by J C Paulson
“He did come back, briefly. A few months ago. I don’t recall when.”
“Did he have the run of the dealership while he was here, either time?”
“I suppose he did,” said Delacroix, heaving a sigh. “I trusted him. He had security codes, keys, that sort of thing.”
Adam nodded. It would indeed have been easy for Corey to snag Dunlop’s car, or any car, if the timing lined up. There was no evidence that he had been in Saskatoon recently, but that didn’t mean anything; he could easily have driven in, and knowing the dealership, stolen a black SUV.
But where was the connection between Corey Hilliard and the other victims?
“Was Corey Hilliard here when you first bought the dealership, Mr. Delacroix?”
“He did come by at the beginning, to check it out.”
“Okay. Thank you. Appreciate your time. We’ll see ourselves out.”
Adam and James rose, shook Delacroix’s hand, and were back in the hallway, looking surreptitiously for Monique Delacroix’s office. It wasn’t on the second floor, so they headed back downstairs. There, in the middle of the big showroom, was a stunning, well-groomed woman who looked like she could be her handsome brother’s twin. The two officers bee-lined for her.
“Monique Delacroix?” asked Adam.
“Yes,” she said. “And you are?”
“Detective Sergeant Adam Davis, and my colleague, Detective Constable James Weatherall.” They showed their warrant cards, careful not to make it obvious. “Do you think we could have a private conversation?”
“About what?”
“Don Dunlop,” said Adam, keeping his voice low. “And Corey Hilliard.”
Monique’s heavy lids closed for a moment, then fluttered back open.
“Not here,” she said, very quietly. “The walls have ears.”
“At the station?”
“All right.”
“Later today?”
“All right. Say four?”
“That’ll be fine,” said Adam, handing her his card. “See you then. Come to the front and ask for me.”
*****
Adam and James walked out the sales door and in the service door, where they asked the young man behind the counter for Dustin.
“That’s me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Adam showed him his warrant card.
“Is there somewhere we can talk for a few minutes?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Dustin. “Come through.”
Dustin led the way into a small and relatively filthy office, and shut the door.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Is this about the stolen Cayenne?”
“Partly,” said Adam. “First, could you please give us your full name? And what is your position here?”
“Dustin Wheeler. Assistant service manager.”
“What do you know about the SUV?”
“Not much. I came in that morning, and realized it was gone. I told the bosses.”
“Did you lock up as usual? Or is that your job?”
“It is my job, but one of the higher-ups checks after me.”
“How often do you handle the tow trucks?”
“Never.”
“But you picked up Suzanne Genereux’s car two weeks ago on the highway, correct?”
“That was different. I was delivering the truck out to our dealership in Humboldt. I couldn’t very well drive by the poor lady.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“A year and a half,” said Dustin. “I was one of the new guys hired after they bought it.”
“Where were you on the night of the storm, a week ago Friday?” Adam asked, changing up the questioning. He hoped to take the service man off guard.
Dustin thought for a moment.
“At a party. Until about two, I’d say. Then I went home. I was pretty drunk, so I slept through most of the thunder.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“We have to verify where everyone was that night. Can you give me the name of the person who held the party? Or was it a public one?”
“Yeah, it was at Prairieland Park. Big rock show. But I can give you a couple of friends’ names.”
“Please.”
Dustin scribbled names and phone numbers on a card.
“Where did you work before Luxury Motors?” asked Adam, accepting the card.
“Dan’s Service.”
“Did Dan’s Service have a tow truck?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Tow truck. Deborah Clairmont called one. Another picked up Suzanne’s car.
“Okay, Dustin. Don’t leave town, okay? We’ll get back to you.”
“You bet, Sergeant. I’m not going anywhere. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
*****
Adam had been summoned into the police chief’s office to talk about the event with Terry Pearson.
Pearson and his attitude dated back to the dark days of the police service, when some officers would drive Indigenous men outside the city limits with a directive to “sober up” as they tried to find their way back to town. They were called Starlight Tours.
It often happened in the cold Prairie winter, when freezing to death was a real threat. And then it did happen, more than once. Rodney Naistus and Lawrence Wegner died of hypothermia, although no police involvement was found at their inquests.
A young Indigenous man, Neil Stonechild, had also perished in the cold, and two police officers were implicated in his death. An inquiry ensued in 2003, just a few years ago, and the city, largely, no longer trusted its police force — nor its chief, who was widely excoriated for creating the culture that allowed for the tours to take place.
The inquiry was, in part, forced by the StarPhoenix’s coverage. The paper dove deeply into the crimes, and one day, after months of investigation, the news exploded, sickening an unsuspecting public. The entire front section of the paper was devoted to the roots of the problems in the police force. It all came to light thanks to the paper’s city editor and a very tough, committed reporter.
The city managers were forced to respond. The chief was fired.
The Board of Police Commissioners ever afterward would choose their chiefs carefully. Those chiefs worked hard to clean up the racist elements of the force.
