by Alex MacLean
8:01 a.m.
Clearly, we are not good. Heidi is looking for evidence of an affair.
I figured this would happen sooner or later, even without the help of my brain fart the other night.
My type of job is dangerous to a marriage. The days and weeks away from home can lead people to infidelity. Men, women, it doesn’t matter the sex. Once they get away from their spouses, they act like animals freed from their cages. I used to see it at business trade shows. Adults fawning over each other with a disgusting spring-break attitude. It’s a sign of the sexualized, self-absorbed culture we live in.
That reality no doubt planted the seed of suspicion in Heidi a long time ago. When I accidentally called her by another woman’s name, it only made that seed grow into the ugly mistrust I’m seeing now.
On Monday night, I left my cell phone charging on the kitchen counter. The next morning, I caught Heidi snooping through it. She never noticed me there in the doorway, watching her. I assume she was checking everything for this phantom mistress: emails, call history, text messages.
I thought about confronting her, about asking her why she was intruding on my privacy. Instead, I let it pass and quietly retreated to the bedroom before she spotted me. The girls didn’t need to see us arguing.
I hoped that would’ve put an end to it. Heidi didn’t find anything on my phone, and that would erase her suspicions. Nope, nothing like that. She’s been treating me like an unwelcome guest in the two days since. She avoids me when she can, barely speaks to me when she can’t.
Her cold shoulder pisses me off and fills me with deep resentment. I provide for her and the girls. I put the food on the table. I keep us in our nice home. One slip of the tongue doesn’t justify the kind of disrespect she’s giving me.
This morning, she took it one step further. She did something that just made my blood boil.
I’m a bit of a neat freak. You could say I border on OCD; the quack shrinks out there would say I already have it, full-blown.
My things must be neat and tidy. They must look right.
I hang my shirts by color. I shelve the books in my office alphabetically by author. I line up my shoes in the closet so the toes face out. And when I pile my paperwork into my briefcase, the edges of it must be in precise alignment. Not one sheet out of order. Certainly not the mess I found.
The time is 8:01. My flight leaves at nine. I’m cutting it close. The drive to the Hamilton airport takes roughly twenty-five minutes in light traffic. At this time of morning, the 403 could be congested.
As I rush through the house with my luggage, I notice Heidi in the living room, putting coats on the girls. Their bus will arrive in a few minutes.
I call out to them, “Girls, don’t leave without giving me a hug.”
Jade calls back, “We won’t, Daddy.”
I load my bags in the car and hit the remote to open the garage door. By the time I come back inside, Jade and Jaleesa are waiting at the front door. I chuckle to myself whenever I see Jade wearing her ladybug backpack. It’s nearly as big as she is.
Heidi is not with them. I find that odd because she always sees them off.
I give each girl a big hug.
Jade asks, “When will you be home, Daddy?”
“Monday, I hope.”
“Will you bring us back a present?”
I smile. “I always do, don’t I?”
“Yeah.”
Jaleesa says, “Can you not get us the same thing this time? I like different things than Jade.”
“What if I get something for Jade that you like more than what I get you?”
Jaleesa’s nose and forehead scrunch together, as if she’s unsure of how to answer. I find myself seeing more and more of her mother emerging from her personality every day.
Heidi’s voice sounds in the room, “Your father gets you girls the same things because he doesn’t want any hurt feelings or fighting between you.”
“We don’t fight, Mommy,” Jaleesa says.
“I know. And we want to keep it that way.”
I see the school bus stop in front of the house. The crossing arm swings out from the front.
“Bye, Mommy,” the girls shout as they head out the door. “Bye, Daddy.”
Heidi calls to them, “Have a good day at school.”
“Bye, girls,” I holler after her.
Heidi moves to the front window to watch them. I watch from the doorway as they board the bus. As the side door closes and the bus moves away, I look at my watch: 8:15. I need to hustle.
When I go into the kitchen to retrieve my briefcase from the counter, I pause. One of the latches is popped.
I feel a tingle sweep up the back of my neck and across my face. I pop the other latch and lift the lid of my briefcase to look inside. My paperwork is a mess.
I grind my teeth. Heat flushes through my body.
I close up my briefcase then carry it into the living room. Heidi remains at the window, facing out.
I try to lessen the bitterness in my voice as I say, “Was there something you were looking for?”
Heidi turns, crossing her arms. I indicate my briefcase, but it doesn’t change her calm facial expression.
She says, “You know my father had a mistress for seven years before my mother found out.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a mistress.”
Heidi ignores me. “It nearly destroyed her. She was hurt, humiliated. Fifteen years of cooking for him, doing his laundry, cleaning the house, and raising the three of us. And he had the gall to call my mother a bitch. To blame the affair on her. Saying she drove him to it.”
I say nothing. I let her get whatever this is off her chest.
“She left him, of course. Like any good woman would. She was thirty-four at the time. My age. Still young enough to find a decent job and continue raising us without him.
