Cold Mourning. Brenda Chapman

Would now be a bad time…?” He hesitated, not sure he could get the words out. Her breath exhaled stronger in his ear but she didn’t speak. He knew she was weighing what his call could mean and whether she should let him in. “I shouldn’t have called,” he said, now sorry that he had. He shouldn’t have put her in this position. They’d agreed last time that it should be just that until they’d both made some changes.

      “I’ll leave the back door unlocked,” she said at last. Her voice was stronger as if she’d shaken away the sleep.

      “I have a bottle of Grand Marnier with me,” he said. “I’ll pick up a few glasses from the hutch on my way to your bedroom.”

      “I’ll be waiting.”

      She hung up before he did, but the night seemed less empty than it had a moment before.

      It was three a.m. when Tom pulled into his own driveway on Winding Way. The outside lights were on but the interior was in darkness except for a light in Winnie’s room on the far side of the house. She’d probably put Charlotte to bed and then fallen asleep reading. He turned off the engine and sat with his arms resting on the steering wheel, looking at his fortress until the car cooled and the chill began seeping into his bones. Only then did he stir himself to step outside the car into the winter night. Snow had begun to fall and it wet his face when he lifted his eyes to the sky. A bank of clouds had blown in to hide the stars.

      The ticking grandfather clock marked time as he padded upstairs in his socked feet. He’d left the lights off and the branches of the oak tree made dark patterns on the wall through the windows that lined the staircase. Laurel’s bedroom door was closed. He hesitated for a moment standing next to it, listening to hear her inside. At last he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Her bed was empty, the covers folded neatly over the pillows.

      He quietly closed the door and continued on to Charlotte’s bedroom. Her door was partially closed. He pushed it fully open and stepped inside. The one bright spot in his marriage was sleeping on her back, one arm wrapped around her favourite teddy and the other flopped over the side of the bed. He moved closer and gently lifted her arm to place it under the covers. She stirred and mumbled something but didn’t wake up. He straightened and looked down on her. Charlotte had inherited Laurel’s thick mane of hair. If her eyes had been open, he’d be staring into the same violet ones that had made him throw away his twenty-year marriage to Pauline. He reached out a hand to push the lock of hair that had fallen across Charlotte’s face but pulled back his hand before he touched her silken hair. Leave her, he thought. Don’t chance disturbing her sleep.

      He raised his hand to his lips and blew a kiss toward his sleeping daughter before backing as quietly as he could from her room. It was time to find his bed. Maybe tonight he’d had enough to drink so that his sleep would be long and dreamless. It would be the first time in a long time and his body could use the rest. His mind could use the oblivion.

      2

      Wednesday, December 21, 8:50 a.m.

      Kala Stonechild sat in her Ford pickup in the parking lot of the Ottawa Police Station just west of Elgin Street. She’d spent the better part of the night driving and could have done with a shower and a good night’s sleep. Instead, she had ten minutes to make it inside or risk starting off on the wrong foot. It might be better if she restarted the truck and pointed it north. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have done just that. She grimaced at herself in the rearview mirror and tucked stray strands of black hair behind her ears. She rubbed the grit out of her eyes with the backs of her hands.

      Ready or not.

      Stepping out of the truck was a pleasure after fourteen hours of driving. Her right leg had cramped and she winced as pain shot up from her calf. She took an extra turn around the lot to get the circulation flowing before heading toward Elgin Street and the front door of the station. The building was three storeys and flat grey, taking up a city block. The entrance was glassed in windows with a view of a giant mural painted the width of the far wall. Police officers in the community stared down at her in frozen stances. The uniformed cop on the front desk had probably been watching her on a television screen the whole time, but he barely glanced at her as she stepped up to the desk.

      “I’m here to see Staff Sergeant Jacques Rouleau,” she said, looking around the foyer, taking in the layout. His voice drew her back.

      “And who should I tell him is here to see him?” His nametag said Cooper.

      She forced a smile. “He’s expecting me — Officer Kala Stonechild. I’m reporting for duty.”

      Cooper lifted a clipboard and ran a finger down the list of names. “Here you are. Stonechild.” He looked at her directly for the first time. “I’ll just call Sergeant Rouleau to come get you. Have a seat if you like.”

      “Thanks, I’ll stand.”

      “Suit yourself.”

      Ten minutes ticked by before a man in a grey suit walked toward her. He looked to be early fifties, but it was hard to tell because of his shaved head and lean body. Up close, his eyes were a startling green with tiny laugh lines etched into his skin.

      “Sergeant Rouleau,” he said, extending a hand. “Welcome Officer Stonechild. How was the trip down?” They started walking toward his office. His voice had the faintest trace of a French accent that she wouldn’t have detected unless she’d been listening for it.

      “There was a snowstorm outside Sudbury and I had to spend an extra day waiting it out. Other than that, the trip was uneventful.”

      Rouleau glanced sideways at her. “Did you find a place to stay in Ottawa?”

      She nodded. She hadn’t yet, but it wouldn’t take much to find one.

      They passed a room with several desks and officers talking on the phone and then turned right into another room. It was a little more cramped with six desks and a closed office directly ahead. The fluorescent lighting hurt her tired eyes. Three men stood next to a coffee machine, each one holding a full mug. They stopped talking and turned in unison when she and Rouleau walked in. Kala met their stares square on. An East Indian with darker skin than hers, a red-headed stocky Irishman, and a sandy-haired looker with brown eyes and wavy hair. She hoped he wouldn’t be her partner. All four men stood close to six feet tall; she’d be the short one on the team at five seven.

      Rouleau made introductions and each shook her hand. Sandeep Malik, Clarence Whelan, and Philip Grayson. “Whelan will show you around. You two will be working together.”

      The heavy-set, red-headed man gave her a nod. She was happy to see the wedding ring on his left hand. He had the look of a well-fed man happy with his lot. No complications. That’s all she wanted in a partner. No suggestive looks or subtle innuendos. No avoiding late-night drinks and pretending his hand on her leg wasn’t an invitation. She looked past him to the good-looking one, who by process of elimination had to be Grayson. He’d looked her over when she first came in, but now he was deep in conversation with Sandeep Malik. She turned to Whelan and held out her hand. He didn’t hesitate and reached out his own. His grip was warm and strong.

      “Good to have you on board, Kala.”

      “Thanks. Good to be here.”

      Rouleau was heading to his office. “Take Stonechild with you on that assault call. When you get back, she can get her paperwork over with.” He said it without turning and continued walking without waiting for a response.

      “Nothing like jumping right in,” said Whelan. “Your desk is there, facing mine. Sorry you won’t get a chance to warm the chair.”

      “Lots of time for that.”

      “Have you got a gun?” he asked. “Not that we’re going to need it on this call.”

      She patted her jacket. “Side arm. Don’t worry. I’ve got the carrying permit.” They started walking toward the door and out of the building. “It’s nice not having