Cold Mourning

by Brenda Chapman

  “So you think he’s responsible?” asked Grayson as they drove across a bridge on their way back to Ottawa.

  Kala thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think he had anything to do with it. He has no motive that I can see.”

  Grayson nodded as if in agreement.

  “Unless …” Kala let the word tail away. She was thinking about all the money Archambault was so certain would come his way.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless Underwood had found out something that could sink the deal. Was the contract ready to send?”

  “Yeah. It was standard except for the clause about paying Archambault half a million for exclusive rights even if it tanked. No pun intended.” He smiled at her, relaxed and confident. The charm had returned.

  “What do you think of J.P. Belliveau?” she asked.

  “Kind of a slippery character. Loud suits, big mouth. I think he’s involved in the murder. He probably set it up.”

  “The problem with this case is that there are too many suspects. The murders I’ve dealt with before were clear cut: a jealous spouse or a bar fight gone too far. Underwood had several people in his private and professional life who could have been behind this.”

  “My money’s on a business associate,” said Grayson. “The kind of murder, stuffing him in the trunk of his car, that speaks mob to me.”

  “I’m not willing to bet yet,” replied Kala. “But I do think it was someone close to him. Somebody he trusted.”

  “Not a paid hit?”

  “No. I think he knew his killer.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Grayson. “It looked impersonal to me, but maybe I just don’t want to believe that a friend or family member could leave their loved one in the trunk of a car to freeze to death. Call me an optimist, but this is Ottawa, not a big American city where violence is a way of life.”

  Kala kept her eyes straight ahead. Grayson had grown up in the protected white, middle-class world. He had no idea the cruelties loved ones could inflict upon each other. What strangers could do to children. The violence a person could do if pushed.

  “So what are you going to tell Rouleau?” she asked.

  “That Archambault was nervous and hiding something. We need to look more closely at Belliveau.”

  She knew there was no point arguing with him. He might be right in the end, but her instincts told her they were missing something. The family had too much anger and too many secrets that began and ended with Tom Underwood.

  Rouleau spread the crime scene photos of Under-wood and the Central Experimental Farm parking area on his desk — various angles of Underwood lying in a fetal position in the trunk, his cheek resting on the carpet, his eyes open and staring. He’d filled the space inside the trunk without much room to spare. Somebody had stuffed him in, slammed and locked the trunk, and left him to die. What kind of person could do that? Whoever they were was cool enough to then drive him to the Central Experimental Farm and walk away. What kind of terror had Underwood felt when he regained consciousness and realized he was trapped and going to die? How long had it taken for his core body temperature to drop from mild to severe hypothermia … for the extreme pain and shivering to give way to numbness, and his heart to slow to the point that oxygen stopped reaching his brain? He would have hallucinated at the end. If he’d had room in the trunk, he would have clawed off his clothes as his body raged with the feeling of burning up, the final paradoxical stage before death. Rouleau studied the waxy pallor of Underwood’s skin. Hopefully the DNA tests would come up with something. They needed a break.

  Rouleau raised his eyes and looked through his office window. Grayson and Stonechild were coming in separately, neither smiling or looking at the other. Stonechild took off her parka and wiped off a dusting of snow before she sat down and began typing at her computer, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. Grayson stopped at Malik’s desk and the two men laughed about something. Grayson gestured toward Rouleau’s office, then walked over to the coffee machine and filled a cup before ambling over.

  “Well?” Rouleau asked. “How did it go with Archambault?”

  “I think we’re narrowing in on motive. The deal was going to be worth a lot of money. Either Underwood was going to upset the plans and Archambault put out a hit, or Belliveau wanted rid of Underwood so as not to have to share the profits. Archambault knew more than he was telling. I’ll get the guys digging deeper on the paper trail on both ends. I’d also like to bring Belliveau in for more questioning.”

  “What does Stonechild think?”

  “She hasn’t come up with anything else. She’s doing up the report now on Archambault.”

  “Okay then. Arrange an interview for first thing tomorrow.”

  “Will do. Any word from Whelan?”

  “His baby is doing better. He’ll be back just after New Year’s.”

  “Good.” Grayson turned to leave but stopped and looked back at Rouleau. He seemed reluctant to talk but then said, “I think Stonechild could use a partner. She needs a more experienced detective to guide her, help her to put the clues together.”

  “She’s not connecting the dots?”

  “I’d have to say no. I think she has potential, but she’s in a bit over her head when it comes to interviewing and reading people. I wasn’t going to say anything, but thought you should know.”

  “Okay, leave it with me.”

  Rouleau turned the words over in his mind. It was bad timing that Whelan had to take leave just when they were thrust into this case. It was hard on the team and hard on Stonechild. Whelan would be back in a few days and Stonechild would settle back into a secondary role. He liked her and didn’t want to set her up to fail. Her inexperience in homicide had been his one worry and he wasn’t surprised Grayson had picked up on it. They’d just have to get by as things were for now.

  20

  Monday, December 26, 6:10 p.m.

