His Hand In the Storm: Gray James Detective Murder Mystery and Suspense (Chief Inspector Gray James Detective Murder Mystery Series Book 1)

by Ritu Sethi

  The phone grazed his sore ear. “Wh–what? Is she certain?”

  “Abso-fuckin-lutely,” Vivienne replied with uncharacteristic color. “There’s no face to identify, is there? Only the hair, body, and ... you know.”

  Should he take Gabi’s identification as the definitive statement? The aggregate of evidence may not be overwhelming, but it pointed in one consistent direction.

  Vivienne spoke candidly. “She claims all private parts in question definitely do not belong to her husband. She should know.”

  “You would suppose.”

  “I didn’t like her manner, though, during the ID. She seemed distant, aloof.”

  “Meaning?” Gray asked.

  “Most people aren’t natural actors. I think she’d rehearsed her answer before I pulled back the sheet because her reaction came a split-second too fast.”

  His Lieutenant's instincts were always on the money. Gray had learned to trust them, even if she didn’t herself. “Why should Gabi Everett want to misidentify her husband?”

  “Mon Dieu, that’s a leap. We don’t know that for sure. But there is something else I should mention.”

  He held his breath.

  “She has a bump on her head, the size of a plum. I’m betting she didn’t when you saw her this morning.”

  Gray gripped the phone tighter. “You’d win that bet, Vivienne. How did she explain it?”

  “Something about slipping by the side of the pool. Like I said, most people aren’t natural actors, but I guess it could have happened that way. There’s a covered solarium with an inground pool at the back of her house, and she says she slipped on the wet terracotta tiles.”

  “One should never swim alone.” Gray thought fast, but his head hurt like hell. He pulled a couple of painkillers out of his pocket and popped them into his mouth. “Offer her protection. Maybe then, she’ll confide in us.”

  “Okay, but we can't force it. And we can’t go on assuming the body belongs to her husband.”

  “Sure, we can.”

  “What? We contacted the phone company, and they confirm Holly received a call from Norman’s cell early this morning. Telling her he was okay.”

  Where did that leave him? Vivienne’s breath sounding heavy on the other end of the line. “We proceed along the same lines as before,” he said, “and continue to assume Norman is our faceless victim.”

  “I don’t like it–”

  “Gabi’s lying, probably to protect either Simon or the company. Or, the killer has threatened her. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out she didn’t love her husband.”

  “You trying to convince yourself or me? With a negative ID from next of kin, protocol dictates we consider other leads. At least, until we can get a DNA match.”

  “Hang protocol, Vivienne.”

  “You think Séverin and Cousineau will let you pursue this course?”

  “I’ll try for as long as I can. What do you think? What does your gut tell you?”

  She was silent, then said: “Gabi’s hiding something. I kept noticing the dimple by her mouth when she pressed her lips together – really tight. Too tight.”

  “I too have a dimple. And in a far more interesting location. She’s lying. I know it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  April 1, 8:30 pm

  RUE ST. VIATEUR, situated on “the Plateau,” was one of Gray’s favorite streets. While attending McGill University, he’d lived on the top floor of a brightly painted triplex. The bohemian area ranked as one of the hippest, most creative neighborhoods in North America, with its cafes, bistros, and independent designer shops. He’d descend the outdoor steel staircase on Arctic mornings, always icy, always treacherous, and bike to the university in minus fifteen-degree weather. Now, green lanes tracked most of the city, separating bikes from other traffic.

  The end of day meeting with the team stretched before him, where they’d discuss details uncovered thus far over wine and a good meal at one of Gray’s favorite bistros, relax, and enjoy the elegance life in Montreal had to offer. At least, they could discuss them in peace. With the startup tucked in for the night, the hospital wards dark and calm, time slowed down and the urgency of the day deflated.

  Gray got out of the car feeling the ache in his battered muscles. No one walked the sidewalk on his side; no cars approached. Snow, falling in thick flakes, intermittently swirling down the road, creating the effect of a European village, frozen in time. Reminding him of a simpler time, but not one he was necessarily more content in.

