“Who’s this?”
“Ryan Adams.”
“It doesn’t sound like Bryan Adams.”
“RYAN Adams, you idiot,” she said, laughing. “Okay, let’s roll.”
Shelter was laughing too as he pulled out, turned up a side street, and headed north. Within half an hour, they were leaving the city on a two-lane highway that would bring them to the Lone Pine Reserve. Vast fields of wheat and bright yellow canola stretched to the horizon on either side of the road, interspersed with scrubby forests of poplar and jack pine. The farmhouses were modest; this had always been a tough, inhospitable environment to scratch out a living ever since Eastern European settlers broke their backs clearing the bush at the turn of the last century. The traffic was so light that Shelter had the feeling they were alone on this grey ribbon under an immense blue sky. The windows were down, and Nicki’s hair was blowing in the wind. She had her bare feet up on the dashboard.
For the first hour, they hardly spoke. Shelter tried asking her about work, but that brought a perfunctory response. He let it go and let his mind wander to the day ahead.
Eventually, Shelter said, “You told Doris we were on our way up today?”
“Yup. She’s waiting for us.”
“You’ve never been to the reserve?”
“We had no connection to that world when I was growing up,” Nicki said, dropping her feet to the floor and angling herself toward him. “It was Crystal who got back in touch with our grandmother. She was going to take my mom and me to see her, but she never got the chance.”
Shelter thought about Crystal’s neat apartment on Edmonton Street with her law degree framed on a wall and the work she’d been doing at Anishinaabe Awakening. His mind went from there to the body he’d seen laid out on the medical examiner’s steel table. What a waste. His desire to solve the case had intensified as he got to know Nicki and learned the details of Crystal’s life. It had become an overwhelming, all-consuming imperative from the instant Daniel Stokes had let him know the killer was still out there.
“How are you doing with what happened to Crystal?”
“It comes and goes, you know? I was just numb all the way through the protest march and funeral — busy organizing shit and working.”
“And chasing Rory.”
“And chasing Rory. Then I walked into her apartment last week and saw all her stuff. It hit me hard.”
“It takes time. I don’t think I’m over my wife dying, and it’s been more than a year.”
“That’s not a long time. Not over it how?”
“I’m just not interested in anything. Things I used to do after work — curling, running, drinking with my buddies. I dropped all of that when Christa got sick, and I just don’t feel like it anymore. And then there’s my daughter.” He looked over and raised an eyebrow.
“What?” she asked.
“Um, let’s just say it’s been hard on both of us. She’s a teenager and a handful right now, I guess.”
“I like her already,” Nicki said with a smile. “How old is she?
“Fifteen but acts like twenty-one.”
“If she’s anything like I was, you got to give her space to make her own mistakes.”
“I know. But it’s not easy, especially when you’re doing it all alone.”
“No matter how hard you think it is, she’s needs you to be strong. So be strong.”
Shelter took that in silence. His first reaction was to resent her lack of sympathy, but as he thought about it, he knew she was right. This wasn’t the time for self-pity. He had to be there for Kelsey and get her through these years.
Nicki pulled down the bill of her baseball cap. The next time he looked over, she was asleep. After an hour, they were entering the small farming town of Tracy, the last stop before the reserve began. Shelter parked the car diagonally in front of a cafe on the main drag. He touched Nicki’s shoulder, and she came awake with a jerk.
“We’re getting close. You want something to eat or keep going?”
“Pee break,” she said. “But let’s keep going.”
“Okay. How do you want to handle it when we get there?”
“I’m going to Doris’s house as soon as I get there. She’s waiting for me and going to introduce me to my grandma. You can drop me off there and meet up later.”
“Okay. But don’t tell her I’m here to interview Charlie.”
“You don’t think she’ll find out? It’s a small place.”
“I want to keep it quiet.”
She nodded and gave him a smile. “If you say so.”
