Traverse finished his call. “Monica Spence was raped and strangled with bare hands, wrapped up and dumped in a hurry. We know she was a hooker. Then you’ve got Crystal, a lawyer. Someone knocks her on the head from behind, puts a belt around her neck, and takes the time to wash the corpse.”
“Maybe it’s like Frayne said. He’s getting better at what he’s doing. The M.O. is just too similar to be an accident.”
“If he picks up Crystal off the street, why would he take her indoors and spend time washing the body?”
Shelter shrugged. “Who knows? Each one is different. But we’ve got to get this guy off the street.”
The City Hotel had been built in the fifties, with three storeys of rooms above the bar, restaurant and reception desk on the main floor. Shelter found a spot by the back fence of the parking lot. A rectangular sign over the bar’s aluminum back door advertised cold beer. It was missing a shard of plastic from one corner where someone had probably thrown a beer bottle. A woman with a bloated face sat disoriented with her back to the grey cement wall beside a green dumpster. Shelter held the door open while he and Traverse considered the woman. She was bleeding from a cut over one eye. “You okay there?” Traverse asked. “That’s enough partying for one night, eh? You got a friend to take care of you?”
“Go fuck yourself, man.”
“Okay, then. You have a good one.”
A hand-lettered sign on the door announced it was karaoke night, and the place was packed. Shelter was hit by the clamour of the crowd and sour odour of beer. Everyone at this end of the bar was standing. They formed a wide circle around two pool tables. In the centre stood a man wearing a nylon warm-up suit, two heavy gold chains around his neck and a Winnipeg Jets cap. He held a pool cue in both hands and was advancing on a thin man in jeans and a golf shirt.
Shelter said, “Ah, for Christ’s sake. Here we go.”
The man in the warm-up suit turned the cue half a revolution, gripping the thin end like a baseball bat. The other man took two steps backward and knocked over a table with his butt, sending glasses and beer bottles flying onto the carpet. The crowd edged forward and were now tightly packed, shouting, laughing and taunting the thin man. At the other end of the bar, a man at the karaoke machine was belting out a loud, off-key version of Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive.”
A woman called out, “Fuck him up, Rory.”
Rory was short and stocky, and his neck and hands were covered in tattoos. He lunged and swung the pool cue in one motion, striking the other man’s left hip with a crack. He went down hard and rolled toward the pool tables just as a second blow aimed at his head landed on the floor. The pool cue snapped in Rory’s hands. A baseball cap had popped off the thin man’s head, exposing ginger hair around a bald spot. He jumped up and tried to leap over a chair but caught a knee and went down hard. Rory kicked him hard in the gut.
“He’s going to kill that guy,” Shelter said. Traverse was already on his cellphone, calling for backup.
“Police!” Shelter shouted. He broke through the line of spectators. “Hey. Police. That’s enough.”
Rory, sweating and breathing hard, swung around and charged. He dropped a shoulder and crashed into Shelter, knocking him down and landing on top of him in a heap. Traverse jumped on Rory’s back, put him in a headlock, and twisted hard. “Let go, now!”
Shelter managed to scramble out from under the young man and delivered a short, vicious punch to his left cheek. Together the detectives pinned him to the floor. They were all panting from the exertion. “Get off me,” Rory roared and bucked. Shelter and Traverse rode him back to the filthy carpet. Shelter gave him a quick blow to the ribs with a knee that made him squeal in pain. Traverse looked into Shelter’s eyes and gave him a disapproving shake of the head. Two uniformed officers shoved their way through the crowd and handcuffed the young man. The white guy had disappeared.
The uniforms each took an arm and pulled Rory up on to his knees and then to his feet. His warm-up jacket was ripped, revealing more tattoos on his chest. A drunken woman sitting at a table with her boyfriend called out, “Hey, that’s police brutality.” But her heart wasn’t in it. A couple of patrons had already righted the table that was knocked down and put the beer bottles and glasses back on it.
