by L E Fraser
“Is there a non-surgical way of aborting the fetus near the end of the first trimester?” Sam asked.
“Mifepristone and misoprostol pills would induce a miscarriage,” Danny said grimly. “Easy-breezy.”
“What if he is correct and someone is drugging his sister?” Eli asked. “Maybe he was in her room to protect her.”
“What happened to the blood sample?” Reece asked.
“I let him take it,” Sam admitted. “He said he’d call me with the results.” She felt like a complete idiot.
“How long will it take him to test the blood?” Reece asked Danny.
“A toxicology screen is fast,” she said. “But if you don’t know what drug you’re looking for, I think it takes a bit of time to identify it.” She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. “You should never admire anyone,” she said. “They’ll let you down every time.” Her hands shook and she gnawed on her lower lip as she turned back to her keyboard and pressed a key. “I can’t watch this any longer.”
“If you haven’t heard from Aazar by tomorrow, we’ll confront him.” Reece put his arm around Sam’s waist. “Your instincts are good. Trust them.”
She didn’t trust anything anymore. She’d thought her empathy and intuition would make her a good clinical psychologist, but after the debacle with Bethany, and now this, she had serious doubts about her abilities. She stared at the pile of textbooks on the stovetop, all related to working with ex–cult members. She still had no idea how to break Mussani’s hold over Fadiya. At over thirty, the idea of another botched career made her lightheaded. She’d failed as a cop and now she was failing as a psychologist, before she’d even achieved her PhD.
She glanced up at the television. The recovered footage from Serenity’s security camera had been replaced by a shot of a restaurant’s interior.
“What is that?” Sam asked.
“Cardoon Bistro,” Danny said. “I’m setting up an algorithm python to search for Reece’s sudden-death victims.”
“We’re trying to determine if any of the other possible victims visited the restaurant,” Reece explained.
“Once we extrapolate the footage, we can look for someone near each of the victims,” Eli said. “Close enough to tag their phones.”
“Pause it there,” Sam told Danny. She moved closer to the screen on the wall. “Zoom in on the table in the back left corner.”
Danny froze the picture, closed in on the table, and brought the faces of the two diners into focus.
“That’s Ophelia, the head nurse at the clinic,” Sam said.
“That is from today, just before we arrived,” Eli said. “Who is she with?”
“Dr. Mathias Beauregard.”
Sam wondered why Ophelia would meet Beauregard a few hours after the humiliating staff meeting. She’d worked a twelve-hour night shift and had told Sam she was exhausted. There was something strange about the interaction between the two figures, but Sam couldn’t put her finger on what was bothering her.
“Move it forward in slow motion,” she said, and leaned in to study the close-up video play. Ophelia’s body language was assertive. Her facial expression was stern as she addressed Mathias. Authoritative was the best description that came to Sam’s mind. And instead of his usual smug attitude, Mathias seemed vulnerable, even intimidated. Given their professional positions and the demeaning way he treated Ophelia, neither her aggression nor his reaction made sense.
Sam watched as Ophelia stood and left the Bistro. Mathias sat alone for a minute. Then, he crushed his paper coffee cup in his fist, pushed back his chair, and stormed out, knocking aside a woman with a stroller.
On the day she’d visited the lockdown unit for the first time, Ophelia had turned hostile when Sam had questioned her about Mathias Beauregard. She’d claimed she barely knew the man. From what Sam could gleam from the footage, they had a personal relationship outside work.
Ophelia had lied to her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Reece
REECE TURNED ONTO the Bridle Path and drove through an upscale residential area known as Millionaires’ Row. At an ornate, wrought iron gate, he punched in a code and the gate swung open. He continued down a long, brick-paved road to a circular entrance in front of a stunning French château-style mansion. Although it was less than twenty minutes to the heart of downtown Toronto, the thirty-million-dollar home sat on four acres of mature trees and meticulously landscaped grounds. He parked beside a hedge-trimmed water fountain and admired the lush green lawns, spectacular gardens, and peaceful seclusion of the property.