The Lone Pine reserve covered a swath of land west of Lake Winnipeg, a mixture of sparse forest, grassland, marshes and ponds designated for the band in the late 1800s. Nine hundred community members lived on the reserve and a thousand more in Winnipeg and elsewhere. The main public buildings were scattered along a half-kilometre stretch of highway: a modern-looking school complex, a fire department, hockey arena, band office and RCMP detachment. Shelter pulled into the parking lot of a large general store with gas pumps, where Nicki got directions to Doris Bear’s house. The prefab bungalow was only ten minutes away at the end of a gravel road. Shelter waited until a middle-aged woman admitted Nicki to the house and waved to him that all was well.
RCMP Constable David Petrovich was in his mid-twenties, tall and well-built, with wavy brown hair. Dense multicoloured tattoos ran from both wrists up under the short sleeves of his uniform shirt. In one smooth movement, Shelter ran his eyes over the tattoos, up the black flak jacket to meet the Mountie’s gaze. He was wondering how a young officer could afford that much intricate ink work as they shook hands.
“Detective Shelter,” Petrovich said.
“Make it Mike.”
“Dave. I’m ready to go.”
Shelter had briefed him on the phone with as much information as he could about the investigation but had been vague about his interest in Osborne. He referred only to some financial dealings that may or may not have a bearing on the Crystal Rempel murder.
Keeping the peace on reserves could be tough, dangerous work for young Mounties who moved from community to community across Western Canada, gaining experience before moving up in the service.
“I’m pretty sure he’s at his house,” Petrovich said over the roof of his cruiser car. “I went around this morning, and his truck was there.”
“You get a lot of action out here?” Shelter asked, settling into the passenger seat.
“It’s not bad compared to the fly-in reserves up north. Some drug busts and kids pulling B&Es or getting rowdy. And, of course, the domestic and child welfare stuff.” He shot Shelter a glance.
Shelter nodded as the car picked up speed on the highway. He’d been mentally preparing all morning for the meeting with Osborne but still felt jumpy. The evidence against him in the Rempel and Sinclair murders was fragmentary, far from enough for an arrest. Shelter remembered seeing Osborne with Rory Sinclair in the pool hall — how nervous he’d been and how uncooperative. He’d used Sinclair to get Monica Spence and Pam Daniel to the Bond Hotel, and Crystal Rempel knew that. She also knew Charlie was tied up in a land deal with Bill Craig. Did she have other evidence that Shelter was unaware of? Had she confronted him with her suspicions when she travelled to the reserve in the days before she was murdered? Osborne knew her well enough to have lured her away from the bar that night. And living on the reserve all his life, he likely had the skills for the long-range rifle shot to kill Rory Sinclair. But there was the blue duct tape and plastic tarp. Could he really have a source in the police department?
“What’s your impression of Charlie?”
“I’m from a small town in Saskatchewan, and that’s essentially what you’ve got here,” Petrovich said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. “With all the gossip, jealousy and politics that go with it. We try to keep our noses out of the politics and stick to policing. But there are opposing clans and an election for band council early next year. Whoever contr
ols council controls the budget, so the stakes are high. Just between you and me, Lyle McKay is the chief, but they say Charlie is the real power, and he likes it that way — a low profile. He probably already knows you’re on the reserve, by the way.”
“How about Doris Bear?”
“A great person,” he said without hesitation. “She tries to keep kids in the community. She’s also been pretty critical of the band council — the salaries they pay themselves while some of the people are living in terrible housing conditions. The rumour is she’s going to run for chief.” He hit the turn indicator. “She’s tough. But I like her.”
Petrovich pulled off the highway onto a gravel road, and after a few minutes they came to a large two-storey house sheltered on three sides by poplar and pine trees. It was a more impressive structure than Doris Bear’s home, with a two-car garage and spacious deck visible at the rear. A recent-model Dodge Ram pickup was parked on the driveway. Getting out of the car, Shelter kept his eyes open for dogs, but all was quiet.
