Cold Mourning

by Brenda Chapman

  Tom motioned Laurel over. He’d left his overcoat on and didn’t want J.P. to see that he was leaving early. Laurel said something to one of the men and he laughed as she stepped away from them. She made her slow way toward him, her hips swaying in time to the music like a stripper crossing the stage. Tom pulled her into the hallway.

  “I’m heading home,” he said. “I’m a bit done in.”

  “I can come with you. I don’t mind leaving.”

  Her eyes said otherwise. He could see the wine glow on her face and knew she was just warming up to the evening. He’d long since stopped worrying about trying to keep up with her. Their twenty-seven-year age difference had become an insurmountable chasm.

  “You should stay. If J.P. sees us all cutting out early, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “If you’re sure.” Her eyes slid past him, back into the glitter of the party room. The DJ had replaced Bing Crosby with Beyonce and couples were dancing in the centre of the gilt ballroom.

  “Will you manage to get home okay if I take the car?”

  “I have cab money if nobody is going my way.”

  “I’ll kiss Charlotte goodnight for you then,” he said.

  “She’ll be long asleep.” Laurel leaned forward and for a second he thought she might kiss him on the mouth. He felt her lips brush his cheek and the disappointment was more than it should have been. “Don’t wait up.”

  “I never do,” he mouthed at her retreating back. The musky smell of her stayed on his skin, like a memory that would not leave him alone.

  This time, it was an older bald man who delivered Tom’s silver Mercedes to the front of the hotel. Tom tipped him generously before slipping behind the wheel and pulling away, careful not to spin the tires on the patches of black ice. The doorman was spreading salt from a bag onto the driveway when Tom glanced into the rearview mirror. The temperature had risen since they’d driven to the hotel some four hours earlier, but it was still a cold night. He was glad for the blasts of dry heat coming out of the vents on either side of the dashboard.

  He drove toward the Rideau Centre and made a right onto the Canal driveway, following its curved length to the Pretoria Bridge. He stayed to the same side of the canal and continued south through the Central Experimental Farm. The blackness of the sky sequined in stars and the reassuring hum of the car’s powerful engine gave him the feeling of driving in the country, even though the farm was surrounded by subdivisions and commercial buildings. Turning onto Prince of Wales, he passed a string of bungalows with Christmas trees lit up inside their living rooms. He continued on to what used to be the country but was now a series of new subdivisions that had sprung up along the Rideau River. Winding Way, where his six bedroom grey stone with the three-car garage nestled, was another ten minutes away. The thought of going home to his mausoleum of a house was suddenly depressing.

  Tom stopped at a light and watched a woman and a boy around ten years walking along the other side of the road. It was late for the kid to be up. At that age, he’d have been long asleep no matter holiday or school night. The kid hung back, dragging his feet.

  For a moment, Tom flashed to the boy he’d been and the parents who’d tried to cocoon him from the world’s worst. They’d been lower middle class with strong Catholic values in a more innocent time. They’d be appalled at today’s youth if they were still alive. The world had changed drastically even between the short years raising Geraldine and Hunter and now Charlotte. He shuddered to think what lay ahead for his youngest daughter. Sometimes it felt like too much to deal with. He saw himself now, a man approaching sixty with more money than he would ever spend and no ability to keep the women in his life happy. He was running on empty, drained of conviction, an utter failure in anything that mattered. The innocent, hopeful boy he’d once been was long gone.

  But maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

  The light turned green. Tom released his grip on the steering wheel and pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The car powered forward while he rummaged inside his coat until he grasped his cellphone in his suit jacket pocket. He held it for a moment, debating with his inner voice that told him to just go home. Loneliness won out in the end. He kept one hand on the wheel as he looked down and punched in the familiar number. Two rings and her voice like warm honey in his ear.

  “Tom? Is that you?” He could tell he’d woken her. He smiled to think of her tousled hair and bleary eyes.

