Dos Equis (3 page)

Saskatoon was minus thirty, while Zihua languidly entered its hundredth day in a row of plus thirty. I missed my home. I missed my people. I missed my dogs, my office, my own bed, my backyard, my favourite restaurants, my BluRay collection, my books,

curling up on my caramel coloured couch on a stormy day, my kitchen, my…I could go on and on.

It was time to go home and take back my life. I was grateful beyond words for the precious gift of the past year. But of any gift I have ever been given, this one was totally, completely, entirely used up. It’s been said that gay people experience a retarded adolescence. We’re too busy fighting doubt, fearing revelation, hiding who we are, to deal with all the other “regular”

stuff adolescence throws our way. We have to do that later. Maybe this past year had been my time. My adolescence. My turn

to get my hormones in check, and figure out exactly who I was meant to be. Well, mission accomplished. Russell Quant, PI,

was back, and better than ever.

Although Saskatoon is the larger city, Regina is the capital of Saskatchewan. There is a good-natured (usually) rivalry

between the two centres, but for the most part I see them as two quite different cities. Whereas Saskatoon is a university town with strong ties to potash, pulse crops, and biotechnology, Regina is a government town. It’s home to legislature, football, and oil. With the South Saskatchewan River flowing right through the city, Saskatoon is known as the City of Bridges. Regina has Wascana Lake, outstanding museums, and is home to the training facility for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (the RCMP).

The vibe of each city is also quite distinct. But I saw none of that as my plane landed in the Queen City well past sunset. My calls to Jane’s numbers had gone unreturned. I was becoming a bit nervous about my decision to make a layover in Regina to

find out what was up with her. Suppose it was a joke? Suppose she no longer needed my help? Suppose she’d decided to take

off for a week’s holiday on the island of Lesbos?

It wasn’t such a big deal, I decided as I caught a cab outside the airport terminal. If I couldn’t find her tonight, I’d have a good meal, drop by the casino, catch my twenty-minute flight first thing in the morning, and be home before lunch.

I’d gotten Jane’s home address from Errall before leaving Zihua. After dropping my luggage off at the hotel, I directed the

cab there, telling him to wait while I knocked on the door. The woman who answered said she’d been living in the apartment

for over a year and had no idea who Jane was. Great. She’d moved.

On the off chance she was still at work this time of night, I asked the taxi driver to take me to Jane’s office.

Jane worked out of a petite, clapboard house she rented on a quiet street near the warehouse district. I could see the low

wattage shimmer of a light somewhere inside as we pulled up. I walked up the narrow, shovelled walkway to a covered porch,

and pulled out my cellphone. I tried her office number once more. Mounting the steps I could hear a phone ringing inside. I had the right number. But no one was answering. Hope dwindled. I stepped into the porch and knocked on the interior door.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

I was about to head back to my waiting ride, when I heard a noise from inside. It sounded like someone stumbling on

hardwood floors. I stepped over to the nearest window and peered through the slats of a blind. I thought I caught a glimpse of a dark mass moving from one side of the room to the other. What the hell?

I rapped on the window.

“Jane? Jane, are you in there? It’s Russell Quant.”

No response.

Back at the door I tried the knob. It turned all the way. Unlocked. Not very smart of Jane, if she truly wasn’t here.

Slowly I pushed open the door. It actually creaked. This was all beginning to feel a little like a bad horror movie. I glanced back toward the street, hoping for the comfort of a kindly cabbie watching over me. Instead I saw exhaust puffing from the rear end of his car as he sped off. I should never have paid him for the fare to get here.

I was getting cold. The temperature was hovering in the minus twenties. The jacket I’d brought with me was meant for

airports and cabs, not for actual protection from winter elements.

“Yoo hoo, Jane!” I called out. “Ready or not, here I come!” I stepped inside, closing the door, leaving the frozen air behind it.

