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

by Don Macdonald

  Traverse let out a harsh bark of laughter and shook his head. “You gotta be kidding me. You know as well as I do you can’t be involved with her. End it now.”

  “There’s nothing to end. And as far as finding myself out on the street, you’re the one who’s talking about quitting.”

  “Don’t throw that in my face,” Traverse said, his features contorted into an angry glare. He looked down at his cowboy boots, and when he spoke, it was in a low, resigned tone. “You’re a big boy. You do what you want. As for the reserve, I’m staying here.” He turned, threw the door open with a bang, and was gone.

  Shelter looked at himself in the mirror. His heart was thumping, and his shoulder muscles were knotted with tension. Traverse had put his finger on Shelter’s attraction to Nicki and was right about the potentially dire consequences. But it was more than that. Shelter knew his anger was a reaction to his failure to take the possibility of a copycat seriously enough in the Rempel murder. He had to admit his desire to wrap up the case had overwhelmed the basic skepticism that’s so fundamental to police work. The Spence attack had been unplanned, brutal, messy — a frenzied crime. She’d fought back, and her body and face were bruised from a beating before she was strangled with bare hands. Crystal Rempel’s murder had been clinical. Her skull had been fractured from behind by a sharp blow, apparently knocking her unconscious, because there were no signs of a struggle with her assailant. She’d been strangled with a two-inch-thick strap or belt. Both bodies had been wrapped and taped with blue duct tape in exactly the same way, but Crystal’s had been carefully washed before. As for Rory Sinclair, Stokes had been a doubtful fit for the shooting in Market Square.

  His anger at himself had come out in the confrontation with Traverse. He regretted the shots he’d taken about Nicki being Indigenous and Traverse’s desire to leave the police force. Still, it wasn’t going to stop him from going to Lone Pine with Nicki. She was the key to Doris Bear, and that could open the door to finding Crystal Rempel’s killer.

  He walked into the homicide unit to find a sombre mood had descended on the other detectives as late afternoon sun beat down on the desks. They were slumped in their chairs, silently pretending to work on their computers or do paperwork. Shelter felt it too, but despite his disappointment, he knew he had to inject some energy into the detectives’ room, or the investigation could founder.

  “Let’s bring it in.”

  The six detectives pulled their chairs into a semi-circle. “We’ve got Daniel Stokes on the sexual assault of Donna Davis and the murder of Monica Spence,” Shelter said, looking at each detective in turn. “That’s a huge win for us. Let’s not forget that. But obviously, the Crystal Rempel and Rory Sinclair cases are still open.” The detectives looked distracted, apathetic.

  “We’ve got to get right back at it,” he said, rising from his chair and going to a whiteboard screwed to a wall. He wrote down Monica Spence and Daniel Stokes, drew boxes around them and connected them with a line. Then he wrote Crystal Rempel and Rory Sinclair and drew boxes around those names. He pointed to Monica Spence’s name and turned to face the detectives. “Stokes confessed to killing Monica Spence, but he was out of town when Crystal was murdered. The Rempel murder is a copycat, but we never released the details about the duct tape or the plastic tarp to the media.” Shelter knew this would have been on their minds almost from the minute they heard Daniel Stokes wasn’t in Winnipeg the night Rempel was killed. They would have already chewed it over at length amongst themselves. A leak in the police department was the elephant in the room.

  “We’ve already had information leaked from this investigation,” Himmat Sharma said.

  “But not these kinds of details,” Jennifer Kane said. “Those were known to only a few people.”

  Shelter had already considered this. “Actually, the number is well over a dozen if you include the medical examiner’s office, the Ident team, the homicide unit and senior management.”

  The meeting fell silent as the detectives considered the possibilities. Shelter had always assumed the leaks were coming from someone trying to embarrass the department over a grudge. But revealing the use of duct tape and a tarp to wrap Rempel’s body had taken the leaks into a whole new realm of troubling possibilities. Someone with knowledge of the investigation was in direct contact with the killer. They had to find the source. It was their best shot at solving the case.