  “Yeah. Would now be a bad time…?” He hesitated, not sure he could get the words out. Her breath exhaled stronger in his ear but she didn’t speak. He knew she was weighing what his call could mean and whether she should let him in. “I shouldn’t have called,” he said, now sorry that he had. He shouldn’t have put her in this position. They’d agreed last time that it should be just that until they’d both made some changes.

  “I’ll leave the back door unlocked,” she said at last. Her voice was stronger as if she’d shaken away the sleep.

  “I have a bottle of Grand Marnier with me,” he said. “I’ll pick up a few glasses from the hutch on my way to your bedroom.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  She hung up before he did, but the night seemed less empty than it had a moment before.

  It was three a.m. when Tom pulled into his own driveway on Winding Way. The outside lights were on but the interior was in darkness except for a light in Winnie’s room on the far side of the house. She’d probably put Charlotte to bed and then fallen asleep reading. He turned off the engine and sat with his arms resting on the steering wheel, looking at his fortress until the car cooled and the chill began seeping into his bones. Only then did he stir himself to step outside the car into the winter night. Snow had begun to fall and it wet his face when he lifted his eyes to the sky. A bank of clouds had blown in to hide the stars.

  The ticking grandfather clock marked time as he padded upstairs in his socked feet. He’d left the lights off and the branches of the oak tree made dark patterns on the wall through the windows that lined the staircase. Laurel’s bedroom door was closed. He hesitated for a moment standing next to it, listening to hear her inside. At last he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Her bed was empty, the covers folded neatly over the pillows.

  He quietly closed the door and continued on to Charlotte’s bedroom. Her door was partially closed. He pushed it fully open and stepped inside. The one bright spot in his marriage was sleeping on her back, one arm wrapped around her favourite teddy and the other flopped over the side of the bed. He moved closer and gently lifted her arm to place it under the covers. She stirred and mumbled something but didn’t wake up. He straightened and looked down on her. Charlotte had inherited Laurel’s thick mane of hair. If her eyes had been open, he’d be staring into the same violet ones that had made him throw away his twenty-year marriage to Pauline. He reached out a hand to push the lock of hair that had fallen across Charlotte’s face but pulled back his hand before he touched her silken hair. Leave her, he thought. Don’t chance disturbing her sleep.

  He raised his hand to his lips and blew a kiss toward his sleeping daughter before backing as quietly as he could from her room. It was time to find his bed. Maybe tonight he’d had enough to drink so that his sleep would be long and dreamless. It would be the first time in a long time and his body could use the rest. His mind could use the oblivion.

  2

  Wednesday, December 21, 8:50 a.m.

  Kala Stonechild sat in her Ford pickup in the parking lot of the Ottawa Police Station just west of Elgin Street. She’d spent the better part of the night driving and could have done with a shower and a good night’s sleep. Instead, she had ten minutes to make it inside or risk starting off on the wrong foot. It might be better if she restarted the truck and pointed it north. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have done just that. She grimaced at herself in the rearview mirror and tucked stray strands of black hair behind her ears. She rubbed the grit out of her eyes with the backs of her hands.
r />   Ready or not.

  Stepping out of the truck was a pleasure after fourteen hours of driving. Her right leg had cramped and she winced as pain shot up from her calf. She took an extra turn around the lot to get the circulation flowing before heading toward Elgin Street and the front door of the station. The building was three storeys and flat grey, taking up a city block. The entrance was glassed in windows with a view of a giant mural painted the width of the far wall. Police officers in the community stared down at her in frozen stances. The uniformed cop on the front desk had probably been watching her on a television screen the whole time, but he barely glanced at her as she stepped up to the desk.

  “I’m here to see Staff Sergeant Jacques Rouleau,” she said, looking around the foyer, taking in the layout. His voice drew her back.

  “And who should I tell him is here to see him?” His nametag said Cooper.