  Rouleau left for home before Kala finished typing her report. He told her just to file the report electronically in the records system and he’d read it after supper. Grayson and Malik soon followed, leaving her alone.

  She looked up as they were getting their coats on and assured them that she wouldn’t be far behind. She tucked her head back down so they wouldn’t read her lie. She had no intention of leaving until she’d finished the work she’d laid out for herself. She’d already resumed typing before the door shut behind them and she didn’t look up until she’d gotten through transcribing her notes. She kept the report factual, not forming conclusions as Grayson would have her do. Her name would be on the report, not his, and she wouldn’t put her name to a theory she didn’t believe … yet. She was deliberately ignoring Grayson’s instruction to point the investigation in one direction. Hell, let him write his own report, she thought.

  Once done, she saved the file, then poured a cup of coffee one step removed from sludge. After a few sips she accessed the system and opened the folder of reports submitted by Malik and Grayson over the course of the week. She was looking for inconsistencies in statements, timelines, and alibis. She occasionally jotted a note for follow-up on her notepad. Nothing jumped out except a feeling of unease at Laurel’s disappearance just before Christmas. The tingling grew as she remembered Hunter arriving at Laurel’s house just after she came home, his Jeep parked a good distance away. Tom Underwood had stolen Laurel from Hunter, but now Tom and Laurel slept in separate bedrooms. Their betrayal could be nothing. It could be everything.

  Kala closed the folder and stretched. It was close to nine o’clock and her stomach was rumbling with hunger, but she wasn’t done yet. She liked the silence of the office. Being alone was when she felt most comfortable. It was sad that Whelan’s kid was sick, but she was just as happy not to have a partner. She’d always worked alone up North. Her favourite time was the night shift, driving the back roads with the moon and stars the only light in the ink black sky. She could deal with wolves and bears but this city might be another matte
r. The wild life here wore pants and drove fancy cars. The rabid ones weren’t as easy to spot.

  She searched through the records system until she found the file on the man who was groping women in apartment lobbies. She shared Rouleau’s concern that this guy was escalating. They’d been pulled off the case, but somebody had to follow up. It might as well be her. She didn’t have any family waiting for her to come home from work. This would keep her mind busy. It would also be a nice Christmas present for Rouleau if she broke the case.

  She leaned in to read through every incident report and made notes as she went. She paid careful attention to the pattern of buildings where each attack took place He’d only ventured out of the Lincoln Fields area once and that had been the first time when he’d picked a high-rise tower near the Ottawa River. It must have been out of his comfort zone because ever since, he’d targeted women in high-rises along the Richmond Road corridor behind Lincoln Fields Shopping Centre. She was certain he lived between the two sectors, probably closer to the river where he’d made his first strike. He picked middle-aged women alone, grabbing them from behind. One woman said he’d wrenched her breast hard and left bruising. Two said that he’d called them a bitch and two said he muttered the word cunt in their ear before shoving them into the wall. For the latest victim Glenda Martin, he’d figured out how to grope and strangle at the same time. She was the only one he’d attacked early afternoon. The rest had been closer to suppertime. Everything that she read confirmed that Rouleau was right to be worried.

  She closed the file. If the groper’s pattern was predictable, he’d be grabbing another woman soon, maybe by the weekend, probably late in the day when the sun was beginning to set. She bit her lip and thought over what she should do. The perp was getting bolder and more violent. The next woman he grabbed might not be as lucky as the others.

  She did a Google search and clicked on a map of Ottawa’s west end on the computer screen and enlarged the area where the attacks had taken place. Then she hit print and crossed the room to pick up the copy to take back to her desk. She numbered each location with a red felt-tipped pen in the order they occurred and studied the results, tracing her finger along the route. He was working his way east and she could see a pocket of high-rises not far from his last outing. She jotted down the addresses in her notebook. The neighbourhood was unfamiliar to her but she would swing by and scout out the street and pick up some supper. She’d have to work quickly if she was to have a chance of catching him.

  Richmond Road was an assortment of shops, restaurants, and condominiums in the area called Westboro Village. Heading west, the apartment buildings got older and higher. She knew the Ottawa River was somewhere to the north, not many blocks away. There were stretches of parkland, a large field, and tree-lined bike paths. If she was going to stay in Ottawa, she might look for an apartment in this neighbourhood. She slowed as she neared the high-rises behind Lincoln Fields Shopping Centre, scouting the streets and peering into lobbies. It was a quiet evening, not many people about, the snow beginning to fall like confetti tossed out of a shaker. There was no sign of a man dressed in black or anyone acting suspiciously. She spotted a pizza take-out restaurant and pulled into the recently plowed lot. The kid behind the counter sold her two slices of deluxe that she ate as she continued her drive east on Byron and north on Churchill to the Queensway. It was the quickest route back downtown.

