Bones Are Forever (9 page)

Too late for a boatload of victims.

Ollie’s voice brought me back.

“—it’s not just Vancouver. Women have vanished or turned up dead along Yellowhead Highway 16 in BC. You know what they call that stretch now? The Highway of Tears. There are websites and magazines dedicated to it. And the RCMP has expanded the list of MPs and broadened the area they think that killer may be working. Who knows how many other victims are out there lying in ditches or shallow graves?” Ollie’s tone suggested both frustration and compassion.

“Thus Project KARE,” I said.

“I’ve been with the task force for two years. We’re committed to finding and caging these degenerates.”

“It’s an RCMP initiative, right?”

“Not anymore. In Alberta we’ve said enough is enough. In addition to members of the RCMP Major Crimes Units in Edmonton and Calgary, the task force now includes investigators from the Edmonton PD and other detachments having jurisdiction. These women need protection. The predators have to be stopped.”

Just as the death of babies disturbed Ryan, the slaughter of those on society’s fringe distressed Ollie. I remembered hearing the same passion in his voice years ago. It was one of the few things I’d liked about him.

“But it seems Ruben is not a victim,” I said.

“Tell me what you know.” Ollie pulled pen and notebook from his briefcase.

I listened as Ryan laid out the facts. The ER visit by Amy Roberts. The apartment in Saint-Hyacinthe occupied by Alma Rogers. Ralph Trees’s girlfriend, Alva Rodriguez. The babies. The fingerprint. The CPIC hit for Annaliese Ruben.

“And now Ruben is off the radar,” Ollie said.

“Yes,” Ryan said.

“You think she’s left the area?”

“Queries at the airport, bus and train stations, and rental car agencies came back negative. Ditto for taxis.”

“You pull the hospital security cameras?”

“She arrived and departed on foot. Approached from the direction of the apartment, which was under a mile away. Left heading the same way.”

“What about local stores, libraries, anywhere else they might have caught her?”

“Nothing.”

“Ruben have friends or relatives locally?”

“Other than Trees, the landlord, and one snoopy neighbor, no one seems to know she existed.”

“She wasn’t working the streets?”

“Not that anyone knows, but she had to have some means of support.”

“Meaning she has no arrest record in Quebec.”

“Zip. Maybe the learning curve in Alberta paid off.”

“You checked likely aliases?”

Ryan just looked at him.

“The Edmonton PD nailed Ruben twice for soliciting,” Ollie said. “She vanished right after the second pop.”

“In 2008,” I said.

“That skews right with the landlord’s time line,” Ryan said. “Paxton claims Ruben and a guy named Smith took occupancy about three years ago.”

“He retain contact information for Smith?”

“Not even a first name.”

“What could he tell you?”

“They were grand tenants. Didn’t complain about the plumbing. Paid cash in advance.”

“Where’s Smith now?”

“In the wind.”

“You try running him to ground?”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

Ollie’s lower lids pinched up slightly at Ryan’s sarcasm. “Smith have a job? A car? A cell phone?”

“You want to run Smith, first name unknown, age unknown,
physical description unavailable, be my guest.” Ryan flapped a hand at one of the computer terminals behind him.

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.