His Hand In the Storm: Gray James Detective Murder Mystery and Suspense (Chief Inspector Gray James Detective Murder Mystery Series Book 1)

by Ritu Sethi

  It was time to leave the basement. He motioned Doug to precede him. They strode up the stairwell, where the air improved perceptibly, and parted in the lobby.

  Gray inhaled deeply and let clean air wash out his lungs. Somehow, he felt contaminated by more than that decrepit basement room. What was he missing? What had he just learned yet failed to understand?

  The sinking feeling in his stomach remained and would later be justified. A vital flaw marred one of their assumptions – one which if discovered, could have blown the case wide open. His cell rang.

  “You knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Gray covered the hospital lobby while listening to Vivienne on his phone. He couldn’t blame her for being angry.

  He needed a coffee, and after ordering it and paying the lady behind the lobby café counter, he slipped a tip into the appropriate container and gave her a wink. She playfully winked back.

  The day of the shooting, this woman had knelt before him, handed him a bottle of orange juice and saved him from passing out. In gratitude, Gray bought a single long-stemmed rose from the lobby gift shop and handed it to her.

  Reaching the front revolving doors where only a few days ago someone had shot at him, he stopped and took in a deep breath. The sun shone over rows of neatly parked cars, coating them in a gold patina.

  “Robert Black underwent gender reassignment surgery,” Gray said, “and then he took on the name Holly Bradley. That has no bearing on the case, and it’s her private business. I don’t know if the outstanding fraud charges play into the murders either. They probably don’t.”

  Her voice rose. Something was bothering her, something beyond the case. “How did you find out?”

  “I brought her medical file to Dr. Seymour with a list of pre-admission medications. He explained the reason she took them.” Gray gulped his coffee and pushed past the hospital doors, first looking to the right, then the left. Would he ever be able to go anywhere freely again?

  Gray got into his car and spoke on the hands-free. The engine sputtered, and the feeble heating once again blew tepid air at his face, leaving his feet cold. The upholstery stank of old car. He pulled out of the parking lot, navigating to the freeway.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked Vivienne. “I can tell something else is bothering you. You’re not yourself.”

  Silence. Then, he heard her sigh. “Saleem and I had a fight. I don’t want to discuss it. When I came home last night, his things were gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. Let’s get on with the case, okay? It’s easier that way.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Where’s Holly now?”

  “No one’s seen her. She’s probably hiding out to avoid her fellow Board members. There’s talk HealSo might have to return round B funding because of rumors of the embezzlement, but is she our killer?”

  Gray turned onto the freeway. “She has no alibi for the night of Norman’s disappearance. She tampered with a crime scene, lied about her identity, and has now disappeared.”

  He braked suddenly. A stalled car on the right forced traffic to merge into the left lane with little notice. What Gray wouldn’t give to be in his Audi, zigzagging between vehicles yielding real horsepower instead of having to drive this marshmallow.

  “Would Holly have the technical knowledge to make concentrated arsenic?” he asked Vivienne. “Working in a health tech startup, she might have pharmaceutical contacts who could do it for her.”

  “I don’t know. From what I’ve learned talking to Seymour, regular pharma can’t get this stuff. It’s experimental.”

  A thought – little more than a wisp of an idea – entered his mind, soon expanding and take on enormous shape. He suddenly hit the brakes. The car behind nearly rear-ended him, blasted the horn, and then passed, the driver spewing expletives in French.

  What Gray imagined seemed impossible. Or was it? He resumed driving.

  “Seymour called me with fingerprint results,” Vivienne continued. “The coffee packet at Jimmy’s had his and Kate’s prints on it. That’s no surprise. SOCO found an interesting print at Jimmy’s house, though.”

  The car jerked as he braked. You couldn’t take a right turn on red on the Island of Montreal, despite multiple attempts by the mayors of various districts to make it legal, but why should the city or the police give up regular income brought in by fines? Gray drummed his fingers; the idea in his mind continued to expand and light up the shadowy corners and crevices of the case. The street light seemed to take forever to change.

