He hesitated and then said, “Let’s play it by ear. This could turn into a busy day with the missing woman case.”
“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.” She put her head down and waited for him to go into his office, but still he lingered. He was looking at her when she finally raised her eyes to his.
“You know that Fiona and I are separated,” he said. He rubbed a hand across the scar on his cheek. “When I told you that our marriage was over a few months ago, I meant it. We’ll be getting divorced when she comes back from her stint at the university.”
“Sure.” She could see that her one-word response wasn’t what he was expecting and wasn’t certain what emotion she saw on his face.
He put his hands into his pockets. “I’m not spreading the news yet, but wanted you to know.” He turned without waiting for her to answer.
She watched him walk back into his office while she pondered their unspoken relationship. They both had reasons for keeping their interactions professional. Even if he was free of his marriage and they acted on their mutual attraction, once their affair ended — as she knew it would — working together would get awkward. She looked down at her computer and opened the Google search screen. No point even thinking about starting up with Gundersund. Fiona would never be out of his life anyway no matter what he believed now. Kala had the feeling that Fiona was biding her time out west and planning the best way to ensnare Gundersund once again. Their tempestuous relationship was common knowledge around the office and nobody seriously thought he stood a chance if Fiona wanted him back.
Kala searched out numerous reports in the Whig archives about the search for Zoe Delgado during the crucial first days when she went missing fourteen years earlier. After seven days of searching, her fully clothed body was found in the marshland a kilometre or so off the main Rideau Trail north of her neighbourhood. The paper had printed Zoe’s high school photo and Kala studied it closely, trying to get a sense of the girl. She had a wide, happy smile, pert nose, and large brown eyes that reminded Kala of a baby doe. Her hair had been long, dark brown, and straight. She was small of frame, according to the paper: five foot three, 110 pounds. The paper had printed shots of the marshy location next to the woods and river where the police search had found her body and daily updates tracked the search for her killer, including pleas for anyone with information to come forward. Tristan McKenna’s name was mentioned in every article as the ex-boyfriend and the main suspect. An arrest was expected but never came. The stories gradually petered out with the final headline six months later: Who Killed Zoe Delgado? A photographer had captured Tristan ducking from the camera, looking angry and guilty as hell. Several anonymous sources were quoted as saying they had no doubt he’d gotten away with murder. Zoe’s father Franco Delgado said that justice had not been done in his daughter’s case and they all knew who killed her. He stopped short of naming Tristan, but the implication was there in the articles.
Kala stopped reading and looked up as she heard someone enter the office. She smiled to see Tanya Morrison walking toward her carrying a stack of files.
“I’ve been recruited to give you a hand.” Morrison returned her smile and set the files on Kala’s desk and pulled over the visitor chair. “These are the files on the Zoe Delgado case that you requested from Records. Do you believe this cold case is linked to the missing woman?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Kala rifled through the stack of papers until she found the picture of the woods and path where the police had found Zoe’s body. “Does this location look familiar?” She waited while Morrison read the article. Morrison thumbed through the first pages of the police file until she found a description of the location with more photos of the area.
“I know approximately where this is although it might be harder to find the exact spot in the winter. These photos were taken early fall, by the state of the trees.”
“How about we take a drive over there to have a look?”
Morrison checked her watch. “Sure, it’s almost lunchtime and I could use some fresh air.”
“Let me call Woodhouse to make sure we aren’t stepping on his toes.” Kala picked up her phone and then set it back down. “It’s not like Zoe Delgado and the woman missing now are connected. At least not yet. I think we can safely visit the site without letting Woodhouse know.”
“No need to poke the ugly grizzly with a stick.”
Kala laughed. “Exactly. You haven’t been working in Major Crimes long but you have Woodhouse pegged.”
“Believe me, everyone in the Kingston Police Force knows about Officer Woodhouse. I think his picture is in the training manual under assholes to avoid.”
Kala parked on Sherwood Drive where it dead-ended next to an entrance to the Rideau Trail. From here, it would be a twenty-minute walk to the McKenna house on Grenville Crescent but a less-than-five-minute drive. The sun was blazing in a cloudless sky although the air was cold and a brisk wind was blowing from the northwest. “It’ll be protected in the woods and not this bitter,” she said, pulling the hood of her parka over her head before tucking her hands inside her pockets. She was wearing gloves, but they were thin leather and not nearly warm enough for a day like today. Luckily, she’d put on her warmer boots before leaving the house.
“January is my least favourite month,” said Morrison. “Spring always feels a long way off when it’s minus twenty with a wind chill.”
“I like the winter months when they stay cold. I can’t get used to the freeze-thaw cycles in southern Ontario. Kingston winters are brutal that way. It’s as if the weather can’t make up its mind and commit.”
“Sounds like my husband.” She gave a sideways grin and Kala decided to let the flip comment go. She didn’t know Morrison well enough to probe.