“You might’ve noticed he never comes around to see the girls. Never remembers their birthdays or Christmas. That’s fine by me. He did the same to us after Mom left him. He hardly bothered with my brothers or me. Never paid the alimony he was ordered to. He was a selfish man. Only ever thought of himself. I think that’s why I hate him so much.
“I don’t want the girls to feel the same way about you.”
I let out a breath. “There is no mistress, Heidi. I’m not having an affair.”
“That scratch on your face got me thinking,” she says. “It’s not the first time you came home with one. Last year. Remember? The gash by your eye.”
I stare at her. I do remember. Arrowhead Provincial Park, up in Huntsville. His name was Yi Chen, a smallish Chinese man. He put up one hell of a fight. Nearly knocked us both into the water.
Heidi adds, “You said you broke up a scuffle between some guy and his girlfriend one night at a bar.”
I nod. “I did. At Moose Delaney’s.”
Heidi narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s searching her memory for the name of the bar I told her back then. Just toss some truthful details into a lie, and you won’t need a good memory.
Moose Delaney’s was a short five-minute walk from the inn where I stayed. The waitress told me they had the best wings in town. I must admit they were pretty tasty.
Heidi says, “You’ve come home different times with bruises. On your arms. Your legs. Your back. I never thought much about them at the time.”
“Hiking injuries,” I tell her. “They’re common. Sometimes I hit tree branches. Slip on loose rocks. Trip over a tree root I didn’t see. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.”
Heidi gives me a silent look.
“What do you think is going on?” I ask.
She smirks. “Sure it isn’t rough sex?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Are you serious?”
“I don’t know.”
I glance at my watch again and wince. 8:26.
“I’m going to miss my flight,” I say, walking for the front door. “I can’t listen to this right now.”
“Better go.�
��
“I’ll call the girls tonight. We’ll talk then, if you want.”
I back the car out of the garage and hit the remote to close the door. As I pull into the street, I look over at the house. Heidi no longer stands at the front window.
I punch the gas and speed off, strangling the steering wheel with my grip. The drive to the airport is shadowed by Heidi’s accusations.
This problem lies with her, and her alone. I don’t care what her father did in the past, if it led to this jealousy over imagined infidelities. She can’t have any confidence in herself or our marriage to act like this.
Maybe my absence will clear things up with her. It better. I will not live under tension in my own home.
And I can’t risk her finding these journals.
Ever.
16
Halifax, October 21
9:13 a.m.
“Describe him,” Allan said.
Liam Clattenburg’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. He was a balding man with a small frame and gaunt face. A tattoo on his outer forearm read, “I just felt like running.”
He’d come into the department claiming he might’ve seen the suspect at Point Pleasant Park the morning Kate Saint-Pierre had been murdered.
The first thing Allan did as he and Audra led the man into the interview room was to note the absence of injuries on his exposed skin. No scratches on his face, neck, hands, or forearms to indicate self-defense wounds.
“The guy’s about six feet,” Liam said. “Give or take an inch. My chin came to his shoulders.”
Audra asked, “How tall are you?”
“Five-seven.”
“Estimate his weight,” Allan said.
“One-eightyish. Definitely an ecto-mesomorph.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Well, I’m an ectomorph. He’s bigger than me. But not what I’d call a full mesomorph. Sort of in between. Follow me?”
Allan flicked his gaze to Audra. She lifted her eyebrows at him.
“I think so,” Allan said. “He’s not thick or overly muscular.”
Liam gave him a thumbs-up. “Exactly. Kinda like you, I guess. Only a little taller.”
“He was Caucasian?”
“Yes.”
Audra said, “How about age?”
“Thirty. Thirty-five, maybe. I always find it hard guessing someone’s age.”
“What was he wearing?” Allan asked him.
“Blue hoodie. Black Adidas pants. Three white stripes down the legs. They stuck in my head because I own a couple pairs.”
“Any logos, designs on the hoodie?”
Liam squeezed his brows together. “A white logo on the left chest. Not sure what it was. Definitely not Nike or Adidas. I know those.”
“Did he have the hood up or down?”
“Up. But I did see part of his hair.” Liam pointed to his forehead. “Bangs.”
“What color?”
“Brown.”
Allan listed the details in his notebook. “Do you remember any jewelry on him?”
“I don’t recall.”
“How about his face? Get a good look at it?”
“Pretty much, yeah. I remember him having a strong jawline. Cleft chin.”
“Facial hair?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Eye color.”
A slow smile wriggled across Liam’s face. “Brown. Like a rich espresso.”
Allan paused. “How would you judge his general appearance?”
“Neat. Yeah, he didn’t look dirty. Clothes were clean.”
Audra asked, “Have you seen him at the park before?”
“Uh-uh. Never.”
“And you go there often?”
“Every morning. Seven to eight. I clock fifty miles a week.”
Allan thought about the Mary Driscow case. “And you’re sure you never saw this guy before?”
Liam nodded. “Positive.”
“How long you been going there?”
“Ten years.”
“Every single day?”
“Well, barring a hurricane or major snow storm. Or when I go away.”
