We go to Bourbon Street at West Edmonton Mall. It’s like the real Bourbon Street in that you can get something hard to drink at both places, but that’s about as far as my imagination can stretch it. This version is inside, for one thing. They’ve dimmed the lights, put in a few statues and wrought-iron benches, but it’s still just a hallway in a big shopping mall. Make that a gargantuan shopping mall; I need a compass and hip chain just to figure out where I am. It’s a nightmare but Cindy likes the place — it’s got lots of stores crammed close together, makes spending money highly efficient.
“Damn. I should have made a reservation.”
“Don’t worry about it, Porter,” says Cindy. “We’ll get in somewhere.”
She’s wearing a short dress — a simple print outfit — and a relaxed smile. The place is crowded but she doesn’t seem to mind; tonight none of them are her responsibility. She’d probably be content to just wander around, holding my arm. By the looks of this crowd, that’s all we might be able to do. There are long lines at restaurant entrances.
“What about that place?” asks Telson, pointing to a small eatery with a smaller fenced-in patio. A dozen people sit at plastic tables, gloat at the crowd milling on the other side of the fence. But there’s no lineup at the door. I’m not sure that’s a good sign.
“They have black beans.” Telson is reading a menu by the patio. “And dark beer.”
“Beans and beer. A dangerous combination.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says. “Just stay away from the grill.” She’s on my other arm, wearing a leather mini-skirt and halter top that’s turning a lot of heads. The gawkers aren’t the only ones with their tongues hanging out — a street juggler walks past, at the edge of heat prostration as he flips bowling pins. The humidity in here is the other thing this version shares with the original. A group of Japanese tourists cluster like platelets, point toward the bean place. I sense an impending lineup and steer the two women toward the restaurant door, trying to cut the tourists off at the pass. We all attempt to look like we’re not running. The Japanese aren’t happy about losing the race.
We’re shown to a table in the non-smoking section. By the looks of it, our table is the non-smoking section. But the haziness adds to the ambience — a New Orleans motif. I can imagine a riverboat captain stopping by for a mess of pan-fried shrimp, a table of gamblers in a corner. But then again, I have an active imagination. I cough, rub my eyes.
“The smoke bothering you?” Telson asks.
“Only when I breathe.”
“The big firefighter.”
“That’s a different kind of smoke. More organic.”
At least it’s cooler here — air conditioning works better in a small space like this — and dim. I order the Bayou Burger, which I suspect is pretty much like any other burger, and a mug of dark draft. Cindy isn’t usually a big eater but since she doesn’t have to cook tonight she orders potato skins, two salads, New York steak and a bottle of wine. Telson orders the beans.
“How long have you and Porter known each other?”
“About a week,” says Telson.
“So it’s a long-term relationship.”
“Longest one in three years,” I say. There’s an awkward pause.
Cindy sips her wine. “So what do you do, Christina?”
Telson smiles faintly, toys with her beans. “I’m sort of between jobs right now.”
“What did you do?”
“I worked as a receptionist at a software company.”
“What happened there?”
“They got bought out, replaced all the staff.”
“Even the receptionist?”
Telson nods, sips from her mug of stout.
“I thought you worked as a data entry clerk,” says Cindy. “At least that’s what Porter told me.”
Telson gives me a vaguely annoyed glance. “I did that too. Talk about a dead end job. All day, you hunch over your keyboard, type in numbers. It’s like copying the phonebook. I felt like some fourteenth-century scribe with carpal tunnel syndrome.”
“So you’ve had a lot of jobs?” Cindy is merciless.
“You’ll have to excuse my little sister,” I say. “She’s professionally inquisitive.”
“Really?” Telson leans forward. “What do you do, Cindy?”
The food arrives and conversation is temporarily interrupted. Waiters must feel a bit like prison guards, the way people clam up when they come close. “I’m a social worker,” says Cindy, between forkfuls of salad.
“That must be a demanding job.”
“Helps to be a bit crazy. Sort of a prerequisite.”
“You must hear some sad stories.”
“I try not to dwell on them too much.”
“No doubt. Speaking of stories, what was Porter like when he was younger?”
Suddenly I’m invisible as the two women talk; Cindy telling embarrassing stories about my childhood. How in junior high school I tried to dismantle the building until someone discovered a pail of screws and bolts in my locker. My clandestine experiments with pyrotechnics in the science lab. Stuff like that. I glare at Cindy, hoping she’ll take the hint, but she’s purposefully oblivious and I give up, bide my time, gaze through a single-paned window at the lineup in front of Tony Roma’s. A few expectant patrons have planned ahead and are reading books. Someone moving through the crowd catches my attention. He’s not waiting, he’s looking. He’s wearing a baseball cap with a sharply crimped visor. I can’t help thinking it’s the driver of the old blue Plymouth — circled back from the freeway and followed me here.
