Читать книгу Bleeding Darkness - Brenda Chapman - Страница 14

“What kind of sandwich would you like today?” Vera asked as she slipped one arm into her coat. She stood in the doorway to Rouleau’s office and he looked up from his laptop.

“No sandwich today, thanks. I’m going out for a break.”

Vera looked skeptical. “You’ve never taken a lunchtime break before.”

“I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“Well, that’s good. You’ve been working much too hard.”

He put on his coat after she’d left and picked up a copy of the Globe and Mail on his way to his car. He’d find a quiet place to have lunch downtown and then walk along the waterfront. With a craving for haddock and chips, he found a parking spot near the Pilot House and entered to discover the tables full with only standing room left near the bar. He squeezed in beside two men discussing hockey in animated voices and ordered a pint of local beer, surveying the room as he drank. His gaze halted on reporter Marci Stokes, who raised her head from her laptop to return his stare from a corner table. Her face broke into a smile and she waved him over.

“Please join me for lunch,” she said.

“I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

“No problem.” She closed her laptop and took a sip from her glass, which he knew to be her usual gin and tonic. “I could use the company and you’ll force me to actually take a break for once. I have a few hours to deadline and I’m on the edits now.”

“Then how can I refuse?”

He sat and Marci motioned for the waitress to come over. They both ordered the fish and chips. Marci waited for the waitress to leave before she leaned across the table.

“That was a short press briefing this morning. I was expecting you’d take some questions, such as why was the missing woman’s husband not there to ask for his wife’s safe return?”

“I thought this wasn’t going to be a working lunch?” He smiled but was already regretting his decision to sit with her.

She laughed. “I know. I’m incorrigible, aren’t I?” She sat back in the chair. She ran a hand absentmindedly through her hair, which had loosened from a clip at the back of her neck. The green sweater she was wearing had stretched and lost its shape over time but he would bet that she couldn’t care less. “Okay, change of subject,” she said. “What do you do for fun?”

“For fun?”

“On those long winter evenings when you’re not at work? Do you have a secret life?”

“No, but now I’m wondering if you do.” He thought of what to tell her and realized his world sounded boring no matter how he spun it. Simple honesty would have to do. “I spend most long winter evenings with my father, cooking supper and discussing the news over a glass of Scotch.”

“That sounds lovely. I met your dad once and found him utterly charming.”

“He is that. He’s started working on a puzzle of a medieval city and recruits me to help slot pieces into place. Five thousand pieces of mainly grey and black is proving to be a challenge. He says it will help to keep Alzheimer’s at bay. I’m starting to believe he’s secretly offering this preventative measure for me rather than himself.”

“Once a parent.”

“Always a parent.”

She toasted him with her glass. “No kids, Jacques?”

“No.”

She tilted her head and rested her chin on the back of her hand as she studied him. “You would have made a good father. I was sorry to hear about the death of your ex-wife.”

He nodded. Even now, he couldn’t bear to talk about Frances. He asked instead, “And you? Any kids?”

“I raised my two younger sisters if that counts. My father died soon after Cicely was born and my mother became a hopeless drunk. She hid it enough to hold down a job but we never knew when or if she’d make it home. My dad was the love of her life and we were a poor substitute.”

“I’m sorry.” He could see more pain in her face than she was likely aware. He could imagine how these early experiences had shaped her into the reporter she’d become: dogged, closed off, and tough.

“No need. I’ve long since reconciled. Cicely and Wendy are both in long-term relationships and doing fine. I’m in good shape too.” Her mouth raised in a self-mocking half smile.

They stopped talking when the food arrived. Marci ordered a second drink and Rouleau declined.

“So, will you be staying in Kingston much longer?” he asked after they’d both eaten a few bites.

“Good question. I’ve had another offer in New York, back at my old paper. I’m not sure returning would be a smart move. Plus, the Whig offered me the assistant editor job, which I turned down for now after some reflection. They’ve left the door open.”

“Why did you turn it down?”

“Honestly? I like being a reporter and came to realize that I might be giving too much up after I took the editing gig for a few months. Be careful what you wish for, huh?”

