Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense

by Don Macdonald

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked around the room as if she didn’t know where she was. When she spotted him, she nodded and gave him a bashful half smile.

  “Hey,” she said softly. Her eyes were bleary, dreamy and her words slurred by the sedative. “What’re you doing here?” She turned her head toward the window. It was dark, and the moon was nearly full.

  Shelter stood up and went to the side of the bed. He put a hand on her forearm. He was struck by how soft her skin was. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  She reached up and touched the square of gauze covering her left cheek. “I just can’t believe it happened.”

  Shelter nodded. “You’ve got to be careful now.”

  She nodded and reached out to give his forearm a squeeze. “You too.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Get some rest.” She closed her eyes and was asleep again. On his way out, he took a last glance at her and wondered if he’d be able to keep her safe.

  SIXTEEN

  Five a.m. The kitchen table. A soft-leaded pencil. A broad sheet of paper. Three crude sketches. The first two drawings were of women’s bodies wrapped in plastic and dumped — one in a culvert under a rural road, the other beside a creek near a busy avenue in the heart of the city. The third sketch showed two women and four men in a hotel room. Around the sketches and down the page were notes in Shelter’s cramped scrawl.

  He sat on the edge of a chair in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt, his head resting on a fist as he worked on the pad of sketching paper. His body still ached from taking Nicki down hard to the cement. A dream of blood spattering his face had awoken him and given no hope of getting back to sleep.

  Who’d known the time and place of the meet with Sinclair? Nicki, for one. Maybe Jasmine, Rory’s girlfriend, and Darren Thompson, the bodyguard. Who else? Who would have access to a high-powered rifle and the marksmanship skills to make the shot? Who needed to shut up Rory Sinclair and Nicki badly enough to risk shooting them in broad daylight during a police operation?

  Shelter took a sip of cold coffee and stretched. He opened his laptop and pulled up the front page of the Free Press. Main headline: Rapper Shot Dead in Old Market Square. Sub-headline: Suspect Slain While Being Arrested. Shelter’s jaw tightened as he scanned the article. The reporter had identified the victim as Rory Sinclair, and the story consisted mostly of details about his criminal record and music career, as well as quotes from witnesses at the scene of the shooting.

  Shelter zeroed in on a paragraph. “Sinclair had known both Monica Jane Spence and Crystal Lynn Rempel and had been a suspect in the killings of the Indigenous women, according to a police source. His shooting has thrown the investigation into disarray.”

  Shelter swore under his breath — the leaker was back at it. He scanned the rest of the article. A public relations officer had maintained Sinclair was undergoing a routine arrest when shots were fired but refused to give more details. Shelter was relieved to see he and Nicki weren’t named in the article.

  Grey light filtered into the living room, and Shelter saw the streetlight in front of the house switch off. His mind went to Nicki and touching her arm the night before — the sensation of her skin under his hand. He rose from the table. The desire he felt for her was undeniable, but he had to push those thoughts away. She was a witness in a murder investigation and grieving for her sister. That made the power imbalance between them even wider than it already would have been and made it all the more important to keep his distance. A romantic relationship could cost him his job. He struggled to focus on the mundane tasks of feeding the cat and eating a piece of toast. He waited until 7:00 a.m. before calling Traverse.

  “You see the paper?” Shelter asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Traverse’s bass voice was sleepy, and Shelter could hear his kids fighting in the background. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “I’m going to survive,” Shelter said.

  “How about Nicki?”

  “They kept her in for observation. She was shaken up. But she’s young.” Shelter paused for a beat. “We’ve got someone who was very desperate to keep Rory from talking to us.”

  “Guess Rory was right to be scared.”

  “Scared of who?” Shelter said in a low voice, almost to himself. “What did you find out about Charlie Osborne yesterday?”