  A boulangerie that served the best kouign-amann in town, a pastry made of caramelized sweet croissant dough, stood to the left. A closed sign hung on the door, but he recalled the sweet aroma anyway. His wife had always eaten hers and demanded half of his.

  He didn’t linger outside and entered Yannick’s elegant Bistro next door. Vivienne and Doug sat at a window table inside, with Vivienne looking anxious and annoyed at the company she was forced to keep in Gray’s absence.

  The room was decorated with green tablecloths, subdued lighting, and – despite being a French bistro – latin music. Relaxing into the familiar surroundings, he approached their table. On the way, Yannick, the owner, rushed over to deliver a hug, his body heat warmer than the heat radiating from the corner fireplace. The back of the other man’s shirt felt damp against Gray’s hand.

  “Mon ami!”

  “It’s been too long.”

  Yannick leaned in. “Your Detective – he order a Beaujolais, for dinner, mon Dieu. I say to him, monsieur, this is not a picnic, but he insist.”

  “Make the second bottle a Côtes-du-Rhône,” Gray said, before joining his team. The bistro owner smiled.

  The Beaujolais was reluctantly poured into each of their glasses by Yannick. Looking at Vivienne, the old Quebecois winked. Vivienne winked back.

  Gray took in the aroma of warm sliced baguettes and felt himself relax.

  She looked less than convinced. Each of them picked up a slice and added a wad of butter. Doug’s choice of light and fruity red wine, made with Gamay Noir grapes, wasn’t his favorite, but it warmed his insides.

  He studied the menu in silence. Doug licked his lips and chose the filet mignon, adding a “since you’re payin’, boss,” while Vivienne settled for the hors d’oeuvre, moules à la marinière, stating she planned to eat at home later. Gray chose the filet mignon.

  The wood fireplace crackled ten feet away. The clinking of cutlery and sounds of laughter overlaid a backdrop of Latin music, and rich reds and greens lent the space a festive atmosphere. Outside, the wind picked up, but inside, one could imagine it was Christmas time, and that the world was a safe and wonderful place.

  Until the conversation turned to murder.

  “Does Gabi stick by her identification of the corpse?” Gray asked Vivienne.

  “She insists it’s not Norman. I can’t budge her.”

  Doug’s nostrils flared. “Maybe she’s right. If Norman’s alive, we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “What about the bump on her head?” Vivienne said.

  “People slip by the pool,” Doug replied. “Who knows if that faceless guy is Norman.” His brusque tone implied Gray was off his rocker for believing otherwise.

  Across the table, Vivienne shot daggers at the detective. No love lost there. They differed in culture, education, and sex. But mostly, they differed in how they saw the world and the people in it. Which was why Gray wanted both of their perspectives on his team.

  Diversity in a team strengthened it, yet another factor came into play, one he wouldn’t outwardly admit: it helped to have an officer around willing to walk the edge of professionalism and bend the rules. How far Doug would go had yet to be tested. Or had it?

  Gray faced Vivienne. “Any trouble installing someone at the Institute to watch over Étienne?”

  “I sent an officer, but Director LeBlanc has him standing guard outside the front door. How’s my man supposed to protect him from there? Plus, it’s freezing
outside.” She wrung the cloth napkin between her hands. The small line between her brows always deepened in anger. “Legal assures me we’ll get our way eventually since the boy’s a murder witness, but it could take a while.”

  “Which means he’s on his own tonight.” Gray took another bite. This time, the delicate bread stuck in his throat, refusing to go down without a subsequent gulp of wine. He pictured Étienne alone at night within those depressing walls. Afraid and alone.

  “What about Norman’s dental records?”

  “We found a dentist who knew him years ago,” Vivienne replied. “No x-rays. Just some handwritten notes from the old days. Problem is, the corpse’s teeth are nearly gone, making a definitive identification impossible. The gap between the front incisors is pretty common.”

  Gray said, “We’ll continue the investigation on the same assumption as before – that John Doe is Norman Everett. Meanwhile, let’s get DNA confirmation.”

