Turning Secrets Page 5

  Henri’s eyes searched Rouleau’s face. “So long as I’m not the one standing in the way, I’m fine with whatever you decide.”

  “You aren’t.” Rouleau smiled at his father. “Go get some sleep, Dad, and I’ll be right behind you. I’ll be leaving early in the morning — I’ll try not to wake you.”

  “Then have a good day tomorrow. I hope you find out what happened to the girl and who’s responsible without any further difficulty.”

  “From your mouth.” Rouleau tilted back his head and raised his glass toward the ceiling.

  After Rouleau heard the bedsprings creak, signalling that his father was safely in bed, he topped up his glass, put on his coat, and stepped onto the balcony. He sat down, moving the deck chair away from the railing so he was out of the rain but could still see the water and hear the waves sloshing onto the breakwall. A fine mist settled around him, dampening his face and clothes. He knew the stars and moon were above him but they were impossible to see through the dark, low-hanging clouds. Frances would have loved sitting out here with him, if only she were alive and they’d still been married. She’d liked nothing better than putting on her coat and walking along the pathways during a spring rainstorm. When he closed his eyes, he could hear her voice.

  Just smell that, Jacques. The fresh spring rain and black earth and new life. The purple crocuses. The daffodils. The grass magically changing from brown to green overnight. This is what it is to be reborn and I don’t want to miss a moment.

  In the end, she’d had far too few springs. This was his second with her gone from the world. Frances had had a way of seeing into the hearts of people. She’d have liked Marci Stokes, he knew. Sometimes he even thought that Frances had sent Marci to get him back into the swing of life. Marci tackled the world head on, as Frances had, with intelligence, wit, and empathy. He considered himself a blessed man to have had two such women in his life.

  A gust of wind rattled the glass behind him and he felt a damp chill through his jacket. He drank the last mouthful of Scotch and stood looking down at the parking lot. He thought of the dead girl. Nadia Armstrong. Morrison and Gundersund were at this moment getting information from her parents to fill in some of the gaps in her background. The team would be working through the weekend to retrace her movements that night. They’d need to act quickly while memories were fresh.

  Before the killer — or killers — had time to cover their tracks, if indeed she had been murdered, as Stonechild believed.

  The cold rain in Toronto ended before Fisher finished his evening shift. With an hour left, he took a smoke break in the back alley. Water dripped from the crooked gutter and made a steady patter on the pavement. He jumped when the exit door opened, but it was only Nico sneaking outside for a few puffs. Nico sidled up next to him and pulled a pack from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He lit up and exhaled, squinting as the smoke drifted into his eyes.

  “Slow night,” Fisher commented. He didn’t feel like speaking but stating the obvious wasn’t exactly a conversation.

  “Blue Jays are in town. Wait until the game ends.”

  And then what? We’ll be flooded with baseball fans looking for a plate of spaghetti? Fisher thought this a tad optimistic given that the Venice Café wasn’t exactly a destination restaurant for anyone outside the hood. He decided not to get into it though. At one time, he might have challenged Nico’s absurd statement, but all the prison therapy had taught him to pull back in no-win situations.

  The stray cat was creeping closer to them, probably hoping they’d drop some food. Nico stomped his foot and yelled at it to get lost. He picked up a stone and lobbed it skyward. The cat skittered backwards and found a spot in the shadows to lie in wait. “I hate that fuckin’ cat,” said Nico. “Fuckin’ scavenger.” He took a quick puff and flicked the cigarette onto the pavement. “Got to get back inside. You’re in my debt, by the way.”

  “Oh yeah? How so?”

  “Your two buddies came back last night after you left. I told them you didn’t work here anymore.”

  The brief flash of relief was followed by the usual sick feeling. Fisher knew Loot and Ronnie might be put off for a day or two but they’d be back. He owed them too much money for them to give up. Money he’d foolishly bet and lost.

  Nico’s eyes narrowed when he appeared to realize that no expression of thanks was forthcoming. “What have they got on you anyway?”

