Читать книгу Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Brenda Chapman - Страница 30

Thursday, December 29, 7:30 p.m.

“He’s not someone I’d pick for a business partner,” Rouleau commented, glancing sideways.

“He seems somewhat shady,” Kala agreed.

They stood side by side, watching J.P. Belliveau through the one-way mirror. Belliveau’s stocky body was slouched in the chair across from Grayson and Malik, his mouth set in a belligerent line, his eyes narrowed inside pouches of loose skin. They could hear the interview thanks to a strategically placed microphone. Acoustics were crystal clear.

“Grayson’s circling around him, preparing to zoom in on the lie,” said Rouleau.

Kala was grudgingly impressed with Grayson’s technique. He’d gotten Belliveau to repeat that he hadn’t met with Underwood the morning he went missing, then lulled him with innocuous questions about the division of work between the partners. Both Kala and Rouleau leaned closer to the glass, as if that would speed things along. After a pause, Grayson slid a piece of paper across the table and Belliveau picked it up. He read what was on it and shrugged.

“Yeah, we were supposed to meet, but I talked to him at the party and said since it was a late night, we’d reschedule for another day.”

“Did anyone hear you reschedule.”

“Not that I know of. We were alone at the time and it wouldn’t have interested anyone else. Is this why you called me in? Over a postponed meeting?”

“Why didn’t you tell us about this meeting when we asked earlier this week and again a few minutes ago?” Grayson’s voice was puzzled, non-believing.

“Because we’d cancelled it. There was nothing to tell, and to be honest, it slipped my mind. It was almost Christmas and we were rescheduling meetings all week. If you hadn’t just shown me the email, I would never have remembered. Do you know how many meetings I attend in the course of a week? At least thirty. Do I need a lawyer?”

“That’s up to you. You’re not under arrest.”

“Good.” Belliveau’s voice rose. “’Cause for a minute there, it sounded like you were getting ready to make an accusation.”

Kala looked at Rouleau. “They’re not going to get anything out of him, are they?”

Rouleau fixed his stare on Belliveau a while longer before turning to look at her. “No. He’s sidestepped the lie with something impossible for us to disprove even if it is hard to believe he wouldn’t have remembered they were supposed to have a meeting the morning Underwood went missing.”

“He knew how it would look. His word against a dead man’s. He probably thought we’d never find out.”

“And he’d already planned what to say if we did.”

“Well, I’ll push off then. It’s been a long day.” Kala stepped away from the glass. Rouleau stopped her at the door.

“How’re you doing with the Underwood clan? Anyone standing out?”

“They all seem to have a secret or two. I may never learn the full truth of their tangled relationships.”

“If you had to guess?”

“Susan Halliday … not that I think she killed Tom Underwood, but I think she knows something. I also worry that her empty gas tank wasn’t an accident.”

“I’d like you to interview her again. Tomorrow, if possible.”

“She’s going home from the hospital today. I’ll swing by in the morning.” She took a step closer to Rouleau. “Does this mean you don’t think Underwood’s death is work-related?”

“At this point, I have no idea. I agree though that Susan’s near-death experience could be linked and you should pursue it.”

“I heard that Vermette’s hoping to close the file today.”

“He’s not alone, but we haven’t got enough to charge anybody, let alone go to trial. Keep in touch tomorrow and enjoy your evening.”

Kala nodded and left before he could ask how she intended to spend it.

She returned to the YWCA and put on her navy parka, jeans, and knee-high Sorel boots to stake out the apartment buildings. She was dressing in dark colours to stay hidden tonight. It would be bad if the target spotted her hanging around, looking like a victim too many nights in a row.

While waiting for the elevator, she rechecked the map she’d printed with the locations of the previous assaults marked in red dots. “This has to be the building,” she said aloud, resting her finger on the last high-rise in the string. She looked guiltily around to make certain nobody else was in the hallway. Living alone, she’d taken to talking to herself. It was a bad habit in the city. Grab ’n Go was working his way down Richmond Road, skipping buildings but always heading east. There were only two apartment towers left in the row and she was betting on the last. She wondered what he would do when he was finished with this row of apartment buildings. Start over or pick a new area? Hopefully he’d never have the chance to begin in a new location.

