David blinked and moved his lips. Fear pulsed through him, an emotion dredged up from another time. He wanted to say, We promised never to speak of these things. This is not the time to drag it up from the corner of hell where it belongs, but his mouth wasn’t working.
Boris scratched the white stubble on his cheeks. His breathing was laboured as if he’d been running. He wheezed softly as he spoke. “The police were by your house today. Not the same ones that came when the girl went missing. They’re probably retired by now. Antonia happened to be there having tea with your wife, which could mean something or nothing.” He cleared the phlegm from his throat. “Seems your daughter-in-law, the dark-haired one, went for a walk and didn’t come home.” He paused. “I hear she’s pregnant.”
He paused and David’s mind felt as if it were free-falling through time and space. His heart was beating like a frightened bird in his chest, trying its damnest to get out. “Nooooo.” He said it this time and was rewarded with a trickle of drool down his chin.
“What’s that you’re trying to say?” Boris asked. His face was inches from David’s mouth and David felt the heat from him. Smelled his gamy sweat. Boris pulled back enough that David could breathe again.
“I’m looking after it. I just wanted to let you know in case this doesn’t end well like the other time.” He patted David’s hand lying exposed on top of the bedspread. “I’ll do what I can to make sure the past stays that way. You can rest easy knowing that. I just thought you should know before you heard the worst from somebody else.”
chapter seven
Jacques Rouleau was in the office earlier than usual to meet with Gundersund and Stonechild after Gundersund texted at 6:00 a.m. to say that a pregnant woman named Vivian McKenna had not been heard from since the previous afternoon. He found the team already gathered in his office, which Gundersund was now occupying while he took over Heath’s. Bennett was pouring a round of coffee when he arrived and he gratefully accepted a cup.
“I only now heard the name of the missing woman,” said Woodhouse. “She’s married to a guy who killed his girlfriend fifteen or so years ago. Tristan McKenna.”
“He was never charged with her murder,” said Gundersund, looking at his computer screen. “In fact, he denied killing her and there was no evidence that he did. They were high school kids. Zoe was in grade eleven and Tristan was in grade ten. What age would that put them at? Fifteen and sixteen?”
“I was a few years ahead of Tristan’s older brother and at college when Zoe was killed. What was his name?” Woodhouse tapped his head. “Adam. That’s it — Adam McKenna. Anyhow, Tristan had been dating this girl Zoe Delgado and she’d broken up with him. She went missing soon after they split, maybe a week later, and her body was found a week after that in the marshland near the Rideau Trail. Her throat was cut open, but the knife was never found. Tristan McKenna might have gotten away with killing her, but everyone knew he did it.” Woodhouse paused dramatically. “And now, his pregnant wife is missing.”
“Well, why don’t we just go arrest him right now and get it over with?” said Bennett. “Screw the part about collecting evidence.”
“Sarcasm isn’t helpful,” said Woodhouse. “Even you have to admit that if another woman he’s involved with is missing, this could lean toward the suspicious side of the street. Another woman with long dark hair, I might add.”
Rouleau asked Gundersund. “How many hours has she been unaccounted for?”
“She left home around one thirty yesterday so that makes it eighteen hours since anybody heard from her. Her phone appears to be turned off. I’ve circulated her photo and description with the patrol officers. They haven’t spotted her yet.”
“I think it’s time to get the team on this. Interview the husband and the rest of the family. You said in your text that they’re here because the father is ill?”
“That’s right. He’s in Kingston General.”
“It’s early to put out a missing-person bulletin, but we need to have a clearer assessment before we sound the alarm, anyway. She might have had a fight with her husband and caught a bus out of here. You never know.”
“Wouldn’t be the first knocked-up woman to do something crazy. Their hormones get worse than at their time of the month.” Woodhouse looked at Stonechild and she returned his stare without blinking.
“Sharp insight from the man whose girlfriend is a blow-up doll,” said Bennett.
A round of laughter erupted as a purplish-red suffused upward from Woodhouse’s shirt collar. He glared around the circle and let his angry stare rest on Bennett. “Talk shit now, Bennett, but remember you’ll be returning to my charge in a few weeks. We’ll see how funny you find things then.”
Rouleau held up a hand. “Enough, children. The people who should be offended are all women and the men who respect them. Knock off the sexist comments, Woodhouse, and no need to sink to it, Bennett. Gundersund, keep me in the loop about this search and let me know if you need my assistance. God knows I wouldn’t mind getting out of some of the meetings filling up my agenda.” He wondered if he looked as tired as he felt, and the day was only getting started.
He returned to his office and stopped at Vera’s desk on the way. “Any word from Heath?” he asked as he did every morning.
Vera’s smiling red lips turned downward into a frown. “No, and nothing from Laney. She usually posts photos on Facebook but hasn’t this trip.”
“She could be thinking about Heath’s divorce proceedings and not wanting to stoke fires with his wife.”
“I think you’re right.” She picked up a file and held it out to him. “You should know that the Whig reporter Marci Stokes called again about twenty minutes ago. She said she heard that we’re working on a missing-woman case.”
Rouleau shook his head, partly in frustration but an equal part admiration. “That woman has tentacles everywhere. She’ll already know that we have no comment.”
He accepted the file and continued into Heath’s corner office. The sun wasn’t at full strength but it was early yet. Two days in a row of sun was a reprieve from the snow and gloomy cloud cover. He patted his stomach before sitting down. He felt the beginnings of a pot-belly from too much sitting. That settled it. He’d get out for a walk at lunchtime and start getting his life back together. He’d been allowing time and circumstances to have their way with him, but it was time to take control again. He owed at least this to Frances and all that she had sacrificed over the course of their marriage. Her memory deserved more from him than fermenting in grief and self-pity.
He picked up the file and pulled out a briefing note for an upcoming meeting. He sat lost in thought for a moment, staring at the photo of Frances he’d put on his desk after she died. It was his favourite of her, taken soon after they were married. She wore a flowered summer dress, with her hair loose around her face, her eyes dancing with happiness as he clicked her picture. That morning she’d told him she was pregnant and they’d gone on a picnic in the country to celebrate. July. It had been a hot month and the air conditioner was barely keeping up in their Lower Town apartment. He found a nicer two-bedroom apartment in Sandy Hill after she lost the baby five months later. As if a move would help her to forget the loss of their child.
He dragged his eyes away and looked out the window. Where was Vivian McKenna and what was keeping her from contacting her family? Gundersund had checked the hospitals and her family had been searching everywhere else she might have gone in the neighbourhood. Gundersund had sent out an unofficial call to patrol officers to keep an eye out for her. Her disappearance was worrisome and he would have liked to get more involved, but he couldn’t spare the time until Heath came back … if Heath came back. Vera was covering for her boss