  She forced a smile. “He’s expecting me — Officer Kala Stonechild. I’m reporting for duty.”

  Cooper lifted a clipboard and ran a finger down the list of names. “Here you are. Stonechild.” He looked at her directly for the first time. “I’ll just call Sergeant Rouleau to come get you. Have a seat if you like.”

  “Thanks, I’ll stand.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Ten minutes ticked by before a man in a grey suit walked toward her. He looked to be early fifties, but it was hard to tell because of his shaved head and lean body. Up close, his eyes were a startling green with tiny laugh lines etched into his skin.

  “Sergeant Rouleau,” he said, extending a hand. “Welcome Officer Stonechild. How was the trip down?” They started walking toward his office. His voice had the faintest trace of a French accent that she wouldn’t have detected unless she’d been listening for it.

  “There was a snowstorm outside Sudbury and I had to spend an extra day waiting it out. Other than that, the trip was uneventful.”

  Rouleau glanced sideways at her. “Did you find a place to stay in Ottawa?”

  She nodded. She hadn’t yet, but it wouldn’t take much to find one.

  They passed a room with several desks and officers talking on the phone and then turned right into another room. It was a little more cramped with six desks and a closed office directly ahead. The fluorescent lighting hurt her tired eyes. Three men stood next to a coffee machine, each one holding a full mug. They stopped talking and turned in unison when she and Rouleau walked in. Kala met their stares square on. An East Indian with darker skin than hers, a red-headed stocky Irishman, and a sandy-haired looker with brown eyes and wavy hair. She hoped he wouldn’t be her partner. All four men stood close to six feet tall; she’d be the short one on the team at five seven.

  Rouleau made introductions and each shook her hand. Sandeep Malik, Clarence Whelan, and Philip Grayson. “Whelan will show you around. You two will be working together.”

  The heavy-set, red-headed man gave her a nod. She was happy to see the wedding ring on his left hand. He had the look of a well-fed man happy with his lot. No complications. That’s all she wanted in a partner. No suggestive looks or subtle innuendos. No avoiding late-night drinks and pretending his hand on her leg wasn’t an invitation. She looked past him to the good-looking one, who by process of elimination had to be Grayson. He’d looked her over when she first came in, but now he was deep in conversation with Sandeep Malik. She turned to Whelan and held out her hand. He didn’t hesitate and reached out his own. His grip was warm and strong.

  “Good to have you on board, Kala.”

  “Thanks. Good to be here.”

  Rouleau was heading to his office. “Take Stonechild with you on that assault call. When you get back, she can get her paperwork over with.” He said it without turning and continued walking without waiting for a response.

  “Nothing like jumping right in,” said Whelan. “Your desk is there, facing mine. Sorry you won’t get a chance to warm the chair.”

  “Lots of time for that.”

  “Have you got a gun?” he asked. “Not that we’re going to need it on this call.”

  She patted her jacket. “Side arm. Don’t worry. I’ve got the carrying permit.” They started walking toward the door and out of the building. “It’s nice not having to wear a uniform.”

  They reached a black four-door Chevy and he motioned for her to get in the passenger side. “Good thing we have indoor parking,” he said, starting the engine and turning the heater up high, “because it’s as cold as a witch’s tit out there.”

  Cold air blasted into their faces. He backed the unmarked car out of his space and turned it to face the exit. They merged with the traffic onto Elgin and kept going south to the Queensway on-ramp heading west. He cut across two lanes to the show-off lane.

  Whelan glanced at her after they passed the Bronson exit. “There’s some perv in the west end who gets into apartment buildings and jumps women in the lobby. He likes to grab them from behind and fondles them through their clothes. Then he gives them a shove into the wall and runs off.”

  “Lovely. How many times has he done it?”

  “Five so far. This latest woman called it in twenty minutes before you arrived. She’s in her apartment and shaken up but says she’s not hurt. None of the women has given us a great description of the guy and we’re hoping this time we get more to go on.”