  “The professional standards unit is already working on the leaks,” Shelter said. They’d be going over phone, email and banking records of anyone involved in the investigation, including him. He slowly exhaled. He looked around the circle of detectives. “We know Crystal Rempel was conducting her own private investigation into the Monica Spence killing. It looks like she spooked someone, and he came up with the idea of making her murder look like it was done by the same man.”

  Shelter turned around, wrote the names Charlie Osborne and Bill Craig, and made boxes around them. “We’re right back here,” he said, tapping the whiteboard beside the two names with the marker.

  Shelter had just sat down at his desk when the phone rang. He was surprised to see on the call display that it was his mother calling.

  “Hello, dear. I have a casserole ready for Kelsey. What time are you picking me up?”

  Shelter was at a complete loss. Then it came to him. He brought the heel of his hand to his forehead and mouthed a silent curse. It was Gordy Taylor’s retirement party that evening. He’d received his invitation a month before and agreed to take his mother, who had also been invited. Then he promptly forgot about it. He reviewed his options for getting out of it and concluded there were none.

  “Michael, are you there?” Roberta Shelter said. “You didn’t forget about the party, did you?”

  “No. I was just thinking about what the best time would be. Let’s say seven.”

  “Alright. I don’t know why I’m even invited to this thing. He was your father’s friend.” After a moment she added, “You didn’t want to go a little earlier? Cocktails begin at seven.”

  Shelter couldn’t help but smile to himself. His mother detested Taylor but loved a party and had obviously been anticipating this one.

  “Okay, Mom. Let’s make it six thirty. How’s Kelsey doing?”

  “Well, we can talk about it tonight. Do you want to talk to her? She’s right here.”

  While he waited for his daughter to come on the line, Shelter went over the mad rush he faced in the next two hours. He’d have to get home, shower, change into a suit and get over to his mother’s house. It would be no small feat. Was his blue suit even clean?

  “Hey.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Okay. But I want to come home.”

  “Why?”

  His daughter dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s so boring over here. There’s no internet, and Grandma won’t leave me alone. She always wants me to go shopping with her.”

  “Sounds like a pretty nice life to me.”

  “I’ll be fine at home, and I start the dog-walking at Mr. Taylor’s this afternoon.”

  Shelter considered this. She had a point. The school year was coming, and if she stayed in the city he’d be forced to give her more and more freedom with just the two of them at home. After the day he’d had, his resistance was low. “I’ll talk to Grandma this evening, but I’m not making any promises.” They both knew this amounted to total capitulation.

  Gordy Taylor’s retirement reception was to be held at the Bison Club. It had been built before the First World War as a private men’s club, a place for the city’s elite to drink, play snooker and talk business discreetly. On the way downtown, Shelter discussed Kelsey with his mother. She made it clear she favoured moving her back to his house to preserve the sanity of both grandmother and granddaughter.

  “She’s a lump around the house,” Roberta Shelter complained. “I don’t know how a girl can spend so much time staring at a phone and watching TV. She needs stimulation — more t
han I can give her.”

  “The dog-walking job will help.” Earlier, Kelsey had headed over from her grandmother’s house to walk Heidi. “It gives her something to do.”

  Roberta nodded. “Where are her friends?”

  “They’re mostly at the lake or working, the ones who have turned sixteen. Fifteen is a tough age. I’ll tell her to come home from Gordy’s and pick up her stuff when I drop you off tonight.”

  Shelter pulled into the circular driveway in front of the Bison Club to drop his mother off. Couples in evening wear were climbing the wide staircase and entering the three-storey brick building. He was lucky to find street parking just a few minutes away, and as he walked back to the club, he steeled himself to get through the next few hours. He knew the crowd would be a mix of senior police officers, city officials, including the mayor, and pillars of the business community, all a generation or more older than him. He was there because of the close relationship between Taylor and his father and the role the chief had played in bringing him along as a young officer.

