11
Friday, December 23, 5:00 p.m.
A loud bang from the room above woke Kala from a deep sleep. For a few seconds, she lay confused, unable to place where she was. A heavy box was being dragged across the floor overhead. She stared at the brown-stained crack in the ceiling and it came flooding back. The YWCA. Room 1005. She sat up and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Five o’clock. She’d slept a solid six hours. It would be enough to keep her going. Time for a quick shower and then she’d venture out for a meal.
Twenty minutes later, she was trudging through the snow toward Elgin Street to find a restaurant. She’d seen several eating establishments on the drive earlier. The snow drifted down in large wet flakes, landing on her eyelashes and cheeks, filling the crevices of her coat and hat. The coolness felt good and she turned her face toward the sky. She reached Elgin and walked north.
It took no time to reach the Elgin Street Diner just past Gladstone. The windows were aglow with neon signs. One announced it was open twenty-four hours, a fact that would come in handy later. Inside, the decor was bright and unpretentious and Christmas tunes were playing from the speakers. If the food was any good, it might become her restaurant of choice. She ordered eggs over easy, bacon, and toast from a boy of university age. He promised to keep the coffee coming.
She kept her head down while she ate. She drained the last of her third cup of coffee after dragging the remaining toast crust through the smear of egg yolk. Satisfied, she pushed back her plate and looked around. The place was nearly empty. A group of four college-aged boys was talking loudly at a table near the door. Next to them were a couple of cops in uniform finishing up their breakfasts. Two women were eating burgers and fries at the table next to her. She imagined there’d be bigger crowds once Christmas was over, but this would remain an anonymous place with people minding their own business.
She paid the bill and set out toward the station. The bright restaurant and bar lights of Elgin Street tapered off as she walked south. The snow had stopped but the sky was grey and low. The station took up a city block on the tail end of downtown. Rows of glass block rimmed its base, giving it a modern look and relief from the grey block. She entered by the front door and said good evening to the desk constable, flashing her I.D. before continuing on to the office.
Grayson looked up from his desk when she entered. He raised his hand in a wave and continued typing.
“You’re working late,” she said.
“Just finishing the report on the day’s search. Didn’t expect to see you before tomorrow morning.” He kept his eyes on the screen.
“If I slept any longer, I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. I wanted to check what happened this afternoon.” She crossed to her desk and shrugged out of her parka. “Any word on Whelan?”
He looked up this time. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“His baby’s sick in the hospital. Whelan won’t be in until it’s sorted.”
“How sick?”
“Intensive care. Meningitis apparently.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yeah. Touch and go. Looks like you won’t have a partner for a while.”
“That’s the least of it.” She sat in her chair and picked up the folder in her in basket. She opened to the first page but couldn’t concentrate. “He and Meghan must be frantic.”
Grayson didn’t respond. She watched him for a while, not sure how to take his silence. He appeared to have completely tuned her out, but just a little too intent on keeping his head down. Asshole.
She lowered her eyes and started reading. The typed report outlined what had been taken from Underwood’s office and home. The last sheet updated the interviews. Underwood’s partner and co-workers had given preliminary statements. There was a notation to follow up with J.P. Belliveau and Max Oliver the following day. When she finished reading, she clicked on her computer and checked her email. Her eyes scanned the list: a couple of messages from administration, one from Vermette wishing everyone happy holidays, and somebody named Connie Henderson in HR, telling her they were scheduling media training and she was on a waiting list — January spots were already gone. She sighed and looked toward Grayson. He’d stood up and was putting on his coat. She wondered how long he’d been watching her.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
She resisted the urge to look behind her. She started to say no, but reconsidered. She had nothing to lose and finding out what he was after could be worth knowing. “Okay. I have someplace to go afterwards so I’ll take my truck and follow you.”
She chose a table near the window and waited while Grayson got their drinks from the bar. It was a typical pub with wood panelling and nooks and crannies for private chats. Ottawa seemed to be full of them. The bar ran the length of one wall with glistening brass bar taps at its centre. A couple of men sat alone on stools facing the giant TV screen above the bar. She read the draft selection written on a chalkboard hanging above the beer taps. The names brought back memories of too many bars and the lost years before she signed up to be a cop.
Grayson set a soda and lime in front of her and slid a tall glass of beer across the table. He sat down and took a long drink before taking off his jacket. He looked around the room and back at her.
“Small crowd. This place is usually hopping.”
“I imagine last minute Christmas shopping and parties are keeping people away.” She took a sip of soda.
He pointed to her glass. “You don’t drink alcohol?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not. You could be the only cop in Ottawa who never has a slug of booze after work.”
“I can live with that. So what brought you to Rouleau’s team?” she asked. The real question was why somebody with his ambition tied himself to a screwed unit.
“I came from the drug squad working undercover. I was getting burned out the same time as this was pitched as a new project that could change the way we operate. It was disappointing to find out we were set up to fail before we began.”
“Vermette.”
