Bones Are Forever Page 7

  There was a moment of tense silence. I broke it.

  “You think Smith could be the high-rolling john Ruben intended to meet at the Days Inn? Maybe he talked her into heading east with him?”

  “Nice of her to drop a line to the loving roommates back home.” Ryan shook his head in disgust.

  “Did Forex ever get a look at this john?”

  “No.”

  “Where are Forex and Santofer now?” I asked Ollie.

  “Santofer OD’d last year, so she’s out of the picture. Forex is still living at the same address. She owns the place.”

  “You got surveillance on it?” Ryan asked.

  “Hadn’t thought of that.” Ollie shot Ryan’s sarcasm right back at him.

  “Any reason to suspect Ruben might have returned to Alberta?” I asked. “That may be her pattern. Leave town when things get hot. She knows people in Edmonton. It’s within her comfort zone.”

  “Right.” Ryan snorted. “She motored west in her unlicensed Boxster. Or hired a limo and driver to take her cross-country.”

  “She could have hitchhiked.” Terse. Ryan’s attitude was grating on me, too.

  “If so, we’ll nail her. Every cop shop in Canada has her mug shot.”

  “She has a dog.” Why the hell did I keep dwelling on that?

  “People thumb it with pets.” Ollie’s eyes were hard on Ryan.

  Ryan spoke without smiling. “Charley the poodle.”

  “Steinbeck didn’t hitchhike,” I snapped. “He had a trailer.”

  Ollie looked from Ryan to me, alert to an undertone he didn’t understand and didn’t like. He was about to speak when the mobile on his belt buzzed. He yanked it free and checked the caller ID. “Gotta take this.” Rising to his feet.

  Ryan arced an arm toward the interview rooms.

  Ollie circled the desk and disappeared through the first door.

  Tense moments passed during which Ryan stared at his shoes. Finally, I could take it no longer. “Do you have a problem with me, Detective?”

  Ryan pushed from the desk to pace away. Paced back. Finally, “Let’s just close this case.”

  I was opening my mouth to ask his meaning when Ollie reappeared. His expression suggested good news. “You may have been dead-on, Tempe.”

  Ryan tensed at Ollie’s use of my first name.

  “She’s in Edmonton,” Ollie went on.

  “Ruben?” I was stunned.

  “She was just spotted at a Tim Hortons a few miles east of downtown. The place is about a kilometer off the TransCanada.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now the party moves to my town.”

  “I’VE GOT SOMEONE BOOKING FLIGHTS.” OLLIE TURNED TO ME. “Can you be at the airport by eleven?”

  “Me?” I didn’t bother to hide my surprise.

  “Ruben whored in Edmonton, too. You think her mothering instincts were better out west?”

  “The local ME must have experts he calls on.”

  “That office is having some issues.”

  “The SQ won’t pick up her expenses,” Ryan said.

  “The RCMP will. I’ll run her through as a temporary CM. Civilian member.”

  “I know what the term means.” Ryan gave Ollie a smile that carried zero warmth.

  “So.” Ollie’s eyes held mine levelly. “Are you in?”

  My mind played a flash reel of squirming eyes, tiny mummified hands, wadded tissue. I checked my watch, then nodded.

  “If you can’t get away, Detective, I understand.” Ollie spoke without turning to Ryan.

  “I’ll see you at the airport,” Ryan said.

  Upstairs, there were no new anthropology cases. After clearing my sudden change of plans with LaManche, I headed out.

  I’d just entered my condo when my iPhone sounded. The noon flight was full, so we were booked on the one o’clock. I used the extra hour to shower, print my boarding pass, and place a courtesy call to the ME in Edmonton. He thanked me and said his facility would be at my disposal, should I need it.

  At twelve-twenty, I met Ryan and Ollie at the gate at Pierre Elliott Trudeau. Air Canada flight 413 was posted as delayed. Our new departure time was one-fifteen. I took little comfort in that estimate. The attendant said it was a mechanical issue. Right.