Rory grinned at Shelter, who stood at least a head taller than him. He had a gold incisor, and blood was streaming from his nose. Shelter signalled with a shift of his eyes and a nod for the uniforms to escort Rory out of the bar. When they were gone, he led Traverse to a corner, where they could talk without being overheard.
“Not much of a goal-line stand there, partner. That dude ran you over,” Traverse said in his usual deadpan delivery.
“Go fuck yourself,” Shelter said with a smile. “You ever seen that guy before?”
“Yeah, of course,” Traverse said. “Rory Sinclair, a.k.a. The Chief. Him and his crew have a rap album out. Native gangsta rap. Guns, hoes, drugs and fuck the police. Problem is Rory really is a gangster. He got popped for gun possession and dealing coke a year or so back. He beat it, but his buddy is doing a three-year bit in Stony Mountain.”
“Good to know. Now, where’s Nicki?” The bar was a long, stainless-steel counter where the waiters placed their rectangular trays and punched their orders into a screen. A large middle-aged woman was working hard behind the bar, setting up drinks. She opened doors set into the wall, pulling beer bottles from racks and lining them up on the bar. Then she positioned a glass under the draft tap and left it open, expertly pouring one after another, not missing a drop.
Behind the bartender, a large door swung open. A young woman emerged from the walk-in fridge and slammed the door shut with her foot. She was tall and slim, with her hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her jeans clung to her legs, and she had on a loose V-neck T-shirt and Nike running shoes. Everything from her hair to her clothes to her shoes was black. She picked up a tray from a shelf beside a glass washer and took her place at the bar beside a short waiter with a Fu Manchu moustache who kept up a constant conversation with the bartender as he loaded bottles, glasses of draft and a couple of shots onto his tray.
She said something to the Fu Manchu man and gave him a quick hip-check. He looked at her with a frown and then shook his head and broke into a smile. He gave her a push on the shoulder with an index finger. Nicki, Shelter thought.
FOUR
Shelter held the door to the hotel restaurant for Nicki. She was almost as tall as Traverse, at least five foot nine, with broad shoulders. A waitress was wiping down surfaces and getting ready to close for the night. Nicki called out to her, “Hey, Deb.” She led Shelter and Traverse through the empty restaurant to a corner booth.
Nicki looked from one detective to the other. “Okay, what’s up? If this is about Rory, forget it. I don’t know nothing about that guy except he’s a dick and doesn’t tip for shit.”
“You weren’t around for the fight,” Shelter said.
“The waiters get off the floor. Fights are for the bouncer,” Nicki said. Her voice was husky, low-pitched. “Of course, the bouncer was nowhere to be found. But that’s not our problem.”
Her skin was glowing and her dark almond eyes were blurry. She had a buzz on.
“What goes on in the cooler?”
“We chug-a-lug beer and talk to the vendor guy,” she said, giving Shelter a quick, aggressive nod. “If we’re lucky, we can get three bottles down before they come and get us. Now, what do you guys want? I gotta get back.”
“Is Crystal Rempel your sister?” Traverse asked.
Nicki’s eyes grew wide. She drew back in her chair and crossed her arms tight across her chest, looking at Shelter and then back to Traverse. “What about Crystal?”
“Is she your sister?” Traverse asked. Shelter sensed how much his partner dreaded what was to come.
“My half sister.”
In a slow, formal way, Traverse said, “Nicki, we’re very sorry to tell you we found Crystal Rempel’s body this mo
rning. We’re treating it as a homicide.”
After a beat, she whispered, “Oh, no,” not taking her eyes off Traverse. “No. No!” And then silence.
Nicki chewed her lower lip, her skin flushed and brow furrowed. One large tear escaped and ran past her lips to her chin and then fell off. She lowered her head, cupped her face with her hands and sobbed.
After a time, she grabbed a wad of napkins from the dispenser and wiped her face. Her eyes were surrounded by smudged make-up.