  “Nothing. I borrowed a few bucks and they want it back … with interest.”

  “Man, why don’t you pay them off?”

  “Yeah, I’ll just do that.” Asshole.

  “’Cause they look like they could beat you senseless, no problem.” Nico grinned, a feat that stretched muscles clearly not used to getting a workout. “How do you even know them?”

  Fisher answered while picturing himself lying on the sidewalk, two sets of boots taking turns kicking him in the ribs. “I shared a cell with the black guy, Loot.”

  “What, do they house you by colour now? He’s a darker shade of brown but you’re from the same paint chip.” Nico laughed. “What was he in for?”

  Keep control. “Pimping, selling drugs. The usual.”

  “Maybe in your world.” Nico’s eyes dismissed Fisher as if he were in the same category of low-lifes as the two men tracking him down. “See you inside.”

  Fisher finished his cigarette and returned to the kitchen a few minutes after Nico. An hour more of hauling trays of dirty dishes and filling and emptying the dishwasher, and he was free for another long, empty evening. He draped his apron on the hook, said goodbye to Gina, who was using the quiet time to make a big pan of manicotti, and saluted Rhonda on his way out. She lifted her head but lowered it as quickly.

  Yeah, you want me bad, Fisher mouthed to the top of her head.

  Outside, he inhaled the night air deep into his lungs. He scanned the alleyway to make sure nobody was waiting to jump out at him before he started walking toward the street. The cat slunk out from the dark side of the building but kept its distance. Fisher squatted down and held out a piece of cooked meatball he’d taken from the fridge. The cat sat and stared, its slitted eyes glinting yellow-green. “Wasn’t me threw the rock,” Fisher said, “so don’t give me that look. Come get your supper.” The cat moved closer but wouldn’t take the food until Fisher stepped away. “I’m planning a vacation,” he said. “So you’ll have to fend for yourself for a bit until I get back. See that you behave yourself.”

  He continued to the street and looked both ways before stepping out from the shadows and turning toward Dalhousie on his way to Marie’s. One more night crashing with her, a trip to his parole officer, and he’d be on his way to Kingston on the afternoon bus. He’d have to remember to call in sick to the restaurant to make sure he still had a job in a week’s time — although losing it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He could always find another minimum-wage, dead-end job. Might even be a good thing to start working somewhere else to throw Loot off his trail.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As soon as he got in to work the following morning, Rouleau answered a call to update the acting chief. He walked past Vera as she put down the phone and looked up from her desk. She smiled, but the lustre wasn’t as bright as usual. He knew from stories around the water cooler that Willy Ellington usually had that impact on people.

  “Everything okay, Vera?”

  “Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s expecting you.”

  “Wish me luck.”

  “You’re going to need it.” She swung her chair sideways to face her computer. She mumbled something to herself that sounded like a string of curse words.

  Ellington put down the pages he was reading and removed his half-moon glasses as Rouleau knocked and walked into his office. “Take a seat,” Ellington said. “I’ve told Vera to bring coffee. I hear we have a suicide on our hands.”

  “Thanks.” Rouleau settled himself in the leather chair. “We haven’t ruled out foul play yet. A twenty-two-year-old gir
l named Nadia Armstrong. She lived with her eight-month-old baby in Bellevue Towers, a low-rise apartment building at the corner of Alfred and York, north of the university campus. Apparently she moved in six months ago. Woodhouse and Morrison went to see her parents in Manotick last night to notify them and find out her history. They arrived home early morning, so I told them to sleep in. They should be here in an hour or so to update us.”

  “Suicide looks like the obvious cause of death, from what I’ve been told.”

  “I can’t shut the file until we have conclusive proof one way or the other.”

  Ellington raised both palms as if conceding. “Do what you have to do, but we shouldn’t waste much time on this. If it walks like a duck it probably is one. Suicide is nasty, but young people do it all the time.”