  We finally took off at three-forty-five. Which meant we missed our connection in Toronto. Luckily, the next flight to Edmonton left at five. Following a sprint through the airport, we made it. The joys of modern aviation.

  Ryan has many fine qualities—intelligence, wit, kindness, generosity. As a traveling companion, he’s a pain in the ass.

  Ollie’s presence did nothing to improve Ryan’s disposition. Or maybe it was me. Or the croque-monsieur he ate in the coffee shop. The atmosphere in our little band was as friendly as that at a drug raid.

  Ollie offered transport upon landing, but Ryan insisted on renting a car. Though Ollie suggested I accompany him, I felt it more diplomatic to remain with Ryan.

  With no reservation, the rental process took over an hour. I didn’t ask why.

  Edmonton is Canada’s answer to Omaha. Solid, unassuming, and surrounded by a whole lot of nothing. It’s a place that makes you think of sensible shoes.

  We saw a lot of the city en route to RCMP K Division headquarters. At first I offered directions based on GPS maps I pulled up on my phone. Ryan neither acknowledged nor followed my suggestions. Eventually, I gave up and focused on the world sliding past my window. The view involved a whole lot of brick.

  It was nine-forty when we finally turned onto 109th Street. My stomach was whining that I should have had a sandwich with Ryan. I ignored it.

  After presenting ID and explaining our destination to a commissionaire who maintained an attitude of near-terminal severity, Detective Sunshine and I were issued clip-on badges stamped with very large T’s. Feeling decidedly temporary and untrusted, we followed a corporal onto an elevator and ascended in silence. At an office marked Project KARE, our escort indicated that we might proceed on our own.

  Ryan opened and held the door for me. I pointedly waited for him to go first.

  The setup looked a lot like Ryan’s home base at Wilfrid-Derome. Not that the RCMP would call it a squad room. Here it was an office. No matter. Like the crimes that necessitate their existence, such spaces share a depressing uniformity no matter the locale. Same in-boxes, foul coffee, and memorabilia.

  At ten P.M. the place was deserted.

  Ollie’s desk was off to one side. He was at it, shoulder-cradling a phone. On hearing the door, he looked up and gestured us to him.

  As we approached, Ollie foot-dragged a chair into position beside one already facing his desk. He did not look happy. Ryan and I sat.

  Ollie’s end of the conversation continued staccato. “When? Where?” Finally, “Shit. Keep on it.”

  The receiver smacked home with a crack.

  “They lost her.”

  Ryan and I waited for elaboration.

  “Ruben hung around the Tim Hortons until noon. Then she walked to Northlands.”

  “What’s Northlands?” I asked.

  “I guess you’d call it an entertainment complex. Sports events, horse racing, rodeos, slots, trade shows.”

  “Modern opiate for the masses,” Ryan said.

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  I remembered. Ollie liked horse racing and rodeos.

  “Rich pickings for the sex trade,” Ryan said.

  “It’s a problem area.” Terse. Ollie was winging a pen up and down in his fingers. Its tip struck the blotter with agitated tics. “Ruben slept on a bench in Borden Park for most of the afternoon. At five she went back to the donut shop. At seven she walked to Rexall Place.”

  “Why didn’t they bag her?”

  “Those weren’t their orders.”

  Ryan was about to snipe again. I cut him off. “What’s Rexall Place?”

  Ollie looked at me, then did the little chin-up thing. “Hello? The Edmonton
Oilers?”

  “It’s a sports arena.” Ryan’s tone was totally flat.

  “And sometime concert hall. Nickleback is playing tonight.”

  “That’s where your guys lost her.”

  “I guess I’m not communicating very well, Detective. Nickleback is an Alberta group. There were thousands of people milling around the grounds.”

  “Takes skill to keep a tail in a crowd,” Ryan said.

  “We’ll find her.” Frosty.

  “Faster than you lost her?”

  Ollie’s pen stopped moving.

  I shot Ryan my squinty-eye look. “Sounds like Ruben was trying to make contact with someone,” I said.

  “Probably,” Ollie agreed.

  “Susan Forex?”

  “I’m waiting for word on her whereabouts.”

