A Cuban Death

by

David Anderson

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A CUBAN DEATH

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Copyright © 2013 by David Anderson.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Cover Design by David Anderson

Edited by Joanna Anderson and Ian Anderson

ISBN: 978-0-9916719-2-2

“The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails.”

-- Federico Garcia Lorca

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my appreciation to my family, without whose love and support I would accomplish nothing. So thank you Anne, Ian and Joanna.

The following people have been of great assistance: Michael and Diane Sale for their invaluable help with the policing aspects and Carole Saindon with Justice Canada for her help in untangling what would happen with Canadian police officers in Cuba and vice versa.

Any errors in the story are solely my responsibility.

And, as always, I must mention Wilson, my faithful Sheltie, whose companionable silence on our long morning walks helps immensely..

for Louisa Anderson

May 16, 1917 – September 1, 2013

one

The young man stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, surveying the scene. The disco assaulted his senses with its flashing colours and insistent, pounding beat. He looked around for a face that he recognized but didn’t notice anyone. He saw instead dark corners, a bar off to one side and bodies gyrating energetically under the rotating mirrored ball on the ceiling. Coloured spotlights, aimed downwards, illuminated the room, constantly flashing on and off.

It was a basic nightspot, just a dance floor, light and sound – all one could expect from a resort disco in Cuba. But it worked for him. What he liked most of all was the heat. The tropical night air enveloped him like a sultry, sensuous blanket. Outside were chirping tree frogs, the sound of surf and a light wind; inside was all throbbing light and sound. Overhead fans were trying unsuccessfully to keep the place cool.

Somewhat unsteadily the young man moved into the room. The heat and humidity hit him like a wall. He made his way to the bar and eased himself carefully onto a stool. “Cerveza,” he said to the bartender. “Dos, por favor.” He had to speak loudly in order to be heard.

The middle-aged man nodded unsmilingly and filled two plastic cups and set them on the bar. Then he went back to wiping down the counter. A younger man, dressed in the same white shirt, bowtie, red vest and black pants as the bartender, came out from a small room at the back. A burst of rapid Spanish followed, all of it lost on the young Canadian whose knowledge of the language was rudimentary. Abruptly he lost interest, picked up one of the cups and swivelled in his chair to inspect the room.

From this perspective he could see more. With the cup to his lips, sipping, he immediately noticed the two young women dancing together. He smiled. He hadn’t seen them at first but he was pleased that they were here again. He’d been hoping. Maybe they were from the nearby town of Trinidad, or possibly they were guests at the resort. He didn’t know and didn’t care. They were sexy as hell and that was all that mattered. He watched them moving together, their long legs flashing in the lights. As before, they had some kind of sparkly things on their legs and short skirts which were swirling around madly as they danced. Tonight they had on peasant blouses, tied up so as to show their flat bellies. They moved towards each other and then back, in a continual, sensuous rhythm.

The first beer finished, the young man started in on the second, his eyes on the women. They were so different from Kathy; she would never be seen in public dressed like that. Thinking of his girlfriend, he frowned and took another gulp of beer. What a fight they’d had this afternoon! What had started it? His drinking – yeah, that was it.

“Mike, slow down! Are you trying to set a record for most booze consumed in a week?” Kathy had been looking at him with disdain, almost contempt. “I didn’t come here to see you spending the whole time drinking the place dry.”

Her look angered him, especially the disgust on her face. So what if he’d had a few drinks? That’s what an all-inclusive resort vacation was all about, wasn’t it? Free food, free booze, whenever you wanted it. She had no business telling him what to do.

He’d defended himself, she attacked some more and the argument escalated until some really hurtful things were said. He thought he’d done most of the hurting but he couldn’t really remember. Kathy had gotten up and told him she would be sleeping elsewhere tonight.

“And how will that look?” he demanded. “”Do you really think Sean and Char want you in their room tonight?” Lying on a chaise lounge by the pool, he was squinting, trying to see Kathy clearly against the sun.

“I don’t care how it looks,” she said. “I won’t stay with you when you’re like this.” Crying, she gathered up her things and hurried away.

That was late in the afternoon. They avoided each other for the rest of the day. Usually they ate dinner together in the buffet restaurant but the resort had numerous eating spots so he grabbed some fast food at the beach bar. He didn’t know where Kathy had been, probably with their friends Charlotte and Sean and Aaron and Deb.

What had she told them about his absence? He finished his beer and thought gloomily that she had likely told them all about the argument. He caught the bartender’s eye. “Mas cerveza, por favor. Two more again.”

The other matter flashed into his mind but he rather fuzzily pushed it aside. Not now.

The bartender, whose nametag identified him as Adeiny, retrieved the empty glasses and poured another two beers, all without an interruption in the animated conversation he was having with his colleague. Mike turned around again to watch the two girls. The music had stopped briefly – it was always briefly, he had noticed – and there was considerable movement as people got drinks or moved off the floor. The two chicas were standing casually chatting, the lights glinting off their legs. As he watched, they left the dance floor and moved to the far end of the bar. The music started up again, the distinctive Caribbean beat stirring his blood.

Mike had finished the first of the two new beers; he picked up the second one and watched the women. Adeiny set two mojitos in front of them without being asked. They were definitely locals then. They had their backs to him as they sipped their drinks and watched the crowd. Even sitting down they were unable to keep still, their shoulders moving to the rhythm of the music.

Mike made up his mind. He drained the last of his beer and stood up. He staggered and had to grab the edge of the bar to steady himself. Whoa – he’d had too much booze. He grinned to himself. That’s what Kathy would say anyway. He thought differently. Gathering himself, he moved down the bar towards the two girls and stood in front of them.

“Hola,” he said, and he gave them his best smile. “May I buy you two a drink?”

The two women looked at him and shook their heads. Their eyes went back to the dance floor. Up close to them, Mike could see they were younger than he had thought they were. Early twenties, probably. Both girls had long dark hair and they were perspiring in the heat of the disco.

“Oh, come on,” said Mike. “Un otro mojito?” He leaned close to them as he said it so as to make himself heard above the music.

One girl put her hands up as if to ward him off. The other shook her head vigourously.  “No!” she said loudly. “Piss off.”

Mike felt a hand on his shoulder and he was suddenly staggering as he was turned around. He found himself facing three young men wearing identical unfriendly expressions. Two of them had their arms crossed in front of them like bouncers, but the third one – the one who had spun him around – had his arms by his sides and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. This last man spoke loudly and with a distinct accent.

“The senorita say no,” he said. “Vayais!” Alert and unsmiling, the man’s dark eyes were fixed on Mike’s. His two companions crowded in a little closer.

Mike put up his hands and swayed backwards. “Whoa! Back off, Pedro. Just asking a girl if she wants a drink, is all. Girls, I mean. There’s no harm in that.” He turned around drunkenly to look at the two Latino girls again.

As if on cue, the women put down their drinks, stood up and started to move back onto the dance floor. Mike took one step to follow but he could go no further as a large hand grabbed each of his arms. He was once again turned around, more roughly this time, and found himself facing the three young men. There was no mistaking their anger this time. The one who had spoken to him before jabbed him sharply in the solar plexus. Mike felt the air go out of him in a rush and he couldn’t breathe. He bent over, gasping for breath, and then the other two men grabbed him again and straightened him up.

“You will go,” said the puncher. He took Mike’s chin in his hand and said, “Now.” Mike could only stand, feeling nauseated and swaying slightly; he seemed helpless to react somehow. His stomach hurt. Suddenly he bent over and vomited on the floor, narrowly missing his sandals. The three men stepped back hastily.

“So puerco!” said the puncher disgustedly, the only one of the men who had spoken. He gestured at the other two and the three of them manhandled the young Canadian out of the disco and shoved him roughly down the steps. Mike stumbled and collapsed into a garden. He raised his head groggily and got up on all fours, but then he lost his balance and subsided wearily into the dirt.

Everything went dark.

two

Detective Richard McDonald pulled on his running shoes and readied himself for another hard walk along the beach. Ever since the injury, he’d pushed himself to recuperate, and he’d been hoping to start jogging by the end of this week’s vacation. That was his goal every morning: to move a little faster, go a little further. It wasn’t easy – walking in sand was difficult. He thought it was good for him, though. But he had to wear shoes – yes, footwear was definitely a must.

The first morning he had strolled along the beach barefoot, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the cool sand and the surf on his feet. He had paid for his rashness that evening with stiff and sore calves, to the point where any kind of walking was painful, and he had resolved to wear his runners from then on.

Looking down at his feet, McDonald realized his sneakers were wet and sprinkled with sticky sand and he knew he would have a job to empty them out when he got back to the pool. But his legs weren’t sore and that was important. While recuperating from a nasty stab wound to his thigh, he had to be careful not to overdo it.

It shocked him how unfit he had become in such a short time. His thirty-seven-year-old body hadn’t recovered as quickly as it would have ten years ago. Mind you, the injury had been serious, an almost complete severing of his femoral artery. Without Celeste Chappell’s intervention, he would have been dead. It was no surprise that his progress wasn’t as swift as he wanted.

McDonald was a homicide detective with the York Police Services, and he had been on surveillance duty in the back yard of his superior’s separated wife, Celeste. Attacked by surprise, he had been stabbed and nearly bled out. Celeste had found him in time and managed to stanch the arterial flow. It had been a near thing, though, and he was aware that he owed her his life. A long hospital stay followed, then home leave, and then he’d decided on a week in the sun.

So here he was in Cuba, humping along a beautiful beach in the early morning light as fast as his wasted leg would allow him. He dodged stranded jellyfish and hoped to see some bikini-clad swimmers, knowing all the while it was too early for them. Coming on holiday also gave him a chance to meet women. That, and to pick up some genuine Cuban cigars.

The Playa de Trinidad on the south coast was a no-frills Cuban resort. A three-star place at best, it offered so-so food and only the most basic alcoholic drinks. You could blame the American embargo for that; everything from scissors to Scotch was in short supply. Still, it was inexpensive, the beach was terrific, the weather hot and the people were friendly. It beat the hell out of a Canadian winter. He had left behind freezing rain and ice pellets and twenty centimetres of dirty snow on the ground.

Nearly back at the resort, McDonald nodded to an older woman who was setting out on the route he had just completed, and gave her a cheery, “Hola!” He greeted everyone that way, never sure of others’ nationality.

The woman replied, “Guten Morgen,” but barely looked at him as she continued her morning stroll. She was probably German, then. The place was full of them, as well as Canadians like him, some Brits, a few French and some South American families. Most of the guests were older; he was one of the youngest of the tourists.

McDonald was sweating and looking forward to his swim in the pool. Wearing his trunks as he was, he could just peel off his tee-shirt, slip off his shoes and socks and do his lengths. He would dry off in the sun – no towel necessary. Then it would be up to his room to change, and after that, a large and filling breakfast from the buffet, taken outdoors on this fine morning. Such had been the pattern every day of his vacation so far.

McDonald grinned to himself, remembering the one day his routine had changed. He had woken up in a different bed and had been too busy to go exercising on the beach. A Parisian divorcee, Lucie by name, she was on holiday by herself, forty-something, chic, a little overweight maybe, but sexy, skilled and looking for a one-night get-together with no strings attached. This she had made sure of, as she had flown back to France the same day he had woken up in her bed. He thought it was deliberate that she had waited until her last night to approach him. That had been Monday morning, and it was now Thursday, his holiday in the sun almost over; he flew back to Canada on Saturday afternoon.

The path he walked on now snaked around head-high flowering shrubs on its way from the beach to the pool. The resort consisted of several dozen cabanas clustered together and two multi-storey buildings. McDonald passed through the cabana section and turned the corner to the pool area. Here he stopped, unsure exactly of what he was seeing.

Normally at this time of day the pool area was deserted, with rows of empty lounges lined up neatly waiting for the sun-worshippers who would arrive later when the sun was higher. Now he saw a crowd of people – maybe ten or eleven altogether – gathered on the walkway. McDonald moved up to the back of the nearest people, stood on tiptoe and looked over their shoulders.

They were staring at a man’s body. McDonald could tell immediately that the man was dead, and it wasn’t just the pool of blood that told him so. It was the position of the corpse which was lying face down on the brick sidewalk; the right arm was trapped under the head at a strange angle, with the left by his side. It was the absolute stillness of the body, that familiar look which meant that all life had fled. It was the horrified expressions on the faces of the few tourists that he could see, and their hushed conversations.

Two officials held back the group of spectators; McDonald recognized the white shirts, dark trousers and shiny shoes which identified them as resort security officers. Even as he watched, one of them spoke loudly and forcefully, gesturing for the crowd to back off. The other spoke on his cell phone; he had his back turned to the body, obviously getting instructions.

This man disconnected and turned to join his colleague. The two of them moved purposefully and the spectators started shuffling backwards. Orders kept coming from the two security guards and McDonald found himself retreating with the others. He briefly considered offering his services, not that there was any indication that a crime had been committed, but then he realized how foolish that would be. He couldn’t speak Spanish, these two guards couldn’t speak English if they were like the others he had seen, and they wouldn’t thank him for hanging around. Right now it was obvious they intended to clear the area. Besides, he was on vacation, on holiday from this sort of stuff. Why on earth would he want to get involved?

As McDonald turned on his heel and started to walk away, he looked over his shoulder. Other resort staff were arriving and he was in time to see a blanket put over the body. No doubt additional steps would be taken to cordon off the area and keep the nasty sight from the guests. He kept walking. A swim in the main pool was definitely out of the question for the moment. It was a good thing there were two more pools, smaller ones to be sure, but perfectly adequate in a pinch.

McDonald arrived at the little pool in the cabana section and peeled off his shoes, socks and shirt. He couldn’t do lengths here but he could get the sweat off. He wasn’t all that hot anymore but he was too lazy to go up to the room and shower. As he waded into the water he thought about what he had just seen. Poor bugger. He had come for a vacation in the sun, and ended up face down in his own blood. McDonald wondered briefly who he was and then put the whole incident out of his mind.

He was reminded of it later, though, when he went out onto his balcony to hang his suit on the railing to dry. His room was on the sixth floor and he had a terrific view of the pool area and the ocean in the background. He also discovered that the body from earlier was almost directly underneath his unit, still lying on the path. He wasn’t the only one checking out the scene either; as he looked around, he saw plenty of other hotel guests, on his floor and lower ones as well, leaning over and watching the activity below. McDonald craned his neck upwards and saw that that there were more people above him doing the same thing.

The authorities were doing something about that, he could see. Screens had been set up earlier, to keep nosy parkers from coming along the path and ogling the gruesome sight. And now as he watched, sheets were being strung across the tops of the screens. The staff had belatedly realized that they needed to block the view from above. The police had arrived too, he now noticed. McDonald had been on a city tour of Trinidad earlier in the week and he recognized the uniforms these cops were wearing; there had been a number of them in the town directing traffic.

It was still none of his business, though. He wondered briefly who the dead man was – he was young, that was all he could say for sure from the views he’d had – but then he resolved to think no more about it. Nothing more could be seen now in any case. Besides, he had his day planned. He would go snorkelling this morning, followed by lunch at the beach bar and a siesta. Then he would check out the action by the main pool, if it wasn’t off-limits, and maybe try his hand at sailing one of the little boats the resort had available for the guests. If he were lucky, maybe he would have a companion to go with him. And perhaps she would stroll down the beach with him at sunset, and who knew what might happen then?

Detective McDonald went back into his unit and prepared to go down for his breakfast.

three

The Riverwood Rapist. Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm didn’t like the label but he had to admit it was accurate. It was early in the morning and Drumm was taking a break from another fruitless examination of the evidence in the case. He had his feet up on his desk and his hands were clasped behind his head. His chair was tilted backwards so far that if he went an inch or two further, his large frame would end up in an undignified heap on the floor. His eyes were locked on a photo on a bulletin board but he wasn’t really seeing it. The picture was just one of many that were pinned up, all of women in varying degrees of distress. His desk was littered with papers and there was a stack of files threatening at any moment to slide off onto the floor.

There had been five rapes so far, although these kinds of attacks were always referred to as sexual assaults. But rapes they were, and brutal ones too. A strong pattern linked them: a woman by herself, always just off a bus, walking home along a street late at night. A lone attacker grabs her from behind, puts a knife to her throat and threatens her, and forces her into a park or behind a building. And because all of these assaults had taken place in roughly the same area, a section of the city of York called Riverwood, the media had started saying the police were hunting the Riverwood Rapist. Drumm could hardly blame them.

They were hunting but they weren’t catching. The attacker had either been very good or very lucky. Drumm favoured the former theory. Each chosen spot had been away from busy areas and potential security cameras, and there had never been witnesses, other than the victims themselves. And what the women could tell him wasn’t much good: the Riverwood Rapist always wore a ski mask. They knew that he was tall and strong, and that he was white or possibly Hispanic. He didn’t speak much beyond telling his victims what he would do to them if they didn’t cooperate; he had a deep, raspy voice. They knew he didn’t use a condom and that he was rough and getting rougher. They knew he didn’t discriminate; one victim was Asian, one was black and three were white.

The man had come from behind in each case and only once had the victim sensed his approach. It had done her no good, though, as he had thrown a strong right hand across her mouth, choking her and preventing her from calling out, just as he had done with all the other women. His left hand always held a knife at the side of her throat, and three of the women had suffered nasty cuts as a result. The attacker wore no gloves and his fingers were covered with wiry black hairs; he had no visible tattoos. His fingernails were dirty and chewed short. He was wearing in every case some kind of black windbreaker and black sweatpants, as well as a black ski mask with eyeholes. His eyes were blue, “a weird, pale blue”, the second victim had said with a shudder. “And there was nothing in them but hate.”

Drumm wondered what the guy would do in the spring, if they hadn’t caught him by then. The first assault had been in early December, and there had been a new case roughly every ten days or so. A ski mask made sense in the winter; a man could walk down the street wearing one and nobody would think it strange. But in the spring? Maybe the rapist would change his m.o. Drumm thought that the guy must not only have the balls of a burglar but also some kind of insensitivity to the cold. Personally, he wouldn’t want to be dropping his pants in the kind of weather they’d been having, but he supposed if you were desperate enough or angry enough, it would be worth it.

They had the attacker’s DNA, and plenty of it. The rapist wasn’t shy about leaving it behind. He had in every case finished his business. He had always forced the victims to a secluded area out of sight of the street; Drumm assumed the man had chosen the spots in advance. Once there he had taken his time, forcing the women to the ground. Here his method had varied depending on what the victim was wearing. Sometimes he ripped her coat and clothing off, using both hands, the knife beside him on the snow. Sometimes he put the knife to the woman’s face and ordered her to remove her own clothing. His voice was always pitched low and hoarse like he had a cold, and he used as few words as possible. Always his eyes had bored into his victim’s, promising violence and demanding obedience. When he was finished, he pulled up his pants and forced the victim to stay on her stomach on the ground. And there he left her, face down on the remains of her clothing, while he ran off into the dark.

Having the rapist’s DNA wasn’t doing them any good, because there was no match to anybody in any of the police databases. Clearly the Riverwood Rapist knew this or he would have been more careful. Or maybe he didn’t know anything about DNA at all. Maybe he was ignorant, one of the few people in all of York who had never watched a cop show on TV.

One nurse, one hotel worker, one dispatcher for a taxi company, one student and a waitress at a downtown restaurant. That was the rapist’s tally so far, and if there was any kind of pattern there, Drumm couldn’t see it. The women worked until late at night and then they were unfortunate enough to take the wrong bus home; that was all. The student was in her twenties, the nurse forty-seven, the maid, the dispatcher and the waitress all in their thirties. There was nothing in that either.

One of the women, the nurse, had suffered minor frostbite because she had lost consciousness during the attack. Drumm wasn’t sure how long she had been out but it was long enough to cause damage to her nose and cheeks. She’d woken up in time and stumbled out to the street where she had been helped by a passing motorist. Of the five victims, she was the most traumatized. But all five women had been badly shaken by what had happened to them. It wasn’t just the physical assault or the helplessness, it was the chilling way the attacker had treated them that affected them the most.

“I come up against some mean mothers in my time,” said the taxi dispatcher. “But this dude was evil. He stuck that knife right up into my face. And the way he looked at me…” And she shuddered.

The man was getting more violent all the time and Drumm suspected they would soon have a murder to investigate if he wasn’t found and stopped.

Drumm sighed and took his feet off his desk. He stood up and went over to the bulletin board to look at the photos again. There were thirty-seven in all: drivers’ license photos, knife wounds, bruised body parts, ripped clothing. There was a sketch of what the attacker might look like, complete with ski mask, and almost completely useless, with no facial features visible. He’d looked at all these things so many times that he could see them in his sleep. But he was getting nowhere – going around in circles – and he knew it.

The York Police Services had increased uniformed patrols in the area and assigned undercover officers to walk the streets. They had alerted the media to the cases, in order to make women aware that there was a sexual predator in Riverwood. In the news release they had provided the best description they had: a white or Hispanic male, approximately six feet tall, wearing a ski mask and dark clothing. The other details had been withheld, the facts about his fingers and the way his voice sounded.

Drumm gave it up for the moment and went out for some coffee. He poured himself a cup in the communal kitchen which was empty just at the moment and went over to the large window overlooking the park. There were tables and chairs in the room but he preferred to stand and look out at the trees. They were bare of course and lightly dusted with snow but he enjoyed the sight nonetheless. It was one of the few positive things about the recent reorganization of the force, the view from this spot out over Sunrise Park. Even on this cold winter day there was activity out there. A young mother was pulling her child on a toboggan across the snow, her pink parka a bright blotch of colour against the white. And Drumm could see a man jogging along in a black tracksuit and matching toque, his breath forming little clouds of vapour as he went. The guy was the correct height, he judged: that could be the Riverwood Rapist right there. Drumm sipped his coffee and watched him until he was out of sight.

The York Police Services had moved into a new building. The change made sense because they had outgrown the space in the previous one. In the old place they had been on top of each other all the time. They had been making do but the need for more room had become increasingly obvious. This facility was much larger and it was right beside the morgue and the labs. It would save them time, and it was equipped with all the latest technology. It was all much more practical but the changeover had not gone smoothly, and they were still working out the kinks. There were still boxes of junk all over the place and telephones and other equipment that malfunctioned.

The YPS had not only changed buildings, it had reorganized the structure of the force. Drumm was no longer a detective in the Violent Crimes Unit; he was now in Homicide and the VCU had ceased to exist. The growth of the city of York meant not only new streets and new subdivisions, more shopping malls and factories, but also an increase in crime. The proximity of the city to Toronto ensured that many criminal activities had migrated north. “Shots fired” was now a common phrase heard on the police radios in York, there were more than two dozen identified gangs in the city and drug-related crimes were an almost daily event. There were two different and competing biker clubhouses in the city. Violent deaths were still not a common occurrence but the trend was there for all to see, and Drumm knew it wouldn’t be long before they were approaching Toronto’s or Vancouver’s death rate.

As a homicide detective, he was expected to handle serious shootings, stabbings and other violent crimes, such as the Riverwood Rapist. He could be called out to investigate any questionable or unexplained death, as well as suicides, drownings, crib deaths, overdoses, seizures or any other type of incident that could cause a lot of attention to fall on the York Police Services. On any given day, he could be looking down at a decomposing body in a forest, a suicide in a bathtub or an addict passed out in a washroom. If a body was fished out of the river, he would likely be there. Recently he’d been involved in the investigation of a local politician, a councillor suspected of taking bribes. It was one of the things that appealed to him the most about the job: the constant variety.

All of this was fine with one Nicholas Drumm; he had been doing most of this anyway as a member of the VCU. What was not okay with him was the ignominious way that his superior, Staff Inspector Mark Chappell, had been forced to retire. And what was worse: that his replacement was Harold Drennan, as hard-nosed and unpleasant a Staff Inspector as the YPS could have found. If they had been looking to send a message, they could hardly have done a better job. Drennan made Chappell look like a saint. And even worse from Drumm’s point of view was that he’d had a run-in with Drennan in the past. The new Staff Inspector had no cause to love Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm.

Unwillingly, Drumm’s thoughts went back to the incident with Drennan. When was it? Two, no nearly three years before, it must be. Drennan had been with the Sex Crimes unit then, and Drumm was investigating a particularly nasty attack on a teenager; he’d been frustrated with his lack of progress. Drennan had been cool from the start, and uncooperative. Drumm didn’t take it well, and Drennan had called him “teacher boy” and suggested he take himself off somewhere else and let the real police deal with it.

Drumm reacted without thinking. He’d grabbed Drennan’s shirt and pushed him up against the wall in his office. There had been some shoving back and forth, a lot of harsh words, and other detectives had to pull them apart. Drumm had left Drennan’s office in an angry frame of mind while Drennan straightened his clothing and muttered, and the other detectives had hidden grins. Since then the two men had kept their distance and maintained a cold silence when in each other’s company. But Drumm always had the sense that Drennan was just waiting to get back at him. And now the man was his immediate superior. Drumm sighed.

Mark Chappell had been demanding but he was usually fair. Drumm had felt Chappell’s anger many times but the Staff Inspector was also quick with the praise when things went well. But Chappell had been forced to take an early retirement. He had made the decision to use one of his detectives on a personal matter involving Chappell’s wife, Celeste. And when that detective, Dick McDonald, had been nearly killed as a result of a stabbing, Chappell had taken the blame. And out he went. Drennan was the replacement.

Drumm sighed again. His coffee finished, he left the window and returned his mug. Back in his office he stared listlessly at the papers on his desk. His thoughts turned to Emily, his ex-girlfriend. Their on-again, off-again relationship had put him through an emotional wringer before it finally ended some months before. The bottom line there, he eventually realized, was that she just couldn’t handle the stress of being with a cop. It had taken the two of them several failed attempts at making the relationship work and many arguments to figure that out. She had left him for a fellow real estate agent. He smiled ruefully to himself when he recalled the circumstances of her leaving. He had been upset at the time but eventually realized that it was the best thing for him – for the two of them, really. All he felt now was relief that he didn’t have to worry about her anymore.

He really wasn’t in the mood today to handle the Riverwood Rapist, he realized; his mind was wandering all over the place. Restlessly he stood up and made his way to the washroom. At the sink he took his test kit out of his pocket and then washed his hands. He turned the machine on and inserted the test strip. Drumm went through the familiar routine of using the lancet to prick his finger and smearing the blood on the strip and then checking the readout. A few months ago he would have been doing all this secretly while sitting in a toilet cubicle, anxious that no one at the YPS should learn he was diabetic. Now he was doing it out in the open, the result of his colleague Lori Singh’s persuasion.

“There’s no reason to hide it,” she told him. “Lots of cops are diabetic. It doesn’t make you less of a man.” And she had grinned mischievously.

In time he had come to realize she was right and he was now completely comfortable in checking his blood sugar level in public. He had become less obsessive about it too, not having to monitor it many times a day. Drumm was one of the fortunate diabetics because his condition could be controlled through a proper diet. If he were careful, his life was normal. If he neglected his diet, problems could ensue, such as when he had collapsed on the job a few months ago. Drumm and Lori, who had been with him at the time, had kept that quiet.

Drumm put the used lancet in the little plastic box he carried with him for that purpose. Later on he would get rid of it in the yellow disposal container that the YPS provided in the health room. That was a change too, he realized; in the past he would have carefully wrapped it up and taken it home.

His reading was 5.3, perfectly normal. He was so restless that he’d thought maybe his blood sugar level was too high, but he now realized that he was just frustrated. Or maybe he just needed a break from his paperwork. Moodily he made his way back to his office.

He stared at the reports on his desk some more, and idly moved papers around. More than anything he needed a holiday, he realized, a chance to get away from the routines and frustrations. Like Dick McDonald, currently enjoying the Cuban sun. McDonald, popularly known as Detective Dick, was recuperating from the leg injury that had nearly killed him. Drumm smiled to himself. Knowing Dick, he was probably hobbling after every cute woman he could find down there. And annoying the rest.

four

Detective Dick wasn’t hobbling after anyone. He was sitting outside at a small table in the shade, finishing his third cup of coffee, the remains of his breakfast in front of him. He smiled and winked at the young waitress clearing a nearby table. McDonald had struck out with her earlier in the week, which had surprised him. He was fairly certain she was married, but he’d thought he had a good chance to score.

The restaurant was busy this morning, with a long line of vacationers helping themselves to the breakfast offerings at the buffet. As usual the lineup was longest at the omelet station where the chef cooked breakfasts to order. There was a constant stream of people coming and going. And there were many groups of people standing and talking animatedly, something he didn’t usually see. He wondered briefly what might be causing it and then remembered the body on the pathway. Of course. Death always made for good conversation.

McDonald finished his coffee and searched in his pocket for a convertible peso. He liked to leave a tip for the staff whenever he could; they were so poorly paid, and worked such long hours. Besides, you never knew, it might pay off in fringe benefits with one of the waitresses at a later time.

He stood up and made his way to the exit. As he came out into the lobby, he stopped to look around and survey his surroundings, as he did every morning. The foyer was open to the air on two sides with a roof over the central area so that bright sunshine and sea breezes filled the space. He loved the lush tropical vegetation, the birds flitting around and most of all, the heat, which was building even at this early hour of the day. This morning there was a bright green lizard sunning itself partway up a wall.

As he stood there enjoying the warm Cuban morning, he became aware of a couple that he knew slightly; they were obviously looking for something as their heads surveyed the busy scene. They noticed him, the woman pointed at him, and the two of them made their way quickly towards him.

“Dick! Got a minute? We need to talk to you. Please.” It was the man talking, and McDonald vaguely remembered his name was Sean. Or was it Stan? “Over here?” The man led the way to a quiet corner of the lobby; McDonald reluctantly followed. This was not the way he had pictured his morning unfolding.

The woman spoke first. “You’ve heard?”

McDonald moved slightly so that he had his back to the wall, with a good view of the lobby. He was puzzled. He studied the woman in front of him, an attractive twenty-something with long brown hair, dressed in shorts, sandals and a lightweight blouse. Her name was Charlotte, he recalled. She was agitated and she had obviously been crying. Her eyes were red and she was clutching a tissue in her hand. “Heard? You mean about the body?”

“That’s it,” Sean said. He was tall, dressed in shorts, sneakers and a muscle shirt with a Montreal Canadians logo on it. He was much more composed than his companion. “It’s Mike. We’re pretty sure it’s Mike.”

“Of course it’s him!” Charlotte rounded on her partner and practically shouted the words at him. “Those were his shorts, and the same shirt he had on yesterday!”

Sean put his hands around Charlotte’s neck and pulled her into an embrace. He looked over at McDonald and said, “It’s Mike. Yeah, it’s him.”

McDonald said, “I’m sorry…Mike? I don’t know who that is.” He ran his hand through his hair. He barely remembered these two, let alone someone named Mike. He looked around the lobby, wishing he could move along and get out and enjoy the sun.

Charlotte pulled away from Sean and stared at the detective. “You met him the other day. At the bar. Remember?” Realizing from McDonald’s expression that he clearly didn’t recall, she went on, “We were getting refills at the pool bar. That’s where we first met you. We’re Sean and Charlotte, remember? Mike was there too. We got talking while we waited in line and we all introduced ourselves. That’s when you told us you were a cop.”

McDonald said, “I remember now. Sorry. I meet so many people.” He looked at the couple in front of him who were now holding hands. “And this body on the walkway – this is your friend, Mike? The guy I met in line at the bar?”

Sean nodded. “Mike Kennedy, yeah, we think so. He came down with Aaron and Deb and Kathy. And us.”

McDonald looked helplessly at them. “I’m sorry….Aaron and Deb and Kathy?”

Charlotte was crying quietly. “Kathy is Mike’s fiancée. They’re going to be married in June.” She blew her nose with the tissue. “Were going to be married.”

“Aaron and Deb are our friends, too,” said Sean. “The six of us flew down from Toronto together.”

McDonald said, “I see. That’s really a shame. Very upsetting for all of you.” He looked at his watch. The morning was rapidly disappearing. His snorkelling expedition was waiting. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

McDonald started edging away but stopped abruptly when Charlotte grabbed his arm.

“Wait!” she said. “Please. We need your help. We don’t know who else to talk to.”

McDonald stopped and stared at her. “What? My help? With what?”

“With Mike, of course.” Charlotte was dabbing at her eyes. “We want to know what’s going on. And nobody will tell us anything.”

McDonald felt his snorkelling morning slipping away. He stared narrowly at the couple, shading his eyes against the sun. Where were his sunglasses anyway? “You can’t be serious! I’m on holiday here, same as you. I came down here to get away from this sort of stuff. And you want me to investigate? Is that really what you’re saying?”

Sean shook his head. “Not investigate, no, just talk to the cops and let us know what’s going on. These Cubans just scowl at us and walk away.”

“Geez, I can’t believe this,” said McDonald.

Charlotte Gill looked at him imploringly. “Please, we don’t know what else to do.”

McDonald felt like saying, I’m on holiday! Leave me alone! He sighed. “Let’s find a table and sit down somewhere private.”

The three of them made their way to a shaded patio on the edge of the beach with a view of the ocean. There was a small bar which was shut at this time of the morning, and the whole area was surrounded by palm trees. It was a secluded spot often frequented by early risers who wanted to watch the sunrise with their morning coffee but it was empty just now.

McDonald sat down with his back to the bar so that he had a view of the beach and the buildings behind them and gestured to the others to sit. They wanted him to be a policeman? While he was on holiday? Then he would act like a cop and take charge. “Right. Let’s start at the beginning. You’re Sean and Charlotte. Last names? Are you married?”

“We’re married, yes,” said Sean. “And the last name is Gill. Sean and Charlotte Gill.”

“And you flew down from Toronto with this Mike Kennedy? And his fiancée, Kathy? And Aaron and Deb? Who are all these people? Last names, please.”

Charlotte spoke in a low voice. McDonald could barely hear her above the sound of the waves on the beach and the rustling of the palm branches. “Kathy is Kathy Walters. She’s a florist. She has her own shop. Aaron and Deb are married. Aaron and Deborra Whiteside. We’ve known them for years.”

“How do you know them?”

Charlotte said, “Sean and Mike work together for one thing. But we all go back a long time, to high school. Except Kathy. Mike met her about a year ago. They were going to be married in a few months.”

“Yes, in June you said.” McDonald looked at Sean Gill. “You and Mike worked together. I remember you told me you were at Metro Grocers.”

Sean nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Charlotte here is in retail. And Aaron works for the school board and Deb is a legal secretary. But who cares? Why do you want to know?”

McDonald said, “You’re asking me to find out what’s going on with a dead stranger in a foreign country.” He was speaking in slow, measured tones. He smiled briefly at the two of them. “I need to know who’s asking.”

Sean Gill started to speak but McDonald cut him off. “Where are the other three? Kathy Walters? And Deborra and Aaron Whiteside?”

Charlotte stood up. “I’ll go and find them.”

The two men watched her walk hurriedly back towards the resort. McDonald wished he had one of his Cuban cigars with him; it would be pleasant to sit here now and enjoy his cigar while he watched the surf….

“We had Kathy with us last night in our suite,” said Sean. “She and Mike had an argument; she slept in our second bedroom.”

McDonald turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. “And they’re getting married in a few months?”

Sean shrugged. “It happens. Anyway, this morning Kathy got up early and went back to her room. Mike wasn’t there. She got worried and went looking for him. She came across the scene on the pathway…” Sean’s voice trailed off. “Well, you know what she saw. She couldn’t get through, she couldn’t find out anything at all. So she came running back to our place. Of course, she didn’t have a key so she had to bang on our door to get in.” Sean shrugged. “We were up by then anyway. The three of us went to get Aaron and Deb. Then we split up. They were going to try and find something out from the resort people, we would look for you.” Sean stared out at the beach. “And here we are.”

McDonald looked back towards the resort where he could see Charlotte Gill returning with a very tall and muscular black man, an attractive, redheaded woman and a much shorter blonde who would have been pretty except for her red eyes and blotchy complexion.

“I found them in the lobby,” said Charlotte, once they arrived.

Introductions were made and the new arrivals sat down. Not surprisingly, the upset blonde woman turned out to be Kathy Walters.

“Get anywhere?” asked Sean.

