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  “Mitchell will be right down. He’s with our daughter, Sophie. As you can imagine, she’s having great difficulty accepting Devon’s death.” Hilary positioned herself in the wingback chair across from them. The sombreness of her long black skirt and black sweater was softened by the glint of a wide sterling silver bracelet wrapped around one wrist and a heavy silver chain with a heart locket resting between her breasts. Dark eyeliner rimmed the redness in her eyes that came from crying or lack of sleep. Probably both, Rouleau thought.

  He sat forward, trying to bridge the distance between them. “I know how difficult this is for you and your family and I’ll try to intrude as little as possible, but we want to find whoever harmed your son and hold them responsible. The sooner we learn all we can about Devon’s movements last week, the more quickly we can make an arrest.”

  “I’ve already told you who murdered Devon. I can’t understand why that bloody Thompson woman isn’t already in custody.” Hilary crossed her arms across her chest and sat rigidly in the seat. Her eyes looked over Rouleau’s head and out the window.

  He didn’t contradict her. Nothing would be gained by challenging the accusation. He said, “My team has been collecting evidence and is even now interviewing everyone who knew Devon. Once we have proof for a conviction, we’ll arrest whoever is responsible.”

  “It shouldn’t take long.” Mitchell Eton’s voice boomed across the space as he strode toward them. He didn’t notice that his loud entrance had made Hilary jump and grab on to her chest. “Have you taken the harlot in for questioning yet?”

  Rouleau stood and extended his hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Eton. We’re doing everything we can to bring your son’s killer to justice. That includes interviewing Jane Thompson.”

  Mitchell Eton was not a handsome man, but he commanded the room with his deep voice and piercing brown eyes. Unlike his wife, he had no trace of a British accent and exuded an aggressiveness that would serve him well in the business world. He gripped Rouleau’s hand before sitting next to him on the couch, legs spread wider than considered polite. Like Devon, he had broad shoulders, although his body was thicker without Devon’s height. He had the same shock of black hair, too, but silver threads glinted at the temples. Rouleau could see an angle to his nose where it had been broken and not set properly, giving him a thuggish air reinforced by the bullish way he held himself. Rouleau wouldn’t have placed him with aristocratic-looking Hilary, yet they’d married, raised a family, and lasted as a couple longer than most. Mitchell hadn’t made eye contact with his wife since he entered. Rouleau could see the strain they both were under. He hated having to add to it, but he had no choice. “Can you tell me anything about the day your son was killed, Mr. Eton?” he asked.

  Mitchell took his time answering and spoke in a measured voice when he did. “It was a regular day. I saw him at breakfast early. I was heading to the office and he had a football practice before school started. Neither of us is a morning person so we didn’t have any prolonged conversation, something you can imagine I regret now. Devon turned down my offer of a ride and was heading to the washroom last I saw him. Sophie and Hilary were both moving around upstairs when I left. I had a dinner meeting after work and got home around eleven. I thought Devon was already in bed. Hilary mentioned the next morning that he hadn’t come home but was likely at Charlie’s and hadn’t called. She said she was going to track him down when I left for the airport.”

  Hilary added, “I called around as soon as Mitchell left and nobody had seen him. That’s when I phoned the station to say he was missing. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I still don’t know how you could lose track of the kids.” Mitchell finally looked over at her. “It’s not like you had anything else pressing to take up your attention.”

  “Fuck you, Mitchell.” Her voice was low and controlled, her words shocking in the silence of this tranquil room. They seemed out of character with her proper English bearing. “You have no idea what I do or don’t do in a day since you’re never here.” Her eyes swung over to Rouleau. “I apologize, Sergeant. My husband can be an ass when he feels people have not lived up to his expectations.”

  “Hilary.” Mitchell’s voice was conciliatory but seemed to hold a warning. “Let’s not let the stress of this situation make us say things we’ll regret. We have to keep our eye on the ball and that’s helping put that woman back behind bars.”

  “Mom?”

  They all looked across the room to a girl standing in the doorway. She was tall and slender with long, white-blond hair hanging loose to her waist, and on the edge of the teen years. Her blue-grey eyes were identical to her mother’s. Hilary started to stand but Mitchell beat her to it. He rose and began walking toward his daughter, arms spread wide. “I’m here, Sophie.”

  “I want to talk to Mom.” Tears began streaming from her eyes. She looked ready to keel over and Rouleau got to his feet.

  “Coming darling.” Hilary rushed across the room and Mitchell stopped to let her by. He watched without making any effort to intervene. She put her arms around Sophie and looked over her head at him. “I’m going to take Sophie to her room. I’ll stay with her.”

  “As you wish.” Mitchell turned and strode back to sit in the chair that Hilary had vacated. He looked at Rouleau. “This is a bloody nightmare. My family is falling apart around me and it’s all because of that Thompson woman.”

  Rouleau had seen murder bring families together and he’d seen it rip them apart. The Eton family had been through more grief than most, and whatever fissures had been under the surface of this marriage looked to be splitting open. “I’m all done for now,” he said. “If you have any questions or remember anything you think might be important, please don’t hesitate to call me. Here’s my card with my email address and cellphone number. I’d like to talk to Sophie but will wait a few days until she’s up to it.”

