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.