Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (85 page)

“That's what I've heard.”

And I'd buy it
if it weren't for the fact that one scared little girl who's desperate to find her sister knows Leah Sampson by name.

D
ad
, breakfast is ready.” Rouleau finished scraping the scrambled eggs onto two plates and grabbed the bread from the toaster. While he waited for his father to exit his bedroom, Rouleau poured two cups of coffee and took the lot over to the table. He looked down the hallway toward his father's closed door. “Dad?”

“Coming, son. Get started without me.” His dad's voice came out muffled through the door.

“Okay, but your eggs are getting cold.”

Rouleau took a seat and began eating. As he sipped Colombian coffee, he watched the rain beating against the patio door. The wind was rattling the glass in gusty bursts. It would have been a good day to stay in and watch a couple of movies, if only he had the luxury. Instead he'd be spending the morning in meetings with a hurried house viewing scheduled during lunch. Laney Masterson had set up a showing at a place off Montreal Road in a newer subdivision. He was looking forward to seeing her as much as the possibility of finally finding his own place.

He finished his coffee and got up to get a second. He was at the counter pouring one more for the road when he heard his father's bedroom door open. Rouleau glanced at the clock above the stove. He could spare a few more minutes. His dad's crutches were slowly clumping their way down the hall.

“Pretty ugly out there today,” Rouleau said. “You planning to go into the office?” He lowered his cup onto the counter at the sight of his father. “Is something wrong, Dad?

His father had manoeuvred himself into the chair by the time Rouleau reached him. His face under uncombed hair was as pale as linen. He'd put on a sweatshirt but left on his pajama bottoms, an uncharacteristic attire. Rouleau didn't know what was more alarming: his father's skin colour or his dishevelled appearance.

“I'm fine. I thought you had to get to work early this morning.”

“Work can wait. What's going on, Dad?”

His father reached for the fork Rouleau had set beside his plate. His fingers were trembling so much that he left it and dropped his hand into his lap. “The nurse is coming later. I'll be fine.”

Rouleau knew his dad's gruff voice was meant to close down the discussion. It heightened his alarm.

“You're white as a ghost, Dad. Are you in pain?”

“Nothing I can't handle.”

“You should go to the clinic. I'll postpone my morning meeting and take you in.”

“You'll do no such thing. I'm not going back to that place.”

“I'm not giving you a choice.” Rouleau pulled out his cellphone. “Should I call an ambulance or are you going to let me take you to get checked out?”

“You don't have time for this. I can take a cab.”

“I'm taking you, Dad,
point finale
. See if you can manage a few bites of toast while I get your raincoat.”

Rouleau hit Vera's number on speed dial. He'd be working by phone for the morning at least. If he wasn't already fully aware, this was his new reality of being the only child of an aging parent.

Gundersund hung up the phone. “That was Vera. Rouleau won't be in this morning. He's taking his father to a doctor. We're to carry on and call him if something breaks.”

He looked across at Stonechild, leaning against a filing cabinet and drinking a cup of Tim Hortons coffee that she'd picked up on the way into the station. Her hair hung in damp strands around her face. Her skin looked drawn and tired. She'd come in later than usual and said she'd slept in.

“Rough night?” he asked.

“Just trouble sleeping, that is until it was time to get up. Then I could have slept for hours.”

“So what have you got on the burner today?”

“I'm planning to read through the files on the Munroe case again. Nate from the help line dropped by the hospital last night and we had a heart to heart. Turns out he was having sex with the one and only Della Munroe.”

It took Gundersund a second to absorb what she'd said. “He admitted to that?”

“He did. I was hoping to run it by Rouleau this morning. He's closer to this case than I am and might be able to put some of the pieces together.”

Gundersund started thinking out loud. “So Leah Sampson wasn't killed by the ‘other man' because there wasn't one. However, Wolf didn't know that so he isn't in the clear yet. On the Munroe case, we now find out that Della isn't the innocent she let on. These two cases are starting to intersect all over the place.”

