Turning Secrets

  Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries

  Cold Mourning

  Butterfly Kills

  Tumbled Graves

  Shallow End

  Bleeding Darkness

  Turning Secrets

  Copyright © Brenda Chapman, 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover image: shutterstock.com/JustBreak

  Printer: Webcom

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Chapman, Brenda, 1955-, author

  Turning secrets / Brenda Chapman.

  (A Stonechild and Rouleau mystery)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4597-4181-2 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-4597-4182-9 (PDF).-- ISBN 978-1-4597-4183-6 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Chapman, Brenda, 1955-. Stonechild and Rouleau mystery.

  PS8605.H36T87 2019 C813’.6 C2018-904996-0

  C2018-904997-9

  1 2 3 4 5 23 22 21 20 19

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

  Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

  Printed and bound in Canada.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  For Ted

  By that sin fell the angels.

  — William Shakespeare, Henry VIII

  Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself; it only requires opportunity.

  — George Eliot

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fisher Dumont stopped in front of the window on his way to the kitchen with one last tray full of dirty dishes. He gazed out at the grey April day now sinking into a cool Toronto evening, where on the street, the shift change was well underway. Office workers in power suits were hurrying past on their way to the subway, oblivious to their nighttime replacements. Misha the Amazon transwoman swayed by on stiletto heels heading to her usual corner while Flip, a panhandler who could have been forty or seventy, squatted on the sidewalk next to a hot air grate. Two college girls crossed to the opposite side of the street, their faces flushed and animated. Fisher imagined they were meeting up with friends at the Firkin, set for a night of beer and fried finger food. The sight of the girls was like a stoner’s fix; they made him want … want something clean and soft to make him forget the empty hours that made up his life — but he wouldn’t let his dreams go there. Not now. He turned away from the street dance and shifted the heavy tray.

  Fisher hated this time of the afternoon. The shadows and thinning sunlight brought on the loneliness.

  The dying hour.

  “Your buddies are waiting for you out front,” said Nico, interrupting his thoughts with the noise of clinking glass as he pushed aside the strings of red beads in the doorway. Nico’s greased-back hair momentarily caught a shaft of sunlight on his way past the window. “Raff just arrived if you wanna split a few minutes early. He can do that load.”

  Fisher looked down at the tray of dishes and hurried ahead of Nico into the steamy kitchen. He set the tray on the counter next to the dishwasher and slipped off his apron, hanging it on the hook near the fridge. Gina waved a spoon coated in tomato sauce at him from where she stood at the stove. Rhonda was chopping carrots near the sink and ignored him, as per usual. Bitch thought she was above the job because she’d had a year of university. He’d like to tell her to wipe that stuck-up look off her pointy face, but she was the vindictive kind who’d make sure they put him back inside if she could make up a reason. He wouldn’t put it past her.

  He glanced back down the long hallway toward the ruby beads and the two men he knew were waiting for him. Luckily, his coat was hanging in the corridor; he grabbed it on his way to the rear exit. The alarm was busted and he made it outside without alerting anybody. He ran past the garbage bins in the alleyway, calling hello to the stray cat chewing on something it had dragged out of a bag dumped at the end of the lane. The cat’s green eyes locked onto him as it picked up the treasure with sharp teeth and scuttled deeper into the shadow of the building.

  He didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep avoiding Loot and Ronnie, and he shivered at the thought of what they’d do when they finally caught up to him. Maybe he’d have some of their money by then and could talk his way into a reprieve for the rest. Maybe they’d give him more time to make good on what he owed and wouldn’t beat him to a pulp. And maybe a flying pot-bellied pig would land on the blue moon.

  At the corner, he stopped and looked back. He was glad now for the shadows and coming darkness. It was getting tougher to stay away from all his old haunts but he had a few safe places they hadn’t figured out yet. Marie had said he could crash at her dump another night. He turned left onto Dalhousie to take the back streets north to Gerrard. He’d buy a twenty-sixer of rye on his way as payment for another night on her mattress. With any luck, she’d pass out before she pressed her bony hips onto his and he was forced again to return her hospitality in another way.