“How?” she asked, not looking at the detectives but at the same spot on the wall.
“That’s what we want to talk to you about,” Shelter said.
“Where did you find her?”
“Omand’s Creek, near Portage Avenue.”
She looked at her hands. After a moment, she snapped her head up and glared at Shelter. “What the fuck. That’s near the shopping mall, right? How was she killed?”
“We can’t tell you that right now, Nicki,” Traverse said, “because of the investigation.”
“She was my big sister, for Christ’s sake. Why can’t you tell me?”
“It’s the way we do it,” Traverse said in a low, calm voice. “We need to keep the details quiet for now.”
She gave a violent shake of her head.
“It’s important we find who did this as quickly as possible,” Shelter said. “The more time passes, the harder it gets. We need to ask you some questions.”
“The harder it gets?” she snapped. “They’re killing Indian girls all the time in this town, and you guys never catch anyone.” She looked down at her hands on the tabletop again. “Let me guess, you’ve got Crystal down as a hooker. Well, she wasn’t like that, okay?”
“We know she wasn’t, Nicki,” Shelter said.
“How do you know?” she demanded. “Wait. How do you even know it’s Crystal?”
“Her mother identified her.”
“Her mother? Our mother is dead.”
“Mrs. Rempel.”
“Oh my God, that bitch!”
Shelter glanced at Traverse. “Why do you say that?”
“Because she kept Crystal away from us. Crystal didn’t even know about us until she was eight. She found a letter from our mom hidden in that woman’s dresser.” Nicki was staring at a spot between the two detectives. Her voice was soft now. “Mom begged her to give Crystal back. But she wouldn’t even let us visit.” Her lips trembled. “Mom even got someone to drive us to their house in the country. But that lady kept Crystal inside and wouldn’t open the door. My mom stood on the porch screaming and begging for Crystal until the police came and took us away.”
“Have you met Mrs. Rempel since then?” Shelter asked.
“Once, a few years ago. She came to Crystal’s place but barely looked at me. She’d only talk to Crystal. Asking her all sorts of questions and ordering her around, even though Crystal was in university by then.”
Nicki was crying again. “My mom had problems, okay? But she tried.”
She wiped her eyes. Shelter asked, “When was the last time you spoke to Crystal?”
“Last night in the bar. She came by for a drink.”
“What time was that?”
“About nine, I guess. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“No, she was sitting alone in my section. We were talking when I had a minute. She was texting and on her phone.”
“What were you talking about?”
“She told me she’d broken up with her boyfriend.”
“Who’s her boyfriend?”
“Moses. Moses Kent. They work together in the North End. Legal advice and stuff like that. She said they’d had a fight and it was over.”
“Did she say what the fight was about?”
“Not really. It was about their work. The way he was handling the organization.”
“But she sounded upset?” Traverse asked.
“She’d been upset since my mom died. That’s why I was surprised to see her.”
“Surprised? Why?” Shelter asked.
“She just disappeared after my mom’s funeral. I hadn’t seen or heard from her for days. I was calling and texting her. But nothing.”
“Where was she?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. She said she had things to do.”
“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Crystal? Enemies?”
“Enemies? People fucking loved her, man.”
“What time did she leave?”
“Around ten thirty, I guess.” She shook her head. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Shelter nodded. “But I need you to look at a picture before you go.” He opened a file folder and brought out a picture of Monica Spence. “Did you ever see this girl with Crystal?”
“I’ve seen that picture in the paper. But I’ve never seen her in person. Why?”
“Did Crystal ever talk about Monica Spence?”
Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “You think the same guy killed Crystal?”
Shelter shook his head. “We’re just checking.” He glanced at Traverse and nodded to signal an end to the interview. Shelter took her phone number and address. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. “Nicki, we’re very sorry.”
She wiped her eyes and stood to leave. “When I find the motherfucker, I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you’re not,” Traverse said. “You’re going to leave it to us.”
“You guys aren’t going to do shit.”