  Mitchell looked toward the door. “We just need a bit of time. Sophie is a strong kid, but this is going to take time to get over. That’s our focus now. I know it looks like Hilary and I aren’t getting along, but we have a solid marriage. We’re both reeling from Devon’s death.”

  Rouleau asked, “Can you tell me if Devon had a girlfriend and the names of his friends?”

  “Girlfriend?” Mitchell appeared to pull himself back from the dark place his mind had taken him. “Hilary would know better than I do but they never last long. His best friend is Charlie Hanson. They go back to grade school and have remained tight through … well, through everything. Devon hung out with some of the guys on his football team. His coach will know their names.”

  Rouleau started toward the door. “We’ll be in touch. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. We’ll do everything we can to find out what happened to your son.”

  “We already told you who murdered Devon.” Mitchell’s voice had returned to its booming self-

  assuredness. “Now all you have to do is prove it.”

  Woodhouse thanked the woman in the yellow bathrobe and she closed her front door. He could hear a chain being scraped into place as he started down the front steps. He was directly across the street from the Eton home on Beverley Street. The drapes were closed on all the Eton windows as if they stupidly believed they could keep the dirty world away. He’d give his left nut to interview that family. Get them to talk about what made their kid Devon tick. If he knew Rouleau, he’d have pussyfooted around them like he always did and gotten nothing to help move the case along. The man had gotten soft since his wife kicked the bucket.

  Woodhouse loosened the collar on his coat as he walked toward Bennett waiting for him on the sidewalk. Damn cold weather had disappeared overnight and now he was overdressed. Kingston weather was as changeable as a woman’s mind. He reached Bennett and pointed to the house he’d just left. “Lady was as helpful as that tree stump over there. Did the next-door neighbour have anything enlightenin
g to say?”

  Bennett closed his iPad. “Cheryl Gladstone saw Devon leave for school the day he was killed when she was putting out the garbage. He said hello to her as he always did when they crossed paths. She didn’t see him return home but she was at work at the hospital on the evening shift. Says they’re a quiet family who keep to themselves for the most part.”

  “Did she make any mention of seeing Jane Thompson hanging around since her release?”

  “No. Said she hadn’t noticed anyone unusual on the street.”

  Woodhouse let out a loud sigh. As if it wasn’t enough of a pisser that they had to go door to door and carry out interviews that any monkey could do, they hadn’t gotten one bit of useful information. Not to mention he was stuck again with a pretty boy partner who had the IQ of a lemming. And then there was Stonechild. The idea of her getting the plum lead assignment on this case instead of him made him want to hit somebody. His BlackBerry rang and he took it out. When he finished the call, he put his phone away and said to Bennett, “Rouleau is leaving the Etons’ and returning to the station. We’re to finish up here and go back to Murney Point where the kid’s body was found and interview the people in the apartment building across the street.”

  “That could take a while.”

  “You think … genius?” Woodhouse muttered the last word under his breath. He started toward their car, parked at the end of the block. Bennett appeared to be in no hurry to follow him but Woodhouse would let it ride. As long as it didn’t turn into insubordination. A few steps from the car and his BlackBerry rang a second time. He checked the number. Well, well, well.

  “Yeah?” He was a little surprised to be hearing from Marci Stokes from the Whig-Standard. The last time they’d spoken, she’d torn a strip off him for going over her head on the Stonechild article. He still believed the public had a right to know one of their protectors had spent a chunk of time as a homeless drunk on the Sudbury streets. Stonechild had no right to be on the force when she’d demonstrated such weakness of character. No matter how much people said they’d changed, they never really did. He believed that with every atom of his being.

  Her voice was sharp, all business. “Have you got anything for me on the Eton murder?”

  He waited a few beats, letting her hang. He kept his voice nonchalant. “Maybe. That is, if you have something for me.”

  “I’m quite sure the ledger is in your favour at the moment.”

  Woodhouse smiled. “I’m assuming you’re asking me to help you for a reason.”

  “Your HQ isn’t saying much.” A pause. “Is this related to Jane Thompson and her release?”

  “You seem overly eager to get a jump on this story. What’s the rush?” He saw Bennett approaching out of the corner of his eye. He dropped his voice. “Listen, why don’t we meet, say, seven tonight at the usual spot?”

  She exhaled in his ear and Woodhouse could picture the battle going on inside her head. Get the story even if it meant dealing with him or let it slip away. He wasn’t surprised to hear her say, “Fine. I’ll be there.”

  The phone went dead and Woodhouse looked at Bennett, trying to figure out if he’d overheard anything. He couldn’t be sure by the sulky look on Bennett’s face. He tucked the phone into his breast pocket and patted his crotch. “Setting up a date for tonight. Nice to have a hot lady in my life.”

  Bennett opened his car door and leaned on it. He glared across at Woodhouse. “I’m happy for you Woodhouse, but I really don’t need to know about your personal life. Really don’t need to know.” He got inside the car and slammed the door.