“Is your ex still an editor at the New York Times?”

“He is. He’s also the one asking me to go back with a raise and the job I’ve been after since I started. Top dog on the foreign desk.”

“Sounds like he wants to get back with you.”

“One would assume.” She picked up her drink and sighed. “I’m not sure I can do it anymore.” She took a long swallow and set the glass back down. “What would you do in my position?” Her eyes searched his face.

“I’m probably not the best one to ask.”

“That’s okay. I’m staying put anyhow. Kingston has grown on me.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

“I’m surprised you would say that, considering how I’m often a thorn in the Kingston Police’s backside.”

“The role of keeping police and politicians honest can’t be underestimated.” He would have added that he respected her quick intelligence and enjoyed their conversations but his phone rang before he had the chance. He glanced at the number. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

“Take your time.”

He felt her eyes on him as he turned sideways and listened even though she continued eating. The call ended without him giving anything away. He knew he could leave without telling her about the tragic turn of events, but this seemed short-sighted given that she’d know soon enough and likely take back the neutral ground they’d forged over lunch. He raised a hand toward the waitress and signalled for the bill. “A woman’s body has been found on the Rideau Trail and I’m heading there now if you want to follow. I expect the Whig will have a reporter there soon in any case.”

Marci was already hitting speed dial on her cell. “Is it the missing woman?” she asked as she held the phone up to her ear.

“Too early to confirm.”

She spoke in clipped sentences, holding the phone tucked between her ear and chin while standing to shrug into her coat at the same time. Rouleau was at the cash paying for their meals when she pulled her bill from his hand. “Thanks, but I’ll pay for my own. Best not to owe. I’m to follow you out to the scene and a cameraman will meet me there.” Her face was flushed and she looked almost radiant in her rush to get the story that would rock the city in a matter of hours, sooner if it was leaked on social media.

“I hope you have boots in your car,” he said, looking down at her running shoes. Her fall trench coat wouldn’t do either on this frigid afternoon.

“I can’t get used to your northern weather, but I have clothing reinforcements in my back seat for these last-minute occasions.” She patted his arm as he stepped aside so that she could use the machine to pay. “Thanks for this, Rouleau. Believe me, I won’t soon forget.”

The day reminded Lauren of that time fourteen long years ago when they’d been waiting for news of Zoe. The same frantic feeling in her stomach. The same sickening sense of foreboding that hovered in the house like a dark sorrow, waiting to swoop down and fill every crack and crevice. She’d been relieved when mid-morning Evelyn had announced that she was going to the hospital. Ever eager to please, Saint Mona had gone along to keep her company on death watch. She was the daughter Evelyn no doubt wished she’d had.

Lauren stared across the room at Adam, once again typing on his laptop. He looked exhausted, dark stubble on his cheeks, posture slouched back on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and knees bent, resting the computer on his legs. Tristan was on the phone to his publicist in the kitchen, explaining why he was going to miss an author event they’d booked for him at the end of the week in Calgary. His voice was wheedling, then fake jolly, asking the publicist to line him up anything she could later in the month. For the first time, Lauren wondered how badly her brother needed the money from these speaking engagements. His only truly successful book had been five years ago and she knew that sales had dropped significantly the year before. A reprint had been put on hold.

With the police now looking for Vivian, they’d stopped making their desperate drives down city streets with stops at every bar, restaurant, and store. Each time, Adam would circle the block while she and Tristan entered the businesses and approached the staff. Tristan would talk to the owner or clerk while she checked washrooms and change rooms on the remote chance that Vivian was passed out somewhere. Absurd, but she’d played along to keep Tristan from falling apart. Mona had come for the first run but begged off on the second. Lauren would have liked to do the same.

She heard Tristan end his call and a moment later, he plopped down on the couch next to Adam.

“How’d that go?” Adam asked, fingers resting on the keyboard.

“I might have lost the best interview of the year but I’ll get over it.” He looked across the room at Lauren. “This is killing me.”

