Chapter One

Not the Mellowest Rastafarians in the Pot Dispensary

A late model Chevy van sped down a dusky street in East Vancouver. The three males and one female occupying the vehicle sat in semi-darkness contemplating the job ahead. Although the gang had worked together for years and had done this many times, the fear of incarceration was real. Thrill junkies to the end, they shuddered inwardly at the thought of lengthy prison sentences. If things didn’t go exactly according to plan they would be going away for a very long time.

Would you please slow the fuck down just a little! snarled guitarist Skippy Martin as the lead-footed driver took a corner much faster than the posted speed. Skippy hated fast cars.

Lead singer Elliot Addington snapped back. It’s not our fault you stopped driving! I have the wheel now so you’ll just have to accept that other people might not drive the way you like! His foot stayed firmly on the gas.

Skippy was wounded. Hey! I simply decided that the world would be a better place if there was one less car! What do you care if I drive or not? Hunched in the back, bassist Nigel Harris and drummer Andrea von Hemming felt the familiar tension brewing. Andrea knew how to deal with the pair but Nigel did his best to stay clear.

The dispute had already become a circular argument that could not be resolved peacefully. Fuck that save the planet bullshit and just admit that you need to stay away from the Xanax and tequila! said Elliot. Just admit that you’re usually too fucked up to drive! He and Skippy were the classic vocals/guitar songwriting team, immensely talented and with egos to match. Often on the verge of killing each other, the troublesome twosome was closer than most married couples.

Andrea was also part of the twisted marriage and she was done with the drama. Squeezing between the front seats, she glared ferociously at her bickering bandmates. Boys! Can you please take it down just a fucking notch? And Elliot? Slow down to five klicks over the speed limit or I’ll rip your foot off and shove it up your ass! The boys needed a firm hand and she was there to supply that whether they liked it or not.

Don’t tell me how to drive! We’re almost there so chill the fuck out, Elliot fired back. Despite his tough talk, the singer reluctantly fell back as instructed. He’d rather fight ten angry cops than go toe-to-toe with the fiery drummer.

Somebody has to tell you maniacs what to do! You’ll get us busted with that macho bullshit! said Andrea. She never backed down.

Elliot kept his eyes on the road and held the speed at a rebellious six klicks over the limit. Even with Skippy and Andrea on his ass he was excited to be on his way to another job. This was even better than playing live.

Skippy felt the time had come to move on. Nobody wanted to fight with Andrea. The guitarist took a flask from his pocket and had a good snort. He sat quietly for a minute and then his eyes lit up. Hey, did I ever tell you guys about the time I fought that alligator when I was touring with my punk band Benign Neglect in Florida? Man, that was fucking wild!

YES! everyone in the van shouted simultaneously. Andrea rolled her eyes so hard they almost bled.

Skippy opened his mouth to tell the story anyway but decided against it. You guys are no fucking fun. I try to keep you amused and you just shit on me.

Elliot laughed sarcastically. That’s a cool story but you must have others we haven’t heard yet. Why don’t you tell us about the time you fucked my sister? That’s what I get for inviting you to Christmas dinner!

Skippy was doubly wounded. Hey! She’s only three years younger than you are, so it’s not like I was robbing the cradle or anything! She’s also a bit of a screamer, which made it easier not to think about you when I had my dick in her. He grinned at the memory.

Elliot’s expression didn’t change but his left eyelid twitched slightly. Had Skippy noticed the tic he wouldn’t have been as surprised when Elliot calmly took his right hand from the wheel and clipped him neatly on the jaw, causing his head to crash against the side window. Violence was also a pattern with them.

WHAT THE FUCK? shouted Skippy, rubbing his jaw. Shorter but stockier than Elliot, he never retreated from a fight. His hastily aimed punch caught the singer on the ear and sent the van careening into the oncoming lane. Luckily, no vehicles were coming from the other direction and they didn’t all die in a fiery crash.

You fucking prick! shouted Elliot, swerving down the street. Instead of slowing down or pulling over, he fired off a sloppy barrage of one-handed punches at Skippy’s head. This time the van drifted onto the shoulder.

Andrea lost her shit again. QUIT FIGHTING AND STOP THE FUCKING VAN! she screamed, scaring Elliot so badly that he swerved again. STOP RIGHT NOW!

Elliot angrily pulled over onto the unpaved shoulder but he was too mad to submit to Andrea or anyone else. That dick has been pissing me off all night and I’ve had enough! he exploded, almost rabid with rage.

Fuck you, Elliot! You’re the fucking asshole! shouted Skippy. Elliot was his best friend and worst enemy.

I’m so done with this fucking shit! snapped Andrea. Either you spoiled wannabe rock star assholes shake hands and apologize right now or I’m outta here! Her eyes glowed like the pits of hell.