Twenty minutes later, she parked in the Lincoln Fields parking lot, choosing a different end of the mall to leave her truck. She crossed Richmond Road on foot and headed toward the nine-storey sprawling apartment building with the black-tinted windows. It was a more modern structure than its neighbours and tucked further back from the road next to a line of trees and a field. A string of globe lights on top of black poles led up the walkway. Two of the lights were burnt out near the entrance, creating a promising section of darkness on the path.

The night was partially overcast, the moon hidden behind a pocket of cloud. Now and then it reappeared and cast a shimmering light onto the snow. The air wasn’t as frigid as it had been that morning, for which Kala gave silent thanks. She’d been warned that Ottawa weather was capricious and changed on a dime. The meteorologists had said often enough that global warming would make weather go crazy around the world. The Ottawa Valley might be the canary in the coal mine.

She surveyed the path and parking lot, looking for a sheltered place to stand where she wouldn’t be easily seen. She settled on a spot behind an oak tree ten feet from the path, even with the darkened section of the walkway. The position was a good vantage point for seeing a section of the sidewalk and the path leading to the front door of the building. It also protected her from the gusty easterly wind. She pulled her hood up over her head and squatted down in the snow to wait.

Cars and city buses periodically passing on Richmond Road broke the evening’s silence. Pedestrian traffic was light, and those few who passed by on the sidewalk walked quickly, heads down, buffeted by the wind and swirling snow. Each time someone came into view, Kala raised her head and followed their progress as long as they remained in her line of vision. The rest of the time she let her thoughts wander.

Rouleau’s request for her to name her prime suspect for Underwood’s murder had triggered her to reconsider the suspects. She’d been treating each with equal suspicion and hadn’t rated them one against the other. Now she lined them up in her head.

Laurel definitely had a lot to gain from her husband’s death, especially if she had gotten wind that he was planning to change his will and divorce her. Kala believed the surprise in Laurel’s eyes when she found out the will had already been changed. Perhaps, she thought that by killing him she’d prevent a loss in fortune. Even more damning was her seemingly secret, close relationship with Hunter. They could have murdered Tom together or separately.

Then, there were Max and Geraldine. They gained financially and Max gained business-wise. From what she’d seen of him, he wasn’t exactly a doting husband. He actually appeared effeminate, something she hadn’t put in any report since it was only a personal observation. Besides, being effeminate didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t interested in women. One had to be careful of stereotypes. He’d just fathered a baby, after all. Maybe he’d talked Geraldine into killing her father. She’d known of men who had that amount of control over their wives.

Then, there was Pauline, the ex-wife who appeared to be a loose cannon. If she believed Laurel, Pauline had never recovered from Tom’s desertion, but did she have the wherewithal to kill, and why after all this time?

Kala liked Susan Halliday as a person but had serious concerns about her army husband Clinton, who seemed to hide a well of nastiness behind a rigid facade. Susan’s near-fatal accident put Clinton top of the list in her mind. If only she knew why he would kill Tom Underwood — did Tom know something about Clinton that got him killed? Was it even a family member who committed the murder?

Kala sighed. She really couldn’t rule anybody out yet. In fact, the list kept growing longer, not shorter. J.P. Belliveau had just as much motivation as did the inventor Archambault in Montreal as far as she could see. God only knew what other business associates had it in for Underwood. It was becoming a big muddle, but she knew that one piece of evidence would make all the bits fall into place. The trick was patience. She’d have to start making the rounds again, trying to sift out the lies and secrets.

She stood and stretched, jumping in place to keep the circulation flowing in her legs. Stakeouts were something she’d come to enjoy in her old job. She liked the chance to be alone outdoors. One foster father she’d lived with when she was thirteen had taken her hunting for deer in the fall and they’d spent hours huddled in the thickets, silently waiting for their prey to appear. She’d liked it because she’d liked him. Jock was the only one who really took an interest in her. She was sad when they had to give her back.

A woman in a fur coat walked past on the sidewalk, her shaggy black Maltese tugging on its leash. They started up the walkway to the apartment building. A man in a black ski jacket and white toque appeared from the other direction and started up the walkway after her. Kala took a step forward. The woman turned as he reached her and called him by name. Kala settled back into her hiding spot, her heart beat gradually returning to normal.

The next half hour passed slowly. Kala was warm in her winter clothing but her face was raw from the wind. She’d give it another half hour and then take a drive around the ByWard Market to look for Dawn and Rosie. She might even stop in at the Ottawa Mission to visit Maya. She wished she could take a leave of absence and spend her days searching. Once they found Underwood’s murderer, she’d do just that. This job meant nothing to her, even though she felt a growing attachment to Rouleau. He was like the father she wished she’d had. Her real father had been nineteen when she was born. He’d be in his forties now, younger even than Rouleau, if he were still alive.

