by Lena Loneson
She was thankful for Cam’s jacket, which she’d put on again after leaving their boat. Looking at him with muscles tight under his uniform shirt made her shiver, both from the cold and the excitement that this man was actually interested in her—the plain, too-strong park warden.
Cam closed the phone and Noire waited expectantly. He shook his head. “They’re still searching the missing persons’ reports for someone who fits the description of our latest victim. They’ve determined a few women our Jane Doe isn’t, but no one she is yet.”
“So we’re still nowhere.” Noire felt her hopes sink.
“Not necessarily. She’s too well-groomed to be homeless or a prostitute so it likely wasn’t a crime of opportunity. This lends credence to your theory, that she’s a young backpacker staying at a hostel like this one.”
“It better be this one. Do you know how many hostels there are in Toronto?” she asked.
“No.”
“A lot.” Her dry retort made Cam smile, and Noire felt a small bubble of happiness in her throat. She’d noticed a change in his smiles—they were no longer the phony bared-teeth grins of a stranger. They were meant for her, and sincere.
“We’ve got detectives and uniforms checking out some of the others now,” Cam reassured her.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes. This was not the time to be falling for the guy. She inhaled shakily.
“Are you okay?” He peered down at her, gray eyes worried.
“Yeah. Just thinking crazy thoughts, I guess. I feel like I should be crying, and instead I’m laughing.” She surprised herself with her honesty. “I feel guilty. Like I should miss her more. Except I don’t know how it’s possible to miss someone more than I miss my sister.”
“You’ve been through a lot. It’s not abnormal for your emotions to be all mixed up. Try not to judge yourself too harshly, eh? Grief makes people react in strange ways. What is it they say, don’t do anything drastic for six months after a major loss?”
“Drastic how?” Noire wondered wryly. “You mean like jumping into bed with the first guy I meet?”
“I was thinking more like don’t get any large tattoos.”
“Ah. You don’t have to worry about that. I’m terrified of needles.” Where the hell were these confessions coming from? Noire’s mouth was like a runaway motorboat today.
His smile and eyes were the softest she’d seen from him yet. He wrapped her in an embrace and they stood there for a moment, on the street outside the hostel, in the middle of the night as the wind blew furiously around them. She inhaled his scent, a musk like the woods and fur and rain. She loved the way he smelled. And the way his body warmed her down to her bones.
“Come on now,” he said. “I can’t imagine you’re afraid of anything.”
Burying her face in his shoulder, Noire muttered, “I didn’t say I was afraid of needles. I said terrified.”
At that, he chuckled. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
She shrugged out of his embrace and attempted to look professional. They climbed the four small steps up to the hostel together. After the cold outside and the constant sound of the whistling wind that had accompanied them since the original ferry ride hours before, the hostel felt warm and welcoming. The foyer opened into a large room with a reception desk on one side manned by a perky brunette, and large wooden tables nearly covered with beer bottles and snacks. The air was filled with the laughter of young women and a few men. Noire felt Cam’s hand on her back. The contact loaned her strength, and she hoped it worked the same way for him.
Feeling generous, she turned and said quietly into his ear, “Let me talk to the hostess since I’ve been staying here.”
“It’s fine, I can manage—” he said, but another round of giggles from the backpackers at the tables drowned out the rest. Noire shrugged and figured he’d appreciate it once she’d identified their victim.
She walked up to the reception desk, tossing back her hair, playing it cool. She flashed a broad smile at the young woman at the desk and hoped she wasn’t mimicking Cam—those wolf grins wouldn’t fool anyone.
“Hi, I’m Noire, I don’t know if you remember me or have seen me around or what but I checked in a few days ago. I’m in house five, room sixteen. But that doesn’t matter. Except I just mean that I’m staying here—oh ask the Quebecois guy with the long brown hair, kinda scruffy, he checked me in. I’m looking for my friend, she has long blonde hair, about five-foot-eight? Have you seen someone like that around?”
The hostess slowly lowered a novel she was reading. “Hi, Noire, I’m Maddie. What’s your friend’s name and I can tell you if I’ve seen her?”