“I know. I'm not sure what the connections mean yet, but Della has uncomfortably entered the world of the help line through an affair with Nate and classes with Tadesco.”

“Means absolutely nothing,” said Woodhouse. He was sitting at his desk and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his hands over the paunch straining his shirt buttons. “I still say that Sampson's boyfriend killed her. Della Munroe is just a red herring.”

Gundersund looked across at Stonechild. She was watching Woodhouse as if he was from another planet. Gundersund smiled. “What makes you think that?” he asked Woodhouse.

“Wolf was the last one to see Leah alive. They had a volatile relationship and he was jealous she was moving on. Whether she was banging somebody else or not, doesn't matter because he
believed
she was. Could be this Nate guy was banging Sampson too. Wolf found out, went into a rage, and killed her.”

Gundersund looked from Woodhouse to Stonechild. Her eyes were an unfathomable black that he could have sworn glittered with disbelief.

“You've just put on a stunning display of mental gymnastics,” she said to Woodhouse, “connecting all those dots.” Her voice was deadpan.

The smile dropped from his face. “And I suppose you have a better idea?”

“It just so happens I do.”

The phone rang on Woodhouse's desk, and he broke his stare. He picked it up and turned his back on them in one fluid movement.

Gundersund crossed over to Stonechild. “And what is your new line of thinking?” Unlike Woodhouse, he'd already learned that she never offered an idle opinion.

She glanced at him and then back down at her coffee cup. “I think this has something to do with the little girl who called in. I'm heading back to the help line in the hopes that she calls back like she promised.”

“There you are! Together as always.”

They both turned. Fiona was walking toward them, carrying a brown paper bag and a tray with two coffees. Her smile took in both of them before she focused her eyes on Gundersund. She was wearing a tight black dress with her hair tumbling around her shoulders in layered waves. Gundersund's eyes widened at the sight of her. She looked stunning, the new dress a not-so-subtle seduction ploy. Perhaps a few months ago he would have jumped at what she was offering, but something in him hesitated. She knew him so well that she believed he could be lured back by sex. The sad thing was, she was probably right if their past history bore out.

She walked her fingers down his arm. “Sorry to interrupt, but I know you never eat breakfast and I couldn't resist treating you. I thought you could come downstairs and go over the tox report on Brian Munroe in my office. It just came in.”

“Do you have time to hear the results?” he asked Stonechild. If he thought she would save him from a private viewing with his wife, he was mistaken.

“You go ahead,” Stonechild said. “I'll be heading over to the university.”

He nodded at Fiona. “Let's go then.” He turned to Stonechild. “Call me if something happens and I'll be on standby.”

Stonechild nodded but he could tell she had no intention of following through.

Woodhouse hung up the phone and groaned. “That was Rouleau. I'm to take up surveillance on Della Munroe. Just how I want to spend my day.”

“Where's Chalmers?” Gundersund asked.

“Using up some of his holidays. This won't take two of us anyhow. A monkey could sit in a car all day, watching a house.”

Stonechild met Gundersund's eyes and smiled. “Too easy,” she mouthed.

He smiled back, all the time wondering why he felt more in sync with his new partner than his wife. “Check in later,” he said.

“Will do.”

This time he thought she might actually mean it. He followed Fiona's trail of expensive perfume out of the office, feeling like a bass with a lure caught in its mouth.

T
he
afternoon sped by without a break. Kala checked in with Gundersund at five o'clock.

“The girl didn't call back,” she said. The disappointment she heard in her own voice was nothing compared to what she was feeling. The young girl knew something that could lead to Leah Sampson's murderer, Kala was sure of it. “I'll see you tomorrow.” She hung up and grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair.

Mark Withers looked up from the other desk. “If the girl calls when you're not here, whoever's on the line will give her your cell number.”

“Thanks. There's always an outside chance. I'll keep my cell close by.”