  “No record and nothing on him in CPIC,” Traverse said, referring to the police database. “He’s been on the band council up at Lone Pine forever, a cousin of the chief. He’s the president of their economic development corporation but keeps a low profile. It’s the chief, Lyle Mackay, who does the talking — and he does lots of it.”

  “Anyone know why he was hanging out with Rory, or who this guy Bill is?”

  “Nope,” Traverse said. “I found a news article about Lone Pine settling a land claim with the federal government for a huge amount of money — $21 million.”

  “It looks like Nicki is a target too. We need to take a closer look at who she’s been talking to.”

  “She was talking to Rory. Maybe the killer didn’t want to leave any loose ends.”

  Shelter heard shouting in the background — Traverse’s wife berating one of his kids. “Hold on.” Traverse came back on the line, sounding harassed. “I gotta go.”

  “See you downtown.”

  Rather than the usual buzz of morning chit-chat over coffee, the office was hushed but for the sound of fingers tapping on computer keys. Making his way down a corridor of cubicles, Shelter received only perfunctory nods from detectives hunkered down at their desks. He bumped into Jennifer Kane coming out of the small kitchen with a cup of coffee. She had a worried look and spoke in a whisper. “Are you okay?”

  Shelter nodded and gave her a grim half smile.

  “The bosses are meeting upstairs,” Kane said.

  “I know. I already talked to MacIsaac.” He’d had a curt, unpleasant telephone conversation with his boss before leaving the house. Chief Gordy Taylor was in a rage over the handling of the Sinclair arrest and had called a meeting of the department’s top brass for 8:00 a.m. MacIsaac told Shelter he’d let him know if he was needed to answer questions.

  “The good news is no civilians were shot. We dodged a bullet there,” MacIsaac said without a trace of irony.

  “Taylor knew how we were bringing Rory in, right?” Shelter asked.

  “I assume so. It was approved right up the line. But when an arrest goes sideways this bad, well, someone’s going to have to hold the bag. Just sit tight. I’ll keep you posted.”

  MacIsaac had hung up, and Shelter was left looking at the phone in his hand. His mind was racing. More than anything, MacIsaac was a bureaucrat focused on self-preservation and career advancement. How bad was this going to get? Pulled off the case? Suspended? Fired? He’d made a series of quick calls, dishing out investigative tasks, including sending Himmat Sharma and another detective, Dave Zelinsky, out to supervise more canvassing for someone who might have seen the shooter escaping the scene. He sent Ian Sim to search for video from the area after the first sweep of the parking garage, buildings and shops had yielded nothing.

  Now, Shelter could smell the aroma of Kane’s freshly brewed coffee and felt her studying his face. “Is Gabe in yet?” he asked.

  “He went down to the cafeteria to get some breakfast,” Kane said. “What was that woman even doing there?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to be, but that’s the way it went down.” He shook his head and gave a shrug. “No meeting this morning. I’ll let you know what I have for you in a couple of minutes.”

  Shelter stowed his briefcase and was getting his computer started when the phone rang. It was Sergeant Rick Slawsky from the Ident unit. They had a better fix on where the shots came from. It had been an eighty-seven-metre shot from the top of the parking garage to where Rory was standing. Slawsky said his people had found a bullet in the square that had gone right through Rory — a .308 calibre slug, a sta
ndard hunting bullet available from any Canadian Tire or Walmart.

  “How about Rory’s phone?” Shelter asked.

  “It’s a disposable, with three numbers on it besides yours,” Slawsky said. “One is Nicki Alexander’s. Another is the Lone Pine First Nation office in Winnipeg and the other belongs to someone called Tran Phuong Thao.” After getting off the line, Shelter only had time to briefly glance at his email — nothing from MacIsaac. He looked up and saw Traverse approaching his desk.

  “The bosses are deciding my fate upstairs,” Shelter said.

  Traverse tilted his head and gave his partner a quizzical look. “Come on. You handled it the best you could.”

  Shelter shrugged. “Let’s get rolling,” he said. He called across the squad room to Kane. “We need to get Pam Daniel under protection. Can you take care of that?”

