the apartment. It was a full minute after she knocked before she heard footsteps.
“I’m not buying anything,” a woman’s reedy voice called through the door.
“And I’m not selling. I’m a friend of the woman who used to live across the hall. I’m wondering if you know where she went.” Kala moved sideways so that she’d be clearly visible through the peephole.
The door opened but jumped back as the chain caught. A white-haired woman wearing thick glasses peered at her through the gap. A cat meowed at her feet. “Rosie left a few months ago. Couldn’t pay the rent.”
“You spoke with her?”
“We weren’t friends if that’s what you’re asking. The landlord told her she had to leave.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but I don’t think she’s gone far because of the kid.”
“She has a child?” Kala didn’t know why she was surprised. A lot of years had passed.
“I thought you said you were friends.”
“Yeah, but we haven’t been in touch for a while. I’m trying to make contact.”
“Well, it must have been more than a few years if you didn’t know Rosie has a kid. The girl is twelve years old. Name of Dawn, you know, like the sunrise. I’d watch for her to make sure she got home from school okay. Somebody had to. A couple of times she came over for cookies when her mother was passed out.”
“Do you know what school she went to or have any idea where they could have gone?”
“Dawn took a bus to school is all I know. I’d guess they went somewhere cheaper to live.” She laughed, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Rosie didn’t want to interrupt her drinking by working for a living.” She started to close the door.
Kala lifted a hand to stop her but let her arm drop to her side. This woman wasn’t going to share anything else. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Rosie had to be living in a shelter or assisted living somewhere in downtown.
Kala turned to walk down the hallway, a new resolve taking hold. She would find them before she left Ottawa. If it meant spending the whole year working for Rouleau, she’d stick it out. She wouldn’t head north without Rosie and the child.
12
Saturday, December 24, 7:40 a.m.
Rouleau woke to the sound of the wind rattling the living-room windows and whistling down the chimney. The room was semi-dark. Winter mornings took a depressingly long time for the sun to rise and get rid of the gloom. He sat up, scattering the newspaper and blanket onto the floor, and gingerly stretched his shoulders and neck. They felt tight but not too bad. He’d fallen asleep on the couch under a wool throw and the sports section of the paper just after eleven o’clock. The distance from the couch to his bedroom upstairs had seemed too far.
It was Christmas Eve in the beginning stages of a murder case. Unfortunate timing, especially this year with half the force booked off and the skeleton staff working the labs was processing only the most pressing cases. Tracking down Underwood’s coworkers and family was also an issue. The autopsy was on track, however, and he should get a preliminary report first thing in the morning before the lab staff left early for the holiday. He was hoping for a fibre or some DNA from the killer.
He walked to the kitchen and got the coffee started. While it brewed, he put a Van Morrison record on the stereo and took a quick shower. Afterwards he sat at the kitchen table reading the paper that he’d started the night before. He raised his eyes to the window. The wind must have blown in a bank of snow clouds. Large flakes were swirling against the pane. It would have been a good day to hunker down and watch a movie. The idea of heading out in the storm to go to work when most people were enjoying a day off was infinitely unappealing.
He’d foregone a tree and decorations this year. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Christmas. The three weeks before Christmas had zipped past at unprecedented speed. It wasn’t too late to mark the day though. He’d get his father’s gift for his yearly visit to Kingston for lunch, then drop by the butcher and buy something special for his Christmas supper.
He swallowed the last of his coffee and set the cup in the sink. Breakfast was waiting for him at the drive-through on his way to the office. If all went well, he’d let the team off early. It was a hell of shame that after weeks of not much going on they had to get this murder at Christmas time. It was almost as if Vermette had ordered the case to ruin the team’s holiday plans.
Grayson, Malik, and Stonechild were working at their desks when Rouleau arrived with a box of doughnuts just before nine. He entered his office and checked his messages and the inbox on his desk. He spied the toxicology report sitting on top of the pile. It was already turning into a good day.
He grabbed the report and settled in at his desk to give it a thorough read. Twenty minutes later, he poured a cup of coffee and gathered the team in the makeshift meeting area at the far corner of the office space where they’d erected bulletin boards and charts. Bennett and Gage, two officers in uniform he’d wrangled on loan for the week, joined them for the debrief. Both were in their late twenties. Bennett was the taller of the two but both looked like they spent a lot of time in the gym. They’d been happy to accept the assignment.
“Right then. We have one new important piece of information from forensics. Underwood was drugged before he was forced into the trunk. Possibly, the drug was administered in a cup of coffee or some drink. It was a street drug in the date rape family.”
“It’s often slipped into women’s drinks in bars. He might have been having coffee with whoever killed him and they dropped it in when he wasn’t looking,” said Malik. “Makes sense it would be coffee since he went missing in the morning.”
Rouleau nodded. “It also means that he didn’t fight being put inside the trunk. Underwood is one hundred and fifty pounds and wouldn’t have been too heavy for one person to handle. Even a fit woman could have gotten him in there. He would have woken up, realized where he was, and tried to get out. His car was parked outside and the cold got to him eventually. Not a nice way to end it.”
He sat still for a moment while they all contemplated Underwood’s end. His eyes circled the group and rested on Stonechild. She was staring straight ahead at nothing, her eyes unreadable. An uncoiled energy radiated from her at odds with her stillness. He’d pay to know what she was thinking.
Rouleau stood and picked up a magic marker and positioned himself in front of the white board. “Let’s go over what we know so far. Family includes two adult children: Hunter Underwood, who’s been estranged from his father for ten years and recently back on speaking terms, and Geraldine Oliver, pregnant with her first child and married to Max Oliver, who works for Tom Underwood’s company. Then we have the first wife, Pauline, who still goes by the name Underwood, and the new wife, Laurel. She has a six-year-old daughter, Charlotte, with Tom.
“I rule out the six-year-old,” said Malik.
“I knew there was a reason I brought you on the dream team,” said Rouleau, toasting him with the marker. “Have another doughnut.”
Malik grinned and selected a chocolate one from the box. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Rouleau
