STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  “I don’t know. Maybe she told him to stay away from her sister.”

  Savannah dipped her chin at his remark and plucked her bangs.

  “Would he have hurt Elsie?”

  “No, not really.” Todd sucked in his breath. “But I think Gregory would.” His sidelong glance toward Savannah spoke volumes.

  Savannah stared hard at him and then narrowed her eyes.

  “What makes you say that?” Gibson asked.

  “Because of his prior behavior,” Todd said.

  “What behaviour?” Gibson shook his head not following.

  “He was in jail for raping a teenage girl.” A haughty laugh escaped his lips.

  Gibson shot a look toward Eckhart. Oh, shit. How did they miss that? Was it because he had other things on his mind?

  Savannah sunk into her chair, sticking her fist to her mouth.

  “His mother isn’t much better either.”

  “Todd, stop that.” Savannah lashed out. “Gregory didn’t do anything. He didn’t rape that girl. It was—”

  Todd slammed his palm on the table. “He did two years for Christ sakes. What’s the matter with you?” His voice cracked. The air was thick and heavy. A premonitory chill ran down Gibson’s spine. The silence was like a shroud. It stretched thinner and thinner, ready to rupture.

  “Did you see anything, Savannah?” Gibson pressed on.

  “Like what?”

  “Did you see anybody leave?”

  “I guess Gregory left before the fireworks.” She paused. “But so did a few of the other guys. So what.”

  “Anything else?”

  Todd shrugged.

  “No.” Savannah looked up at him.

  “Okay. Thanks for your help. Take care.”

  They trudged down the pathway to the truck. Gibson studied the shuttered windows of the store. “We have a dilemma.”

  “What?” Eckhart asked.

  “Presumably Gregory is on parole.”

  “Oh.”

  “He may have breached his parole in several aspects.”

  “Such as?”

  “Hanging out at a party with alcohol available. Alternatively, were there any adolescents present? We don’t know his conditions of release.”

  “And he seems to be missing,” Eckhart said.

  “Yeah. Maybe that’s why he’s taken a runner. Let’s go to the station.”

  “Maybe catch a snack on the way.”

  “Sure,” he replied.

  She fired up the Expedition. They stopped at a local takeout and snagged sandwiches and coffee. He ate his veggie roll on the road. There wasn’t a soul in the office. The constables had taken off for the day.

  They headed to Eckhart’s office. It was painted a light shade of yellow with cream coloured baseboards. Limited edition prints hung on one wall. A naked oak desk faced the door, a power position for the boss. The floor-to-ceiling window behind it overlooked the same row of maples as the other offices. A bookshelf bursting with law books took up the rest of the room.

  “Nice.”

  “I’m partial to it.” Eckhart pulled a laptop out of a top drawer and placed it on the desk. It fired up but there wasn’t any internet access. “My computer isn’t hooked up yet.”

  “Oh.”

  They headed to the lab, brushing hands as they squeezed through the doorway.

  “Nothing yet,” Frenchy said before they asked.

  “Can we use the computer?”

  “You bet.” She punched in her password. “There you go.”

  Gibson sat down and logged into the RCMP database. He scrolled through a few pages before he found Gregory Cunningham.

  “Yup. He’s on parole.” He looked up at his partner.

  “What are the conditions?”

  “The regular. He can’t leave the city. He must keep the peace. Be of good behaviour and obey the law. Duh.”

  Eckhart giggled.

  “Abstain from alcohol and illegal drugs. Forbidden to contact victims or children. Stay away from people involved in criminal activity. Not allowed to keep any weapon. That’s it.”

  “Has he broken any of the conditions?”

  “If he consumed beer with the guys,” he answered.

  “Okay.”

  “One further condition I see here.” He passed his finger down the screen. “If you have been arrested or questioned by the police, you must notify your supervisor immediately. That doesn’t help. We can’t question someone we can’t find. So, has Gregory made himself scarce because he’s afraid of being involved—because of his parole? Or the worst-case scenario we have to consider is, did he kill Elsie?”