At this point in a typical Jane Cross-Russell Quant repartee, she’d be shaking her little fists, cheeks all red and rosy, calling me bub, or Priscilla, Queen of the Prairie Desert, and yelling at me to get the hell out of her office, unless I had an appointment.

Since none of that was happening, I was guessing Jane Cross, Birkenstock PI, was not in.

Another noise.

I was back on high alert.

I was definitely not alone.

The light I’d seen earlier must have been in another room, because the one I was in was pitch black. I could barely see a

thing.

Something moved on my right.

Shit, what the hell was that?

“Who’s there?”

I reached out, looking for a light switch or lamp. I stumbled over something on the floor. Typical lesbian; a lousy

housekeeper.

More hurried movements.

“I know you’re there,” I announced, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice.

Seeing what I hoped was the silhouette of a lamp, I headed toward it.

Next thing I knew I was flat on my face.

I swore a little.

What the hell? Did she have the place booby trapped against intruders? My ankle tingled where it had caught underneath the

bulky item I’d tripped over.

If I’d thought it was dark standing up, it was even darker down here on the floor. I reached out for something to hold on to, to help pull me up to my feet. My hand landed on something soft. The pain that coursed through me in the next milliseconds was

enough to elicit a discordant choir of screeching. From me.

I immediately felt drops of blood dribbling down my face. My cheek was throbbing. My eyes watered.

From beneath what I was guessing was a bureau, I heard a low, warning yowl. It was coming from the cat whose tail I’d just

grabbed in the dark.

I called the cat some not very nice names. To be fair, I did not know her actual name. And, I was hurt. To be equally fair to the cat, I had just broken into her home, and yanked her pride and joy. I supposed we were even. By the time I found a Kleenex in my pocket and dabbed up most of the blood from the scratches, I was ready to forgive and forget.

With the yowling and shrieking having subsided, and the wound tended to as best I could given the circumstances, I decided

it was time to make a move. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my cellphone. The display screen lit up with its

silvery glow. I directed the meagre light around me, looking for the nearest public-utility-provided light source. What I found instead, was one of the greatest horrors of my career.

Chapter 2

You’d think, in my line of work, that I’d have seen a long line of dead bodies. But there really haven’t been that many. Being a detective in a small prairie city, where murders per year average under a dozen, I rarely come face to face with death, never mind grisly death caused by the violence of one human against another. They say that murder is often committed by someone

known to the victim. I disagree. To do the unthinkable, to look someone in the eye and intentionally rob them of the thing most precious to them, to…end…them, well, I don’t think that victim ever really knew that person at all. No one can truly know a

monster.

A monster had been to Jane Cross’s office.

Displayed in the glow of my cellphone was the most dreadful sight. Not only was I looking at death. Not only was I looking

at death caused by something other than accident or natural causes. I was looking at unnatural death in the unseeing eyes of someone I knew.

Jane Cross was dead.

Shot. Many times.

For a full minute, it seemed, I did not breathe. The world was a still life painting, a rendering of hell on earth.

Although Jane Cross hadn’t been someone I loved, cherished, or even liked very much, she had been part of my life. She was

a colleague. She was someone who’d made me laugh, who’d once saved me from a pack of hooligans intent on beating me up,

who’d romanced a friend, who’d attended a birthday party for me. She was someone I had a history with. Someone who had

thought to call on me when she needed help.

But I was too late.

“Oh Jane…”

A mournful feline wail sounded from beneath the bureau.

I pulled the phone close and made to dial 9-1-1.

The cat’s lamenting wail suddenly morphed into a growl.

I should have taken it as a warning.

An arm wrapped itself around my throat and yanked back with such force, I thought my head might actually pop off.

I hadn’t had time to consider whether the murderer might still be in the house. I guess I knew now.

It was too dark to tell much about my attacker, other than that he was about my size, maybe a little smaller, but strong and wiry.

Being taken by surprise immediately puts the surprisee in a bad position when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. This guy

was choking me from behind, seemingly intent on cutting off my air supply. Not a bad strategy. But, being fond of breathing, this made me rather intent on breaking his hold. Adrenaline is a fine adversary of surprise.