Sam hated her mother’s opulent lifestyle, but Reece admired the woman’s impeccable taste. The thirty-thousand-square-foot home was stunning. He’d seen the back of the property on a previous visit and loved the double set of stone stairways that led from the elevated patio deck to the dazzling gardened acreage. Holding the wedding ceremony here would be perfect. He just had to convince Grace to pare down the pomp and pageantry so Sam could see beyond the extravagance to the natural beauty of the parkland setting.
Having not said a word during the entire ride, his cranky fiancée sat sulking in the passenger’s seat. Reece got out of the driver’s side and circled the car. “Ready?” he asked through the open passenger window.
She thrust the door open with a grunt, climbed out, and slammed it shut behind her.
He reached for her hand. “Want to stroll around the grounds before we go in?” His plan was to wax poetically about the scenery, in the hope it inspired her to imagine their wedding the way he did.
“No. Let’s get this over with,” she grumbled and marched to the front door.
He trailed along behind, dreading the evening, and hoping that their wedding wasn’t going to cause more conflict between Sam and her mother. Sam had hero-worshiped her detective father, who a drunk driver had killed ten years ago. Harvey, a wealthy philanthropist, had been her father’s best friend and her mother had married him a year or so after her first husband’s death. Sam adored her stepfather, who was a homely man, with a grass-roots approach to life, but even Harvey—a brilliant negotiator—hadn’t been able to heal the estrangement between his wife and stepdaughter. At least they were civil to each other now, which was a start. Reece had learned to celebrate the small wins.
Sam ignored the doorbell and hammered on the front door with her fist instead. A maid in a loose black dress with a white bibbed apron answered the door. “They’re waiting in the front room,” she said.
“Thanks.” Sam stomped across the marble foyer and turned right at the base of a sweeping staircase. Reece followed her into a luxurious room with coffered ceilings, exquisite wood mouldings, and multiple French doors that opened onto lush gardens.
“She redid the room again,” Sam muttered under her breath. “Look at that chandelier.” She snickered. “She probably snagged it from the Palace of Versailles.”
Reece’s temper rose. “Can you be nice, please?”
She shrugged. “Just being honest.”
“Well don’t. Let’s enjoy the tasting.” As an enthusiastic gourmet, he was excited to taste the food. Sam’s testiness was ruining it for him.
She squeezed his hand. “You’re right. Sorry.” She leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. “The chandelier is pretty gross, though.”
Reece had to agree; the thing was a crystal monstrosity. Beneath it was an elegant pedestal table, four tapestry wing chairs, and an antique tea trolley with trays of delectable hors d’oeuvres.
Harvey was standing next to a bar in front of a fireplace large enough to roast a hog. “There they are.” He engulfed Sam in a bear hug.
Reece went over to Grace, who sat straight-backed in one of the tapestry armchairs, and pecked her cheek. “You’re looking well, Grace.” He eagerly inspected the array of appetizers. “Thank you so much for arranging all this.”
Caviar tartlets sat beside maple-caramelized figs with smoky bacon. Silky ricotta
topped with shredded Brussels sprouts, raisins, and pine nuts covered toast points. Lobster and avocado terrine shared that tray. There was foie gras with pickled grapes, endive cups with beets and feta, and potato blinis with smoked salmon.
Sam stared at the selection, frowning. “Mother, these are too fancy.”
“But Reece is a gourmet,” Grace said. “I wanted your event to celebrate his love of food.”
“Oh, well, that’s thoughtful,” Sam said. “But can we celebrate a bit more plainly?” She held up a Waterford crystal shot glass filled with crab salad. “I don’t want my friends to have to sell their cars to pay for something they broke.”
“Good point,” Harvey said and shoved his thick-framed glasses up his bulbous nose. “Let’s have a taste.” Hitching his trousers over his protruding belly, he sat awkwardly on an antique chair. “Cocktail food always looks fancy, even if it’s beans on toast.” With a wide smile, he put his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands together. “Dig in, everyone.”