An unusual noise carried by the wind from the direction of the woods and field made her stand again and cock her head to listen. It sounded like branches breaking, likely a fox or other city wildlife. She relaxed and took one final look around. It was time to pack it in. The groper had taken another night off.

She stepped from her hiding place. She almost reached the sidewalk when a muffled scream came from the direction of the wood. Her body froze as she turned her head toward the noise, listening intently. At first she thought she was hearing things, but knew this might be all she got. She knew to trust her instincts.

She ran across the plowed sidewalk into the line of trees a couple of meters back. The snow there was soft and deep, but years in the bush made her sure-footed and quicker than most in the shadowy darkness. It took but a few minutes to break into the clearing. She scanned the field, trying to make out shapes. If only she’d brought her flashlight from the truck, but she’d never thought he would attack someone away from the lighted apartment building.

The moon slipped from behind the clouds and the field was suddenly bathed in soft light. A movement caught her attention near the bushes directly across from where she was standing, the width of a soccer field away. She lurched forward, her eyes on the dark shape in the snow. Several steps closer and she recognized a man’s back and his raised arm, striking down at something lying at his feet. Adrenaline propelled her forward. His arm raised again.

“Stop! Police!” she called. “Stop what you’re doing and put your hands where I can see them.”

He half-turned, his back humped like the Hunchback of Notre Dame — a Quasimodo shape to awaken night terrors. She was close enough to see the dark, lifeless form at his feet, to glimpse the flash of his white teeth in what might pass for a smile. He turned his face away from her. His hand dropped to his side and he took off through the bushes toward the far road.

She chased after him, making the split decision to leave the person in the snow a moment longer. He was trying to run, but the snow was deeper, a drift caught in the line of bushes. She gained precious steps and flung herself across the remaining distance to tackle his legs at thigh level. The impact knocked him to the ground. She kept her arms squeezed around kicking legs. He rolled under her, twisting his body so that he was sitting up. His arms came down around her head, a bare hand grabbing onto her neck. She released his legs and squirmed away, dodging kicks and somehow managing to get her hands free to push herself to her feet. One blow landed on her back before she steadied herself. She felt searing pain across her shoulder but managed to push herself back from his boots. He was standing now, kicking wildly in her direction. One kick landed on her collarbone but she pulled back in time to deflect the full impact.

“Cunt,” he said. “Stupid bitch.”

She scrambled to her feet and faced him, panting. “Police. Get down on the ground.”

“Not on your life, bitch. Come closer so I can teach you a lesson.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She jumped back from another kick and then leapt forward, catching him off balance. She had her feet spread in a wide stance, bent at the knees. She pushed off with her feet and lunged, slugging him in the stomach with her fist. He doubled over and gasped for air as if he’d just finished running a marathon. She raised both hands and chopped him across the back until he dropped onto his knees in the snow. She knelt on one knee in the snow next to him and wrenched his arm back, twisting it with enough force to hear a snap. He screeched in pain. Her knee came up and dug into his back as she used her body weight to force him face down onto the ground. In one quick movement, she had her handcuffs out of her jacket pocket and cuffed both hands behind his back. She clicked them shut.

He writhed in the snow, but all resistance was gone. A stream of profanity spewed from his mouth. She leaned close to his ear, exposed where his hat had twisted nearly off. The rank smell of greasy hair filled her nose. His hair was white, just as Glenda Martin had reported. His face was clean shaven and barely lined. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five years old.

“Whoever you were hitting back there better be alive,” she said, “or I might just forget to come back for you.”

She took off her rope belt and wrapped it around his legs below the knees. She pulled it tight and tied a knot. Even if he managed to crawl somewhere, he wouldn’t get far.

His eyes were feverish with rage and pain in the moonlight. “You broke my arm, you fucking bitch. I’m going to have you put away.” He rocked back and forth on his stomach, moaning and trying to flip onto his side without success.

“No point struggling,” she said. “You’ll just make it worse.”

He howled as she stepped away from him. “Undo me! I said undo me! I’ll make you pay if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I very much doubt that.”

She pulled out her cellphone to call 911 as she started running back through the snow to find the victim, his screams and curses following her through the darkness.