Noire’s mind went blank as a freshly Zambonied rink of ice. How was she going to explain she had no idea about her supposed friend’s name? “Uh—I don’t remember. We use nicknames. Uh.” What was a good nickname? “Hers was Blondie. Because she was blonde. Like the singer.”
She couldn’t stop her mouth from moving, and her brain didn’t seem connected to the words coming out of it. So Noire was more relieved than embarrassed when Cam leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Blondie sounds more like a horse name.”
“Uh—” Noire continued. “What I mean is my other friend, who is this guy right here beside me, is looking for Blon—”
“Constable Campbell Dawson of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” Cam flashed his badge at the hostess. “Maddie, is it?” The girl nodded.
Noire tapped him on the shoulder and mouthed “Thank you” before moving aside. Cam’s returning grin sent her stomach into daredevil somersaults. Then he smoothed out his expression and she watched him go to work.
Noire didn’t particularly like the way Maddie’s eyelashes fluttered at the Mountie, but he did have the information in less than two minutes. There were only three guests at the hostel this week that matched the description of Jane Doe’s body. Mel Vaughan, an American, and two sisters from Sweden, Hanna and Linn Jonsson.
Mel, they discovered, was sitting with the group of women at the tables drinking wine.
“I think I’ve met her,” Noire said quietly.
“Have you seen the Jonsson sisters here before?”
“Not that I know of. She’s the only blonde I remember. I asked her a few things about Fawn but no one was very helpful.” She wrinkled her nose, remembering her failure at trying to start up completely unsubtle conversations.
“Mmm. Do you want to try interrogating them first?”
“I think I’m good. I’ll leave the cop work to you. I swear I’m a lot better with animals—people just confuse me.”
“I know what you mean. But not to worry, though I may feel a kinship with animals, half of me is human, and I’ve trained my human side well. I can show you how it’s done.”
She couldn’t tell if this sudden arrogance was a part of the joke, or legitimate. She decided to tease him back. “But you’re so obviously law enforcement—perfect posture, perfect amount of muscle, the military-short hair—they’ll figure out what you’re up to right away.”
“Exactly,” he said with an enigmatic smile. Cam gestured to his duffle bag. For the first time, Noire noticed an iron-on patch of Dudley Do-Right, the cartoon Mountie hero from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, on the pocket of his bag. “I just need a place to change.”
Noire pointed him toward the first of the hostel washrooms, glad she could manage something helpful. Though she enjoyed the teasing, she was starting to feel a bit put-out at her lack of contribution to the investigation since they had left the island. She hoped she got to shoot something before all of this was done.
Now, why would she think that? Her guns were all the way back in Algonquin. Unless she could borrow Cam’s. She wasn’t really a Smith & Wesson kind of girl, but she really wanted to shoot something right about now.
She thought about walking over to the women drinking and sitting down with them. Taking a swig from the wine bottle and starting a conversation. She decided against it. Instead
, she studied the group. Eleven in total. Mel was striking, with platinum blonde hair and an inch of purposeful dark roots showing that didn’t distract from a very low-cut V-neck blouse. Many of the other young women ranged from pretty to gorgeous, and the variety of accents floating out from the group (Australian, Quebecois, Japanese, something Eastern European maybe) made Noire feel as if she was watching a casual version of the Miss Universe competition. The two young men at the table definitely seemed to be enjoying themselves. Music played in the background, something Euro and ambient that Noire couldn’t identify. A scruffy guy with more beard than Grizzly Adams made some retort that was clearly hilarious, from the level of laughter at the table—and then the room fell suddenly silent.
Noire turned her head to see what they were staring at.
It was Cam, now gloriously dressed in full Mountie reds. The red jacket was perfectly un-creased and clung to his body like a second skin. Black pants and boots did not show one speck of dust. Noire had no idea how he kept the uniform in that condition in a duffle bag—magic, maybe. She felt herself adjusting her own posture to mimic his.