Aaron shook his head. “Nobody would tell us anything. Not the front desk people, or the security guards. We even tried the clinic but they wouldn’t talk either. All we got was rumours and gossip from some of the guests.” He looked around helplessly and shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t help that we don’t speak Spanish.”

“I don’t either,” said McDonald. “And I’m an Ontario cop on holiday in a foreign country. I have no jurisdiction here. None.” Aaron started to speak but McDonald cut him off. “But I haven’t said I won’t help.”  He looked at the five of them. “So long as you all realize that I’m not likely to get anywhere.”

“I think I can speak for all of us,” said Charlotte. “We’d just appreciate any help you can give us. We don’t even know how he died.” She looked over at Kathy who was weeping quietly, her head slumped forward.

“I can help with that, at least,” said McDonald. “He fell from some height, almost certainly from a balcony.” He sat back and crossed his arms.

Aaron looked surprised. “He fell? From a balcony? How do you know?”

“I’ve been a detective for a long time. You get to recognize the signs. He fell from above. From quite a long way up.” He looked at the group ranged in front of him, all watching him with rapt interest. “You didn’t know?”

“We weren’t sure what happened to him,” said Kathy, speaking for the first time. Her voice was low and husky and she was staring at the detective with intense eyes. “You’re sure he didn’t just pass out? Or maybe have a stroke or something like that?”

As if, thought McDonald, with all that blood? Aloud he said, “He fell. From somewhere in the hotel. And that leaves three possibilities.” He stood up and stretched and said, “I’ll see what I can find out.”

The five young people watched him walk away. “Three possibilities?” said Kathy. “What did he mean?”

Sean looked at the others. Aaron shrugged. Sean said to Kathy, “I imagine he meant that one of three things happened to Mike. Either he fell accidentally, maybe because he was sick or dizzy or…”

“Drunk,” said Kathy. She was staring at Sean with a hopeless look on her face.

“Or drunk,” agreed Sean. He said nothing more.

Kathy stared at him and a horrified look gradually came over her face. “Oh! He means Mike might have jumped.” Her hand went to her mouth. “No! He wouldn’t have done that! He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have killed himself!”

“Of course he didn’t, Kathy,” said Charlotte. She reached over and took both of Kathy’s hands in hers. “He wouldn’t do that. Probably he felt sick and went out onto the balcony for some fresh air and lost his balance. That’s what happened.”

Kathy looked at her with a blank expression that was quickly replaced by sick grief. “Oh! The third possibility…someone pushed him over.” Her hand went to her mouth again. “Somebody might have thrown him off! Oh God, Mike!” She started sobbing uncontrollably.

Deb stood up. “She needs to lie down, Char. This isn’t doing her any good at all. She can come with Aaron and me if you like.”

“It’s okay, we’ll take her back with us. Right, Sean?” Charlotte Gill looked at her husband.

“Absolutely.” Sean was nodding his head vigorously. “Come on, Kathy. Easy does it.” He put his hand under her elbow and helped her stand up. Kathy looked like she was going to protest but then subsided.

“Alright,” Kathy said. Her voice was quiet. “If you say so.”

five

Lori Singh examined herself critically, her head twisted around and tilted downwards to get a good view of her backside. She was dressed in one of her running outfits and the full-length mirror revealed all. The pants were tight and black and the long-sleeved top was pale lilac, and she had always thought she presented well dressed like this. Now she wasn’t so sure. She brushed her damp hair out of the way and had a good look.

Two weeks ago Dean had told her that he liked women with “big cabooses”. She’d looked at him sharply, then tried to check out her back view. They were in his bedroom at the time with no mirror available, but she’d had a good look when she got home. She wasn’t getting larger down there, was she? She didn’t think so – well, at least not by a lot – but Dean obviously did.

She enjoyed Dean’s company; he was cheerful, intelligent and a good tonic for her. But he was also unambitious and downright lazy at times. She had known the relationship was ending, had known from the beginning that it wouldn’t last. She’d met Dean on a previous case. He was a bartender at a gay bistro, she was a detective with the York Police Services. He wasn’t gay – no, definitely not – and he was good fun. He was years younger than her and made no demands of her, surprising in such a young man. He was understanding of her weird police hours as well.

They’d spent a lot of time eating and drinking together, visiting the craft breweries in the area, even taking a trip to Niagara Falls. Many of their get-togethers, though, were just sex, pure and simple, after they were both finished their shifts. And lately the relationship had reached that stale, nearly-done stage where much of the fun had gone out of the encounters. She knew she would be ending it soon even if he didn’t do it first, and his comment about large backsides had decided her. They’d broken it off a week later with no regrets.

Now here she was, one week into a new exercise routine, and checking herself for signs of progress. It was a tough regime she had set herself: up early for a half hour of yoga. Lori followed that with fifteen minutes of free weights and then some tea and a banana. Then it was out into the dark, cold (and often snowy) day for a run. Bundled up against the biting wind, she would finish her exercise with a gasping ascent of a staircase in her neighbourhood park, like some Indian version of Rocky Balboa mounting the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Then, sweating and tired, she would walk back home for a shower and breakfast before heading off to work. And hopefully, by the time spring arrived and she could get back to cycling, she would have lost some pounds, redistributed some more and be happier with her look. She liked exercising and she liked being fit, and she was determined not to become like so many cops she saw, stressed and overweight.

Lori checked her watch, yawned and headed to the shower. It was time to get to work.

She liked the new building housing the York Police Services. The old place had been driving her crazy, with its cramped quarters and dated equipment. It had been a depressing environment much of the time, she now realized, and while her spirits didn’t exactly soar when she entered this building, she usually looked forward to her day. Lori parked her Prius in her designated spot (another advantage to the new arrangement) and entered the YPS headquarters.

A few minutes later she poked her head into Drumm’s office to say hello. He was tilted back in his chair with his eyes closed and his hands behind his head; he appeared to be asleep.

“Don’t let Drennan see you like that, Nick.”

“I am not resting, as it may appear to you. I am contemplating the evidence. With my eyes closed.” Drumm spoke without moving.

“Such as there is. Back in a minute. I want some tea.”

By the time she returned, Drumm had assumed a more orthodox position, sitting upright in his chair and reading a file. Lori stood in the doorway, blowing over her mug.

“No muffin today?” Drumm asked, looking up.

“No muffin today,” Lori agreed. “Or tomorrow, or the next day…”

“How’s the new program going?”

Lori grimaced. “I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to run in the dark and cold. It’s the highlight of my day.”

Drumm smiled. “I admire you for doing it, especially when you don’t need to. You look fine to me.”

Lori felt a little frisson of pleasure. “Anything new?”

Drumm looked down at the file. “Not really, no. No new attack overnight at any rate. But then it would be ahead of schedule if it had happened yesterday.”

At the moment the Riverwood Rapist was their top priority. It wasn’t a red-ball case, not quite, but it had the potential to become one. No one had been killed – yet – but the media were taking more of an interest with every assault and asking questions every day. They were demanding to know what was being done and what progress was being made. At the moment it was still a local story but if it ever became national, well, then, the pressure would mount exponentially.

Lori took a sip of her tea. She was still standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. “I really think we need to do it, Nick. Before he kills someone.”

Drumm looked at her, standing in the doorway casually dressed in black slacks and a bulky white knit sweater. He stood up and went to the window. He spoke while looking outside. “I know you do. But I’m not quite there yet. It’s dangerous. And I don’t like it.”

“I’m a big girl, Nick.”

Drumm turned and looked at her. “I know you are. And I know you can handle it. But…” His voice tailed off.

They had been discussing using a detective as bait for some time. Lori Singh was the obvious choice. Not only was she young, she was attractive and would make an alluring target. She had come up with the idea but Drumm was resisting implementing it. She knew it was out of concern for her welfare but still, it was the logical thing to try unless they could catch the guy with his pants around his ankles.

“Run it by Drennan. See what he says.” She watched Drumm carefully to see if he was bending at all. When there was no sign from him, she went on. “At least you can get pre-approval. Let him know what we’re planning and see if he objects.”

“We’re not planning, Lori, we’re proposing. Maybe.” Drumm sat down again. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before.”

“I know what I said.” Drumm’s voice was sharp. “Sorry. I’m not ready to do it yet, that’s all. But I’ll run it by Drennan as you suggest.”

Lori dropped it. She’d obviously gone too far. “I’ve got some calls to make. Don’t drink too much coffee.” She turned and left his office.

Drumm watched her retreat and sighed. She was right, he knew. But he didn’t like putting his staff into danger, especially Lori. He was very fond of her, attracted to her even, although he was much older than she was. He sighed and picked up the phone to see if the Staff Inspector was available. Unfortunately for him he was.

Drennan stared coldly at him while he stood in the Staff Inspector’s office. Damn the man, making him stand there like a guilty schoolboy. Drumm had just presented Lori’s plan and was waiting for Drennan’s reaction. He forced himself to relax and appear unconcerned.

“Taken your time, haven’t you?” asked Staff Inspector Drennan. He had a strange expression on his face, half smile, half grimace. Drumm had seen it before and knew it wasn’t good news.

“Not really, sir, no,” said Drumm. He kept his voice even and pleasant. “We’ve been proceeding normally. This is the logical next step.”

Drennan was sitting straight in his chair, his hands folded in front of him on his tidy desk. He was staring directly at Drumm. “I have a good memory, Drumm. I haven’t forgotten, or forgiven. I’m just waiting for you to screw up. Which I am sure you will do. Teacher boy.” Drennan kept his gaze directly on Drumm’s face.

Drumm studied the man in front of him, striving to appear unconcerned. He saw an imposing man with a shock of grey hair and piercing blue eyes. Drennan had to be six feet four and weighed maybe two hundred fifty pounds. He used his size to intimidate, Drumm knew, but just now it was his imperial presence behind the desk that he was employing as a weapon.

“Are you rejecting the plan then, sir?”

“Rejecting the plan? No. No, I’m not rejecting it. On the contrary. You should have come to me sooner.”

“I see.” And Drumm did see. If things went wrong, Drennan would have his ass. He would be brought into this office and given a dressing down, and then he would likely be called upstairs for a formal reprimand. Drennan had been known to leak it to the media when he was displeased with an officer, thus ensuring a rather intense public scrutiny that Drumm would rather not experience just now. And if things went well, Drennan would say, “We should have done this weeks ago. I don’t know why Drumm waited so long.” Either way Drumm was not going to get his superior’s full support and he would be held directly responsible for what happened. Fair enough, he thought; it’s what they pay me for.

“I want to see full details on my desk by the end of the day. Dismissed.” Drennan picked up his pen and began writing.

Drumm smiled sardonically to himself and left Drennan’s office. Drennan had been trying to get him to jump him again. And that would be the end of Drumm’s career. It was one thing for two officers of equal rank to tussle; it was quite another to assault a superior. Prick, he thought to himself.

six

Detective Richard McDonald had done his best. He’d wanted to go snorkeling or lie out in the sun or sit at the swim-up bar and drink Bucaneros and look at pretty women in skimpy bikinis. He had done none of these things. Instead he had wasted much of his Thursday acting like a cop, trying to find out some more about the death of the late, lamented Mike Kennedy and report back.

He started at the front desk because his Spanish was limited and he knew the staff there were bilingual. Multilingual, actually, because they had so many German, French and Canadian guests. He waited until the reception area was quiet and the staff had finished exchanging money, selling internet passes and dealing with all the other requests the tourists made. Then he approached a pretty young woman whom he had chatted up earlier in the week. Her name tag identified her as Rosa.

“Hola, Rosita,” he said, smiling and holding his hat over his heart. “You look really beautiful today.”

The young woman laughed and said, “Hola, Dick. Gracias.” Then, because she knew him, she said, “What do you want in here? Why aren’t you out looking for a lady?”

“Because I can’t find one as pretty as you,” said Dick. He was grinning but then he got down to business. “Or one who knows as much as you about what’s going on around here. What happened today with the young man who died?”

Rosa looked around the lobby and then behind her at the office. Then she said, “We’re telling anyone who asks that we don’t know anything. That it was just an accident, we think.”

“But?” said McDonald.

Rosa looked around again. “I really can’t say, Dick.” Her accent made his name sound like Deeck.

“I don’t want to get you in trouble, Rosa. But you know I’m a cop. I have some friends and the dead man was with them. They need to know what happened. Who can I talk to, do you think?”

Rosa looked at him and nodded. “Un momento,” she said. She went into the office at the back and spoke to an older man sitting at a desk. Through the glass wall McDonald could see the man turn and look at him.

Rosa came back and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Perez. He’s in charge of the investigation. But you didn’t hear it from us.” She smiled nervously.

“Gracias, Rosita,” said McDonald. “May I buy you a drink later?”

“Si,” said Rosa. “And my husband too?” She smiled at him mischievously.

“Ah. No,” said Dick. He smiled wryly. “Maybe not, love. Thanks again. Gracias.”

Dick made his way out to the pathway where the body had been found. The screens and covers were still in place. So were the security guards. One of them stepped forward as he approached, putting his hands up in the classic stop signal. “No, no, no,” he said.

McDonald went up to him and said, ”Lieutenant Colonel Perez, por favor. Es importante.”

The guard looked at him unsmilingly and then turned and spoke to his companion in rapid, incomprehensible Spanish. The second guard shook his head. The first one spoke to McDonald, “No.”

McDonald raised his voice and said again, “Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Perez. Por favor. Es importante.”

The first guard looked annoyed and started to speak when he was interrupted by a voice from behind the screen. “Quien es?” A moment later an older man emerged. He had grey hair, balding at the temples and was dressed in dark pants, a light blue shirt and a dark blue tie. Aside from the tie, he looked rather like one of the resort security guards, McDonald thought.

“Senor Perez?” asked McDonald.

“Yes,” said the older man. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Misael Perez. Who are you?”

When on vacation McDonald did not carry his gun or badge, but he always had a business card or two with him. He took one out of his wallet now and handed it to Perez. “Detective Richard McDonald, Homicide, York Police Services.” He added, “Canada.”

Perez stared at him and then took the proffered card. He examined it carefully and then slipped it into his shirt pocket. He looked at McDonald unsmilingly. “So you’re a homicide detective. I am with the Criminal Investigations Department, Provincial Section. What do you want?”

My card back, thought McDonald, but aloud he said, “It’s about the young man who died, Mike Kennedy.”

“Yes?”

“His friends were talking to me, and his fiancée. They want to know what is going on. Nobody will tell them anything.”

Perez had been standing with his arms folded but now he turned and said, “Come.” He moved behind the screen. McDonald followed him.

“It is more private here,” said Perez.

There were two other men working in the area. The body had been removed but the pool of blood remained. There wasn’t much else to see.

“You understand I am on holiday here, Lieutenant Colonel, and the last thing I want to do is police work. I would be much happier sailing right now.”

“And that is where you should be, not here where you have no business.”

McDonald started to speak but Perez cut him off. “Never mind. You can save me some time, perhaps. What are the names of these concerned friends?”

He was right, McDonald knew, and if the situation were reversed, he would feel exactly the same as the Cuban. He wouldn’t want some foreign detective interfering with one of his investigations. He gave Perez the names of Kennedy’s fiancée and the other Canadians.

Perez wrote it all down and then used his cellphone. He spoke in rapid Spanish and all that McDonald understood were the names that he had just given to the Cuban detective.

When the call was finished, McDonald said, “Your English is very good. Way better than my Spanish.”

“Thank you. We learn it in school. And working in a tourist district, it is useful to speak English.”

McDonald nodded. “I understand exactly how you feel, Lieutenant Colonel, believe me. Back home, if this was my investigation, I’d probably tell you to get lost.”

Perez looked at him, unsmilingly.

McDonald went on. “But look at it from the young lady’s point of view. She came here for a holiday with her fiancé and he’s dead on a sidewalk in a pool of blood. She doesn’t understand, can’t speak the language and nobody will tell her diddly-squat.”

Perez looked puzzled. “Diddly-squat?”

“It means nothing. She doesn’t know what’s going on.”

Perez nodded. “I understand. I am not completely heartless, Detective. You can tell her that Michael Kennedy died from a fall. He died instantly. He did not suffer.” Perez was once again standing with his arms crossed.

McDonald knew Perez wasn’t lying but he also knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. He said, “I see. And you’re from the Criminal Investigations Department. So someone thinks a crime was committed?”

Perez lifted one hand and said, “No, no, not necessarily. We investigate all manner of suspicious and unusual deaths, even traffic accidents. When a tourist falls off a balcony and dies, it is a matter of some interest to the government.”

“Because…?”

“Because Cuba earns a lot of money from tourism, especially from Canada.” Perez smiled. “We would like to keep it that way.”

“So you think this fall was an accident? Why would he fall off a balcony?”

Perez looked at him for a few seconds and then he turned on his heel and went out the back side of the screened-off area. He gestured for McDonald to follow. Perez stopped and pointed up at the balcony. “Mr. Michael Kennedy was staying in a unit on the seventh floor. That is his balcony right up there where you can see one of my men.”

McDonald shaded his eyes against the sun and could just make out a figure, dressed similarly to Perez, inspecting the balcony. He realized that Kennedy’s room was directly above his own.

“Mr. Kennedy had a lot to drink yesterday. A lot. We believe he was quite drunk for most of the day. We have eyewitness statements already attesting to that fact. We have more people to interview, however.” Perez was looking at him directly, his arms folded again. It seemed to be a favourite position of his. “You can tell his fiancée we think he was drunk and lost his balance and fell off the balcony.”

McDonald pondered this. “That’s the official story?”

Perez said, “That’s the official story, for the moment. It is what I want you to tell this Kathy Walters. We will be talking to her also, of course, and it is what we shall say.”

McDonald stroked his chin and thought. Then he asked, “And off the record? As a courtesy to a fellow detective?”

Perez paused briefly and then he smiled again. “Have you ever seen the inside of a Cuban prison, Detective McDonald? No? Well then, allow me to say that our jails are not like yours. I will tell you something, off the record, as a courtesy, because you have been of some small service to me. But if I find that you have told this to anyone else here, you will not be leaving Cuba as scheduled. I will hold you as a witness, and you will get to see what a Cuban prison looks like. Understood?”

This is a nasty bugger, thought McDonald. I wouldn’t want him chasing me. “Understood,” he said.

“Bueno,” said Perez. “Then I will tell you this for your ears only. Your Mr. Michael Kennedy was not only drunk, he got into an altercation – is that the right word, altercation? – with three Cuban men in the disco last night. He was trying to pick up a couple of local girls. They didn’t like it. One of the men hit him.”

“Hit him? You mean punched him?”

Perez nodded his head. “In the stomach. And they say they threw him out of the disco and that’s the last they saw of him.”

McDonald stared at him. “They say...you don’t believe them?”

“It is too early to say that. We haven’t finished talking to them. When we are done here, we have a lot more interviewing to do. And not just with these three Cubans.”

McDonald said, “I see. And you don’t want Kathy Walters to know about these three men because…”

“They are Cuban. It doesn’t concern her. Mr. Kennedy is dead and nothing will bring him back to her. If it turns out that one of these three men threw him off the balcony, well, he is Cuban, and he will face Cuban justice. It doesn’t involve Miss Walters at all. And now I must ask you to go. You have what you came for.”

McDonald knew his time was up. “Gracias, Lieutenant Colonel. I am very grateful. If you’re ever in Canada, I will do you the same favour.” He performed a half salute and turned to walk away.

“I will never get to Canada,” said Perez. “And remember what I told you.”

Talking to Cuban police officers was thirsty work, McDonald decided. It was time for a meal anyway, so he headed down to the beach bar. The little cabana by the ocean was one of his favourite places to have lunch. There were no bad spots at this resort, and the main restaurant with its buffet would have been perfectly adequate. But he liked to sit outside and listen to the surf, drink some Cristal and have a burger and fries. It was a Cuban hamburger, of course, and he definitely didn’t want to know what went into it, but it tasted just fine. McDonald sat down at a table for two and looked out at the ocean while he ate.

Perez’ information had been interesting and he could see why the Cuban detective didn’t want the other Canadians to know about the possibility of murder. Cuba had a reputation for being a safe place for Canadian tourists to go. All it would take would be for one tourist to be raped by a Cuban or a nightclub brawl or a Canadian to be assaulted by a gang of young Cuban men and the story would be front page news nationwide. That kind of article would make a lot of people have second thoughts about traveling to the country.

McDonald looked out at the sparkling blue water and the waves lapping gently on the beach. Even at noon it was already thirty degrees Celsius under a brilliant sun. There were scores of people stretched out on lounge chairs on the beach, baking themselves. There was very little activity on the water, just one small catamaran about a half-mile out. There were some swimmers but not many, even though the sea was calm. McDonald counted eight people strolling along the water’s edge, most with their heads down, looking for shells perhaps.

His food finished, McDonald got another beer and continued his contemplation of the ocean. Unwillingly, his thoughts turned to York and his colleagues, Drumm and Lori. He had been trying not to think about home but as his week wore on and the time disappeared, like the sand running out of an hourglass, he was aware that he would soon be back to work. It would be fifty degrees colder there, and the only sand would be what the road crews dumped on the streets for traction. It was best not to think about it.

Some minutes later McDonald drained the last of his beer and went to have a look at the disco that Perez had mentioned. He remembered seeing a sign for it before but he hadn’t been inside. It turned out to be not much of a place, just a smallish room with a bar. At this time of day it was unoccupied, the bar closed up; McDonald guessed it would come to life after dark.

He was delaying, he realized, putting off the time when he would tell Kathy Walters and the others what he had learned. What had he learned? Not much that he could tell them but he could at least confirm that Mike Kennedy had fallen from his balcony. And that he didn’t suffer. McDonald realized that he hadn’t asked Perez what time this might have happened. He didn’t know the timeline at all, in fact, when Kennedy was in the disco or when he was punched. McDonald shrugged to himself. Perez likely wouldn’t have told him anyway.

McDonald left the disco and went in search of Mike Kennedy’s fiancée and friends. He couldn’t find them. They weren’t in the main restaurant nor were they in the resort lobby. He looked everywhere he could think of, searching all the bars and checking the swimming pools. He went out onto the main road to see if they were strolling there, and hiked back down to the beach to see if they were occupied down by the water somehow. He checked with the front desk (Rosa was still most helpful) and got the room numbers for the Whitesides and the Gills. There was no answer when he knocked on their doors. At Mike Kennedy’s room, there was a security guard stationed outside and McDonald didn’t even bother trying to talk to him. Kathy Walters wouldn’t have been in there anyway, she was almost certainly with the others, wherever that might be. Maybe they had taken a taxi into town to take Kathy’s mind off the death. McDonald gave up and went to his room for a siesta.

It was only later on, after dinner in fact, when he still couldn’t find them, that he realized where they must be. He must have had too much beer, he thought, not to have figured it out sooner. He recalled the phone call Perez had made. The five of them were being interviewed somewhere and that was why he couldn’t find them. And since he had no idea where that might be, and wouldn’t have been able to get in anyway if he did know, he gave up worrying about it. Perez would release them when he was done with them and that was all there was to it. McDonald set about trying to enjoy what was left of his Thursday. There was a middle-aged German woman over at the bar that he’d spotted earlier.

He headed over to try his luck.

seven

It had been a long, boring shift, as it almost always was. Working on the assembly line day after day, making the same old thing. Seatbelt harnesses – who knew she would spend her life assembling such a mundane part of a vehicle. She was lucky to have the job, she knew, when so many people were out of work. But earning just above minimum wage when she had a university education was hard to take. Janice had gotten her degree in English literature and sociology and what earthly good was that now?

As she often did, Janice was going over all of this in her mind as she sat on the cracked vinyl seat, waiting for the bus to take her most of the way home. There were only three other passengers, not uncommon for this time of night. Janice glanced at her watch: approaching eleven-thirty. She glanced out the dirty window, the pane grimed with road salt. She stamped her feet to keep them warm. The bus was freezing, as it always was. She was nearing her stop.

Janice stood up and made her way to the rear doors. The bus wheezed to a halt and she exited carefully, not wanting to slip on the snow-covered sidewalk. Last week she had taken a nasty tumble, jarring her hip. If she had been seventy-six instead of twenty-six, she would have broken it, she was sure. As it was she had a nasty bruise which had turned yellowish-purple and covered an area the size of a dinner plate.

The bus pulled slowly away and Janice made her way briskly along the sidewalk. She pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck and mouth; the northerly wind combined with the below zero temperature made for a very cold night. Although the sidewalk was mostly bare, there were patches of ice here and there and Janice kept her eyes down for fear of slipping.

Maybe she should quit this crappy job and go back to school. She could get her teacher qualifications, except that there were no jobs to be had at the moment. But she could be a substitute, possibly. Or maybe she should go to college and get qualified in travel and tourism. Or as a hairdresser. Janice chuckled to herself at the thought of an English literature major cutting people’s hair. That would hardly be an improvement over what she was doing now. This same fruitless mental exercise occupied her most nights on her way home to her cramped apartment.

It was because she was looking down at her feet that she had no warning. One minute she was thinking about working as a travel agent, booking holidays to the sunny south, and the next she felt a strong hand forcing her scarf into her mouth. The hand covered her nose as well and she had trouble breathing for a minute. She squirmed and tried to grab the hand but instantly she felt a sharp jab against her left cheek and a voice saying, “Don’t move.” The words were spoken in a low, deep voice and the tone left her in no doubt as to what she must do. She stopped resisting.

“Left,” said the voice, and forced her to move towards some bushes. Things were happening so fast and she was into the bushes and thrown down onto the hard ground before she fully understood what was happening. She had time to see that there was a small, empty space in this garden, if that was what it was, and that it was surrounded by thick, snow-covered shrubbery. They were completely hidden from the street, she could see.

Janice was dazed and winded from the fall and worse, she had landed on her bruised hip. She was aware that her side was aching and that there was something warm trickling down her cheek – blood? Her attacker stooped over her and turned her roughly onto her back; he dropped down to his knees and suddenly the knife was pointed unwaveringly at her right eye.

“Don’t make a sound. Or this eye goes out.” Confused as she was, Janice noticed small things: wiry hair on his fingers, a voice that was hoarse and husky, and cold, blue eyes which stood out in his ski mask like faraway stars in the night sky. It was those eyes, more than the words he spoke, that made her keep as still as she could – there was hate in those eyes, hate such as she had never seen before.

Her attacker took her scarf in his left hand and shoved it roughly into her mouth. She gagged to feel the rough material between her teeth and filling her throat. Fortunately her nose was clear.

“Keep still.” The knife point was suddenly prodding her skin directly below her eye. Janice stopped squirming instantly.

The man put the knife down on the snow beside them and undid the zipper on her ski jacket. He pulled the coat apart, revealing her sweater and jeans. He put his hands on the neck of her sweater and yanked downwards, ripping off the buttons. Roughly, he pulled up her bra, exposing her breasts to the freezing air. Next his hands went to her jeans and he undid the top button. Then he yanked hard, popping all the others and dragging the jeans and her panties down.

Terrified, Janice tried to sit up but the knife was magically back in his hand and pricking her in the cheek; his left hand had a firm grip on her shoulder.

“Don’t,” he said, and Janice stopped struggling. “Turn over.” She got onto her knees.

Oh, God, she thought. Not like this, not like a dog.

But she had no say in it at all.

There was a short delay while she guessed he was lowering his pants and then she felt him pushing up against her. Janice tried to make her mind go blank. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening. I’ll be home soon…

The pain was sudden and intense and she almost collapsed. He used one strong arm to support her and thrust himself into her over and over. She lost track of time; he seemed to take a long while. Eventually she realized he was done because she felt him withdraw. She collapsed on the ground, too weak and dazed to think straight.

“Good bitch,” said his voice. And he slapped her on the rear end. Janice cried out weakly into the scarf. She heard some small noises as he stood up and adjusted his clothing. Then he kicked her hard in the side.

Janice felt something snap inside her. That’s my rib, she thought. And then she fainted.

eight

McDonald sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked over at the sleeping woman beside him. She was lying on her stomach with one arm on the pillow and the other beside her and the sheet had slipped down to expose her nude body. She looked just as good like this as she had last night in the bar. What was her name? Inge, that was it, and she was from Frankfurt. Or was it Hamburg? He hadn’t really been paying attention and it didn’t matter anyway. She had been more than willing to drink with him, it turned out; she was on vacation with a friend and the friend had hooked up with some young South American guy. Inge had been feeling a little lonely and a little put out. McDonald hardly had to work at it. She had been all over him and it was she who had suggested a walk on the beach which led to sex on a lounge chair, and that led to…Well, he couldn’t recall everything but they had ended up here in his room. She was like a tigress in bed and his only regret was that they hadn’t met earlier in the week. As it was, he only had one more night before he flew back.

Should he wake her? Looking at her rear end was getting him excited again. He reached out to caress her and she murmured appreciatively.

“Liebchen,” she said drowsily.

Of course he should wake her.

Later he stretched out on a lounge chair on the beach enjoying a Cohiba Behike. One of the fine things about Cuba in his opinion was that they had no ridiculous restrictions about smoking. Like in Canada, where lighting up had been banned in so many places that it was almost impossible to enjoy tobacco anywhere, and certainly not in public spaces. There were even rumours that smoking would soon be forbidden in private vehicles and homes. But here in Cuba he could sit out in public and enjoy his cigar in a huge cloud of aromatic smoke and nobody would say anything about it. Inge had taken herself off to find her friend and they had agreed to meet up later. Life was good, his leg was getting better, he had a hot woman all lined up for tonight and three more cigars to smoke before he left.

McDonald suddenly got a frown on his face. Off to his left he spotted some familiar faces arriving: Kathy Walters, the Whitesides and the Gills. It was obvious they had seen him and they headed down the sand towards him. His time alone was obviously at an end.

“Pull up a pew,” he said to Sean, who was the first to arrive. He indicated a neighbouring sunbed. He blew out another large cloud of smoke.

Sean Gill wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Do you have to do that?” he asked. “Is it even legal?”

McDonald winked. “Perfectly.” He looked at the group of five who were now arranged in front of him in a semi-circle. “If you don’t mind me saying, you all look like hell. Where have you been? I was looking for you yesterday and you disappeared.”

Aaron dragged a sunbed across in front of the detective, blocking his view of the ocean, and he and his wife sat on it. The Gills did the same and McDonald made room for Kathy Walters to sit on his lounge chair.

“We’ve had a hell of a time,” said Aaron. “Yesterday morning we were taken by the Cuban police.”

“Kidnapped,” said Deb. Even as tired as she obviously was, she was a fine-looking woman with her freckles and red hair gleaming in the sun. But she was obviously angry.

“Kidnapped?” McDonald said. He looked at Aaron’s huge frame and the muscles bulging under his tee-shirt. “I find that hard to believe.”

“We weren’t kidnapped,” said Aaron, contradicting his wife, who gave him a dirty look. “We were taken for questioning and we weren’t given any say in it.”

“All of you?” asked McDonald.

It was Charlotte who answered. “All of us. Even poor Kathy here.”

McDonald said, somewhat sheepishly, “I’m afraid I may have had something to do with that.” He explained about his conversation with Lieutenant Colonel Perez and mentioning their names. “But you must have realized that they would want to talk to you. We would do the same in Canada.”

“Would Canadian cops keep us for twelve hours? In dirty, smelly holding rooms? With no lawyers? And almost nothing to eat or drink?” Sean was angry and his voice rose as he spoke so that he was almost shouting by the time he had finished.

“No,” said McDonald. “No, we wouldn’t do that. But this is Cuba – different country, different rules. And you were Mr. Kennedy’s friends – and fiancée – and you knew him best. Of course they would want to question you.”

“That they did,” said Aaron. “Over and over again, separately and in pairs, and all together.”

“I’m sorry,” said McDonald. “It’s a shame you had to go through that.” He had a good idea about the sorts of questions that would have been asked. What time did you see him last? What sort of mood was he in? Why was he so drunk? Why weren’t you with him? You’re friends aren’t you? He looked at the five tired and angry faces. Four, he corrected himself: Kathy’s looked tired and defeated. “What did they tell you? Anything at all?”

Sean said, “They said it was an accident. They said he’d been drinking all day, that he was drunk, in fact. They said he probably went out on his balcony to get some fresh air, that he may have felt dizzy and he lost his balance and fell over.”

McDonald nodded. “Perez told me the same thing.” He looked at the five of them. “Were you given any indication as to when it happened?”

Kathy spoke in a tired voice. “They just said sometime in the night. What does it matter anyway. He’s gone.” She started crying quietly.

McDonald said, “You’re right. It hardly matters now.”

He stood up. His cigar was finished and he buried the remains of it in the sand. “I wasn’t much use to you, I’m afraid. But at least you know what happened. If you want some advice, try to enjoy what remains of your holiday. Get some sun, swim in the ocean, go for a sail. It will do you all good.”

Charlotte Gill stared at him incredulously. “You’re really an asshole, aren’t you?” She gestured at Kathy. “Do you really think she’s going to ‘enjoy her holiday’ now? Or any of us?” She stood up. “Come on, Sean. We’re leaving.”

McDonald shrugged his shoulders and walked down to the water. That’s what you get for trying to help, he thought.

nine

Drumm parked his Miata in the staff parking lot, which was mostly empty at this time of the morning, and looked at the car ruefully. It was impossible to keep a vehicle clean in York in the winter. The streets were either slushy and wet, covered with snow or bare with dried salt everywhere. Either way a car was always dirty, no matter how many times it was washed. Spring couldn’t come soon enough as far as he was concerned. His ride, a convertible Limited Edition Mazda Miata MX-5, was filthy and he’d had it washed only two days ago. The ice-blue colour was barely visible under the grime. Maybe he should put it in storage for the winter, but that would mean he’d have to buy another car, and he didn’t want to do that.

Drumm shook his head and headed into the building, anxious to get inside. It was supposed to be cold and snowy today. The sky was grey and threatening, in anticipation of the ten centimetres of snow that was expected. Fortunately it wasn’t windy but it was still cold enough to make his hands chilly through the thick gloves he wore.

His phone was ringing as he entered his office and his cell vibrated in his pocket at the same time. Which one to answer? He chose the one on the desk and was relieved to feel the other one give up.

“Homicide. Drumm.” He listened for a minute or so and took some notes. “Right. I’ll get over there ASAP.” He hung up and sighed. Another one. He checked his cell to find a text telling him the same thing. Drumm hung up his coat and went to get a coffee. When he returned, Lori Singh was sitting in a chair in his office.

“You’ve heard, then.” asked Drumm. “And why are you here so early?” He sat down behind his desk and took a sip of his coffee.

“Didn’t sleep very well last night,” said Lori. “And I wanted to beat the snow.”

“Too much exercise, my dear.” Drumm looked at his notes. “Janice Lange, age twenty-six. Got off a bus on Parkside Avenue, raped and left by the side of the road just before midnight last night. It fits the pattern.”

“I agree. But why are we only hearing about it now?” asked Lori.

“That I don’t know,” said Drumm. He stood up and reached for his coat. “Get yourself something hot, and let’s scoot over to the hospital.”

York District Hospital was only a short distance from the YPS headquarters, so Lori was still nursing her tea when they arrived. They found Janice Lange in an examination room, by herself. She would have been an attractive brunette, Drumm supposed, if it weren’t for her wan complexion, dishevelled hair and the nasty cuts on her face. She looked like she was freezing, too, dressed in a hospital gown and sitting up on the bed, with the thin sheet pulled up over her knees. She seemed to be favouring one side.

Drumm introduced himself and Lori and asked, “Are they looking after you alright?”

Janice Lange shrugged. “I just want to get out of here.”

Lori asked, “Do you want something hot to drink? You look frozen.”

“I’d love some coffee but they say I can’t have anything until they’ve completed the examination.” She grimaced. “Whenever that is. The nurse left a while ago and said she’d be right back.”

Drumm looked at the untidy hair, the pale face and the dark circles under the eyes and he felt immensely sorry for the girl. If he’d had a daughter, she would have been just about this age. “Do you feel up to telling us what happened? How you ended up in this predicate?”

The girl looked at him strangely. “Do you mean predicament? I should think it was obvious.”

Lori said hastily, “He means, why did you wait? The assault happened last night, correct? Why wait until the morning to come to the hospital?”

