Turning Secrets

by Brenda Chapman

  “Nadia’s death is the pretext but we’re actually searching for signs of the girls?” asked Morrison, looking up from her notepad.

  “Yes. When you’re done your search, Morrison, go home and get some rest. Bedouin, you can return to HQ.”

  Rouleau looked at Woodhouse and Bennett. “Both of you, go home and catch a few hours of sleep. You’ll be on the late-afternoon shift.”

  Bennett frowned. “I planned to spend the rest of the day driving the streets.”

  “Every uniformed officer in Kingston, not to mention the province and across the county, is on the lookout. The public is also watching. The girls could be gone from Kingston by now. You’ll be of better use to the team if you’re rested.”

  Rouleau motioned for Gundersund to stay behind. “I’ve been called in to update Ellington. Can you manage the team coordination for another hour? Then you can get some rest too.”

  “Sure. I’ll grab a few winks on the premises when you come back. You can call me if I’m needed.”

  “Take the couch in my office. I’ll work at your desk.”

  “Good enough.”

  Vera was typing at her computer when Rouleau stopped at her desk. She looked up at him, her eyes troubled. “This is too awful to contemplate,” she said. “How’s Kala holding up?”

  “No show of emotion whatsoever.”

  “She’s probably in shock.” Vera tilted her head toward Ellington’s office. “He’s been on the warpath.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He believes you usurped his authority. He’s been talking on his cell so I have no idea who’s on the other end. Mayor Clement called first thing.”

  “I couldn’t afford to waste time crossing all the t’s for the AMBER Alert. Time is too important.”

  “The reason won’t matter to him.” She gave him a rueful grin. “Well, good luck in there. I’m happy to have only a few more days left putting up with his majesty.”

  “Oh, right.” He knew that a surprise party was in the works. It would have to be delayed, what with the chaos going on. “Can I take you for a drink after your last shift?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Ellington was holding a cup of coffee and staring out the window when Rouleau entered. He was an imposing figure, even if not in the best shape. His size and bulk would intimidate on the street and in a meeting room. He reminded Rouleau of that seventies TV cop character who sucked on lollipops — Kojak. Rouleau was surprised the name had come to him so easily. He waited for Ellington to sit before taking the chair across from him.

  “Any progress with the missing girls?” Ellington asked.

  “Nothing that has panned out. I understand Mayor Clement phoned this morning?”

  “Yeah, he wanted to know why the AMBER Alert. I would have appreciated a chance to approve the request before you issued it.”

  “Sorry about that, but in my judgment timing was critical.”

  “Well, I’ve spent the morning explaining and calming people down.”

  Rouleau didn’t bother responding again. One apology was enough. Ellington lost interest in staring him down. “You’ll be called in front of the police board to explain your flaunting of the chain of command, so you’d better have your reasoning ready. Saying time was critical isn’t going to cut it. You of all people should know the importance of following protocol.”

  “Understood.”

  “Have you made any progress with the Armstrong case?”

  “Nothing to report.”

  “I want to hear as soon as you have anything … on Armstrong or the missing girls. I’m to be your first call, is that clear? I want my number on your speed dial.”

  “Clear.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Ellington stood and moved back to the window, turning his back on Rouleau and effectively dismissing him without saying another word.

  Marci Stokes glared at her computer screen before deleting a line of text. She picked up a pencil and threw it at the bulletin board. Rouleau and Woodhouse were ignoring her calls and she’d gotten little from the police communications liaison unit about the missing teenage girls. Her article had gaps you could drive a truck through. It was shit, really. Her phone buzzed and she looked at a text from Scotty.

  Where is it? Deadline half an hour ago.

  “It’s right here,” she muttered. “Looking back at me like a piece of Swiss cheese.” She skimmed through the article again and typed a new final sentence before saving the story and emailing it to him. The wretched attempt would have to do.

  She sat back and sighed. She was being pulled in too many directions at once. Whatever had possessed Scotty to let most of the team go to a conference in Vegas was beyond her. She’d agreed to cover the city council beat for the week and then — sod’s law — the casino announcement had blown up and she’d needed to dig around to find out how council had voted that in, and how they’d managed to award the contract without the public’s knowing. The Armstrong murder and the missing girls were time-consuming enough on their own.

  She checked her notepad. Woodhouse had told her to dig into the Simmons brothers. She’d intended to visit Murray Simmons’ workplace this morning since Woodhouse had named Murray as the prime suspect in Nadia’s murder. If she hurried, she’d make it to Mortimer Construction before closing. They’d have insight into his character and maybe give her something on the record that she could use in an article. It would be good to have an exposé ready once he was charged, although Woodhouse said not to rule out the brother Jeff, who’d committed a lewd act with a minor and seemed to be playing without a full deck. Big leap from that to murder in her opinion, but she’d keep an open mind. She might also get someone to talk about the contract for the casino, if she was lucky. So far nobody was saying much, at neither City Hall nor Mortimer Construction.

