Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Brenda Chapman

toward the microphone that had been set up on the makeshift stage. A bald, sharp-featured man was giving the punch line to a joke and laughter rippled across the tables. He was short but muscular in a hunter green turtleneck and brown suit jacket. She saw him looking in her direction.

      “Inspector Vermette,” Annika said over her shoulder. “He tells dirty jokes, no matter the occasion.”

      Kala sat down next to Rouleau and looked toward the stage then back at Rouleau. He leaned back in his chair, not smiling. His eyes were fixed on Vermette. She turned back, curious to watch the man everyone seemed to dislike. After Vermette finished speaking, a female officer invited everyone to mingle until the music started.

      Rouleau stood. Kala looked in the direction of his gaze and stood just as Vermette reached their table, his hand outstretched. His grip was vice-like around her own. She kept herself from squeezing back as hard.

      “Welcome to our little family. It’s nice to soften up Rouleau’s team with some femininity. Has Jacques organized your media training yet?”

      She shifted her eyes to Rouleau. He shook his head very slightly. She looked back at Vermette. “I believe it’s in the works, but has to wait until after Christmas.”

      “Of course,” said Vermette. “The holidays really mess us up. Too bad criminals don’t take the week off too. I’ll leave you in Sergeant Rouleau’s capable hands then. Enjoy the rest of the evening.” His eyes slid up and over her head, abruptly dismissing her as he stepped around her to join another table of men.

      Kala turned to Rouleau and waited for him to explain.

      “Thanks for that,” he said. “I meant to tell you about the training but the Underwood case took over.”

      “Am I to be the minority face of the force?” she asked. She lowered her eyes. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

      “No need to apologize. Let’s say Vermette could set racial relations back fifty years. Male-female relations too, for that matter. I’ll see about getting you signed up after the holiday.”

      Kala stepped outside onto Preston Street. The temperature had dropped. When she exhaled, her breath streamed in front of her in a white plume. She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and started walking. She’d stayed later than she’d planned, but officers kept coming over to be introduced. She pulled up her sleeve and glanced at her watch. Nearly two a.m. No wonder she was exhausted.

      She was almost at the corner when she heard her name being called. At first she thought it was a mistake. She turned around, waiting for the red light to change. She recognized Rouleau in a black duffel coat hurrying toward her, a cellphone at his ear. He raised his free hand toward her to wait as he listened to whoever was on the other end. He said something into the phone before disconnecting.

      “They’ve found a man’s body. The car is registered to Tom Underwood so looks like it’s him. We can take my car.”

      “Where is he?”

      “The Central Experimental Farm just south west of here. Should take us ten minutes. Somehow, his parked car missed detection all week. I hope you didn’t have any plans. This is going to be a long night.”

      “No plans.” Suddenly, she wasn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline was kicking in. She trudged through the snow beside Rouleau and felt as close to alive as she’d felt since she pointed her truck toward Ottawa four days earlier.

      9

      Friday, December 23, 7:00 a.m.

      Geraldine Oliver woke up before Max but pretended to be asleep. It was another hour before he shut off the alarm and finally got out of bed. Seven a.m. Forty minutes and he’d be gone for the day. The baby was heavy in her belly. For the past two months, she’d been forced to sleep on her side, her back to Max. She couldn’t believe she had four more weeks of discomfort before the baby was due. Surely the kid was full size by now. Any bigger and it would come out riding a tricycle.

      She heard Max rummaging around, getting his suit from the closet and searching for his shoes under the dresser. It was easy to keep her breathing deep and even. She even drifted off a few times. She sensed him standing over the bed looking down at her and slowed her breathing even more. What the hell was he doing? Did he think he could stare her into waking up? At long last she heard him cross the floor and start down the stairs. She let her breath out in a loud sigh when he reached the bottom.

      She waited a good fifteen minutes after she heard the front door slam before she swung her aching legs over the side of the bed. It would have been catastrophic if he’d come back for something and caught her up and about. He’d have known she’d been faking sleep to avoid him.

      She flicked on the flat screen on her way to the bathroom. Max had left it on CNN, and she didn’t bother to change the channel. She just wanted to hear another voice. If she hadn’t promised Hunter she’d drive to his place for lunch, she would have run a bath and spent the morning lying in bubbles and reading the Harlan Coben thriller she’d picked up at the library. She’d become good at idling away her days, but not today. A quick shower would do and then she’d eat something light and head off to the hairdresser’s for a shampoo and cut. There’d be enough time to stop at the bakery for fresh bread and dessert before the drive to Hunter’s.

      She reached for a towel and facecloth in the cupboard. Her hand lingered, her fingers stretching to the back of the shelf and under a pile of towels. Her hand closed around one of the two bottles she’d hidden the day before. The glass was deliciously smooth to her touch and she ran her fingers up and down its curved length. She remembered the colour of the bottle was emerald green, her favourite colour. She forced her hand away from the temptation and traced her fingers across her bulging belly.

      One day at a time. She could put off a drink one more day.

      The bathroom tile was cool under her bare feet. She sat sideways on the edge of the bathtub, awkwardly bending over to turn on the taps. Her fingers opened wide under the rush of warm water. It felt soothing and she sat for a while longer. Then, she stood with a grunt and slipped out of her nightgown. It pooled around her feet in a silken heap. Her face reflected exhaustion in the mirror but her eyes were determined.

      She stepped into the shower and raised her face to let the water pour over her in a steaming cascade, the drops hitting her skin like pin pricks. She kept her eyes closed and avoided looking down at her misshapen belly.

      Max had said he could hardly stand to look at her anymore. He’d told her she’d have to start dieting right after the baby if she wanted him to be attracted to her again. He’d prepaid her gym membership, not even asking if she wanted it. She’d imagined herself beautiful when they first met because he’d looked at her like she was. Now, when she looked into his eyes she saw the homely woman she’d been all along. His disgust hurt like a knot twisting in her chest. It was the most horrible feeling she’d ever known. At times, taking another breath had been an effort, the pain threatening to strangle her.

      Kala pressed Laurel Underwood’s doorbell one more time. Rouleau had dropped her near her truck after she’d offered to make this call on her way home for a few hours of sleep. He’d continued on to the station to update Vermette. Whelan should have been with her, but he’d left some jumbled message on her cellphone around midnight and hadn’t been reachable since. So far, she thought working with a partner wasn’t much different than working alone.

      It was the morning before Christmas Eve. She’d expected Laurel to be at home. A cheery evergreen wreath with a silver bow and red berries that hung on the door felt out of sync with the news Kala had come to break to Tom Underwood’s wife. She didn’t plan to give many details about the death. It would have done no good to talk about how they’d found her husband’s stiff body crowded into the trunk of his Mercedes. The coroner, Grogan, estimated Underwood had been dead a few days, but it was hard to say when exactly because the freezing temperatures had kept him preserved like meat in a locker. Grogan said that Underwood was alive when he was locked inside the trunk. He’d found scratch marks inside the trunk and Underwood’s