Janice turned her tired eyes onto Lori. “Because I couldn’t decide what to do. When I woke up in the snow…after it happened, I mean…I was confused and tired. Exhausted, really. I just wanted to get home.”

Lori nodded sympathetically. “He knocked you out, then? How long were you unconscious, do you know?”

Janice Lange pushed a strand of loose hair back with her hand and winced. “Not long, I guess, or I would have got frostbite, I think. A minute or two, maybe. And he didn’t hit me over the head or anything.”

Drumm asked, “But you fainted? Is that what happened?”

Janice looked at him. “Yes. He kicked me in the side, hard. He broke a rib – I could feel it go.” She looked down. “That was after he called me a ‘good bitch.’”.

Lori sucked in her breath. Then she said, “So he kicked you and you fainted. You were only out for a short time and you woke up dazed and confused and you decided to get home because you were exhausted. Is that right?”

“That’s it.” Janice was looking down again, her voice low and tired-sounding.

“But now you’re here,” said Drumm. “Why?”

Janice looked up. “Because I am angry! And I want to get that animal! He treated me like a dog and left me in the snow. I could have died and he would have cared less.” Her eyes were blazing with anger. “When I got home, I just lay down on my bed and collapsed. I was so exhausted, I didn’t even take my boots off. And I slept for a while.”

Drumm interrupted, “Did you take a bath or shower?”

“No, I fell asleep like I said. And when I woke up, I knew what I had to do. I knew enough not to…clean myself… or get rid of any possible evidence. So I called a taxi and came here.”

“You did absolutely right,” said Lori.

“Was I in time?” asked Janice. “I mean, does it matter that I waited a few hours to get here?”

“It shouldn’t make any difference at all,” said Drumm. “I mean, obviously, the sooner the better, but as long as you get yourself examined within the first few hours, it will be fine. I’m curious, though – why didn’t you call a friend to bring you here? Or a boyfriend?”

Janice looked down again. “I don’t have a boyfriend. And I didn’t want my friends to know.”

They were interrupted by a nurse who entered the examination room. She looked at them sharply and asked, “Who are you?”

Drumm showed his card and said, “YPS. Homicide.”

The nurse said, “I see. I’m almost done here. But I need you to wait outside. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

It was actually closer to fifteen minutes before the nurse found them in the waiting room. “Right,” she said briskly. “She’s got a broken rib on the left side and severe bruising. The cuts on her cheek and under her eye are from a knife being stuck into her. They aren’t serious but might have been if he had meant business. He could have taken her eye out if he was a little less careful.”

“Have you done the rape kit?” asked Drumm.

“Yes, and she’s had x-rays. She’s gotten off lucky really; she’s not hurt badly. The rib is the worst of it. There’s no vaginal tearing. Mostly she’s just shaken up. I’ve seen much worse.”

“Has a doctor examined her?” asked Lori.

The nurse nodded. “Of course, and will do so again before we release her. That won’t be long, either; she’s stable and obviously in control of herself. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on.”

Drumm asked, as she was leaving, “You’ll send the rape kit along?”

“Of course.” And the nurse was gone.

“I’ll wait here and drive her home,” said Lori.

“Good idea. See if you can get some more details. I want to get back to the station before Drennan starts having a bird.”

Lori grinned. “We wouldn’t want that. See you shortly.”

It was some hours later that Lori found Drumm in his office.

“You took your time,” he said, looking at his watch.

Lori was unperturbed. “It’s snowing quite hard,” she said. “The roads are bad already.”

Drumm nodded. It had already started when he left the hospital.

Lori went on. “And you know hospitals,” she said. “Nothing happens quickly. And then I had to take Janice home. She offered me tea.” She smiled.

“Which of course you accepted. Did she tell you anything more?”

Lori took out her notebook and opened it to a page full of small, neat notes. “It’s the same guy, Nick; there’s no doubt. Right arm across her mouth, left sticking the knife against her cheek. The same low, husky voice, not speaking much.”

“Okay,” said Drumm. “Victim number six confirmed. What else?”

“He’d chosen a private spot again, a little place in the bushes, hidden from the street.”

“We’ll see if we can find that later,” said Drumm. “How’d he do things this time?”

Lori looked at her notes. “He put the knife down and ripped her sweater open, pushed up her bra, pulled down her pants. Then he turned her over.”

Drumm nodded. This exact thing had happened twice before.

“She’s a good witness, Nick. She noticed the wiry hair on his fingers, a husky voice – it sounded like he had a cold, she said – and the blue eyes. Pale blue eyes, she said.”

Drumm sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Same guy, for sure. And he finished the job, like always?”

“He did.”

“So we’ll have his DNA again. And it will help us just as much this time as with the other women. Anything else?”

“She thought he was quite a bit taller than she was – she’s five seven – and he was strong.” Lori looked up at Drumm. “We already knew that, of course. But she said he got her off the sidewalk and into the bushes with ease.” She looked at her notes again. “Let’s see, what else? She works at Seeborne Technologies. That’s the factory over on Alliance Boulevard. They make seatbelt assemblies.”

“I know it,” said Drumm.

“Do you? It’s new to me. She’s trying to get out of there and get a better job. She’s a university graduate but can’t get anything decent.”

“We’ve heard that a time or two, haven’t we?”

“We have,” Lori agreed. “She said he was white, and he didn’t sound Hispanic. White, but with darker skin than most.”

“Not Hispanic? How can she be sure?”

Lori closed the notebook. “She said she has a couple of Mexican friends. She’s very familiar with the way they speak. She said he definitely didn’t talk like her friends. She’s a smart woman, Nick, and very observant. I think we can trust her.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Drumm. “But not all Hispanics are Mexican. Still, she did very well.”

“And you? What have you been up to? I don’t see any bruises on you. So Drennan took it easy on you?” Lori smiled.

“I haven’t seen him,” said Drumm. “Which is fine with me. I had a look on the transportation network website to see if I could find any security cameras in the area. I couldn’t find any and didn’t expect to. He hasn’t made that kind of mistake yet. I checked with the YTC and that bus didn’t have a security camera either. They gave me the name of the driver; we’ll hook up with him later.”

“He won’t know anything,” said Lori positively. “The attacker always makes sure he can’t be seen. And even if the bus had a camera, it wouldn’t show anything. Just Janice Lange getting off.”

“We’ll check all the same,” said Drumm. “But you’re right, I’m sure.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s get out to the scene, before it’s completely buried in snow.”

The two of them stood on the sidewalk on Parkside Avenue, shivering in the cold. The wind had picked up and was driving the snow into their faces. Beside them the traffic was crawling along, the drivers trying to cope with the slippery road conditions and the reduced visibility. Drumm pulled the collar of his coat tighter and said, “I am looking forward to when the weather report stops using the terms ‘accumulation’ and ‘wind-chill.’ That’s when I’ll know winter is over.”

Lori said, “We’re not going to see anything at all in this stuff.”

“No,” Drumm agreed. “It’s like he planned it.” He gestured to a small garden with shoulder-high bushes, shrouded with snow. “Maybe there?”

They walked over to the spot and found that there was a gap in the bushes. Drumm shouldered through, dumping powdery snow onto his shoes. He stopped and looked at a small area, oval in shape, and completely hidden from view of the street. “This looks like it could be it,” he said. “But there’s nothing to see.” The clearing was covered with an inch or so of snow already and more was accumulating rapidly. He squatted and brushed the snow away with his gloves as far as he could reach. Then he moved into the space. Lori followed.

The two of them methodically searched the area as best they could, moving snow around. It was Lori who found the ring. Her hand knocked something and she had to search for another minute to find it again in the snow. It was a cheap gold ring with a blue stone. Sitting on the red wool of her Olympic mitten, it reminded her of a child’s ring. She said as much to Drumm.

He was doubtful. “Look at the size. That’s a man’s ring.”

“I meant the quality. It looks like something you’d buy in Wal-Mart. Or the Dollarama.”

Drumm said, “It could be our guy’s, I suppose. Or the gardener who looks after this area. Bag it and bring it along.”

They spent another ten minutes searching the area before giving up.

“God, I hate winter,” Drumm said. “Let’s get out of this.”

Lori looked at him. His hair and eyebrows were caked with wet snow; even his eyelashes were white. “Ever heard of a toque?” she asked. “Highly recommended.” Her own was red and matched her mittens.

“Nag, nag,” he said. “When it stops snowing, bring Ms. Lange back here and see if this is the right place. Not that it really matters, unless that ring proves to be useful. But it looks like kiddy junk to me.” He stomped his feet. “Come on. Let’s get to somewhere warm. I’ll buy you lunch.”

Their meal was at the Sunnyside Grill, a cheerful, crowded restaurant in a nearby strip mall. They each had hot soup in front of them.

“How does Will like the snow?” asked Lori.

Drumm smiled. “He loves it. Funny thing about Shelties: they hate water but love the snow. When he was a puppy, I tried taking him into a lake for a swim. He practically ripped my hand off trying to get away but I eventually got him in and dunked him. And then I felt terrible because he looked so miserable,  just like a drowned rat. I never did it again. But the snow! He loves playing in it. He noses around in it as long as I’ll let him and he tries to eat it all.”

Lori laughed. “I’d like to see that.”

“You can come to my place sometime and observe,” said Drumm, smiling.

“I’d like that,” said Lori, and then she went quiet.

“How’s it going with Dean?” asked Drumm, after a pause.

Lori finished her soup and said, “It’s not. That’s over with. It was okay while it lasted but…” She patted her mouth with her napkin. “I see Emily’s signs all over town. She looks like she’s doing really well.” She avoided looking at him.

Drumm took his time answering, but eventually he said, “Did you two ever meet?” At Lori’s shake of the head, he said, “No, I didn’t think so.” He opened a package of crackers and crumbled them into what was left of his soup. “She’s hooked up with that dynamo of a salesman, Randy Richards. Between them I think they’re selling half of the houses in York.” He took a spoonful of soup. “But I’m okay with it. It was never going to work out between the two of us. I’m better off with just Will.” He smiled lopsidedly.

“And I’m better off without Dean,” said Lori.

“Oh, well,” said Drumm. He looked out over the crowded restaurant and then back at Lori. “There’s always Dick,” he said, with a little smile. “He’ll be back on Monday.”

Lori crumpled up her napkin and threw it at him. “Don’t remind me,” she said.

ten

“Thank you all for coming,” said Staff Inspector Harold Drennan. “Especially on such a chilly day.” His breath was making puffs of vapour as he spoke, despite the Saturday morning sunshine.

“Why the hell aren’t we inside?” asked the cameraman from the local all-news channel. He was speaking in an undertone.

“Because he thinks he looks better, posing there in front of the police headquarters sign.” Susan Benitez, the on-air talent, was rubbing her gloved hands together trying to keep them warm. “Look at him, all noble and heroic, standing there without a coat. Do you think he doesn’t know this looks better?”

“Thirty-six hours ago, there was another sexual assault on a woman here in our city,” went on Drennan. “This makes the sixth such attack in the past couple of months.”

“Was it in Riverwood?” called out a voice.

Susan craned her head to see who had spoken. It sounded like the man from CTV.

Drennan frowned. “It was in the Riverwood area, yes. But please wait until the end when I will be happy to take a few questions. I just have a brief statement to make.” He cleared his throat and went on. “I am happy to report that the woman involved was not seriously injured and has since been released from hospital. We continue to have an increased police presence in the area and we are confident that we will soon be making an arrest. In the meantime, we urge all women, not just those in the Riverwood area, to be extremely vigilant. Avoid walking alone and report any suspicious individuals immediately to the police. That’s all for now. I’ll be happy to take a few questions.” Drennan folded up the sheet of paper he had been reading from and tucked it inside his jacket. “Ben?”

The reporter from CTV asked, “You said you’d soon be making an arrest. So you think you know who it is??

Drennan put his hands behind his back. “We are getting closer to an arrest, yes.”

Ben Trudeau persisted, “You know who the Riverwood Rapist is, Staff Inspector Drennan?”

“We have several persons of interest,” said Drennan. “I am confident that the officer in charge of the investigation will soon be making an arrest.”

“My turn,” said Susan to her cameraman. “Make sure you get this.” She spoke in a louder voice. “Staff Inspector, what makes you so sure an arrest is coming? Do you have more evidence, like a witness?”

Drennan turned to her. “Susan, you know I can’t give out that kind of information. It might compromise the investigation.” He put up his hand as he saw she was about to speak. “I’ll just say again that the York Police Services are confident that the officer in charge of the investigation will soon be making an arrest. That’s all. Thank you for your time this morning.” He turned as if he was about to walk away.

Susan called out quickly, “Who’s the officer in charge, Staff Inspector?”

Drennan said, over his shoulder, “Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm. That’s all. Thank you.”

Susan asked her cameraman, “Did you get all that, Sam?”

The cameraman nodded. “Was that what I think it was?”

“Hanging some detective out to dry? Yes, I believe it was.”

Sam asked, “Ever heard of this Drumm guy?”

“Nope. Let’s see if we can track him down.”

Inside the building, Drumm and Lori Singh were standing in the kitchen chatting with Sue Oliver, an officer from the Sex Crimes unit. Drumm was standing drinking coffee with his back to the newly-installed television, which was mounted high up on a wall. Lori was watching the screen and she said suddenly, “Turn the volume up on that thing.” She pointed at the television.

When no one moved, she grabbed the remote herself and pointed it. Drumm turned to see Staff Inspector Harold Drennan onscreen, with Breaking News crawling across the bottom of the picture, repeating over and over. Breaking News….Riverwood Rapist…Arrest Imminent…Breaking News… Riverwood Rapist…Arrest Imminent.

“…the officer in charge, Staff Inspector?”

“Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm. That’s all. Thank you.”

Sue Oliver said, “Oh, my God.” Then she said to Drumm, “Never mind, Nick. Nobody watches CN24/7. Well, I don’t anyway.”

A voice came from a group of officers over by the window, “Geez, Nick. You could have told us you were such a star!” There was laughter.

The image of Susan Benitez filled the screen. She was standing outside with the York Police Services logo visible behind her. “Those were the words of Staff Inspector Harold Drennan a few moments ago. The story is that another sexual assault happened in the city some thirty-six hours ago, the sixth in the past few months, and once again the work of the so-called Riverwood Rapist. Staff Inspector Drennan assured us that the police are close to making an arrest. We hope to speak to the officer in charge of the Riverwood investigation, Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm, shortly. In the meantime, Bev, I guess the message to the women of the city is: Good news, the guy will soon be behind bars. Back to you.”

Lori turned the television off and took Drumm by the arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” She followed Drumm back to his office.

“Geez, Louise,” she said as she flopped into a chair. “What did you ever do to him, Nick? To deserve that, I mean?”

Drumm sat carefully down in his chair. “You haven’t heard? I thought everybody knew.” When Lori shook her head, he said, “Drennan and I had a bit of a tussle some years back. I grabbed him and we scuffled a bit. There were some other cops about. I don’t think he liked it much.” He grinned at the memory. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“So he’s getting back at you?”

“Looks like it.” His phone rang.

“Don’t get that!” she said. Lori leaned over and answered his phone herself. “Homicide.” She listened for a few seconds. “I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Leave me your name and number and I’ll give him the message.” She listened some more and wrote on his pad. “Right,” she said, and hung up.

She sat back in her chair and said, “Susan Benitez from Cable News 24/7. Will you call her back?”

Drumm smiled. “Not at this time, no.”

“There will be more,” Lori warned.

“There certainly will,” said Drumm. His phone rang again.

Lori went through the same routine as before. “That was the local CBC news station,” she said. She sat back again and asked, “What are you going to do?”

Drumm sighed. “Well, I could do what my teacher friends used to say. ‘When in danger, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.’ But I’m not in danger and I’m not in doubt, so I guess I’ll just go about my business and try to get this bastard.”

Lori looked at him sharply.

“I don’t mean Drennan,” he said with a grin. “Although that’s not a bad idea. No, I mean the Riverwood Rapist. What other choice do I have? And it’s my job, isn’t it?”

“”We really need to use me, Nick,” she said.

Drumm looked at her sitting in his chair, looking so professional in a sweater and slacks, and he knew she was right. “I agree,” he said. “But it’s not because of Drennan. We’re not getting anywhere and we have to try something. We can’t just wait around and hope for him to make a mistake.”

“He hasn’t been making a lot of those,” said Lori. “Although maybe that ring…”

“I wouldn’t put much faith in that leading anywhere,” said Drumm. In his opinion, most cases were solved by old-fashioned police work. Forensics and evidence collected at a crime scene were rarely of any use in catching a suspect. “We’ll put you out on the street as a decoy. But it’s too soon to expect him to make another attack. It’ll be a week or so.”

“This latest one came sooner than we expected,” objected Lori.

“It did,” agreed Drumm. “So maybe he’s changing his pattern. We’ll see. We’re going to have to start putting you on a bus every night and having you walk somewhere. Same route every night, same house or apartment as your destination. We have to assume he’ll be watching you every step of the way. You’re in for a lot of long, cold nights.”

“Whose house?” asked Lori.

“I asked around and found a uniform who lives in Riverwood. The name is Linda Furtado. She’s agreed we can use her place as a destination.” Drumm stood up and went to a map of the city pinned up on his wall. There were six pins in it, all on different streets. “She lives here. He chooses a different location each time, but there are only so many bus routes and suitable spots. The chances are he will pick a new road. So I’ve checked with the YTC and there are three bus routes which I think are most likely. These.”

Lori said, “We know that he doesn’t ride the bus.” They had talked about this at length and had decided that the attacker would find it too risky. There’d be too much chance that someone would remember seeing him. They figured he was scouting his locations from the street and picking his victims some days in advance. “So you think he’ll be lurking around one of those three streets trying to find a good spot. And then a new victim.”

They had talked about this, too, whether he chose his women in advance after tailing them for a few days, or whether he just picked one who happened along at the right time. They had come to no conclusion but were leaning towards the rapist being a planner.

“I think it’s our best chance,” said Drumm. “Although I don’t like using you.” He had thought about employing someone from another department, like Sue Oliver from Sex Crimes, but he had decided against it. Lori was extremely capable, she was younger and fitter if there was trouble, and she had been involved from the beginning. She was the clear and obvious choice. It was just his wish to protect his own staff that had made him reluctant to use her.

Loris was impatient. “We’re past that. It’s time.”

“I know.” Drumm pointed to the map. “We’ll start with the Albert Street route. You can get on the bus here tonight, and get off here.” He stabbed with his finger at a spot near Linda Furtado’s home. “There’s a walk of several hundred metres to her place. It goes right past a small park.” He turned to look at her. “He should find that suitable for his needs.”

Lori shivered. “It’s creepy to think of someone planning things out like that. You’ve been thorough.”

Drumm said, “We’ve been thorough, yes. And you’ll be in no danger. We’ll have you wired, and we’ll have lots of people in the area. We’ll have Sue on the bus, Morgan in the park, and Simpson on the street. And me, of course. Langella will be in Furtado’s house waiting for you. If he shows up, we’ll get him.”

Anita Langella, Jake Simpson and Ryan Morgan were three other detectives from Homicide. “Very thorough,” she said. “I approve. It looks good. Let’s do it.”

Drumm moved to his desk and sat down. “Right. You’re to take no risks. If there are any red flags, use the code word Sheltie and we’ll be there instantly. If anything seems wrong or out of place, speak the code word. We’ll be listening to everything you say, and we’ll be there in a heartbeat. Understood?”

Lori nodded. “I get you, Nick. Sheltie it is. Good choice.” She looked at the map and then at Drumm. “Tonight then?”

Drumm nodded. “We’ll start tonight. Be here at ten and we’ll go over things again. You’ll board the bus at eleven, and you’ll be at your destination by eleven fifteen, assuming normal weather and traffic. If he goes for it, we’ll have him. If he doesn’t, we’ll all stand down and have an early night. Take the afternoon off. You’ll be working extra tonight, one way or another.”

Lori stood and moved to the doorway. “Take the afternoon off? And who’ll look after you?” His desk phone rang again. “Don’t get that.”

Drumm looked at the phone and then at her. “Sooner or later I’ll have to face the music,” he said.

“Make it later,” said Lori. “Silence is golden in this case.”

eleven

The ride to the airport was uneventful. Three buses had been waiting for the unhappy Canadians whose misfortune it was to return to Toronto this day. McDonald got on the last one after making sure there was nobody he knew on it. He watched Charlotte and Sean Gill, Kathy Walters and Aaron and Deborra Whiteside get onto another bus. The last thing he wanted was to sit beside one of them and listen to them harangue him on the subject of Mike Kennedy.

He hadn’t really noticed the airport when he’d landed a week ago. It turned out to be old, small and jammed with departing tourists and their luggage. McDonald got into a long, long line of unhappy people and resigned himself to waiting in the sticky heat. He couldn’t see Mike Kennedy’s friends anywhere and that was fine with him. He wasn’t worried about the plane because everyone would likely have the same seats as on the way down and he didn’t think that he’d been anywhere near them. And if he was beside one of them by some mischance, he’d just sweet talk the cabin attendant and get moved.

McDonald eventually checked his bags and got his boarding pass. The waiting room stint passed quickly and he was on the plane, near the back, and blessedly by himself. He ordered a beer and settled back to think warm thoughts about Inge and Lucie. It had been one hell of a vacation, just what he needed. Heat, a couple of hot women, decent food, good drinks and he was coming home with a couple of boxes of genuine Cuban cigars, bought at a fantastic price. His leg was better and he was actually looking forward to getting back to work.

His enthusiasm had waned somewhat by the time the plane landed at Pearson Airport in the early evening. He was tired and only partly amused by the cabin attendant’s words over the PA system upon touchdown. “Welcome back to reality,” she said, and there was a burst of sardonic laughter. The temperature in Toronto was -11C.

McDonald shivered as he left the airport and entered the parking garage. It was forty degrees colder than in Cuba and this would take some getting used to. He found his car, stowed his luggage and headed northeast towards York. He put some Mozart on to listen to as he made his way up Highway 427. The music always helped him relax.

His thoughts turned to the York Police Services and the job that was waiting for him. On an impulse, he turned towards the new headquarters building. He’d stop in and see what was going on. I must be crazy, he thought. Stop! Turn around, get yourself home!

He kept going and pulled into the parking lot.

twelve

McDonald found Drumm and Lori Singh sitting and eating in Drumm’s office. He looked at the greasy cardboard containers strewn around and said, “Chinese? You could have invited me.”

Lori swiveled around in her chair to look at him. “Is it Monday already? What are you doing here?”

“Hi, Dick,” said Drumm. “Sit down and help yourself. We’ve got plenty.”

“I ate on the plane.” McDonald perched himself on the edge of Drumm’s desk. “And it’s nice to see you too, love,” he said to Lori.

“Don’t call me love,” she said automatically. She looked him over. “You don’t have much of a tan.”

McDonald winked at her. “Spent all my time indoors, love.” He reached over and picked up a chicken ball, examined it critically and stuffed it into his mouth.

Lori rolled her eyes and turned back to her food. “He’s back to normal,” she said to Drumm.

“How’s the leg?” asked Drumm. He picked up some rice with his chopsticks.

“It’s not bad at all. I’m not a hundred percent yet but I’m ready for duty.”

“Light duty, of course,” said Drumm. “That’s the standard protocol. We can’t have you chasing after a suspect just yet. But there’s a lot going on; we’ll be glad to have you back on the roster.”

“What’s up?” asked McDonald. “I’m completely out of the loop. I couldn’t even get internet down there, and I didn’t take my phone.”

Lori finished her meal, got up and put her plate in the garbage. “I’ll fill him in,” she said to Drumm. “You finish your dinner.” She spent the next few minutes telling him the latest on the Riverwood Rapist case, Drennan’s actions and the plan to use her as a decoy.

“Holy shit,” said McDonald. He looked at Drumm. “Drennan’s really got it in for you, doesn’t he?”

Drumm just waved at him.

McDonald stared at him for a minute and then said to Lori, “So you’re playing the part tonight?” He looked at her black pants and grey turtleneck and said, “Shouldn’t you be dressed more provocatively? You know, maybe a miniskirt and some cleavage?”

Lori frowned. “I’m going to have a ski jacket on as well. I’m not supposed to be a hooker, you know, just a working woman on her way home. Get your mind out of the gutter, can’t you? Haven’t you been listening to what I said?”

McDonald grinned. “Sorry, love, I can’t concentrate when I’m so close to you.”

“Definitely back to normal,” Lori said. She moved to the door. “I’ll be out here. Let me know when you’re ready.”

McDonald watched her go. Then he said, “So you’re on the hot seat, Nick. Do you think this plan will work?”

Drumm shrugged. “If it doesn’t, we’ll try something else. And we can always hope the double R makes a mistake.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’s made too many so far.”

“No. He hasn’t.” Drumm was finished eating. He got up now and disposed of the remains of the meal. He sat down again and said, “Tell me about Cuba. Did it do you good? Are you really fit?”

McDonald sat in the chair that Lori had just vacated. “Well, I can’t run a marathon just yet. In fact, I couldn’t even run around the block. The muscles aren’t strong enough. But I can walk just fine and it gets better every day.” He waved a hand at Drumm. “To tell you the truth, I’m sick of talking about it.”

Drumm nodded. “Weather was good?”

“Hot and sunny every day.”

“Just like here,” said Drumm, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “Did you do anything special, or just lay around and bake?”

McDonald ran his hand through his sandy hair, smoothing it back. “Well, let’s see. I ate, drank, ate some more, drank some more…” He was smiling and ticking off points on his fingers as he spoke. “…swam, walked on the beach, danced, snorkeled, met a few women…” He was grinning.

“Of course,” said Drumm. He was smiling too, well used to McDonald’s ways.

“I did a tour of Trinidad and got a great deal on cigars. Want one?”

“I don’t smoke,” said Drumm. “As you know.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” said McDonald, snapping his fingers. “I investigated a death. Reluctantly.”

“Do tell,” said Drumm.

McDonald proceeded to give Drumm a quick rundown of Mike Kennedy’s death and his subsequent involvement with the Gills, the Whitesides and Kennedy’s fiancée.

Towards the end, Drumm glanced at his watch and McDonald stopped abruptly. “Sorry, running at the mouth here and you’ve got things to do, I know.”

Drumm nodded. “I have to get Lori fitted with the wire and make sure everyone is on the same page.” He stood up. “Sounds like you did everything you could with this Kennedy guy. Too bad you had to deal with that on holiday.”

McDonald stood up too. “Well, it could have been worse. Even though those folks weren’t too pleased with me by the end.” He grinned. “I don’t understand it – people usually think I’m a saint. But at least I’ll never see them again.”

“Go home, Dick. We’ll see you Monday morning. Get some sleep.”

“Will do, boss.” McDonald turned at the doorway and said, “Good luck tonight. May the fair Lori Singh be assaulted and bring you what you wish.”

“Right,” said Drumm. “Just what I need.”

Drumm’s plan had worked without a hitch, except for the not insignificant fact that the Riverwood Rapist had not made an appearance. But then, Lori thought, they hadn’t really expected him to. It was too soon after the last assault.

She had boarded at 11:03 p.m., shivering because the bus was late and it was so cold. Even though there was a shelter to protect her from the wind and snow, she was chilled to the bone by the time she mounted the steps of the vehicle. The bus driver was not part of the plan and he made no eye contact with her as she deposited her token. She was the only passenger to get on at this stop. There were six other people on the bus, one of whom was Sue Oliver, whom she knew well. She avoided looking at her and took a seat by herself near the back, as arranged, and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. As she did so, she spoke quietly, “All aboard. All present and accounted for.”

She heard Drumm’s voice, tinny in her ear. “Good. Sit tight. Stay warm. We’re all around you.”

Lori looked at the dirty, wet floor of the bus, at the grimy windows and the five other legitimate passengers. Even in the poor light she could sense their unhappiness. She was riding this bus for a few days at most; these people were in it for the duration, and most of them would be here next week, next month, next year.

She looked out the window at the darkness, interrupted here and there by the glaring lights of a strip mall. The bus stopped and started periodically, always with loud noises, as if the vehicle were protesting its treatment. Out there somewhere she knew, were two unmarked police vehicles, one in front and one in back. Drumm was in the lead car. Sue Oliver would get off at the stop after hers and make her way back to the house.

“Approaching your stop,” said Drumm’s voice.

“Roger,” said Lori. She reached up and pulled the cord, alerting the driver. The bus wheezed to a halt as she made her way to the rear exit. The doors opened with a whoosh and she descended carefully to the pavement and stepped away from the bus. As it pulled away, she started walking along the sidewalk, without looking around.

She was suddenly incredibly tense. It was one thing to talk about this sort of thing in a warm office, it was quite another to actually experience it. They had agreed that she must not look around as she walked but keep her head down as if she were concentrating on not slipping. But she found it very difficult not to look behind her. Somewhere out there was a vicious rapist, a man who would put a knife to her eye and rip her clothes off and brutally assault her.

Lori shivered and said to herself, that’s not going to happen. There’s a whole team out there watching over me. She kept her feet moving and she saw the park approaching on her left. That’s where he’ll be, she thought. If it’s going to happen, that’s where he’ll strike. She forced herself to keep moving but her eyes were checking the bushes for any sign of an attacker. Right there, she thought, that’s where I would choose for an ambush. She neared the spot and then was past it and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to look behind her. She kept going, forcing herself to walk in the same manner she had been showing since getting off the bus, neither slowing down nor speeding up.

They had talked about whether she should carry her Glock and it had been decided that she wouldn’t. She had agreed with the decision, had in fact suggested it herself, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was a hard thing to walk along like this, alone and unprotected.

As if sensing her unease, Drumm’s voice came in her ear. “We’re right here with you, Lori.”

Under cover of a cough, she whispered, “No worries.”

Nothing had happened. She had walked past the park without incident, turned onto William Street and entered the home of Constable Furtado. There she had gratefully drank some hot tea with Anita Langella while the rest of the surveillance team returned to the station. Drumm returned an hour or so later to pick her up at a rear entrance.

“We have to assume that he’s watching his victim, making sure she’s a safe and desirable target. He might not work that way but we have to assume that he does.” Drumm had gone over this in the station several times. “If he does operate this way, he follows the woman to her home a day or two or maybe three, learning her routines. So, Lori, you will have to stay at Furtado’s home for an hour or so after you arrive. Then put the lights out. I’ll come to the back entrance and pick you up. If he does watch, he’ll have given up by then.”

“What if he sees Linda?” Lori asked.

“What of it?” said Drumm. “He doesn’t know she’s a cop. You’re sharing a home with her, that’s all. He’s not interested in the house or who lives there, just that you are alone at a certain time of night, walking along the street,, and that’s your destination.”

The plan had worked out very well. Everybody had played their part but nothing had happened. Everybody had cooperated, she thought, except the Riverwood Rapist. Or perhaps he had too. Maybe he had been out there the whole time, observing her. He could have been there in that park, watching her walk by. He might be there tomorrow night. Or the next night. She would have to do her thing again and again.

No worries, she thought. I’m up to it. We’ll get this guy before he hurts anyone else.

thirteen

Drumm’s face was tingling and his fingers were turning numb. It was so cold that the snow squeaked under his boots, a sure sign of sub-zero temperatures. Even Will in his fur coat was unhappy. As a rule he liked cooler weather but when it was this cold, the snow balled under his paws and he became a miserable Sheltie. Just now he was limping badly, like a runner pulling up lame in a race.

“Just a few more minutes, Will, and we’ll be home.” The dog had done his business but they still had to complete the block. He could never give Will as much exercise as he needed and deserved but he always tried, even when it was frigid out. So they were going to complete this route, despite the temperature and the early hour.

Drumm hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. After he had picked up Lori, stood the team down and completed his paperwork, it had been very late, or early, depending on how one looked at it. And then he was up well before he was ready to look after the dog. Still, Sunday was ostensibly an off-day for him, so he would have time for an afternoon nap.

He watched a car slide by in a swirl of blowing snow, its tires loud on the snow-packed pavement. Will didn’t care for the noise and started, pulling away from the road. His limp was even worse. Drumm reached down and picked the dog up. “God, Will, you’re going on a diet! You weigh a ton.” The Sheltie just looked at him and licked his lips, not used to being carried.

By the time he reached his home, Drumm’s arms were aching and he was puffing; his lungs hurt in the cold air. Lugging a twenty-pound Sheltie several hundred metres was no joke. Drumm gratefully put the dog down on his freshly-shoveled walkway and let him complete the last few steps himself. At least the unplanned transport of the dog had warmed him up a bit. As soon as they were in the house, Will sat down and worried at his paw. Then he was up and trotting around the house, all signs of a limp gone.

“Amazing how that works.” Drumm looked at Will, currently lapping up water, and smiled. “I do all the work and you need a drink.” The dog finished lapping, looked at him for a few seconds and strolled over to his favourite spot by the window and flopped down.

What was he going to do about Drennan? And the media? Drumm pondered these questions while he took off his winter clothes, put some music on and started making coffee. The soothing strains of Enya’s Only Time filled the kitchen. Who can say where the road goes? He couldn’t, that was certain. He couldn’t make Drennan go away, so he would just have to learn to live with him. As much as possible Drennan could be ignored but Drumm would have to make sure he followed his superior’s instructions to the letter. Even then he knew that Drennan would be finding fault and pressuring him. Well, let him, he thought, it wouldn’t be the first time. Drumm had his supporters in the YPS too, and he thought he could safely weather whatever Drennan threw his way. Probably. As for the media, Drumm wasn’t too worried. He supposed that one of them would eventually track him down but he would just stonewall, praise Drennan and use police-speak.

His thoughts turned to last night’s operation. Everyone had done well, especially Lori, but there’d been no payoff. He thought Lori had looked nervous just before she got on the bus but she had performed very capably, and there had been no sign of tension when he picked her up afterwards. They would repeat the whole show tonight, same route, and hope for a different result.

Should he be doing anything else? He didn’t think so. They were doing increased patrols, they had the suspect’s useless sketch up in stores and other public locations – it had been released to the media as well – and they had checked the known sex offenders in the area. Short of randomly stopping and questioning  men who fitted the description – actions they couldn’t legally perform – he didn’t know what else the YPS could do.

His doorbell rang. Will got up quickly and started barking. Drumm glanced at his watch. Eight in the morning? He closed the kitchen door to Will’s noise, went to the front door and looked through the spyhole. He could see a young woman shivering on his porch. He opened the door and wasn’t sure for a second what he was seeing.

The young woman, who was dressed in a bright blue parka that he could now see, said, “Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm? I’m Susan Benitez with CN24/7.” She produced a microphone which she had been hiding behind her back. As she did, Drumm saw a man carrying a camera on his shoulder step around a parked van on the street and come up his walkway. There was a red light on the camera; Drumm stared at him, mesmerized for the moment.

“Detective Sergeant Drumm, can you tell our viewers when you’re going to make an arrest? Who’s the suspect?” The woman thrust the microphone into his face.

Drumm collected himself. “Good morning, Susan,” he said smoothly. “It’s a bit early to be out ringing my doorbell, isn’t it? And rather cold, too.”

Benitez pulled the microphone back and said, “You could invite us in where it’s warm then, Detective Sergeant Drumm.” She saw Drumm shake his head and said quickly, “What about that arrest, Detective Sergeant? When can the women of York feel safe again?”

Drumm said, “The women of York can feel safe right now. As Staff Inspector Drennan told them the other day, the YPS is on top of this.” He could see that the reporter was about to pull the mike back so he raised his hand to stop her. “As for who the suspect is, you know I can’t release that information yet. It might compromise the investigation. We’ll be making an announcement in due course. And that’s all I have to say at the moment.” He turned and walked back into the house, closing the door on the broadcaster’s protests.

Drumm moved into his living room and looked around the curtains. He saw Benitez turn around and speak to the cameraman. Drumm saw the red light go out and the man take the camera off his shoulder. The detective strode back to his front door and yanked it open. He marched out to the pair, who were still standing on his walkway.

“Don’t turn that on again,” he said to the man, who stopped lifting the camera. Drumm pointed at Benitez. “You’ve got a helluva nerve, coming to my personal residence. How did you find out where I lived?” The YPS was extremely careful about divulging its staff’s personal information.

Benitez smiled. “Sorry. I can’t reveal my sources.”