I excuse myself, join the herd outside.
The crowd is dense, the lights dimmed, and it takes a minute to spot him. When I do, he’s too far across the hall to get a good look at, too many intervening tourists. I can’t see anything more than his head; an impression of short hair; a glimpse of a man’s face in profile. Nothing clear enough to recognize. He’s headed away, toward the main part of the mall, keeps looking from side to side; the ridge on the visor of his ball cap plainly visible. The crowd eddies in behind him and it’s hard to move quickly; no one is in a hurry. He vanishes now and then, like a boat in rough water bobbing among the waves. He remains 40 of 50 yards ahead and I’m like a man overboard, watching the boat drift beyond reach. If only he’d turn back, take a good look my way. Or stand close to one of the fake streetlights.
By the time I reach the end of Bourbon Street, he’s nowhere in sight.
Cindy and Telson think I’ve been in the washroom, which suits me fine. It was the burger, I tell them. Or the Crocodile Fries. I give Cindy her birthday present — the Monopoly money coupon, tell her it was supposed to be a hot air balloon ride. She’s pleased, but right now anything would please her; the bottle of wine is empty and she’s started on a second. Telson is all for squeezing into one of the bars but I can see Cindy is on the thermocline between a warm glow and a cold front and suggest a movie instead. We end up watching Firestorm, a nice relaxing film that takes my mind off work.
18
I MANAGE TO GET the same dark blue, double-breasted polyester suit. The clerk at Curtain River Men’s Wear thinks I’m spending too much on rentals and tries to talk me into a nice cotton getup. Four rentals and it’s paid for. He’ll even throw in shoes at ten percent off. I’m not interested, rent the suit and cruise around town for a few minutes. Everyone waves. I feel like the mayor. Maybe I should run, but when impersonating an insurance investigator it’s best to stay low key. I drive out of town, follow the scent of drying timber. At Curtain River Forest Products they must be having a staff meeting because the parking lot is full. I create a parking space out back, leave Old Faithful to fend for herself, cut across a thumbnail of lawn. Inside, the air conditioner still hasn’t been fixed and Carmen, the same Marilyn Monroe wannabe, is behind the reception desk. I’d hoped for someone different.
She purses her lips, raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Haffenflaff. What can I do for you?”
“Hassenfloss.” I try to sound professionally offended. “Asper Hassenfloss.”
“Right ...” She clasps her hands together, gives me an imitation sweet smile.
“I have just one small detail left to clear up.”
She’s chewing gum. “What might that be?”
“I just need to check your personnel records one more time.”
“Sure. Just a minute sweetie.” Carmen vanishes down a hallway. She’s wearing a short skirt and I get a good look at tanned cellulite. When she returns, she takes a seat and turns to her computer screen. “Files are in the back,” she says without looking at me. “Down the hall, fourth door.”
“Thanks. I’ll just be a minute.”
The file room is long and narrow, with banks of grey four-drawer lateral filing cabinets lining the walls like safe deposit boxes in a bank vault. Some of the cabinets have labels, some don’t. It takes me a while to find current personnel. There are hundreds of files, jammed in tight, but they’re alphabetical and I find Petrovich, Zeke, employee number 0004532. I lay the file open across the others, flip back through Petrovich’s employment history. Pay records. Vacation notifications. An employee commencement form indicates he’s a mechanic. His starting wage is higher than any wage I ever made as a ranger. Behind this is what I’ve come for. As I scan his resumé, I get an eerie feeling, like some archaeologist who just found the missing link. Petrovich worked for every company that was hit by the Lorax at about what seems the right time. I pull out the resumé, walk to the reception desk. Carmen is on the phone.
She looks up at me. “I’m on hold. What do you need?”
“Can I use your photocopier?”
“You can try, but it’s on vacation.”
I return to the file room. I’m tempted to take the resumé but it would be better for Rachet to find it in situ. I jot down a few notes in my handy-dandy detective notebook — when and where Petrovich worked — slip the resumé into the file and close the drawer. When I turn to leave, twin versions of Paul Bunyan block the door.
I try to slip past them. “Excuse me fellas.”
They move in, eclipsing the hallway light. “You just stay put.”