  The door opened and Vera entered carrying two mugs of coffee. Rouleau followed Ellington’s eyes as he tracked her across the room. He reminded Rouleau of a Buddha statue: heavy-lidded eyes, wide lips, and a balding dome. He was close to six feet tall, but his substantial, once muscular body had softened from sitting behind a desk. Vera set the mugs down in front of them and rolled her eyes again at Rouleau before straightening and turning to leave. Rouleau observed Ellington watch her go, his eyes zeroed in on her long legs and tight skirt. Rouleau didn’t anticipate Vera tolerating Ellington for long before she put him in his place. He hoped he’d be present to witness it.

  “I’ll need you to approve more resources if the time comes,” Rouleau said, drawing Ellington’s grey-blue eyes back to face him. “Past experience has shown that we need to be prepared.”

  “Do you know who fathered her baby? A love affair gone sour could make someone depressed.”

  “I’m hopeful that Gundersund will have that information when he debriefs later.”

  They both sipped from their mugs. Ellington wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit, she makes one lousy cup of coffee.”

  Rouleau let the comment slide past him. “We might have to set up a tip line if we need to go to the public to trace her movements that night. We’ll see what the canvassing unearths first. There will be overtime hours to budget for.” He could see that Ellington wasn’t convinced about the need to dig deeper, so he added, “Hopefully, we’ll be able to wrap up our inquiries quickly.”

  “There must be forms for you to submit to Vera for my sign-off.”

  “Yes, and I’ll get started on them this afternoon.”

  “Very good. Anything else?”

  “No.” He could feel an awkwardness in the silence. Some kind of nicety appeared to be in order. “Are you settling in okay, sir?”

  “No problems so far. As you know, I worked Drugs on the Kingston force for fifteen years before going to Hamilton for five years, and then spent the last few years in Ottawa as assistant chief, so I know this town and this police force, for that matter.” He paused. “I heard through the grapevine that you didn’t want the acting.”

  Rouleau felt Ellington assessing his response. Rouleau kept his own gaze steady. “I have no aspirations to be in charge,” he said. “I prefer working in Major Crimes.”

  Ellington threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Just making sure I’m not cutting your grass. Always good to know if someone’s looking for an opportunity to bring out a knife and plunge it between your shoulder blades.”

  “Rest assured.”

  “Well, then, we should get along just fine. I value loyalty in uniform above all else.”

  “An important quality.”

  They stood at the same time and Ellington walked him to the door. “Keep me updated and let me know when it’s time to give a press briefing. I’ll want you there at my side.” He grabbed Rouleau’s shoulder with a hand that tightened like a clamp. Rouleau knew the pressure was meant to be a message.

  “Of course.”

  The door shut behind him with a thump. Vera was standing at the window with her arms crossed when he reached her desk. Her white-blond hair was glowing in the shaft of sunlight pouring through the glass.

  “Have you been dabbling in the medical field?” he asked.

  She spun around. She’d wound her hair into a bun since her coffee run. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Because I suspect you’ve been doctoring someone’s coffee.”

  “Oh, that.” She waved a hand as if swatting a mosquito. “A little salt with the sugar makes for an interesting flavour.”

  “So Ellington said.” He lowered his voice. “Be careful, Vera. He’s got a temper, by all accounts.”

  She smiled. “Well, that makes two of us.”

  She kept her thoughtful eyes steady on his for a fraction of a second longer before she lifted her chin and turned to stare back out the window.

  “See you later, sir,” she said over her shoulder. “Have yourself a nice day.”

  Gundersund and Morrison arrived back in the office before lunch. Rouleau gathered the team together in their makeshift meeting area, the photos from the construction site already posted on the bulletin board. He asked Gundersund to lead the briefing.

  “Nadia’s parents live on the western edge of Ottawa in the village of Manotick in a large two-storey home. Clarence is a government policy analyst at National Defence and Greta works as an administrative assistant at Health Canada. They have another daughter, Lorraine, who lives in Brockville with her husband, Peter Billings. Peter manages a Jiffy Lube franchise and Lorraine stays home with their two young children. We didn’t have a chance to interview Lorraine, but it would be a good idea.”