  He stood up. “Let’s talk to Rory’s girlfriend.”

  Rory Sinclair’s apartment was in a high-rise overlooking the Assiniboine River. It was an exclusive address with a circular driveway in front. Shelter and Traverse nodded to the doorman and made their way across the lobby, where a couch upholstered in shiny gold fabric and two matching armchairs had been arranged into a waiting area. In the elevator, Shelter punched the button for the twentieth floor.

  When no one answered the doorbell, Traverse knocked two times before a female voice demanded to know who was there.

  “Police,” Traverse said, holding his ID up to the peephole. “Open up.”

  The door swung open. Jasmine swore under her breath before retreating into the apartment without a word, leaving the door open.

  Following her, Shelter admired the panoramic view from the floor-to-ceiling picture windows in the living room. The sun was high over the city, and from the twentieth floor the Assiniboine was a toffee-coloured strip in the foreground, with downtown skyscrapers to the right, the rail yards to the left and North End neighbourhoods in the distance.

  They found Jasmine in the bedroom. She had a suitcase open on the bed and was throwing clothes into it from a chest of drawers. The detectives watched the young woman in silence from the doorway. Shelter was struck by how tiny she was, no more than five feet tall in her bare feet. She had none of the glamour girl look they’d seen at the Double Deuce. She was dressed in jeans and a fitted plaid shirt with mother-of-pearl snap buttons. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore no make-up.

  She ignored them, pulling out a drawer and dumping a pile of socks into the suitcase.

  “We need to ask you some questions about Rory.”

  She finally looked up, focusing on Shelter. “You’re the one who was supposed to protect him.”

  Shelter kept his face impassive and waited a long moment before speaking. “Who would have done this to Rory?”

  “He said he could trust you and he’d be okay.”

  “We need your help to find out who did it.”

  She shook her head. “Get out!”

  Shelter said in a calm voice, “Who was he so scared of?”

  “I have no idea. Go away.”

  Shelter glanced at Traverse and decided to take another tack.

  “Is your name Tran Phuong Thao?”

  “It’s Jasmine.”

  “There was a call on Rory’s cellphone to a Tran Phuong Thao yesterday. That’s you, right?”

  She nodded — a quick jerk of her head — and went back to folding and arranging her clothes.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He said he was being arrested and you were doing it. He said he could trust you. That’s all.”

  “Did you tell anyone else he was going to the police?”

  “No, of course not. Who would I tell?”

  Shelter held her gaze for a second. Was she lying? Could she be the link to whoever shot Rory? “Where were you yesterday at 5:00 p.m.?”

  “I was here. Alone. He told me not to go out.”

  “The other day, we saw you in the Double Deuce with Rory, Darren Thompson and another man, Charlie Osborne. What do you know about Charlie?”

  “He’s Rory’s friend.”

  “What kind of business were they doing together?”

  “How should I know? I’m not involved in Rory’s business.”

  “Actually, we know you arranged dates for Monica Spence and collected money for Rory,” Shelter said. “Other girls too, yeah? I think we need to take you downtown.”

  “No,” she said. “What do you want to know about Charlie? There’s nothing to tell. He likes the girls.”

  “How often?”

  “A couple of times a week when he’s in town.”

  “How about another friend of Rory’s by the name of Bill?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Don’t know any Bill.”

  “How about a party at the Bond Hotel a couple of weeks ago? Rory went with Monica and another girl. What do you know about it?”

  She stopped packing, a T-shirt in her hand. Shelter sensed she was deciding whether to lie — considering how much he knew.

  Finally, she said, “Charlie called. They were having a party, and he wanted two girls to come over.”

  “And some coke.”

  Jasmine shrugged.

  “What did Rory tell you about it afterward?” Shelter asked.

  “Not much, except one guy wasn’t happy about seeing the girls. Charlie had laid them on as a surprise, and the guy was pissed. He left right away.”

