Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Brenda ChapmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
to on this special project.
They were to have been an elite squad that prevented crime before it happened and took over some of the tougher-to-solve cases, giving Major Crimes some much needed support. An upsurge of gang activity and organized crime had all but overwhelmed the Ottawa force. Vermette had scuttled the trial balloon before it got started by insisting on a mountain of paperwork for every hour spent outside the office, and he continually tightened their budget. The team was now doubly weighted down in useless bureaucracy and a lack of resources. Vermette hovered like a buzzard on death watch. Rouleau understood the animosity. He’d turned down Inspector before the job was offered to Vermette. His decision had been made easy by the thought of endless meetings and political games, but considering it had made him feel like he was stagnating in Major Crimes. When the offer came a few months later to lead an elite trouble-shooting team, the challenge had appealed to him. It should have been a satisfying way to end his career. Unfortunately, Vermette found out he’d been second choice for Inspector, which unleashed a vindictive streak longer than the St. Lawrence River. He controlled the work that flowed Rouleau’s way, keeping the team on the outside looking in. Rouleau had selected Stonechild, not because of her experience, but because nobody on the Ottawa force wanted to be part of a unit that was rumoured to be folding by the end of the fiscal.
Rouleau sighed and headed for the door, flicking off the lights as he walked by.
The chill hit Rouleau as soon as he stepped inside the house. He kept his coat on and clumped down the basement stairs to look at the oil furnace that was original to the house. It was completely shut down.
Rouleau returned to the kitchen and called the heating company. The guy who answered promised someone would come by the next morning and have a look. He assured Rouleau that he was lucky to get an appointment so close to Christmas. Rouleau really wanted to believe him.
He hung up the phone and stood looking around the kitchen, at all the work left to be done. There should have been new gleaming white cupboards and stainless steel appliances, a hardwood floor, track lighting, porcelain backsplash. He and Frances had gotten as far as hiring a designer. They’d laid out what they wanted … well, what Frances had wanted, and he’d been happy to see her face light up as she described her latest idea. But there’d come a day she’d stopped talking about the colour of the walls and the shape of the light fixtures. The plans she’d pored over with such hope were yellowing in a folder in his bedroom.
Frances. He closed his eyes. What the hell was the point of it all?
He took a beer glass from the cupboard and poured himself a cold one from the fridge. He’d begun drinking Scotch in the evenings after Frances left. Six months of fitful sleep and hangovers. Six months of mourning. Now, he was down to a couple of beers and often, not even that.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, sipping from the glass as he went. A half hour of rest and then a shower and off to the west end. Maybe it was a good night not to be alone with his thoughts after all.
Kala drove her truck north on Elgin toward Parliament Hill, happy for a few hours to herself. It was her first opportunity to check out the address she’d tracked down three months before. It was nearly four thirty and dusk was already settling in. Stores and restaurants were decked out in twinkling Christmas lights and glitter while snow piled on the sidewalks gave the street a village feel. Pedestrian traffic was light.
She cruised past the war monument and the Chateau Laurier and followed the swoop of road left onto Sussex into the part of town called the ByWard Market. Spindly trees lined the roadway, weighted down by glowing Christmas lights in blue, red, and green. She passed the Bay department store and a giant Chapters bookstore before turning right into a rabbit’s warren of stores and restaurants that twined down the narrow side streets. People were walking purposefully down the snowy sidewalks and streaming across intersections on their way home from work or to meet friends in one of the many bars or restaurants. At a red light, she watched a man and woman meet and embrace in the middle of the crosswalk, his arms wrapping around her and her face turned up to his. They continued on their way, arms slung around each other, his face nuzzled into the collar of her coat.
She searched for street names printed on the city map as she drove slowly through the commercial district to low rent apartment buildings on the outskirts. The building she was seeking turned out to be dirty yellow brick with rusted balconies and cheap curtains or sheets hanging in the windows. She cruised the block looking for a parking spot. Two streets over, she lucked into a space in front of a beer store. She locked the truck and trudged down the side of the snowy street back the way she came.
The apartment building had a small foyer with metal mailboxes lined in a crooked row. A telephone and directory were positioned next to the door, but the lock was broken and she didn’t need to be buzzed in. She scanned the list of names and apartment numbers and frowned at the name next to apartment 301. She prayed the listing was a mistake.
She took the stairs rather than the claustrophobic elevator with the tarnished metal gate. A smell of stale beer and cigarettes reeked from the carpet in the hallway on the third floor. She surveyed the concrete corridor and counted six apartments. The one she was looking for was between the elevator and the garbage disposal. A faded bouquet of plastic flowers had been nailed on the door beneath the apartment number. Kala took a deep breath and lifted her hand to knock.
Disappointment coursed through her. The woman who peered out from behind the chain was not the person Kala was searching for. This woman was in late her twenties with bleached white hair springing from her head in frizzy coils and eyelashes caked in black mascara. A silk kimono with giant roses that climbed upwards from the hem wrapped around her skinny frame. The fabric gaped open above her waist to display a red bra and skin the colour of talcum powder.
“Yes?” The woman’s voice was husky from cigarettes; suspicious from living in a Centretown slum high-rise.
Kala held up her hands to appear non-threatening. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I thought my friend lived here. It’s the last address I have for her. I was hoping to get together over Christmas.”
“I moved in last month.” The woman’s stance relaxed but she kept the chain on the door. “Don’t know nothing about who lived here before me or where they’ve gone.”
“Is there anybody who might know?”
The woman screwed up her face while she thought. “The lady across the hall has been here a long time. She might know.”
“Thanks, and sorry again to have bothered you.”
Kala turned and crossed the hallway. She knocked on the door to 302 and waited. She knocked again. She didn’t hear any movement from within.
The woman from 301 called across to her. “Just remembered. She told me last week she was going away to visit her son.”
Kala turned. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Maybe tomorrow?” It came out like a question.
“I’ll come back then,” said Kala.
She would have left the woman in 301 with a phone number to call when the neighbour arrived home, but something told her this woman would hang up if she got the police department. Kala wasn’t sure the number of the YWCA and hadn’t had time to get her cellphone number changed to local. It would be better just to follow up herself. She’d waited this long. Another day wouldn’t matter.
The lobby was quiet when Kala returned to the Y to clean up for the party. The young girl behind the desk had been replaced by a white-haired man reading the Ottawa Citizen. He looked up and smiled as she walked by but didn’t try to engage in conversation. She liked that about him.
Once inside her room, she settled in the desk chair and pulled out her cellphone. Shannon should just be arriving home from work. It would be good to hear a voice from home.
Shannon answered on the third ring. She sounded out of breath. “I just got in the door. I’m so glad you called.”
“How are things in Nipigon?” How is Jordan? Does he know