarked grey Chev up the hill, guiding them away from the river valley along Crowchild Trail. The pavement was cleared of snow but not of black ice. He asked, “Is your house big enough for a baby?”
Lane watched a panel van slip and grip in the right lane. “Christine, Daniel, and the baby will have the bottom level, we all share the kitchen, and Matt moved upstairs. I imagine it will be kind of crazy until we all adjust.”
“How do Dan’s parents fit into the picture?”
“That’s a good question. Christine and Dan’s mother have this tempestuous relationship.”
Nigel eased into the right lane. “Tempestuous?”
How come so many questions? “Lola’s a successful business woman who likes control. Christine doesn’t like to be controlled.”
“Oh.” Nigel nodded, easing onto a ramp, then a side street.
Seven minutes later, they arrived in front of a stylish yet understated two-storey home renovated to accommodate the established neighbourhood’s architecture. Nigel parked behind the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. They looked at the house and its coat of snow. A freshly shovelled twenty-foot front driveway led to a two-car garage set beneath the right side of the house. Lane saw it was the smallest in a neighbourhood of three- and four-car garages.
Lane stepped out of the Chev, looking around. The limbs of mature evergreens sagged under the weight of snow. Here and there, smoke plumes rose from chimneys. Beneath the chimneys stood four- and five-thousand-square-foot homes, custom-built or extensively renovated. Some were stuccoed, some had brick faces, and one was made of sandstone. A few driveways and curbs were dotted with older Mercedes and BMWs. Not many domestic cars in sight in this part of the city.
A garage door opened, a starter whined, and an engine coughed and caught. Lane watched a silver Mercedes SUV backing out of a garage. Its tires crunched over the snow. The woman behind the wheel looked to be thirty-something. She spotted Lane and looked away.
He walked toward the vehicle when she stopped in the street, shifting into drive. She was facing him. He could see that she was blonde, her eyes were blue, and her left hand gripped the top of the steering wheel. A substantial engagement ring glittered next to a diamond-encrusted wedding band flashing in the sunlight. Lane glanced to his right. The sun sat just above the rooftop of the victims’ home.