“Do you go away frequently?”
“A weekend every month. I drive up to see my parents in Miramichi. My sister in Bouctouche.”
Allan tapped his pen on the notebook. He didn’t want to bring Mary Driscow or last October into the discussion. It could prompt Liam into connecting the dots. Maybe even create a false memory in which he believed he’d seen something.
Allan asked him, “When you’re at the park, do you usually run into the same people?”
“The regulars. That’s what I call them. I know most by name. Some of the irregulars, I know by face.”
Audra asked, “Did you know Mrs. Saint-Pierre?”
“Not by name. Her face. She was an irregular.”
“Ever see her there with anyone?”
“A man. I assumed he was the boyfriend or husband. She was always with him. Not Sunday, though.”
“Did you know his name?”
“Uh-uh. Face.”
“Were there many people at the park Sunday morning?”
Liam twisted his face. “A few. Not a lot.”
“Any regulars you know by name?”
Liam flicked his gaze to the ceiling, back down again. “Two. Steve Foster. And Dustin Marks. He walks Apollo there.”
“What’s that, his dog?”
“Yeah, his Great Dane.”
Allan wrote down the names. “This guy in the hoodie. Why did you remember him so vividly?”
Liam’s eyes brightened. “Uh, because he was a new face. I remember thinking, I never saw this guy here before. Plus...he was a darling.”
Audra said, “A darling?”
Liam snorted. “He was attractive.”
“Okay, I gotcha,” she said. “Whereabouts in the park did you see him?”
“Cambridge Drive. We passed each other.”
Allan leaned into the table, a kernel of hope growing inside him. “What direction was he going?”
“North. I was heading south. Toward the water.”
“What time?”
“Probably seven-fifteen. Thereabouts. It was shortly before I saw Mrs. Saint-Pierre.”
“Where exactly did you see her?”
“Arm Road. Down by the battery. I’d just come off Cambridge.”
“Did you see her go up Cambridge?”
Liam nodded again. “She would’ve been a few minutes behind him. Heading in the same direction.”
Allan felt his breath bottle up in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he saw Audra turn to him then back to Liam.
“Did you have any kind of exchange with this man?” she asked.
“Just pleasantries. I smiled at him. He smiled at me. Most new faces you meet never even make eye contact. He did, though.”
“Would you recognize him in a photo?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Audra left the room. She returned a few minutes later with a mug book in her hands. With any luck, the man Liam saw at the park had been booked for another crime in the past. Allan hoped but had an unsettling feeling the odds were against them.
Audra set the book down in front of Liam. “In here is a collection of photographs. Take as much time as you need with each face before moving to the next one. He may or may not be in here. And he may not appear as he did the day you saw him.”
Liam picked up the book. He gave it one quick leaf through, his eyes growing large, incredulous.
“Holy moly!” he said. “There’s a lot of pictures in here.”
“This could take a while,” Allan said. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Please.”
“What do you take?”
“Black. Three sugars.”
Allan turned to Audra. “Would you like one?”
“I’m fine.”
Allan grabbed two coffees from the lunchroom. When
he returned, Liam was hunched over the table, absorbed in the faces before him. Allan set the coffee beside him.
“Thank you,” Liam said without looking up.
Allan took his seat and glanced at his watch: 9:51. He sipped at his coffee, watching Liam flipping the pages. Liam would skim over some faces; others he would stop and study with narrowed eyes.
With each page turned over, Allan felt what little hope he had begin to sputter out. It died when Liam reached the final page.
“Nope,” he said, closing the book. “He’s not in here.”
Allan saw Audra slump her shoulders and lower her head.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Audra stood up. “Detective, could I speak to you outside, please?”
“Sure.” Allan looked at Liam. “We’ll be right back.”
Audra led him down the hallway a bit.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“The guy he saw is definitely a person of interest.”
“Oh, for sure.”
Allan drew a breath. “I’m always skeptical when listening to someone describing other people. They overestimate their ability to remember things. Memory isn’t like a video recorder.”
“Well, he did take a shine to Mr. Darling.”
“When you consider the length of their encounter—a few seconds. That’s not enough time for his brain to create a detailed memory.”
“Yeah, but if his memory is even somewhat accurate and he can recognize the guy’s face again, then he just cleared everyone we were looking at.”
Allan felt the truth of that in the pit of his stomach. “You’re right.”
“The time frame works, Al.”
“Location too. Cambridge Drive. That offshoot path connects to it. The man could’ve taken it, circled around, and met Kate Saint-Pierre on his way through.”
“Let’s have Mr. Clattenburg see Erin,” Audra said. “We can take the composite and issue a media appeal to the public. Call the guy a person of interest.”
Allan hesitated. “Hmm, recognizing this man in a mug book is one thing; describing his face to Erin is a whole different animal. Look at how involved that process is. The minutiae he has to remember. When’s the last time a sketch worked for us?”
Audra chewed on her lip. “They have...once or twice.”
“Over how many years? Look at all the time wasted chasing false leads.”