  “Without a formal ID on the body?” Doug’s tone bordered impertinence. He gulped the wine down as though it were soda.

  “Is there a problem, Detective?”

  “No, sir. Even if you’re right, what’s the motive? Who could have hated this guy enough to kill him like that? And where are we gonna get his DNA? We have no mouth swab.”

  “So we’ll get a hair sample from his house,” Vivienne spat out. “What’s the problem?”

  Doug emptied the remainder of the bottle, all into his glass. “The problem is the two-week backlog at the lab. We can’t follow an unsubstantiated line of inquiry for that long. That’s against all protocol. The DD would–”

  “Deputy Director Séverin would what?” Vivienne demanded. “You in daily contact with him?”

  Doug lifted his over-full glass to his lips, this time sipping cautiously instead of slurping. “Why would I be?”

  “I’m just wondering if you expect to make Inspector cozying up to Séverin?”

  “No. I expect to make Chief Inspector.”

  Vivienne nearly choked on her wine. “Do you? Not every officer has the merit and natural ability to make it that far.”

  Doug wiped his mouth with a napkin. "There are other ways to get promoted. Other ways to be useful.”

  “To whom?”

  “To those in power.”

  Gray had let things go too far already. He waved Yannick to bring over the second bottle and topped up all three glasses with the Côtes-du-Rhône. “What about the court orders to see medical charts on patients treated by PAS and Norman?”

  Doug shook his head.

  “Rodeau refused them?” Gray said. “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that we have nothing. Judge Rodeau says he won’t violate patient confidentiality on a hunch. The guy lectured me on Canada’s strict privacy laws for twenty minutes.”

  Gray looked to his right. Outside the beaded glass, snow, white and glittering under the streetlights, slashed sideways onto the road. A few huddled figures help up their arms against the wet assault while scampering across the sidewalk.

  The stem of the tulip-shaped glass felt firm and cool under his fingers. He swirled it to agitate the wine and draw in oxygen and sniffed the concentrated spicy aroma.

  “You must have learned something, off the record,” he said to Doug.

  The Junior Detective donned a crooked smile. No one collected details faster, details they technically had no right to possess. To his right, Vivienne stiffened and looked out the window herself.

  “Nine people died under Norman’s care since he implemented PAS. Nothin’ suspicious. The ones I found out about are Linda George from measles. An eight-year-old boy, Pierre LaPointe, and his dad.” Doug accessed his phone. “A Jean-Marc Berger from TB, and a twelve-year-old girl,” the tapping continued, “caught C. Difficile.”

  “And the adults who died?” Gray asked.

  “I’m having a tougher time with that. Still working on it. Norman has a couple of pending complaints against him, too.”

  Gray put down his bread. “Find out about them and get more details on the dead children. Talk to the other families, and ask for consent to look at their charts, but proceed delicately.”

  Vivienne added, “No badgering them.”

  Doug’s lips thinned, almost disappearing into his mouth; he gripped the delicate stem of his glass, so hard it looked like it would snap and cut into his hand.

  The food arrived. Gray’s steak was prepared on a wooden grill, making it smoky, earthy, and tender enough to melt in his mouth. He cut a piece and turned towards Vivienne. “What have you found out about HealSo?”

  “Simon’s the type that talks to a woman’s chest, not her face. Projects: many. Successes: nil – until recently. Even that he can’t take credit for. He may have brainstormed PAS, but Jimmy made it work.”

  Gray cut another chunk of his beef and speared it with a bite of asparagus. “Customized antibiotics. They’re way ahead of their time. Call me cynical, but it all sounds too good to be true.”

  “The antibiotic has undergone changes,” Vivienne said. “An earlier variant had a bad side effect – something about a hell of a rash that doesn’t resolve. The new ones don’t do that.”

  “What about Jimmy?”

  “Been with the company over a year. Moved out from his mom’s and got a studio of his own in the Plateau on rue St. Denis. He spends his time mooning over his Kate, his older and somewhat cooler girlfriend. Mom apparently disapproves.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh, I have something more interesting than that.” She stopped and looked at both men until she was confident of their undivided attention. The pause had the desired effect. Doug looked as transfixed as Gray felt.