They turned left on the trail, passing a house and property at its entrance with thick woods closing off their sightline to other homes. The last layer of snow had been packed down by dog walkers and cross-country skiers, making walking easy and not unpleasant now that they were out of the wind. They were about ten minutes in when Morrison stopped and looked around. “We need to get off the trail and follow the blue route to the marshland. See the markers on the trees. Based on the written report and the photos, Zoe’s body was found a kilometre or so into the brush at the end of this path.”
“Are you quite sure that we’re close to the right spot?”
“The police report was specific enough and I have a good sense of the area, having grown up not too far from here. I spent a lot of time in the woods as a kid. We might have to walk a bit, but I think we’re close.”
They set off farther into the woods. The snow was deeper, not as packed down, and their pace slowed. Kala inhaled the pine scent of the forest and listened to the swooshing of the wind through the boughs overhead. Periodically, sharp shafts of sunlight broke through the dark canopy of branches. The woods weren’t so thick that they couldn’t wind their way past trees and through bushes and undergrowth with relative ease, that is, except for wading through untrampled snow. It looked like nobody had been this way since the last snowfall and when they reached the tall grasses and reeds of the marshes Kala didn’t see any signs of activity. They tromped south through the stalks, the trees and bushes on their left.
“Should be close now,” Morrison said, her breath exhaling in smoky puffs of vapour that blew away in the wind. They’d been exposed to the wind’s sharp bite since leaving the cover of the trees. They’d battled their way through the worst of it when Morrison pointed to a scrubby spot near a giant pine. “This looks like the location.”
Kala walked alone to the place where Zoe Delgado had been found and knelt in the snow to study the terrain closely. The wind buffeted her more gently in her squatting position and the sun felt stronger near the earth. She bowed her head and said a silent prayer for Zoe’s spirit before inspecting the ground and raising her head to take in the full expanse of the landscape. “How close are we to the McKenna house?”
“It’s not far from here. Maybe ten minutes once we get back onto the Rideau Trail and then cut over to where it runs behind Grenville Crescent.”
“Let’s walk in that direction and then we can take the streets back to my truck.”
“If you like.”
They began making their way in single file down the narrow path with Morrison in the lead. It was easier going back since they could step in their own footprints, where they’d packed down the snow on their way in. Kala tried to imagine the woods that autumn fourteen years ago. Today, the branches were frosted with snow and the path was a narrow ribbon winding through the shelter of trees and bush. The smaller path branched into the wider Rideau Trail and the sunlight strengthened. They turned right and started south toward Grenville.
“The police found Zoe Delgado’s body seven days after she went missing,” said Kala. “Were you living in Kingston then?”
“Yes, I remember that time clearly because the city was on edge before and after she was found. At first, we thought a rapist was on the loose but then the news focused in on her ex-boyfriend as having killed her. After that, the story died away and the fear lessened. We went back to our regular routines.”
“Was she killed where her body was found?”
“I believe that was the conclusion, but it rained solid for two of the days and it was hotter than normal for that time of year. Looking back on it now, I’d think much of the physical evidence would have been lost.”
“Was she raped?”
“Initially, we thought so because the news reports said that some of her clothes were missing, and we were scared about a rapist, but I believe that was later refuted. The information should be in the files. Are you thinking of picking up the cold case?”
“While interesting, if Vivian McKenna turns up alive and well, I can’t see that I’ll be pursuing it.”
They reached a curve in the trail and Morrison shouted over her shoulder, “We should be getting close to Grenville Crescent.” She looked back at Kala and stopped walking, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She held up her other arm and pointed into the bushes. “I see something in that gap between the trees. That bit of blue. Do you see it there?”
Kala hurried toward her and squinted through the snow-laden branches. The blue was a sapphire shade and stood out starkly against the snow. “I’ll check it out.”
She waded through the thick snow and knelt next to the alder trees. The bit of blue was fabric and she carefully began brushing away snow. She knew that Vivian McKenna was supposed to be wearing a blue coat and pulled her phone out of her pocket and snapped several pictures before she looked back at Morrison.
From her position near the ground, she could see markings from a branch that had been used to smooth out the snow between her and the path and her heart quickened. She’d been on the lookout for Vivian McKenna the entire time they were in the woods, hoping she was wrong about the possibility of finding her body near Zoe’s murder scene. “I’m going to dig a bit with my hands.”
Morrison also had her phone out. “I’ve got that bad feeling again.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
She’d accepted the worst before she cleared enough snow to see her. The woman was lying on her side, back toward the trail, hunched in on herself in a fetal position. Her long black hair was crusted with frost and snow that had blown around her body like a protective sheet. One arm lay extended in front of her, fingers rigid in a red leather glove. This was without a doubt Vivian McKenna … and her unborn child. Kala straightened and looked back at Morrison’s anxious face, reddened by the wind and a startling contrast to the bloodless face lying on the ground in front of her.
Morrison’s arm was raised, the hand holding her cellphone resting on her shoulder. “What have we got?”
