Butterfly Kills. Brenda Chapman

comes up, let Vera know. She has my coordinates.”

      “You’re heading out of town?”

      “Fishing trip in Northern Quebec. Rainbow and lake trout, pristine lakes, and blue sky that goes on forever. It’s my yearly pilgrimage to commune with nature.”

      Rouleau looked closer at Heath. Heath’s eyes were guileless behind wire-framed reading glasses. Rouleau could picture him on a cruise or stretched out next to a pool with a martini in his hand, but definitely not tromping around the woods or sitting patiently in a boat waiting for fish to bite.

      Rouleau stood to leave. Heath scribbled something on a writing pad and ripped off the top sheet. He handed it to Rouleau.

      “Tell Laney Masterson that I sent you. You should have a place to call home by next weekend.”

      “Thanks, I’ll give her a ring.” Rouleau glanced down at the paper. Heath had written Laney Masterson’s phone number from memory.

      He stopped at Vera’s desk on the way to his own office. She lifted her unusual almond-shaped eyes from the computer screen and met his. They were the warm amber colour of his ex-wife Frances’s tabby cat.

      “Question, Rouleau?” she asked, her eyes dropping back to her work. Her elegant fingers, loaded down with gold rings and glittering stones, flew across the keyboard. Rouleau had only seen her blond hair wound tightly into a bun at the nape of her long neck, at odds with her tight sweaters and pencil skirts that showed off her Marilyn Monroe body.

      “Just wondered if the Chief goes to the same fishing hole every year.”

      Vera raised her eyes. He saw amusement in their golden depths. “You thinking of taking up the sport?” she asked. “You should know that he’s quite protective of his secret spot.” Her voice was low and suggestive.

      Rouleau smiled. “Night, Vera. See you tomorrow.”

      She returned his smile. “Later, Rouleau.”

      Chapter Five

      Rouleau left the station and drove slowly down Princess Street toward downtown. Rounding the curve south past the Division Street intersection, he took in the shops and cafés that lined the busy street. Far in the distance he glimpsed the sparkling blue of Lake Ontario, just past the Holiday Inn at the bottom of Princess. Traffic was stop-and-go but not as bad as it would be in the Ottawa core at this time of the evening. He rolled down the window and rested his elbow on the door frame. A hot breeze ruffled his sticky shirt and gave the illusion of relief. The temperature had risen over the afternoon and clung to the city like heat from a sauna. Finally reaching Ontario Street, he hung a right. The road paralleled the waterfront, his father’s condo building with a view of the harbour several blocks farther on. The Royal George, where his father lived on the seventh floor, protruded awkwardly, a green glass tower of modernity, the last in a series of high rises that included an upscale hotel.

      Rouleau pulled into the visitor parking lot and turned off the engine. He sat for a moment, looking toward the lake, visible over the tall grasses that lined the property. He attempted to let go of the stresses of the day to find the reserve of patience now required. His father, a normally calm, methodical man, had become irritated by the limitations surgery had wrought on his body. The last few days he’d sunk into a worrisome depression, a state so foreign to him that Rouleau could barely bring himself to think about what it foreshadowed. The urge to find his own place to live was eating at him, but he wasn’t sure if he should leave his father alone just yet.

      Rouleau exited his car and took the elevator to the seventh floor. He used his key to enter and was surprised to hear his father’s hearty laughter coming from the living room. A woman’s voice joined in and Rouleau’s heart lightened. His father had refused visitors, so this was a good sign.

      Rouleau walked down the short hallway lined in bookcases and rounded the corner. Both faces turned to smile up at him: his father stretched out on the couch, and surprise of surprises, Kala Stonechild in a chair facing him. A black Labrador retriever lay at her feet, its alert eyes following his every movement. The dog looked friendly but on guard. Rouleau crossed to the empty easy chair and dropped into it. He reached across to squeeze Stonechild’s shoulder and the dog’s eyes followed him. “You’re here,” Rouleau said, leaning back. He grinned wryly at having stated the obvious. “So you got my messages then?”

      “I did.” She shrugged and her lips curved upward. The smile almost reached her eyes. Almost, but not quite. She was dressed in a white cotton blouse, gauzy and unbuttoned to just below her collarbones, and faded jeans. A turquoise, white, and red beaded belt was threaded through the loops. Her ebony hair hung in two braided pigtails to her chest. She’d taken her sandals off at the door and her bare feet were tucked underneath the coffee table.

      Rouleau glanced over at his father. His blue eyes had recovered some of their brilliance. “You’re looking better, Dad.”

      “I’ve had good company today,” his father responded. “I hope you’re about to pour us each a little of the Glenfiddich before dinner.”

      “Of course.” Rouleau stood. “Ginger ale, Kala?” he asked. He knew she didn’t touch alcohol. She nodded and he walked into the kitchen. When he returned with the drinks, Kala and his father were deep in conversation, as if they’d known each other a long time instead of a few hours.

      Rouleau sat down and took a sip of the single malt. It burned pleasantly all the way down. He looked at Kala and waited for her to tell him why she was sitting in his father’s apartment. She raised her eyes to his and smiled as if fully aware of his impatience for her to commit to his job offer. She took her time, letting his father finish talking about his research at the university before responding.

      “I’m not sure if I’ll be staying in Kingston. I’ve come to check out the town on my way to Ottawa. Grayson is waiting for me to join the unit again.” She shrugged. “I thought I’d resign in person.”

      “Where would you go if not here?”

      “Not sure. My old job in Red Rock is still open.”

      “Is that where you really want to be?”

      “One place is as good as another.” Again the slight lifting of her shoulders. The defiant tilt of her jaw he’d seen before. “I’m not ruling out your offer. I’m just saying that I don’t know what I want to do yet.”

      “How did you find my father’s apartment?”

      “I’m a detective, remember?” she said. “You left a trail of bread crumbs as wide as Highway 417.”

      “I’d like you to come work for me.”

      “I gathered that from your phone messages.”

      “You’ll like Kingston. It’s a welcoming kind of town.”

      “I don’t know yet if this town is for me. Honestly, I feel more at home in the North.”

      “The Criminal Investigations team is small, and you’d be working with another inspector named Paul Gundersund. He’s good. We also have a solid in-house forensics team and cold case unit in our division. Think about it. That’s all I ask.”

      She nodded, but her eyes were evasive. Rouleau had the uneasy feeling he’d oversold the job.

      “Will you stay for supper?” his dad asked her. “Jacques will be cooking some steak with baked potatoes. We’d be delighted to have you.”

      “Thank you, but I really have to be going. Taiku needs a walk and I have to check in with my friend.”

      “Where are you staying?”

      “Just west of the city but this side of Bath. My friend owns a house on the water. She’s expecting me sometime today.”

      “At least finish your drink before you go,” his father said. “It’s been a long time since I had a young woman come to call.”

      Kala’s