  “Jimmy dusted and polished his place obsessively,” Vivienne said, “so SOCO can be fairly certain of the timing of the prints. You’ll never guess who they belong to.”

  Finally, the light changed, and he made a right turn. The road suddenly became smoother, the sidewalks new as he entered Westmount. He’d anticipated the owner of the print before receiving these results.

  “Gabi,” he said, pulling into a spot across her house. “Gabi visited Jimmy on the afternoon of his death.”

  He could picture Vivienne’s mouth hanging open. “How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch.” Gray scanned the empty street. No kids played outside today. The snow had melted, leaving the street looking surprisingly naked and exposed.

  “What does this mean? Did Gabi poison the coffee? And if so, why aren’t her prints on the packet?”

  “Exactly. I’m at her house now. She’s got some explaining to do.”

  Gray put away his cell and tried the front door. No one answered. He returned to the car, prepared to wait.

  Her Mercedes sedan pulled up a few minutes later, the diesel engine softly churning. She unfolded out from the tan leather seat slowly, shoulders hunched, as though older and more worn down.

  Gray sprang out of his car. Hearing his approach, she turned and groaned. Mascara stains ran down her cheeks; she must have been crying. The bruise on her forehead still looked fresh.

  Now, her lips pressed together, and she wiped the dampness from her face in one harsh movement. Last time he was here, he’d accused her of being a child murderer. He was about to accuse her of something again.

  Gabi said, “I don’t want to talk right now.”

  “I can come back tomorrow.”

  She seemed to register this as a threat and strode up the paved steps. A thick set of keys jingled until she unlocked the front door.

  “You heard about Holly?” he asked, following her inside.

  “Yes. We all have. So much for making millions. That’s not why you’re here though, is it? Get to the point.”

  Today, the corner fireplace in the living room was pristinely clean, any previous ashes cleared. A chill permeated the room and sank into his bones, despite the warming temperature outside. She motioned, but he didn’t take a seat; didn’t mince words. “SOCO found your prints in Jimmy’s apartment.”

  Gabi dropped the keys on the sideboard with a clang.

  “Jimmy dusted and cleaned every day,” Gray added, “and you had to be there the day he died. Withholding information is an offense. Now, I have to ask myself why you wouldn’t mention it. The obvious answer is you went there to poison him. That you did poison him.”

  Her mouth hung open. “I didn’t.”

  “You laced his coffee with arsenic, just like you did to your childhood neighbor. Only Jimmy died more painfully, didn’t he? He bled all over the sofa and floor.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Did you even stay to see your neighbor die, all those years ago? Did he bleed too?”

  “Stop it. Stop it,” Gabi yelled.

  “I have your prints at the crime scene. You misidentified your husband’s body. Possibly tortured and killed him at HealSo, later transporting him to the beach.” Gray crossed his arms and stood with his feet apart. “You inherit Norman’s money. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you right now?”

  “Because I didn’t do it.” Sweat beaded down her brow; he
r face gave nothing away.

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve been lying from the start, conspiring with the killer.”

  She didn’t answer.

  He moved closer, his face inches from hers. “I know you were there, and I want the truth.”

  Her heavy breath touched his neck; he heard the rasping of each inhalation in the background silence.

  “Jimmy drank the coffee in front of me,” she said. “Hell, he even offered me some, and I refused. Cardamom always makes me gag.”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “To talk to him. Only talk.” Gabi pulled away, her back nearly against the wall. The cords in her neck jutted out under the collar of her blouse. “Norman told me about the death at HealSo last year. He got drunk and confided the entire cover-up to me – told me a patient died because of Simon’s alteration of the program. Norman could have prevented it; he didn’t. He said Jimmy might spill the beans. I knew if it came out, Simon would lose everything. I only wanted to persuade Jimmy to stay at HealSo, to...to...keep quiet.”

  Gray turned and paced the room. “What time did you go to his apartment?”

  “Ah, I don’t know. Maybe four in the afternoon?”