She knew he wasn’t talking about his writing career. “I know it’s hard, but we’ll get through it.” Like last time. “I’m taking Clemmie for a walk around the neighbourhood. Would you like to come?”

“Yeah, why not.”

“I’m going to stay and man the fort,” said Adam. “Trist, I’ll call your cell if there’s any news.”

They bundled into parkas and winter boots and set out with Clemmie tugging on his lead. Lauren liked the bracing cold and felt the sluggishness from one too many Scotches the night before begin to lift. At least it wasn’t snowing but only because it was too damn cold to snow. She took a flask from her jacket pocket and handed it to Tristan. “Have a drink. It’ll take the chill off.”

“Thanks.” He took a long pull and handed the flask back to her. She did the same and closed her eyes as the golden bite hit the back of her mouth and the burn travelled down her throat. Tristan pulled a joint out of his pocket and shielded it from the wind with his gloved hand as the flame from his lighter bobbed in the wind. He took a drag before offering it to her but she waved him off. “One addiction at a time.”

They started walking east on Philips Street without conscious thought. Philips crossed Portsmouth and they kept going until they reached the intersection at Hillendale. It would be natural to veer left toward the Delgados’ as they had so many times before Zoe died. Lauren glanced at Tristan but he didn’t appear to notice how far they’d walked. She took another swig from the flask.

“Were you and Vivian getting along?”

“Yeah, more or less. We’d had a bit of trouble last year when I thought she was going to leave me but she’s happy about the baby. We both are.”

“She’s not an easy woman to live with.”

“No. She can be a right bitch sometimes, but I can’t imagine my life without her. She keeps me going and pulls me out of my depressions. I know she can seem self-centred, but she has a great sense of humour and honestly doesn’t take herself as ser­iously as it appears. I will admit though that she has this pathological need to be front and centre.” He turned his face toward her and grinned. “I half think she’s disappeared for attention. We’ve all been preoccupied with Dad and she isn’t a woman who can stand being out of the spotlight for long.”

“I hope that’s what’s going on.” Lauren bit her bottom lip while she pondered how to broach the subject of Zoe. Had enough time gone by for him to open up about what had happened to her? Did she even want to know?”

Lauren turned south, away from the Delgado house, and for the first time Tristan appeared to realize where they were. He looked back toward the Delgado side of the street. Lauren looked too, disappointed not to see any sign of Matt, not that she’d expected to. He and his dad would be at work.

“The Delgados still hate me.” Tristan hunched into his jacket and sucked on the spliff.

“Maybe not. They have no reason to … right?” This was as close as she could come to asking him if he’d killed Zoe. She’d never asked, not when Zoe’s body had been found, nor in the fourteen years since.

He stopped walking and squinted down at her, exhaling the weed in a slow stream of smoke. “Et tu, Brute?” he said softly.

Lauren stared back until she couldn’t take it any longer. She raised her middle finger and started walking. “Fuck off, Tristan. You know I’m on your side.”

He kept a few steps behind her. “Forget it, Laur. I know we’re tight. It’s just … what if something bad happened to Viv? How am I going to explain it?”

“Are you asking me to cover for you?”

“We could cover for each other. Say we were together that afternoon.”

Lauren knew he was just scared of reliving the Zoe witch hunt when he was in the police’s sights. She was too. She tried to make her voice sound confident. “You’re jumping the gun. Vivian is prob­ably sitting pretty somewhere, laughing at the lot of us and biding her time before she makes a grand entrance and asks what all the fuss is about.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“For sure maybe.”

They turned right on Elmwood, heading in the direction of home.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he said.

At Portsmouth, a police car sped by and they stopped walking to watch it turn left onto Phillips. Tristan threw away the second roach he’d pulled from his pocket and tucked away his lighter. Lauren had a flash of the future and knew that they’d look back at this moment as the crossroads between waiting and knowing.

“Christ, I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Tristan said.

“It could be good news.” Lauren put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him hard.

Afterwards, she’d remember the defeated look on his face and the certainty in his eyes that the police were bringing the worst possible news. She’d wonder later, when sleep eluded her, why she couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d known Vivian would turn up dead.