They’re mill workers wearing hardhats, work boots and reflective vests. They stand with their arms crossed; judging by their size, these guys could be the backup in case the forklift breaks down. Someone must have thought to check if there really is an Insurance Underwriters of America. “If you’ll just let me slip past, I’ve got another meeting.”
The forklifts don’t move. There’s no other way out.
“Okay guys, I’m losing my patience.”
Maybe I can get past them. If I hit low —
Carmen’s voice, from down the hall. “He’s in here.”
The mill workers step back and two Mounties in uniform fill the gap. It’s Harder — the rookie who escorted me from the bombing scene, and Bergren.
“Well, what have we got here?” says Bergren.
“You again,” says Harder.
“I can explain. There’s something here you’ve got to see.”
“Let’s go for a little drive,” says Bergren.
“It’s right here.” I move toward the file cabinet.
“Turn around,” says Bergren. “Slowly.”
I turn. Slowly. Their guns aren’t out but Harder is a little too eager for my taste, his hand resting on his holster. They don’t cuff me but lead me out by the arm like bodyguards. Carmen and the other girls from the office muster to watch the action. The Mounties let me drive my truck to town.
Bergren is my silent passenger.
I spend some time alone in the interrogation closet of the local detachment, contemplating the walls. They should put up some pictures, pin up a few anti-drug slogans, maybe a wanted poster or two. Liven the place up a bit. Or they could do one of those IKEA commercials were they redecorate a public bathroom, make it look like a palace. I’m mulling over the possibilities when Bergren comes in, closes the door, uses a damp sleeve to wipe sweat off his forehead. “Christ it’s hot out there. I used to want to work in the tropics. So much for that.”
“I used to want to be a cop,” I say. “Until I saw the suicide rate.”
“Touché,” Bergren says. He seems to be in a good mood, chuckling as he sits down. “Insurance investigator. Not terribly original. And not terribly bright, doing it twice in a row.”
“I was a little worried about that.”
The door opens again, bumping Bergren’s chair. Rachet comes in. He’s out of uniform, in shorts and a polo shirt, looks like a tourist. Sweat beads on his face like condensation on a cool glass. In the confines of the small room his odour adds a new sense of urgency — I want to wrap this up quickly. “I actually had a day off Cassel. I was on the seventh hole, my first game all year. Twelve hundred bucks for a membership and I get to use it once.”
“Maybe you should pay as you go.”
“Maybe.” He pulls up a chair, leans back and crosses his meaty legs, displays enough black hair and white skin to frighten a tarantula. “So what have we got today? A little Mickey Spillane? A little more Mike Hammer action?”
“More like Cluseau,” Bergren says.
“At least Cluseau was funny. I had to drive an hour and a half because you wanted to play detective.” Rachet frowns at me. “I don’t see a lot of humour in that. Let’s just dispense with the niceties and you tell me exactly what you thought you were doing. So I can salvage something of my day off.”
“I think I found something.”
“Really,” he says. “Surprise me.”
“A clue?” says Bergren. “I’ll try to contain myself.”
Up to now, they’ve regarded me as a nuisance but I’m pretty sure they’ll be interested in what I have to tell them. “Do you know who Zeke Petrovich is?”
“Petrovich?” Rachet looks thoughtful.
“The mechanic,” Bergren prompts.
“Right, the mechanic. Works for the mill here. What about him?”
“Do you know where else he’s worked?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Turns out, he worked for every company that’s been bombed.”
Rachet swats at a fly, doesn’t look concerned.
“At about the right time,” I add. I can’t believe they don’t see where this is going.
“The right time for what?”
“For him to be the Lorax.”
The Mounties exchange a look I’ve seen before. It’s not encouraging. “You don’t find that even vaguely suspicious? That he had the opportunity and means to plant the bombs?”
“Opportunity and means,” Rachet says. “You’ve been reading Agatha Christie.”
“Look —”
“The only company Mr. Petrovich has worked for that’s been bombed is this one.”
“What?”
Rachet gives me an impatient look.“Zeke Petrovich has worked here for the past eight years. Before that, he worked for a garage in Nova Scotia.”
“No —” I dig out my notebook. “He’s worked for every one of them.”
Rachet leans forward, holds out a hand. “May I see that?”
I hand him my notebook. “I pulled this info from his resumé —”
“Interesting. You’ve been busy.”
“I’d rather you didn’t —”
“What’s this entry here? Debris sample to be analyzed?”
“That’s nothing. Another case.”
