Cold Mourning. Brenda Chapman

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СКАЧАТЬ just left to get his head straight. He might have come to see his son because he was planning to leave and wanted to make amends for whatever went on in the past.”

      Kala thought it over. “Maybe.”

      “You don’t sound convinced.”

      “He asked if he could come visit again. That doesn’t sound like a man getting ready to leave town.”

      “You could be right.” Whelan backed the car into an opening where he could turn around. “It’s late to go to Underwood’s office now. We wasted a lot of time looking for this guy. We have to fill in our reports on the two interviews and still have a half hour drive to get back to Ottawa.”

      “We could do the reports tomorrow.”

      Whelan shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. Reports have to be filed the same day. Vermette’s rules. We’ll be at the office half the night if we make another stop. I’m going to head back to the station and we’ll get the paperwork done. We can visit Underwood’s workplace tomorrow. We also have the party tonight and Meghan has that hair appointment.”

      “Okay,” said Kala. She didn’t see the rush to fill in paperwork, but no crime had been committed yet, so they weren’t exactly racing against time.

      7

      Thursday, December 22, 5:10 p.m.

      Rouleau set down his pen and stretched. It had been a day spent in meetings and filling in paperwork. He was ready to go home and watch the Senators hockey game on TV. The Maple Leafs were in town and there was always good rivalry. Then he remembered the Christmas party. It would be impossible to skip it even if he was so inclined. Could Christmas Eve really be just two days away? The years sure spun around the calendar with increasing speed. Christmas morning, he’d travel to Kingston to visit his father and take him to lunch as he did every year. He still hadn’t picked out his father’s gift and the clock was ticking. It would have been a good night to poke around the eclectic shops in the Glebe, if not for the staff party.

      He picked up his pen as Whelan poked his head around the corner while tapping on the door. Whelan was wearing his winter jacket unbuttoned. “We’re about done typing our notes and set to leave unless there’s anything else.”

      “You bringing Stonechild to the party?”

      “I’m going to be a bit late so she said she’d make it on her own.”

      “See you when you get there.”

      Rouleau shut off his computer. He’d go home and have a shower before the evening’s festivities. He rubbed a hand across his chin. A shave was in order too.

      It took him a few minutes to lock up his files and put on his coat. By the time he entered the main office, Stonechild and Whelan were gone. Malik and Grayson had knocked off earlier. He stood motionless in the center of the room and looked at the six desks — only four were occupied. It was all the manpower Vermette would agree to on this special project.

      They were to have been an elite squad that prevented crime before it happened and took over some of the tougher-to-solve cases, giving Major Crimes some much needed support. An upsurge of gang activity and organized crime had all but overwhelmed the Ottawa force. Vermette had scuttled the trial balloon before it got started by insisting on a mountain of paperwork for every hour spent outside the office, and he continually tightened their budget. The team was now doubly weighted down in useless bureaucracy and a lack of resources. Vermette hovered like a buzzard on death watch. Rouleau understood the animosity. He’d turned down Inspector before the job was offered to Vermette. His decision had been made easy by the thought of endless meetings and political games, but considering it had made him feel like he was stagnating in Major Crimes. When the offer came a few months later to lead an elite trouble-shooting team, the challenge had appealed to him. It should have been a satisfying way to end his career. Unfortunately, Vermette found out he’d been second choice for Inspector, which unleashed a vindictive streak longer than the St. Lawrence River. He controlled the work that flowed Rouleau’s way, keeping the team on the outside looking in. Rouleau had selected Stonechild, not because of her experience, but because nobody on the Ottawa force wanted to be part of a unit that was rumoured to be folding by the end of the fiscal.

      Rouleau sighed and headed for the door, flicking off the lights as he walked by.

      The chill hit Rouleau as soon as he stepped inside the house. He kept his coat on and clumped down the basement stairs to look at the oil furnace that was original to the house. It was completely shut down.

      Rouleau returned to the kitchen and called the heating company. The guy who answered promised someone would come by the next morning and have a look. He assured Rouleau that he was lucky to get an appointment so close to Christmas. Rouleau really wanted to believe him.

      He hung up the phone and stood looking around the kitchen, at all the work left to be done. There should have been new gleaming white cupboards and stainless steel appliances, a hardwood floor, track lighting, porcelain backsplash. He and Frances had gotten as far as hiring a designer. They’d laid out what they wanted … well, what Frances had wanted, and he’d been happy to see her face light up as she described her latest idea. But there’d come a day she’d stopped talking about the colour of the walls and the shape of the light fixtures. The plans she’d pored over with such hope were yellowing in a folder in his bedroom.

      Frances. He closed his eyes. What the hell was the point of it all?

      He took a beer glass from the cupboard and poured himself a cold one from the fridge. He’d begun drinking Scotch in the evenings after Frances left. Six months of fitful sleep and hangovers. Six months of mourning. Now, he was down to a couple of beers and often, not even that.

      He climbed the stairs to the second floor, sipping from the glass as he went. A half hour of rest and then a shower and off to the west end. Maybe it was a good night not to be alone with his thoughts after all.

      Kala drove her truck north on Elgin toward Parliament Hill, happy for a few hours to herself. It was her first opportunity to check out the address she’d tracked down three months before. It was nearly four thirty and dusk was already settling in. Stores and restaurants were decked out in twinkling Christmas lights and glitter while snow piled on the sidewalks gave the street a village feel. Pedestrian traffic was light.

      She cruised past the war monument and the Chateau Laurier and followed the swoop of road left onto Sussex into the part of town called the ByWard Market. Spindly trees lined the roadway, weighted down by glowing Christmas lights in blue, red, and green. She passed the Bay department store and a giant Chapters bookstore before turning right into a rabbit’s warren of stores and restaurants that twined down the narrow side streets. People were walking purposefully down the snowy sidewalks and streaming across intersections on their way home from work or to meet friends in one of the many bars or restaurants. At a red light, she watched a man and woman meet and embrace in the middle of the crosswalk, his arms wrapping around her and her face turned up to his. They continued on their way, arms slung around each other, his face nuzzled into the collar of her coat.

      She searched for street names printed on the city map as she drove slowly through the commercial district to low rent apartment buildings on the outskirts. The building she was seeking turned out to be dirty yellow brick with rusted balconies and cheap curtains or sheets hanging in the windows. She cruised the block looking for a parking spot. Two streets over, she lucked into a space in front of a beer store. She locked the truck and trudged down the side of the snowy street back the way she came.

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