  The drive to Mortimer Construction took twenty minutes. She was relieved to see cars still in the lot and the lights on inside the reception area. She parked and entered. Nobody was behind the desk, but a moment later an overweight older woman with impossible hair, red as brick and teased into a helmet, and acne-scarred cheeks entered from the back room, putting her coat on as she walked. Her voice was gravelly.

  “We’re closing up now.”

  “This’ll only take a few seconds. Can you tell me how long Murray Simmons has worked here?”

  “Why’re you asking?”

  “I’m a reporter with the Whig doing some background on the girl who was found dead recently. She was living in one of his apartment buildings.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Is Murray a good guy?”

  “Seems okay. He’s worked here going on fifteen years, to answer your question.”

  “Look, could I buy you a drink? I don’t know about you but I could sure use one. It’s been a long day.”

  The woman hesitated and Marci pressed her advantage. “There’s a pub just around the corner.”

  “Well, I guess one won’t hurt.”

  The bar was dark and depressing, with people scattered at tables, hunched over their drinks. Was a time they’d all be smoking cigarettes too, but thankfully, those days were long gone. Marci collected a gin and tonic and a Scotch on the rocks from the bartender and carried them to the table with a view of the widescreen television that Gloria had staked out. She’d settled back in a chair, one foot resting on the edge of the seat next to her. The woman was at home in a drinking establishment, no doubt about that.

  “Cheers,” said Gloria, pointing her glass in Marci’s direction before raising it to her lips. She swallowed and looked around the room. “Odd. Nobody I recognize.”

  “You come here often?” Now I’m talking like a pickup artist.

  “Often enough.” Gloria put her foot down on the floor, straightened in her chair, and faced Marci. “So, what do you want to know?”

  “Has Murray ever had any issues with women around the workplace?”

  “You mean
like hitting on us?”

  Marci nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak, stifling the urge to giggle at the idea of Gloria including herself in the pool of women Murray might hit on. Fatigue was making her giddy.

  “Nah, nothing like that. Mind you, we don’t have any young women working for us at the moment. I’m as sexy as it gets and I’m not into men.” Her laugh was deep and phlegm-filled.

  Marci smiled, warming to Gloria’s lack of filter. Gloria had quaffed the rest of her drink, and Marci signalled to the bartender to bring a second. After he’d delivered it and Gloria had taken another mouthful, she asked, “So what’s up with the casino contract? I never saw that coming.”

  Gloria looked around as if to check whether anybody was listening before she leaned forward. The first drink had made her cheeks ruddy and her eyes sparkled. “Neither did I. But there’s a lot goes on in the backroom under the table, if you get my drift.”

  “A bribe to get the contract?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me.” Gloria winked and took another sip while Marci waited. “They’re all tight with each other,” she continued. “Have been since they were teenagers.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Harold Mortimer, Tom Clement, and that other guy. The cop whose name I can never remember. The bald one.”

  Marci stared at her. Could she possibly mean Rouleau? He’d spent some years in Kingston before moving to Ottawa and marrying Frances … and he was bald.

  “Staff Sergeant Jacques Rouleau?” she asked, but Gloria had pushed back her chair and stood up.

  Gloria raised her voice above the Guns N’ Roses song that the bartender had just jacked up on the house sound system. Welcome to the jungle … “Can I get you another?” she asked, signalling at Marci’s glass in case she couldn’t hear over the music.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’m going to the loo.”

  Marci sat back in her chair and watched Gloria strutting across the floor toward the back of the bar. She stopped to talk to two guys in work clothes sitting at a table pushed against the wall. By the time she returned from the washroom, a drink was waiting for her at their table. Gloria pulled out a chair and plunked herself down with her back to the room. Marci could see where this was heading. She drank the last gulp of her gin and tonic and stopped on her way out to give the bartender some money for Gloria’s second drink.

  The cool night air made her shiver, and she wished she’d worn a warmer coat. She’d never gotten used to this crazy Canadian weather that changed at the drop of a hat, and not usually for the better. The short walk to her car had her looking in the shadows to see if anyone was lurking there. This wasn’t a neighbourhood that invited leisurely strolls after dark. The only romance going on in these back alleys would be the anonymous drunken kind with money exchanging hands.

  Once inside the car, she locked the doors, turned on the heater, and considered her next move. She could go home and eat leftover Chinese food or follow up on Woodhouse’s lead. She checked the time. What the hell. She didn’t have anybody waiting for her and the cat she’d adopted couldn’t care less when she showed up. One more stop at the end of a frustrating day wouldn’t kill her.

  She drove across the city to Bellevue Towers and was lucky to snag the last spot in the visitor parking. The lot was at the side of the building, with one street lamp providing inadequate lighting. She hurried to the front door, feeling spooked but not sure why. She waited inside the outer door for someone to let her into the building but nobody came or went. After another five minutes peering through the glass door, she pulled out her cell and searched for Murray Simmons’s home address. He was in an upscale suburb north of downtown. In for a penny, she thought before opening the outer door and running through the murky darkness to her car.

