make our lives miserable?”
“She can join the line. Take one of the uniforms with you to Delaney’s. What time are they resuming the search for their daughter?”
“At first light, so in about an hour, I’d say.”
“Check in.”
Gundersund nodded at Marci Stokes before he headed over to the parked police cars lining the highway. She stopped just outside the crime scene in front of Rouleau and extended her hand. Her fingers were cool and damp from the rain. He noticed her grey eyes looking him over before she tilted her head to look past his shoulder toward the tent. Her view of the body was blocked for the most part. Again, he wondered what she was doing in Kingston.
“I’m Marci Stokes from the Whig-Standard,” she said. “Do you have an ID on the body?”
“No. Her next of kin would have to be notified first at any rate. But I’m sure you knew that.”
Marci’s mouth curved in the smallest of smiles as she pulled a notepad out of her pocket. “So, it’s a woman. How old?”
“Hard to judge.”
“Because she’s in such bad shape?”
“Not necessarily. How did you hear about this anyway? It’s the middle of the night.”
Marci smiled wider this time. Deep lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth before the smile disappeared. “Was she murdered or hit trying to cross the highway?”
“Too early to say.”
She lifted her eyes and studied his face. “How about this? I won’t print anything until you give the okay. I know these deaths can be … delicate.” She pushed back a strand of wet hair that had fallen into her eyes with the back of her hand. “It could be mutually beneficial if we work together on these cases. I’m good at cooperating with investigators as long as I get the story in the end.”
“You’re pretty much the only game in town yet you talk as if the competition is beating down my door to get the story. You must have figured out by now that Kingston news doesn’t normally make the national stage.”
“All small cities have their stories. It’s a matter of digging them out.”
“That sounds a lot like digging dirt. Has the Whig changed its focus from real news to the sensational?”
“On the contrary.” She pointed toward the tented area. “Is this incident related to the woman and her daughter who went missing yesterday? Adele and Violet Delaney?” She waited, grey eyes unblinking.
Rouleau managed a poker face while he ran the implications of what she’d said through his head. No doubt now that someone was feeding her information. Heath was not going to be happy. He’d have to be brought in to handle the leak. Rouleau kept his tone guarded. “Then you know that we haven’t anything to release yet about them at this point.”
“Listen, Detective Rouleau. We both know that the Kingston Police Force is remiss when it comes to sharing information with the public. I’m here to change that. I want to work with you, but it’s a two-way street.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my cellphone number. Call me day or night if you decide that you have something to share. I won’t wait forever though, before I go with what I have.”
Rouleau reached inside the white jumpsuit and tucked the card into his shirt pocket while he watched her stride back toward her photographer. He was leaning on the hood of their vehicle parked on the shoulder just past the police barrier. Stokes lifted an arm and pointed toward the tent. Her partner started snapping pictures in quick succession using a telephoto lens.
Fiona Gundersund appeared at Rouleau’s elbow. “We’re ready to transport the body back to my office. I’ll get the autopsy underway right after I have some breakfast. I see you’re getting to know our new crime reporter.”
“Not by choice. I’ll get Stonechild in to watch you work.” He checked his watch. “Should we aim for eight?”
“Works for me.” Fiona tilted her head toward Marci Stokes. “I hear she’s doing penance here in the backwoods until a political story she broke blows over. She offended some mighty powerful American politicians. She could be cooling her heels here a while.”
“Just what we need. Someone trying to find a story where there isn’t one.”
Fiona smiled. “We all have to make a living somehow, Jacques. Personally, I’d rather cut up dead bodies than write about the terrible acts performed by the living.”
The forensics team was still hard at work scouring the area around the highway when Rouleau got into his car. He turned the heater to high trying to shake the chill that had seeped into his bones. The rain had slowed to a drizzle but it promised to be a miserable morning — especially for the team searching for Violet Delaney’s tiny body in the river.
Some days he didn’t like his job much. This was turning out to be one of them.
Officer Halliwell jumped into the front seat next to Gundersund and slammed the door. Rain dripped from his coat and his face was slick with water under his police cap. He looked from the radio to Gundersund. “So, should I call it in?”
Gundersund ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth and over his teeth while he thought over what significance to attach to the fact that Delaney’s car was gone from his driveway at almost six a.m. The outside light and a lamp in the living room window were both shining brightly, but Delaney wasn’t answering the door. He let his eyes wander across the yard to the dark line of trees at the back of the property. The shapes looked like hovering giants in the morning shadows. The child, Violet, had been forced through the woods to the river and thrown into the fast-flowing water, and not by her mother … or that was how things looked now. Adele Delaney had been taken somewhere else and held for a time before being murdered. The scenario was incomprehensible. Horrific.
The sound of a vehicle slowing on the main road caught his attention and brought him back from his reverie. A set of headlights swung their beams up the driveway as a car turned in.
“Don’t call the station just yet.” Gundersund pulled up the zipper on his coat and pulled the hood up over his head. “Will this damn rain never end?” He swung the door open and squinted at the car through the sheet of rain as it pulled in next to them. Ivo Delaney was at the wheel. Gundersund turned back toward Halliwell. “Let’s find out where Delaney’s been before I tell him about his wife. Then we can decide whether or not to bring him into the station.
“Hold up a minute, Delaney!” Gundersund called as he stepped out of the car. Delaney had already jumped out of his and was sprinting for the front door. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and rain plastered his hair to his head and soaked his shirt so that it was nearly transparent. He pointed toward the house without slowing and Gundersund gave chase. Halliwell’s door slammed and he joined in the run for the front door. They crowded into the front entranceway, dripping water onto the hardwood floor from their coats. Delaney backed up so that he was leaning against the staircase. He wrapped his arms around his chest and shook from the chill he’d gotten in the cool morning rain. Gundersund had never seen skin so pale, the man’s cheeks hollowed out in a face becoming more cadaver-like with every passing day. His eyes were wild and bright in the harsh light from the
