“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.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 17
chapter 3
Lane looked at his watch. Seven o’clock on the dot. I need a coffee.
He leaned against the wall about three metres from Dr. Keeler’s office door. He said to be here no later than seven. It’s locked; maybe I’ve got time to go to Fourth Street and pick up a mochaccino.
A key rattled on the other side of the lock. The door opened, and the doctor’s massive head, with its black eyebrows, heavily lined forehead, broad nose, and white hair, appeared. “There you are!”
Keeler held the door open as Lane walked in, then locked it behind them. He grabbed a file from the counter and waved for Lane to follow him to an examination room. “We’ll get you weighed first.”
After Lane weighed in, Keeler took his blood pressure. “How’s Arthur?” the doctor asked.
“In a state of shock like the rest of us.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“That’s about all I do. Sleep and work.” Lane felt the squeeze of the expanding blood pressure band on his arm.
“How about your appetite?” Keeler put his stethoscope on the inside of Lane’s elbow.
What appetite?
Keeler peeled off the armband. “Well?”
Lane shrugged. “Food tastes like paste.”
“Look.” Keeler checked Lane’s fingernails then watched his eyes. “We both know why you’re here. Arthur phoned Mavis because he’s worried about you, and she got you in first thing this morning.”
Lane nodded.
“Arthur thinks you’re depressed. By the look of you and the amount of weight you’ve lost, I tend to agree. Have you been thinking about suicide?”
Lane shrugged.
“I want you to see a psychiatrist, and I’d like to prescribe medication.” Keeler wrote Lane a prescription. “Take one a day. After three weeks, see me again, and we’ll see if it’s necessary to up the dosage.”
Lane took the prescription.
“Will you see a psychiatrist or psychologist? I can recommend a couple.” Keeler crossed his arms.
“What do you think?” Lane asked.
“Arthur gave us a name he got from a friend of yours. She’s a very good choice. We’ll send you to the psychiatrist, then.” Keeler wrote a name on a piece of paper and looked at Lane.
“Yes?” Lane asked.
“The indications are that Arthur’s breast cancer is treatable. I’ve sent him to one of the best surgeons in North America. Even so, you’re going to have to take care of yourself and be there for Arthur and the kids. If you have any questions, you call. Are we clear?”
Lane nodded.
“Mavis will call the psychiatrist and book an appointment for you.” Keeler shook Lane’s hand.
Ten minutes later, Lane sat in a coffee shop on Fourth Street. He watched the rush hour traffic – four-wheeled, two-wheeled, and two-legged – as it paraded past. His mind traveled back in time as he remembered Arthur’s sister. How the cancer ate away at her until she was practically a skeleton, with Holocaust eyes.
“Mochaccino. Extra large. Extra hot!”
Lane got up, picked up his coffee, and sat back down. I’ve got a couple of minutes, he thought just as his phone rang. Lane set his coffee down and reached for the cell. “Hello?”
“Lane? It’s Lori.”
“You’re at work early.” It’s funny how cheerful I can sound when I’m supposed to be depressed.
“Just got a call from the deputy chief’s office.”
Lane looked out the window as a police cruiser passed, with its flashing lights painting the inside of the coffee shop in shades of red and blue.
“The deputy chief wants to see you Monday morning at eight o’clock instead of this morning.” Lori paused. “You got that?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks.” Lane was about to hang up.
“Lane, wait! There’s more.”
“Okay – give it to me.”
Lane pulled into a parking lot framed by a rectangle of shops. He parked in front of a business no more than three metres wide. The JELENA’S ALTERATIONS sign on the window was half a metre high and went the width of the glass. He closed the Chev’s door and stretched. Through the open front door, he could see Jelena taking cash from a smiling young woman holding a wedding gown wrapped in clear plastic. Lane waited for the young woman to edge her way out the open door. She was careful not to allow the dress to drag on the ground or touch the doorframe.
He stepped inside.
“Detective!” Jelena crossed her arms.
Three women worked on sewing machines lining one wall at the back of the shop. Lane recognized a mixture of fear, anger, and curiosity on their faces as he stood across from Jelena, who leaned against the cash register. She wants me to get the message that this is her turf, Lane thought.
“You have more questions for me?” Jelena pushed the cash register closed.
Her implication is clear. She’s showing the others I can’t be trusted. “We’ve been doing some research on the name Borislav Goran.”
Jelena glanced at the clock on the wall, then addressed the woman working at the first sewing machine. “Rasima! I’m for coffee.” She grabbed a pack of cigarettes and led Lane out the door. “Coffee?”
Lane nodded then followed as she crossed the parking lot. She lit a cigarette. Lane kept to her right in order to avoid the cloud of exhaled smoke trailing behind her. “Where are we going?”
Jelena pointed her cigarette at a sub shop tucked between an ice cream shop and a furniture store. When they reached the sub shop, Lane opened the door, but Jelena sat down outside at a picnic table squatting on a tongue of grass jutting out into the pavement. “Tell Jordan that Jelena wants a coffee.”