Elliot was still too keyed up to yield. Why do you always gotta be such a fucking hardass? I’m the fucking leader of this fucking band so leave if you don’t like it! Drummers were replaceable, even Jon Card or Phil Rudd.

Really? That’s how you wanna play it? REALLY? Fine, I’m outta here right fucking now! Andrea grabbed her bag and started to open the side door. She never bluffed.

Elliot could see the job and maybe even the band itself going sideways. If Andrea opened the door she was gone for good. WAIT! he said, collapsing like a two-legged stool. I’m sorry! I just lost my head for a second there. Skippy has a way of yanking my chain. Sex with Andrea was fantastic and terrifying all at the same time.

Stop trying to blame it all on Skippy! Shake hands and make up! ordered Andrea, her hand still on the door handle. NOW!

Ah, fuck! Okay, okay! said Elliot, the fight gone from his game. Frowning darkly, he stuck out his hand. Sorry, Skipper. With his boxy jaw set aggressively and dirty blond hair hiding his angry blue eyes, the singer looked anything but apologetic.

"I’ll make peace but not because you told me to. I do things my way, Skippy said to Andrea, scowling. Then he reached to shake hands with Elliot. Sorry, man. Shit gets a bit crazy once in a while." His anger never lasted.

Sorry for the pop on the chin, Elliot said ruefully. That was uncalled for.

Great, now let’s get moving! said Andrea, thinking about the job ahead. You guys all changed into work clothes, right?

The band all muttered their affirmation, even Skippy who was still wearing the same black jeans he’d worn onstage earlier that night. They were dirty anyway, so why change when he could just throw them away later? He’d swapped his white long-sleeved shirt for a black T-shirt and that would have to do.

Sitting in the back with Andrea, Nigel stayed out of the conflict. While it was true that Sabotage had been knocking over jewelry stores for more than three years, the odds against them increased with each job and he knew it was only a matter of time before they ran out of luck. His fellow bandits were not the mellowest Rastafarians in the pot dispensary, and it was a miracle they hadn’t been busted yet. Elliot had a terminal case of Lead Singer Disease, Skippy was a certified sociopath, and although Andrea was his best friend, she was also a bit scary at times.

All this notwithstanding, these were still the best years of his life. There was rarely a dull moment.

Three stressful minutes later, Elliot turned onto a service road and parked at a loading dock behind a darkened strip mall. Here we are, he said, smiling quietly to himself. Pocketing the keys, the singer climbed out of the van. The fun was about to begin.

Chapter Two

Burglary Not Robbery

Tom McFarland woke from a restless and fitful sleep. His fingers scrabbled desperately on the night table until they closed around a small green pill, which he tossed directly into his mouth. The forty-milligram oxycodone tasted worse than a pinecone but he chewed it the way a starving rat might demolish a fresh strawberry. Just the physical act of consuming the drug made him feel slightly better, even though the powerful opiate wouldn’t begin to take hold for a few minutes. Throwing his legs out of bed, McFarland shook his head and tried to focus. A new day was upon him and nothing short of sudden death could change that.

Dressing with an economy of movement, McFarland strapped on his shoulder holster and donned a cheap grey sports jacket. A detective for the Vancouver Police Department, he struggled along as best he could, plodding through life and trying to keep his head above water. Work helped him to keep from thinking about Laney. She was with him almost every waking moment.

Tom’s father Henry was already seated in his favourite chair at 8:00 AM, radio on and paperback novel in hand. The retired longshoreman rarely watched TV, preferring instead to read almost anything. Henry had been living with his son since the hit-and-run, even though he had his own condo in Port Moody. The situation was nothing like the arrangement Frasier had with his father.

Mornin,’ Dad, said McFarland, crossing through the living room to the kitchen. So, when the fuck will you be moving your creaky old ass out of here? He said this in a manner that wasn’t entirely meant to be taken seriously. The two-bedroom suite in downtown Vancouver was big enough for both of them, and with Laney gone he was glad to have Henry around. The old man had lost his wife to cancer and understood the pain.

Get fucked! laughed Henry. I gave you the down payment for this dump so don’t give me that shit. I’ll leave when I’m damn good and ready! His son was both a source of pride and a cause for concern. He knew about the pills.

You’ll never let me forget that, will you? grumbled McFarland, pouring a cup of strong black coffee. The old man always made a pot as soon as he woke up, which was almost a good enough reason to keep him around all by itself. He also kept the place in shape and did most of the cooking. The crusty ex-longshoreman wasn’t a master chef but at least he didn’t nearly burn the house down every time he went near the stove.

