Lost and Found

Lost and Found A Christine Lane Mystery #3. A drug-ridden Village. A missing daughter. An undercover cop way over her head.Dianne ScottDanforth Press Lost and Found Copyright © Dianne Scott, 2023This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or stored in any information storage system without permission in writing from the author or publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.Cover Design: Lance Buckley978-1-7776042-7-1 ISBN Print Book978-1-7776042-6-4 ISBN Ebook978-1-7776042-8-8 ISBN Large Print PaperbackDanforth Presshttps://diannescottauthor.com/ Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 33. Chapter 33 34. Chapter 34 35. Chapter 35 Dedication Acknowledgments About Author Chapter 1April 1969 The ax flew through the air. Its blade hit the wooden target sideways, clattering to the ground in front of the willow tree.“Too much force,” said Police Constable Geoffrey Fillingham. “Try a lighter touch,” Policewoman Christine Lane gave her partner a baleful look before retrieving the ax from the ground. “I can’t help it if I’m strong.” She brushed mud off the ax and handed it to Fillingham.The officers were ax-throwing on their break, warmed by the fire pit in the Centre Island police station’s backyard.“Hercules,” he said, “throw another log on the fire while I demonstrate that ax-throwing, like life, is about finesse.”Her partner lined up his shot. He was in uniform but coatless and hatless on this April afternoon. His short blond hair was long on top—he’d have to get it cut soon. With a year-round tan from sailing and skiing, he had the pearly smile of a toothpaste ad. Christine tromped over to the logs stacked against the building’s brick wall. The backyard was in that muddy state of early spring, the snow receding to the lawn edges, baring twigs, dead leaves and detritus. In the next month, the grass would green, crocus and snowdrops would push through the soil and snow shovels and long johns would be stored away.She placed a log on the pyramid of burning wood in the stone fire pit and turned to see Fillingham throw the ax with a flick of his wrist. The blade stuck in the blue ring circling the red bull’s-eye. Three points.“Ha!” he said. “That’s fifteen points to your eleven, Lane.” He pulled the ax out of the target and handed it to her. “You got one throw left before victory is mine.” His maniacal laugh made her smile. Her partner was a combination of silly, fun-loving and energetic, which made their patrol entertaining. Even during the winter months, when few visitors ventured to Toronto Island and the officers’ duties were minimal, he found them a challenge: snowball toss, sit-ups or a floor-mopping contest. Christine stared at the red bull’s-eye ringed with a circle of blue and an outer circle of black, reminding herself to point at her target when she released the handle. She pictured the ax moving through the air and embedding in the red circle so she could smugly watch her partner wash and dry all the dishes. After a few practice swings of her arm, she threw the ax with a grunt. The ax rotated, handle over head, until it bit deeply into the center of the red bull’s-eye. There was a loud crack, and the target split in two. One half of the wooden circle fell to the ground.Christine’s hands rose in victory.“You wrecked it!” he exclaimed. “I won,” she said. “Five points for a bull’s-eye.”“The bull’s eye is gone, Lane. Not sure if we can count this last end.”“I won fair and square!” she protested. “It doesn’t matter that the target broke.”“The Olympic track runner gets the gold, even if he sets the stadium on fire?” he asked.“Not the same thing,” she said.They approached the tree and regarded the broken circle. He tugged the ax out of the trunk. “We’re going to have to find another log slice for the target.” A telephone rang from inside the station. It was the local line Islanders used to call police directly. Fillingham motioned for her to get the call. “I’ll manage the fire,” he said.They always smothered the fire before returning inside, even if there was a blizzard that would quash the flames. She was vigilant about this rule, maybe because her mom and her stepdad had been smokers, and she had spent her childhood worrying that a forgotten cigarette might burn down their apartment. Even now, with her stepdad long gone, she did a final tour before bed, checking that her mom had placed her ashtrays in the sink. Christine hustled up the porch steps of the station and ran across the waiting room, leaving muddy boot prints she would have to mop later. Grabbing the receiver off the wall, she answered, “Centre Island Police station. Toronto Police. PW Lane speaking.” “PW Lane, it’s Samuel Fairmont from Clergy House.”“Mr. Fairmont. What can I do for you?” Fairmont was the owner of Clergy House, an upscale restaurant by the boardwalk that edged the south side of the Island. He didn’t often call the station. She recalled a request to help with a belligerent customer who refused to pay his hefty alcohol bill. And theft of a cast-iron patio table. But that was it. And in the winter, the restaurant’s hours