  “Oh, God,” Eckhart said.

  “His parole can be suspended for up to fourteen days even if there’s a suspicion he has violated his release conditions.”

  “I would hide from us too.” Another giggle erupted.

  “He can be arrested and returned to jail.”

  “We better talk to his parole officer.”

  “Maybe there’s a number online.” He searched through the webpage. “Nope.”

  “Call the central switchboard.”

  “You should do that. You have the right badge.” Gibson chuckled.

  She stabbed in the numbers and waited. “Hi, there. This is Inspector Rene Eckhart. I’m looking for a contact number for a parole officer.” She rattled off her badge number and Gregory’s full name and address. An elevator song trumpeted into the earpiece. She yanked the phone from her ear and pouted. The operator returned within a few minutes and provided her the info. Eckhart hung up and shifted to Gibson.

  “Brandon Sullivan.” She dialed, but the call flipped to an agent. Brandon was out of town, so she made an appointment for when he returned.

  “We have an appointment for Sunday at ten.”

  “We need to find Gregory. Where would he have gone?”

  “I think you might be right. He’s gone to Grimsby.”

  “If we find him there, that would be an infringement of his parole,” Gibson said. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Right. Early morning then?”

  “Pick me up at seven?”

  “Okay.” She bit her tongue.

  They cruised down the service road to the main street and through Port Dalhousie. She pulled into the motel’s circular driveway and shifted into park. She watched him go in the front entrance and drove home.

  Chapter 11

  The grim twist of Gibson’s mouth revealed his sombre mood. He stood outside the café waiting for his ride, leaning against the building, hands in his pockets. Not even the sun-kissed sky caused him to smile. He watched as thin, feathery clouds drifted lazily through the forget-me-not blue.

  Eckhart pulled up in the truck. What attracted him to her beauty, her silliness? The doubts had started to creep in. The last few years had been challenging. Was he burned out? Or looking for a way out? He wasn’t certain. Yes, he loved Katherine, but something had become buried in the struggles. He slid into the passenger seat.

  “Hi, cowboy. It’s been a few rough days.” She tapped lightly on his sleeve and lifted her eyebrows mischievously.

  Gibson flashed a quirky smile and stretched out for the run to Grimsby, gazing out the window. She turned around in the motel parking lot and took Ontario Street to the Queen Elizabeth Highway West, four lanes in each direction. Large trucks shook the Expedition as they rocketed past. Gibson sank deeper into his seat and tried to enjoy the ride. The road ran parallel to the shoreline with scenery that replayed itself every so often: trees, fields, houses; repeat.

  When they reached Jordan Harbour, the highway converged with the lake. Gibson looked at the never-ending expanse of light-dappled water. Just as he had focused on the horizon, Eckhart swung the truck inland. Ten minutes later, Gibson spotted the turnoff for Beamsville.

  “There’s our exit. I haven’t been out this way for thirty years.”

  “Really?”

  Eckhart took the off ramp and circled round the ov
erpass. She zigzagged through the back roads. They passed several vineyards, acres of greenhouses and apple orchards before Lincoln Avenue came up at a crossroads.

  Gibson considered the signpost. The numbering was faded. Which way to go? “Turn right.” Just before some railroad tracks, he saw a mailbox on the roadside with the address they were searching. He pointed to the run-down house. “Here.”

  It was more like a shack, black stains running down the siding, moss on the roof.

  Eckhart pulled behind an old Ford Escort with rusted-out fenders. Two kids came shooting around the corner, torn shorts and dirt covered knees. They stopped and gawked at the gleaming new truck. She shut off the motor. “What’s this guy’s name again?”

  “JT Henneberry,” he said, reading from his notes.

  They stepped out into a drier, warmer air than the city, away from the water. A skinny boy ran straight at Gibson, head down like a battering ram.

  “Whoa there, big fellow.” He chuckled.

  “Are you a friend of my dad?” the boy asked, swaggering on a pinpoint, fixed to rumble.

  “Ah. Could be.”

