The same breathy way she’d always exhaled his name when they were together, a honeyed combination of warmth and exasperation. He smiled to hear her say it again. His heart beat faster. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.
“I thought it was time, that’s all. We promised each other we wouldn’t end up hating, remember?”
He closed his eyes. “I remember.”
“I wonder … do you think we could meet for coffee or a drink maybe?”
All the times he’d longed to hear her voice. For months she’d avoided contact, and now she was offering him … what? He had no way of knowing. “When?”
“Tonight, if you’ve time. I know it’s short notice.”
“I can make it tonight. Should I pick you up?”
“No. I’ll meet you at the Royal Oak on the Canal at eight thirty. Just for a drink though. I’ll have already eaten. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine.”
He hung up the phone and pictured his ex-wife the last time he’d seen her. She’d just come from the hairdresser’s and her naturally brown hair had been cut short and streaked with blond highlights that made her face pale and her eyes darker. She’d lost weight and walked with a new confidence, but he’d liked it better when she was a curvier size twelve. They’d just signed the divorce papers and she was in a hurry to cross the street and catch a bus to her apartment in Sandy Hill. She was wearing a new olive-green pantsuit with a gold scarf knotted around her neck and it had struck him sad at her need to remake herself. She’d tilted her chin up and out like she did when she’d made up her mind about something and wouldn’t hold his eyes as he said goodbye. He’d wanted to hug her but knew she wouldn’t welcome his touch. He’d made it the three blocks to his car before he’d crumpled into the front seat and wept.
Grayson poked his head around the doorway to Rouleau’s office. “Got a minute?”
Rouleau glanced at the photo of a murdered cab driver named Abul-Jabbar Amin on his desk. Whoever had attacked him that January night a year ago had pummelled his face into a bloody pulp, crushing his nose and bludgeoning the right side of his face with a weapon that was never recovered. Rouleau closed the folder. “Sure. Come in.”
He watched Grayson cross the room and flop down in the chair on the other side of his desk. Rouleau glanced at his watch and mentally kept track. Five minutes in, Grayson got down to it.
“About Stonechild. Are you sure she’s a fit for our team?”
“She’s young but comes highly recommended.”
“She doesn’t have experience in major crimes and isn’t familiar with Ottawa. I think she’ll have a hard time.”
“I’m willing to give her a chance.”
Grayson spread his hands upward. “I just wanted to let you know the team isn’t opposed to her working with us, but we have concerns about her experience.”
“Point taken. I know I can count on you to help her settle in.”
Grayson stood to leave. “Sandeep and I are heading to the Rideau Centre to track down the missing homeless woman Annie Littlewolf and then we’ll call it a day.”
“Nobody at the women’s shelter phone in yet?”
“I checked and they haven’t seen her. They’re worried because she and Claude were always together and now that he’s dead, they’re not sure what she’ll do to herself.”
Rouleau sighed. “Or maybe she saw whoever left him dead in the alley and she’s gone into hiding. Find out what you can and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You should call it a night too.”
“Soon.”
Grayson turned at the door. “I just want you to know it’s not because Stonechild’s …”
“Descended from the original inhabitants of this great land?” asked Rouleau with his head down.
“Yeah. That.”
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,”