She covered her head with a newspaper and dodged puddles on her run into the restaurant to pick up a roast chicken sandwich, maple doughnut, and coffee on the way back to the station. She hadn't bothered to tell Gundersund that she'd be returning to finish going over the Munroe file on her own time. Something niggled at the back of her memory bank and she wanted to be certain that she'd absorbed everything so that she could put her mind at ease.

By the time she pulled into the station parking lot, the rain was picking up, slanting into the windshield by the force of the wind. She rooted around in the passenger seat for a sweater that she tucked under her shirt as she dashed for the entrance.

The office was empty and cool without any warm bodies to counter the air conditioning. Cold rain had chilled her and she slipped out of her shirt and put on the pullover. She'd have to suffer through with wet jeans. The suddenness of the change from the heat of a week before was startling. Autumn was just around the corner and the heat in the building would need to be turned on soon. It was a depressing thought. Still, they should have a few more weeks of warmer temperatures in October.

She settled in at her desk and hungrily polished off her supper before accessing the database where the reports were housed. She licked the last of the maple sugar sweetness from her fingers while the latest forensics report loaded onto the screen. She scanned the results before leaning in to give it a thorough read. Brian Munroe hadn't been on any drugs or consumed alcohol before he broke into the marital home. No earth-shattering findings that would warrant Fiona waylaying Gundersund for a morning meeting. She had to admit that he hadn't seemed to mind though.

Kala sipped on the coffee, which was now lukewarm, but the caffeine would keep her alert enough to wade through the documents. Reading files on a computer screen was tiring at the best of times. She much preferred reading from paper with her feet up.

She downloaded the photos from the crime scene. Brian had been struck from behind when he reached the top of the stairs. He was face down, his feet closer to the first bedroom doorway than the stairs. It was the bedroom where their son slept. Blood darkened his hair and stained the beige carpet. The force of the hammer striking his head had sent blood spraying onto the walls. She scrolled to the close up. The wound was devastating, caving in part of his skull like a smashed watermelon. Della must have heard the crack as his skull fractured and felt his warm blood strike her face and hands. She'd stepped around him to get their son from his bed. Even under duress, how had she seriously believed he was still alive and able to come afte
r her?

Only Della's handprints were found on the hammer, which she claimed to have been using to hang a mirror at the bottom of the stairs. Photos of the mirror and packaging bore this out. Della had claimed that she'd reacted spontaneously with no intent to kill him. Brian had broken in to take their son. Kala studied the photos of the broken window in the back door. Shards of glass had fallen inside the kitchen, also confirming that the glass had been broken from the outside.

She searched for photos of Della but none were on file. A note said that her clothing was taken away for processing but it was still in the queue. Kala read through the statements and interviews. Nothing popped out.

She leaned back in the chair and stretched, then ran her fingers through her tangled hair. It was almost dry. Flipping over her wrist, she saw by her watch that it was nearly nine o'clock. She'd do one last check of her emails before heading home to take Taiku for a quick walk if the rain had let up at all.

A new email message dinged in her mailbox. Kala clicked it open. Vera was burning the late-night oil too. She wanted the entire team to know that Rouleau would be off the next day as well. He was available by phone if anything urgent came up. Kala cursed at emails that gave no explanations. She idly scrolled down and clicked on the message from the university registrar that confirmed Della Munroe was enrolled in Tadesco's class. Kala had been rushed when it arrived and hadn't opened the attachment. She did so now.

The entire class list filled the screen. Kala skimmed it. Thirty-two students: twenty-seven women and five men. She half-hoped to find the name Nadirah but there was only one Muslim name and it looked to be a male — Ghazi Shahan. Finding Nadirah this way would have been too easy, she supposed. The world didn't work that way.

She gave one last look to the list before shutting down the computer for the night. It had been another disappointing day, spinning her wheels. Hopefully something would break tomorrow. Hopefully the girl would call.