  “Holly, their CEO, swooped in to save the startup from Simon’s callous spending. She’s exacting and ruthless and responsible for HealSo partnering with Westborough Hospital. She and Norman brokered the deal together and got permission from the hospital board to test and implement PAS.”

  That much Gray had garnered from his own online research; so, why did Vivienne look like a cat who had just gotten the cream?

  “Holly Bradley,” she said, “doesn’t exist.”

  Doug stopped chewing. “What?”

  “That name goes back a few years; she doesn’t have form, but no records before that exist.”

  Gray took another bite, tasted his meat slowly. “Good work, Vivienne. And go to HealSo first thing tomorrow,” Gray said. “Get Holly’s alibi for last night.”

  They finished their discussion, and Gray left the bistro.

  Outside, the wind tore at his clothes, but it had warmed. The sweet smells of spring were pushing through the clutches of a relentless Montreal winter.

  He crossed the road to his police loaner and glanced back at his team. Vivienne rushed out of the restaurant and caught up with Doug.

  She spoke gesturing with her hands, and Gray could guess what she was saying. That, perhaps, Doug should be more respectful to his seniors. Now, the young detective spoke back, his stance aggressive, perhaps even pointing out that Gray’s handling of the case could be construed as incompetence, deliberately ignoring the evidence.

  But Vivienne had the last word before she crossed the street and came towards him.

  “Who planted the bomb?” she said, now next to Gray. “You know, don’t you?”

  He unlocked his car with the remote and pulled open the creaky door. “No, I don’t.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  Perhaps he should tell her about Séverin, but Gray wouldn’t put her life in jeopardy.

  Vivienne stepped closer. Hints of her citrus-scented shampoo wafted towards him.

  She lowered her voice. “You and I both know a cop’s behind this. Who else could get that close to your Audi in a secured crime scene?”

  She stood silently, jaw clenched, and looked back at the Chevy Camaro shooting away. Doug Green had added s turbo booster to the engine, and it made an awful racket while shooting out
a jet of smoke. “He’s Séverin’s protege,” Vivienne said. “And no one resents you more than Séverin.”

  “You’ve heard about my indiscretions with Céline?” he said.

  “Everyone has.” Vivienne shook her head, the nonverbal message clear: that men were idiots; that Gray’s rampant hormones would be the end of him. He could think of worse ways to go.

  “What you do with your social life is your own business,” she said, “but why keep Doug on your team, given his ties with Séverin?”

  “I believe in keeping my enemies close.”

  “In your bed, you mean,” Vivienne replied, pulling together the lapels of her cashmere coat. “Céline enjoys more than the Deputy Director’s ear.” She pinned him down with her eyes. “Is that why you've kept me close? After what I lost?”

  “You're my second-in-command, Vivienne. Besides, you haven’t lost everything. You have Saleem.”

  “I don’t have Saleem, and you know it.”

  “Have you told him?”

  “No, and I’m never going to. Why should he find out now? He keeps bothering me for a kid; it’s like an obsession with him. I have no real husband and no best friend. Only you.”

  “Admittedly, not much.”

  “What a sad pair we make.” She smiled a wry smile and took a half step closer. “You’re not up to this,” she said.

  “The investigation or the bombing?”

  “The bombing, of course. I mean – I’m not sure.” A pause. “Do you want to live, Gray?”

  She never called him by his first name during a case.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “How does anyone survive what you’ve been through? And you haven’t reacted to it in the normal way, have you? Part of you isn’t even here with the rest of us. Maybe, that’s super spiritual of you, maybe it’s bullshit – I don’t know. If all you care about is the case – saving the next Étienne, catching the next killer – then, you might become careless with your own safety.”

  He lifted his right hand and lightly touched her cheek with his index finger. She stared at the middle two fingers, lifeless, stiff. It encapsulated everything – this wound and all it represented.