  The front door lurched open. A skinny guy stood there with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wore jeans tattered at the hem and a T-shirt with a label from some rock band.

  “You must be the detectives.”

  Anatoe had given JT a heads up.

  “Come on in.” They strode along a well-rutted track across a brown yard, the two kids shoving in behind. “You guys go play.”

  “I want to see too,” the boy whined in a squeaky, high-pitched cry.

  “I don’t think so. Beat it.”

  Both children raced to the rear, shrieking and howling with delight.

  “Kids.”

  The interior wasn’t much better than the exterior. Patches of mold mottled the dirt-encrusted windows. The walls had turned from an off-white to an off-yellow from tobacco. The living room had three couches, each rattier than the next. They were wedged into an unbelievably tiny space. A coffee table held several ashtrays, not overflowing, but getting there. Eckhart scrunched her face, wiggling her snout. The place smelled bad, smoky and of dead stuff.

  “Have a seat.” JT punched out a puff of blue smoke toward the ceiling.

  Both detectives made their way through the toy trap and squatted on the brink of their chairs. Eckhart squirmed. JT plunged backward into his spot—front line to the television, remote on the arm of the lounge.

  “So, what’s up?” A red stone on his hand flashed even in the dingy light.

  Gibson recognized the ring.

  “You were at the fireworks? At Felton’s house, right?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Who did you come down with?”

  “Logan, my buddy. He drove. Let me think. Joe and Ben.” He crushed his fag into the closest ashtray. A quantity of butts slipped onto the table.

  “Last names?”

  Eckhart scribbled in her journal, puckering her lips, trying not to inhale.

  “Are they all from the same fraternity?” Gibson asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Alpha Zee.” JT peered at Eckhart and presented a lopsided smirk. He crossed his tongue over his bottom lip. She ignored him.

  “We found this at the crime scene.” Gibson plucked a photo from his pocket and tossed it over.

  “Not mine,” JT said and flashed his ring in front of his face.

  “I see that. Anybody missing one?”

  “Not sure.” He picked up his pack of smokes, studied Eckhart, and then pitched them back onto the coffee table.

  “Any guesses?” Gibson asked.

  “How should I know? Maybe an ex-girlfriend or something?”

  “Have you seen Gregory lately?” Gibson thrust that in as indifferently as he could.

  “No. Not since the fireworks.”

  “How did you happen to even be there?”

  “Blinkers invited us,” JT said.

  “Who?”

  “Anatoe. We call him Blinkers. You know. His eye.” JT smirked.

  “Why did he invite you? Because you’re fraternity brothers.”

  “No. He’s a cousin of sorts. He shows up here all the time. Usually on weekends.”

  “When was he out last?”

  “A month ago, I guess?” JT replied.

  “Okay. So back to the fireworks. Did any of you guys leave before they started?”

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “Go down to the beach?” Gibson asked.

  “No.” JT narrowed his eyes. “None of us even knew Elsie if that’s what you’re getting at?” He hesitated. “I’ve met Todd though.”

  “What? Her husband?”

  “Yeah, he was here one day, hunting down Anatoe.”

  Gibson took a quick look at Eckhart and glowered. “When was this?”

  “A month ago. He paraded in, right after Anatoe got here.”

  Eckhart watched him light up another fag. JT trapped the smoke in his mouth. He blew swirls out between his lips into perfect rings that scattered when they hit the wall. She felt dizzy and coughed, trying hard not to let it turn into a long fit of choking. Gibson remained mum, letting the guy reveal the story his own way. When JT flicked the cigarette toward the ashtray, the ash sprinkled onto the rug. He inhaled another round and continued.

  “Todd confronted Anatoe. Told him to stay away from Savannah. Anatoe was chill though. Offered him a beer and they talked. Todd stuck around for several hours.” He crushed the butt and stared at Gibson with hardened eyes and a clenched jaw.

  Gibson gestured, giving permission to proceed.

  “Some ladies came over. It turned into a party. Todd became chummy with Sue. I think it was her. I was tipsy by then. He took off with someone.”