  “Did you see anyone else coming or going? Did Jimmy mention meeting anyone else after you left?”

  “No, and no. I don’t know what happened to him. And neither does Simon.”

  Gray felt the cold air go in and out of his lungs and continued to pace. His legs needed to move.

  “Holly’s behind this,” Gabi said. “What if Jimmy knew about her previous embezzlement and threatened to tell the Board?”

  “I’ll tell you what I believe,” Gray said. “That Norman told you more than you’re revealing. That you’re being threatened. I can protect you.”

  “Thanks for your concern.” Her tone sounded wry. “I don’t know anything else. So, unless you plan to arrest me –”

  He wasn’t getting anywhere, and the clock was ticking. Gabi looked relieved when he moved to the door, yet here she lingered at the doorway. Any second now, the door would slam, but for the moment, uncertainty played across her face.

  “Evelyn Cane heard her son’s agonizing cries.”

  Gabi’s eyes flickered. She looked beyond him at the road. “In your job, you can’t afford to make any assumptions, can you?”

  Gray hesitated. “No, we can’t.”

  “Not even the first thing you notice when you meet a person?”

  “You mean whether they’re a man or a woman? Are you referring to Holly’s surgery?”

  She looked at him and clicked her tongue. “Technology and advancement make life sterile, organized. I don’t trust them.”

  “I’m afraid your riddles are too complex,” he said.

  “Oh, but you are very, very smart, Chief Inspector. You’ll get there in the end.”

  She stepped back and shut the door in his face.

  CHAPTER 22

  April 4, 10 pm

  THAT NIGHT, GRAY went to bed with the vague discomfort that comes with being overtired, yet unable to relax. His mind seemed awake; his body didn’t. He felt at the edge of a precipice, on the brink of being able to solve the case; something restrained him. Lethargy, reticence, maybe even ambivalence about catching the killer. The entire thing made no sense. Best to stop thinking about it and call it a night.

  He stripped and got under the crisp sheets and felt them slide across his bare skin. The moon glimmered through spaces between thickening clouds and jeweled the surface of the river, highlighting each watery spoke as it rose and fell on a gelatinous surface.

  Breathing in stale, warm air, Gray got up to open the sash window; it always stuck. The breeze cooled his bare feet and blew the curtains. Tonight, the king-sized bed loomed large and empty. He’d go down to the studio and sculpt.

  Each descending step felt arduous. Century-old pine planks, splintered and discolored, creaked as he walked. The banister felt cold under his hand, and the belt of his robe dragged behind his feet.

  Opening the studio door, Gray stood. Each molding depicted Craig a few months older than the last, a row of imagined noses, ears, and high foreheads representing what the boy might have looked like had he lived past nine; Gray hadn’t given him the chance and could never quite capture that quivering lower lip, no matter how many nights he spent working under the stars and sky.

  Craig’s trembling lower lip came to mind – on that last day when he had stood by the marina, clutching a handful of wildflowers picked from the side of the bank to present to his father: bedstraw, bee balm, and creeping bellflower.

  “For you, Daddy.”

  His small arm held out an armistice while his eyes skirted to the thirty-five-foot diesel cruiser, then slowly back at Gray, aiming for a bravado his trembling lip betrayed. Craig preferred the safety of land, studying code, even knitting the red, white, and yellow winter scarf he’d given Gray for Christmas – but sailing in the open ocean off the East Coast – that frightened the small boy.

  “Are the flowers enough, Daddy?”

  What had Gray thought at the time? That his nine-year-old son wasn’t man enough? That despite his wife’s protestations, he had to toughen the boy up by taking him on a three-day father and son trip?

  Everything on that trip had gone wrong. The first day was calm, but by the second, the clouds bore down upon them with the moaning of sea and sky. The receiver and navigation system on the new sailboat weren’t working properly.

  By mid-afternoon, the clouds burst, and rain slammed their faces like marbles shooting through the air. Thirty-knot plus winds tore through their clothes and jostled the boat enough so that high waves poured in and flooded the cabin.