Petrovich knocked on the aluminum screen door, and after a moment a boy of perhaps ten appeared.
“Your dad around?”
Without answering, the boy skipped into the house, calling, “Dad.”
A few moments later, Charlie Osborne came to the door. He was dressed in clean but well-worn jeans and a cowboy shirt stretched over his huge gut. He looked from Petrovich to Shelter without greeting them or giving any other reaction.
“Hello, Charlie,” Petrovich said. “This is Detective Michael Shelter from the Winnipeg Police Service. He wants to ask you a few questions.”
Osborne had his hand on the inside door and looked ready to close it. “Questions about what?” he asked. His lips barely moved as he spoke. Shelter took a half step forward. “We met at the Double Deuce a while back. I’m still looking into the Crystal Rempel murder.”
“Don’t know anything about that. You’re talking to the wrong guy.” He started to close the door, but before he could, Shelter said, “I’m surprised you don’t want to cooperate. Someone you knew well, someone with roots in your own community with such a bright future.”
Osborne let out a sigh and rolled his shoulders. “You want to talk about Crystal, talk to the chief. He’s the official spokesman for Lone Pine.”
“One of your buddies seems to be trying to pin it on you,” Shelter said. He’d prepared the line to get Osborne’s attention. He knew it was a gamble, but he had to do something to keep the door from being slammed in his face. Osborne’s reaction was almost imperceptible — a slight muscle spasm near his eye.
“Which buddy?”
“Why don’t you just come down to the detachment and we’ll go through it?”
“I’m not going to no police station.”
This was progress. Osborne was now entertaining the idea of talking. Shelter sensed he was nervous, anxious to know what the investigation had turned up. “Okay. We can do it in your kitchen if you like.”
Osborne considered this. “We can talk out here,” he said, pointing to his driveway.
He abruptly closed the door. Shelter led Petrovich down the stairs and across the driveway to where the cruiser was parked. After a couple of minutes, the door swung open and Osborne emerged in a pair of worn work boots. He circled the two police officers to lean an elbow on the hood of his pickup. “Who’s this buddy?”
“Bill Craig, a business partner of yours, I hear,” Shelter said. “He told us you were supposed to be on the reserve July 8th. That’s the day Crystal was killed. But he saw you in downtown Winnipeg. The question is, where were you the evening of July 8th?”
“I was on the road, coming back here. I had a business meeting and then headed back after dinner.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“My wife can confirm I came home.”
“At what time?”
“Around ten, maybe.”
“You admit you know Bill Craig.”
Osborne’s chubby face cracked into a thin smile. “He’s our partner in developing an urban reserve downtown.”
“Why is he telling us you were in Winnipeg when you weren’t supposed to be?”
“That’s your interpretation. I don’t tell Bill every time I change my plans.”
Shelter nodded and decided to change tacks. “There’s a picture of you with Bill in a hotel room at the Bond Hotel with two prostitutes. One of them was Monica Spence. Your friend Rory Sinclair was there too.”
Osborne shrugged and remained silent. He looked off toward the stand of trees on the other side of the road.
“Crystal believed you killed Monica because she was blackmailing you with that picture. That’s why she came up here — to confront you.”
Turning to look at Shelter, Osborne let out a brief, bitter chuckle. When he spoke, it was louder, more forceful. “Is that really all you guys got? Blackmailing us about what?” The corner of his lip lifted in a sneer. “That little girl couldn’t have blackmailed a bag of chips off her best friend.” He crossed his arms and kicked some gravel with the toe of his boot. “I know you’ve been sniffing around our business with Bill’s company. Go on and sniff, man.” After a beat, he jabbed a finger at Shelter. “Nobody’s going to stop that project.”