“Stay out of it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do.” She had a hand on a hip and glared at Traverse with her chin out.
Something occurred to Shelter that he hoped would defuse the situation. “What kind of car did Crystal drive?”
She turned toward Shelter with the same fierce expression. It took her a second to refocus her thoughts on the question. And when she answered, it was in a quieter voice. “It’s small and blue. I’m not good on cars.”
“Could we go out to the parking lot for a sec?”
She found the car by the light of a single high streetlight. It was an old Toyota Corolla parked two spots away from the detectives’ Crown Vic.
“This is it.” After a beat, she said, “This is where she could have been taken.”
Ignoring the comment, Shelter glanced inside the car before turning to Nicki. “Thank you for this. It’s important.” He paused. “You need a ride home?”
“Nah, I got my bike.” She left without another word.
The two detectives headed back into the bar. Traverse knew the bartender from his days in uniform. Shelter watched from near the door as he drew her away from the bar and told her about Nicki’s sister. The bartender touched two fingers to her lips. Traverse put a hand on her shoulder and bent his head close to her ear. They whispered for a few moments.
Traverse returned to stand beside Shelter, and the two detectives surveyed the bar. “She saw Crystal come in, but it was busy and she sat on the other side of the pool tables, out of her line of sight.”
He added, “That woman’s got a big love on for Nicki. She talked to me like she was her mom. I would say she’s scared for her, the way she was talking.”
“Scared? Why?
“I don’t know. It was a feeling I got.”
“I don’t know what Nicki’s doing, working in a dump like this,” Shelter said.
“Come on, Mike. You think it’s easy to find a job out here? She’s doing okay.”
Shelter thought about that. “Someone picked up Crystal here last night. We’ll have to talk to everyone in the bar. Let’s find out if they’ve got video cameras and get the car towed.”
Shelter lived in the tree-lined Wolseley neighbourhood. Just before Kelsey was born, he and Christa had bought a big clapboard house a couple blocks up from the river. On Sundays in the summer, the city closed both Wolseley Avenue and Wellington Crescent on the other side of the river to cars. Christa, Kelsey and he would ped
al their bikes all the way to the little pedestrian bridge over Omand’s Creek and another longer one hugging the railway bridge over the Assiniboine. The route brought them to Wellington Crescent, with its mansions and central boulevard. From there, they’d make their way to his mother’s house on Oak Street for Sunday dinner.
Shelter’s father had clawed his way to regional vice president for a big Toronto insurance company before he keeled over in his office from a heart attack at sixty-five. His grandfather had prospered in insurance, and there was an unspoken expectation Shelter would follow them into the business or something similar — a lawyer, actuary or accountant. But Shelter knew from the time he was in junior high school he didn’t want to be stuck in an office job like his father, stressed out from nine to five in a glassed-in tomb with weekends at the golf course or the Bison Club. It was his father’s friend, Gordy Taylor, who first sparked in him the idea of going into the police service. Taylor and his father had been fraternity brothers at university, and every fall they went up to Riverton with some cronies to shoot ducks and get drunk in motel rooms. Taylor was an expert shot, and he also liked to hunt deer and moose, but Shelter’s father wasn’t into big game. “All the blood and guts,” he’d say. “Cleaning a duck is as much as I can stomach.”
Taylor was an inspector in the police department back then, a man who’d already seen a lifetime of action on Winnipeg’s streets and up north on First Nations reserves as an RCMP officer before that. Now, he was chief of police. When Shelter announced after finishing his arts degree that he wanted to go into the department, his father and grandfather had teamed up to try to talk him out of it over dessert one Sunday night. But it was no use. His mind was made up, and there was nothing they could do to change it. So he wrote traffic tickets in a uniform while his friends were studying for a law degree, MBA or PhD. Taylor took an interest in his progress and mentored him in his early years. He’d taken Shelter to lunch every couple of months to give him advice and worked behind the scenes to move him up the ranks.
Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense Page 3