  “Did Ruben have a pimp?” Ryan asked.

  “A twisted little prick name of Ronnie Scarborough. Goes by Scar. Guy’s got the charm of a dirty needle.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s ugly, he’s violent, and he has a short fuse.”

  “A bad combination.”

  “Scarborough’s handle doesn’t come from his name. He once put a scar on a girl’s face the size of my hand. Used a hot poker.”

  “Think Ruben might attempt to hook up with him?” I asked.

  “I think she’d try Forex first. But who knows.”

  “What now?” I asked neither of them in particular.

  “Now we wait for my guys to sniff Ruben out. I’ve booked two rooms at the Best Western. That’s about a block from here. You want to check in or grab something to eat?”

  “I’m famished,” I said.

  “Gourmet or cheap?”

  “Quick.”

  “Burgers all right?”

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  At ten-thirty P.M. the Burger Express hosted only two other customers: an old geezer I suspected might have cadged his meal, and a teen with a backpack and no visible eyes.

  The kid manning the counter looked like an escapee from rehab. Scuzzy teeth. Ratty hair. Nightmare acne.

  Didn’t diminish my appetite. I ordered the mastodon burger. Or whatever the colossus was called. Onion rings. Diet Coke.

  As we ate, Ollie filled us in on Susan Forex.

  “She was collared twice after filing the report on Ruben. Once as part of a general sweep—that time she skated. Once for soliciting—that bought her a year of probation.”

  “Then straight back to the life.” Ryan sounded disgusted.

  “Something like that.” Ollie’s tone could have frozen peas.

  “Guess she missed the constant round of parties and gallery openings.”

  “Forex is different from most girls on the stroll.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Forget it.”

  Ryan turned to me. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I was already regretting my menu selections. And the speed with which I’d ingested the damn things.

  Ryan left to score caffeine. Perhaps to light up. Though he’d kicked cigarettes years back, recently I’d smelled smoke on his clothes and hair. That along with the uncharacteristic surliness meant he was edgy as hell.

  We were shoving waxy wrappers back into grease-stained bags when Ollie’s mobile buzzed. While he took the call, I crossed to an overfilled trash bin and mashed our contribution into the mix.

  When I returned to the booth, Ollie looked like a kid who’d found his lost puppy after a very long search.

  “Forex is at a bar over near the Coliseum.”

  “Is Ruben with her?’

  “She’s alone. And working.”

  “You’re thinking surprise visit?”

  “Popping in during business hours might make her more forthcoming.”

  We both smiled, then I started toward the door. Halfway there, a hand caught my arm. I turned.

  Ollie was wearing that face men don when they’re about to go macho.

  “You often think about”—he gestured from his chest to mine—“us?”

  “Never.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “There was no,” I hooked finger quotes, “us.”

  “We had a hell of a time.”

  “Mostly you were a jerk.”

  “I was young.”

  “And now you’re a wise old sage.”

  “People change.”

  “You got a girlfriend, Ollie?”

  “Not currently.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Haven’t found the right one.”

  “The love of your life.”

  Ollie shrugged.

  “We should go,” I said.

  “Don’t want to keep Detective Douchebag waiting.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The guy’s not the best company.”

  “You deliberately provoke him.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Ollie.” I drilled him with a look that said I meant business. “Did you discuss”—I mimicked his gesture—“us with Detective Ryan?”

  “I may have mentioned that I knew you.” The flicker in his gaze was all the tell I needed.

  “You unprincipled bastard.”

  Before I could react, Ollie pulled me close and pinned my body to his chest. “When we wrap this up, you know you’re going to want me,” he whispered in my ear.

  Pushing hard with both palms, I disengaged. “Never gonna happen.”

  I whipped around, hot-wired with revulsion.

  Ryan was standing outside the door, staring in through the glass. In the garish neon, his face looked drawn and gaunt.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Uncertain how much he’d seen, I gave a thumbs-up and smiled brightly. Good news!

  Ryan walked into the shadows, features so tight, they looked painted on his bones.