  CHAPTER TWO
>
  Paul Gundersund pulled his vintage Mustang alongside Kala Stonechild’s black truck and put the gearshift into park. The clock read 8:20 a.m. but it felt much earlier. He was still running on West Coast time. The construction site had been overtaken by police cars and first responders. A fire truck blocked his view of the body that he knew was lying on the concrete slab in front of the hulking skeleton of the half-finished hotel. A red light pulsed from the hood of the fire truck. A white van with Mortimer Construction spray-painted across the side panels was in his sightline with its four-ways on. He looked up. Seven stories tall, the concrete walls and floors of the new construction were in place but the finishing had yet to be started. A boom truck sat dark and silent at the western corner, its crane hovering above the tallest point of the structure.

  Gundersund caught sight of his bloodshot eyes in the rear-view mirror and tried to flatten his damp, tangled hair with the heels of his palms. He’d meant to get a haircut but had never gotten around to it. A month’s leave and one day had run into the next. He’d spent three weeks travelling the West Coast, renting a motorcycle in Monterey and camping in the Big Sur. Record-high temperatures and days of blazing sun. Upon arriving home three days ago, he’d been surprised to find Fiona in his living room. She was on study week; she’d sublet her Kingston apartment when she’d gone to Calgary to teach forensics on a sabbatical. He should have told her to book a hotel room but they were still married and this had seemed ungenerous. She’d lost weight and her face was drawn and pale. She’d seemed anxious about something but changed the subject when he asked if anything was wrong. He knew her well enough to believe that her anxiety wasn’t feigned.

  Stonechild must have found out that Fiona was at his place. She’d cancelled dinner the night of his return and hadn’t replied to his voice mails. Hadn’t contacted him at all until the call twenty minutes earlier, asking him to meet her at this location. He’d been in the shower when the house phone rang. Fiona had answered and passed the message along.

  Bedouin greeted him as he eased himself out of the car. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, buddy. Good holiday, I’m guessing, from your tan and beach-boy flowing hair.”

  “Me and the open road.”

  “Sorry it had to end this way.” Bedouin started walking toward the paramedics standing at the tail end of the fire truck. “The construction workers found her lying there at six-thirty this morning and phoned it in. Must have jumped during the night.”

  “Any ID on the body?” Gundersund asked, catching up to him. “There were no details in the message I got to show up here.”

  “Nothing. Stonechild had the coroner look a second time because she couldn’t believe the girl had nothing on her. No purse or backpack found yet, either.”

  “A jumper?”

  “Looks that way but Rouleau asked us to secure the scene while we confirm the leap was voluntary. He’s on his way.”

  Gundersund scanned the construction site. “This is an odd place for a girl to kill herself. It would have taken some effort to get through the fence and climb up there in the dark,” he said, voicing his initial misgivings. Bedouin nodded his head to let him know he’d thought the same.

  Bedouin shrugged. “But not impossible. We found a gap in the fence at the east side of the site.”

  They skirted around the first responders, getting close enough to see the body. The girl lay on her stomach, arms and legs spread wide with her face turned away from them. Blood pooled around her, garish red against the dull grey concrete. Gundersund took in her physical details, not letting her death affect him so that he couldn’t do his job: tall with the lean build of a runner, soiled tight jeans, red running shoes, black jacket. Hair dyed midnight black. Multiple piercings lining the one ear that he could see.

  He took a deep breath before shifting his eyes to Stonechild and the new coroner, squatting next to each other and talking. He must have been hired while Gundersund was away. The coroner drew a cover over the girl’s body before standing. He saw Gundersund and said something to Stonechild, who was still on her haunches writing in her notepad. She lifted her head and looked directly into Gundersund’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what he saw in the black depths of hers but he knew it wasn’t warmth.

  Bedouin pointed toward the building. “Landed face first. Nose and cheeks flattened, skin rubbed right off. Going to be tough to get a photo for an ID if nobody claims her.”

  Gundersund flinched and forced himself to focus. No need to have a closer look now, he decided. The photographer would have explicit pictures if this death needed follow-up. “Odd to land head first,” he said.

  “Most jumpers aim to land on their head since it’s the best way to ensure a fatal end. This girl took a flat dive.” Bedouin spread his arms out. “Like a swan.” He frowned. “But she didn’t break impact with her arms.”

  “Hopefully she blacked out on the way down.”

  “It’d have been quick, anyhow.”

  Gundersund watched Stonechild tuck her notebook into her jacket pocket and start making her way toward them. Her long, black hair was loose and her turquoise-beaded earrings shimmered when the wind blew back her hair. In her jeans, black leather jacket, and deep-blue turtleneck, she appeared simultaneously down to earth and unattainable.