“So you’re branching out?”
“Something like that. I’d like my notes back.”
“In a minute.” Rachet lingers — the discriminating reader — hands my notebook to Bergren, who vanishes, leaving Rachet and me alone together in the tiny room.
“Don’t you need a warrant or something to confiscate my notes?”
“That’s the least of your problems.”
“Look, I saw his resumé. I had it in my hands —”
Rachet sighs. “We looked into Petrovich. He was the last person to do any work on Hess’s machine. But he checked out, so far anyway. I don’t know what you thought you saw but we’ve done the work. Petrovich was nowhere near the other bombing sites.”
Something isn’t right. “He’s used dynamite before —”
“That why you went to X-Pert Explosives?”
“What?” That wasn’t in my notebook.
“The guy called,” Rachet says. “He was suspicious, took your licence plate.”
“I thought it would be worth looking into.”
“Did you, Mr. Barry Petrovich? Or should I call you Mr. Hassenfloss?”
I massage my eyes, take a moment. “You’re missing the point.”
“No, you’re missing the point.” Rachet stabs a finger at me. He doesn’t look so casual anymore. “You’re dangerously close to interfering with a police investigation. This is no game you’re playing here.”
“You don’t have to tell me —”
“Apparently I do. If I’m to have any chance of catching the bastard that’s doing this, I can’t have you blundering around. Impersonating people. Questioning people. Creating expectations and doubts. The only thing you’ll succeed in doing is destroying opportunities for professional investigation. And if that notation in your notes about analysing debris has anything to do with this case then you’re farther across the line than you realize. Make no mistake, I’ll lock you up to protect the integrity of this investigation.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence, broken by Bergren’s return. He hands the notebook to Rachet, who hands it to me. I pocket it, protectively. “Maybe you’ve seen the wrong resumé.”
Rachet shakes his head.
“Did you look at the one at the mill?”
“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll send someone over for it.”
“That would make me feel better.”
Rachet nods to Bergren, who leaves again.
“There are other things,” I say. “Petrovich has been following me around. My first day in town, I was taking a bike ride, he nearly ran me over. Twice he’s picked fights with me.”
“That what happened to your face?”
“That was Petrovich. He seems to have it in for me, which makes sense if he’s the Lorax. And then there’s the dynamite. A local guy told me that Petrovich used to blow beaver dams.”
“Why do you think the Lorax is using dynamite?” Rachet’s expression is deadpan. He lets me twist for a moment. “I know about the Red Flag Task Force,” he says. “You shouldn’t be using your access for anything outside the authority of that investigation.”
“Is that why you put me under observation?”
“I put you under observation because I thought you might do exactly what you’re doing.”
“Did you stop to think that it might be embarrassing for my arson investigation?”
Rachet looks unconcerned. “It’s an acceptable inconvenience.”
I want to object, but have been overruled. Once again, I’ve been found out-of-order and dangerously close to contempt. I try to redirect. “The Lorax is using dynamite though. We can agree on that?”
Rachet gives me a noncommittal shrug.
“So there could be a connection to Petrovich.”
“You’re fishing,” Rachet says. “But I will tell you that if the Lorax used dynamite he wouldn’t have used the type your buddy Petrovich would have bought for blasting beaver dams.”
“What type would he have used?”
Rachet hesitates, clearly wondering how much to tell me. “Seismic gel,” he says finally. “It has traces of barium sulphate, a densifying agent not found in the composition of what your friend would have used for blasting beaver dams.”
“You found this at all the sites?”
Rachet gives me a half-smile. “How is your arson investigation going?”
I debate telling Rachet my theory that there may be a connection between both cases. Maybe when I have some evidence, something more than a hunch. “Slowly,” I tell him.
“No suspects?”
I shake my head.
“Frustrating, isn’t it.”
Bergren returns, empty-handed, and Rachet gives him a questioning look. “Same resumé we have on file,” says Bergren. “He’s >worked in Curtain River for the past eight years.”
“That’s impossible. I saw it —”
Rachet shakes his head, gives me a sad but understanding look. “I think, Mr. Cassel, that you want to find this Lorax so bad, you’re seeing him everywhere.” He lifts his hands in an expression of helplessness. “But your judgement is clouded.”
“My judgement is not clouded. I saw the damn resumé —”
“Which is why I feel I should not arrest you for interference. This time.”
I have more to say but don’t. Rachet’s message is clear.
“Go home, Mr. Cassel. Stay out of our way and let us do our job.”