“Yeah, Vermette. He’s as sneaky as they come and as nasty. If he doesn’t want this project to succeed, it won’t.” His hand tightened around his glass as if he’d like to squeeze it until it shattered.
“He must have somebody protecting him.”
Grayson smiled. “Well, he mixes in the right circles. His wife comes from a political family.”
“Rouleau seems decent enough.”
“He is, but it’s a losing game and he knows it. I think he stayed on because he feels some responsibility to the team, but I don’t think it will keep him much longer. It’s been a waste of talent as far as I can see.” He looked hard at her. “So what really brought you to Ottawa?”
She shrugged. “I wanted a break from small-town policing. This position came up and I figured it would give me experience and a chance to see if working in a city is something I want to pursue.”
“I’d say you’ve wasted a trip if it hadn’t been for the Underwood case coming along. Vermette will probably take it away after Christmas, but most of Major Crimes are taking the week off and he hates to get on their bad side, which he would if he called them in.”
“Rouleau doesn’t strike me as someone who would put up with this.”
“It’s hard to fathom, all right. He used to be a workaholic when he was married. He was a damned smart cop with a brilliant career ahead. Then his wife up and left and he lost his drive.”
She looked at Grayson and wondered why he was telling her this. He caught her gaze and shrugged. “I’m just saying that you might want to head back north while the getting is good. This isn’t a job you want to hang your career on. Rouleau would understand if you had second thoughts.”
“That’s good of you to think of my welfare.”
“Not at all. Somebody has to give you enough information so you loo
k out for yourself.”
“Well, maybe I will head home. As you say, there’s not much here for me.” She watched his handsome face relax before he took another drink of beer. “So why do you stay on?” she asked as casually as she could. “I mean, you can’t be satisfied with this job as you described it.”
“Yeah, I know it doesn’t add up that somebody with my qualifications would stay in a dead-end job, but I won’t much longer.”
She kept her face impassive. He leaned closer. “Rouleau has an offer coming and I’ll be moving with him.”
“Does Rouleau know, I mean, about the offer?”
“No, not yet, and I’d appreciate you not saying anything. I’m speaking out of school here.” For the first time, he looked anxious.
She thought about stringing him along but knew he wouldn’t take it well. “Whatever you and Rouleau have in the cooker is none of my concern.” She took a long drink from her glass. “I’m curious though. How do you know about this offer when Rouleau doesn’t?”
He smiled. “I’ve fostered a few political friends myself.”
She set her glass down and reached for her jacket. “Well, thanks for the drink and conversation but I have to get to my appointment.”
“Sure. I’m glad we had this chat.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you have Christmas plans? Family in Ottawa?”
“I have plans, thanks.”
“That’s good. You’ll probably get the day off but will be on call. See you tomorrow then.”
He picked up his glass and followed her as she threaded her way through the tables. She kept going toward the entrance after he turned toward the bar. He was just sliding onto a stool with a view of the sports channel when she pulled open the door to step outside.
The apartment building’s door was still unlocked, giving Kala easy entry to the lobby. An out of order sign in shaky red lettering was taped onto the elevator door, but she’d planned to take the stairs anyhow. The same stale beer and cigarette smells rose up to greet her. The only change from her previous visit was the size of the dustballs on the steps.
On the third floor she pushed open the heavy door and hesitated. The hallway was darker than she remembered and her tingly sense went on high alert. It took her but a second to notice that the overhead light near apartment 305 had burnt out. She took a careful look around before shutting the door to the stairwell and crossing to the apartment. It was a full minute after she knocked before she heard footsteps.
“I’m not buying anything,” a woman’s reedy voice called through the door.
“And I’m not selling. I’m a friend of the woman who used to live across the hall. I’m wondering if you know where she went.” Kala moved sideways so that she’d be clearly visible through the peephole.
The door opened but jumped back as the chain caught. A white-haired woman wearing thick glasses peered at her through the gap. A cat meowed at her feet. “Rosie left a few months ago. Couldn’t pay the rent.”
“You spoke with her?”
“We weren’t friends if that’s what you’re asking. The landlord told her she had to leave.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but I don’t think she’s gone far because of the kid.”
“She has a child?” Kala didn’t know why she was surprised. A lot of years had passed.
“I thought you said you were friends.”
“Yeah, but we haven’t been in touch for a while. I’m trying to make contact.”
“Well, it must have been more than a few years if you didn’t know Rosie has a kid. The girl is twelve years old. Name of Dawn, you know, like the sunrise. I’d watch for her to make sure she got home from school okay. Somebody had to. A couple of times she came over for cookies when her mother was passed out.”
“Do you know what school she went to or have any idea where they could have gone?”
“Dawn took a bus to school is all I know. I’d guess they went somewhere cheaper to live.” She laughed, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Rosie didn’t want to interrupt her drinking by working for a living.” She started to close the door.
Kala lifted a hand to stop her but let her arm drop to her side. This woman wasn’t going to share anything else. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Rosie had to be living in a shelter or assisted living somewhere in downtown.
