Shallow End. Brenda Chapman
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lobby to make sure none of his colleagues was lurking before he joined Marci Stokes. She’d chosen a high table near the window overlooking the harbour. Her back was to the room and he saw that she already had a drink in front of her with slices of lemon and lime bobbing in the clear liquid. He’d lay money that it was her usual gin and tonic. He strode to the bar and ordered a beer before he hoisted himself into the seat across from her. She was typing on her iPad and didn’t look up.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’ll sit here nice and quiet while you finish whatever important document you’re working on. Your time is much more valuable than mine.” He took a long drink of beer. Man, she was ragged around the edges, older than last time he’d seen her in the summer. Getting less attractive the older she got. He could see grey in the roots of her hair, which looked like it needed a brushing. Her black trench coat was open, showing a wrinkled blue blouse. She could have been a good-looking woman if she’d put a bit of effort into her grooming.
She glanced up. “Thanks. Just sending off an email to my editor.” She finished typing and tucked her iPad into the open handbag at her feet. She took a drink from her glass and stared at him. “It’s been a while.”
“I figured you’d be back when we got an interesting case. How’ve you been?”
She shrugged. “Not much to tell. I spent the past few months in New York but like the air better here. So did the teacher whom Devon Eton put in prison kill him?”
“That’s my guess. Rouleau has us checking out every other possibility, but I’d bet money she’s back inside by the end of next week.”
“What’ve you got on her?”
“Kid’s parents say she did it. Plus, what are the odds he gets murdered the month after she gets out?”
“Maybe someone took the opportunity so she’d get blamed.”
“Yeah, maybe, but not very likely.”
“Could you let me know when you’re about to make the arrest?”
She made the question sound offhand, but Woodhouse heard something in her voice that sounded like desperation. He had to wonder why. Instead of answering her, he said, “As I recall, you weren’t all that happy with the information I gave you last time. In fact, you were less than appreciative. Why should I help you now?”
“Because you owe me. The information that you gave me, and that my boss published without my permission, made Kala Stonechild lose custody of her niece. I’m sure Rouleau wouldn’t be too pleased to know the hand you played in all of that.”
“If he even believed you. You wrote the story after all. Plus, aren’t you bound by the reporter oath to never give up a source?”
“I am. I also regret writing that story every day. I’m not sure which is the stronger pull on my loyalty.” She raised her empty glass until she caught the eye of a passing waitress. She motioned for another and then looked over at him. “Do we have a deal?”
“So you keep quiet about who gave you the information that Stonechild was a homeless drunk, and I feed you information about this case? Why did you really come crawling back here?”
She grimaced. “I wouldn’t exactly call it crawling.” She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “All right, Woodhouse, here it is. I quit my job at the Whig and went back to work for my ex on the New York Times only to discover I hated working for the self-serving prick. The Whig wasn’t pleased as you can imagine, but they let me come back to work on probation. I have to bring them something big or they’re going to hire the person they had lined up as my replacement. My ex at the Times is doing his best to spread the word through all the media outlets that I’m washed up, vindictive asshole that he is. I want to prove him wrong.”
“I thought you were tight with Rouleau.”
“Not since the Stonechild story broke with my name on it.”
Woodhouse smiled. He wasn’t sure yet how he’d use her misery to his advantage, but he knew that he would in time. For now, he’d play along. “Well, maybe I owe you. Sure, I can help you out.”
The waitress set her drink down. “Would you like another, sir?” She picked up his empty beer glass and set it on her tray.
“No, I’m heading out. Just put my drink on the lady’s tab. She’s in a buying mood tonight.” The waitress left and he stood. “I’ll be seeing you around then, Stokes. Good to have you back in town.” He rapped his knuckles twice on the table top.
She stared at him with a look on her face like she’d swallowed something distasteful. She reached down and pulled her iPad from her bag. “You have my number. Use it when you have something useful to tell me.”
He gave a mock salute and headed out of the bar toward the front entrance. Still nobody he recognized in the lobby, which didn’t surprise him. This hotel wasn’t one of the police force haunts. He felt no guilt about stringing Marci Stokes along or giving her information from time to time. His retired partner, Ed Chalmers, had always said that milking sources was part of the job. He’d called it a chess game where you always had to stay a few moves ahead of your opponent to win. “No matter what it takes, Woodhouse, you have to come out on top. Otherwise, the bad guys win.”
Woodhouse waited for a geriatric couple pulling their luggage to clear the door before he stepped outside and went in search of his car. Time to head home and cook the steak waiting for him in the fridge. It would go nicely with a few pints of beer and the sports channel.
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday, October 6
Jane Thompson sat on the vinyl-covered kitchen chair sipping an instant coffee and smoking a cigarette, watching the sky lighten above the trees and buildings across the street. Even though Thursday was her day off, she still rose at five and went for a morning jog while the world was in darkness. The cigarette was her reward. She was working on quitting and had gotten herself down to two a day. She’d have the second after supper. Soon, she’d have to cut them out altogether, but not just yet. She’d started smoking in her early twenties and quit when she found out she was pregnant with Ben. She started up again in prison because her life had felt so hopeless. The idea of getting lung cancer had seemed like a fitting end. In the depths of her despair, she’d forgotten how much her kids needed her.
She reached inside her pocket and pulled out the letter from Ben that she kept with her as a reminder that she had to hold on. He’d sent it the month before she got out, without Adam’s knowledge, she knew. The words were ingrained into her memory but she still liked to see his handwriting and imagine him forming every word carefully so that she’d be able to read his writing. He was infamous for his poor penmanship.
Olivia and I can’t wait to see you. We know you worry that we don’t love you anymore, but we do. Dad is still angry but we know that you did what you did for a reason. We want to live with you when you get out. I know it’ll take a while to happen, but that’s what we both want. This is so messed up. Come home Mom.
Ben and Olivia. Her reasons for everything she’d done and was about to do.
Adam had cancelled two visits but had agreed she could see them today after school. She’d thought about going behind his back but her parole officer had warned her that this wasn’t a good idea if she wanted to keep regular visits a possibility. Adam was angry and letting her know that he held all the power. If she crossed him, she knew that he’d keep the kids from her. She’d been right to be patient and outwait him. Only a few more hours.
She took a long drag of the cigarette and held the smoke in her lungs. The burning felt good before she let the smoke out in a long, slow stream through her nose. She stubbed the end out in the ashtray and got up to make a second cup of coffee. The phone rang in the bedroom as she was filling the kettle from the tap. For a split second, she considered not answering, and then thought better of it. Her parole officer said to always be available, and for now, she had to play by the rules. She leaped across