today there isn't,” I said.
P. J. blew smoke out the side of his mouth and away from my face. The wind blew it back. Lucky for him he was cute. “Don't worry. That creep will get what's coming to him today. It doesn't matter how many cops he has in his pocket.”
“Here's hoping.”
“Make sure you practice your skating, Camilla. These two little guys are a handful.” He turned and headed back into the Second Cup.
That was a relief. P.J. was a helpful colleague, and I knew he believed someone on the local police force had done a lot of favours for Benning in the past. But any quotes from me would have led to grief if they had gotten into print. My family kept reminding me to watch what I said to the media. I tried.
In the few minutes it took to hike the block and a half towards the offices of Justice for Victims, I could feel the welcome heat seep out of my latte. With fresh snow on the sidewalk, it was lousy weather for staying on your feet. Everyone was late. People were mad as hell. Drivers peered through golf-ball-sized peepholes in frosted windshields. Just a matter of time until one of them swerved off the street. Perhaps it only looked liked they were aiming for pedestrians.
I was nearing the office when I heard the first sirens shriek. Three police cruisers, roof-lights flashing, edged past the stalled lines of traffic and shot north on Elgin St. I figured it must have been a robbery. Normally, I'd picture a terrorized teller in a big bank on Sparks Street, gaping at the gun pointed at her face. Of course, normally, I wasn't fighting hypothermia and losing.
I caught a glimpse of P. J. rocketing out of the Second Cup, his coat flapping open as he raced along the sidewalk. He might have been up all night, but where there are sirens, there are stories. Life had been a bit harder for police reporters since the Ottawa police acquired their digital system which you couldn't pick up on an ordinary newsroom scanner. So P. J. Lynch didn't pass up stories, even if he'd just worked all night.
I'd almost reached the door of the office when my cellphone rang. I balanced on frozen toes and tried to avoid getting knocked into the street by a slip-sliding man with a briefcase. To hell with it. I let it ring. It would be one of my three sisters and the subject would be Alexa's wedding and why I wasn't more cooperative about it. They all had cellphones and there was no getting away from them.
So hardly worth getting killed over. Another minute and the latte would be as cold as my toes and I wasn't even sure they were still attached to my feet. By the time I hit the front door, two more cruisers had flashed past. Must be one hell of a bank job, I thought as I heaved myself up the stairs to the second floor. I figured the latte was solid.
The sirens screamed on.
I opened my office door, holding the coffee between my chest and my chin. The bag with my chocolate almond biscotti was clutched in my teeth.
“Gotta go, Ma. Camilla's getting in. Don't worry about anything.” Alvin, my office assistant, hung up the phone.
“I hope I don't find another batch of collect calls from Sydney on the next phone bill,” I said.
“Hey, Camilla. Just fourteen days left before Valentine's Day, le jour de l'amour.”
“Do not speak.” I kicked the door closed. Valentine's Day is never my favourite occasion. This year my sister had chosen it for her wedding day. Another strike against it.
The bag with the biscotti slipped from my mouth and tumbled to the floor. Naturally, the cellphone rang again.
“Gee, I wonder who that is?” Alvin said. “We've already had a couple of calls from your sisters this morning.”
I let it ring. “Tell me something I wouldn't already know.”
Alvin tossed his ponytail. “This wedding is making you grouchier than usual, although that is hard to imagine. Try to chill out.”
“I'm chilled, Alvin.”
I plunked the latte on his desk and started to remove layers. Trusty parka. Wool hat. Thinsulate gloves. Snazzy leather boots. They were just three months old. Too bad they held in the damp and let out the heat. I had to replace them, but it was too cold to shop. I hate when my teeth chatter.
“People carry on about the weather up here, but I think it's all in the mind,” Alvin smirked.
“Oh, come on, don't you miss those mild Atlantic winters, Alvin? Soft fog, gentle breezes, mild temperatures?”
“Wet feet,” Alvin said, “grey days. Nope. Give me real weather any time. I love this stuff.”
Too bad. I always had high hopes I'd stumble on a way to send Alvin back to his loving family in Nova Scotia.
As usual, it was marginally warmer inside the offices of Justice for Victims than outside. I kept on the fleece, the silk long underwear and the red thermal socks—good to thirty below. I figured it wouldn't take more than twenty minutes until my toes rejoined the party.
You get what you pay for in office space. In our case, not much. Justice for Victims is in a lousy financial position at best. It would be a hell of a lot worse if I took a realistic salary. Or if Alvin did.
Was it my imagination or could I see my breath? I put the hat back on.
“Guess you're not expecting anyone to drop in,” Alvin said.
I still didn't bite.
“Wind chill factor must be some new record. I can tell because all those little hairs on your upper lip are covered with frost.”
My hand shot up to my face.
“What hairs on my upper lip?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
Alvin so often wins in the game of gotcha. As if it weren't bad enough being the stubby, dark-haired younger sister to a trio of elegant, willowy blondes, now I had a moustache. This could send my family into crisis. They'd have me waxed and plucked and probed by a dermatologist if they even suspected a hairy upper lip.
Alvin leaned back and flicked his ponytail over his shoulder. Behind the cat's eye glasses, his eyes glittered. He didn't react to the cold other than conversationally. The shirt with the parrot motif was a nice touch. So was the Jimmy Buffett CD. “Margaritaville” blasted out of Alvin's portable player.
But what was different about him? Ah. I spotted the squeeze tube of flash tan on the desk. That explained the coconut scent in the air. It also explained why Alvin's face was an odd shade of rust, as was one of his arms.
“Are you turning orange, Alvin? Perhaps you should seek medical attention before it's too late.”
“I'm using the power of positive thinking. You should try it. Decide it's not cold. Let your mind dictate to your body.”
“Assuming you have a mind,” I muttered. “The jury's still out.”
But Alvin wasn't finished. “If your mind dictates to your body, then you don't have to be a prisoner of winter and wear ugly clothes and have frost on your lip which makes you look like W. O. Mitchell.