  On the front stairs, Shelter called Kelsey before entering the club. She was still at Taylor’s house, keeping the dog company. “I talked to your grandmother, and we decided it’s best if you come home. I’ll pick up your things when I drop Grandma off.” Shelter ended the call and entered the club’s brightly lit entrance hall, where a noisy crowd was having drinks and chatting. He scanned the faces, looking for his mother, and was delighted to spot her chatting with his friend, Steve Roth.

  “Hey, look who I found wandering around alone,” Roth said, shaking hands with Shelter.

  “Don’t worry. Mom can take care of herself,” Shelter said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m standing in for one of the senior partners. We do a lot of work for the city, and this is what you call mixing business with pleasure.” Roth smiled at Shelter’s mother. She’d known him since he was a boy, playing hour after hour of street hockey in their driveway with other friends from school.

  An elderly woman approached their group. “Bobby,” the woman said to Roberta Shelter. “Oh, thank goodness. Who are you sitting with?”

  Shelter checked to see Roth had a full drink and headed for the bar. When he’d delivered his mother her rye and water and took a sip of his beer, he said to Roth, “A well-heeled group.”

  “You bet.” Roth put a hand on Shelter’s arm, gently drawing him aside. He lowered his voice. “Did our conversation about Bill Craig come to anything?”

  “Yes and no,” Shelter replied. “You were right about the divorce. The wife has filed some incredible allegations about him in the proceedings. But we still don’t know if or how he fits into our investigation.”

  Roth scanned the crowd. “I wonder if he’s coming tonight. Have you heard about this urban reserve project north of Portage Avenue?”

  Shelter turned his body to shield the conversation. “How do you know about that?”

  “There’s a lot of buzz about it around town. Apparently, the feds are on board, and Craig’s the developer.”

  “With the Lone Pine First Nation.”

  “Exactly. I’m hearing they’re getting ready to make an announcement in the next few weeks.”

  Shelter’s attention was drawn to a commotion near the door. He turned to see Gordy and Janet Taylor entering the club to loud greetings and congratulations from nearby guests. Taylor looked distinguished in a tuxedo and Janet elegant in a long, emerald sequined gown. They looked as if they were on the red carpet at the Oscars. They advanced through the crowd, shaking hands, dispensing kisses to cheeks and waving.

  “I guess I better make the rounds,” Roth said. “We’re going to be called for dinner soon.” Shelter watched his friend approach a group of three couples and easily join the conversation. Shelter went to his mother, who introduced him to a woman she played bridge with and her husband, a senior engineer with the city.

  The grand ballroom ran the length of the south end of the building on the second storey. The tables were set for a four-course meal with heavy white linen, silverware, crystal glasses and centrepieces with pink and white roses. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a distant view of the river in the soft light of the setting sun. The appetizer was a delicious crab and avocado creation followed by a main course of filet mignon. The wine was excellent and plentiful. Shelter and his mother were seated near the back of the room with a surprisingly lively group that included a vice president of the Jets who cheerfully indulged Shelter’s suggestions on how to make the hockey team better. He periodically scanned the room, but there was no sign of Bill Craig. A series of speeches paying tribute to Taylor’s long, colourful career, including one by the mayor, were mercifully short and good-humoured. Shelter was surprised to find he was actually enjoying the evening.

  During a speech by the deputy police chief, Shelter slipped his cellphone from a pocket of his suit jacket and texted Nicki. Heading to the rez tomorrow. You still in?

  The answer came back almost immediately. Yup.

  Be ready at nine. Pick you up outside your building.

  He was finishing up his dessert — light, cream-filled puff pastry balls drizzled with chocolate — when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find the imposing figure of Gordy Taylor looming over him. Because of the direction he was seated, Shelter hadn’t noticed the police chief making the rounds of the tables to greet and thank the guests.

  “Bobby, nice to see you,” he said to Shelter’s mother. “You’re looking terrific. Thank you for coming.”

  “Congratulations, Gordy. Such a beautiful evening.”

  Taylor made similar comments to the other guests around the table. When he came to Shelter, he said, “Mike, I wonder if I might have a word.”