Drumm said, “I’ll find out.” He pointed a finger at her. “You can count on it. And I will remember this. I don’t appreciate being questioned in my slippers on a Sunday morning in the freezing cold.”

“You could have invited us in,” Benitez pointed out.

“As if,” said Drumm. “You could have come to the station and requested an interview.”

“Been there, done that,” said Benitez. “And got nowhere.”

“You show up here again and I’ll have you arrested. I’ll do it myself. You’re trespassing.”

“No, you won’t, Detective Sergeant,” said Benitez. “And next time we’ll keep the camera on for the duration.”

Drumm turned on his heel, went back into his house and closed the door. Rubbing his frozen hands together, he moved to the kitchen where he could hear Will still barking. He opened the door and ruffled Will’s fur, then stood up and took a sip from his coffee mug.  Drumm grimaced. The coffee was cold. He sighed and went to make another.

He thought about what he had just said. Considering it had been a surprise attack, he didn’t think he’d done too badly. At the very least he’d bought some time. He thought he’d been cool and composed while on camera. He grinned. Certainly cool. His hands were still cold. You never knew for sure how you’d look on television but he thought he’d escaped alright. CN24/7 had a sound bite they could use for the next few days. He would still have to deal with the other media but that was easily done. He’d be sure to say nice things about Drennan.

Drumm frowned. It was troubling that they had found out where he lived. He would look into that. The media in the city had become more and more aggressive over the past few years. Just in the last six months they had camped out for days at the mayor’s home, waiting for her to drive to work in the morning and return at night. In between they had dogged her at City Hall. All because of some allegations of wrongdoing – never proven -  on the mayor’s part. At the time, Drumm had watched the coverage and didn’t think much of it. Now that he was a target himself, he could better appreciate how the mayor must have felt.

Drumm realized that his off-day was off no longer. There was too much to do. He thought. Breakfast first, check his blood sugar, shower and then off to the station. There was some investigating to do.

fourteen

“What are you doing here?” Lori stood in the doorway of Drumm’s office. “It’s Sunday. You’re supposed to be at home, walking Will or something.”

Drumm gestured at the chair and Lori sat down. “I could say the same thing about you. Except the part about Will.” Drumm looked at her. Lori looked very smart in matching blue jeans and jacket with a pale blue shirt underneath. “How do you manage to look so good after so little sleep? And you’ve probably been for a run too.”

Lori laughed. “I feel like crap. But thanks. And yes, I did a run, but I cut it short because of the cold.”

Drumm nodded. “It’s brutal. Will froze his paws off this morning.” He yawned. “You did well last night. Ready for more tonight?”

“Of course. But why are you here? There’s nothing new, is there?”

“Not really. But there’s a complication.” Drumm related his encounter with the reporter from CN24/7.

“That’s awful! At your house! But how did she find out where you lived?”

Drumm frowned. “I don’t know, but I can guess.”

“Drennan?”

“I would think so, wouldn’t you? I mean, who else? It will be hard to prove, though.” Drumm sat thinking.

Lori leaned forward. “Nick, do you want me to find out?”

“If you have time, yes. Yes, I would. It would be hard for me to look into this. But you…” He sat back and looked at her. “You might be able to find out something. It’s not a big deal but I’d like to know.”

“Like to know what?” Dick McDonald had appeared in Drumm’s doorway, a coffee cup in his hand.

Lori swiveled in her chair and looked at him. “It’s still not Monday. God, you can’t stay away from this place.”

McDonald smiled at her. “Look who’s talking, love.” Then he repeated, “Like to know what?”

Drumm explained again about the reporter’s morning visit and McDonald laughed.

“Out in the cold in your slippers, freezing your watusi off! That is definitely cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I’m sure you’ll see it on the news later.” Drumm looked at his watch. “They’re probably running it already.” He stood up and started pacing restlessly. He stopped and turned to McDonald. “Since you’re here, do you want to start? I could use you.”

McDonald finished his coffee and threw the cup in the garbage can. “I’m your man.” He turned to Lori and winked. “And yours too.”

Lori sighed. Drumm sat down again and showed McDonald the ring that Lori had found. He removed it from the evidence bag, turned it over in his fingers and gave it to McDonald.

“It’s been dusted for prints but they got nothing. It’s a cheapie, you can see. The stone is just blue glass. The gold isn’t gold, it’s some kind of painted metal alloy; you can see the paint is wearing off a bit there on the inside. Lori found this at the scene of the last rape. It might belong to our guy, it might not.”

McDonald turned to Lori and said, “Well done, you. I’m impressed.”

Lori stuck out her tongue at him.

Drumm went on. “I want you to do a couple of things. See if you can find out where it came from. Start with a proper jeweller. They’ll probably laugh at you but they can maybe point you in the right direction.”

McDonald nodded.

“More importantly, I want you to go and talk to the six victims. See if they remember whether or not the guy was wearing a ring. We’ve already interviewed them, of course, and no one mentioned a ring, but then, we didn’t ask them specifically. Show it to them, would you, and see if they recognize it.” Drumm leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. He smiled. “That should suit you, Dick. Interviewing a bunch of women.” His smile disappeared. “But go easy on them. Some of them are pretty traumatic. Start with the last one. Janice Lange.”

Dick stared at Drumm, and then smiled, recognizing another of Drumm’s infrequent malapropisms. “You mean traumatized, I think. But I get you.”

Lori stood up. “I’ll join him later. I want to check out that other thing first.” She raised her hand as she saw Drumm was about to speak. Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet.” She looked at McDonald. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“I look forward to it,” he said. “You have the loveliest almond-shaped eyes, did you know?”

“So I’ve been told,” said Lori.

fifteen

“It’s cheap junk.” The jeweller had a look of disdain on his face. “We wouldn’t have anything to do with that sort of…merchandise.” The jeweller, a dapper older man, had clearly been about to use another word to describe the ring. McDonald noted that he hadn’t even touched it, just looked at it critically, and moved it slightly with a pen so that he could see inside the band.

McDonald had stopped at this store because it was on his way to the mall where he knew there were two others. Spencer’s Jewellers – he’d been passing it for years and never been in. He was vaguely surprised to see it was open on a Sunday but he supposed these days it was necessary.

McDonald looked at the man’s name plate: Daniel Withers. “Mr. Withers, I was on my way to SouthGate. There’s a couple of stores there…”

Withers interrupted him. “Don’t bother, I’ll save you the trip. They wouldn’t sell anything like this either. I’m telling you, it’s junk. No reputable jeweller carries stuff like this.”

“Who would then?” McDonald picked up the ring and turned it idly in his hand.

“You could try the dollar stores, I guess. Maybe Dollarama? There’s one just down the street.”

“I know it,” said McDonald. “So it’s probably imported from someplace like China?”

“Very likely,” said Withers, who had clearly lost interest. His eyes were following a woman customer who was looking at a display case. “You’ll have to ask them.”

McDonald had asked them. The lady manager at the Dollarama store looked at the ring and said they might have sold it, maybe some years before, but it was not part of their stock at the moment. She didn’t recognize it at all.

“And where do you get your costume jewellery?” McDonald asked.

“Well, of course, all our merchandise is purchased centrally. I don’t have anything to do with that. Most of it comes from an importer, though; this kind of thing would almost certainly be brought in from China.”

She’d given McDonald a number to call at the company headquarters. “They’ll be able to give you the importer’s address, at least. Sorry, that’s the best I can do.”

McDonald thanked her and went out to his car, where he lit up a cigarette while he thought. He would contact the importer and find out if they had ever brought this particular ring in, but what good would that do? Even if they said yes, he would be no closer to finding the guy who wore it. Likely the best he would be able to do would be to find which stores actually sold the thing. And from there it would be a longshot indeed to find an employee who remembered selling it to anybody. It would almost certainly be a complete waste of his time to pursue this. Still, that was what detective work often was, and Drumm had asked him to do this job.

McDonald pulled his coat tighter about him and took another drag on his cigarette. He tried blowing a smoke ring into the chilly air but his lips were too cold. At least it was sunny. He thought about Cuba; just forty-eight hours earlier he had been on a hot, sandy beach, with a cold beer. Now he was standing in a dirty parking lot with freezing fingers. He dropped the cigarette and ground it under his boot heel and took out his cellphone.

Lori had gone back to her desk and thought. Eventually she had gotten up and went in search of the Media Relations department. She had found a young woman sitting by herself at a desk working at a laptop. There was no one else in the office.

Lori introduced herself and sat down in a swivel chair in front of the woman’s desk. She looked around and said,” I thought there’d be more people here.”

The young woman laughed. “It’s Sunday! Nobody’s here. I wouldn’t be here either except I’m behind on this damn thing.” She pointed at the laptop and shook her head. “I don’t think I’m going to catch up either.” She stood up and leaned forward to offer her hand. “My name’s Cindy, by the way. Cindy Rasmussen. Intern extraordinaire.”

“An intern!” Lori smiled. “So that means you do all the dirty jobs and don’t get paid.”

Cindy had long blonde hair, blue eyes and she was wearing a little too much makeup. “Actually, I do get paid,” she said. “But it’s not enough, not what a journalism graduate should be earning. Anyway, what can I  do for a homicide detective?”

Lori said, “I’m wondering how easy it would be for a TV reporter to get my home address? If he called this office, I mean.”

Cindy frowned. “Not easy at all. They’re paranoid about that kind of thing here. He’d be turned down flat, I can tell you that for sure. Has one called you then?”

“So, if a reporter wanted a comment from me, and called you here at the office wanting my cellphone or home address…”

“He’d be told in no uncertain terms to take a hike.” Cindy smiled. “I’ve seen it happen. Why? Has someone been pestering you?”

“Not exactly.” Lori was wondering how much to tell this woman, but she couldn’t see how she could learn anything without her help. Lori decided to trust her. “This has to remain secret, understand?”

Cindy nodded. “Okay, no problem.”

Lori said, “My boss had a visit at his home this morning. From that Susan Benitez at CN24/7. She showed up at his door with a cameraman. We were wondering how she knew where he lived.” She looked around. “You’re saying that no one here would have given her his address. So who did then?”

Cindy looked doubtful. “Well, maybe nobody did. I mean, it’s possible they followed him from here, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair. “Who is your boss, anyway?”

“Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm. And, yes, it’s possible they followed him home one day except for the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

Lori told her about the media scrum where Staff Inspector Drennan had given up Drumm’s name and put him on the spot.

“I see,” said Cindy. “So you think this Staff Inspector Drennan gave Benitez your Detective Drumm’s address? What an a-hole.”

Lori decided she liked this intern. “Something like that,” she agreed. “But I’d like to find out for sure.”

Cindy looked thoughtful. “I can maybe help you with that. Leave it with me.”

“Discretion is the key thing here, Cindy. We can’t have Drennan knowing we’re checking him out.”

“Yep, I get it. Don’t worry. I can maybe find something out. Give me some time.” She held up her hand. “And I’ll keep your name out of it. And Detective Drumm’s.” She smiled. “I shall be ever so discreet.”

“Thank you. I’ll owe you one.”

“A good dinner? But only if I get somewhere.”

“Done,” said Lori.

“And a pint of mild,” said Drumm, completing his order. He sat back and looked at his two companions. He, McDonald and Lori Singh were sitting in Drumm’s usual booth at the Cat and Fiddle, an imitation English pub that Drumm enjoyed for its quiet atmosphere and good beer. He was amused to see the two of them sitting side by side.

“We’ve contacted three of the victims,” said Lori. “Janice Lange was the first one we talked to, as you wanted. Neither she, nor the other two, had any memory of a ring. None of them recognized it when Dick showed it to them.”

Drumm nodded. He hadn’t expected much. He was pretty sure the victims would have mentioned such an obvious thing when originally questioned but it was worth pursuing. “You’ll talk to the others?”

“Of course,” said McDonald. “As soon as possible. But I don’t expect to get anything from them either.”

Their server returned. Drumm waited until the young man finished putting their drinks in front of them and left. Then he said, “No, I doubt you will. But we have to check.” He took a sip of his beer. “What about the ring itself?”

“It’s a piece of junk. Probably made in China. It came from some cheapo store somewhere. We’ll never trace it.” McDonald drank some of his coffee. “Or who wore it.”

“No,” agreed Drumm. “But you know, it’s still possible that our guy was wearing it. He chokes them with his right hand. All the women confirm that. They remember his fingers – well, most of them – no gloves, and hairy. No mention of a ring. He uses his left hand to put the knife to their throat. That hand they can’t see; it’s out of their line of vision. Stand up, Lori.”

Lori looked startled. Then a look of understanding came over her face. She rose to her feet.

Drumm looked around the pub, picked up his table knife, stood and moved around behind Lori. Drumm went through the motions of putting his right hand around her neck and his left, holding the knife, to the side of her neck. “A little demonstration. Can you see my ring finger, Lori?”

“I cannot,” she said. She looked at McDonald, who was grinning broadly. “Don’t say anything,” she warned.

McDonald help up his hands in mock protest. “Not me.”

Drumm said to a couple at the next booth, who were staring at him. “Police business. Nothing to worry about. Just a little playacting.” He returned to his seat. “You can sit now, Lori. Sorry about that.”

“I agree that he might have had it on,” said Lori. “We’ll check with the other three women. Maybe we’ll get lucky and one of them will remember a ring.”

Their food came and they were busy eating for the next little while. When they were done, Drumm sighed and sat back. “All good things come to an end. Let’s talk about tonight. We’ll use exactly the same routine as last night.”

“Which was?” asked McDonald.

Drumm looked at him. “You want to come?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” said McDonald. “Seeing Lori dressed like a hooker. Gotta be there.”

Drumm glanced at Lori who was obviously refusing to rise to McDonald’s bait, sitting frostily with her arms folded. “Not exactly, Dick. She’s a working girl, but not that kind of working girl. Okay, you’re in. Here’s how we do it.”

sixteen

McDonald had the Monday morning blues. He was tired from the operation the night before which had gone exactly as planned. Lori had gotten on the bus, done the trip, got off and walked along the dark street past the park, and into her “home”, all without incident. The Riverwood Rapist had not shown up. McDonald’s part had been to be on the bus with Lori. He had boarded at the stop before hers and watched her get on. She avoided looking at him. He spent his time trying to spot suspicious characters on the street or on the bus. On a cold, wintry Sunday night this had proved to be a particularly fruitless occupation; there hadn’t been many people out and about. She got off the bus, he stayed on for another stop, and then he too had gotten off. All went as planned, all useless. Nothing happened.

He got up from his desk and went to get some coffee. He passed by Drumm’s office and saw the backs of a couple of heads; two women were sitting talking to his superior officer. McDonald continued on, got his coffee, and went over to the window. He stood morosely looking out at the park, made bleak by the leaden skies and bare trees; more snow was expected. Where were the palm trees? The beach?

McDonald was passing Drumm’s office on his way back, when Drumm called out to him, “Dick. Come in for a minute.”

McDonald stopped and looked in. The two women were still there, their heads craned around to look at him. He was surprised to recognize them: Charlotte Gill and Kathy Walters. Carrying his coffee mug, he entered Drumm’s office. “Ladies. How nice to see you again.” He gave them his best smile.

“We were just talking about you, Dick,” said Drumm. “Mrs. Gill and Ms. Walters were telling me about the unfortunate death of Mr. Kennedy. And your involvement.” Drumm looked at the two women. “Detective McDonald told me a little about it already.” He turned to McDonald. “When was that? Saturday night?”

“Yes, it was,” said McDonald. He was feeling a little disoriented, partly from fatigue, and partly from meeting these two in Drumm’s office. They were out of context; he associated them with Cuba, not York. What were they doing here?

Drumm could sense the other detective’s surprise. “I’m not sure yet why they’re here,” he said. “Ladies? Who wants to explain?” He waved McDonald to a spot along the wall; there weren’t enough chairs for all of them.

“Well, obviously, it’s about Mike’s death,” said Charlotte Gill.

McDonald sipped from his mug and inspected the two women. The last time he had seen them, they had been dressed for the tropics. Now they were bundled up. Charlotte was wearing an expensive-looking coat; she had on a light green, woolen toque with matching scarf and gloves of a darker green. She looked very smart; McDonald remembered she worked in retail. Maybe a fancy women’s apparel shop? Kathy Walters’ clothing was more ordinary: a grey ski jacket and what looked like snow pants. She had bright pink earmuffs and mittens on her lap. She was a florist, he recalled. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, he noticed. Charlotte Gill did not look like she had been crying. If anything, she looked determined.

“It’s not obvious to me,” said Drumm. “Mr. Kennedy died in Cuba of an accident. He fell from a balcony, I believe. How does that concern the York Police Services? And especially the Homicide Department?’

McDonald was wondering the same thing.

“We’ve been talking about it,” said Charlotte Gill. “And we’re not satisfied.”

“Who’s we?” interrupted McDonald. “You two? Or you and your husband? Or the Whitesides? All five of you together?”

“Mostly Kathy, and me,” said Mrs. Gill. McDonald had been right about the determined look. She was definitely in charge here. “And Deb too, a little bit. The men, not so much.”

“Back to the point,” said Drumm, giving McDonald a sideways glance. “Not satisfied with what?”

Charlotte Gill nudged her friend, who sat up a little straighter, and said, “I’m not satisfied with the explanation of Mike’s death. I don’t believe it. Something’s not right.”

Drumm raised his hands and put them in the classic, palms-up position. What gives? “But what has that got to do with me? He died in Cuba. I work in York. I investigate things in York. Like the Riverwood Rapist,” he said pointedly.

“I know that.” Charlotte Gill was leaning forward, her voice impatient. “But it’s just because of that that we wanted to talk to you. We live in York, and yes, Mike died in Cuba, but something’s not right. We know it isn’t and we need someone to investigate. You’re good at what you do, I know you are. I saw it on TV. You’re about to make an arrest in that rapist case. I saw it on the news. You can help us.”

Drumm looked at McDonald as if asking for help. McDonald shrugged.

Kathy Walters spoke in a quiet voice. “Detective McDonald was right there in Cuba. He saw the body, talked to the Cuban police officer. He was practically a witness.”

“I was no such thing!” McDonald was exasperated. “I was a tourist on holiday, just like you. I saw the body on the walkway, yes, but that was after he was dead. Dozens of people must have seen him like that, hundreds even. That hardly makes me a witness.”

“But you spoke to the Cuban police.”

“Yes, I did,” said McDonald. “And so did you. It was an accident, they said.”

Kathy Walters wouldn’t give up. “I don’t think it was an accident. Fall off a balcony accidentally? How could that happen? Those railings were high. I don’t believe he could have fallen over the way they said he did.” She stared at him fiercely. “I don’t believe it!”

McDonald shrugged helplessly. “But he was drunk. You know he was. Drunk people do stupid things all the time.”

Charlotte Gill looked sharply at him and started to speak. “Just –”

McDonald cut her off. “I’m sorry if it upsets you. But it’s true. Drunks walk in front of cars, they jump off cliffs on a dare. We had a teenager die not so very long ago. He was car surfing – drunk, of course – and fell off and hit his head. He died later in hospital.” He looked over at Drumm as if to say, help me here!

Drumm gave a hint of a smile and a slight shake of his head.

“That’s not what happened. I know it,” said Kathy Walters. She turned to Drumm. “Can’t you see? I – we – need your help.”

Drumm looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Let’s assume you are right and he didn’t fall off the balcony accidentally. Let’s further assume that I wasn’t up to my eyeballs trying to catch the Riverwood Rapist, and I had plenty of time on my hands.” He pointed at his bulletin board with all the photos stuck to it. “Those are two huge assumptions, by the way. And that’s not to mention the six other cases I have on the go.” He looked at the two women. “What would you have me do about it?”

“Well, investigate, of course.” It was Mrs. Gill. “You’re a detective. Detectives investigate.”

“Where?” asked Drumm.

“Where?” asked Mrs. Gill. She seemed surprised. “Wherever you have to.”

“Mrs. Gill, Ms. Walters, I am not an unkind man. But I hope you can see that you are wasting my time. And Detective McDonald’s.” He held up a hand. “Wait, just let me finish. I investigate crime in York. Your friend Mike Kennedy died in Cuba. Even if you are right and something strange happened, no crime was committed in York! There is nothing to investigate here. As for Cuba, I have no jurisdiction. None. And even if I did, do you really think the YPS would pay to send me down there to look into a death that happened so far away from the city? At a time like this? I can’t help you.”

Kathy Walters said, “But can’t you talk to the Cuban police at least? Find out what they know?”

Drumm looked at McDonald. “It’s my understanding that Detective McDonald here already did that. And Dick told you what they said.”

Mrs. Gill said, “But –”

Drumm stood up. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t give you any more time. Detective McDonald, can you please see these ladies out.” He folded his arms and stared at the women, daring them to speak again.

Reluctantly they stood up. McDonald tilted his head and extended his hand as if to say, after you. They looked at him and back to Drumm. Charlotte Gill looked like she was going to say something further and then thought better of it. She took Kathy Walters by the arm and the two women quietly left the office.

When McDonald returned, he found Drumm standing in front of the victim photos. His expression was vacant, as if he was far away. “Sorry about that, Nick. I had no idea they would show up here. I didn’t even know they lived in York. They never told me. I assumed they lived in Toronto.”

Drumm sat down and pointed at a chair. “Sit. And tell me what it is you haven’t told me.” He put his hands behind his head again.

McDonald said, “Hah! You’re right, there was a bit more. But you were getting ready to go out with the lovely Ms. Singh and I didn’t have time to tell you the other night.” He gestured with his hand at the doorway behind him. “They’re right, actually, there is more to Kennedy’s death. Possibly, that is. The thing is, the night he died, Kennedy tried to pick up a couple of local girls in the disco.”

“He and this Kathy Walters were engaged, weren’t they?” asked Drumm.

“Date set and everything,” agreed McDonald. “Anyway, he’d had a few, I guess, and he hit on them. Three hombres saw it and rode to the rescue. One of the three Cuban lads hit the drunken Mr. Kennedy in the stomach and evicted him from the disco. Forcefully. They threw him out and they said that was the last they saw of him.”

“But?”

“But, Lieutenant Colonel Perez – that was the Cuban dude doing the investigating – told me they were suspects. Or at least persons of interest. As we would say up here.”

“He thought they might have taken it further, and tossed him from up high? Was the timeline right?”

“I don’t know,” said McDonald. “I didn’t get any further. This Perez wasn’t about to tell me much.”

“You pressed him?” asked Drumm.

McDonald said, “You don’t press these guys, Nick. Believe me. He told me a little bit in strictest confidence and assured me he would happily throw my ass in jail if I told anyone. No, I didn’t press him. I had a flight to catch.”

Drumm looked thoughtful. “You know, I remember seeing on TV a while back about a guy who rented a car in Cuba and got into a minor car accident. They confiscated his passport and he was seven months in the country waiting for the case to come to trial. It cost him a fortune to stay there all that time. And then he was found guilty and had to pay a huge fine. Only then did he get his passport back and they let him leave.”

“They don’t fool around down there,” agreed McDonald.

“So you didn’t find out anything more?”

“All Perez said was that if a crime had been committed, it was by a Cuban and he would face Cuban justice. It didn’t concern Kathy Walters or the Gills or the Whitesides. Or me,” he added.

Drumm thought. “I suppose if the situation were reversed, we would be saying something similar, wouldn’t we?”

“I can’t see us cooperating too much with a Cuban detective on holiday up here, no,” said McDonald.

“Why on earth would any Cuban come to Canada for a vacation?” asked Drumm. He looked out the window where it was now snowing gently. “He would need a psych evaluation.”

“Unless he was a skier,” said McDonald. “But of course, they get paid peanuts down there. He could never afford it.” He stood up. “You’re not really curious about this, are you, Nick?”

“Not really, no.” He paused. “Well, maybe a little bit. It is interesting, don’t you think?” At McDonald’s quizzical look, Drumm went on, “I mean, the women were right. People don’t usually fall off balconies, drunk or not. It would be interesting to know if the Cubans looked at trajectory and the distance he fell outwards and that sort of thing. I don’t suppose you asked about that and forgot to tell me?”

McDonald shook his head. “Perez wouldn’t have told me anyway.”

“No, probably not,” said Drumm. “And also, it doesn’t seem likely to me that these three hombres of yours would have thrown Kennedy out and then some time later gone up to his room. They would have been much more likely to put the boot to him as he lay there, don’t you think? Kick him around a bit, break a few ribs? If you told me Kennedy died from internal injuries, likely as a result of a beating, now that would make sense.”

McDonald said, “Maybe. Possibly you’re right. Anyway, enough about that stuff already. I need to go and talk to the other victims now.”

“Make sure you take Lori with you,” said Drumm.

“If she’s here,” said McDonald. He left Drumm to his thoughts.

seventeen

Once again, Drumm found himself standing in front of Staff Inspector Drennan’s desk. It was just like he was in seventh grade and had been caught smoking in the washroom and sent to the principal. That was exactly how he felt, and he knew that was how Drennan wanted him to feel. There had been no offer to sit down, or anything else that would make Drumm feel less uncomfortable. He forced himself to relax and wait.

“Your plan’s not working.” Drennan looked at him with a cold look on his face.

“We don’t know that yet, sir,” said Drumm. He kept his voice even and neutral in tone. “It’s only been two days.”

“Two days! And six assaults so far and counting. Tonight will make three days – tomorrow four days – while you are wasting police resources with no result. We can’t afford to keep waiting like this. I’ve told the women of York that an arrest is imminent. You’re making me look bad.”

Then why did you say it? he thought, but he knew the answer. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I think this approach will work. We’ll give this route another day or two and then try somewhere else. I feel confident our man will take the bait at some point.”

“I am not so confident, Drumm.” Drennan pursed his lips and then said, “Who were those two women in your office earlier?”

Drumm was startled at the shift in subject matter but he tried not to show it. Did the man have a spy in his department? Drumm hadn’t seen Drennan that morning at all, until summoned to his presence. “Women, sir? Do you mean Mrs. Gill and Ms. Walters?”

Drennan said, “The two visitors you had this morning. I don’t know their names.” His voice was impatient.

How did he even know about them? It didn’t matter, Drumm realized. He explained about the death of Michael Kennedy in Cuba, McDonald’s involvement and the concerns of the two women. He omitted to tell Drennan about Perez’s suspicions.

Drennan listened impatiently and then pointed his finger at Drumm’s chest. “Listen to me, Detective Sergeant. You’re to have nothing further to do with those two women. A man died in Cuba? That’s ridiculous! It’s got nothing to do with us at all. You’ve got enough on your plate with this Riverwood Rapist. Understand? Why did you even speak to them in the first place?”

“I hardly knew why they wanted to see me, Staff Inspector. How could I know what it was about until they told me?” Drennan started to speak but Drumm went on, interrupting him. “In any case, I told them I had no jurisdiction and I could do nothing for them.”

Drennan glared at him. “Don’t interrupt me, Drumm. That’s right, we have no jurisdiction. Concentrate on the Riverwood Rapist. We need an arrest, I want an arrest. See that we get one soon. This has been going on far too long. We’re taking a beating in the media.”

And I know whose fault that is, thought Drumm. “I understand, sir,” he said aloud.

“And forget those women. I’ve given orders they’re not to be admitted again. Understood? You’ve got enough to do.”

“I understand, sir,” Drumm said again.

“Good. Dismissed.”

“How did it go?” Lori Singh poked her head into Drumm’s office.

Drumm looked at her and asked, “Did you ever get sent to the principal’s office? Of course, you didn’t. You would have been too good a student. Well, anyway, that’s exactly how it felt.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s not important. Come in and sit.”

Lori entered his office and sat down gratefully. She looked tired, he thought, as well she might, given her early morning fitness routine and the extra duty she was putting in. “You’re okay?” he asked. “Getting enough sleep?”

“Are you?” she asked. She crossed her legs. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good for tonight. Same route again?”

Drumm nodded. “We’ll give it one more night, then change to another one. We really couldn’t expect to be that lucky on our first try. Although the Staff Inspector doesn’t agree with me.”

Lori grimaced sympathetically. “How bad is it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. Where’s Dick?”

Lori sighed. “We may have a little problem there. He went out without me, to talk to the fourth victim, that dispatcher. I wish he’d waited for me. I don’t trust him to be all that…understanding.”

Drumm nodded. “Detective Dick can be a little rough around the edges. That’s why I wanted you with him.” He stood up and went to the window. He spoke without turning around “At times like this, I think it will never stop snowing.” After a pause, he said, “Did you get anywhere with that other matter?” He turned to look at her.

“I have a line or two out. Nothing yet. I’ll let you know.”

Drumm nodded. “Okay. Catch up with Dick, will you? And keep your temper.” He smiled.

Lori stood up. “I always do. You do the same.”

She was gone. Drumm inhaled, a faint hint of jasmine tickling his nostrils. He loved that scent. Keep his temper? It was good advice. But he didn’t think he needed it.

“Stand down, Dick. Stand down everyone. Go home. We’ll try again tomorrow night.” Drumm’s voice spoke into his microphone and into McDonald’s ear.

“Roger that,” came McDonald’s reply.

Drumm settled himself more comfortably in the car seat, and waited for the time to pass. He wished he could just go into Constable Furtado’s house and have a hot drink with Lori and Langella, but he needed to wait, just in case. At this time of night, in these circumstances, it was a hard thing to do, though. And it was so bloody cold. He could go somewhere else and wait there, like an all-night coffee shop, but he wanted to keep the house under surveillance, just in case. It was just possible the rapist might come along and show himself. If so, Drumm wanted to be there. If anyone of the right description so much as strolled by, Drumm would be out of the car and following. But nobody came by at all, and Drumm’s feet gradually got colder and colder.

It was all he could do not to fall asleep, despite the cold. He was so tired. But that wouldn’t do at all. Drumm glanced at his watch again; half an hour still to go. And he should probably wait longer than that. But he’d had enough. That was all he could handle this night.

He sighed. There was always tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

eighteen

McDonald looked at Drumm’s bleary-eyed countenance. The man clearly wasn’t getting enough sleep. The Riverwood Rapist case was taking an obvious toll, as it was on Lori Singh as well. She looked a little less tired this morning than Drumm but that was likely because of her relative youth. McDonald inspected the two of them openly and thought how ironic it was that he should be looking and feeling the best, when he had nearly been killed a few weeks before. That’s what rest and recuperation could do for you.

“Like what you see?” asked Lori, staring rather moodily at him.

“Of course I do, love,” said McDonald. “In those rather faded blue jeans and that lovely green sweater, you are the picture of beauty.”

Lori snorted. “I look like hell, I know.”

“Compared to him, you are the picture of beauty.” McDonald jerked his thumb in the direction of Drumm. To Drumm, he said, “You really need to get some more rest. Before you collapse.”

Drumm was unperturbed. “I’ll sleep when we catch this guy.” After a pause he said, “So none of the victims remember the ring?”

“It was always a longshot,” Lori reminded him. “It’s probably not even his.”

“No.” Drumm dismissed the ring. “Time to try the new route tonight. He got up and went to the map on the wall and jabbed his finger at a street. “Queen Street, it is.” He traced the route which ended up in a cluster of pins in the Riverwood area. Each pin represented one of the victims.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t attacked somebody off the Queen Street bus before,” said McDonald. “When you look at the map, it seems a likely area.”

Lori yawned. “Opportunity, I would say. Or lack of. Didn’t work out for him.” She got up and went to stand beside Drumm. She leaned in close and then put her finger on a green space on the north side of Queen. Veterans Park. “There, do you think, Nick?”

Drumm nodded. “Very possibly. Or maybe before that – here. There are a lot of buildings in this area. I had a look at them the other day and there are some dodgy-looking places. I saw a couple of spots that would probably work for him.” He turned to look at McDonald. “Dick, you’ll get on here, and Lori right here – that’s two stops later – and she’ll get off here.” Drumm was facing the map again and he was pointing at the spot where the buildings were. “That means she’ll walk past the buildings and the park. Gives him lots of opportunity.” He turned back to Dick. “You don’t get off until this stop, which gets her past all the likely attack areas. We’ll have Simpson, Morgan and Langella as usual. Morgan in the park and the other two in their usual places.”

“It’s a longer hike this time,” said Lori. She yawned again.

“But the house is actually closer,” Drumm pointed out. “Okay, Dick?”

McDonald nodded. “Rather me than Morgan. Or you, love. I get to stay on the nice warm bus.”

“Don’t remind me, “ said Lori. “I’m cold already.”

“Inspector Callahan.” The voice was business-like and impersonal.

“How’s Dirty Harry today?”

“Nick? Is that you?” Callahan’s voice had warmed up. “Long time, no talk. You must want something.”

“I’m hurt, Henry,” said Drumm. “I called to see how you and Sheila are doing. It’s been way too long.”

Callahan laughed. “Sheila is her usual cheerful self. And I am loving my job, as usual.”

In his car, Drumm smiled. Henry Callahan’s wife, Sheila, was one of the most critical people Drumm had ever met. And Henry had wanted to retire for as long as Drumm could remember. “Glad to hear it, Henry.” He paused for a few seconds. “Now that you mention it, there is a small thing that you can do for me.”

“I thought so.” Callahan was resigned. “How can the RCMP help the York Police Services today?”

“This has to remain private, Henry, just between you and me. It’s not an official request.” Drumm waited, and then said, “In fact, I might get in some trouble if the wrong person heard I was talking to you. And the last thing I need right now is more trouble.”

“That rapist case, Nick? Don’t worry, mum’s the word. What do you need?”

“God, you’ve heard about that down there in London? That’s not good. No, it’s not about the Riverwood Rapist, Henry. This is for something else.” Drumm looked at the window of his Miata which was fogging up because of his warm breath. Just as well, in case someone wondered why he was sitting out here in the cold making a call instead of inside the warm building. “I have a situation I am interested in, but it took place outside the country. In Cuba, actually.”

“Cuba!” Drumm could hear the surprise in Callahan’s voice. “I was there a couple of years back. Don’t I wish I was there right now. What’s up?”

Drumm said, “A young Canadian guy fell off a balcony while he was on vacation there. One of my detectives was staying at the same resort when it happened. The local cops said it was an accident. I wanted to talk to their investigator.”

“You don’t think it was an accident?” Callahan asked.

“Well, I hardly know. I’m just curious. The thing is, the case has kind of grabbed my interest for some reason. I’m not sure I know why. I guess I’m just nosy.” Drumm could hear Callahan snort.

“More like suspicious, you mean.” There was silence for a few seconds and then Callahan said, “We don’t have an RCMP office in Cuba.”

“Oh.” Drumm was disappointed. “I didn’t know that. Well, that makes things more difficult.”

“Hang on,” went on Callahan. “We do have a guy in the Dominican Republic. A liaison officer. He also has responsibility for Cuba.”

“Ah,” said Drumm. “So, what are my chances of getting this liaison officer to ask the Cuban cop to speak to me?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“Henry, nobody can know. I can’t have an official request coming through channels to the YPS here. The wrong person would hear of it and my ass would be grass. I just want to talk to this Cuban detective, cop to cop. Nobody needs to know except the two of us.”

“Why not just call him yourself?” asked Callahan.

“I wouldn’t know how to go about it, would you? They don’t have a lot of communication with the outside world. And again, I can’t go through the normal procedures.” Drumm took out a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is what I know. Can you write it down? The officer I want to talk to is Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Misael Perez. He’s with the Criminal Investigations Department, in the province of Sancti Spiritus.” Drumm blew on his cold fingers. “I was able to find out that much. Did you get all that?”

“Yeah, got it.” Drumm could hear muffled voices in the background. “I gotta go, Nick. Leave this with me. I’ll get back to you. Can’t promise anything.”

“No, I know. Thanks, Henry. I owe you one. Give my regards to Sheila.” Drumm disconnected and put away his phone. He blew on his fingers again. He started up the Miata and waited for the windows to clear. He hoped he hadn’t done a very stupid thing.

It was a different bus, on a different route, and with different passengers, but Lori felt exactly the same. Her feet were cold, the bus was dirty and dispiriting and she felt sorry for the passengers she could see. She counted eleven on this trip, and they all appeared resigned, tired or bored, all except McDonald. He had winked at her as she boarded – naturally – and she had ignored him and taken a seat near the back. She felt exposed and vulnerable, sitting in the harsh light of the bus, with darkness all around. She had to admit she was grateful for the other detective’s presence, and she was not looking forward to her walk in the cold dark.