  A ghost walked through Gibson. He shivered. “Are you claiming he left with a young woman?”

  “Yeah, that’s precisely what I’m saying.”

  “Oh, shit.” Gibson muttered under his breath.

  Eckhart placed her hand over her mouth.

  “So, you have a number or address?”

  “No, I don’t know her personally, but Cindy will,” JT said.

  Eckhart wrote in her notebook.

  Gibson stood up. He turned toward the door. When he got there, he looked back at JT. “Don’t call her,” he said stiffly.

  The guy lit up another smoke and shrugged. The kids came flying at the sound of the Expedition firing up. They pawed at the clean truck, leaving baby prints along the bottom panels.

  “Take us for a spin?”

  Eckhart rolled down the window. “Not today. Look out. Don’t want to run you over.”

  The boy snatched his younger brother’s hand and tugged him aside. Eckhart backed up warily and tooted the horn as they rode away.

  “Holy shit! Todd. Did he cheat on Elsie?” Eckhart said.

  “Let’s find out. Cindy’s place is just off Kerman Road. Not far from here.”

  After a few turns in the road, they made it to their destination. Gibson pointed to a modest dwelling adjacent to the freeway, massive power lines passing through the neighbourhood. “Bet you can hear those suckers buzz in the rain.”

  “Yuck.”

  “JT said on the right side. Basement suite.”

  “Okay.”

  Gibson rapped lightly on the doorframe. No answer, so he knocked again. A crack opened. A young girl with snarled hair and shabby clothes peered through the slim gap. She was scrawny as if drugs had a grip on her.

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you Cindy?”

  “Who wants to know?” She eyed them suspiciously.

  Oh brother. Gibson pulled out his badge.

  “Yeah.” She shrunk into herself.

  “Do you know Sue Reynolds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have a number for her?”

  “No.” She pushed on the door to close it.

  “JT says you do.” Gibson stuck his foot in the way.

/>   “My cell isn’t working.”

  “Address?” Gibson barked.

  She gave them an address and shut out the world with a bang.

  * * *

  The ancient wood-framed apartment on Parker Road was easy to locate because he knew someone that had lived nearby from that long-ago time. The rumble of a thousand automobiles resonated down the street from the highway barely a spit’s distance to the north. They slipped through the unsecured entrance and walked down a corridor that stank of a concoction of several countries. Gibson knocked on the flimsy door. A woman responded instantly. She lifted her eyebrows at his handsome face, flipped her mane and suggested in a silky voice, “May I help you?” She batted her lashes. Suddenly, she detected Eckhart standing at the side. She pouted, drawing her red lips down at the corners.

  “Are you Sue Reynolds?” Gibson flashed his badge.

  “Yes.” She reached back and gathered her locks into a bunch, twisting a scrunchy off her wrist to secure her hair into a high ponytail. “Oh, come on in.”

  They went down a tight hallway to a respectable living room, painted a pastel colour. The sliding door faced the freeway. The detectives sat on a pink lounge covered with a quilt made up of every shade of pink imaginable. Sue perched herself on the edge of a loveseat.

  “Do you know a Todd Webber?”

  “I don’t think so.” She batted her lashes.

  “He was at JT’s place. A friend of Anatoe—”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember him. He was kinda cute.” She flung him a perky smile.

  “Did he come home with you?”

  “No. That wasn’t me. Who told you that?”

  “JT.”

  “He’s wrong. That guy left with JoJo.”

  Gibson gave her a look.

  “Josephine Black.”

  “Are you certain?” Gibson grumbled.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I had to drive them. They were extremely drunk.” She paused. “We have the same colour hair. You know. Guess that’s why JT figured it was me.” She flicked her ponytail.

  “Got a number and address?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She rolled through her cell contacts. “Here it is.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eckhart jotted in her journal.

  They walked through the international corridor and headed back to the truck. Gibson glimpsed at the sky. The sun was already pushing west. He jumped into the Expedition and slammed the door. Eckhart stared at him curiously.