  Shelter said, “Okay, you mean there were three men there when Rory arrived?”

  Jasmine nodded.

  “Who was this guy — the one who left? Did Rory know him?”

  “Charlie was boasting about doing business with the dude. Rory was surprised he was there. A big-shot. Somebody in the news.”

  “What was the name?”

  “Rory didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  Jasmine began packing her suitcase. She pushed down on the lid using her forearms, but it was too full. She turned, jumped and sat on it. She reached down on either side of her thighs and snapped the clasps shut. “I got to get out of here.”

  “What else do you know about Charlie?”

  She got down off the suitcase, straightened her shirt and brushed tendrils of hair behind her ears. The nails were long and carefully manicured, with a coating of blood-red polish. “He’s a gambler,” she said. “He loves the casino and the horses.”

  “Where did Rory go yesterday?” Shelter asked.

  “He knew you guys were looking for him, so he’d been on the rez hanging out with friends. He called me and told me he was coming down for a meeting. He arrived about noon, dumped his shit, made a call and left. Don’t ask me where because I don’t know.”

  “Who did he call?”

  “No idea.”

  “What’s he been saying about Monica Spence and Crystal Rempel?”

  She looked down at her hands spread out on the top of the suitcase. “He couldn’t calm down. He was losing it,” she said. “It was bad enough after Monica was killed. The other one, Crystal, was all over him. She thought he did it, but he didn’t. And then when she got killed, Rory was freaking out. He was saying someone was trying to frame him for both girls. That’s when he left town.”

  Jasmine pulled the suitcase off the bed. It landed on the hardwood floor with a thump.

  “Where you going?” Shelter asked.

  “My parents’ place.”

  “Let’s have the address and phone number.” Once he had them, he added, “Stay in town.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Shelter and Traverse cruised Portage Avenue with the windows down, warm air washing over them. In a few months, this street would be a vicious wind tunnel where commuters would huddle, waiting for buses in long, hooded parkas, their faces covered by scarves, hands encased in pillowy mitts. Low banks of hardened grey snow would form between the four lanes in each direction and a fog of exhaust would swirl around the cars waiting for the light to change. A sunny
summer day was not something to be taken for granted.

  The middle class had abandoned the inner city decades ago for the leafy subdivisions and malls of the south end. Shelter wondered if the latest in a long string of revitalization projects might actually succeed in breathing new life into the downtown. Mayor Sam Klein had announced a target of bringing twenty thousand new residents into the area, and the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched when a group of wealthy investors had miraculously put up $400 million for a new office building, shopping and residential complex — the biggest project of its kind ever.

  At a stoplight, Shelter looked over at Traverse. “The other guy in the hotel room was someone Rory recognized — that could be just about anyone,” he said. “A politician, a sports star, a businessman.”

  “If Rory knew who he was, maybe Monica did too,” Traverse said. “She could have tried to blackmail him.”

  “But if Monica recognized him, Pamela would have too, right?” Shelter said.

  “Not necessarily, I doubt Pam spends her time watching the news,” Traverse said. “And if Monica was thinking about blackmail, she’d probably keep it to herself.”

  Shelter considered the scenario. “Maybe she calls one or more of the guys in that hotel room and demands money. That’s a pretty ballsy move for a teenager.”

  “She was doing a lot of drugs, so I wouldn’t put it past her at all,” Traverse said. “Let’s say she threatens to put the picture online. She’s hoping that’s all she’ll need to do to get money out of them.”

  “But they’re not going to give her money until she shows the picture,” Shelter said. “And Charlie Osborne is the only one you can clearly make out in it. Do they care enough about their reputations to kill a girl?”

  Traverse gave a shrug. “They don’t know what the photo shows, right? And maybe it’s not the hookers. It’s what they were talking about in that hotel room before Rory and the girls arrived. Just knowing they were together might have been enough to get her killed.”