  The ByWard Market was becoming familiar to her now. She made another sweep of the side streets, looking down alleyways and checking intersections, but it was a quiet night in the city’s downtown. A few people were walking, snow glistening from their coats in the street lights. She stared into the corners of buildings but couldn’t find any Aboriginal women or young girls who met the description of her cousin and niece. She checked the time on the radio. It was just past eleven and time to call it a night. She was tired and badly needed a few hours of sleep so she’d have a clear head when she began more Underwood interviews in the morning, starting with a visit to Hunter’s property.

  Kala put in an appearance at the station before her trip to Hunter’s. Rouleau had been called to a meeting with Vermette and cancelled their morning brainstorming session. She poured herself a cup of coffee and asked Bennett if he’d seen Malik and Grayson. Bennett was busy reading through emails they’d confiscated from Underwood’s computer. He shook his head but said, “They’re bringing Belliveau in for questioning. I’ll be going through his correspondence with my fine-toothed comb next.”

  “So are Underwood’s business dealings the focus?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Looks that way for now. Gage went with the others to start looking through files.”

  “I’ll be on my own today.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “No problem.” She zipped up her parka. “I’m going to start at Hunter Underwood’s place and will be back in town before lunch. I can always be reached on my cell.”

  Bennett nodded. “I’ll tell the others to call you if they need anything.”

  “I’m sure they won’t, but thanks.”

  She drove slowly out of the city toward Hunter’s. The temperature had dropped steadily overnight and a frosty haze hung suspended over the fields like white smoke. The sky above the mist was pastel blue and cloudless. She felt herself relaxing the further she got from the high-rises and shopping centres. Trees wrapped in ice and stretches of snowy flat land replaced the horizontal line of buildings on each side of the highway.

  Hunter’s turn off arrived too soon for her liking and she slowed the truck even more as she left the highway. Her eyes swept the road ahead. There wasn’t much traffic this time of day heading east. Most cars were heading downtown. The schools were out and many had taken holidays between Christmas and New Year’s. Today was also a stat holiday since Christmas had fallen on a Sunday.

  A few miles further on and she reached the junction that led her to Hunter’s road. It was a narrower country road, not as well plowed as the highway or secondary road. The truck tires gripped without problem. She carefully pulled closer to the side of the road as a delivery truck flew past coming the other way. “Idiot,” she said under her breath. She could see the turn off to Hunter’s driveway up ahead.

  A black Mercedes was just pulling out from Hunter’s side road. As Kala watched, the car turned in a tight arc onto the road ahead of her, facing in her direction. She leaned forward to get a glimpse at the driver through the sun reflecting off the windshield. It wasn’t until the car was alongside that she recognized the tumbling red hair and slender profile of Laurel Underwood. She passed by without glancing in Kala’s direction.

  The plot thickens. Kala craned her neck to follow the Mercedes until it was out of sight. It was curious how two people who said they had nothing to do with each other kept being caught in each other’s company.

  Kala parked in the same spot as her first visit. She could see the tire tracks from Laurel’s Mercedes and her boot prints to and from the front door. Laurel couldn’t have been there overnight or the prints would have been filled from the snowfall that ended early morning. Kala followed her own frosty breath up the walkway.

  Hunter opened the door almost immediately. “Did you forget…?” he began, but stopped when he saw Kala standing in front of him. “Oh, it’s you.” He recovered quickly and stepped aside. “Come in out of the cold.” He checked the parking area as he moved behind her to shut the door.

  “Sorry to bother you so early,” she said. “I just have a few more questions.”

  “Would you like coffee?” he asked.

  She could smell coffee brewing and was suddenly thirsty for a cup. “Please,” she said slipping out of her boots. She undid her parka as she followed him into the kitchen.

  “I’ll make a fresh pot. This one’s been stewing for a while.” He patted Fabio behind the ears on his way to the stove. The dog was lying near the hot air vent. He got up and stretched and made his way to Kala. She reached down scratched hi
m behind the ears. Fabio thumped his tail against the table leg before retreating to the warmth of his corner.

  She took a seat and watched Hunter pour water from a jug into a kettle. He measured coffee grounds into filter that fit into a clear coffee pot on the stove. Then he poured milk from a carton into a small pitcher and set it on the table with teaspoons and mugs. His fingers were long and his hands strong and tanned. When the water boiled, he poured it carefully through the filter. The coffee dripped steaming dark and rich into the waiting pot.

  “You’re a coffee purist,” Kala said. “I make it the same way at home.”

  “Anything worth having is worth extra care,” he said, with his piercing grey eyes that had turned a charcoal shade in the kitchen light.

  She smiled. Surely he didn’t think she was that easily taken in by charm. She looked down and busied herself by taking out a notebook and pen while he poured the coffee into their mugs. She had to admit it smelled as good as she made at home. She set her notepad on her knee and added milk.

  He watched her while she took a sip and smiled at her expression. “Good?”

  “Wonderful.” She set the mug down and picked up her notepad. “I want to get a better understanding of your father and his relationships with family members and colleagues. It’s come to our attention that you were engaged to Laurel before she married your father.” She paused and waited.

  Something changed in his eyes. It was a flash of pain that crystallized into something unreadable. “I wondered how long it would take you to dig that up. Did my mother tell you?”