He put the glasses back on and started walking toward the house. When he was at his front steps, he turned around and called to them. “She came out here, just like you, making accusations. Don’t make ’em true. Not then. Not now.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
By the time Shelter and Petrovich got back to the RCMP detachment, the sun was high. Shelter let the Mountie go ahead into the building, and standing in the parking lot, he pulled out his cellphone and punched in Nicki’s number. As he waited for her to answer, his eyes picked up a battered Chevy racing down the highway. A man, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, was in the passenger seat. He locked eyes with Shelter as the car approached and made a gun out of his hand, thumb in the air, index and middle finger pointed through the open window. He fired a shot at Shelter.
“Hey,” Nicki said. The car was gone around a bend.
Shelter closed his eyes behind his sunglasses, hot wind on his face. It took a moment to collect his thoughts. “How’s it going with Doris?”
“Good, she’s been telling me about Crystal’s time up here. How about Charlie?”
He was wary of Nicki getting any more involved in the investigation than she already was. But Osborne had been open enough about his relationship with Bill Craig and the land deal in Winnipeg. He knew it was a matter of public record and would be making news soon enough.
“He wasn’t helpful. But it was good to talk face-to-face.”
“Hold on,” Nicki said. She listened to someone in the room with her. She came back on the line. “Doris says you should come over, and we’ll go to my grandma’s house together. It’s close by.”
Shelter thanked Petrovich and told him he would be in touch. Five minutes later, he was knocking at Doris Bear’s door. She was in her late fifties, with plump cheeks and a warm smile. Her brown hair was cut around her ears and parted down the middle. She was short, barely reaching Shelter’s shoulder, and dressed in a white blouse and jeans. She ushered Shelter into a living room that was simple but kept with care. A worn couch and armchair set were grouped around a coffee table. On the walls were framed photos of children at various ages: a boy in hockey gear, a girl in a T-shirt and shorts standing on a beach with a baby in her arms. On an end table was a family shot: the two children, Doris and a heavy-set man Shelter assumed was her husband. Nicki joined them from the adjoining room, where she’d been sitting, looking through a photo album.
Shelter glanced over at Nicki and gave her a quick smile. When he looked back to Doris, he caught her giving a clandestine nod to Nicki. It occurred to Shelter that she and Nicki had become more intimate confidantes than he’d realized, brought together by the death of Crystal Rempel. They would have discussed everything that had gone on in Winnipeg, including h
is suspicions about Charlie Osborne.
“Doris was showing me pictures of her family and some community events,” Nicki said. “Treaty days begin on the weekend.”
“Big celebration?” Shelter asked.
“Dancing, a feast, a baseball tournament,” Doris said. “It goes on for a week.”
“Band members have been getting paid by the government every year since the treaty was signed in the 1870s,” said Nicki, clearly intrigued by this piece of her history.
“It’s symbolic,” Doris said, smiling. “Five bucks a head. Enough to buy an ice cream sundae. It’s our connection to the Crown and a reminder to everyone we signed a treaty nation to nation. We were never conquered. But you knew that already, right, Mr. Shelter?”
It was a jab, but a good-humoured one. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Have you eaten?”
Doris had made a plate of egg salad and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. They sat around the dining room table, munching and sipping coffee. Doris explained her husband had died two years earlier from a heart attack brought on by diabetes. Her children had left for the city, her daughter to study nursing in Winnipeg, her son to start a construction business in Calgary. She found herself alone and threw herself into community activism with a small group of friends.
“There’s a lot of pressure on the young people. We start early, finding good foster homes for kids who’ve been taken from their parents either here in the community or in Winnipeg. We also try to help young people who’ve gotten into trouble. We get them out of the gangs, out of prostitution, off the drugs.”
“Is that how you met Crystal?” Shelter asked.
Doris passed the plate of sandwiches. “We met in Winnipeg at the Friendship Centre. She ran a legal aid clinic every Tuesday with her boyfriend, Moses. We started talking, and she told me her mother was from Lone Pine.” She glanced at Nicki and smiled. “I’m close to the grandmother of these girls. She’s an elder and a spiritual leader here.”
Omand's Creek: A gripping crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense Page 21