Reece didn’t need to be asked twice. He loaded his plate with samples of everything and chatted amicably to Grace about seasonal ingredients and presentation. Harvey suggested lobster rolls rather than serving it as a terrine, which cheered Sam. They voted down the endive, and tweaked one or two other things until everyone, including Grace and Sam, was happy.
“I’ll just nip out and powder my nose,” Grace announced, with a smile. “Excuse me a moment.”
Harvey patted Sam’s hand as he watched his wife walk away. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Your mother couldn’t be happier.”
“How’s her treatment going?” Sam asked. “She doesn’t seem as confused as she did before you went to Sweden.”
“The Alzheimer’s specialist changed her medication,” he said. “They’re cautiously optimistic that it’s slowing the progression of the disease. Since we came home, we take things day by day. She gets confused when she’s tired, but having the wedding to focus on is the best medicine.”
Sam sighed. “Look, I don’t want to be difficult, but everything she’s planning is too elaborate.”
“Leave it with me and don’t worry,” Harvey said. “Now, tell me all about the clinical practicum.”
Grace returned and sat beside Reece. She ran long fingers through her perfectly groomed black hair and arranged her skirt neatly across her knees. She was an attractive woman in her early sixties, tall and willowy with huge brown eyes and high cheekbones. Reece imagined she had been a knockout in her youth. Sam had inherited her gorgeous strawberry blonde curls, green eyes, and fierce loyalty from her Irish father. But her stubborn nature was all her mother. Reece listened with half an ear as Sam and Grace and Harvey chatted; it was nice to visit without the two women volleying critical remarks back and forth all evening.
“He’s an arse,” Grace suddenly exclaimed.
Reece hadn’t been following the conversation and feared they were on the cusp of a nasty disagreement again.
Sam only looked surprised when she asked, “You know him?”
“Of course,” Grace replied. “The man is unbearable, I tell you.” She turned to her husband. “What’s your opinion, dear?”
“If he weren’t a neighbour, I’d have nothing to do with the twit,” Harvey said.
“Mathias Beauregard lives on Millionaires’ Row?” Sam asked, clearly bewildered.
“That’s right.” Harvey went to the bar, grabbed an open bottle of red wine, and brought it back to the table.
“But Emily Armstrong told me he hasn’t any money to invest in the clinic,” Sam said.
“Malarkey,” Harvey replied with a snort of laughter. “He could have lost it all in some lowbrow venture, but he still lives in the house.” He ran a hand across his bald crown. “Perhaps it’s mortgaged to the hilt. What a cheerful thought.”
“It wasn’t his money,” Grace added. “His wife inherited a massive trust fund from her late grandfather.”
“I didn’t know he was married,” Sam said.
“To Adaline Beauregard of the Charleston Beauregards,” Grace said. “Adaline died about five years ago. I don’t recall the details. Do you, dear?”
“There was some sort of scandal.” Harvey paused once more. “Drowned in their swimming pool, I believe, and it seems to me there were drugs involved and whispers of suicide.”
“Beauregard is his wife’s last name?” Sam asked.
Grace laughed. “He had little option but to adopt it, unless he wanted to marry a disinherited debutante, which was certainly not his intention.”
“Didn’t Mathias have some connection to the family?” Harvey asked Grace. “Grew up in the South, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know where he comes from,” Grace said. “His medical degree is from Harvard.” She wrinkled her nose. “He reminds us every time our paths cross at social events. We’re supposed to be impressed.” She turned to her daughter. “The man’s an alley cat, watch yourself around him.”
“No worries,” Sam said with a smile. “He loathes me.”
Grace turned to Reece. “How are you finding the Crown attorney’s office?”
Reece explained his task, but his distaste must have shown on his face because Harvey patted his back.
“Your colleagues at Toronto Police Services won’t hold it against you,” Harvey said. “Even legacy officers miss things.”
“Then why am I researching Judas’s positive traits?” Reece asked bitterly.
Harvey laughed. “You aren’t betraying coppers by digging into a few closed cases. They’ll understand.”