Kala turned to walk down the hallway, a new resolve taking hold. She would find them before she left Ottawa. If it meant spending the whole year working for Rouleau, she’d stick it out. She wouldn’t head north without Rosie and the child.
12
Saturday, December 24, 7:40 a.m.
Rouleau woke to the sound of the wind rattling the living-room windows and whistling down the chimney. The room was semi-dark. Winter mornings took a depressingly long time for the sun to rise and get rid of the gloom. He sat up, scattering the newspaper and blanket onto the floor, and gingerly stretched his shoulders and neck. They felt tight but not too bad. He’d fallen asleep on the couch under a wool throw and the sports section of the paper just after eleven o’clock. The distance from the couch to his bedroom upstairs had seemed too far.
It was Christmas Eve in the beginning stages of a murder case. Unfortunate timing, especially this year with half the force booked off and the skeleton staff working the labs was processing only the most pressing cases. Tracking down Underwood’s coworkers and family was also an issue. The autopsy was on track, however, and he should get a preliminary report first thing in the morning before the lab staff left early for the holiday. He was hoping for a fibre or some DNA from the killer.
He walked to the kitchen and got the coffee started. While it brewed, he put a Van Morrison record on the stereo and took a quick shower. Afterwards he sat at the kitchen table reading the paper that he’d started the night before. He raised his eyes to the window. The wind must have blown in a bank of snow clouds. Large flakes were swirling against the pane. It would have been a good day to hunker down and watch a movie. The idea of heading out in the storm to go to work when most people were enjoying a day off was infinitely unappealing.
He’d foregone a tree and decorations this year. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Christmas. The three weeks before Christmas had zipped past at unprecedented speed. It wasn’t too late to mark the day though. He’d get his father’s gift for his yearly visit to Kingston for lunch, then drop by the butcher and buy something special for his Christmas supper.
He swallowed the last of his coffee and set the cup in the sink. Breakfast was waiting for him at the drive-through on his way to the office. If all went well, he’d let the team off early. It was a hell of shame that after weeks of not much going on they had to get this murder at Christmas time. It was almost as if Vermette had ordered the case to ruin the team’s holiday plans.
Grayson, Malik, and Stonechild were working at their desks when Rouleau arrived with a box of doughnuts just before nine. He entered his office and checked his messages and the inbox on his desk. He spied the toxicology report sitting on top of the pile. It was already turning into a good day.
He grabbed the report and settled in at his desk to give it a thorough read. Twenty minutes later, he poured a cup of coffee and gathered the team in the makeshift meeting area at the far corner of the office space where they’d erected bulletin boards and charts. Bennett and Gage, two officers in uniform he’d wrangled on loan for the week, joined them for the debrief. Both were in their late twenties. Bennett was the taller of the two but both looked like they spent a lot of time in the gym. They’d been happy to accept the assignment.
“Right then. We have one new important piece of information from forensics. Underwood was drugged before he was forced into the trunk. Possibly, the drug was administered in a cup of coffee or some drink. It was a street drug in the date rape family.”
“It’s often slipped into women’s drinks in bars. He might have been having coffee with whoever killed him and they dropped it in when he wasn’t look
ing,” said Malik. “Makes sense it would be coffee since he went missing in the morning.”
Rouleau nodded. “It also means that he didn’t fight being put inside the trunk. Underwood is one hundred and fifty pounds and wouldn’t have been too heavy for one person to handle. Even a fit woman could have gotten him in there. He would have woken up, realized where he was, and tried to get out. His car was parked outside and the cold got to him eventually. Not a nice way to end it.”
He sat still for a moment while they all contemplated Underwood’s end. His eyes circled the group and rested on Stonechild. She was staring straight ahead at nothing, her eyes unreadable. An uncoiled energy radiated from her at odds with her stillness. He’d pay to know what she was thinking.
Rouleau stood and picked up a magic marker and positioned himself in front of the white board. “Let’s go over what we know so far. Family includes two adult children: Hunter Underwood, who’s been estranged from his father for ten years and recently back on speaking terms, and Geraldine Oliver, pregnant with her first child and married to Max Oliver, who works for Tom Underwood’s company. Then we have the first wife, Pauline, who still goes by the name Underwood, and the new wife, Laurel. She has a six-year-old daughter, Charlotte, with Tom.
“I rule out the six-year-old,” said Malik.
“I knew there was a reason I brought you on the dream team,” said Rouleau, toasting him with the marker. “Have another doughnut.”
Malik grinned and selected a chocolate one from the box. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Rouleau finished writing the names on the board with their connection to the deceased. “That brings us to his work colleagues. J.P. Belliveau is his partner. Of course, we intersect again with Max Oliver, who has an assistant named Benny. We’ve yet to track down Underwood’s clients, although we got a list from Underwood’s wife Laurel at our first visit. She said most of them were more social acquaintances than friends, but worth checking out.” Rouleau copied the names to the master list and then straightened. “Anybody else you can think of?”
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