Cold Mourning. Brenda Chapman

She couldn’t give in yet. She’d always been strong. Do not go gentle into that good night. Dylan Thomas, if he remembered his high school English. Frances would know the whole poem by heart. She had an amazing memory when it came to words on paper.

      He used to come home unexpectedly to find her in the kitchen reading from a poetry book she’d picked up at the Sunnyside branch of the public library. Her lips would be moving and her forehead would be fine lines of concentration as she stirred the pot on the stove with her free hand. He’d stand and watch, drinking in the sight of her, the white curve of her neck as she bent over the pages, sliding his eyes down to her full hips, long legs, and bare feet. She’d look up to find him there, her eyes lost in a world he could never follow, then lighting with happiness as she took him in. If he was lucky, she’d read those same lines to him after they made love while the meal simmered on the stove and the afternoon light shifted from lemon yellow to pale pink and grey in the gathering dusk, his head resting on her breast, his arm wrapped loosely around her stomach.

      Vermette was talking on the phone when Rouleau entered his office and dropped into the chair across from him. The conversation on Vermette’s part consisted of a lot of head nodding and murmured agreement. Rouleau searched his face. Vermette wouldn’t be happy to be forced into the obsequious end of whatever was being discussed.

      He took the time to look at the man across the desk. Early fifties, wiry build, and slightly oversized head, glistening like a soft-boiled egg. Vermette’s pale blue eyes were framed by incongruous long, black lashes that looked as if they’d been combed through with mascara. He favoured tight dark suits and different coloured turtlenecks. Today’s was white with a coffee stain approximately where his navel should be. A man who grew up in the tough east end of the city, he’d broken free of his family and neighbourhood and beaten the odds. By all rights, he should be in jail, not heading up the city’s police force. He should have been someone to admire.

      Vermette thrust the phone back into its cradle. He scowled first at the phone and then at Rouleau. “Fuckin board member. Think they know everything. Brains so far up their arses, you have to dig with a shovel to get a coherent thought.” He ran a hand across his forehead, wiping away tiny beads of sweat. “So, where are you with the Tom Underwood business?”

      “We met with his wife yesterday. She gave us a photo that Kala passed on to Missing Persons like you asked.”

      “I know, but now I want a couple of your team on this one full time.”

      “Any particular reason?” Rouleau studied Vermette’s face. A purplish vein pulsated like a turn signal in his right temple.

      “Underwood’s got business contacts. Somebody with strings to pull is putting pressure on us to find him.”

      “We don’t know that anything has happened to him. It’s been just twenty-four hours since he didn’t show up at work. I admit it looks less good as time passes, but …”

      “Until the man is back in the bosom of his loving family,” Vermette interrupted, “finding him has just become your number one priority. Do good work on this one and your unit could get some recognition. It’ll please the board if their inane pet project succeeds at something.”

      “Underwood’s company website says they make military equipment, amongst other things. They have contracts with National Defence and some overseas.”

      “We don’t need to start dreaming up some lame-brained government conspiracy. Just start tracking down his movements and talk to his family and coworkers. If he really is missing … well, we’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

      Uncertainty had entered Vermette’s voice and it made Rouleau curious. Vermette had argued strenuously against the special unit, saying it would dilute investigations of Major Crimes if his officers were torn in too many directions.

      Rouleau stood. “I’ll get on it then.”

      He was half-way to the door when Vermette said, “How’s that Native woman working out? Stonechild, is it?”

      “Kala Stonechild. Should be fine. She’s a quick study.”

      “I hear she’s easy on the eyes. See she gets some media training. We may as well make use of her appearance.”

      “I’ll ask Kala if she wants to be a media spokes.”

      “She doesn’t need to be asked. Either she does as she’s told or we send her back to the reserve where she can spend her days locking up drunk relatives.”

      Rouleau took a step toward him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

      Vermette tilted his head and met Rouleau’s narrowed eyes before his slid away. He smiled, “Just kidding.”

      Rouleau thought about telling Vermette what he thought about him before walking out the door and into early retirement. He’d leave this crap behind and sell the house and go somewhere warm. Australia was a place he’d always wanted to visit. He could stay a year and see if it suited him. Find a little house with wide windows that looked out on the sea and let the seasons slip by. Learn to appreciate Australian beer and grow a beard.

      His feet moved toward the door without conscious effort. His hand encircled the brass doorknob and he pulled the door open and stepped through. Screw Vermette. He’d go when he was ready, at a moment of his own choosing. When the time was right.

      Whelan watched his new partner Stonechild step into the office as if she was walking into a crime scene. She’d stopped just inside the doorway and checked to her left and right, her black eyes sweeping the entire room before she seemed satisfied and started toward their desks. He could picture her walking through the woods, silent, sure-footed, and alert. Something in her eyes made him wonder what she’d seen in her life that brought her here. Haunted. He didn’t know why that word popped into his mind. He wasn’t a fanciful man, preferring a night of football and the sports section of the paper, but there was something about her.

      She sat down in the chair facing him and stretched out her long legs. She was wearing Cougar winter boots, black cords, a black sweater and grey jacket. Green-stoned earrings sparkled from her ears, the only bit of colour. “Sorry I’m late. I had trouble falling asleep.”

      He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes isn’t a major crime. Have you eaten?”

      She shook her head. “No time.”

      “There’s a cafeteria upstairs. Let’s go.”

      “You sure?”

      “Rouleau’s in a meeting so we have half an hour I figure. May as well make use of it.”

      “You don’t have to ask twice. My stomach’s been grumbling like a grizzly bear since I got up.”

      “Then let’s go feed the beast.”

      They got coffee and the breakfast special — scrambled eggs with sausage, hash browns, and whole wheat toast. Whelan spotted Malik and Grayson near the back wall and turned, motioning for Kala to follow him. She hesitated but then nodded. The two men had had their heads together and were laughing until their eyes moved past Whelan to Kala. Malik saluted her before looking away. Grayson focused on his cup of coffee, raising it to his lips and draining the last.

      “Shit, snow’s started again,” said Grayson, his eyes swerving toward the line of windows. “Should have bought a snowblower.”

      “Three days till Christmas. Looks like it’ll be a white one.” Malik smiled at Kala. “So how was your first day?”

      “Good.”

      “You’ve arrived in time for our annual Christmas party. Did you tell her about it Whelan?”

      Whelan hit a palm to his forehead. “Is that tonight?”

      “Yeah, it’s tonight.” Malik looked back at Kala. “The whole force should be there, or at least those off shift. Dinner and drinks in the San Marco Hall on Preston Street. Gets underway around seven.”

      Whelan