Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Brenda Chapman
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Rouleau lifted his eyes and shook his head at Grayson’s retreating back. Don’t cause me any grief, he thought. The team can’t take any more pressure.
He reopened the Amin file to sift through it again with Grayson and his prejudices filed away but not forgotten. He picked up the photo of the murdered cabbie. There had to be some detail he’d missed that would lead them to new line of enquiry. Nobody should get away with what they did to this man.
At six thirty Rouleau put on his overcoat and boots to grab some supper at the Oak before Frances arrived. Maybe the lamb stew and hunks of crusty bread. It had been their favourite pub when they were together, even though it changed hands now and then. It was conveniently located halfway between his office and their first home off Main Street in Ottawa South. Could there be any significance in her choosing it as their meeting place? He told himself not to read anything into the flicker of hope that started in his chest. It could be a dangerous thing if allowed to take hold. He hadn’t seen her since November a year ago. She’d started a new life and hadn’t wanted him to be a part of it.
Once he thought he’d seen her in the ByWard Market picking out a pumpkin for Halloween, but when the woman straightened up, it wasn’t Frances at all. The woman who turned to face him was thirty years younger. Then he noticed the children trailing behind her as they searched for the perfect pumpkin. He watched them for a while, trying to capture the feeling he’d had when he thought the woman was Frances.
He glanced through the door into the main office. Stonechild was clicking with one hand on her keyboard and talking into her phone. There was something unnerving about her. Something about her watchful black eyes — eyes that looked tired when she glanced his way. Whelan had long since gone home. She lowered the receiver as the desk sergeant Cleese approached, waving a piece of paper. She covered the mouthpiece with one hand pointed toward Rouleau’s office with the other. Cleese spun around and changed direction.
“The Chief wants you to look into this ASAP,” he said, handing Rouleau the paper. “A businessman named Tom Underwood hasn’t been seen since last night. He didn’t show up at work today and his wife hasn’t heard from him. She’s the one called it in. Sounded worried. Says he’s never done anything like this before. Always keeps in touch and would never miss work.”
“This should go to Missing Persons. She can fill out the form, but it’s a bit early to start anything else.”
“Chief says this one is ours. We’re to give her the star treatment, he said. He specifically asked that you handle it. After we give her the priority treatment, he wants you to hand it over to Missing Persons and they can take it from there.”
“Great, and everyone’s gone for the day. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a run out to see her, politics being what they are.” He called across the room to Kala, who was still talking into the phone. “We’ve got one more call. Are you free to come with me?”
Stonechild nodded.
“We’ll take my car,” he said.
3
Wednesday, December 21, 6:40 p.m.
“So how did the interview go with the woman who was attacked earlier today?” Rouleau asked as they pulled out of the parking garage.
Kala leaned her head back against the headrest and turned slightly so she was facing him. She’d wrapped her arms around herself since the heater hadn’t yet warmed the interior.
“Glenda Martin was shaken up but getting angry by the time she told us what happened. She’s an assistant deputy minister in the federal government and not used to being pushed around.”
“I thought all government workers got accustomed to being on the receiving end.” Rouleau took his eyes off the road long enough to smile at her.
The corners of Kala’s mouth lifted briefly. “Seems Glenda’s high enough up in the food chain to be the one doing the pushing. Anyhow, she was quick enough to get a glimpse of the guy after he threw her head first toward the wall. She elbowed him in the stomach after he grabbed her breast through her coat. He had his other arm wrapped around her neck and was tightening his hold. She heard him say ‘bitch’ just before he heaved her forward. She got her hands out in front of her and managed not to hit her head. Her hands and neck were bruised but she didn’t want to go to the hospital. Her injuries were worse than she let on.”
“I don’t like the sound of him getting her in a strangle hold. He’s escalating.”
“She said the perp had on black army-type boots, black pants, and a black ski jacket. He was husky but not too tall. The angle she saw him from lying on the floor wasn’t the best for getting all the details.”
“Anything else?”
“She thought she saw white hair under a black toque but didn’t see his face because he’d turned to run by the time she got herself twisted back around. Luckily the front door sticks and that gave her a chance to see him.”
“It’s not much, but beats what we had so far. He likes wearing black, might be a strong, old guy, and has a limited but colourful vocabulary.”
“I’d say we’ve almost got him then.” It was Kala’s turn to smile in his direction.
“Gabriel Marleau might be useful in getting a read on what type of person we’re dealing with. Marleau is our staff psychologist and does profiling.”
Kala took a notepad out of her pocket and made a note. “Anything else?”
Rouleau glanced at her. “Just that I won’t expect you in until noon tomorrow. When this interview is over, you can take off and get some sleep. You’ve done more than enough for a first day on the job after a long drive to get here. Go get settled in.”
“I’m okay,” she mumbled before turning to look out the side window.
She angled her body away from him, and Rouleau felt the distance she’d put between them, even in such a confined space. He turned on the windshield wipers to clear away the softly falling snow. He didn’t attempt to talk to her the rest of the way to Tom Underwood’s mansion south of town in the ritzy Winding Way subdivision on the Rideau River.
Rouleau wasn’t a man who put much stock in looks, but Laurel Underwood was the kind of woman to make a man want to leave home, to paraphrase a Bonnie Raitt song. If a person could be taught to slink seductively across a room, Laurel would be the one giving lessons. She’d led him and Stonechild into the kitchen and set about pouring tea in white porcelain cups rimmed in gold. An equally arresting red-haired girl about six years old kneeled on the carpet in the family room two steps down from the kitchen. She was in front of the wide-screen television, colouring in a book that rested on the coffee table. She’d glanced at them when they first entered, but immediately lowered her head to complete her work with a blue crayon. A naked evergreen tree stood in the corner, boxes of tinsel and decorations stacked in boxes on the floor.
Milk and sugar delivered, Laurel sat and leaned her elbows onto the counter between them. Her glossy red hair, several shades darker than her daughter’s, trailed past her shoulders and down her back. Pink gloss emphasized her lips and black eyeliner defined her violet eyes. Their heather colour was a freak of nature not unlike Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes. Rouleau searched her irises to see if she was wearing tinted contact lenses, but the eye colour looked real enough. Her gauzy white top clung to her, the top buttons undone to show off her cleavage.
“Tom never stays away without telling me. Never.” Laurel gazed at Rouleau as if defying him to contradict her. Unbelievably, her eyes had darkened to a richer shade of violet.
“When did you last see or hear from him?” Rouleau asked. He motioned for Stonechild to begin taking notes.
“We were at a Christmas party last night at the Chateau. It was his company party and I know this might sound odd, but he left early and I stayed. Tom hates parties so he left me to keep the public face. It wasn’t unusual.”
“You