  OLLIE DROVE. I RODE SHOTGUN. RYAN SAT IN BACK.

  A light rain had begun to fall. As we wound through the city, a kaleidoscope of blurred color and shadow slipped past my window. The wipers beat a slow metronome on the windshield.

  Ten minutes out, Ollie turned onto a street lined with bars, strip clubs, and fast-food joints, all lit and open for business. Fragmented neon glistened on the pavement and splashed across signs, cars, and taxis.

  A few small businesses elbowed for position: an auto supply outfit, a pawnshop, a liquor store. Their windows were dark and barred against vandalism and theft.

  A handful of men in sweatshirts and windbreakers moved in both directions, heads down, shoulders hunched. Here and there smokers lingered in doorways, enduring the wind and damp for a nicotine fix.

  Ollie pulled to the curb in front of a two-story brick building with XXX Adult Store painted on one side. In addition to the world’s largest collection of movies and images, the enterprise offered twenty-five-cent peep shows twenty-four/seven.

  “Your heart’s desire right here, for a price.” Ollie swept a hand across the squalid scene around us. “Drugs. Women. Boys. Weapons. You want a hit man, you can probably find that, too.”

  “How about Susan Forex?” I said.

  “Let’s see what we can do.”

  Ollie punched a number on his speed dial and put the phone to his ear.

  I heard a voice on the other end but couldn’t make out the words.

  “In front of the triple-X,” Ollie said after several seconds.

  Pause.

  “How long?”

  Pause.

  “Anything on Ruben?”

  Pause.

  “Call me the minute you do.”

  Snapping the lid, he said, “Lucky break. The lady’s not having a profitable evening.”

  We all got out. As Ollie wheep-wheeped the locks, I slipped on a jacket I’d pulled from my roll-aboard.

  The air smelled of fried food, gasoline, and wet concrete. Muffled music pulsed from a building to our right, boomed as a patron emerged, grew muted again when the do
or swung shut.

  Ollie led us fifty yards north to a stucco box whose sign identified it as the Cowboy Lounge. The neon cowgirl wore nothing but a ten-gallon hat.

  “I do the talking.” Ollie aimed that at Ryan. “She knows me. I’m less threatening.”

  Ryan said nothing.

  “You good with that, Detective?”

  “I’m good with that, Sergeant.”

  Ollie entered. I followed. Ryan brought up the rear. We all stopped a few feet inside the entrance.

  The first thing to hit me was the smell, a noxious blend of stale beer, cigarette smoke, reefer, disinfectant, and human sweat. The stink invaded my nose as my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  To the left, the crack of pool balls drifted from a room set off by swinging half-doors. The bar was straight ahead, a carved wooden affair with an ornate mirror behind and stools in front.

  At midbar, a plaid-shirted man drew beer from a long-handled tap. He had moles on his face and jittery eyes that landed on us a nanosecond, then moved on.

  A dozen mismatched tables filled the space to the right. Framed posters covered the walls around them—Gene Autry, John Wayne, the Cisco Kid.

  Willie Nelson wailed from a jukebox beyond the tables. A player piano sat beside it, cover cracked, wooden case a battlefield of cigarette burns.

  I guessed the original idea had been Wild West saloon. Instead, the place looked like a rundown roadhouse in Yuma. With lousy lighting.

  Half the tables and all of the bar stools were full. The clientele was mostly male, mostly blue-collar. The few women present were definitely rough trade—brassy hair, tattoos, couture designed to advertise flesh.

  Moving among the tables was a waitress in red bustier and tourniquet-tight size-sixteen jeans. Her hair was fried, her makeup cheap and overdone.

  Ollie tipped his head toward a tall, angular woman at the left end of the bar. “Looks like our gal’s the pick of the litter tonight.”

  I appraised Susan Forex. Her hair was long and blond, her peasant blouse artfully draped to reveal one shoulder. A denim micromini, cinch belt, and ankle-strapped stilettos completed the look.

  Forex was talking to a dumpling in western boots and a thousand-gallon Stetson. Stetson had a beer. She was drinking what appeared to be whiskey on the rocks.