“It’s not good news,” Kala said. “You can let Gundersund know that we’ve found Vivian McKenna. We’re going to need Forensics and Woodhouse will have to be informed.”
“Shit,” said Morrison. “Shit.” She shook her head and lowered the phone to call in.
Kala took a last look at the still form and said a silent prayer for her too before backing her way toward Morrison, being careful to use the same footprints that she’d made on the way in. They’d stay until the team arrived and wait for further instruction. Once back on the Rideau Trail, she pulled out her cellphone and texted Dawn to not keep supper waiting. Their lives were going to be put on the back burner for the foreseeable future.
chapter nine
“What kind of sandwich would you like today?” Vera asked as she slipped one arm into her coat. She stood in the doorway to Rouleau’s office and he looked up from his laptop.
“No sandwich today, thanks. I’m going out for a break.”
Vera looked skeptical. “You’ve never taken a lunchtime break before.”
“I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Well, that’s good. You’ve been working much too hard.”
He put on his coat after she’d left and picked up a copy of the Globe and Mail on his way to his car. He’d find a quiet place to have lunch downtown and then walk along the waterfront. With a craving for haddock and chips, he found a parking spot near the Pilot House and entered to discover the tables full with only standing room left near the bar. He squeezed in beside two men discussing hockey in animated voices and ordered a pint of local beer, surveying the room as he drank. His gaze halted on reporter Marci Stokes, who raised her head from her laptop to return his stare from a corner table. Her face broke into a smile and she waved him over.
“Please join me for lunch,” she said.
“I don’t want to interrupt your work.”
“No problem.” She closed her laptop and took a sip from her glass, which he knew to be her usual gin and tonic. “I could use the company and you’ll force me to actually take a break for once. I have a few hours to deadline and I’m on the edits now.”
“Then how can I refuse?”
He sat and Marci motioned for the waitress to come over. They both ordered the fish and chips. Marci waited for the waitress to leave before she leaned across the table.
“That was a short press briefing this morning. I was expecting you’d take some questions, such as why was the missing woman’s husband not there to ask for his wife’s safe return?”
“I thought this wasn’t going to be a working lunch?” He smiled but was already regretting his decision to sit with her.
She laughed. “I know. I’m incorrigible, aren’t I?” She sat back in the chair. She ran a hand absentmindedly through her hair, which had loosened from a clip at the back of her neck. The green sweater she was wearing had stretched and lost its shape over time but he would bet that she couldn’t care less. “Okay, change of subject,” she said. “What do you do for fun?”
“For fun?”
“On those long winter evenings when you’re not at work? Do you have a secret life?”
“No, but now I’m wondering if you do.” He thought of what to tell her and realized his world sounded boring no matter how he spun it. Simple honesty would have to do. “I spend most long winter evenings with my father, cooking supper and discussing the news over a glass of Scotch.”
“That sounds lovely. I met your dad once and found him utterly charming.”
“He is that. He’s started working on a puzzle of a medieval city and recruits me to help slot pieces into place. Five thousand pieces of mainly grey and black is proving to be a challenge. He says it will help to keep Alzheimer’s at bay. I’m starting to believe he’s secretly offering this preventative measure for me rather than himself.”
“Once a parent.”
“Always a parent.”
She toasted him with her glass. “No kids, Jacques?”
“No.”
She tilted her head and rested her chin on the back of her hand as she studied him. “You would have made a good father. I was sorry to hear about the death of your ex-wife.”
/>
He nodded. Even now, he couldn’t bear to talk about Frances. He asked instead, “And you? Any kids?”
“I raised my two younger sisters if that counts. My father died soon after Cicely was born and my mother became a hopeless drunk. She hid it enough to hold down a job but we never knew when or if she’d make it home. My dad was the love of her life and we were a poor substitute.”
“I’m sorry.” He could see more pain in her face than she was likely aware. He could imagine how these early experiences had shaped her into the reporter she’d become: dogged, closed off, and tough.
“No need. I’ve long since reconciled. Cicely and Wendy are both in long-term relationships and doing fine. I’m in good shape too.” Her mouth raised in a self-mocking half smile.
They stopped talking when the food arrived. Marci ordered a second drink and Rouleau declined.
“So, will you be staying in Kingston much longer?” he asked after they’d both eaten a few bites.
“Good question. I’ve had another offer in New York, back at my old paper. I’m not sure returning would be a smart move. Plus, the Whig offered me the assistant editor job, which I turned down for now after some reflection. They’ve left the door open.”
“Why did you turn it down?”
“Honestly? I like being a reporter and came to realize that I might be giving too much up after I took the editing gig for a few months. Be careful what you wish for, huh?”
“Is your ex still an editor at the New York Times?”
“He is. He’s also the one asking me to go back with a raise and the job I’ve been after since I started. Top dog on the foreign desk.”
“Sounds like he wants to get back with you.”
“One would assume.” She picked up her drink and sighed. “I’m not sure I can do it anymore.” She took a long swallow and set the glass back down. “What would you do in my position?” Her eyes searched his face.
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