McFarland sat down on the couch with his coffee, shunning breakfast entirely. Excluding the forty-milligram Oxy, he wouldn’t eat until noon, at which time he would abstractedly devour a junk food meal that would cause his arteries to harden and his doctor to frown. With his immediate needs met, the sedated detective leaned back on the couch to enjoy his buzz. That’s when he saw what his father was reading. Jesus Christ! he said, almost morally offended. "Are you reading Dan Brown? Can’t you try something with a bit less suck? The Necronomicon perhaps? Anything would be better than the fucking Da Vinci Code."

Henry barely lifted his eyebrows. It’s not that bad, really. Everybody just hates him because he sold tons of books, said the old man, turning the page. Did you know he was screwing a horse trainer half his age? His ex-wife is suing the shit out of him.

I don’t care who that clown was fucking, muttered McFarland, thinking about Laney. He hadn’t been with a woman since her death. Not that he’d been trying, but why did shitty authors get more action than handsome-if-slightly-elderly detectives? He hung his head, the opiate buzz yielding slightly under the weight of it all. Life sucked but the game had to be played.

Henry lowered the book to glower at his son. "Jesus fuck! Can’t you at least try to move on? You’ve been stumbling around in a fog, munching painkillers like jelly-beans for more than a year! Pull your head out of your ass and get on with your life! I’m worried about you!"

McFarland guzzled coffee, the hot liquid burning his throat. He slammed the empty mug on the coffee table and stood up abruptly. I’d like to see how you’d behave if a hit-and-run driver sped through a red light and killed your bride of two months! Laney was the love of my life and now I’ll end up alone and miserable just like you!

I’M NOT ALONE! I GOT YOU! Henry called after his son as he walked out the door. He lifted his book and tried to read again. If Dan Brown was a bit of a dick, so was his boy.

McFarland drove to the cop shop, parked his ten-year old Honda in the parkade, and took the elevator upstairs. He walked into the bullpen, where the usual suspects lounged about doing a whole lot of nothing and talking shit about everyone not in earshot. Citizens were out there being robbed and beaten but none of that worried the detectives greatly. To solve crimes, they merely sat around eating and farting and telling bad jokes until someone phoned in a tip. McFarland despised their laziness and wondered if he was actually meant to be a detective. Wasn’t sleuthing a sacred sacrament for steely savants with the staggering skills to track sneaky suspects down sleazy streets? Like his colleagues, McFarland knew he was just a tired chimp in an off-the-rack suit waiting for the phone to ring. He was fully aware that he was no better than they were. Most of the hate he carried was for himself.

Still wishing the sun would collide with the earth, McFarland sat down at his cubicle and began checking his email. After dealing with a few insignificant matters, he turned to Facebook with detached cynicism, regarding everything he read with a combination of cynicism and doubt. He cared little for social media and everything on it. Life was a cruel hoax and the only woman he’d truly loved was gone. Glancing at his watch, the weary dick saw that he was still hours from his next pill. A handful of those and the bad joke would be over for good. But that would mean harming his father, the one person he still loved.

The jangling phone shook McFarland from his pathetic reverie. McFarland, he mumbled into the receiver, wishing he weren’t. Why couldn’t he be someone else for a while?

Get the fuck in here, Detective Sergeant Bolles said gruffly before hanging up. Bolles was a man of few words and the words he did use were never very nice.

McFarland exhaled slowly. He did everything he could to avoid the Sarge, who was a prick at the best of times. Conversations with the man always intensified McFarland’s desire to leave this mortal coil. He got up slowly and shuffled towards his sad destination at the other end of the office. The Sarge wants to see me. Notify my next of kin, he said, passing his closest neighbour, Detective John Falls.

Falls looked up from his computer screen, myopic eyes blinking moistly. Really? How the fuck can you get in trouble if you don’t do anything? The rumpled cop tried to smile but seemed to have forgotten how. His lips curled upwards as if hoisted by strings.

You should talk. The last time you closed a case was never, said McFarland without slowing his pace. There was nothing to be gained by keeping the boss waiting.

The sergeant’s door was open a crack but McFarland knocked anyway, heart thumping like an animal trapped in a cage. Come in! barked the Sarge.

Sweating lightly, McFarland stepped into the room. You called? he asked, shuffling his feet nervously.

Siddown, ordered Bolles. He was a tall, skinny man with a red nose and eyes that bulged like Steve Buscemi’s. A large coffee sat on his desk, just one of many he would consume during his shift. McFarland wondered if Bolles might be less of a prick if he didn’t drink so much coffee, but there was always the possibility that he might even be worse without the caffeine.

Bolles took a good hit of java and gazed at McFarland the way an eight-year-old with a magnifying glass might study an unlucky ant. When was the last time you closed a significant case? he asked, without preamble. I mean seriously, what exactly do you do here? Do you even consider yourself a real police?

McFarland was almost offended. What kind of question is that, sir? I cleared that string of bank stickups around Main Street just last week! We nailed the guy and closed five robberies!