“All aboard,” she said into her scarf. “All present and accounted for.” The bus slowed to a stop by the curb to pick up a couple of more passengers.

“…that. Sit tight. We’re … you.” Drumm’s voice sounded in her ear.

Lori frowned. This was the first time that had happened. “You’re breaking up,” she murmured. “I can hardly hear you.” She put her hand to her mouth and coughed.

“Well, I can hear you fine. And stop coughing in my ear.” Drumm sounded irritated.

“Oh, you’re good now,” said Lori. She had her hand covering her mouth as if yawning. “You’re coming in loud and clear.”

“Roger that. Sit back and enjoy.”

As if, thought Lori. Even with McDonald on the bus, she felt tense. She willed herself to relax, looking out the window and trying to identify landmarks. She soon gave up and closed her eyes; she was so tired.

“Your stop is next,” came Drumm’s voice, small in her ear.

“Okay,” she said. Lori stood up and went to the back door and waited for the bus to come to a full stop. The doors opened and she was hit in the face by a blast of freezing air. As the bus pulled away, she looked left and right and then headed along the sidewalk as planned. Immediately she had a feeling of being watched. She turned her head from side to side but saw nothing out of the ordinary. She quickened her pace somewhat, her boots making small crunching noises on the sidewalk as she crushed the salt underfoot.

She put her hand up to her mouth as if coughing. “Coming up to the first zone,” she said. She could see what Drumm had meant about dodgy buildings. She was passing an area of what looked like derelict retail outlets. There was an alley, a string of dingy shop fronts, then an empty lot, then some more dark buildings. The feeling of being watched intensified. She quickened her pace again, aiming for the only lit-up sign she could see. Bar, it said in subdued red neon, but when she got abreast of the sign, she could see that the place was closed.

“…see you, Lori,” came Drumm’s voice in her ear, but it was faint. “…behind you.”

Damn, she thought. She kept going. “You’re breaking up again,” she whispered. There was no reply. She was coming up to Veterans Park, a large dark area on her left. The streetlights were lighting the area but inadequately, and Lori  breathed a sigh of relief when she was past the park and turned onto Furtado’s street. “”I’m on the home stretch,” she said into her mike.

“Got you,” came Drumm’s voice in her ear. This time she could hear him clearly. “I’ll make sure you get in alright and then pick you up as we planned.”

“Roger that,” said Lori, gratitude in her voice. She was looking forward to some hot tea and a warm bed.

nineteen

The staircase stretched upwards in front of her, its steps faintly dusted with snow. There was enough illumination from the light standards in the park for her to see that, and the puffs of air from her tortured lungs. Lori bent over to catch her breath. The staircase wasn’t getting any easier, that was for sure, and she did not want to run up it this cold and dark morning. But she had decided that she would always sprint up it, no matter how she felt. This time she had to rest a bit before she tackled it; the early mornings and late nights were taking a toll on her. She had lost three pounds, though, so it was worth it.

Lori straightened up, arched her back, did a few toe touches, jogged on the spot for a few seconds, and then, with a determined look on her face, took the bottom steps at a run. By the time she was three quarters of the way up, her enthusiasm and energy had waned but she persevered. At the top she took a few steps along the pathway and then she put her head down to recover. She was gasping for breath and her legs were leaden.

After a few seconds, she had recuperated sufficiently to look around her. It was strange, she thought, that up here by herself in the dark, she should feel no danger, no threat. Yet, out on the street last night, with fellow officers all around her, she had felt uneasy to the point of fright. She’d had a strong sense of being watched, by a person or persons unknown. Something had been different last night. Should she tell Drumm about it? She knew she wouldn’t. McDonald would hear of it for one thing, and she’d never live it down.

She could hear Drumm’s voice, telling the team, “Lori thought something was different last night. She didn’t see anybody but she felt strange.” She could see the knowing looks that would pass amongst her colleagues and she could guess what they would be thinking. Scared, huh? No, that would never do. It would be best to keep her feelings to herself.

Lori walked slowly back to the top of the staircase and looked down at her footprints leading down into the blackness. She started to descend, slowly at first, and then faster. At the bottom, she turned and looked back up. She gathered herself. She would go up again.

With a cup of hot tea on her desk – she had looked longingly at the blueberry muffins but declined – Lori was feeling warm and content and even cozy. She liked the bustle of the department, the phones ringing, the constant stream of people coming and going. Never did she feel so much like she was part of a large and efficient organization as she did in the mornings. She liked to take a minute at her desk and watch the activity, and marvel that she, the daughter of Indian immigrants, had ended up as a homicide detective in a large and growing city.

The moment usually didn’t last long, nor did it this morning. Her cell phone buzzed.

“Detective Singh? This is Cindy.”

Lori drew a blank. She had been thinking about her parents, so very far away; it was time she called them. “Uh…”

The caller guessed Lori’s incomprehension. “Cindy Rasmussen. The intern in Media Relations. Gorgeous, intelligent, highly available? Remember me?”

Lori laughed and sat back in her chair. “Cindy, forgive me. For a moment there I was in India and forgot where I was. And for goodness sakes, call me Lori.”

“India, hmmm? I’ve always wanted to go there. Take me with you next time.”

Lori laughed again. “I’ll do that.” She waited.

Cindy’s voice changed. “I’ve got something for you. Do you want it over the phone?”

Lori thought for a few seconds. “No. It would probably be alright but just to be safe, let’s meet in the women’s washroom on your floor. Five minutes?”

“Okey dokey. I’ll be the one in black.”

When Lori arrived, the washroom only had one occupant, and true to her words, Cindy Rasmussen was dressed in black slacks and a black and silver striped sweater. She was combing her blonde hair in front of the mirror.

“Thank God,” she said. “I was almost at a hundred strokes.” She examined Lori and whistled. “Wow, you look fabulous. What’s your secret?”

Lori smiled but she was surprised. “Me?” She looked down at herself: she was wearing grey, tailored pants and one of the warm, bulky sweaters she favoured in the winter. This one was striped shades of lilac and came down well past her waist. She looked up at Cindy. “Thanks, but there’s no secret. I’m trying to lose a little weight, though.”

Cindy looked at her carefully. “It’s the eyes,” she pronounced. “The almond shape. Where can I get a pair like that? And I think you can stop with the weight loss already – you’re there. Definitely there.”

Lori was embarrassed. “Thank you. Um…what have you learned, if anything?”

Cindy leaned back against the counter and resumed brushing her hair. “It was your guy alright. Drennan. He called Susan Benitez and sicced her onto your boss.”

Lori was leaning against a toilet stall, facing Cindy. “You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“How do you know?”

Cindy smiled. “A reporter never reveals her sources.” She could see that Lori was about to speak so she went on, “Just kidding. I’m friends with one of the secretaries in Drennan’s office. She is friends with Drennan’s personal secretary. And she – Drennan’s secretary, that is – told my girlfriend that she had placed a call to this Benitez woman on Drennan’s behalf.”

“I see.” Lori thought. “Did your friend say when this call was made?”

“Saturday, she said. She remembered because it was the same day that Drennan spoke to the media and gave out your guy’s name.”

Lori sighed. “That’s pretty conclusive, I would say. I was hoping maybe it wasn’t true.”

“So Drennan called this Susan Benitez and gave her the address of your Detective Drumm.”

“Looks like it.” Lori snapped her fingers and said, “Well, it’s good to know for sure. Thank you so much, Cindy.”

“Aw shucks, tweren’t nothing, ma’am.” Cindy smiled. “It was fun.” She looked enquiringly at Lori. “Have I earned a dinner, then?”

Lori was heading out the door. “You have indeed. Let me know where and when. And thanks again.”

Lori knocked on the door and entered. Detective Sergeant Drumm was reading something on his desk.

“Have a seat, Lori.” He waved her to a chair. “I’m just re-reading the witness descriptions for the RR. I’m trying to think if we saw anybody like that last night.”

“You know we didn’t, Nick.”

“No.” He smiled at her. “But, you know…”

Lori did know. When you were stuck, you went over things and over things until you could see the photos and the reports in your sleep. And they were stuck, no doubt about it. “I wanted you to know, Drennan gave your home address to that Susan Benitez woman. That was why she showed up at your place. Drennan fed you to her.” She paused. “I did a little investigating.” She explained about the intern.

Drumm looked weary. “It’s good to know for sure, I guess. Although…” He sat back and rubbed his eyes.

“He won’t find out, Nick, that we were looking into him. But he’s your enemy. We know that now for certain.”

“Yes. Thanks. I think I knew that anyway. But thank you – it’s good to know for sure.”

Lori looked at Drumm’s tired face. “How are you doing? How’s the blood sugar?”

Drumm yawned and covered his mouth with his hand. “I am good. No need to worry about me.” His cell phone buzzed and he glanced at it. “I need to take this, Lori.”

She stood up and said, “Later.”

Drumm waited until she was gone before answering the phone. “Hello, Henry. That was quick work.”

“The RCMP always gets its man, Nick.”

“That’s a myth, Henry.” He smiled.

Inspector Callahan said, “Shhh, don’t tell anybody. If word ever got out, our credibility would be shot.” He paused. “I’ve got something for you, just a phone number, and a time.”

“Fire away.” Drumm wrote the information down.

“My man was able to touch base with your man. Unofficially. Nothing will come back to the YPS. And if I am ever asked about it, I know nothing.”

“Henry, thank you.” Drumm thought for a second. “You still like Glenlivet?”

“You make me all warm inside, Nick.”

“It’s on the way. Thanks again, Henry.” Drumm ended the call. He looked at his notepad with its odd-looking phone number and the time: two o’clock. What was he doing, sticking his nose in this Cuban thing? He grinned. Henry was right – he was suspicious. Or maybe he was just looking for a way to escape his frustrations.

“And today, for fun and frivolity, I have been going through the list of known sexual offenders in York.” McDonald scratched his head and looked at the other two. “You’ve already done that, haven’t you?”

Drumm and Lori both nodded. Drumm spoke. “We looked at them, yes, Dick. Several times. But maybe we missed something.”

Lori said, “It doesn’t hurt to go through them again.” She smiled. “And maybe check the ones in Barrie. And Newmarket.” She added, “And Toronto.”

“What have I ever done to you, love?” McDonald sighed. “There will be dozens. At least. Maybe hundreds.”

“Don’t call me love,” said Lori, automatically. “Good luck with that.” She turned to Drumm. “Any progress with the communications problem we had last night? Did you figure anything out?”

Drumm frowned. “The thinking is, it was a battery problem. So we’ve changed them all. That should fix it.” He stood up and went to the map on the wall. “We’ll try again tonight, of course.” He turned to Lori. “What did you think? Which area seemed most likely to you, the park or the dodgy area at the beginning?”

Now was the time to tell them about the feeling of being watched, Lori realized. If she was going to. She said, “Either one, really. There were opportunities in both locations.” She crossed her arms and looked calmly at Drumm.

Drumm looked carefully back at her and said quietly, “Remember, the code word: Sheltie. If anything goes wrong. If you don’t feel comfortable. Just say it and we’ll be there.”

“I know.”

McDonald said with a smile, “I can’t run fast, but I can run. You start mentioning dogs and I’m your man, love.”

“God help me,” said Lori.

“Si, I was expecting your call, Detective Sergeant.” Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Perez’ English was good, accented of course, but fluent and easy enough to understand. “It is…unusual.”

Drumm tried to picture the man, his clothes, his face, the office in which he was sitting. He gave up; it was impossible to tell these things from the cold, flat voice he was hearing. “I will be brief, Lieutenant Colonel. I want to talk to you about this Canadian tourist who died last week at the Playa de Trinidad resort.” The Cuban detective said nothing. “I am looking into a case here in Ontario and there may be a connection.” That was a lie but he had to have a reason to talk to the man. “But it is off the record so that is why I wanted to call you this way. Um…do you know the term, ‘off the record’?”

“I know the term.” The Cuban’s voice gave nothing away.

Drumm ploughed on. “Is it alright to ask you about that case? Off the record?”

There was a pause. Drumm imagined the Cuban rolling his eyes. “It will only take a minute.”

“I doubt that,” said Perez. Then he said, “What do you want to know?”

“You told my detective, Richard McDonald, that Kennedy likely fell off the balcony because he was drunk. Have you changed your view at all?”

Perez took his time. “I am not sure.”

That was interesting. “Detective McDonald said that this Kennedy had been drinking all day. That’s been confirmed?”

“We have statements from bartenders, other staff, hotel guests. He was drunk, very drunk. Kennedy was drinking all day. Like many of you Canadians do.” Perez sniffed.

Ouch, thought Drumm. That was probably true.

“His blood alcohol concentration was 0.22,” Perez went on.

Drumm said, “That’s almost three times the legal limit for driving here in Ontario.”

“He was very drunk,” agreed the Cuban detective.

“Alright, thank you. The balcony railing – how high was it?”

“It measured…” There was a pause and Drumm pictured the Cuban looking through his notes. “…one metre, seventeen centimetres.”

Drumm thought. “That is quite high, isn’t it? How tall was Kennedy?”

Again there was a pause. “One hundred eighty centimetres.”

Drumm wrote it down. “McDonald said you mentioned Kennedy had a fight with three Cuban men in the disco the night he died. There was a possibility they were involved, he said.” Drumm waited, hopefully, but Perez said nothing, so he went on. “Were they involved?”

“Senor Kennedy was trying to pick up a couple of local girls. Is that right – pick up? The three men didn’t like it. One of them punched Kennedy in the stomach and they removed him from the disco.” Perez, it appeared, would help by answering direct questions.

“Do you think they visited him later, and threw him over?”

“They have not been arrested.” Perez’ voice remained flat; he was giving nothing away.

Drumm persisted, “But what do you think? As a detective, I mean? Does it make sense to you that they would go back up there and kill him deliberately? Or maybe get in another argument with him and push him over on the spur of the moment?”

There was a long pause. “I do not think so. No.”

“Ah.” Drumm paused. “Thank you. What do they say?”

“They say they threw him out. He was very drunk. He threw up on the floor. This we have made sure of.” There was a pause. “They say they left him face down in a garden.”

“And you believe this story?”

There was another pause. “I believe it, yes. As far as we can check it, it is true. But…it is still possible they are lying about what they did later. They said they were at the disco for some time and then left. But no one saw them go, so we don’t know when.”

Drumm said, “McDonald said he thought you were an experienced investigator. You would know if they were lying. So, you think he fell over accidentally. Do you suspect suicide?”

“No. There is no reason to think he killed himself.”

Drumm thought, there’s something…What to ask the man? “There’s something not right here, isn’t there, Lieutenant Colonel? Some reason to think that this wasn’t just an accident?”

“Some reason? What do you mean?”

“Is it the timeline? When do you think Mr. Kennedy died?”

There was a pause. Perez was likely looking at his notes again. “We think he fell around two o’clock in the morning. He would have died instantly. It could be an hour or so earlier, maybe the same amount of time later. But that is what our Medical Officer thinks. And there is another thing. The resort has security officers who patrol the property at night. They don’t always walk along the pathway where Senor Kennedy was found but often they do. This night they did, but only once, and that was at one o’clock in the morning, more or less. There was no body then. It was not discovered until later in the morning.”

“I see,” said Drumm. It wasn’t the timeline then. There was nothing in what Perez had just told him that was unusual but still, there was something...”Lieutenant Colonel Perez, up here if we found a body like you did and we weren’t sure of what happened, we might go so far as to re-create the fall. We would use a weighted dummy, and try dropping it from the balcony in different situations. Like tumbling over the railing, being pushed violently over, standing on the railing and diving off, like a suicide might do, that sort of thing. You know, to see where the body ended up in each case. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Perez. “We do the same kind of thing in Cuba. Not always but sometimes.”

“And this time…?”

There was a long pause. “Yes, we did this with a weighted dummy. We do not think Senor Kennedy just lost his balance and fell over the railing. The body was found too far out for this to happen. We think. It is not conclusive at all. Not definite.”

“But…?”

“But it is possible that Senor Kennedy was pushed, yes. Or thrown.” Perez waited a few seconds. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

Drumm sighed. “Yes, Lieutenant Colonel, I think it is. Gracias, you have been most helpful.”

“And you have been fifteen minutes, not one as you said, and I must go.”

“One last thing, Lieutenant Colonel. Are these three Cuban men still suspects?”

“They are – how do you say it? – persons of interest. We are watching them.”

Drumm asked, “And are there any other persons of interest, sir?”

“Si, there are.” Perez sighed heavily. “I hope I get to question them again. But now I really must go. Goodbye.” Perez hung up.

“Hasta la vista,” said Drumm, but he was talking to himself.

twenty

The street was dark and windswept, wisps of snow swirling around in little whirlwinds and the streetlights trying unsuccessfully to dispel the gloom. There were no other pedestrians on the sidewalks and very few vehicles, and Lori watched for a few seconds as the bus from which she had just descended moved steadily away, its sound gradually fading to nothing. She knew that Drumm was somewhere behind her in his unmarked cruiser and the YPS surveillance van was nearby, but she didn’t look around for them. She hunched her head further down into her scarf and started walking. The sidewalk had been swept clean by the wind and her boots made little sound as she moved along. She kept to a fast pace, the gait of a tired working woman anxious to be home.

“Coming up on the first zone,” she whispered into her microphone. She was approaching the area of neglected and abandoned buildings that they had identified as a likely target area. Their communications system had been thoroughly checked and tested and it had worked fine indoors, as it just had on the bus as well, but Drumm did not reply to her now and that meant something was wrong. “Nick?” But there was no reply, just a bit of static.

Lori felt a strange sensation behind her head and she knew that the hairs on the back of her neck were trying to stand up. She had felt this tingling the night before when she’d had a strong feeling that she was being watched.

There was a white cube van parked in front of the stores. Illegally parked, she thought, and she inspected it warily as she passed it, but there was no one inside. It was nondescript, beat-up and dirty and she made sure there was nobody about to jump out of the back. Bulldog Enterprises was lettered on the side in a large flowing script.

She spoke into her scarf, “Nick? I just passed a van parked on the road. Do you see it? It’s empty.”

“…you,” came Drumm’s voice but it was faint and almost buried in static. Lori frowned and kept going, quickening her pace a little.

She had just passed a narrow alleyway when she sensed movement to her left. Before she could react, a hand was clapped over her mouth and she felt a hard body pushed up against her back. Her attacker was bending her over backwards and she felt a sharp jab into the left side of her neck.

“No noise!” The man’s voice was low and husky, and Lori knew this was the Riverwood Rapist. If the wiry hair on his fingers wasn’t enough, this voice that sounded like he had a bad cold would have confirmed it. He turned her around violently and shoved her into the alley from which he had just emerged.

“Sheltie!” The word came out as a gasping shout and it elicited a kick to the back of her leg. She felt a searing pain and her leg lost all its feeling. She fell to her knees. The man was on her instantly, the knife point against her left cheek. “Go ahead!” he hissed. “Say something again! And I’ll take your eye out.” He grabbed her under the right arm and dragged her to her feet. She was shoved along the alleyway and then pulled roughly to the right.

They were in an empty parking lot, hidden from the street by buildings, and surrounded on three sides by dark, windowless walls. Lori had time to see a dumpster and piles of what looked like construction material beside it before she felt a sledgehammer blow to her back. She pitched forward, breaking her fall with her hands at the last moment. Two hands grasped her by the shoulders and turned her over. She lay there gasping, looking up at her attacker.

He was tall and seemed to tower over her. He was wearing a black ski mask, black track pants and a black, zippered windbreaker. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly but his hands were bare, the left one holding what appeared to be a switchblade knife.

He squatted, putting one leg on either side of her; the knife was pointed unwaveringly at her right eye. “I’m not happy, bitch. You spoke.” The rasping voice was angry. Now that he was closer, she could see his eyes.

Lori contemplated trying to throw him off but he was holding the knife too close to her eye, and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough anyway. She concentrated on staying absolutely still. Think, think! What would he do next?

“Unzip your coat. Do it!” The voice was low and demanding.

Lori slipped off her mittens and slowly pulled the zipper down on her ski jacket.

“Faster!”

Lori completed the job and waited for his next move. Where was Drumm, and the rest of the team? She’d given the code word. Get here! Her mind was screaming.

The Riverwood Rapist had pulled the knife away from her eye and was eyeing her. “You’re a looker, aren’t you? I’m going to take my time with you.” He reached out and grasped the neck of Lori’s sweater.

“Wait!” Lori gasped. “It’s new. I just bought it. Let me pull it up. Please. I don’t want it ruined.” And if you let me do it, I think I can pull the wire out of the way at the same time.

The man let go and rasped, “Go on, then. Hurry.” He had been squatting above her all this time but he now changed his position to kneel, one leg on either side of her. The knife was in his left hand and he was twirling it now, like a cheerleader with a baton.

Lori grasped the bottom of her sweater and pulled it up. She made sure to get her brassiere and the wire as well and pulled everything up as high as she could, baring her breasts to the cold night air. She was still wearing her scarf. Please don’t take it off. You’ll find my earpiece if you do.

He wasn’t interested in her scarf. He was staring at her chest. He said, hoarsely, “”Unzip your jeans. Hurry! Do it.”

Lori thought desperately, Where is Drumm? With hands that were rapidly turning to blocks of ice, she undid the clasp on her blue jeans and slid down the zipper. Her attacker immediately put down his knife, grabbed her pants and pulled them violently down. He looked for a few seconds and then he grasped her by the waist and turned her over.

“Up!” he grunted, and she felt his hands grab her on either side and pull her up. His hands were icy cold. He slapped her hard on the rear end.

Her mind was racing. Where the hell was Drumm? This pig was going to rape her. Where was her back-up team? She realized that if her attacker was going to be stopped, it was up to her to do it.

Lori was still wearing her ski jacket, which was hanging loosely on either side; her hands were planted on the frozen pavement. She took her weight off the right one and reached into the inside pocket of her jacket where she had secured her Glock earlier. She pulled the gun out and put her finger on the trigger.

Her attacker had stopped for a few seconds and Lori guessed he had been lowering his track pants. She suddenly collapsed her weight and did a roll to her right, lying on the ground facing him with the gun in her right hand.

He was fast, very fast. As soon as she had flopped to the ground, he had pulled up his pants and stood up, the knife in his left hand. He was turning away as she struggled to bring her gun to bear on him. Lori’s scarf and rucked-up clothing were in her way and her finger was so cold that she had trouble holding the gun and depressing the trigger properly. You’re not going to get away, you’re not!

“Stop! Police!” Lori screamed out the command.

The man hadn’t hesitated. He had started running across the parking lot towards the dumpster. Lori had time to fire one shot and then another before he disappeared around the garbage bin. She thought she heard him cry out.

Finally, at long last, she could hear a siren in the distance. She was still lying on the frozen ground. She looked down at herself and pulled down her sweater. Quickly she struggled to do up her pants and make herself presentable again. She was shaking – with cold, with anger, with humiliation, with fright – and she realized she was close to going into shock, if she wasn’t there already. Lori forced herself to take deep, even breaths. Control your mind, then your breathing.

When she was calmer, she walked over to the dumpster, gun drawn, and looked carefully around it. As she thought, this was the only vehicle exit from the lot. Her attacker was nowhere in sight. He had disappeared into the dark streets. There were low-rise apartment buildings and back alleys everywhere in this part of the city, and it wouldn’t have been hard for him to make himself scarce. As she watched, a police car with lights flashing came around the corner in a controlled skid and headed towards her. Another one followed it, and then she could see Drumm’s car further behind. Lori advanced towards the reinforcements, putting her gun back into her ski jacket. She stopped and put her mittens back on.

The cavalry had arrived.

twenty-one

“He brought me down there.” Lori pointed at the alleyway. As she did so, McDonald emerged, gun drawn. He was breathing hard and favouring his leg. When he saw the collection of police in front of him, he stopped, put his gun away, and slowly limped towards them.

Drumm ignored McDonald. Drumm was upset, and pacing around in his agitation. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am cold. I am tired. I am hungry,” Lori said, eyeing him. “But mostly I am pissed off. Stop that walking around, would you? You’re making me dizzy.”

Drumm stopped and looked at her. “Sorry. You have every right to be angry.”

“What happened?” McDonald and Lori said it at the same time.

“As soon as you got off the bus, I started getting static. I tried telling you to call it off but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

“I couldn’t hear you at all,” said Lori.

“I didn’t hear anything either,” said McDonald. “And I stayed on the bus like we planned.” He looked at Lori’s dishevelled appearance. “I wish I’d gotten here sooner.”

Drumm said, “The whole thing was a screw-up. I heard you tell me about the white van but only barely, and then I lost sight of you. The damned thing was blocking my view.” He stopped to look as a couple of other unmarked police cars arrived and Detectives Simpson and Morgan got out. “So I went past and I couldn’t see you, and I couldn’t hear anything. We were all calling out to each other but nobody knew where you were. I thought maybe you were in that empty lot we talked about, or maybe in one of the abandoned stores, so I wasted time checking.” Drumm started pacing again and then caught himself. “I got back in the car and went around the back and that’s when I heard the shots fired.”

“Me, too,” said McDonald. “I heard those and started running. Well, hobbling. Not as fast as I used to be.”

Drumm said, “So what happened, Lori? Was it him?”

“It was him.” Lori recounted most of what had just taken place, omitting the details. “He’s every bit as vicious as they said he was,” she concluded.

Drumm looked at her for a few seconds, and then the gaggle of police surrounding them. “Two shots?” was all he said.

“Yes. Over here.”

They found the two casings without difficulty. Drumm looked at them, gleaming dully in the pulsing light from the cruisers. “Did you hit the bugger? I hope?”

“I don’t think so, but he may have yelled something. By the time I got to my feet and looked around that dumpster for him, he was nowhere to be seen.” Lori was pointing towards the cluster of vehicles.

“We’ll do a thorough search anyway, of course. Dick, organize that, will you?” Drumm looked at McDonald who nodded and moved towards the uniformed officers. Morgan and Simpson were already casting about like terriers, looking for evidence. Drumm looked at them shuffling around, heads hunched down into their coats, and he took Lori by the arm. “Come over here.”

They moved over close to a wall where they could speak privately.

“How bad was it?” Drumm was speaking in a low voice.

Lori thought, He nearly violated me! Aloud, she said, “It wasn’t good. But no harm was done.” She took him by the arm and said, “It wasn’t your fault. Nothing bad happened. I’m not seriously hurt, just a cut or two and a few bruises. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Did he…?” Drumm hesitated, clearly reluctant to put into words what he wanted to ask.

“No,” Lori said quietly. “But it was a near thing.”

Drumm visibly relaxed. “It’s a good thing you had your gun with you. But why did you? I mean, we decided you’d be unarmed.”

Lori looked down at her feet. “I know. I should have told you.” She looked up at Drumm. “But it was just a feeling I had – last night – that there was someone watching me. And there was the problem with the radio. I didn’t feel safe, I guess.”

Drumm looked at her searchingly. “I see. You should still have told me. About that feeling you had. And the Glock. And listen, if anyone asks, when the SIU gets involved, for example, then our plan all along was to have the gun on you. I’ll make sure the others know.”

Lori nodded.

There was a call from over near the dumpster. “Hey.” Morgan was beckoning to them.

Drumm and Lori walked over.

“Looks like you did hit him, Lori,” said Morgan. He was smiling. “Poor man, it looks like he’s missing a piece.”

Lori stared at the ground. There was something red and bloody lying in the snow. “What is it?”

Morgan laughed. With the cold, his beefy face was even redder than usual. “It’s not his willy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Lori kept her cool. “No, he had that tucked away.”

Morgan grinned. “It’s the tip of a finger, I do believe. The up-yours finger, I would say.”

Drumm bent over and peered at the mess in the snow. “I think you’re right. The middle finger it is. Looks like from maybe the first knuckle down. Let’s mark it for now. We’ll get it to the lab later.”

Detective Simpson had left the group and was searching carefully along the attacker’s trail. “Here we go.” He pointed down at a drop of blood on the snow and carefully marked it, then moved further along. “There’s another.” He and Morgan started walking slowly along the street, heads down and flashlights sweeping back and forth..

“Blood trail,” said Drumm. “Good shooting, Lori.” He turned to McDonald. “Get K-9 here, Dick. We’ll see if we can nail this bastard.”

“Over here.” The voice came from behind them where a uniformed officer was pointing at the snow.

They walked over to see an object, half-buried in the snow and what looked like a brass handle gleaming dully in the light from the officer’s flashlight.

“Definitely good shooting, Lori. It looks like you hit his knife hand,” Drumm said.

“It was just luck,” she said.

McDonald reached down and carefully picked up the object, which was indeed a knife with a wicked-looking blade. He shone his flashlight on it. “Odd-looking thing,” he remarked, turning it around so they could all see it. “The handle is split. And the blade is hidden.”

“I thought it looked like a switchblade in his hand,” said Lori.

“It’s not,” said Drumm. “It’s what’s called a spring-assist knife.  He must have had it closed when you shot him. I’m not sure what type it is, though. Bag it, Dick, and bring it along.”

McDonald nodded and put the knife into an evidence bag. Then he took out his cellphone.

“Wait. Come with me a minute, you two.” Drumm moved the three of them a short distance away. “We’ll soon have our Special Investigations Unit friends with us,” said Drumm. “It’s officially a police shooting now. Dick, after that call to K-9, get the team together. We need to have a wee chat.” He looked at Lori. “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. You were attacked, you fired your weapon to defend yourself with the first shot, and the second to stop a dangerous offender.  There’s no way you did anything wrong.”

Lori nodded, obviously unsure. “It was the second shot that hit him, then.”

“Looks like it,” agreed Drumm. “It’s your first shooting, right?”

“It’s the first time I’ve used my gun for anything other than practice,” admitted Lori.

“You’ll feel a little strange for a bit. That’s natural.” Drumm was sympathetic. “You might even feel guilty. And there will be a bunch of paperwork to complete. Plus these SIU interviews to get through. But it’ll be okay. It was a good shooting.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” said Lori. She looked Drumm straight in the eye. “Just sorry I missed. That bastard was going to rape me. When I fired, I wanted to kill him.”

Drumm looked at her, surprised. Then he said, “It’s completely understandable. But I wouldn’t tell the SIU that.” He grinned. “Nope. I wouldn’t.” He took her by the arm. “Come on, let’s get you some tea.”

twenty-two

“The Homicide Department will try, as much as possible, to have a normal day.” Drumm, coffee and croissant in front of him, sat at his desk. McDonald and Lori Singh occupied the two chairs and sipped coffee and tea respectively. “If the SIU lets us, that is.”

It was close to eleven o’clock in the morning. They’d all had a late night and needed time off to recharge their batteries.

“Anything new from last night?” asked Lori.

“Not that I’ve heard,” said Drumm. “I thought the dogs were our best bet but it seems I was wrong.”

The K-9 team had arrived about an hour after the shooting. The pair of German Shepherds had done their job and excitedly followed the blood trail. It led down the street, onto the sidewalk and then into a back alley for a half mile or so but then it had abruptly stopped at an intersection. The officers figured that their suspect had used a rag or something similar to stanch the bleeding, or maybe he’d just shoved it inside his pants pocket. The dogs were able to continue tracking for a short distance but then they had lost the scent. Their man had managed to escape.

“I’ve just finished checking again with the hospitals and clinics,” said McDonald. “Nothing. Nothing last night, and nothing this morning.”

“Maybe he went out of the city?” asked Lori.

“Maybe, love,” said McDonald. “But if so, we’ll hear about it.” He thought for a second. “Perhaps he’s just put a bandage on it.”

Lori help up her middle finger to McDonald. “Imagine the tip of this shot off. A bandage wouldn’t do the job, would it? I’d need stitches. I’d need a hospital or a clinic, or I’d be risking infection or gangrene. Plus it would hurt. A lot.”

“You just gave me the finger,” said McDonald. But he was smiling.

“Children, children,” said Drumm. “Stop scribbling.” He put his fingers together. “So this is where we are, as I see it. Thanks to Lori, our guy will soon have to seek medical treatment. When he does, we’ll have him. We just have to wait. In the meantime, the lab will analyze that finger to see if the DNA matches the semen samples we have. We’ll know that soon enough. But I don’t think there’s much doubt it’s the same guy.”

“We weren’t scribbling, Nick, we were squabbling,” said Lori. “I’ll go back to where I was attacked last night and see how things look in the daylight. Maybe we missed something.”

“No, you won’t,” said Drumm, leaning forward. “You’re taking the rest of the day off. Go home and get some rest. That’s an order.” He pointed his finger at her. “You’ve been through an ordeal. Take the day to recover. No arguments. Like I suggested last night –you shouldn’t even have come in today.” He waited but she said nothing. Drumm went on, “Dick can go back and look at the scene. And he can follow the route and check out where we lost your attacker. I think your leg is up to that. Alright, Dick?”

McDonald nodded. “I can handle it.”

“And see if anyone saw anything out of the ordinary last night. Take Morgan and Simpson too. Where are they, anyway?”  Drumm looked around.

McDonald shrugged. “Sleeping?”

Drumm frowned. “Maybe someone saw a man running, or heard something. Maybe you’ll find a bloody rag.”

McDonald stood up. “Right. On my way.”

Drumm said, “Wait, before you go, I wanted you to hear this as well. It wasn’t the damned batteries that messed up our communications. It was something to do with  a faulty circuit. That’s what was making it cut in and out.”

“Good to know,” said McDonald. He left the room.

“Lori, I’m serious,” said Drumm. You get on home now.”

“I know. I will.” She leaned forward and said in a quiet voice, “What are you going to do about Drennan?”

Drumm shrugged. “Do? There’s not much to do, is there? If he’s out to get me, then I can’t stop him.”

“Have you been visited by any more reporters?”

“I’ve been dodging them. But I won’t be able to keep that up indefinitely. Thank God, no one has shown up at my house again. Not that I’ve been there much lately.”

Lori asked, “Are we going to release it that there was another attack? It will make things worse for you.”

“I’m going to let Drennan decide that one,” said Drumm with a sigh. “It might be helpful if the public knew we were looking for a guy missing a fingertip. But I know that whatever I chose would be wrong. So let him have the responsibility.”

“It might drive the RR further underground,” said Lori.

“Exactly. And get the people of York even more upset.” Drumm looked thoughtful. “It’s a tough call, actually.” He smiled. “But I think I know which course of action our Staff Inspector will take.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll find out shortly. In any case, you get out of here now.”

“And if the SIU shows up…?”

“They can wait and talk to you tomorrow.”

Drumm was kept waiting fifteen minutes before being admitted to Drennan’s office. He was not surprised, but it was irritating and he had to work hard to keep his annoyance from showing. He was determined that nothing the Staff Inspector did would be seen to affect him.

“So, a total screw-up last night, Detective Sergeant? Is that a fair assessment?”

Drumm reflected. “Yes, sir, pretty fair. Things didn’t go exactly as planned. Although…”

“Yes?” As usual, Drennan was sitting behind his desk while Drumm had to “assume the position”, standing in front of his superior officer like a cadet on parade.

“It wasn’t all bad, sir. Detective Singh managed to wound the suspect, and he left more DNA behind. And his knife. We might be able to trace it. Aside from that, there were no injuries.”

“Sit down, Drumm.”

Surprised, Drumm sat in the comfortable chair provided by the Staff Inspector for guests. “Thank you, sir.”

“She shot off his finger, isn’t that right, Drumm?”

“The tip, yes, sir.”

“And you’re saying that’s a good thing? To have a police shooting of a civilian, and the SIU involved?”

“I’m saying it could have been worse. The communications system inexplicably failed and we were lucky to get to our officer in time. Lori Singh might have been his seventh victim. As it was, she was shaken and that’s all.”

“Shaken, and not stirred, eh, Drumm?” Drennan was looking at him, with his hands folded on his desk in that maddening fashion of his.

“That’s an appalling thing to say. Sir.” Drumm could hardly believe the words that Drennan had just uttered. “Lori Singh is a dedicated police detective and she was nearly brutally assaulted.”

“Lighten up, Drumm. It was a joke, that’s all. I’m glad the girl’s alright.” Drennan held up his hands. “But still, a colossal snafu. What are we going to do about it?”