  While he listed the family members, Morrison had written their names and relationships on the whiteboard. She swivelled to face the others and added, “We caught the parents at home before they left for work.”

  “A couple of government wonks living in the burbs,” said Woodhouse. “Viva the vanilla life.”

  “Not that you’d have any experience in that department,” said Bedouin.

  “My life is all about the excitement.” Woodhouse yawned. “But let’s not make this about me. What did you learn about Nadia?”

  Gundersund shook his head at Woodhouse before continuing. “She was the younger daughter and was adopted at the age of five after being in a couple of foster homes. She had learning problems and self-confidence issues. When she turned thirteen, she got in with a bad crowd at school and her parents had trouble controlling her. She ran away when she was fifteen, and from then on, she’d return home off and on for short periods of time, usually after breaking up with a boyfriend. She showed up pregnant almost two years ago at the age of twenty and had a terrible argument with her father. He said that the tough love seemed to work because she got herself off drugs and alcohol and moved in with her sister in Brockville for six months before giving birth to a boy eight months ago. He said that he regrets their last altercation and he seemed genuinely broken up when he heard she’d died.”

  “Was she still involved with the father of her baby?” Rouleau asked.

  “The parents don’t know. Nadia all but cut them out of her life after the argument, but they considered her relationship with Lorraine a start and hoped she’d let them in eventually. They never met the grandchild.”

  “What about the people she was hanging around with?”

  “Again, the parents don’t know.” Gundersund looked at his notes and then up at Morrison.

  She straightened and said to the team, “We looked in the basement bedroom that she stayed in whenever she came home. We couldn’t find anything personal aside from a few clothes and a teddy bear.”

  Stonechild had been sitting quietly, taking everything in. She leaned forward. “How did she end up in Kingston?”

  “That we don’t know yet,” said Gundersund. “My suggestion is that we go interview the sister in Brockville right away.”

  Rouleau nodded his agreement. “Stonechild and Morrison can go to Brockville after lunch. Gundersund, you organize the door-to-door with Bennett, Bedouin, and Woodhouse. Retrace Nadia
’s steps that night. I’ll be getting the paperwork going for more resources. We need to find out more about her life, the people she associated with, and her final days.”

  Kala walked with Morrison to her desk after the briefing had ended.

  “I’d like to get on the road right away,” she said. “We can grab something to eat at the highway rest stop in Mallorytown.”

  “Just let me make a trip to the washroom and I’ll be set.”

  Kala drove her truck. They made good time on the 401, even with a detour for sandwiches and coffee. The skies had cleared during the course of the morning, and a warm breeze was blowing in from the southwest. They both opened their windows and fresh air filled the cab. The annoying sound of wind rushing past the open windows was worth it for this taste of spring.

  “I wish we could play hooky and find a restaurant with a patio overlooking the water. It’d be a treat to enjoy this first real day of spring and soak up some vitamin D,” said Morrison, popping the last bite of chicken sandwich into her mouth.

  Kala looked across at her and smiled before turning her eyes back to the road. “Nice to dream. I was going to take Dawn to Montreal on Saturday but I had to tell her last night that I’d be working all weekend … again.”

  “I know. Policing is tough on marriages and families.” Morrison’s wide smile disappeared and she was quiet for a few kilometres, her face averted to stare out the side window. The smile returned when she looked back at Kala. “I was glad to hear that Child Services returned Dawn to you. How’s she doing?”

  “Good. She helps Rouleau’s father with research at the university and takes art classes downtown. She’s even made friends with a couple of girls.” Kala had to trust that she wasn’t tempting fate with her hopefulness. She forced herself to be realistic. “Dawn hides her feelings from me, though. Doesn’t show anger or give me the normal teenage drama because she’s always working to please. I know this sounds strange, but I worry she’s being too good.”