I began pushing into the other guy, forcing him to move backward if he wanted to maintain the chokehold. This also allowed

me to gain my footing on the floor. For a few seconds we did this crazy dance around the room. Except for the sound of us

crashing into things, the room was oddly silent. I could hear him breathing hard, as was I. But neither of us grunted or moaned or screamed out. We were conserving our energy purely for the goal of doing in the other guy.

Once my knees had recovered from the fluttering weakness you get when someone is attempting to kill you, I enacted my

hastily devised plan. Waiting for just the right moment, I firmly planted my feet in front of me, then dropped to my knees like a sack of potatoes, curving my back into his torso. The unexpected change in our propulsion sent him swinging over my head,

releasing his grip on my neck and landing him ass down in front of me. It would have been a perfect move if the jarring motion hadn’t wrenched my neck, causing me to spasm as a bolt of pain tore up my spine to the base of my brain.

The guy scrambled to get up. I grabbed his trousers and tripped him. This gave me enough time to recover—slightly— and

throw myself over his body. This time I was going for the death grip around
his
neck. Instead, his elbow caught me in the side.

I bellowed, and he flipped us over so that now I was on the bottom and he was struggling on top of me. We must have looked

like two drunks at a wedding reception, doing The Worm on top of each other.

In a dirty move, the jerk arched his back up, and then came down on me hard, with his butt meeting my groin. Fortunately, I

guessed what he was about to do, and skittered to the side just before he made full contact. Mercifully, the effect was

somewhat muted. I decided if he was going to go all Jerry Springer on me, I could do the same. With my right hand I grabbed a shaft of hair and yanked as hard as I could.

“Yooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!”

No sweeter sound, I thought.

We went on like this for a while longer, perfectly matched for strength and low down, dirty moves. It was becoming obvious

neither of us was going to win this. But I had to find a way. This maniac had just killed Jane Cross. It was when I reminded myself of that, that I remembered how Jane had died. Oh geez. This guy had a gun. I did not.

And that’s all it took. That one fraction of a second distraction was all he needed to land a sucker punch in my gut. I went down. As I rolled on the floor, holding onto my throbbing abs, I waited for the pummelling that was sure to follow. Instead, I heard the rumble of retreating footsteps, then the slamming of a door.

I jumped up, pain screaming out from every pore, and ran for the door. I threw it open and searched the scene. All that

greeted me were the quiet, peaceful sounds of a late night street asleep. My hand landed on an elusive light switch. I flipped it up and looked at the room behind me. It was a nightmarish scene. At its centre, the body of Jane Cross. I couldn’t leave her like this. I had to let the killer go.

For now.

I knew I had only a few scarce minutes to myself before the cops responded to my 9-1-1 call. I worked quickly. I found that

Jane’s filing system was arranged much like my own, so I was quickly able to locate her current case files.

My typical rule when dealing with police on a case I’m involved in, is to neither intentionally impede nor facilitate their

progress. But this was different. This was murder. This was Jane Cross. So, instead of simply swiping her files, I hurriedly ran the pages through Jane’s copying machine. I only hoped that no smart guy cop noticed that the copier was warm when they got

here.

While the pages were duplicating, I performed a quick scour of the rest of the place. The only thing of note was the sofa near the desk. I imagined Jane taking afternoon naps on the sagging thing when business was slow, or spending the night on it when a particularly tough case kept her late at the office. I lowered myself to my knees and studied the undercarriage. It looked as if someone had ripped away the bottom lining. The sorry looking sofa had Garage Sale written all over it, so I couldn’t be certain if this was actually important or not. Had Jane been hiding something in the couch? Something her murderer was looking for?

Did they hold her at gunpoint until she turned it over? And then shoot her anyway? Or did they find it themselves after they killed her? Or was it simply nothing more than a torn couch lining?