  “Is he escalating?”

  “Rouleau’s worried enough that he wants this nipped in the bud, so to speak.” Whelan flashed a smile. “Welcome to the big bad city. Our investigations unit is an offshoot of Major Crimes. It was formed to prevent crime from happening and to take over tricky homicide and major crime cases after a certain time period from Major Crimes. We’re the latest trial balloon. If we end up proving good value, we could be the way of the future, that is, if we get the chance to show our stuff.”

  “Some would say policing needs to start thinking outside the box.”

  “Or it just comes down to resources. Hard to keep a handle on crime if there aren’t enough cops on the street. So what brings you to Ottawa anyway?”

  “Just wanted a change.”

  “You were with the OPP up north?”

  “Yeah. Out of Red Rock. Before that, I worked a reserve in the far North. When this job came up, I thought it would be a chance to try city policing.” It was the story she’d decided on as she drove south. It was as good as any.

  Whelan glanced at her. “Where you staying?”

  “Not sure yet. I thought I’d bunk at the Y until I have a chance to look at apartments.”

  “I’d take you home but we have a one-month old with colic. You’ll thank me later for not offering.”

  “That’s okay. Your first?”

  “Second. Harry’s three and gotten wild since baby Logan showed up. Meghan is sending me for a vasectomy as soon as she can get me into a clinic. Either that, or separate bedrooms.”

  “More information than I need,” said Kala. “Really.” She pretended to cover her ears.

  Whelan laughed. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time and I like to lay my cards on the table.”

  “Well that makes one of us.” Kala smiled but she kept her eyes straight ahead. Traffic was light and they’d crossed the city in no time. Whelan eased the car across the lanes to the Woodroffe off-ramp.

  Rouleau filled his coffee cup for the third time that morning and wandered over to look at the photos of murder victims posted on the wall in their meeting area: a homeless man, two gang members, and a cab driver. They’d been handed the cases from homicide after his team formed – newly cold cases with little to go on. He wasn’t convinced his team would uncover enough evidence to solve any of them, but that wouldn’t stop them from painstakingly building the files. Solving any one of them would validate the unit’s existence.

  His heard his phone and made it back to his office by the third ring. He said his name automatically before he checked the incoming caller. Frances. It was a shock to hear his ex-wife’s voice.

>   “Jacques.”

  The same breathy way she’d always exhaled his name when they were together, a honeyed combination of warmth and exasperation. He smiled to hear her say it again. His heart beat faster. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.

  “I thought it was time, that’s all. We promised each other we wouldn’t end up hating, remember?”

  He closed his eyes. “I remember.”

  “I wonder … do you think we could meet for coffee or a drink maybe?”

  All the times he’d longed to hear her voice. For months she’d avoided contact, and now she was offering him … what? He had no way of knowing. “When?”

  “Tonight, if you’ve time. I know it’s short notice.”

  “I can make it tonight. Should I pick you up?”

  “No. I’ll meet you at the Royal Oak on the Canal at eight thirty. Just for a drink though. I’ll have already eaten. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine.”

  He hung up the phone and pictured his ex-wife the last time he’d seen her. She’d just come from the hairdresser’s and her naturally brown hair had been cut short and streaked with blond highlights that made her face pale and her eyes darker. She’d lost weight and walked with a new confidence, but he’d liked it better when she was a curvier size twelve. They’d just signed the divorce papers and she was in a hurry to cross the street and catch a bus to her apartment in Sandy Hill. She was wearing a new olive-green pantsuit with a gold scarf knotted around her neck and it had struck him sad at her need to remake herself. She’d tilted her chin up and out like she did when she’d made up her mind about something and wouldn’t hold his eyes as he said goodbye. He’d wanted to hug her but knew she wouldn’t welcome his touch. He’d made it the three blocks to his car before he’d crumpled into the front seat and wept.