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 didn’t see him at all after the party?”
“No.”
“What time did you come home?”
“It was close to four a.m. Tom’s car was in the driveway. His bed was slept in when I checked this morning.”
Kala raised her head but looked down again. The implication was obvious and Rouleau didn’t pursue the Underwoods’ sleeping arrangements, not yet anyhow. “Did anybody see him before he left the house this morning?”
Laurel nodded. Her voice softened. “Charlotte, our daughter.” She motioned to the child hunched over the colouring book. “Tom kissed her goodbye on his way out. She has no idea of the time but said it was still dark in her room.”
“Did he say anything to her?”
“No. Charlotte doesn’t know yet that he’s missing. I’d rather you didn’t ask her any questions now. They’re very close and it would upset her. She’s waiting for him to come home to decorate the tree.”
“No need,” said Rouleau. “What was your husband’s frame of mind? Was business going well? Were things good between you?”
“You’re asking me if he was depressed, aren’t you, like you think he would do something to himself. Tom would never …” Her voice rose.
“Mommy?” Charlotte lifted her head like a rabbit sensing danger. She held the crayon in her fist, her eyes wide and frightened.
Laurel looked across at her daughter. Her features relaxed. “Nothing, darling. Nothing to worry about. Finish your picture for me. It looks so lovely already.”
“It’s for you and Daddy,” said Charlotte, her face puckered in seriousness, picking up an emerald green crayon and turning back to her task.
Laurel studied her daughter for a moment more. When she spoke again, her voice had returned to its normal huskiness. “I phoned his partner, J.P. Belliveau, and he said Tom didn’t come into the office this morning or phone that he wouldn’t be in. Tom missed two meetings. He would never do that without a reason. One of the meetings was important.”
“Is there anyone
