“Remember, I’ve got my eye on those shoes,” Cori said.
Lane and Nigel were dressed causally in clothing designed for warmth and freedom of movement. They listened while Lori checked off points on the fingers of her left hand. “McTavish’s team is in place. She let them in this morning. Phelps is already down at the caterer’s getting to know everyone, becoming part of the crew. The surveillance teams are in place.”
“She?” Lane asked.
Lori nodded. “The lady of the house.”
“What about the husband?” Lane asked.
“Out of town apparently.” Lori saw the frown on Lane’s face. “What?”
“They said five.” Lane looked at the screen on his desk.
“What?” Nigel asked.
“When I overheard the pair of them talking at the theatre, they said five.”
“You sure you don’t have these in a nine?” Cori handed back the red shoes with red musical notes inlaid in white soles.
The sales person, who might have been eighteen, shook her head, tucking back a wayward strand of black curly hair.
“I want you to go downstairs and check again.” Cori stuffed the too-small shoe into the box, thrusting the box at the clerk.
Andrew stood behind her, holding both of their winter coats and her purse.
“It looks like you may not have air cover tonight.” Harper stood inside Lane’s office. The detectives and Lori were going over the final details of surveillance and hostage scenarios.
Lane leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the muscles at the front of his rib cage. He looks worried.
Harper said, “The weather forecast is calling for rain, a wind shift to the north, freezing rain, then snow.”
Lane nodded. “We need to make sure we have the right ground vehicles.”
“I’ll make it happen.” Harper left.
Lane looked out the window. The normally sharp edge of the chinook arch was looking ragged. He checked a Canadian flag tugging at the pole. “The wind’s shifting.”
“Uncle Lane?” Christine’s voice was tense.
Is Indy okay? “What’s happened?” He drove south on Crowchild Trail, easing onto the right lane, taking the ramp to Marda Loop.
“I got another weird call from my half-sister Sarah. She said goodbye.”
Lane could hear Dan in the background. Milton’s making his run. “Call Lori and ask her to put you in touch with the RCMP. Tell them you have information that Milton is going to head south into the United States so he can disappear into one of the polygamist compounds. Also tell her it’s human trafficking.”
“What?”
Lane said, “Call Lori and explain she needs to talk with Harper. He’ll get in touch with the RCMP. It’s a suspected case of human trafficking. Then tell Lori about Sarah and Milton. Okay?”
Christine’s voice shook. “Okay.”
Lane sipped coffee at Phil and Sebastian’s at Marda Loop between Crowchild Trail and Mount Royal. He watched the cars going past. Their wipers shuddered back and forth, pushing the mist away. White and purple globes hanging on a nearby tree bobbed in the wind.
“Climate change.” Nigel looked at the coffee shop’s cubbyhole wall stocked with clear glass jars of coffee beans.
“Fucking weather,” a man said as he paid for his coffee. “Can always count on Calgary. The weather is shit.”
“What do you think?” Nigel sipped from a paper cup. He wore dark clothing so he would be less conspicuous if they needed nighttime camouflage.
Lane wore a black shirt and pants. A black parka hung off the back of his chair. “If the temperature drops all of a sudden, the soupy stuff on the roads will freeze, and the rain will make the driving more like skating.”
“Icy roads are always fun.” Nigel looked at his phone. “It’s almost nine.”
“The party will probably break up soon because people will be worried about the roads. This place is closing. We’d better get refills.” Lane’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “Hello?”
McTavish said, “The suspects have left the party, headed north.”
“Got it.” Lane pressed End, stuffed the phone in his shirt pocket, put on his coat, and grabbed his coffee. He stepped outside into a north wind turning his breath into smoke, carrying it south as he walked across the street to the Jeep. His ears began to freeze. When he reached the other side of the street, he threw the coffee in a trashcan, zipped up his jacket, lifted the collar around his ears, and tucked in his chin.
Nigel got in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned the wipers on. They swiped at the ice on the windshield, doing nothing to clear the opaque surface. Lane climbed in the passenger side, turned the heat to defrost, grabbed the scraper out of the back seat, got out, and began to chip away at the ice on the windshield. His phone rang. He opened his jacket and pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket, turning his back on the wind. Nigel tried to clear the front glass with windshield-washer antifreeze. The smell of alcohol hung in the air.
McTavish said, “They’ve stopped at their home. I’ll keep you informed.” He hung up.
Lane tucked his phone away and opened the door, stuffing the scraper behind the seat. He looked at the expanding half moons of clear windshield. His phone rang again.
McTavish said, “They’re on the move again, heading your way along 33rd. They are wearing dark clothing and driving a grey BMW X5 with licence plate DR DETH. Got that?”
“Confirmed. The tail?” Lane asked.
“Black Ford pickup. Licence RUF-4387.”
“Got it.” Lane hung up, turning to Nigel. “They’re headed our way in the grey SUV. The tail is a black Ford pickup.”
Nigel nodded, alternating between the side mirror and the rear-view. “Here they come.”
Lane caught a glimpse of the X5 and Cori’s platinum-blonde hair. She held a phone against her right ear. Seconds later, a black Ford pickup passed them.
Lane checked the Ford’s plate. Nigel pulled out, following. “Glad they gave us the Jeep with the studded winter tires.”
They drove west on 33rd, crossing over Crowchild Trail as the rain fell, freezing against the top half of the Jeep’s windshield. Nigel leaned right to see through the bottom half of the windshield. Lane crouched to watch out of a spot the size of a dessert plate, slowly expanding as the engine warmed and the heater caught up. By the time they approached a Co-Op grocery store on their right, the heater was winning the battle against the freezing rain.
Lane’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “Lane.”
Lori said, “A 911 call just came in. A report of shots fired at Cori and Andrew Pierce’s address.”
Lane looked ahead, seeing the taillights of the pickup light up. He turned right. Nigel took over the lead tail on the Pierce BMW. It turned north on Sarcee Trail and into the teeth of the wind.
Lane asked, “Was the caller female? Did she identify herself?”
Lori said, “Yes and no.”
Lane turned to Nigel. “Remember those Pierce blog titles?”
Nigel nodded.
“Was one of them about creating a diversion?”
Nigel said, “Yep.”
Lane felt a gust of wind push against the Jeep. “Send two units to the house and get back to me as soon as possible with what they find.”