  This time, she parked across the street from Simmons’s house and sat for a moment, getting the lay of the land. Simmons had one of the larger homes on the street. A modern boxy two-storey with lots of smoky glass and copper, the house was set back on a wide lot. The treed yard provided distance and privacy from the neighbours — more than usual, in this age of infill. If Simmons was home he’d parked his car out of sight in the garage. She was happy to see lights on as she climbed the wide stone steps to ring the doorbell. A woman in red leggings and a white hoodie opened the door. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail but her face was older than the youthfulness of her attire. She looked Marci up and down with zero friendliness in her eyes before asking, “Yes, can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Murray Simmons. Would he be home?” Marci spotted a child at the end of the hallway watching them with a finger poked into his mouth. She estimated he was three years old, but she was no expert when it came to kids.

  “Who should I say is calling?”

  “Marci Stokes from the Whig-Standard.”

  “I’ll see if he wants to talk to you.” The door shut and Marci shuffled from foot to foot on the top step while she waited in the cold. She’d just about given up and had turned to return to her car when the door reopened.

  “He’ll see you.” The same woman held the door open wide to let her in. She led Marci to the family room at the end of the corridor. Murray was sitting on the couch with a full bottle of beer in front of him on the coffee table. He didn’t stand but invited her to sit at the other end of the couch. Their ghostly reflections were captured in the floor-to-ceiling window.

  “Surprised I agreed to speak with you?” he asked.

  “Somewhat, but I’m glad you did. This is a lovely home. Was that your wife?”

  “Yeah, that was her.”

  “Does she know about your cheap rent arrangements with select girls?”

  He didn’t question how she knew. “Broad strokes only. Believe it or not, she doesn’t care what I get up to as long as I keep bringing home the cash. We have an open relationship.”

  “So, what is the arrangement, exactly?”

  “I’m what you’d call a good Samaritan. I give a couple of women a discount on their rent and they agree to give me sex. That’s it. A business transaction. I’m not the only landlord doing it and the girls know full well what they’re getting into. Nothing for the Me Too movement to get their panties in a knot over.”

  “One might say you’re taking advantage of vulnerable women who have no real choice.” She thought she’d managed to keep the revulsion out of her voice, but he recoiled at whatever he saw in her eyes and turned his head to look out the window.

  “Yeah, well, they could find somewhere else to live. I didn’t force them. There’s a selection of slumlords in town. Shelters. Any number of places.”

  “I’m curious. Why did you let me in?”

  “To convince you that I had nothing whatsoever to do with Nadia Armstrong’s death. Sure, I gave her the business discount on her rent but I never killed her. In fact, we were both preparing to end the arrangement. She wasn’t enthusiastic and said she could pay regular rent, and frankly, I was bored with her lack of energy. The cops want to believe the worst of me.”

  “Were you planning to raise her rent?”

  “Crossed my mind, but not until the end of the lease, which comes up in September. She’d kept up her end even if the sex was lacklustre.” He looked Marci full in the eyes. “I’m not as big a creep as you might think.”

  “You’re too modest,” she said, deadpan. “What about your brother? Is he in on this arrangement too?”

  “Keep Jeff out of this. He’s got a social gene missing and never meant to scare that girl.”

  “What did he do exactly?”

  “He followed her around like a puppy dog. Her mother told the police that he was stalking her and had touched her inappropriately. I know for a fact she made that up.”

  “Aren’t you worried that he might have become obsessed with Nadia?”

  “He wouldn’t have. I warned him about what would happen if I caught him following around any girl ever again. Believe me, he does not want
to go back to live with our brother Lenny again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lenny owns a hog farm in Nebraska and Jeff thinks of going there as being banished. He’d do anything I say not to have to go back.”

  “So it’s do as I say and not as I do?”

  “Look, how many times do I have to tell you, the women agreed to the terms. I never did anything against their will.”

  “Technically speaking. Aren’t you worried about your reputation after I write about this?”

  “Not if you tell the truth.”

  She looked pointedly around the room. “You’ve done well for yourself. Accumulated lots of expensive stuff for a guy working at a construction company.”

  “I make a good salary and invest wisely. The apartment buildings bring in decent rent.”

  “How did you afford them in the first place?”

  “My father also knew how to make money. He bankrolled the first one.”

  “Lucky you. Were you by any chance involved in landing the casino contract?”

  “Not me. That’s above my pay grade.”

  Marci stood to leave. She looked down at him. “You know anything about the two missing high school girls? If you have any leads on who took them, I won’t say where I got the information.”

  The surprise that showed on his face didn’t seem to be feigned. Was he surprised because he really hadn’t known about the missing girls or because this turn in the conversation was unexpected? She believed he was being straight up about Nadia but she’d been fooled by liars before. Not often, but enough times to make her cautious.

  “What missing high school girls?”

  “You don’t know about the AMBER alerts?”

  “Sure, I heard something, but those girls got nothing to do with me.”

  “If any of your associates hear anything, let me know. Your co-operation could help your case.”

  “Like I said, I’m not up on the girls who disappeared, but I’ll put out feelers.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Don’t hesitate to call me when you have something.”

  “And in the meantime, you can convince that Woodbrain cop that he’s barking up the wrong family tree.”