“Excuse me, everyone.” His voice was deep and powerful, just like what Noire thought of as his normal speaking voice, but yet more somehow. More authoritative. More impressive. More sensual.
Noire could swear she saw the women at the table actively swoon. She hoped no one fainted. That would be embarrassing. Especially if it were, say, Mel Vaughan—if she slid out of that chair in a faint, it’s possible one of her boobs would pop out of that shirt.
“My name is Constable Campbell Dawson.” As he said his name, an auburn-haired woman sighed theatrically and fanned herself. Noire scowled. She relaxed a bit at the sound of her own name as he continued. “My associate, Noire Pelletier, and I are here on a police investigation. We’re looking for information about a young woman who may be staying here.” As Cam described Jane Doe, Noire watched the women at the table. They listened intently, eyes never blinking.
When he finished, it was Mel who spoke first. “I think I know who you’re looking for, Constable. One of the Swedish girls—I haven’t seen Linn today but Hanna is in her room. Riko, sweetie, would you mind grabbing her?” A Japanese girl grudgingly stood and left the room without saying a word.
Cam moved to the tables and began speaking to the group, but Noire held back. She didn’t want to embarrass herself again, and with the women fixated on the Mountie, she knew her presence wouldn’t help.
However, she couldn’t keep herself from eavesdropping.
What Cam discovered with his uniform and silver tongue was more than Noire had managed all week. According to Mel and two other girls, an older man (“older” apparently meant mid-thirties, since most of these women were younger than Noire’s twenty-eight years) had been skulking around the Jonsson sisters for a while. He hovered at the edges of hostel-organized events, paying for bottles at the wine and cheese night, and covering rounds of beer at the karaoke outing.
“He sang some gawdawful Barenaked Ladies song once,” Mel remembered. “I mean, the song was great—who gets tired of ‘If I Had a Million Dollars’? Nobody. Unless you count my douchebag ex. It was the performance that was terrible. Dude had a three-note range, I swear.”
The Australian hostess Maddie had joined the table by then (apparently the reception desk didn’t need manning if there was a hot Mountie in the room) and she perked up at this. “Yeah! He’s the one who signed in as Steve Page. Like the guy from Barenaked Ladies? Kind of an obvious alias, but his ID matched so we’re not gonna question it. Even if he can’t play guitar.”
Cam asked Maddie to look up the name in their computer system; Maddie seemed both thrilled to do him the favor and sad to leave his side.
Mel jumped back in at that point. “Hell, I almost slept with him myself though. Even if he was old, there was something kind of carnal about him. Beastly, almost. A real air of authority. What can I say, I get a bit slutty for a man of authority.” The girl touched Cam’s arm.
If Noire had been a werewolf, she knew, this was where she would have ripped Mel’s throat out.
But then Mel continued, and Noire heard her sister’s name.
“He was all over this mousy thing, Fern or Fawn or something. You know the type, quiet, limp brown hair. She never came out drinking, only did the day trips to the art gallery or the ROM or whatever. Boring.”
The ROM, or Royal Ontario Museum, was one of Noire’s favorite places in the city. She could stare at dinosaur bones forever, imagining the forests of the prehistoric world.
“I didn’t know her or anything. But I think they were both from up north or whatever. Somewhere in Algonquin.”
“Algonquin?” Noire said, shocked to hear this. Fawn had never mentioned that the guy she’d been seeing was from back home—had she? And if not, why would she leave that out? Surely she’d have known that Noire would’ve been happier and thought her sister safe with a man from home, rather than the city.
Were there other things Fawn had kept from her sister? Had she known this man before moving to Toronto?
Could her sister’s murderer be someone Noire herself knew?
“Constable Dawson?” It was Maddie, back at the reception computer. “Steve Page checked out this morning.”
Noire’s heart sunk and she saw the deepening of lines around Cam’s eyes, and knew he felt the same. They couldn’t lose their chance at this guy. He’d killed at least two women, probably more—Cam had been following a killer from B.C. They were sure that if he moved cities, he would kill again. Maybe another young starry-eyed, naive girl like Noire’s sister.