But neither McIvor nor Adam, who joined the force after that time, were under any delusions the situation was perfect. McIvor had organized training sessions with Elders, workshops with university professors and everything else he could think of. Adam attended them all, as had his staff. Pearson had not.
Pearson was a nauseating hangover from the 1990s and early 2000s. Adam clashed with him on every case that involved people of colour, women, and every other possible minority: he was positive that Pearson had largely ignored the Ironstand and Martin missing persons’ files.
Over the last two years, the relationship had become so toxic that Adam went around him whenever possible; and although it was hardly protocol, McIvor let him.
This time, though, McIvor had to talk to Adam. He looked up when Adam knocked, and invited him to sit down.
“Pearson’s complained about you,” said McIvor.
“I was sure he would,” said Adam.
“What happened, Adam? Come on. That’s not like you.”
“Did he tell you what he said?”
“He complained he couldn’t reach Fisher for something, and apparently Fisher was out following your witness back to her parents’ place. He said you sanctioned it, and when he questioned you, you swore at him.”
“That’s pretty close,” said Adam, evenly. “Except he also asked if Suzanne was Fisher’s ‘fucking squaw.’”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“That’s what I said. I admit I lost my temper. I came around the desk and let him have it. I’m not sure if it was the slur against Fisher’s heritage, or against Suzanne, that set me on fire. I’m sorry, Chief. D
o what you have to do.”
The chief leaned back in his chair and regarded Adam, twisting a pen in his fingers.
“What the hell,” he said. “Consider yourself severely reprimanded. I’ll try to get it past the union, and I’ll talk to Pearson again. One more time.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Adam. “Very much.”
Adam knew he had gone too far with Pearson, regardless of his inspector’s racist views. He allowed himself a deep breath of relief, and a personal promise that he would not let Pearson get under his skin again.
*****
Adam’s phone rang an hour later, and he saw the Winnipeg area code. He snatched up his office phone.
“Davis.”
“Adam, it’s Jeannette.”
“I hoped it was you. How are you, Jeannette?”
“Very well, and you, Adam?”
“Well, thanks. What’s new?”
“We had another chat with Corey Hilliard. I believe we scared the ever-living hell out of him on the murder charges. He admitted physical abuse on his sister, cousins and another woman.”
“Progress,” said Adam.
“But, Adam, he adamantly denied ever having broken someone’s bone, or hitting anyone in the face,” said Jeannette. “He said he wouldn’t have been so stupid, number one, since everyone can see facial bruises; and two, he admitted he’s ‘angry and fucked up and drinks too much,’ but said he would never go that far.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Adam, I did. Obviously I could be wrong, but I don’t think he’s a psychopath, despite his cool and cocky exterior. I think it’s an act. He cracked like a little boy when we went after him in the interview. He said he had been an asshole but he had never killed anyone, and begged us to believe him.”
“I trust your gut, Jeannette. Will he remain in custody?”
“Yes. We are still charging him with assault. We’ll see what happens at his bail hearing. We also caught up to Angela Sinclair and put this information in front of her. She agreed she had never seen facial evidence of a beating, nor had he hit her above the torso.”
“Where does his anger come from?”
“Angela described his mother as distant, depressed, self-medicating — mostly alcohol but some drugs as well. As a teen, she got into some trouble and ended up in foster homes.” Jeannette sighed. “It’s that terrible cycle, you know, Adam. She shouldn’t have been fostered; she should have been helped.
“It all trickled down to her kids; her emotional unavailability had an effect on Sherry and Corey. They both became quite withdrawn, reserved.
“Angela described herself and her brother, Richard, as fairly well-adjusted, calmer types. Della was a little wilder; she and Sherry were thick as thieves, Angela said. Very close.”
Adam was madly processing what Jeannette was saying. And he knew, suddenly, what he was looking for.
“Inspector Jeannette Villeneuve. Can I persuade you to move to Saskatoon? You’re genius.”
She laughed.
“Is it coming together for you, Adam?”
“It’s starting to. We’ll talk soon, I hope. Goodbye, Jeannette.”
“Goodbye, Adam. Best of luck.”
Adam turned to his computer, to see a message from James.
“Let me know when free,” it said. “News.”
“Free now,” Adam wrote.
James was at the door in less than a minute.
“Shawn Hartz claims he never hired Alexis Ironstand to, ah, help out at one of his parties,” he said. “He claims he had never seen her, at the clinic or elsewhere.”
“Shit. Okay. Well, the connection is at the clinic, but not via Hartz. If he’s telling the truth, of course. Has he coughed up his guest list?”
“Yeah, he finally emailed it; I sent it to you a few minutes ago while you were on the phone. Adam, you won’t believe some of the names on there. I have to admit I started looking for the ones I didn’t want to see — you know, the chief, the mayor — and I didn’t find them. Thank God. There is one city councillor, though, and a few very prominent guys . . . ”
“Is Dunlop on there?” Adam interrupted.
“No.”
“Delacroix?”
“No. But Adam . . . Pearson’s on there.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Jesus, thought Adam. Pearson, an inspector in the police force, attended Hartz’s parties. Did the man have no respect, no scruples?