  Woodhouse ducked his head and smiled. Baiting the kid was too easy. It didn’t compensate for their demotion to a supporting role in this case, but would keep the job from getting dull. Maybe if he pushed Bennett hard enough, he’d pack up and take Stonechild back to Ottawa. Rouleau might even come to his senses and start giving the murder cases to the best investigator on the force, which was none other than himself. All he needed was the chance to prove it.

  Kala and Gundersund were shown into an empty classroom at Frontenac Secondary. They rearranged two desks, putting them side by side. Gundersund set a chair directly in front while Kala put two chairs behind the desks. She invited their first interviewee, Rhonda Peters, to sit in the single chair facing them. Rhonda was a portly woman, her belly jutting out further than her breasts under a shapeless blue dress. She’d been Devon Eton’s homeroom and math teacher.

  “Yes, Devon was in class Monday and no, he didn’t act as if he had anything weighing on him. I handed back a calculus test, which he’d aced as usual. He planned to go into the sciences next year. He’d applied to Queen’s and U of T, but I believe Queen’s was his first choice.”

  “So he was a good student?” Gundersund asked.

  “Devon was brilliant at math and science. Not as gifted in the arts, but that’s to be expected. It’s unusual for someone to be equally as adept in all fields of study.”

  “And what was he like as a person?” Kala still had no real feel for him.

  Rhonda’s crisp replies faltered as she appeared to be searching for words. Kala and Gundersund waited her out. “Well,” she began, “he was polite. I suppose you’re aware that he was involved with his grade seven teacher at his elementary school. We were all wary of getting too close to him, as you can imagine.”

  Kala forced a smile from reaching her lips. Rhonda Peters likely didn’t need to fear the attentions of the teenage boy population. “Did Devon have a girlfriend?”

  “Well, he was friends with Charlie Hanson. I never heard that Devon was dating anyone in particular but I chaperoned a few dances and he was always out there with one girl or another. He was a good-looking boy and part of the football team, the reason he came to this high school, I believe. The fact he’d been involved with his teacher gave him a certain status with the girls. As you know, this generation has received nothing but sexual marketing from the time they could click on a computer key.”

  Gundersund leaned forward. “Did you meet Devon’s parents?”

  “Of course. Devon was in my math class for the past two years so his parents came to the parent-teacher interviews. I had the sense that they expected a lot from him. The father is very successful through his own hard work. He’s also philanthropic and made quite the name for himself in the community. Do you know that an entire wing in Kingston General is named after him?”

  Kala glanced at Gundersund. Mrs. Peters was acting a little star-struck. Time to get the interview back on track. “Have you any stories about Devon that might give us insight into his personality?” she asked.

  “Let me see.” They waited while Rhonda again dug into her memory bank. “He got a B+ on a math test when I taught him in grade nine and he stayed after the other students had gone. He was upset and tried to get me to change the mark. He was practically crying when I said no. After that, he stopped answering questions in class, but he was back to getting A and A+ on his work. That’s really all that stands out.” She stood. “I need to get to my next class.” She hesitated. “I didn’t mean to imply that Devon was a crybaby because it was only the one time. In fact, I’d say he was the opposite.”

  “How so?” Kala asked.

  “Oh, he seemed tough skinned to me. Not a bully, but you’d never call him a victim.” She laughed. “I don’t know what I mean. Just disregard all that. I really am late.” She hurried from the room, banging her hip on the door as she swung it open.

  Kala turned to Gundersund when they were alone. “So what we have on Devon is that he was brilliant and driven to succeed, maybe more than was good for him. Girls liked him but he didn’t have a girlfriend. He was polite and quiet for the most part and toughened up after his first semester in high school. Have I left anything out?”

  “Not that I can tell. So far, there’s no reason for anybody to have killed him.”

  “Ex
cept Jane Thompson if we believe his parents. Let’s see if his classmates prove more enlightening than his teachers.”

  For the rest of the morning and late into the afternoon, each one of Devon’s classmates and football teammates took turns funnelling into the classroom to give their version of his life and last day at school. One after the other, they provided the same critique: Devon had been brilliant, standoffish, best friends with Charlie Hanson. Asked to describe Charlie, they’d fallen silent before revealing they hadn’t liked him much, not certain why.

  One girl in their biology class said that Charlie was Devon’s shadow. “Devon was the one we all tried to date. I guess that teacher he had the affair with put him off long-term relationships. We all wanted to give him true love and save him.” She giggled. “None of us could figure out what Devon saw in Charlie, but they were always together.”

  When the last of the football teammates picked up his knapsack and hiked out of the room without looking back, Kala flung her pen onto the table and pushed back her chair so that its front legs were up in the air.

  “We learned practically nothing about why Devon got himself murdered, but if anyone knows, it’ll be this fellow Charlie.”

  Gundersund stood. “I’ll go see where he is. He should have been here by now.”

  Gundersund was gone ten minutes and on his return stood at the entrance to the classroom. “Charlie Hanson left after first period. We need to get over to the Hansons’ now. I got his address from the office secretary.”