“Is there an address with his reservation?” Cam asked. At the hostess’ affirmative reply, he called it in to his team. Noire wasn’t optimistic—the killer had been smart thus far—but any lead was worth following up on.
“Uh, dude?” Grizzly Adams’ more hirsute twin, a young guy with a Canadian accent, caught Cam’s attention. “Steve told me this morning he was going to MEC. He’s the crazy brawny guy, right? If you catch up to him don’t tell him I told you, okay?” Adams was referring to Mountain Equipment Co-op, a large camping and outdoor clothing and supply store located a few blocks from the hostel.
“I treat all my sources as confidential,” Cam assured him.
“Yeah. So I guess he was planning some big camping trip. Only without a tent. Back up to Lake Opeongo.”
“Lake Opeongo?” Noire spoke again. “Cam, that’s right in the middle of Algonquin Park.”
“So, we think he came from here, and he’s going back?” Cam asked.
“Maybe.” Noire chewed on her bottom lip, trying to think. “Why would he go back? Surely he had his pick of girls here, more so than in the middle of the forest.”
“I don’t know.”
By now, the chatter among the women had resumed and Noire almost didn’t notice when Riko returned, a tall blonde woman trailing after her. The blonde had dark circles under her eyes, smudged mascara from crying. Before anyone else could move, Noire was at her side. “Hanna Jonsson?” she asked.
The woman nodded. Noire took her hand as Cam asked her about her sister Linn. Hanna revealed that she hadn’t seen her all day; she was getting worried because they were supposed to meet up for a pub crawl hours ago.
“May I ask you some questions?” Cam asked. When Hanna nodded again, Cam asked the hostess for a private room and Maddie pointed them toward a staff office. Hanna refused to let go of Noire’s hand, so Noire went with them. Hanna’s fingernails were digging into her palm but she tried not to show any sign of physical pain.
Once they were seated, Hanna’s silence broke and she rambled on, clutching at Noire’s hand. She had a slight accent, but perfect English otherwise.
“I’m so scared. I told Linn not to sleep with that guy Page. You know sometimes you can just sense evil? That was him. I guess he was handsome—Page was made of muscle—but there was something in his beady black eyes that just gave me the creeps. Not to
mention how fast he moved on to Linn after his last girlfriend left.”
Noire wanted to ask—did she mean Fawn? But instead she wrapped an arm around Hanna’s back and held her close, letting Cam continue with the questioning.
“Can you tell me about his last girlfriend, Hanna?” he asked.
“Fawn. She was sweet. Way too young for him. Like Linn. I guess he has a type. But Fawn was all doe-eyed and, like, sixteen shades of brown. Linn’s like me—just like me.” Hanna was a blue-eyed blonde, at least five inches taller than Fawn. “I guess it’s just young that they had in common. I dunno. And that sort of wistfulness. Do you know? Girls who just drift off and stare at the sky sometimes. That was Linn.”
“Fawn was the same,” Noire said quietly.
Hanna’s frightened blue eyes focused on hers. “You knew her?”
“She was my sister,” Noire confirmed.
“Page claimed she broke his heart. She just left—didn’t check out or anything. Apparently she even stole a bunch of his money. But if he was so sad, why did he move in on my sister a few days later? It was like Fawn was just—poof—gone, and now he was totally focused on Linn. Like, stalking her. We’d find him outside of our room sometimes. Sniffing. I swear I saw him sniff the door once. I made Linn lock up her suitcase every morning, just in case he came back while we were gone. I definitely got the impression he’s a panty-sniffer of the first degree. Gross.”
As she talked, tears formed in Hanna’s eyes. Noire wiped them off with the sleeve of her charcoal sweater and held the woman closer. Her mental image of Page grew clearer. She knew Fawn would never have stolen any money, and she knew that her sister was falling for the man and would not have left him without saying goodbye. It was likely a story concocted so that Page (whatever his real name was) could use pity to worm his way closer to Linn Jonsson. There was no doubt in Noire’s mind that Page was the killer. But how would they find him? And when they did, how would they prove it?