“They’re all coating on the pancake makeup. It’s called fashion.”
“Well, in my day, girls tried to look pretty, not like wild animals you’d be scared to meet in a back alley, much less take out to the movies.”
“Dating yourself, Gundersund, not to mention showing your sexist side.”
“So I’m a chauvinistic prude. Shoot me. How old is she again?”
“Her mother said she’ll be fourteen next month.”
Gundersund frowned but stopped what he was about to say as footsteps thudded across the landing. They both looked up and watched Charlie descending the stairs. He was wearing a black Grateful Dead T-shirt, faded almost to grey and a few sizes too large. A red bandana crossed his forehead and flattened his messy curls. The sweet smell of weed travelled with him down the stairwell.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked. He stood with his back against the banister.
“Are you okay with answering a few follow-up questions without your mom here?” Kala asked.
Charlie lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Sure, why not.”
Gundersund moved a few steps closer to him. “Going through phone records, we became aware that Devon called you Monday afternoon after school. Can you tell us about that phone call?”
“I can’t say that I remember any call.”
“It happened at 4:05 and lasted twenty-five seconds.”
Charlie looked to be thinking it over. Finally, he said, “Yeah, maybe he called but we talk all the time.”
“This was the day he died, so whatever you talked about could be important. Do you remember the conversation?”
“Nothing stands out. I think he told me that he was sorry to cut out so soon but we could hang out Tuesday after school. Nothing of import.”
“Did he give any indication of where he was going?”
Charlie glanced over at Kala. He looked uncomfortable for the briefest of moments before he looked back at Gundersund. “Not really.”
Gundersund’s voice hardened. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“That’s a no.”
“Someone saw you and Devon arguing at your lockers before he left school on Monday. Can you tell us what that was about?”
Charlie rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and took his time lowering it. “I don’t think we were fighting about anything…. Oh, yeah. I owed him five bucks and he was mad that I couldn’t pay him back yet. It was nothing.”
Kala stepped forward and Gundersund moved sideways to let her stand next to him. “Were you and Devon dealing drugs, Charlie?” she asked. “Or could Devon have been buying drugs the night he was murdered?”
She knew she’d missed the mark by the sudden relaxing of Charlie’s shoulders. The cockiness returned to his face. He laughed. “No, nothing like that.” He glanced upstairs and back at them. “We might smoke some pot but that’s about it. It’s pretty much legal anyhow.”
“But not quite.” Gundersund looked at Kala. “Anything else?”
She nodded. “Charlie, you said that Devon wasn’t worried about Jane Thompson being out of prison. Do you know if he was looking forward to seeing her again … or if they’d made contact?”
Charlie pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. He clicked on keys with his thumb. He was either buying time or trying to annoy them. Kala repeated her question and he looked up at her. She could tell that he had no intention of sharing anything more.
“He never said.”
“Let’s go, Gundersund.” She shut her notepad. “Charlie needs a bit of time to think over his answers because I’m sure he wants to do everything he can to find his best friend’s killer.”
Charlie’s lowered head jumped slightly at her words but he continued to move his thumb quickly on his phone’s keypad. “I’ll tell Mom you were by when she was working,” he said before he began backing up the stairs.
“You figure he was warning us about talking to him without his mother around?” Gundersund asked as they crossed the street to their vehicles.
“Probably.” She unlocked her truck. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun at dinner.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
His face was lined with worry before he turned away and Kala hesitated with her fingers on the door handle. Should she ask him if something was bothering him or wait until morning? Before she could decide, he was in his car and reversing to angle out of his parking spot, arm slung over the seat and head turned. Kala pulled her truck door open and swung a leg inside. Maybe it’s nothing, she told herself. He was only thinking about the case and all the disturbing people we’re interviewing along the way. Once he has a night off, he’ll bounce back to his old self.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rouleau set the last of the reports onto his desk and removed his reading glasses. He was rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger when Vera poked her head through his office door.
“Heath would like to see you,” she said. She was slightly out of breath. “I was afraid you’d already left.”
Rouleau checked his watch. “I’m running a bit late. Let me make a call and I’ll be right there.”
“Okay.” Vera beamed at him before pulling the door closed behind her.
He called his father to make sure all was well and to let him know to go ahead with supper. His father’s health issues were a constant worry at the back of Rouleau’s mind. He knew his father wouldn’t be around forever, but losing him now would be a second cruel blow after Frances’s death a few months earlier. Rouleau sometimes felt as if everyone he loved was slipping through his fingers and he was powerless to hold on.
He was surprised to find Vera in the main office waiting for him. She normally wore her white ash–blond hair in a bun, but today it was loose around her shoulders. She was dressed in a tight cashmere sweater and pencil skirt with her usual high heels. He’d heard her called the fashion plate by more than one cop. Her other nickname was Marilyn after the famous blond bombshell. She looked slightly uncomfortable and he wondered why. They fell into step and he waited for her to say whatever was on her mind.
“I was wondering,” she started and paused.
“What is it, Vera?”