“Trust me, they don’t,” Reece said.
Detective Martina had been assigned the hate crime against Lydia, and he’d subsequently caught Annalise Huang’s suicide case. Martina had quickly put the pieces together when he’d heard that Gretchen Dumont’s articling student—who happened to be an ex-police inspector—had questioned Lydia at Cardoon. Reece suspected that Lydia had called Detective Martina herself. Based on how upset she was at the end of their chat, he should have reached out to Martina himself. Now, however, it appeared he was furtively snooping around, which was exactly what he’d feared when Gretchen had set this mess into motion.
“What do you think?” Harvey asked Sam. “Could Toronto be dealing with a vigilante?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Social control vigilantes believe they’re remedying a structural flaw in society,” Sam said. “They rationalize the inflicting of punishment as social defence. So, there’s opportunity—the killer can sit anonymously at a table in Cardoon Bistro to guard the special needs employees and stakeout targets.”
“There’s also means,” Reece said. “Vigilantes stalk potential victims prior to allotting justice, which ties in with the drone.”
“So, the transgression in the social order is the motive,” Harvey concluded.
Reece nodded. “I want to turn my suspicions over to Toronto Police Services but my hands are tied. Identifying a crime pattern and apprehending a potential killer doesn’t seem to be Gretchen’s main objective.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “Gretchen Dumont is your articling principal?”
Reece nodded.
She turned to look at Sam. “What a coincidence. Gretchen Dumont is Mathias Beauregard’s secret lover, although it’s not so secret in our circle. They’ve been carrying on for years, which fed the scandal after Adaline’s death.”
Harvey was staring at Reece with a strange expression. “I didn’t know you worked for Gretchen Dumont. That’s unfortunate.”
“Why?” Reece asked nervously.
“There’s chatter on the political grapevine that the newly appointed deputy attorney general is investigating her,” Harvey said grimly.
“Do you know why?” Reece asked.
“Conflict of interest, breach of trust, and misuse of office. There may also be criminal charges forthcoming,” Harvey said. “I hear she has a vendetta against Toronto Police Services.”
That’s why she’d told him to gather evidence under the shield of his PI agency. She could care less about a vigilante: she wanted to prove officer incompetency in the closed cases.
“Aren’t the police and Crown attorney’s office on the same side?” Grace asked.
Harvey rocked his hand in a so-so gesture. “Usually, but there was a federal inquest after the Frozen Statues fiasco and it was nasty. Both sides pointed fingers over where the negligence lay on the issue of Incubus’s cabin.”
“Who’s Incubus?” Grace asked innocently.
The shocking question reminded Reece how insidious Alzheimer’s was. Sam’s sister, Joyce, had been one of the serial killer’s victims. Due to the horror of the event and Grace’s disease, she often forgot that Incubus had savagely murdered her elder daughter. When Grace was confused and asked where Joyce was, Harvey and Sam told her Joyce was holidaying in Europe.
Sam’s clinical opinion was that stepping into her mother’s reality with therapeutic fibbing was kinder than forcing her to experience the grief over and over again. So, Reece was not surprised now when Sam carried on the conversation without missing a beat.
“Incubus is an incarcerated serial killer,” Sam said simply. “Five years ago—during Incubus’s court case—his lawyer alleged that Toronto Police Services set a fire that destroyed his client’s cabin,” Sam explained, reaching for the bottle of wine. “Last winter, a copycat killed multiple university students and authorities missed an important link, because they believed the cabin had burned to the ground.”
Sam offered Reece the bottle and he shook his head, but Grace lifted her glass. Sam sucked her lower lip, clearly conflicted over whether to give her mother more alcohol. Grace waved her glass impatiently, and Sam poured her half a glass.
“Since Gretchen Dumont was the prosecutor on Incubus’s case five years ago, his lawyer briefed her about the pending civil suit over the alleged fire,” Harvey continued. “The lawyer never filed his client’s claim with the court, so Gretchen never verified what happened to the cabin.”