Bolles smiled mirthlessly. But that was a phone-in tip, right? That’s hardly police work. It was only a matter of time before that junkie tripped on his own shoelaces or nodded out with a stick-up note in his hands. I mean, when was the last time you actually solved a case with hard work and critical thinking? He glowered at McFarland, eyes protruding obscenely.

So someone ratted! I still had to go out and arrest the fucker! said McFarland, acknowledging to himself that he liked some criminals more than he liked the Detective Sergeant. What is this really about? Did I do something wrong?

Aside from having the lowest number of closures on the squad you mean? asked the Sarge, waving his hand as if to disperse a nasty fart. No, but I’m just wondering if you want to do some police work that will challenge you in a meaningful way. Are you ready to do something other than wait for the motherfucking phone to ring?

McFarland was suddenly nervous. Um, sure, but what are we talking about here?

Bolles picked up his coffee and took another large swallow. Maney’s Jewelry on Vanness got hit last night. The thieves used some sort of high-tech coring machine to cut through the safe from the flower shop next door. Technically, they didn’t even enter the jewelers. These guys are solid pros and Superintendent Ross is putting the heat on me to clear this.

McFarland digested the information slowly. Something was clearly wrong with this picture. Um, with all due respect, sir, why are you giving this case to me? Wouldn’t Kowalski and Dunn be the more logical choice? The senior detectives were the department hotshots, and so what if Kowalski and Dunn sounded like the name of a disreputable law firm?

Not only are you going to take this case, but I’m also pairing you with Lesser, who finally made junior detective last month. You are going to stop moping around about your wife and work this case or I’ll make your life a living fucking hell, said Bolles with a threatening growl. He was known for his direct manner and lethal coffee breath.

McFarland’s head was still reeling but the oxycodone softened the blow. He sat there quietly for a moment. When do I start? he finally said. No wasn’t an option.

Now! said Bolles. Investigate the crime scene and interview the principals so I can tell Superintendent Ross that I have my best men on the case. Take Lesser with you and get going!

McFarland departed much faster than he’d arrived. He soon found Richard Lesser in the bullpen and the pair headed out in a well-abused Dodge Charger that smelled of raw onions and sadness. Thirty-three-year-old Lesser was short and cherubic, making him look like an overfed hamster in a shabby brown suit. Lesser read The Atlantic and considered himself liberal but thought the war on drugs was necessary and just. I know we haven’t had the chance to get acquainted yet but where are we going? I usually ride with Davis, he said, trying not to sound too confrontational. He’d never cared much for McFarland and hoped this wouldn’t be a permanent partnership.

Whoa! One question at a time! scowled McFarland, stuck behind a bus. We’re headed to Maney’s Jewelers on Vanness so I can buy you a nice Rolex! A meteor is scheduled to crash into Earth tomorrow so Bolles thought you might need a fine timepiece in hell.

Lesser frowned. You’d never know it by talking to him, but Bolles isn’t such a bad guy. He just expects a lot from people and gets upset when they don’t give him 100 percent, he said, insinuating that McFarland was one of those people. Lesser was aware that McFarland’s wife had died but that was more than a year ago so his constant moping was excessive.

Like a star cluster on the edge of a supermassive black hole, McFarland felt himself being sucked into an argument from which there was no escape. He took a deep breath and stepped on the gas just a bit. Are you fuckin’ crazy? How can you possibly say that? The man is an enormous asshole of the gaping kind! Bolles doesn’t care about anybody but himself! You can knock yourself out interviewing people and whatnot but I’ll just go back to the station and wait for some dopesick fiend to phone in a tip. Why give 100 percent when the world would just kick you in the nuts for trying?

Lesser took his precious time to reply. I’d rather do the job they’re paying us to do than sit around that smelly office telling shitty jokes and spewing dirty lies. Seriously, where are we even going?

I told you, we’re going to Maney’s Jewelers, said McFarland, cutting off an old lady in a baby blue Cadillac. They got hit last night and the owner is apparently losing his shit.

Lesser still had questions. Why is it an emergency if the robbery happened last night? Why are you speeding?

"It was a burglary not a robbery. It’s only a robbery if a weapon or a note was used. How the fuck did you make detective? By the way, you’ll be writing the report, so try not to use ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’! McFarland found a small stretch of open road and mashed the accelerator angrily. Bolles was a first-rate fuckstick and no one could convince him otherwise.

Lesser winced as McFarland narrowly missed a camper van driven by a hippy in an orange beret. His partner clearly thought this was the Indy 500. But didn’t Bolles assign this case to us when he could have given it to Kowalski and Dunn? He’s giving us a chance to prove ourselves. You don’t understand him at all!

McFarland glanced at his watch. Only 9:45 AM and already he’d lost the will to