“I’m involved with a hospital fundraiser and we’re having a musical evening on Tuesday to raise money for new neonatal incubators. I have an extra ticket.”
“That I’d be happy to purchase.”
“Are you sure? I know it’s bad form to sell stuff at work, even if the money goes to charity. You can say no and I won’t be offended.”
“Let me know how much and I’ll write a cheque.”
“That’s so great. Thanks, Jacques.” Vera smiled again and walked behind her desk to get her coat. “I’m off then. I’ll leave the ticket on your desk tomorrow with a note on how much you owe me.”
“Perfect.” Rouleau didn’t like musicals, but his dad did and might be free. He kept walking toward Heath’s open door where he found Heath on the phone. Heath raised his pointer finger as he cut off whomever he was talking to and told them he’d have to call them back.
“So.” Heath folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back in the chair. “What’s the news on the Eton murder?”
“I wish I had some. The team is out beating the bushes but nobody is coming forward with solid information. We have no idea what he was doing at the seawall or why he was killed.”
“Which circles us back to the Thompson woman.”
“I know. I agree that we need to refocus our efforts to find out more about her and what she’s been up to since her release. I didn’t want to overlook any other suspects in a rush to judgment, but it’s looking like we can’t ignore the obvious anymore.”
Heath gave the thumbs up. “Glad you’ve been thorough, but it’s time to put the pressure on her and get a confession.”
> “Of course we’ll follow up on all leads if new information becomes available.”
“I’d expect nothing less. I’ll time the next press conference right after you’ve brought her in for questioning. At least we’ll look like we aren’t sitting around twiddling our thumbs. By the way, have you anything going on this Thursday evening?”
“Not at the moment. Do you need me to sit in on a board meeting?”
“Actually, I was hoping you might come to a cocktail party Ingrid is throwing. This is an important evening for her and I promised that you’d be on the guest list. She thinks a lot of you, by the way.”
Rouleau had only met Heath’s wife once before and was surprised to hear that she had an opinion of him one way or the other. “I’ll certainly do my utmost to be there. Thank Ingrid for the invitation.”
Heath’s head bobbed up and down. “Great. I’ll tell her you’ll be there. She’ll be pleased.” He picked up his cellphone from the desk. His eyes travelled across Rouleau’s face as he added, “Well, here’s the tricky part. Since you’re coming, I’d like you to bring Vera’s cousin. You remember Laney Masterson? She was helping you to find a house last year.” Heath looked down and tapped some keys. He kept his eyes focused on the screen.
Rouleau was momentarily at a loss for words. He stared at Heath and wondered how much Ingrid knew about his ongoing affair with Laney. Ingrid had to be suspicious if Heath was asking Rouleau to be Laney’s date. He took a second to formulate a response that would extricate him from the evening without angering Heath, a man who’d so far been a supportive, hands-off boss, a relationship that Rouleau needed to maintain. Yet, he wanted to avoid deceiving Ingrid even more than he wanted to be on Heath’s good side. Rouleau had another reason for turning down the evening. He’d found Laney attractive on their few interactions the summer before and believed that the interest had gone both ways, but he had no intention of being alone with her. He started into his refusal but Heath cut him off, his cherub face awash in feigned delight.
“All set then. I’ve sent Laney a text that you’ll pick her up around eight. I’ll forward her address and coordinates to you later this evening. Thank you again, Jacques. You have no idea the trouble you’re saving me from on the home front.” Heath laughed a jolly, forced belly laugh as if sealing their good old boys’ fraternity. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to return that call. See you tomorrow, shall I?” Heath was already holding the cellphone to his ear and he nodded goodbye to Rouleau, saying hello into the receiver at the same time.
Rouleau shook his head and started his refusal again but Heath swivelled his chair to face the far wall and pretended not to see or hear. Rouleau left when it became obvious Heath would outwait him. An email with his regrets in the morning would have to do. No way in hell would he let Heath get him involved in his marriage mess. As Rouleau’s father once advised him some years earlier when Rouleau’s replacement in charge of a volatile unit kept calling with his problems, “That isn’t your circus, son. Those aren’t your monkeys.”
The trick would be convincing Heath that his monkeys weren’t Rouleau’s problem to solve either.
He returned to his office for his coat. He was glad to see that everybody had gone home. A murder investigation could wear down the team if they didn’t take breaks when they could. He headed for the main entrance and said good night to the desk officer, who motioned to Rouleau that he had a visitor. Rouleau turned to look toward the lobby. Marci Stokes was waiting sprawled in one of the visitor chairs, her tan trench coat open over a hunter green turtleneck and jeans. Bright red running shoes competed with her messy shock of copper hair. Her rumpled appearance suited what little Rouleau knew of her: brash, unapologetic, and immune to social niceties. Rouleau groaned inwardly at the sight of her. The day had been a long one and he had no desire to fend off her requests for inside information on the Eton case.