  The rest was a series of nightmarish images: Craig sitting in the cockpit huddled and pale in the careening boat, the metal fitting snapping under the creaking strain and slamming Craig’s temple; Gray lurching forward under the ten-foot wave and the crunch of the mast pinning down Gray’s right arm and ripping the tendons and spurting out blood as if from an open mouth. And those teasing lights of the approaching Coast Guard vessel, glinting in the distance – if he could hold on, a little longer, just a little longer.

  But the boat capsized, and he went down over and over and groped in the darkness for Craig, again and again. And Gray screamed. He screamed. He screamed.

  And Craig still rested underneath the water. Without anyone to protect him. Alone.

  Tonight, the sculpting wasn’t giving him the usual relief. Had something changed after his last interaction with Etienne?

  He had to get out of the house. Not wanting to cart the large set of keys, he quickly grabbed his cell. Downstairs, pulling on the sleeve of his woolen coat, he pushed the front door open and stepped onto his porch. The cold night air kissed his face.

  A walk would clear his head, and instinctively, he knew his legs would take him to the nearby beach park, to the spot of the original crime.

  Gray stepped onto his porch and pulled the door shut behind him. A rustle sounded from the bushes. He froze. His heart skipped a beat. Who’d be waiting here all night, expecting him to leave the house? It was probably a cat or a raccoon. Time to get a grip. Gray blew out a breath and headed up the sidewalk.

  The street lay quiet, lonely, with only the strengthening breeze rustling through the dancing leaves and grasshoppers rasping in the front lawns. The pungent smell of a damp and mulchy spring filled his nostrils. By the time he reached the empty beach park, a sheen of sweat had coated his entire body.

  He finally reached the spot where the faceless corpse had hung so recently, and yet, a lifetime seemed to have elapsed. An air of expectancy hung over the river. The first drops of rain brought forth that wet wool smell from his coat, and the heavy black sky loomed low overhead as if angry and obscuring the moon.

  The beach park was black, ominous. Colorless shadows of chains and rectangles twisted and gyrated, sounding soft metal clangs from the nearby swings. The ghostly howl of the wind wa
s different from any child’s playing laughter. Another cold drop hit his face, then another.

  Gray closed his eyes. Strange how unafraid he’d become when there was nothing left to lose, and how accepting of life and other people – where once he’d failed to accept his own son. Perhaps, this response to loss defined him as a man better than else possibly could.

  Norman had hung from a branch, a faceless entity, stripped of dignity and life, but he’d died somewhere else, exposed to the cold.

  Exposed to the cold. Before death. Seymour’s words resounded in Gray’s ears.

  Frozen before death.

  How very simple and how very stupid of him. Clarity descended; the skin on his neck prickled.

  He dialed the forensic pathologists home number, knowing the call wouldn’t be welcome this time of night yet unable to wait.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” Seymour said, his voice slurred and heavy. “We’re not all insomniacs you know. Some of us might even have company.”

  “Do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, no, but that’s not the point.”

  Gray shook his wet hair and felt it splatter his cheeks and neck. He strode to the water’s edge with his cell clutched in his right hand. “Sorry. Something you said has sparked a thought.”

  “God forbid.”

  “Norman’s body was exposed to the cold before death. What if the drop in body temperature induced death itself? Not the torture as we assumed, but the cold.”

  Gray waited through the silence on the other end of the line. The implications were clear, and Seymour linked together what they both should have considered much earlier – the pieces slipping into place – the doctor possibly slapping his head with his palm in a eureka moment.

  Seymour finally spoke, all grogginess gone. Gray heard a creak of bedsprings. “Induced death through the most likely mechanism, an arrhythmia – provided DNA evidence matches Norman to the corpse?”

  “Oh, it’ll match. I’ll have DNA results by tomorrow at the latest.” Gray pulled the wet woolen lapels around his neck. Water slid into his collar and down his neck. Legs he couldn’t control paced back and forth on the river’s edge with shingle crunching under his boots. “Put identification aside. If he died of arrhythmia from the cold –”