A knock at the door was immediately followed by Joan Karpinski’s head.
“Hey Sarge, James, Monique Delacroix is here. You wanted to see her?”
“Yes. Could you take her into the interview room, and please stay? It might make her a bit more comfortable to have a woman officer in the room. We’re going to be asking her some intimate questions.”
Adam greeted Monique Delacroix, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He was sure she held a crucial piece of evidence.
“Welcome, Ms. Delacroix,” said Adam. “Thank you for coming down. Can we offer you something? Water, coffee, soft drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“As you know, we are investigating the murder of Sherry Hilliard at her home about two weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Don Dunlop had a relationship with Ms. Hilliard?”
“I do. He told me after you interviewed him. For obvious reasons.”
“How long have you been seeing Dr. Dunlop, Ms. Delacroix?”
“A couple of months.”
“Where did you meet?”
“We had met several times, usually at business or charity events. I think the first time was at a hospital charity dinner. I’ve also seen him on the lot, although I’ve never dealt with him directly.”
“How were you introduced?”
“Nick introduced us. Obviously, they know each other. Nick tends to get to know his most valued customers.”
“Were you with Dr. Dunlop the night of Ms. Hilliard’s murder?”
“We were together most of the night, but not all of it. He felt he had to go home. Ashley, you know; bad idea to make her too suspicious, Don thinks, although I personally feel it’s far too late for that.”
“Did you see or speak to him after he left?”
“No.”
“How close are you and Dr. Dunlop?”
“If you’re asking whether we’re having sex, Detective, yes, we are.”
“And you feel his wife is aware of it.”
“I do. She obviously knows about Sherry, too, since her husband is the prime suspect.”
Yes, she does, thought Adam. But when did she find out?
“Ms. Delacroix, do you know Ashley Dunlop at all?”
“I’ve met her at these functions. Just to say hello to, a little small talk. I try to avoid her now.”
“Did you know Sherry Hilliard was pregnant when she was killed?”
“Yes. Don told me. He was very upset.”
“Did he tell his wife?”
“Yes. I think he had to. She caught him talking to Sherry on the phone. I don’t know when. He had no choice, I gather, but to tell her.”
If Monique was accurate, Sherry was not blackmailing Dunlop, eliminating that motive.
“You seem to have a very open relationship.”
“Let’s just say Don has needed some support, Detective Sergeant. I’ve been willing to give it to him.”
Adam raised an eyebrow. Monique Delacroix sighed.
“I also told him there would be no relationship if he lied to me.”
“Why are you with him, Ms. Delacroix? What’s the attraction? If you’ll forgive me, he is a married man, with a propensity for serial affairs.”
“There’s more to Don than you might think. Sure, I wish he wasn’t married, but it’s also not really a marriage anymore, not for him.”
“You are being very forthcoming, Ms. Delacroix, and we greatly appreciate it. Can you tell me why?”
“Don Du
nlop, Sergeant, may not be a prince among men in some ways,” she replied. “But I’ll put the dealership up against him being a killer. He didn’t do it. I won’t lie for him, but I believe truth finds a way. Maybe my testimony will help clear him.
“And, Sergeant, I am in love with him.”
*****
Adam was at Grace’s door by six forty-five, holding an enormous bouquet of red roses and white chrysanthemums, and a bottle of Napa Valley wine.
He knocked, feeling a little like a suitor meeting a family member. Suzanne’s opinion of him was going to matter, certainly to him and likely to Grace, too. A butterfly teased his stomach.
Grace swung the door open, looking like the slightly-windblown and delicious flower he always saw in his mind’s eye. Her lips parted when she saw the bouquet.
“Adam, they’re beautiful, thank you . . . but come in. Quickly.”
“Quickly, Grace?”
“Suzanne is walking Bruno. And you, lovely man, are early.”
“What? Oh!” said Adam, getting it, and immediately rising to the challenge.
Grace relieved Adam of the flowers and wine, placed them on the table, took his hand and led him firmly down the hallway. She closed the door to the bedroom, turned, and they fell on each other, lips and tongues meeting hungrily.
“Adam, do you think we could . . . ?”
“Yes. Quickly?”
“Yes.” Grace rapidly undid his shirt buttons and yanked the fabric back.
“I missed you, Grace,” Adam said, a little out of breath, watching her undress him. “Two days were two too long.”
“I missed you, beautiful man,” said Grace, mumbling a bit since her tongue was tracing his pectoral muscle. She licked his nipple.
Adam groaned. “You’re getting ahead of me.”
He peeled off her sundress; she pushed his jeans down, and they were suddenly on the bed, raging and pushing and trying to consume each other. Five minutes of madness, but it was enough. After a moment of panting and staring into each other’s eyes, they both started laughing.
“Hopefully, this will keep us going for . . . how long, Adam?”
“I don’t know. I hope not long. When Suzanne can go home, we can . . . figure things out. I feel like something is going to break, Babe. I feel like I’ve eliminated some suspects. If the, uh, longing gets too much, you could pop over one evening?”