He walked past her without comment and pushed the front door open, stepping outside into the cool of the evening. The sun was almost down and shadows were thickening. A north wind had come up, promising changeable weather overnight. He took a cleansing breath and waited for Marci to work her way in front of him, which she wasted no time in doing.
“Hey Rouleau. Long time, no see.”
“I heard you’d left Kingston for greener pastures.”
“I took a trip down memory lane and spent a few months in New York. Now I’m back.”
Her voice was matter of fact, but her coffee-coloured eyes showed a vulnerability and more than she’d meant him to see. He’d found their previous interactions enjoyable but knew he couldn’t trust her. When she wrote a piece that threw Stonechild under the bus, he’d broken off their connection. He’d learned the hard way that Marci had no loyalties except to the story and would do whatever it took to get it.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re on the Devon Eton case, looking for inside information. Sorry, I can’t be of any help this time around.” He stepped past her and began walking toward the parking lot. The wind pushed against him, cooling his bald head and making him think about getting home for a Scotch in front of the gas fireplace.
Marci spoke from behind him. “I figured as much, but I wanted to give you something this time. An insight into Jane Thompson.”
He kept walking and tossed over his shoulder, “Why?”
Marci caught up to him and matched his strides. The face she turned toward him in the circle of light from the street lamp looked pensive. Her eyes were luminous dark pools. “There’s something about Jane that’s so, I don’t know, unbelievable. How can she find the strength to keep going after all she’s been through? Don’t you want to study her like a bug under a microscope? I know I do. It got me thinking …”
“Jane Thompson brought about her own downfall by having sex with her student. She may very well have killed him, too.”
“Yeah, I get it. She deserves to wear the scarlet letter A, right? Corrupting a twelve-year-old. Betraying her husband and children. Killing the kid in a fit of anger … maybe. What’s to defend? I’ve been going through the court transcripts all day and am struck by how Jane pleaded innocent throughout the trial until almost a year after she was found guilty. She refused to apologize to the Etons when given the opportunity before sentencing, even though her lack of remorse impacted negatively on her sentence. Why would she do that, Detective?”
“She was in denial. I don’t pretend to know the psychology behind these women who fancy themselves in love with young boys, but I would imagine they lie to themselves about their behaviour and the responsibility they bear.” They’d reached his car and Rouleau took out his keys. He turned and leaned against the door. “Just what are you driving at, Marci? Why were you waiting for me tonight, since you don’t appear to have anything pressing to share?”
Her face reflected the confusion going on inside her. “I’m not a sentimental woman, Rouleau. I couldn’t be and work in this male-dominated business and expect to be a success. But I can smell a story, and I believe Jane Thompson hasn’t told hers yet. She confessed to the affair with Devon Eton, and her husband left her two weeks later. There has to be something in the timing.”
“He divorced her when he had proof positive she’d been lying about her guilt.”
“Maybe, but I think there was more to it.”
Rouleau pushed himself off the car door, turned, and opened it. He stopped with one foot inside and his hand on top of the door frame. “We’ll be bringing her in for questioning in the next few days, so maybe she’ll tell us. I’ll pass along your questions to the team.”
“And I’ll keep digging. Have to win that Pulitzer somehow to complete my bucket list.” She smiled and left him shivering inside his car with the heater up full even though it was blowing cold air. He looked toward the last place he’d seen her before her bright hair bobbed out of sight. Her belief in her hunches reminded him of Stonechild and her un
canny intuition. Could both women have the same unsettling ability to sense the invisible? Kala Stonechild and Marci Stokes were as different as two women could be, or so he’d believed. Maybe, it was time to rethink the two of them.
He put the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the downtown and his father’s condo on the waterfront. It was late and he was tired and he wanted nothing more than some supper and that Scotch neat. Time to put aside Heath, Laney Masterson, and Marci Stokes — and all the nonsense of the day — for a few hours so that he could face it all over again in the morning. “Not my monkeys,” he muttered under his breath as he cranked up Fleetwood Mac on the radio and turned left onto Princess.
Fiona was sitting at the bar in the King Street Keg when Gundersund arrived twenty minutes late. She was halfway through a Keg-size cranberry mojito and smiled when she saw him approach. She turned a cheek for him to kiss, and he remained standing in front of her since the place was packed, every bar stool taken.
“You smell good, like a spicy Irishman,” she said, adding, “Our table’s ready.”
“I made it home in time for a quick shower.” And to let the dog out for a pee. His hair was still damp and his shirt collar felt wet on his neck. He ordered a Mill Street beer and they followed the waitress as she threaded through groups standing around the bar to lead them to their table in the back dining room. The noise level was slightly lower, conversations rising and falling around them. Fiona had always loved the energy of a crowded room after spending all day in the lab. Tonight, her face was flushed and her eyes were sparkling. Gundersund thought she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. He’d thought that from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her and age was making her more, not less, attractive. She was wearing a scooped silk top, a royal blue colour that accentuated the creaminess of her skin. She’d pulled her blond hair back in a loose braid and the silver hoop earrings he’d given her on their third wedding anniversary glinted in the light as she moved her head to study the room.
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