  He’d taken a three-week journey along the West Coast to clear his head and get some perspective on his failed marriage. He’d known halfway up the Big Sur highway that the woman now walking toward him was the one. He’d come home ready to take the next step with Stonechild. Fiona’s visit had only delayed his trip to Stonechild’s house … or so he’d thought. He had a sudden urge to grab Stonechild by the arm and force her to talk to him but held back. He knew Fiona’s week-long visit was at the root but nothing had gone on between them. The opposite, in fact. He’d finally gotten Fiona to agree to a divorce, which would be negotiated when she returned for good in a few months after the school term ended. He would have told Stonechild if she’d returned any of his calls.

  “Welcome back,” she said without smiling when she reached him. She turned and spoke to Bedouin. “Coroner says she probably jumped but he’s going to run a tox screen and do the full autopsy.” She kicked at a clump of dirt. “The girl was young.”

  “How young?” asked Bedouin.

  “Late teens, early twenties.” She looked past them. “I’m wondering if she was a Queen’s student. She had no ID. Nothing to identify her at all. Not even a cellphone.”

  Gundersund knew Stonechild’s detachment was forced. She was a master at keeping her thoughts and feelings tucked away where nobody had access. Two more cars pulled up and they all turned in unison. Rouleau was walking toward them. Whig-Standard reporter Marci Stokes and a photographer got out of the second car.

  Bedouin muttered, “Not really fooling anybody, are they?”

  “And not our business,” said Stonechild, giving him a cold look before starting across the yard to meet Rouleau. They chatted and Gundersund listened while keeping an eye on Marci and the photographer to make sure they stayed out of earshot. One of the construction workers tossed his cigarette onto the ground and broke away from the group. He was shorter than the other men, but burly with grey hair poking out from under a white hard hat. Above his beard, his skin was tanned and leathery from long days working outside.

  “Can the lads get back to work once she … the body’s gone?” he asked Rouleau. “We’re on a tight deadline.”

  Somehow, he’d known Rouleau was in charge. Gundersund would have picked Rouleau too, if he’d had to guess, but the man might also have seen Rouleau on the local news. As head of Major Crimes, Rouleau was often departmental spokesperson for high-profile cases or missing person alerts. He’d also recently finished a stint as acting chief that had given him even more airtime.

  Rouleau turned away from Stonechild and spoke directly to the man. “You’ll have to shut down today. Sorry, but we need to make a complete search. Your name is?”

  “Bill Lapointe. I’m
the site foreman. Why would you shut us down if she jumped? All you got to do is clear her away.” Lapointe’s face reddened, perhaps aware of how callous he sounded, although he didn’t make any attempt to backtrack.

  “I wish it were that simple. We need to follow standard procedure. You can tell the men to go home after we get their names and statements. Officer Bedouin will take your phone number and we’ll call you with an update later today.”

  “Mortimer’s going to be pissed.” Lapointe pulled a phone out of his pocket and checked the texts. “He’s on his way. Workplace safety and union reps will be here soon too.”

  The words felt like a threat to Gundersund but Rouleau remained unruffled. “I can have a word with them when they arrive. We’ll treat this as a crime scene until we know for certain otherwise. Officers Bedouin and Stonechild will go with you to get those statements so your men can leave for the day.”

  “Your call.” Lapointe’s voice let them know he wouldn’t be in Rouleau’s shoes for love or money once the cavalry showed up. He strode back to his workers with Stonechild and Bedouin following close behind.

  Gundersund walked with Rouleau toward the body. He glanced back and Marci and the photographer were setting up for a shot with the building in the background. They’d called Lapointe over as well as the construction worker who’d found the girl. His bad fortune would get him on the eleven o’clock news.

  “Why this place to kill yourself?” Rouleau asked, craning his neck to look up at the unfinished frame of the hotel. “It’s not an obvious choice, so far from anywhere. Was a vehicle found?”

  “Not that anyone said.”

  “Organize a search for her car, and if none is located, have the buses checked to see if a driver remembers dropping her off. She could have walked, but not likely.”

  “She might have come by taxi or Uber.”

  “Let’s go with the obvious first. Have any of her belongings been gathered up?”

  “Bedouin said they haven’t found anything. It’s as if someone stripped her clean of identification.”