“We’re pursuing various leads, sir.”

“I’m sure you are. But what I meant was, do you continue the operation? And do we tell the media about this latest attack?”

“Continue with a decoy?” Drumm could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You want me to use Detective Singh again?”

“Not her, of course not,” said Drennan impatiently. “But you could use someone else.”

Drumm stared at him. “It would be a waste of time. He knows Lori was a police officer. She identified herself. He won’t fall for that again.”

Drennan said, “Maybe not. Maybe not. But the guy’s a rapist, he’ll strike again.”

“He’ll change his m.o.” Drumm said, positively.

“We’re going to tell the media about this one, Drumm. We won’t mention that the latest victim was a cop, just that his finger was damaged. Get all the good citizens of York to be on the lookout for a man with a recently injured finger.”

“You’ll do what you think is best.” Drumm folded his arms across his chest.

“You don’t think we should?” Drennan’s voice was silky smooth. “You disapprove?”

“I disapprove of being accosted in my home by Susan Benitez. I disapprove of the media being told I’m close to an arrest when I’m not. And, yes, I disapprove of releasing this to the media. You’ll just force him to lie low and make it harder to find him.”

Drennan smiled a cold smile. “So many things you disapprove of, Detective Sergeant. What a pity you’re not in charge. Then you could do things the way you wanted. As it is, we’ll do things the way I wish.” He stood up and Drumm followed suit. “I want a press conference from you, Drumm. This afternoon. Make it good. And more than that, I want an arrest. This has been going on far too long.”

Drumm felt like giving a mock salute but all he said was, “Yes, sir.”

Leaving Drennan’s office, he thought that it could have been worse. Still, some progress in catching this guy would be good.

Sitting in his Miata with the engine running, waiting for the car to warm up, Drumm considered what he was about to do. A homicide detective had a lot of latitude, which was why he could stand up to Drennan to a certain degree. Drumm had a lot of friends on the force and an excellent clearance rate; he could absorb a lot of Drennan’s crap without too much worry. However, it was another thing to disobey a direct order. So far he had not officially stepped over any line but if he proceeded with what he wanted to do, then a Rubicon would definitely have been crossed.

Drumm put the little car into motion and headed out to see Kathy Walters.

Kathy’s Flowers, announced the sign above the entrance, in elegant green letters. The shop was located on Main Street, a busy thoroughfare located some distance from the main business district. The building was a former residence, the lower level devoted to the store, and the upper floor converted to apartments; this kind of arrangement was common in York. In the spring he would have seen an assortment of plants outside but in this weather the sidewalk was bare.

Drumm pushed open the door which opened to the sound of a cheery, tinkling bell. It was warm and humid inside and he inhaled the exotic scents gratefully. Drumm made his way deeper into the shop past displays of potted plants and giftware. Kathy Walters came out of a back room, cleaning her hands on a towel; she had a strained look on her face.

“May I help you?” She stopped abruptly and then frowned. “Oh, it’s you, Detective Drumm. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

“Detective Sergeant,” Drumm corrected automatically. “No, I imagine you weren’t.”

Kathy Walters moved behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”

Drumm studied her. She was an attractive woman, despite the smudges under her eyes; her blonde hair was mostly hidden by a kerchief. There were a few wayward tendrils escaping and threatening to hide her eyes. She was dressed in jeans and a blouse underneath a smock.

Kathy Walters blushed under his gaze. She looked directly at him. “Well? The last time I saw you, I was basically thrown out of your office. You told me you had no jurisdiction. No crime had been committed in York, you said. Has something changed?”

Drumm cleared his throat. “No, nothing has changed. Except, maybe, I thought about what you said, and I agreed with some of it.” And I want to poke a stick at Drennan. “About your fiancé falling off a balcony, I mean,” he said aloud. “You’re right: people don’t usually do that, drunk or no. But he was very drunk.” He explained about Kennedy’s elevated blood alcohol level.

“How do you know that?” she asked sharply.

Drumm leaned forward, put his hands onto the counter and said quietly, “I checked with the Cuban detective. I spoke to him on the phone. And I would thank you not to tell anyone that. It might get me in trouble.”

Kathy Walters just stared at him.

Drumm told her about Mike Kennedy’s day, as far as the Cubans had been able to reconstruct it, about the altercation at the disco and his forcible ejection from the place, the involvement of the three Cuban men.

Kathy winced when she heard the part about the women in the disco. “Did you find out anything else?”

Drumm nodded. “You and your friends were allowed to leave the country because the Cuban police think your fiancé either fell off accidentally or he was maybe helped over by these Cuban men from the disco. They have ruled out suicide.”

Kathy started to cry. “Poor Mike. They think he was killed?”

“It’s possible, yes. They don’t know for sure. They’ll probably never know.”

“Why don’t they arrest those Cuban men then?”

Drumm said, “You need to understand that the police need evidence. Your fiancé might have been thrown over, he might not. These Cuban guys say they never saw him again after they put him out of the disco. The cops haven’t given up but it’s been ruled an accidental death for the moment. They can’t place them at the scene – your room, that is.”

Kathy said again, “Poor Mike. I knew there was something…”

“Ms. Walters, I want to ask you about that day he died. You two had an argument, I understand. So your fiancé spent most of the evening and night by himself, drinking. And he ended up in the disco. What was the argument about?”

Kathy Walters’ eyes started welling with tears. “I’m sorry. You must think me a complete ditz. It’s just that this brings it all back, and I blame myself.” She straightened up. “The argument was about his drinking. I told him off. And he said some really mean things to me. He’d been really putting it away.”

“Do you know why?”

“Why? Because it was there, I guess. You know, it was all-inclusive, all your food and drinks free. Free!” she snorted. “Of course, we’d already paid for it, but you know what I mean. Mike had the mentality that he was going to get his money’s worth. He had one of those keg mugs. Well, he did until I took it from him.”

Drumm asked, “What’s a keg mug?”

Kathy Walters looked at him. “Really? I thought everybody knew about them. His was a Bubba Keg Mug. He got it at the hardware store. The stupid thing held something like fifty-two ounces. It was insulated to keep the drinks cold. It was the size of a small barrel!”

Drumm tried to picture a mug the size of a barrel, filled with booze. “So he would go to the bar and get this keg mug filled with beer, is that right?”

Kathy nodded. “Or sometimes he had rum and coke in it. But one day – it might have been Tuesday - when he’d really had a lot and I knew he wouldn’t notice, I took it and left it out by the pool. I knew he wouldn’t remember what he’d done with it.” She smiled. “Somebody took it. I hope it was a Cuban – he’d make better use of it.”

The bell announced the opening of the front door and an older man came in. Drumm pretended to browse the store as Kathy Walters served her customer, who left with a dozen carnations.

“Big spender,” said Kathy, with a rueful smile. “But every little bit helps.”

Drumm returned to the counter. “It must be hard to make a living in retail.” He looked around the store and resolved to pick something up before he left. “I understand you were engaged to be married to Mike Kennedy. Did you have a date?”

“June 29. At Casa Positano.” Kathy looked upset. “I haven’t canceled anything yet. I know I have to but I just can’t bring myself to do it. It would mean that he’s really dead. And I can’t help thinking he’s going to walk through that door sometime.” She looked at him and smiled ruefully. “It’s stupid, I know.”

Drumm, who had heard this same wistful sentiment before, said, “It’s a common reaction, Ms. Walters. So, you had a fight. What happened after?”

“I stormed off. I was very upset. I told him I’d stay with Char and Sean that night, that I didn’t want to be with him when he drank so much.”

“Did he get violent when he was drunk?”

“Mike? No, no, not at all. But he wasn’t any fun to be with. He would get loud and sloppy and he would kind of forget about me. He would make a spectacle of himself and I’d get embarrassed. Disgusted, actually.”

“So you stayed the night with Sean and Charlotte Gill. They didn’t mind?”

Kathy smiled sadly. “They probably did. But I did it anyway, to try to teach Mike a lesson.” She blew her nose. “They had a two bedroom unit – it was all they could get – so I stayed in the second bedroom.”

Drumm thought. “So, the last time you saw your fiancé alive was…when?”

Kathy sniffed. “About four, I think. I didn’t see him at dinner; I don’t know where he ate.”

“Did your friends see him? After the argument, I mean.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How did they get along with him? Did his drinking bother them?”

Kathy stared at him. “God, no. We were all friends. And Mike and Sean worked together. They were used to each other. If Mike’s drinking bothered any of them, it’s news to me. And he didn’t behave that way at home.”

Drumm said, “I see. You say he behaved differently at home than he did when he was on vacation. Was there anything bothering him? Was he, maybe – forgive me – getting cold feet about the wedding?”

Kathy shook her head. “No, absolutely not. It was his idea in the first place.” She stopped and her gaze drifted off; she was clearly reflecting. “But now that you ask, he did seem a little distracted about something. Before we went, I mean. And I did wonder…”

“Yes?” said Drumm encouragingly.

“No, it’s nothing.” Kathy shook her head again, decisively.

“Alright.” Drumm paused. “How do you mean, distracted?”

“He was just a little off, a bit quiet in the evenings. I put it down to his working so much. He put in a lot of long days.”

“You two lived together?”

“No. He had his own place. I live by myself.”

Drumm asked, “Was there anything else you can think of that was bothering him? Any reason at all for him to act the way he did?”

“I told you…” She stopped. “Well, maybe… he and Aaron…”

The bell tinkled again and a young man entered the shop.

“Yes?” said Drumm. “What about him and Aaron?”

“No, it was nothing. Forget I said that,” she said. Kathy looked at the new customer; she clearly wanted to go and serve him.

“Alright then.” Drumm picked up a bouquet of mixed flowers from a stand beside the counter and put them on the counter. “I’ll take these and get out of your hair,” he said.

“Certainly,” she said. Kathy wrapped the flowers for him. “What are you going to do?”

Drumm took his credit card back and picked up his purchase. “I’m going to take these flowers and give them to a friend. They’ll be alright in the cold, won’t they?”

Kathy said, “They’ll be fine for the trip home. But get them inside as soon as possible. But I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you meant. I’m going to see your friend, Charlotte Gill.” He looked at his watch. “She’ll likely be at work, won’t she?”

Kathy nodded. “At Southdown Mall. Flights of Fancy. It’s on the second level.”

“Thanks, I’ll be in touch.”

twenty-three

Stretched out in a tub filled with hot water and mounds of lavender-scented bubbles, Lori allowed herself to sink down and relax. The heat felt wonderful on her tired and aching body. Lori sighed deeply and closed her eyes.

Unbidden and unwanted, an image of the Riverwood Rapist floated into her mind and she was back in that cold parking lot, on her hands and knees… Her eyes opened abruptly and she shivered, despite the heat of the water. She forced herself to think of other things but images of dirty buses, ski masks and a knife kept swimming into view.

Lori gave in and sat up, the hot water and bubbles streaming down her body. She hugged her knees to her chest. She had to deal with this, had to think it through, or she would get no peace. It was normal, she knew, for police officers who fired their weapons and hit people to need counselling. It could be a traumatic thing to realize that your actions had led to the death or injury of another human being. But that wasn’t what was bothering her, she realized. She wasn’t upset at all that she had shot the Riverwood Rapist. If anything, she was only sorry that she hadn’t hit him in a more vulnerable place or even killed him. Then at least no more women would be attacked.

No, it wasn’t that. It was the humiliation of being used like an animal that was affecting her. She couldn’t get that image out of her mind: on her knees, pants down and sweater up, helpless. Only, she hadn’t been helpless, she had been a tigress with hidden claws. Lori laughed out loud. Where had that phrase come from? A tigress? An Indian tigress? She laughed again. Certainly she had surprised her attacker and given him something to think about.

Lori frowned. She should never have been put in that position in the first place. Yes she had volunteered to be a decoy and it was just bad luck that communications had failed. It wasn’t Drumm’s fault, it wasn’t. But still… she had been left to fend for herself in a highly dangerous situation and that should never have happened. She realized that this was the second thing that was affecting her, this feeling of being left high and dry by her colleagues. She was going to have to work hard to overcome it.

She thought she could do it. Maybe.

Lori sank back into the tub, held her breath and put her face under the water. Count to thirty and it will all go away.

She sat up, gasping for breath; it hadn’t worked.

Drumm decided to head straight to the mall. Unsurprisingly, Flights of Fancy turned out to be a women’s apparel shop, the kind of store that Emily would have frequented. Drumm suddenly realized that he hadn’t thought about his former partner for days. It was strange but he didn’t miss her at all. He had well and truly moved on.

Charlotte Gill was at the back talking to the only customer in the store; another employee was smiling at him. As he stopped and waited, she approached him. “Hello! Need any help?”

Drumm showed her his badge. “YPS. I need to have a little chat with your colleague there.” A worried look came onto the young woman’s face. “It’s just routine, nothing to be concerned about,” he reassured her.

The young woman left him and exchanged a few words with Charlotte Gill. The latter looked at him, nodded, and then left her customer and came over to him. “Detective Drumm. How nice to see you. Kathy told me you were coming over.”

So much for not saying anything, thought Drumm. “Is there somewhere we can talk for a few minutes?” He looked around.

“Back here.” Charlotte led the way to an office in the rear of the store. She moved a pile of clothes off a chair and said, “Have a seat.”

Charlotte Gill was elegantly dressed in blouse, sweater and slacks, clothing that no doubt came from Flights of Fancy. She was looking at him expectantly. “It’s about Mike, is it? What’s made you change your mind?”

Drumm ignored this. “I’m here unofficially, Mrs. Gill. I’m just taking an interest, as it were. It’s a bit unusual, what happened to your friend. And I have some time at the moment…”

Charlotte looked at him carefully. “Well, if you say so. How can I help?”

“I’d just like to get your views on the relationship between Mr. Kennedy and Kathy Walters.”

“They loved each other.” Charlotte was firm.

“Yes. But the argument they had that day – was that usual?”

“No, it wasn’t. They didn’t fight, at least not that we could see. What happened in Cuba was just a one-off. Mike had too much to drink, Kathy got upset…” Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. “I would likely have reacted the same way. He was getting hammered. And that wasn’t the first day he had done it.”

“Did you like him?”

“Mike? Sure. I mean, he was okay. He was funny and kind and he treated Kathy well. Most of the time, that is. When he wasn’t drinking.”

“Why do you think he was drinking so much? It was a bit unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

Charlotte pursed her lips. “Yes, it was. I mean, there were plenty of people at that resort who were hitting the bars but Mike seemed to be really overdoing it.”

Drumm thought of the huge drinking mug Kennedy had apparently been using and could only agree. “Your husband and Mr. Kennedy worked together, I understand.”

“At Metro Grocers, yes.”

“Did your husband ever say anything about his relationship with Mr. Kennedy?”

Charlotte stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Did they get along well?”

“They were friends. They got along great. In fact, Mike got Sean the job there.” Charlotte stared at him. “Why are you asking these questions, Detective Sergeant? What are you implying?”

Drumm said, “I’m not implying anything. You asked me to investigate and I’m just trying to establish some background on the people who knew Mr. Kennedy best.”

Charlotte stood up. “Well, I suggest if you have any more questions, you talk to Sean yourself. I really have to get back to work now, Detective Sergeant.”

Drumm stood up also. “I understand. Sorry to take so much of your time.” He turned to go. “Please, Mrs. Gill, remember that this is unofficial. I am just making some routine enquiries.”

“I won’t say anything, Detective Sergeant.”

I doubt that, thought Drumm.

Drumm’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he was sitting in the mall’s food court enjoying a sandwich and a bottle of water.

“Nick, how much more of this do you want us to do? It’s cold out here. And we’re not getting anywhere.”

“Stop whining, Dick.” But Drumm was smiling. “Wear some warmer gloves next time.”

McDonald said, “I am seriously saying this is a waste of time. We haven’t found anything at all. If this guy wrapped up his finger with something, he took it with him. Simpson and Morgan and I have gone over every inch of ground along that blood trail and we haven’t found so much as a mouse dropping.”

“Are they as cold and whiny as you?” asked Drumm.

McDonald laughed. “Morgan’s nose is as red as Rudolph’s and Simpson just gets quieter and quieter.”

“What about the canvass?”

McDonald sighed. “Nothing there yet, either. People didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything or they’re not home or they’re lying…”

“Everybody lies, Dick,” said Drumm. “You know that.” He paused. “I’m having a tasty BLT at the moment. I suggest you do the same. All three of you. Get some food and get warm. But then finish the job. Knock on those doors again. And when you’re done with that, start getting the word out to the doctors in the area that we’re looking for a gunshot wound to a finger. If he didn’t go to a clinic or hospital, maybe he went to his own doctor. We need a lead on this guy.”

Drumm could hear McDonald curse. “There are hundreds of them! I think I’ll have a cigar instead.” He disconnected.

Drumm smiled and went back to his sandwich. The canvass looked like being a dead end. There had been plenty of those in this case. He thought about the Riverwood Rapist and his shot-off fingertip. It was strange that he hadn’t visited a hospital emergency room or one of the walk-in clinics. Or maybe it showed that they weren’t dealing with a dummy here. He thought some more. An idea came into his head. Yes, that was worth pursuing.

The head office for Metro Grocers was located in a new industrial park in the west end of the city. It was a three-storey structure, all blue glass and steel, located in the middle of many other similar buildings.

Drumm shut off the Miata, got out and looked at the huge pile of freshly-plowed snow in the parking lot. This would stay for months, long after the weather had turned mild again. Just now it was approaching the size of a small ski hill. He shook the snow off his shoes and entered the building.

He found Sean Gill on the third floor, occupying a corner office. Dressed in a suit and tie, Gill stood up and shook Drumm’s hand. “Detective Sergeant Drumm. I heard you were coming. Please, have a seat.”

Of course you did, thought Drumm. While removing his coat and scarf, Drumm studied the man. He was taller than himself, probably six foot three, and he was clearly in good shape. He was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, and his black hair was receding at the temples. His face was still showing the tan of his recent Cuban vacation.

“You’re looking into Mike’s death? How is that? You don’t have jurisdiction, do you? At least, that’s what Char said.” Gill was sitting back in his chair.

“It’s just an unofficial thing. Just some routine enquiries.” Drumm uttered the familiar phrases without really thinking.

“Unofficial? What does that mean? You’re here on your own time?” Gill was frowning and his tone was sharp.

Drumm realized that Sean Gill would need careful handling. “Not exactly, Mr. Gill. It’s a delicate thing, when a Canadian dies in Cuba – or any foreign country for that matter – we have to try to cooperate with the local police. You understand, we have to operate a little bit differently, a little more under the radar.” Drumm hoped this police-speak would satisfy Gill.

Gill stared at him. “We were told that Mike died accidentally. Isn’t that true then? What do you believe? Do you think those three Cuban guys killed him? Kathy said you think that might have happened.”

Drumm said, “Not at all. I have no opinion on the subject.” That wasn’t quite true, of course. “What I said was, the Cuban police think he might have been thrown off the balcony. But on balance, they think he was most likely to have fallen over accidentally because he was drunk.”

Gill visibly relaxed. “I see. But I don’t quite get why you’re here. If it happened in Cuba and it was an accident…”

“I’m just trying to get some background.” Drumm’s voice was soothing. “The death was unusual and your wife and Kathy Walters are concerned.”

Gill leaned forward. “You think I had something to do with it? Char said you were asking her questions about me.”

“No, no, not at all. I’m just trying to get the complete picture. There were six of you there. I’ll talk to all of you eventually.” Drumm paused but Sean Gill said nothing further. “You knew him well? You must have, if you worked together.”

“Yes, I knew him pretty well. We were good friends. He got me this job here. Years ago, that was. But I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for Mike.”

“So I heard. A good friend, indeed.” Drumm looked around the office. “What do you do here?”

“I’m a buyer,” said Gill.

“What does a buyer do?” asked Drumm.

Gill laughed. “I buy. I’m responsible for the produce. We have a lot of suppliers, and a lot of stores.”

“I guess you must. And Mike Kennedy?” asked Drumm.

“He was a bean counter. Mike worked in accounting.”

Drumm nodded. “Was he okay? Was anything bothering him, do you know? Ms. Walters said he seemed distracted before the holiday. Did you see any sign of that at work?”

Gill shook his head. “Bothering him? No, not that I knew about. She said that? It’s news to me.”

“Okay. But she was pretty definite that something was bothering him.” Drumm watched Gill shake his head again, with a puzzled look on his face. “No? Alright, fine. I was just wondering why a man would drink so much when he was on holiday. Especially when it seems he didn’t when he was at home.”

Gill smiled. “Is that all? Mike just liked to have a good time, that’s what that was. Free food, free drinks - you know.”

Drumm nodded again. “He tried to pick up a couple of girls in the disco. Yet he was engaged to be married and seemingly happy about it. Do you know of any reason why he would do that? Were he and Kathy fighting?”

“Just that day,” said Gill. “As far as I know, it was just because Mike was drinking so much.” Gill looked troubled. “Kathy told me about those girls. I have no idea what he was up to. I’ve never seen him do that kind of thing. And he loved Kathy, that I know.”

“So he and Kathy had a fight and she slept in your room that night. When was the last time you saw him?”

Gill said, “Earlier in the day, sometime in the afternoon. And a little correction, Detective: Kathy slept in our second bedroom. We had a two-bedroom unit.”

“Right,” said Drumm. “I forgot. What time did you all go to bed?”

“Well, Kathy went first, that I recall. Char and I stayed up a bit later but I don’t really remember what time.”

“And you didn’t go out at all?”

“No, none of us did.”

Drumm said, “You probably told all this to the Cuban police.”

Gill snorted. “Did we! They kept us all day. Asked the same questions, over and over.”

“They must have been satisfied,” said Drumm. “Or you wouldn’t be here.” He stood up. “I won’t take any more of your time. Thanks for your cooperation.”

Gill stood up also. “Are you gonna get that guy soon? The Riverwood Rapist, I mean..”

Drumm winced. “I sincerely hope so.” He moved to go and then turned. “If you think of anything else you forgot to tell me, please let me know. And let’s keep this conversation to ourselves, shall we? Remember, it’s unofficial.”

Sean Gill gave a sketchy salute and a half smile. “Will do, Detective.”

As he left, Drumm wondered about that smile. He didn’t care to be mocked, but maybe it had simply been his imagination.

Drumm was standing in the hallway like a teenager on a first date, a bunch of flowers clasped in  front of him. There was melting snow on his hair, on his eyebrows, on his coat and even on the tops of the flowers. When Lori opened the door, he was looking ruefully down at them.

“These are for you,” he said. “But I’m afraid I may have killed them. Do lilies like the snow?”

“Not so much,” said Lori. “Come in.” She took the bouquet from him and said, “They’re lovely. I’ll put them in some water. Hang that wet coat up, take your shoes off and sit down. I’ll be right back.”

Drumm sat on her couch and looked around her tidy apartment. He’d been here before and it wasn’t much changed from his previous visit. Lori returned and put a vase containing the wilting flowers on the table in front of him.

Drumm stared at the blooms. “They don’t look very good, do they?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” said Lori. “Thank you. Um, how long were they out in the cold?” She sat on the chair facing Drumm.

“About six hours,” said Drumm, with a smile. “Too long?”

“Possibly, yes. What’s the occasion?”

“Well, I just felt badly about what happened to you. It was my fault and I just wanted to come over here and tell you that once more. I’ll make sure it never happens again. Not that that’s of much use.”

“Forget it,” said Lori. She was pleased that Drumm had taken the time to visit her. “It happened, it’s over and done with.” He started to speak but she raised her hand and interrupted him. “Forget about it, I said. Let’s move on. What have you been doing all day while I’ve been lolling about here?”

Drumm looked her over. “You don’t look like you’ve been lolling about. You look much better, actually. Had a workout, did you?”

Lori said, “Yes, I did, or tried to. But only after a hot bath and a good, long sleep. But you didn’t answer me, what have you been up to?”

She saw Drumm look at her as if he were trying to decide something. After a pause, he said, “This is for your ears only.” He reflected. “I guess you can tell Dick, but no one else.”

Intrigued, she listened as he told her about the death of Mike Kennedy, McDonald’s involvement, his conversation with the Cuban investigator and the interviews he’d had with Sean Gill, Charlotte Gill and Kathy Walters. It took him some time.

At the end she said, “I’ll make some tea. Or would you rather have a beer?”

“Tea is fine.”

“Good, because I don’t keep any beer in the apartment.” She smiled.

Lori returned in a few minutes with two mugs. “But why are you getting involved in this?” she said as she sat down and crossed her legs. “It didn’t even happen in Canada!”

Drumm sighed. “I know. And at first that’s what I told the women. But you know how we get that little feeling when something’s not right?”

Lori nodded. “Or when someone is lying.”

“Yes, but these women weren’t lying. It’s just that there was something about it that got me thinking. And, to be honest…”

“Yes?”

Drumm grinned. “Drennan ordered me not to get involved.”

“So naturally you did.”

“Naturally.” Drumm smiled again. “If it hadn’t been for that, I would have sent those two ladies on their way and thought no more about it.”

“But now…?” said Lori.

“But now, we are unofficially investigating.”

“We?” said Lori. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing, for the moment. But I am shortly going to talk to the Whitesides and see what they have to say.” He stood up. “Thank for the tea.”

“Sit down,” said Lori. “You haven’t even finished it. And you’ve got to eat. I’ll make you some dinner before you head out.”

Drumm hesitated. “I didn’t come over here…”

Lori stood up and pointed at the sofa. “Sit. That’s an order, sir.”

Drumm sat down and Lori laughed. “I wish that worked all the time.” She started to move towards the kitchen and then stopped. “On second thought, don’t sit. You can help.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lori smiled to herself. It would be fun to cook for a man again. Especially Drumm.

twenty-four

Detective Richard McDonald lit the Cohiba and inhaled gratefully. A parking lot wasn’t the greatest place to enjoy a cigar but he couldn’t smoke in the YPS building. He strolled over to the park and stopped on the path. The lamp standards were making pools of light in the darkness, snaking along through the snow as the walkway curved away into blackness. McDonald blew out a huge cloud of smoke and felt himself relaxing. His leg ached, his head hurt and his fingers were cold but at least his day would soon be over.

The canvass had not gone well. The best the three detectives could do was a vague report of someone running along.

“Might’ve seen a guy,” said a drunken fool of a man who had answered his knock. His breath reeked of beer and McDonald could see a cluster of bottles arranged on the kitchen table behind him. “I’d just got up to take a piss and I looked out the window to see if it was snowing.”

McDonald was impatient. “Well, did you or didn’t you? Or were you too hammered to tell?”

The man scowled at him. “Might have, I said. It was dark.”

“This man you might have seen,” said McDonald sarcastically. “Which way might he have been going?”

The drunk had pointed towards Queen Street. “Might’ve gone that way.”

McDonald sighed. “And what did he look like?”

The man stared at him. “It was dark.”

That was all they had as far as witnesses. Lori’s attacker, shot finger and all, had made his escape without anyone else noticing, so far as they could tell. And once again, there had been no security cameras anywhere in the area. There were a couple of red light cameras further along Queen that he would check but McDonald wasn’t hopeful they would show anything.

He, Simpson and Morgan had begun contacting the many physicians in York but it was a slow process and they hadn’t crossed too many doctors off the list.

McDonald looked at his cigar. You just couldn’t beat a genuine Cuban. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was under a palm tree, listening to the surf.

The snow was falling again as Drumm made his way towards the apartment building where Aaron and Deb Whiteside lived. There was only an occasional vehicle to be seen on the roads; most people had heeded the forecasters’ advice to stay home. Another ten centimetres of snow was expected along with strong winds from the north. The snow was being driven across the road by the strengthening breeze and Drumm realized he would likely have a much more difficult time getting home. Visibility was already deteriorating.

His stomach felt pleasantly full. He and Lori had enjoyed a simple dinner; she had whipped together a mild chicken curry while he had made a Caesar salad. They had chatted companionably in the warmth of her kitchen, sipping Chardonnay, and the Riverwood Rapist had seemed a million miles away.

He had been concerned about Lori’s state of mind after she was assaulted and fired her weapon. Tonight’s dinner, though, had reassured him and he’d been impressed by her composure. She was tough and resilient and he was confident that she’d handle the SIU interview capably. They’d gone through what she might expect from the interviewers and the kinds of answers she should give. By the end of the dinner, they were both feeling very content, and he’d realized he needed to get going or he would never want to leave the warmth of her apartment.

“Sorry about the flowers,” he’d said, pointing at the drooping bouquet on the table. “I’ll do better next time.”

Now he was pulling the Miata into the last empty space in visitor parking. The Whitesides’ building was a high-rise, part of a complex of three. He’d never been called to this complex before so he guessed it was a low-crime area. He locked his car and pulled his coat tighter against the cold as he entered the lobby. The wind was stronger still and the snow was beginning to pile up in drifts against the walls of the building.

Drumm had called ahead to make sure the Whitesides would be in. They hadn’t seemed surprised to hear from him, no doubt having heard from their friends that he was making the rounds.

Their apartment was cheery and warm, comfortably but not lavishly decorated and he’d been offered a drink and food which he had declined. The three of them were sitting in the living room taking stock of each other, on the kind of furniture which could only come from a store like Ikea.

Aaron Whiteside was tall, black and muscular and he was looking at Drumm with amusement on his face. Drumm guessed his height at six foot six and he had the build of a middle linebacker. He was wearing a red polo sweater, zippered at the neck, and Drumm could see the muscles bulging underneath it. He had a friendly face, and he was clean-shaven; his head was covered with dreadlocks.

Drumm said, “I know you work for the school board, Mr. Whiteside, but what exactly do you do?”

Aaron Whiteside’s face broke out in a smile. It was obviously something he did a lot. “I’m an EA, Detective Sergeant.”

Drumm was surprised. An educational assistant? In his experience most were women. He said as much now.

“No, you’re right. Most EAs are women. But more and more men are getting into it.” He showed his teeth again. “I’m pretty popular, actually, just because I’m male. Lots of schools are looking for male EAs, because there are so many boys that need help these days.”

“It doesn’t hurt that you’re the size of Mount Everest, either,” said his wife. Deborra Whiteside was much shorter than her husband, maybe five foot nine. Her red hair fell attractively to her shoulders; she was wearing jeans and a thick white sweater. Drumm knew that they were both in their late twenties.

“And you’re a legal secretary?” asked Drumm. “Where?”

“Peterman, Horner and Smith,” said Deb Whiteside. “On King Street.”

Drumm nodded. He’d never heard of the firm. He looked at Aaron Whiteside. “So you’re an EA and you work for the York District School Board. How is it that you were in Cuba?”

“What do you mean? We were on holiday.” Whiteside’s voice was puzzled.

“But you were supposed to be in school, weren’t you? I mean, it wasn’t March Break. I didn’t think you could get the time off.”

“Oh, I see,” said Whiteside. “You’re right, normally I wouldn’t. But I had just started with the YDSB – I was working at a group home before – and we’d already booked and paid for the trip. So York let me have the week off. It was an unpaid leave, though.”

“Why the change in jobs?”

Aaron Whiteside smiled again. “More money!”

Drumm nodded. “By now you two know that I am looking into the death of your friend, Michael Kennedy.” He looked at the two of them. “Unofficially,” he added.

“So we’ve been told,” said Deb. “But I don’t know how we can help you.”

“You can start by explaining how you knew him. You were all friends. How did that come about?”

“We went to high school, the five of us. Not Kathy,” said Aaron. “We hung out together at school, Char and Sean started dating then; so did Deb and I. We lost touch for a few years but then we got back together through Facebook. And someone had the idea of going to Cuba as a group.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. Look how it turned out,” said Deb.

“Did you see your friend getting drunk?” asked Drumm, after a short silence.

Aaron looked at Deb, then back at Drumm. “Yes. He was really putting it away.” Before Drumm could speak, he went on, “And no, we don’t know of anything that was bothering him. Do we, Deb?”

“No.” She looked away.

“I see.” Drumm looked from one to the other. “So, as far as you know, everything was fine. Everything was fine between Mike and Kathy, everything was fine between the six of you.”

“That’s right.” It was Deb speaking, almost defiantly, Drumm thought.

“But he and Kathy had been arguing. Everyone agrees on that,” Drumm pointed out.

“It wasn’t anything serious,” Deb said. “It was just a little tiff.”

“Ummm,” said Drumm. “And when was the last time you saw him? Mike, I mean?”

Aaron spoke. “It was late afternoon sometime. We saw him by the pool.”

“Did you six spend all your time together?” asked Drumm.

Aaron answered. “No, not at all. Deb and I would go off sometimes and do our own thing. So would the others. But we’d usually join up for meals, and we’d spend some time together at the beach or the pool.”

Drumm stood up. “Sounds like heaven right now.” He gestured at the window where the snow was rattling the pane. “This can go away anytime it likes. I’ve had enough of it.” He moved towards the door. “Thanks for your time; sorry to interrupt your evening. Please, keep this to yourselves.”

The Whitesides stood up also. “Do you think someone killed him, then?” asked Aaron. “Is that why you’re asking these questions?”

“Not at all,” answered Drumm. He started putting his shoes on. He stood up and said, “I’m asking these questions because your friends Charlotte and Kathy came to see me. They were concerned. And Mr. Kennedy’s death was a bit unusual.”

“He was very drunk,” said Deb. She had her arm around her husband’s waist.

“He was,” agreed Drumm. “And very likely he just took a nasty tumble off his balcony.”

“That’s what that Cuban detective told us,” said Aaron. “That he lost his balance and fell to his death. Poor Mike.”

“That is probably what happened,” said Drumm. He opened the door and turned back to them. “Stay warm,” he said.

It wasn’t until he was back in the Miata, navigating his way slowly homeward through the driving snow that he remembered Drennan’s admonition to hold a press conference that afternoon. Not only had he failed to do it, he had occupied himself with talking to people who had nothing to do with the Riverwood Rapist at all. And he’d had dinner with a colleague, a very pleasant dinner. He was actually surprised that Drennan hadn’t called to reprimand him.

It wouldn’t really matter. He would hold a press briefing tomorrow morning and give the Staff Inspector some excuse or other for the delay. Drumm grinned. Keep the wolves at bay while he did his job. And keep them away from his people. Drumm’s expression sobered when he realized they would still have to get through the SIU investigation. He wasn’t really worried about that but it would take up more of their time. It was just another distraction they didn’t need.

twenty-five

The media briefing room was full. Drumm stood at the lectern, the media relations officer just to his right, and waited for the throng of journalists to quiet down. Dressed in a suit and tie for the occasion, he waited patiently with a half-smile on his face. He’d briefly considered wearing his full uniform but quickly dismissed the idea. Time enough for that when they actually made an arrest. This was just an opportunity to throw a few scraps to the hungry hordes.

“I have a short statement to give,” said Drumm. “And then I’ll take a few questions.” He paused and cleared his throat. Speaking to the media like this didn’t bother him. In his former incarnation as a teacher, he’d had plenty of experience talking to large groups. It wasn’t that he pictured them naked, like some public speaking manuals advised, it was rather that he knew what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. He was a confident speaker, fluent and articulate, and he understood that he looked good when he spoke. It was a tremendous advantage to know that he could spar with the media wolves and come away relatively unscathed. Not that he could take them lightly; slip up and they would tear him to shreds. To be followed by a similar ripping from Staff Inspector Drennan.

He looked down at his notes and began. “Wednesday evening there was a seventh sexual assault on a female victim in the area of York known as Riverwood.” He paused and looked directly at one of the cameras. “We have reason to believe that this was the work of the same man that we have been seeking for the past few weeks in connection with six other sexual assaults.” He paused for breath. “The difference in this latest attack is that the female victim managed to inflict some damage on her attacker.”

There was a sudden murmur of voices from the crowd. Drumm held up his hand and waited for them to settle. “Specifically, she was able to damage the middle finger of his left hand.” Drumm carefully indicated the appropriate finger; it wouldn’t do to flip the bird to the entire city of York. “So, we are asking the citizens of York to help by reporting to the police any person they see with an injured middle finger on their left hand.” He stopped and looked directly at the camera. “Do not approach this man, if you should see him. He is considered dangerous. Report it to the police and do not attempt to speak to him.” Drumm stopped reading and looked at his audience again. “I’ll take some questions now.”