  The police chief led Shelter out of the ballroom and down a long corridor that overlooked the entrance hall. “You’ve been here before?” he asked as they strolled.

  “I was here once with my grandfather when I was a boy,” Shelter said. “He let me roll the pool balls around.”

  “In this room,” Taylor said, opening a door on the opposite end of the building from the ballroom and ushering Shelter into the billiard room. The room wasn’t in use and was illuminated by only a few dim lights. Shelter could almost smell the cigar smoke and whiskey. The dark wood panelling, brass fixtures and six massive snooker tables with their ornately carved legs and tasselled overhead lights gave Shelter the impression he was stepping into the 1920s.

  “I want to show you something,” Taylor said, switching on the lights. He led Shelter between the tables, stopping beside a cue rack on the far wall. He pointed upward to where framed portraits lined the wall above the panelling. “These are all the past presidents of the club. And that’s your grandfather.”

  Shelter studied the photo. It was taken in the 1960s, when his grandfather was still in his prime. He was slim and handsome in a suit with his hair combed straight back in the style of the day.

  “I knew him quite well, you know,” Taylor said. “Very much the British gentleman and a heck of a storyteller.”

  “That’s the image he liked to project,” Shelter said, smiling. “His father owned a factory in London, so he wasn’t exactly of the aristocracy.”

  “Well, he did well for himself.” Taylor walked over to the closest snooker table and leaned his big frame against it. “I need to get back, but I wanted to talk to you about this case with the Indian girls. I heard we have a copycat situation. It’s hitting the media tomorrow, and I may need to make a statement. Where are we at with it?”

  “As you know, we have an offender charged in the Monica Spence homicide. But that individual was not involved in Crystal Rempel or Rory Sinclair. We’re continuing to investigate a land deal to establish an urban reserve downtown involving Charlie Osborne and Bill Craig. Rempel was aware of possible financial irregularities with the deal, and we believe there could have been a motive there.”

  Taylor nodded. “I read the transcript of your interview w
ith Craig but haven’t seen anything on Charlie Osborne.”

  “I’m heading up to the Lone Pine Reserve tomorrow to interview him.”

  “Good. I want you to call me when you’ve talked to that guy,” Taylor said.

  He pushed himself off the snooker table and turned for the door. His face had become stern. “We’re getting killed in the media on this,” he said as they walked back to the party. Once again, Shelter became aware how much the chief had riding on the investigation — a victory to cap his career or a humiliating failure staining his legacy.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Shelter had packed the night before and was up by six to get ready for the trip. He wrote out a list of meals for Kelsey and made sure everything was labelled and easily accessible in the cupboards, fridge and freezer. He’d heard her still moving around her bedroom at one in the morning, so he decided against waking her to say goodbye. Instead, he left a note telling her he hoped to be back that night but could possibly be away until the next day. He added the phone numbers of his mother and two close neighbours, told her he loved her and to be safe. Then one last line: P.S. Don’t open the door to ANYONE.

  He gassed up his Toyota Camry and picked up road supplies for both him and Nicki — coffee, water, potato chips and trail mix. Shelter thought about the three-hour drive ahead and felt surprisingly buoyant. He liked to drive and anticipated a rare respite from daily life. The forecast was for a hot, sunny day and Nicki was waiting on the boulevard outside her apartment building in a pair of jeans, cut-off just above the knees, a sleeveless T-shirt, her Yankees cap and aviator sunglasses.

  “What’s the situation for tunes?” she asked before Shelter had a chance to say hello.

  “We’ve got the radio,” he said, handing her a coffee.

  “Come on. We need some road tunes,” she said, sliding the coffee into a cup holder. “Is there somewhere to plug in my phone?” She leaned over to peer at the dashboard.

  Before he could answer, she’d found the plug, tapping it with her finger. She threw off her seatbelt, twisted in her seat, and grabbed her pack from the backseat. She pulled out a cord and plugged her phone in. In a couple of seconds the car filled with the sounds of an electric guitar backed up by a moderately driving beat. A man’s voice kicked in. After a couple of seconds, Shelter decided he liked it.