“Detective Sergeant Drumm, what’s keeping you from an arrest?” It was Susan Benitez. Naturally, thought Drumm. “We were told you knew who the Riverwood Rapist was and an arrest was imminent. Why the delay?”

Drumm was prepared for this. “These things take time, Susan. Knowing who committed a crime and finding enough evidence to convict him in a court of law are two very different things.”

Before Benitez could ask a follow-up question, Drumm pointed at a reporter for the Sun-Times. “Brent?”

“Detective Sergeant Drumm, if you didn’t have enough evidence to apprehend this man, then why were we told that an arrest was imminent? Wasn’t that announcement premature?”

Drumm smiled inside. The reporter had asked the question just the way they’d planned it. “I didn’t make that announcement, Mr. Hodgson.”

“What did she do to his finger?” The question came from the rear of the room. Drumm couldn’t see who asked it.

“I’m not prepared to give any more details on that,” said Drumm. “I’ll just say that the injury was significant and noticeable.”

“Did she bite it off?” It was the same voice. The question elicited some laughter.

“Next question.” Drumm looked around the room.

Susan Benitez said, “Is it true that this latest victim was a police officer working undercover?” She had a little smile on her face as if to say, Gotcha!

For the first time, Drumm was rattled. How the hell did she know that? There was a delay while he looked down at his notes and then back up at his questioner. “I can’t comment on that, Susan.” He could see she was about to speak so he said quickly, “That’s all I have time for now, folks. Thank you.” He turned and made for the exit while the media officer moved to the lectern.

Susan raised her voice and called out, “Can we have the name of the officer, Detective Sergeant Drumm?” Then came a babble of voices.

Drumm made his escape and paused to wipe his forehead. That had been a close call. He had been doing pretty well, he thought, until that last question. Where did she get her information from?

But Drumm was pretty sure he knew.

“They televised it live. CN24/7, I mean. They do the breathless, breaking news thing pretty well, I have to say.” Lori was standing in his doorway, leaning against the frame. “You looked good, very much in control.”

“Until that last question.” Drumm frowned, put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I would ask how she knew but I think we know, don’t we?”

“He put her up to it?”

“Of course he did,” Drumm replied. His desk phone rang. He reached forward to answer it. Drumm listened for a few seconds and mouthed Drennan to Lori. She nodded and pushed away from the doorframe. Stay, he mouthed again. He pointed at the chair. She nodded again and sat down, crossing her legs.

Drumm spoke into his phone but his eyes were on Lori. “I decided to wait until this morning to talk to them, sir, to see if we got anything from the knife or the fingertip. We got some partials from the knife but the fingertip is too badly damaged to be of much use. Aside from the DNA, that is.” Drumm listened again.

“We haven’t been able to match the prints to anyone, no.” Drumm paused and listened again.

“I have no idea, sir. It came out of the blue.” There was another pause. “A leak? Not from here.” He smiled sardonically at Lori while he listened some more.

“I’m sorry you didn’t appreciate it. But I didn’t ask the question, I just answered it.” Drumm listened again. “No, I didn’t put him up to it.” He winked at Lori and mouthed, Yes I did!

Lori put her hand over her mouth to cover a laugh.

“I understand, sir.” Drumm put down the phone and looked at Lori. “He hung up on me.”

“What do you understand?”

Drumm looked solemn. “That I am to find this S.O.B. and make an arrest. Very helpful. And I am to hold no more press conferences.” Drumm smiled. “That is fine with me.”

Lori said, “He tried getting you to hang yourself and it didn’t work.”

“So the next media availability will be his doing and he can control the message. That’s the plan, for sure.” He waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a job for you.”

“Something to do with Cuba?”

“No, no, I want you to steer clear of that for now.” Drumm moved some papers around on his desk. “I put in a rush request to the lab on that knife. Here it is. You heard what I told Drennan about the prints. The knife itself isn’t a spring-assist model, like I thought. It’s what’s known as a Balisong butterfly knife. Apparently, people often mistake them for spring-assisted knives.” Drumm smiled briefly. “Like I did.”

“So you want me to find out more about this knife?”

Drumm nodded. “I do. Sign it out of evidence, and then see what you can find out about it. Where the creep might have bought it, and so forth. About all I know is that they are prohibited weapons in Canada.”

“Alright,” said Lori, standing up. “You look good in your suit, by the way. You should wear it more often.”

Drumm looked down at himself. “I hate the damn thing.” He pulled at his tie. “And this makes me feel like I’m choking.”

“And where’s Dick?” she asked.

“Detective McDonald is plowing through the extensive inventory of York physicians and surgeons.”

“I would expect your press conference will help with that,” said Lori. “Surely any doctor who saw or heard you will get in touch with us.”

“Let’s hope so,” agreed Drumm. “But more likely all we’ll get is a bunch of useless tips.”

Lori discovered from a simple Google search that there were many, many places to buy knives in Canada through an internet store. Actual bricks-and-mortar retail locations were harder to find but there was a store in the Westwood Mall called Wizards and Warriors that sold knives. Also, apparently, reading some more on their website, axes, machetes, spears, swords and flashlights.

She entered the store a short time later, the knife hidden safely inside a pocket of her jacket. Wizards and Warriors was a little shop tucked away in an obscure corner of the mall. Despite the time of day, the place was busy. The clientele and staff were exclusively male, mostly younger. The merchandise was an eclectic mix of clothing, backpacks, games, flashlights and other things she couldn’t identify from the front of the store, but primarily it sold sharp objects. It was rather disconcerting to see so many instruments of death arranged so neatly in such fascinating displays. There were spears on the walls and a whole section of machetes with wicked-looking blades and every type of knife she had ever seen and many more that she hadn’t. She wandered over to a display case to admire a curved sword under glass. Dragonfly Katana, read the label: $699.

“That’s a thing of beauty,” said a voice behind her. “I can get it out for you if you like.”

Lori turned to see an older man dressed in jeans and casual shirt looking enquiringly at her. James Masters, read his nametag. And underneath, Store Manager.

“Please,” said Lori impulsively.

Masters smiled, took out a set of keys and unlocked the display case. Gently he lifted out the sword. Lori put out both hands and the manager placed it carefully on them. It was surprisingly light for such a large object. It was more than a metre long, with a gently curving blade and a teal green corded handle.

“It comes with a scabbard too, of course,” said Masters. “It’s black lacquered wood. I’ll go get it if you like.”

“No need,” said Lori hastily. “I’m not going to buy it. I’m just wasting your time, really. I’m a detective, here to ask you some questions about another matter.” She made as if to give it back but the manager stopped her.

“No worries,” he said. “But give it a try in your hand. See how it feels.” He stepped back.

Lori looked at him doubtfully but did as he said and swished the sword around in her right hand. She felt a silly but also a little bit like a swashbuckling pirate. Lunge, parry, lunge… If only she’d had this thing when the Riverwood Rapist had attacked her. She could have done some serious damage. She gave the sword back to the manager. “Thank you. I enjoyed that. What type of sword is it?”

Masters spoke over his shoulder as he locked the weapon away again. “It’s a Japanese Samurai sword. The blade is carbon steel, just over twenty-nine inches long; the whole thing is forty-one inches long and weighs about thirty-seven ounces.”

“A Samurai sword? I had no idea. So I should have been twirling it above my head instead of acting like an idiotic fencer. What do people want with them?”

Masters had finished putting the sword back in the case and turned towards her. “For most it’s a hobby. They collect different swords, get out and practise with them, pretend…Well, you can guess what they pretend. Some just display them on a wall but most buyers use them. You can take lessons on how to fight with a sword. And some people buy them for self-defence.”

“Fascinating,” said Lori, and she meant it. She took out one of her cards and gave it to the manager. “Detective Singh, Homicide. I need some information on a knife if you can spare the time.” She took the knife, still contained in its plastic bag, out of her pocket, removed it from the bag and showed it to Masters.

“Ah,” he said. “A Balisong butterfly knife. I haven’t seen one of those lately. May I?” He reached out and took the weapon from her. He hefted the knife and then flicked his wrist. The blade magically appeared. Masters then went into a skilled routine with the knife, twirling it around in his hand like a cheerleader twirling a baton; the blade popped out, disappeared, came into view again, folded away. Lori couldn’t follow all the movements because the weapon was moving so fast. Masters ended with the knife folded up and resting innocently on his palm. “Nice blade,” he said, and gave it back to her.

“Do you sell these?” she asked.

“Oh, no, they’re illegal in Canada. Have been for years. How did you come by this one?”

“A nasty man stuck it in my cheek. I took it from him.” Lori looked at him calmly. “But he got away. We were wondering where he might have bought it.”

Masters looked at her carefully. “I was wondering about that cut on your cheek. Well, he didn’t get it here, I assure you. We don’t sell them and never have. I don’t need to get into illegal stuff. We do very well with the hobbyists and collectors.”

“But he could have gotten it in Canada?”

“Oh, yes, he could have. There are places where you can get them, for sure. But really, it would be so much easier to pick one up in the States. They’re legal to purchase there, probably cheaper too. He could have just driven across the border into Buffalo and got one. Easiest thing in the world to slip it back into Canada. Lots of places to hide one of these in a car, and what are the chances you’d ever be searched anyway?”

Lori turned the knife over in her hand. It wasn’t even six inches long. “What makes it work?”

“Centrifugal force. Makes the blade pop out and then go back in. And as you see, the handle splits into two pieces. They’re really rather ingenious. This one is from the 1940s. It’s Indian made, most likely from World War II. I would guess it came from an Indian soldier. It’s solid brass, very well constructed.”

Lori said, “Really? I had no idea. And how much would I expect to pay for one of these?”

Masters said, “It’s a collector’s item, and it would depend on its provenance, but I would say it would cost you about $200. American.”

“Would there be any way to trace where it came from?”

“Not really. There’s no serial number, if that’s what you mean. The best you could do would be to find the store that sold it.”

“And there are probably dozens of them, right?” asked Lori.

“At least. Plus illegal dealers, EBay, Craigslist. That sort of thing.”

Lori sighed. “I have no chance. That’s what you’re saying.”

“Likely not, no. It’s a collector’s item but there are plenty of them out there. They’re not scarce.”

Lori put the knife back in its bag and tucked it away out of sight. She looked up at Masters. “My parents are Indian.”

Masters smiled. “Interesting coincidence. Maybe it belonged to your grandfather. Was he a soldier?”

“I don’t really know.” She reached out to shake the manager’s hand. “Thanks for the education. It was really interesting.”

“My pleasure,” said Masters. “And by the way, that little beauty usually comes with a nice leather pouch. I guess he didn’t have it on him when you took it from him?”

“I didn’t really have time to look,” said Lori. “I was rather busy at the time.”

Earl Roth Elementary School was a rural school located on a quiet country road on the outskirts of York. Drumm enjoyed his drive out of the city; it was a chance to visit a part of the region that he didn’t usually get to see. The pine trees that were everywhere in the area were sagging under the weight of the freshly-fallen snow.

“Mr. Whiteside is in class at the moment.” The secretary, young and with a nervous smile, stood behind the counter and waited expectantly.

“It’s important,” said Drumm. “You did hear me say Homicide, didn’t you?” He folded his arms and stared at the woman.

She looked uncomfortably over her shoulder and then said, “Just a minute.” She walked quickly to the back of the office and disappeared around a corner. Shortly she reappeared, followed by a stout woman in a business suit who was holding Drumm’s business card.

“Detective Sergeant Drumm? I’m Muriel Atkinson, principal of the school. I understand you want to chat with Aaron Whiteside.”

Drumm nodded. “I do.”

“What’s it about?”

“I can’t tell you that. Where is he, please?”

“He’s with a student, a very needy student, actually. Can you wait?”

“No, I can’t. May I suggest that you go to wherever he is, relieve Mr. Whiteside and send him down here? As soon as possible? Or I can go and talk to him in front of the student if you prefer.”

The principal frowned and looked irritated. “That won’t be necessary. Just a minute, please.” She gave Drumm an unfriendly look and left the office.

Drumm wandered out of the office out into the foyer and occupied himself inspecting a display case filled with student art. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

“They’re papier-mâché insects,” said a voice from behind him.

Drumm turned to see Aaron Whiteside. Dressed in a track suit and wearing running shoes, he looked like he’d just come from the gym. Drumm raised his eyebrows. “Were you working out?”

Whiteside looked down at his shoes. “The clothing, you mean? I always dress like this. I spend a lot of time in the gym with the boys, and if I’m not doing that,  I’m often sitting on a classroom floor somewhere. I can’t wear good clothes – they just get ruined.. But just now I was in the library with Jake.” He looked down at Drumm. “What’s so important? I just talked to you last night.”

Drumm stared at him. “Yes, but today I would like the truth.”

“What? I told you the truth yesterday. What do you mean?”

Drumm waited patiently.

“Seriously, Detective, Jake needs me. He’s autistic and he gets squirrelly when he’s with someone new. I can’t leave him for too long with Mrs. Atkinson.”

“Then you’d better give me the whole story about what was going on with the six of you, hadn’t you?” Drumm stood with his arms folded and waited.

Whiteside looked around and said, “Come on – let’s talk over here.” He led the way to a small conference room and closed the door. “Now, what’s this about?”

Drumm leaned back against the door and said, “It’s about the lies you told me yesterday, you and your wife. Today I want the real story about what might have been bothering Mike Kennedy. And, what was going on between him and you.”

Aaron looked searchingly at him, then sat down heavily. His customary smile had disappeared. “Alright. Deb and I didn’t quite tell you everything  last night. Mike was definitely upset that Thursday – or was it Wednesday? The day he died, I mean. I don’t know everything that was bothering him but I was part of the reason. He and I had a bit of a disagreement.”

“Go on,” said Drumm. “A disagreement about what?”

Whiteside looked away, then back at Drumm. “It was about Deb.”

“Yes?”

“I thought he was paying too much attention to her.”

“You thought he was hitting on her?” asked Drumm.

“Yeah.”

“What was he doing exactly?”

“You have to understand, he was drinking like a fish, and Deb wears some skimpy bikinis. His eyes were all over her and he was sitting too close to her a time or two. Well, it was pretty obvious he was hoping for more. So I talked to him privately about it.”

“Did anyone else notice what he was doing?” asked Drumm.

“Just Deb, I think. It made her uncomfortable.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I asked him to knock it off. I told him that Deb was feeling uncomfortable and he should pay more attention to Kathy.”

“And how did he react?”

“Well, he didn’t like it. I mean, we didn’t scuffle or anything but he was all puffed up and belligerent. Like I said, he was drinking a lot. He wasn’t normally such a dick. But in the end he just walked away. He said something like, ‘Ah, forget it. What’s it matter anyway?’”

“And you didn’t tell me this yesterday because…?”

Whiteside avoided Drumm’s eyes. “You’re a homicide detective. You’re investigating Mike’s death. That means you think someone killed him. I had a little argument with him. Maybe you would think…” His voice tailed off.

“That you threw him over that railing?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. The idea is ridiculous.” Whiteside sat up straight and crossed his arms.

“You’re big enough to have done it easily.”

“But I didn’t. He fell off accidentally. The police said so. He was drunk.”

Drumm moved to open the door. “And very likely you are right. Keep this chat to yourself, please.”

Whiteside stood up also and said, “I don’t understand why you’re looking into something that’s none of your business.”

Drumm turned. “I keep asking myself the same thing.”

Drumm was sitting at his desk, looking morosely at the clutter, when a shadow loomed over him.

“What is it about you, Drumm, that I don’t like?” The unpleasant voice of Staff Inspector Drennan grated in Drumm’s ears and he looked up. “Could it be the fact that you don’t obey direct orders?” He closed Drumm’s door with a powerful shove and advanced until he was right in front of his desk. Drumm stood up.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Drumm adopted a look of innocence.

“I just had a call from a principal, a Muriel Atkinson. She phoned to complain. It seems you went to her school and demanded to interview one of her staff. You were rude and unpleasant, she said.”

“An official complaint, sir?” Drumm was unperturbed.

Drennan said, “Not yet. I managed to settle her down.” He pointed a finger at Drumm. “You were meddling in that Cuban thing, weren’t you? I specifically told you to leave it alone and yet you see fit to harass some teacher about his vacation.” Drennan’s voice was rising and Drumm could see some heads turning through the window of his office.

“He’s an educational assistant, actually. Sir.” Drumm smiled. “Not a teacher.”

“Who cares? You had no business being there.” Drennan clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, let me make this clear to you, Detective Sergeant. If I hear of any more investigations on your part into this Cuban affair, then I will personally bring you up on charges. You will be in the Disciplinary Hearings Office before the day is out. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do, sir.”

“Neither you nor any other member of Homicide is to have anything else to do with this. As far as the YPS is concerned, an accidental death occurred in Cuba and it has nothing to do with us.” Drennan turned as if to leave. Then he stopped. “And if I were you, I would get the Riverwood Rapist behind bars soon. Very soon. I am losing patience.” He opened the door and left, not waiting for a response from Drumm.

Which was just as well, because there really wasn’t anything he could say in his defence. Drumm sighed. It was time to get cracking on that idea.

twenty-six

Drumm’s office was full of sunshine on this Saturday morning, a welcome sight to the three weary detectives. Perhaps it was the brightness of the day but Drumm thought Lori looked better, not so tense as she had been lately. McDonald appeared to be his normal flaky self.

“How’s the leg, Dick? Ready to go skiing? It’s a perfect day for it.” Drumm gestured towards the bright sunshine streaming in through the window.

“It’s better every day. But schussing down the slopes of Horseshoe Valley? I am not ready for that. Besides, who has time?”

“I didn’t know you were a skier, Dick,” said Lori.

“I’m not, love.” McDonald grinned at her. “I’m a lover.”

Drumm said, “Right. Changing the subject quickly… Our guy has still not turned up anywhere. Dick, you’ve got nowhere with the local doctors?”

“We haven’t visited all the quacks yet – Simpson and Morgan have a few more to contact – but it doesn’t look like he has sought medical attention anywhere in York.” McDonald stretched and yawned. “Maybe he wasn’t as badly hurt as we thought.”

“And the knife hasn’t led anywhere either.” Lori filled the two men in on what she had learned about the butterfly knife.

Drumm said, “Damn! It’s a shame about that knife. I was hopeful it might prove useful. Oh well.” He leaned forward. “I had an idea about the finger.” He looked at McDonald. “That was a serious injury, Dick. I mean, there was all kinds of traumatic there. Ligaments, tendons, all that good stuff. He must have had it seen to.”

“Trauma, you mean,” said Dick. “But we’ve checked most of the doctors, and all the clinics and hospitals. He hasn’t been in.”

“But what if he looked after it himself?” asked Drumm.

Lori said, “You mean, you think he was a surgeon and he sewed it up himself?” She looked thoughtful. “I never considered that. Could he do that, though? I mean, how?”

“Not a doctor, no,” said Drumm. “A veterinarian. And it would be awkward and difficult but it could be done.” He looked at the two of them. “By now I think we would have heard if a doctor had a finger injury. It was on the news, don’t forget, and somebody would have reported it. Unless the doc is on holidays – that’s a definite possibility. But Dick and the other two have investigated nearly all the medicos in York. A vet, though  -- he has access to drugs and he’d be able to sew up a wound, right? I mean, they have to do that kind of stuff all the time.”

“Like getting your cat neutered,” said Dick. “The vet has to snip off…”

Lori interrupted him hastily, “It’s worth looking into, for sure.”

Drumm nodded. “So I did, last night. There are dozens of vets in York: private practice, clinics, mobile vets, animal hospitals… I had to start somewhere so I narrowed it down to the ones located in the Riverwood area, or nearby. It turns out there are five altogether.”

Lori nodded. “You want us to look into these. We’ll get on it.” She stood up.

“Wait,” Drumm said. “Not so fast.” He motioned for Lori to sit down again. McDonald smirked at her.

“All of these places have websites or Facebook pages. And they show the location and services offered, the hours they’re open and that kind of thing. Also pictures of the staff in two of the five cases. Three of them don’t have any mention of the staff at all, so I have no idea who works there. But those first two, they both have male veterinarians.”

“And what do these vet dudes look like?” asked McDonald. “Do any of them have pale blue eyes?”

“The photos are inconclusive,” said Drumm judiciously. “However, since one is obviously from China or Japan or some such place, he isn’t in the mix. There is another one who is definitely elderly. Although older men have proved to be capable of rape before.” Drumm looked at the two of them who were waiting for him to continue. “I think it’s an idea worth pursuing, and since I have a dog, I thought I might check some of these places out. One in particular interests me.”

“Why?” asked Lori.

“Because it looks like a small practice. Fewer staff, fewer people to notice if something was wrong. So, I thought I’d take Will in for a visit. He’s due for his rabies shot.” He smiled. “Kill two birds with one stone.”

“So to speak,” said McDonald. He stood up. “Give me one and I’ll get over there. After I finish up with the docs.”

“And I’ll look after a couple,” said Lori. She stood up also.

“I’ll do the other two,” said Drumm.

The phone on his desk rang.

“Homicide, Drumm.” He listened and his face became still. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone and looked at the others. “Looks like he’s struck again. And this time he killed her.”

They formed a semicircle: Drumm, Lori, McDonald, a uniformed officer and Ken McIntee, head of the Forensic Investigation Services team, looking down at the body. The woman was on her back in the snow, dressed in snow pants and an unzipped ski jacket. The hood on the jacket was up, with pink earmuffs visible on her sideways-turned head. One closed eye and part of her cheek could be seen but most of the woman’s face was obscured. Her blue scarf looked like it had been thrown onto her chest; the end of it was obscuring her mouth and chin. She had on black boots and the one hand that could be seen was wearing a pink mitten. The snow all around was disturbed into a confusing jumble.

Drumm looked over to the path where a tall bearded man dressed in a jogging suit, gloves and toque stood talking to another uniformed officer. “And that’s the guy who found her?”

The uniform nodded. “He said he was running through and saw something that didn’t look quite right. So he stopped and came over.”

“Did he move her?” asked McDonald.

“He said he could tell right away she was dead, because of the way she looked, but he touched her to make sure, looking for a pulse. She was icy cold, he said.” The breath of the uniformed officer was making little puffs of vapour in the cold air.

“Did he roll her over or anything?” asked Lori.

“He said he didn’t, just touched her to make sure she was gone, and then he pulled out his cell and called 9-1-1.”

“Tell your partner there to get him into the warm somewhere,” said Drumm. “The poor guy looks like he’s freezing.” The officer nodded and Drumm went on, “Who is he?”

The uniform said, “He’s a doctor. A surgeon at YDH. Today’s his day off. Name is Lieberman, I think it was.”

“It’s not his day off anymore,” said McDonald.

The uniform moved off and the four of them watched the doctor get taken into a patrol car. They would interview him later. Right now the focus was on the body.

The police photographer arrived and after a brief greeting, got down to his work. Other uniforms were helping man the security perimeter as a growing number of spectators gathered, attracted by the activity. Drumm watched the familiar scene playing out and wondered if he was getting tired of the business of murder. He felt incredibly dispirited.

The photographer spoke. “I’m ready if you want to move her.”

“We’ll wait for the coroner,” said Drumm. “She won’t be long.” He looked to his right and gestured. “Speak of the devil.”

An older woman was walking briskly down the path, accompanied by two young attendants. “Nicholas,” she said, and nodded to the others. She looked around at the group. “Has she been moved yet?”

“Waiting for you, Sigrid,” said McIntee.

“Right.” The coroner crouched down, gently uncovered the woman’s face and pushed back the hood. There was an exclamation from McDonald. Sigrid swiveled and looked up at him. “You know her?”

“It’s Kathy Walters.” McDonald looked to Drumm for confirmation. “Isn’t it?”

Drumm nodded. “Yes, it is.”

The coroner stood up looking puzzled. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Sorry, Sigrid,” said Drumm. “It’s in connection with another case.”

Lori said, “Kathy Walters? The woman from Cuba? Whose husband fell off the balcony?”

“Fiancé,” corrected Drumm. “Yes, it’s definitely her. The florist.” He looked down at the pale white face, surprisingly calm in death. “I bought a bouquet from her the other day.” He glanced at Lori who looked away.

The photographer resumed taking pictures.

“She looks peaceful enough,” said the coroner. She bent down and started examining the corpse carefully. “She’s young, late twenties, I’d say.”

“She was twenty-seven,” said Drumm quietly. “McDonald met her in Cuba. She was supposed to be getting married soon, until her fiancé died.” He paused. “We think—”

Sigrid Brandt interrupted him. “That this might be the work of the Riverwood Rapist? Just because we’re in Riverwood?”

Lori answered for Drumm. “We ran a decoy operation last week. We were trying to smoke him out. This park was one of the places we thought he might strike. The Albert Street bus runs right along here. I was on it and then I got off and walked along right on that sidewalk there.” She looked down at the body. “I wonder if she did the same thing.”

“We’ll have to find her address. And whether she owned a car,” said Lori.

The coroner continued with her examination. Drumm turned away, not caring to see the brusque and impersonal treatment of Kathy Walters. “There’s something here,” Brandt said. She moved the scarf gently out of the way and they could all see the victim’s sweater and bra pushed up, with a knife protruding from her chest.

“There’s your likely COD. She’s been stabbed,” said the coroner.

McDonald snorted, “Even I could tell that. The knife is still in her.”

The coroner went on, unperturbed, “There’s very little blood because he left the weapon in. What there was is soaked into her pullover and the scarf. See it here?” Brandt proceeded to examine the ski jacket. “There’s no hole in the coat and nothing in the sweater either.”

“So he undid her coat – or she did – and then her clothing was pushed up. Then he stabbed her?” Drumm mused.

“It seems so,” said the coroner. “It looks like he punctured the aorta. She might have died quite quickly, within a minute or so, or she may have lasted longer. Sometimes, when the knife is left in like this, the victim has a better chance of survival. It didn’t help this woman though. It looks like she was stabbed, he left the blade in her, and she collapsed onto the snow.”

“That’s hard to do, getting the heart like that,” remarked McDonald.

The coroner looked at him and nodded. “Either he was very good or very lucky – to miss the ribs.”

“Anything else, Sigrid?” asked Drumm.

Sigrid stood up and looked down at the body. “I’m not sure yet if she was assaulted sexually. She’s wearing panties which may or not have been pulled back into place – I can’t tell.. But with her breasts exposed like that, it’s certainly possible he raped her and then killed her. Let me get her back to the morgue and I’ll tell you definitively, of course. I’ll get you a more accurate TOD as well if I can, but for now I’d say about ten hours ago. You can see she’s in rigor but it’s complicated by these freezing temperatures. She’s been lying here for hours though, that’s definite.”

McDonald bent down and searched the victim’s pockets, and stood up with a brown clutch purse and a set of keys. He opened the purse and looked through it. “It’s her all right; she lives on Woodburn Terrace. That’s just over there, so very likely she was on the Albert Street bus.” He showed Drumm and Lori Kathy Walters’ driver’s license. “She’s got a license to drive but there’s no car key on this ring.”

McIntee moved away to organize his team. Lori watched the instructions being given and said, “The snow’s so messed up, I don’t think we’ll be able to learn anything from this crime scene.”

“No,” agreed Drumm. “I don’t expect them to find much.” He paused. “If this was the work of the Riverwood Rapist, then he would have been waiting for her here in the park.”

McDonald said, “And he would have fallen in behind her back there a bit. Then he would have forced her into this spot.”

“It’s a bit different, though, isn’t it?” said Lori. “I mean, it’s out of sight of the street but not the pathway there. Anyone might have seen.”

The three of them moved slightly so that they could see more of the park, and the fisties spread out, searching.

Drumm said, “Even if he stood still in one area waiting, I don’t think they’ll be able to spot anything. Look at the ground: there are tracks everywhere. Dogs, kids…and that looks like ski tracks there. It’s not exactly praline snow, is it?”

McDonald laughed. “You mean pristine, I think.”

“Exactly,” said Drumm. “Unless he was smoking and left a bunch of butts behind…”

“He’s never left that kind of thing behind before,” said Lori. “He won’t have this time either.”

McDonald said, “You know, there’s something else different, isn’t there? This woman’s face is unmarked. There’s no sign that he stuck a knife into her cheek or neck, like he did with you, love.”

“No, Lori said. “He stuck it into her heart instead. And don’t call me love.”

McDonald only smiled cheerfully. “And the knife: it’s completely different. Did you notice the short handle? It must have a long blade, though, to reach the heart. But it’s completely different from that butterfly knife.”

“Well, he would have needed a new weapon,” Lori pointed out. “Since he lost his other one.”

“But why kill her?” demanded Drumm. “Why this woman, when he let all the others go? It’s a very different m.o.”

“Well,” Lori said quietly, looking from one to the other. “That might be my doing. I hurt him and I didn’t let him have his way. He’s an angry man – possibly that pushed him over the edge. And maybe he panicked before he could finish what he wanted to do.”

“You think so?” asked Drumm. He looked at her and then at McDonald. “The other thing that is wrong is the timeline. This one happened much sooner than the others. We wouldn’t have expected another attack for a few days yet.”

McDonald said, “Maybe he’s decompensating. Or trying to show off. ‘Shoot at me, will you? I’ll show you.’” He looked at Lori. “Sorry, love.”

“Speaking of timelines, I want you two to get on that,” said Drumm. “I’m going to stay here for some while yet. I’ll get the doctor’s statement. You find out her movements last night. Go through her home. And when you’re done with that, do a thorough check on her friends.”

“Her friends?” asked McDonald.

Drumm looked at him expressionlessly. “Yes, Dick, the Gills and the Whitesides. I want a complete background check done on them, and their movements yesterday And anyone else you can think of.”

“Maybe you’ll need to send me back to Cuba? For some deep background?” McDonald looked hopeful.

“You wish.” Drumm looked over at the street where a brightly-coloured van had pulled up to the curb. CP24/7 was written in large blue letters on the door. “Oh, God, look who’s here.” As he spoke, Susan Benitez got out of the van and looked their way. “I wonder if Drennan gave her a call.”

“They always show up at these things,” said Lori. “More likely they just listened on their scanner. Or maybe someone called in with a tip.”

“Whatever, she’s here now.” Drumm smiled. “But she won’t get anything out of me.”

twenty-seven

Drumm sat back in his seat and looked around the restaurant. This time in the afternoon, the place was nearly devoid of customers. The business of dealing with Kathy Walters’ crime scene had taken a long time and it wasn’t over yet. Drumm sipped from his glass of beer and reflected on the morning.

Ken McIntee and his team of forensic investigators had departed, having thoroughly searched the area. But in fact, they had come up with little. A couple of cardboard coffee cups had been collected, as well as a discarded black glove. The fisties had taken casts of some footprints in the area. Drumm had some hope that the glove might prove useful and possibly the footprints, but more than likely they would not. The park had been full of footprints – it was in a busy neighbourhood – and probably all this so-called evidence would be of no use. The coffee cups looked like they had been there for some time and at best would probably have the fingerprints of the servers at the nearest Tim Hortons.

The crime scene was still cordoned off, with an officer on duty to make sure that the scene remained undisturbed. Drumm would visit it again later but he was certain they had collected all the evidence there was to be gathered. There was something not right about it, though, and he wanted to have another look at the park to see if he had missed anything. Outdoor winter crime scenes were always difficult, especially when they were battling wind and snow.

The coroner would be doing the post tomorrow and it was conceivable that her examination would reveal more. Possibly there was something to be learned from Kathy Walters’ clothing, or maybe Sigrid would find a substance under the florist’s fingernails other than plant material. They would certainly learn more about the knife and how it had been used, the contents of her stomach, the time of death and how long she had been lying there abandoned in the snow before the young doctor had stumbled upon her.

When interviewed by Drumm, Dr. Lieberman had very little to add. As a physician working in a busy hospital, he was used to death and he was calm and composed when responding to Drumm’s questions. He’d noticed something odd in his peripheral vision when jogging through the park, something that wasn’t usually there. He’d stopped to figure out what it was and then gone over to investigate. He checked for a pulse in her throat but he knew as he was doing it that she was dead. The doctor left her there while he went back to the path and called, and then stood guard to make sure no one else disturbed the scene. He hadn’t been sure why she died but she was young and she was in Riverwood and he’d suspected the worst. Drumm could only commend Dr. Lieberman for the way he’d handled things.

Lori had called to report on their progress. Kathy Walters’ Friday appeared to have been a normal one. Her shop opened on time and Lori had found a witness who saw her closing up shop at nine o’clock in the evening. She’d had a late dinner at a restaurant across the road from her store, and this was apparently something she did quite often. The server at the restaurant told Lori that Kathy Walters usually took a bus home. They hadn’t been able to locate the driver on that route yet to confirm that she had done so that night but all the signs pointed to it.

Lori had been through Kathy Walters’ apartment. It was comfortably if cheaply furnished, and judging by the number of photographs of her and her fiancée, revealed a woman in love with Michael Kennedy. Lori had found a folder with details of wedding preparations and men’s toiletries in the bathroom. It was likely that her man slept there from time to time. Kathy Walters’ financial situation wasn’t great but she was making do. Her computer showed a business that was earning enough to give a decent living. Lori had found a credit card debt of about fifteen hundred dollars, including a Cuban vacation, but a line of credit that was at zero. In short, the florist was what she appeared to be: a hard-working young woman, struggling to build up her business.

McDonald had called as well. He had done background checks on Aaron and Deborra Whiteside, as well as Sean and Charlotte Gill. None of them had a criminal record and only Sean Gill had any driving infractions. He’d been caught once for speeding and once for running a red light. There wasn’t much in that. He’d worked for Metro Grocers for three years. More interesting was McDonald’s inability to find out much about Aaron Whiteside’s stint at the group home which he had said was his previous employment. So far McDonald had struck out – he couldn’t find any record of such a job. Deborra Whiteside’s law-firm employer seemed to be very satisfied with her work – she’d been there about a year – and their financial situation was perfectly normal.

The Gills were a different story. They had a large mortgage on a sumptuous new home in a trendy part of York, a residence that looked like it was probably more than they should be able to afford. So much was easily found out but to get into their bank accounts would require a court order and they had no probable cause to do that. Drumm wondered how a retail clerk and a buyer for a grocery chain could afford to own a million-dollar home, but it was possible they had money from another source. McDonald was still trying to find out.

There were still no reports of medical personnel with damaged fingers. And plenty of tips were coming into the police hotline that had been set up. Simpson and Morgan were doing their best to check these out.

Drumm drained the last of his beer from his glass, left some cash on the table and stood up. It was time to go and get Will.

As a rule, Drumm’s dog didn’t like visits to the vet. It was as if Will had a sixth sense and knew that something bad was about to happen when he was put in the car. It was no different this time; even though Drumm hadn’t said anything, the dog seemed to know he was going for a shot and he sat down on his haunches and refused to move. In the end Drumm had to pick him up and carry him out to the car, where Will sat morosely on the front seat, licked his lips and stared out the front window.

The veterinary office was located in a small strip mall that also boasted a fish and chips take-out restaurant, a dry cleaning establishment and a real estate office. Grange Veterinary, the neon sign over the door read. Drumm found a spot to park amidst the piles of snow and carried Will to the entrance. He put him down, opened the door and then had to pull the dog inside. Will definitely did not want anything to do with this place. Inside there was some shelving with pet food bags and a countertop with a small office behind it. To one side of the counter was a door which presumably led to the examining rooms and storage areas in the back.

A tired-looking middle-aged woman dressed in green hospital-type scrubs appeared behind the counter. “Help you?”

Drumm noted the unwelcoming expression on the woman’s face. With that and the rather dingy nature of the place, he wondered how they managed to stay in business. If it weren’t a police matter, he wouldn’t want to be here, and he certainly didn’t blame Will for wishing to get out. “The name is Drumm. It’s my first visit. I have an appointment for my Sheltie here to have his rabies shot.”

The woman looked down at her desk calendar. The place was so run-down they didn’t even have computerized records, thought Drumm. Compared to the modern, beautifully-equipped animal hospital where he normally took Will, this place was a dump.

“Bring him back here,” said the woman. “Through the door.”

Drumm attempted to pull Will through the door but the dog simply sat and refused to move. Sighing, Drumm bent down, picked up Will and shouldered his way through the door. There was a short hallway in front of him; the woman was standing waiting in a doorway to his right. Drumm carried the dog past her and deposited him on the examining room table.

“Doctor Grange will be right in,” the woman said dispiritedly, and she closed the door.

“And thank you very much,” said Drumm. “Thanks for welcoming me. Thanks for telling me Will is cute. Thanks for nothing.” He started petting Will and playfully boxing with him but the dog was having nothing to do with that. He just sat and squirmed. Drumm had to keep a firm hold on him while he looked around the room. The arrangement was cramped and a bit strange, he thought. Standing where he was with the dog on the table, he was squeezed into a corner and wishing fervently he was elsewhere. “Don’t worry, Will – we won’t come here again.”

The door opened and a tall man in a white lab coat entered. “I’m Dr. Grange,” he said, without looking at Drumm. Leaving the door open, he moved to the other side of the examination table and put his hands on the dog. The vet put his head down and started feeling under his neck. He proceeded to give the Sheltie a thorough examination, looking in his mouth and feeling his legs. The whole time he was doing this, all that Drumm could see was the top of the vet’s head, a full head of black hair and his hands, which were wearing gloves. That was a bit odd – his usual vet didn’t wear gloves – but in a dump like this, it was probably a good idea.

“Everything seems to be fine,” said the vet, still without looking at Drumm. “Although his teeth could use a good cleaning. There’s some decay starting to happen there.” Dr. Grange straightened up and for the first time looked at Drumm. He suddenly became very still as he stared at the detective.

Drumm noticed that the vet’s eyes were watchful and watery blue. The man was obviously Caucasian but his skin was darker than normal, like he’d been using a tanning salon. Drumm tried to look at the vet’s gloved hands but they were out of sight, held behind his back. It was an unusual posture for the man to adopt, Drumm thought, like he was waiting for something. The whole situation was strange and Drumm was suddenly on high alert. Something wasn’t right here. “Aren’t you going to give him his shot?” he asked calmly. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Of course,” said Dr. Grange, and he turned to get something off the counter behind him.

For the first time, Drumm realized that Dr. Grange’s voice sounded husky, like he had a cold. Drumm had been leaning back against the wall, his ski jacket still mostly zipped up against the chill of the office. Now he slowly undid his coat so that he had easier access to his gun. The vet’s hands were still hidden from his view but Drumm was fairly certain he was standing three feet away from the Riverwood Rapist. If the middle finger on the man’s left hand showed a bulge where a bandage might be, then he would be sure. Drumm’s hands gripped the bottom of his coat as he waited for Dr. Grange to turn around.

When the vet did turn, it was in a rush and he had an object in his right hand. He shoved the syringe towards Drumm’s eye and Drumm instinctively jerked his head backwards, connecting violently with the wall behind him. The vet squirted the liquid onto Drumm’s face and then violently shoved Will off the table. The dog yelped in pain and fright. Grange hurried through the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Drumm felt a burning sensation in his eye but he didn’t have time to think much about it. He was suddenly trying to prevent a twenty-pound Sheltie from crashing to the floor. He had his hands full of a squirming Will who was panicking and trying to claw his way out of Drumm’s grip. Drumm managed to get his hand on Will’s collar, set him down none too gently and shoved him to one side. He stood up quickly and ran out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Look after my dog,” he yelled to the woman at the counter as he raced by. “Don’t let him out.” He went to the front door, opened it violently and then turned back to the secretary. “And call 9-1-1.” The woman stared at him, her mouth open.

Drumm rushed outside and looked around. He was twenty seconds behind, no more than that. He hadn’t heard a car start up so Grange must be on foot. Drumm’s eye was stinging and tearing in the cold but he could still see out of it. He hurried to the sidewalk and was in time to spot a figure in a white coat turn a corner. Drumm started running, trying at the same time to get his phone out of his pocket.

He reached the corner, turned and sprinted after his suspect. Ahead of him he could see a small knot of people standing at an intersection, as if waiting for a bus. As he approached, panting now, he could see that they were staring at a man lying on the ground, with his upper half in a snowbank and his right leg twisted awkwardly underneath him. As he watched, one of the bystanders reached down to help the injured veterinarian.

Drumm called out in a loud voice, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The Good Samaritan stopped and turned around, surprised.

Drumm showed his badge. “YPS, Homicide.” He paused to catch his breath. “You don’t want to be getting near this man.” All the time he had kept his eyes on Dr. Grange. The man was moaning quietly, clearly in pain, clutching his leg with both hands. Drumm took out his Glock and pointed it at the veterinarian. He used his phone to call for assistance, then put it away and carefully inspected his suspect. It was unlikely the man had a weapon on him or he would have used it on Drumm in the office. Drumm made sure of this and then stepped away.

“All you people, get back,” he ordered. He could hear sirens in the distance. He looked at the small crowd of spectators. “Anyone see what happened?”

The Good Samaritan raised his hand slightly and said, “I did.” He was an older man with cheeks made red by the cold. “He came running down the street there just like you did. He tried to turn the corner and slipped and crashed into the telephone pole.”

Drumm nodded and then grinned. “Should have had winter tires on, shouldn’t he?”

The Good Samaritan frowned and looked down at the groaning figure in the snow. He asked, “Is he a doctor? What’s he done?”

Drumm said, “He’s a veterinarian. And he tried to run on an icy sidewalk in dress shoes and a lab coat. Not a good idea.” He looked at the police car which had just arrived with siren screaming and lights flashing and then back at the red-faced man. “Thanks for your help. Stand back now.”

Drumm reached down and removed the vet’s left hand from underneath his leg. He peeled off the rubber glove. There was a sudden exclamation from the Good Samaritan as he saw the shortened middle finger with a blood-soaked bandage.

“What did he do?” asked the Good Samaritan.

Drumm glanced at him briefly and then smiled. “The son-of-a-bitch hurt my dog.”

twenty-eight

Doctor of Veterinary Medicine Michael Grange had been under police guard in York District Hospital when Drumm went to talk to him. Grange had been advised of his rights while lying in pain on the sidewalk and Drumm had issued a secondary caution at the hospital. Grange had twice refused the suggestion that he needed counsel but Drumm would make sure he lawyered up very soon. He would take no chances that the vet might walk on a charter rights violation. So far Grange had been charged with resisting arrest and assaulting a peace officer. But there was much more to come.

Drumm had asked Grange why he fled. Had he given himself away in some manner?

“I recognized you,” said Grange in a surly voice. “I saw you on TV. I knew you were in charge of the Riverwood Rapist case.”

Drumm smiled sardonically. That damned Benitez woman – she’d done it to him again. He looked at Grange lying in his hospital bed, surrounded by medical equipment, his striking blue eyes staring at him out of a pallid face. His black hair was askew and there were dark circles under his eyes. Drumm looked at the bulge under the sheet where he knew they’d had to screw his leg together. There was a fresh bandage on his finger. Drumm hoped he was in a lot of pain.

“How’s the finger?” asked Drumm. “Hurt a lot?”

Grange looked at him and sneered. “How’s your eye? Hurt a lot?”

“Nope,” said Drumm cheerfully. “A bit of warm water and I’m as good as new.” He looked seriously at the vet. “As soon as we get the DNA match from the lab, we’ll be charging you with a bunch more things, you know. We’re going to need a book to list all the charges. Aside from assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest, there’s the matter of the seven women that you raped.”

“Seven?” asked Grange, curling his upper lip up. “Is that all?”

“Oh, we’ll keep looking,” said Drumm calmly. “And maybe we can tie you to a few more. But seven will do for a start. Actually, you only succeeded with six, and since the seventh one was a police officer, that makes for added spice. So we have sexual assault with a weapon, grievous bodily harm and aggravated sexual assault to begin with. Times seven. And if it turns out you have AIDS, we can add even more charges.”

“I don’t have AIDS.”

“So you say. We’ll find out.”

“Too bad I didn’t get to finish the last one,” said Grange.

Drumm turned to the technician he had brought and asked, “You’re getting all this?”

The man looked up from the camera and nodded.

“So, Dr. Grange, can you explain how your finger came to be damaged?” Drumm asked.

“Your cop friend shot it off.” Grange held up his hand. “And it was almost worth it.” He leered.

“In the course of defending herself, Detective Lori Singh discharged her weapon twice in your direction, and the second shot hit you in the middle finger. This caused you to drop the knife you were using.” Drumm folded his arms. “That’s what happened, right?”

“It was just a lucky shot,” said Grange. “And tell her she has a nice ass.”

Drumm kept his face expressionless. “We’ve got some good prints from that knife. Should be easy to match them to you.” He waited but Grange said nothing. “Where did you get it?”

The veterinarian just sneered again. “I’m getting bored with this. Take off. I don’t want to talk anymore.”

Drumm ignored him. “Yes, a ton of charges. And we haven’t even gotten to the worst of all: first degree murder. Why did you kill her?”

Grange stared at him. “What?”

“Wouldn’t she play along? Is that what happened? Or did she make fun of you and your little…weapon?”

The vet just stared at him. “What are you talking about? I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Sure you did. Friday night. Her name was Kathy Walters but you probably didn’t know that or even care. You tried your nasty game again and something went wrong and you killed her. We found her body in Riverwood.”

Grange looked at the technician and then Drumm. “You’re crazy. I didn’t kill anybody. Friday night? I was home Friday night.” He looked directly at the camera. “No more. I want a lawyer. Now.”

That had been the end of the discussion and Drumm had been well satisfied. For a preliminary interview it had gone quite well. He wasn’t worried about the denial of the Kathy Walters killing. All in good time.

“So he lawyered up. Well, we were expecting it.” Lori was in Drumm’s office, sipping tea, while looking at McDonald lounging against the wall.

“And he denied killing Kathy Walters?” McDonald was looking quizzically at Drumm. “That’s odd, don’t you think? He basically admits to everything but not the last one.”

“You think it’s strange?” asked Drumm. “He’d get life without parole for the murder. That’s a lot worse than the sexual assaults. No matter what I told him, with the courts these days he might not do all that much time for the rapes.”

“We have him cold, though,” said Lori. “Fingerprint match, DNA match…”

“He’s nailed to the cross on those seven sexual assaults,” said McDonald.

Drumm leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head. “He’ll get credit for time already served, and time off for good behaviour once he’s in. His attorney will tell the jurors what a wonderful citizen he is and point to his long and illustrious career saving the animals of York.” He abruptly sat forward and put his hands on his desk. “He could be out on the streets again in no time. “ He looked at the other two. “But not if we nail him for the killing.”

“I talked to his ex-wife,” said Lori. “She left him years ago. They had a child and she was given custody.”

“Let me guess,” said McDonald. “He assaulted her and she had enough of being beaten up.”

“Surprisingly, no,” said Lori. “But maybe it was just a matter of time. There’s no record of any complaints against him and she never filed any charges. What she did say was that he changed, and it was because he hurt his back. Shoveling snow of all things.”

“Do tell,” said Drumm.

“He wrecked his back and the doctor put him on oxycontin for the pain. He became addicted. She said that over a period of about a year his personality completely altered. He’d been a good husband and father before but then he gradually turned into a nasty, paranoid jerk. He was mean to her and the boy, ignored her or abused her verbally depending on his mood. She said he would come home from work brooding and he wouldn’t talk to her, or he would shout at her and the son if she tried to approach him. She said he was starting to have angry rages. She would take the kid and leave the house when he was like that, but she was afraid worse was going to happen. She eventually had enough and left him. He must have been hell to live with.” Lori frowned.

“But he never attacked her?” asked Drumm. “Or the kid?”

“No. She said not.” Lori finished her tea and put her mug down on Drumm’s desk. “The feeling I got was that his ex-wife – her name is Susan Almagro by the way – still has feelings for him and is sorry about the way things worked out.”

“Does she know he’s the Riverwood Rapist?” asked McDonald.

Lori shrugged. “Presumably.”

“So he wasn’t getting any at home any more so he turned into a rapist?” McDonald was sceptical.

“Oxycontin is a powerful thing, Dick,” said Drumm. He was thinking of a cousin of his who had been radically affected by the same drug. His life had never been the same since, and he was getting counselling and making regular visits to a methadone clinic to try to get off the drug and return to normal.

“If you say so.” McDonald paused and then said, “I went through his place. It’s a crappy one-bedroom apartment. Could use a good cleaning.” He looked at Lori. “He’s got a photo on the wall of him and a blond-haired boy. I guess it’s his son?” Lori nodded and McDonald went on, “In the picture he’s got his hand around the kid’s shoulder. There’s this big, cheap ring on Dad’s right hand.” He looked at Lori. “I’m guessing the kid gave it to him. So, congratulations love – looks like the ring you found ties him to that sixth sexual assault. Can’t remember her name.”

“Janice Lange,” said Drumm.

“Good,” said Lori. “Here’s the other thing. His ex-wife told me that Grange’s grandfather was Indian. From India, that is, not a North American Indian. He married an English girl. And Grange’s parents lived in India for a time, although they were both English as well. Anyway, his grandfather served with the Indian army during the Second World War.”

“So that’s where the knife came from,” said Drumm. “It was his grandfather’s?”

“I would think so, yes,” said Lori. “We’ll ask him.”

“And that’s where he got his darker skin from,” said McDonald. “Although he doesn’t really look Indian. Not like you do, love.” He was looking at Grange’s photo, newly attached to Drumm’s bulletin board. “Maybe that’s why he has the hairy fingers too.”

“Did you look for kitchen knives in his apartment, Dick?” asked Drumm.

McDonald nodded. “All present and accounted for in a nice little set. You think that one that was stuck in Kathy Walters was a kitchen knife?”

“It looked like it, didn’t it?”

“It did indeed,” said McDonald. “But if Grange used it, then he bought another one or he had two in the apartment. I’ll check his credit card receipts and see what I can find.”

Sue Oliver appeared in Drumm’s doorway. “Nick? You’ll want to see this.” She turned and went back out to the common area.

The television was on and the face of Susan Benitez filled the screen. Underneath were the words, Breaking News, scrolling continuously across the bottom. “I repeat, the York Police Services have a suspect in custody in the case of the Riverwood Rapist. No charges have yet been laid, we’re told, but it’s only a matter of time. I’m told also that the police are not looking for any other suspects at this time. Bev?”

The studio host said, “Any identity on the man who’s in custody, Susan?”

The shot cut back to Susan Benitez who was standing outside York District Hospital. “Not yet, Bev. We’ve been told the suspect is here, at York District Hospital, and is under police guard, but we don’t know yet who he is. I hope to have that information for you shortly.”

And I’m sure you will, thought Drumm, if Drennan has anything to say about it.

The studio host continued, “Susan, does the murder you reported on earlier have anything to do with this arrest?”

Benitez appeared again. “Just to be clear, Bev – and we need always to be accurate in these cases – there’s no arrest yet, just a suspect in custody. As for the woman murdered and her body found earlier in the Riverwood area, she’s been identified as twenty-seven year old Kathy Evelyn Walters, as we reported earlier. There is lots of speculation that she is the eighth victim of the Riverwood Rapist but the police haven’t confirmed that yet. This man under guard in the hospital may well be connected to this murder, but at this point, we just don’t know. I hope to get an update for you soon. Back to you, Bev.”

Drumm used the remote to turn off the television. “And my phone will start ringing anytime now.” He headed back to his office. As he had predicted, his desk phone was ringing. He ignored it and let it go to voicemail.

Drumm stood in front of his desk and picked up the lab report that he’d received earlier. Without question Dr. Michael Grange was the Riverwood Rapist. His DNA matched the semen he’d left behind on the first six women. It also matched the fingertip found at the seventh scene, Lori’s assault. The report meant that they would be able to put a dangerous serial offender behind bars for a very long time. He would let the psychologists decide what had made the veterinarian act the way he had. That part didn’t really concern him. He’d done his job and nailed the right guy. His prints were on the knife that he’d dropped after attacking Lori. With that and the DNA and the witness descriptions of the man’s eyes and fingers, as well as the ring, Grange’s goose was cooked. The Crown Attorney should have no difficulty with this one.

There was still the matter of Kathy Walters. He was anxiously awaiting the coroner’s report, because if he was going to close that case, he needed something more. Grange was denying any involvement with her, but if they could place him at the scene, then they’d have him for that as well.

It had been a good day so far but it could get better. Get Drennan and the damned TV station off his back, lay this murder at Grange’s feet and his life would become a whole lot easier.

And still, nagging away at him in the back of his mind, was the death of Michael Kennedy, in Cuba. What, if anything, was he to do about that?

twenty-nine

The call from the coroner came in on his cell. Drumm had given up answering his regular phone. Too many people were getting through that had no business calling, like Susan Benitez.

“Nicholas? I finished the post on Kathy Walters and I thought I’d call and give you a heads-up. I know you’re anxious to get this finished.” The coroner’s voice was competing with some background sounds. It sounded like sizzling.

“Thank you, Sigrid. Um, what are you doing? I hear something weird.”

“I am cooking sausages for dinner, Nicholas. I couldn’t reach you earlier. You are very welcome to come over and share.”

Drumm tried to picture sitting in Sigrid Brandt’s kitchen, eating sausages with a sixty-year-old woman. “No, thank you, Sigrid. Although sausages for supper – sounds good. They’re German, I presume?”

“The best bratwurst, Nicholas. Too bad.” Now Drumm could hear what sounded like a kettle boiling. The coroner raised her voice over the noise. “Anyway, here’s what you want to know.”

Drumm reached for a pen and a piece of paper and tucked the phone under his ear.

“I’ll simplify things, because I know that’s how you like it. The COD was the knife wound as we said. It was a single upward blow through the ribs, and the weapon was left in. There was no attempt to remove it. The knife itself had a six-inch blade, plenty long enough to do the job, and appears to be a chef’s knife or possibly a carving knife, of the type commonly found in kitchens. She died from a combination of blood loss and shock. She wouldn’t have felt much after the first few seconds and she wouldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes. The heart just stopped working.”

“TOD, Sigrid?” Drumm could hear pouring noises.

“Say, between ten and midnight. Stomach contents showed a meal of soup, a salad and  quiche.”

The last meal, thought Drumm. His mind wandered and he thought, What would I have if I knew it was going to be the last food I ever ate? He came back to earth. “Any sign of sexual assault, Sigrid?”

“No, Nicholas. There was no indication of recent sexual activity.”

Drumm pondered while he listened to the noises from the coroner’s kitchen. It sounded like she was scraping a plate. “I won’t keep you, Sigrid – it sounds like your sausages are ready. But, how about the tox report, and were there any other marks on her? Like nicks or cuts anywhere?”

Sigrid said briskly, “No drugs or alcohol in her system. No nicks or cuts or any other unusual marks on the body. No bruises or abrasions. She died from a single penetrating stab wound.”

“So no defensive wounds, which suggests no struggle, and that might mean she knew the person who killed her.”

“Or she was taken by surprise. Who knows? That’s your department, Nicholas.”

“Sigrid, thank you very much. Enjoy your sausages.” Drumm disconnected.

He put down his pen and looked at the few notes that he had scribbled down on the pad. There wasn’t much to go on. Or was there? Was this the work of Dr. Michael Grange? If so, it was a completely different way of doing things. Take the knife first of all. With the other victims he had used it to threaten; he had held it to various parts of the face: usually the cheek or close up to the eye or the neck. With this woman he had used it on the chest, and apparently with little warning. If it was sex he was interested in, then why stab the woman before he had what he came for? And the knife itself was completely different. This wasn’t some little fold-up thing that he could conceal in his hand. This was a hunking great big kitchen knife, the kind of thing you would use to carve up meat.

Drumm stood up and went to the window. It was snowing again, large fluffy flakes wafting down from a leaden sky, but he didn’t notice. He was far away, thinking. Grange hadn’t raped her. It looked like he had just killed her with one quick stab. Why? And was that just luck, or was it skill? Or maybe it wasn’t quick, maybe he had taken his time and got it just right. A veterinarian would probably have the knowledge to pull off such a thing. But again, why kill her? Was it sex he was after or something else? Grange had always taken the greatest of pleasure in molesting his victims, making sure he enjoyed himself to the bitter end. With this woman he hadn’t really started. It didn’t make sense. Unless the killing of Kathy Walters wasn’t the work of the Riverwood Rapist at all.

On his desk where he had left it, Drumm’s cellphone vibrated again. He picked it up, surprised to see Sigrid Brandt’s name again.

“Nicholas, I’m so sorry, I forgot to mention one thing I did find that was a bit unusual. I was so busy with my cooking, it slipped my mind.” The coroner sounded vexed, Drumm thought.

“No worries, Sigrid. What is it?”

“I found a hair stuck to the knife. It was on the top of the hilt, partially stuck to it and also the skin. It was about seven centimetres long, and of course most of it was soaked with blood. But the part that wasn’t appeared to be reddish in colour.”

Drumm thought. Then he said,  “Kathy Walters was blonde.”

“Yes, I know. Which is why I thought this was interesting. I put it under a microscope and I can tell you it’s human. But you’ll want a more detailed analysis, I know, so I sent it to the lab.”

“I’m trying to picture this, Sigrid. This hair was stuck to the top of the knife hilt. And the knife was underneath her scarf, of course. Did the hair get on the knife from her scarf? Or some other way?”

“I have no idea, Nicholas.” The coroner sounded very prim and proper, Drumm thought. “That’s for you to decide. I’m just telling you what I found.”

“Right you are, Sigrid. Thank you.” Drumm disconnected again.

Interesting. And that one little hair put things in a completely different light. Because if the killer had red hair, then Drumm might have been looking at this completely backwards. Maybe Kathy Walters’ killer wasn’t a man at all, and maybe this had nothing to do with sex. Drumm thought back to a visit he had made, sitting in a cozy apartment, talking to an attractive woman with long, reddish hair. A woman with an axe to grind, perhaps?

thirty

The lab report arrived on his desk mid-morning, further proof of the priority that the YPS was putting on the Riverwood Rapist case. At this point it was still assumed that the murder of Kathy Walters was the handiwork of Dr. Michael Grange, although no charges had yet been laid. And Drumm had told no one about his suspicions. Drumm looked through the report and then summoned McDonald and Lori Singh to his office.

Drumm waited while McDonald and Lori read through the information. He had already summarized his conversation with the coroner from the previous day; her report was also on his desk. It was rare that lab and autopsy results were completed so quickly but this had developed into a red-ball case and everyone concerned with the York Police Services wanted it completed as rapidly as possible.

“So where do we go from here?” Lori was leaning up against Drumm’s wall, looking relaxed, while McDonald sat with his arms folded.

“Well, you go to your meeting with the SIU. Dick and I have other fish to fry.”

Lori frowned and Dick said, “Wear your Kevlar vest and you’ll be okay. They hardly ever shoot to kill.” He grinned.

Drumm shot him a look. “Dick, stow it. Lori, it’ll go fine. You know what to say – we’ve gone over it enough times. You were attacked, you managed to get away and you discharged your weapon in self-defence. When he fled, you properly identified yourself and then fired at him, to stop a violent and dangerous offender from hurting anyone else. He was a danger to the public and you did right to shoot at him. Everybody is on your side.”

“Everybody except the SIU, that is,” murmured McDonald, and then he grinned.

“I forgot,” said Lori. “You had your own little interview with them last year, didn’t you?”

“I’m hurt that you didn’t remember,” said McDonald. “After all I went through, getting stabbed and then shooting that little bastard.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back. “And the worst part wasn’t getting stabbed, it was talking to the SIU after. They are tough and they are not your best friends.” He winked at Drumm.

Drumm said warningly, “Dick…”

“Relax, I’m kidding. It’ll go fine, love. The squirrel attacked you and you fired your weapon in self-defence. That’s all you have to say. This kind of thing is a regular occurrence.”

“And of course you’ll have the union lawyer with you,” said Drumm. “I know him, and he’s represented any number of cops. No worries. All our statements back you up. And we have Grange admitting he tried to rape you.”

“I’m not worried,” said Lori. “I’ll do my interview and statement. But what’s next?”

The lab report showed that the hair found on the knife was not from Kathy Walters. It was human, Caucasian and not dyed. There was no follicle attached and it had been cut on one end, indicating presumably that it hadn’t been pulled out. The knife was a six-inch chef’s knife, manufactured by the J.A. Henckels Company and available for purchase at stores everywhere. There were no prints on it and it appeared not to be new, judging by the wear on the handle and the cutting edge. It could have been bought at any number of stores and probably not recently, it appeared. In other words, unless they could find the home that it came from or someone who recognized it, it would be of no use to them whatsoever.

Drumm said as much now. “I don’t think the knife will help us much. But the red hair…well, I’m sure you’re both remembering someone we talked to recently. We need to speak to Deborra Whiteside again.”

“And Aaron Whiteside,” said McDonald.

“And the Gills,” said Drumm. “We need to establish where they all were Friday night.”

Lori looked from McDonald to Drumm. “So we’re saying this killing was not done by Grange?”

“Yes,” said Drumm, simply.

“He has no alibi,” objected Lori. “He just said he was home that night and no one can vouch for him.”

“And nobody saw him go out either. It works both ways. It seems strange to say that I take the word of a vicious prick like Grange, but I do,” said Drumm. “I think he’s telling the truth. I don’t think he knew Kathy Walters or had anything to do with her death.” He looked at the two of them. “This has something to do with Cuba.” He sighed. “Get the Whitesides in here. I have some things I want to check out.”

Sitting in the interview room, Deborra Whiteside was giving every indication of being agitated. She was sitting with her legs crossed and her left foot was swinging back and forth. The fingers of her right hand were drumming constantly on the table in front of her and she was looking around the room impatiently. Occasionally she would stare directly into the mirror in front of her, making it look like she could see right through it.

On the other side of the wall, McDonald and Drumm were watching with interested looks on their faces. Mrs. Whiteside had been sitting by herself in the room for some fifteen minutes, ever since McDonald had rather brusquely escorted her in. Her husband, Aaron, was on his way from his school where Lori had insisted he attend at the station. Whiteside had been unwilling until he heard that his wife was already enroute and then he had reluctantly cooperated.

Deb Whiteside was dressed in a black dress, cut quite low in the front and riding high above her knees. She was wearing a shade of lipstick that complemented her red hair; a pearl necklace and matching earrings completed her outfit. She had been at work and she had also been quite unhappy at being asked to leave her job.

“She looks quite glamorous, don’t you think?” asked McDonald. “We don’t often have women sitting in here who look as good as she does. Anybody walking by might think she’s a call girl. In fact, maybe she is and helps supplement their income. It wouldn’t be the first time we had a moonlighting housewife.”

“Except she’s not a housewife,” said Drumm. “Let’s go.”

He and McDonald entered the interview room. Deborra Whiteside uncrossed her legs and focused her attention on them.

“Why am I here? You’ve got no right to take me away from my job.”

“You could have said no,” said McDonald. “And we have every right to ask you. We’re looking into a murder, the brutal killing of a friend of yours.”

“You can’t think I had anything to do with that?” She stared at McDonald. “Is that why you called me in here? Because you think I killed Kathy? I thought you wanted some information or advice from me. That other detective just said it was important, that you needed to talk to me.”

McDonald smiled. “I’ll bet you’re sorry now you ever approached me back there in Cuba. Hmmm? Look where it’s led to.” He walked around behind her and her head swiveled to follow him. “We do want some information from you, actually. Where were you Friday night? Let’s say…from eight o’clock onwards?”

Deborra Whiteside was trying to look at McDonald but since he was still standing behind her, she was having difficulty. She gave up trying and looked straight ahead at Drumm instead. “I was at home, with my husband.”

McDonald came back into view. “Go out at all? Maybe nip down to the store? Or catch a late movie?”

“No, I didn’t ‘nip down to the store’. I told you, we stayed in all night.”

“Why? It was Friday night, time to party.” McDonald leaned forward and put his hands on the table staring at her. “Time to get all dressed up like you are now and go out and have a good time.”

“Are you serious? These are my work clothes, for God’s sake. And we don’t ever do anything on Friday nights. Aaron is always late – he coaches and then does a workout. We stay in and watch TV when he gets home. Now Saturday night, that’s different.” She looked at Drumm. “You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with Kathy’s death?”

Drumm spoke for the first time. “Mrs. Whiteside, it’s all about motive and opportunity. You had the opportunity, since you say you were home. And it seems you might have had a motive as well.”

“Motive? Why would I want to kill Kathy? We were friends!”

“Maybe not such good friends,” said McDonald. He was circling again. “At least, not according to your husband.” He stopped behind her. “Maybe you got a little too close to Kathy’s fiancé? And she didn’t like it? Maybe you weren’t as friendly with her as you want us to believe.”

“We can place you at the crime scene, Mrs. Whiteside,” said Drumm. “We know you were there when Kathy Walters died. The question is, was it you that stabbed her, or your husband?”

“What?” Deb Whiteside looked bewildered. “At the crime scene? What are you talking about? Aaron and I were home all night.” Her voice had risen to the point where she was almost wailing. “Talk to Aaron, he’ll say the same thing!”

“I’m sure he will,” said McDonald. “And we’re about to ask him.”

Drumm beckoned to McDonald and the two of them left the room.

Outside they found Lori who nodded at them. She was standing looking through the glass into the interview room.

“He’s in Two,” she said. “I just caught the end of that. She didn’t react to the part about getting too close with Mike Kennedy. Interesting, and I wish I could stay but I have my meeting…”

“Maybe she didn’t react because it’s true,” said McDonald.

“Good luck, Lori,” said Drumm. To McDonald he said, “Whiteside Number Two. Let’s go.”

Unlike his wife, Aaron Whiteside looked comfortable, sitting tipped back in his chair with his arms crossed. He was wearing a black tracksuit. His chair thumped to the floor as the detectives entered the room. “Where’s Deb?”

“She’s in another room,” said McDonald.

“I want to see her,” said Whiteside.

“Not just now,” said McDonald. “Friday night, the night your friend Kathy died. Tell us about your evening. Correction – take us through your day from when school ended.”

“What is this?” asked Whiteside, looking from one to the other. “Am I a suspect?”

“A person of interest,” said Drumm calmly.

“I had nothing to do with her death,” said Whiteside forcefully.

“So prove it,” said McDonald. “Your day?”

Drumm pointed at him. “And no lies this time.”

Whiteside frowned at Drumm, his usual sunny smile nowhere to be seen. “I don’t appreciate this, getting hauled out of school to come down here and be accused of a crime.”

“Nobody’s accusing you,” Drumm pointed out. “We’re giving you the opportunity to explain what you were doing Friday night, that’s all. Tell us what you were up to and we can rule you out. Right?” He smiled bleakly.

Whiteside scowled. “School ended. I had a basketball practice with my team. It went to about five o’clock. Then I got in my car and drove over to Family Fitness for a workout.” He looked directly at Drumm. “It’s on the way home, the one at Walker and Dunlop. I was there for about an hour. Say six thirty when I left there, more or less. Then I drove home, showered, ate dinner with Deb and then we watched TV.” He folded his arms. “Want to know what we ate? Or watched?”

“We do,” said Drumm.

Whiteside rolled his eyes. “Rice pilaf. And steak. And a salad. Want to know what type?”

Drumm just waited.

“A Greek salad, then. Oh, and we watched Big Bang Theory. Four episodes in a row. And then the news. Anything else?”

“See, Nick, I don’t think he’s quite grasped the degree of trouble he’s in.” McDonald was leaning casually up against the wall, looking at Whiteside. “Hence his flippant responses. If he did, I think he might be a little more serious about this.”

Whiteside turned to face him. “I’m being serious! What the hell are you talking about? What trouble?”

Drumm said quietly, “The thing is, we don’t quite believe you. You’ve already lied to me once. I think you’re doing it again. I think you and your wife may have gone out together that night and you’re covering up for each other.” Whiteside started to speak but Drumm held up his hand and cut him off. “And then there’s the whole thing about your job. You said you worked in a group home before this school EA assignment, but the fact is, we can’t find any record of that. So naturally, I’m wondering why you lied about that too. Maybe you’re covering up something.”

Whiteside appeared very surprised. “What?”

“Don’t forget the other matter, Nick.”

“I wasn’t forgetting.”

Whiteside’s head was turning from one to the other of the two detectives.

Drumm went on, “The thing is, we have evidence that places your wife at the scene of Kathy Walters’ murder. And I have to ask myself, why would your lovely wife want to kill her so-called friend like that? Maybe it was because Kathy found out what her fiancé and your wife were up to. Possibly a little blackmail was involved – Kathy would tell all unless she was paid off. That little flower shop of hers wasn’t doing very well; she could certainly use more money.”

Drumm paused to take in Whiteside’s reaction, which was one of incredulity. He went on hastily, “The other possibility, of course, is that you were there too. And maybe it was you, watched by your wife, that stabbed Kathy. After all, you are a lot bigger and stronger than Mrs. Whiteside. It would have been much easier for you to force that knife into Ms. Walters, who was quite a small woman. You’re a big man, and maybe you’re an angry man too.”

Aaron Whiteside found his voice. “Do you have any idea how dumb this sounds? First of all, we didn’t go out that night. I told you. And second – most important – Kathy was our friend. Our friend! Deb and I are just devastated that she’s gone. Are you so stupid that you can’t understand that?” Whiteside turned to McDonald. “Can’t you make him see sense?”

McDonald shrugged and said nothing.

Whiteside turned back to Drumm. “My wife and my friend – Mike Kennedy – had nothing going on. Nothing!. He was looking at her, like I told you, that’s all, just looking at her, and I spoke to him about it. There was no relationship between them, nothing for Kathy to be jealous about, nothing for me to be jealous about. The idea that Deb or I would have killed her is just ridiculous! And whatever this evidence is that you say you have, it must be wrong. What is it anyway? Tell me.”

Drumm said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Aaron Whiteside threw up his hands in the air and said loudly, “Of course not!”

“I will tell you this, though,” Drumm said. “The night your friend Mike went over the railing in Cuba, we think Kathy saw or heard something.”

“What?” said Whiteside. “What are you talking about? Saw or heard what?”

Drumm ignored him “I visited her in her shop, you know. She was bothered by something and she was about to tell me but we were interrupted. I never got back to follow up on it. I wondered if you knew what it was that was upsetting her?”

“Well, obviously, you think she was getting ready to blackmail me.” Whiteside was looking at him like he was crazy.

“No, it wasn’t that. This was something different. And I wondered if maybe she had written it down in that journal she kept. Except we haven’t been able to locate it.”

“A journal? I don’t know anything about a journal. I never saw one.” Whiteside looked puzzled.

“Yeah, she mentioned that diary to me too, when we were in Cuba,” said McDonald.

“Now that she’s dead, we’d better have another go at her place, Dick,” said Drumm. “We weren’t looking for a journal before. Do a more thorough search, will you?”

“I’ll get Lori and we’ll look after it tomorrow,” said McDonald. “She’s got that other thing today.”

Drumm nodded and then looked at Whiteside. He said, “We’ll let you think all this over.” He motioned to McDonald and the two detectives left the interview room.

Out in the hallway, McDonald looked at Aaron Whiteside who was still sitting in his chair. He was slumped forward with one hand on top of his head. “He’s very law-abiding, isn’t he? I guess he doesn’t realize he could just walk out of here anytime.”

Drumm smiled. “You did well, Dick. Give him fifteen minutes and then tell him he can go.”

“Like, we’re letting you go for now but don’t do anything suspicious. And don’t leave town.” McDonald was grinning.

“Something like that,” Drumm agreed. “And do the same with his wife.”

thirty-one

He walked quickly across the parking lot, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. He waited by the front entrance to the building, loitering behind a tree, out of sight of anyone entering. The wait was about ten minutes before he was able to enter the building, following behind a legitimate resident who opened the door with his key. Well bundled up in a scarf and dark-coloured toque to help disguise his appearance, he jingled a key ring and mumbled some thanks in a low voice as the door was held open for him, and then he turned decisively to the left. He went only so far as was necessary to ensure the other man got on the elevator and the doors closed on him before returning to the lobby. He waited a few seconds before punching the up button. It was a tall building and there were two elevators so he didn’t have to wait long.

The tenth floor was deserted at this time of night and he moved silently down the corridor. He had been here before and he knew the correct apartment, which was anyway easy to spot because of the notice on the door and the strip of yellow tape across the entrance. Do Not Enter, Crime Scene read the sign and the tape but he didn’t let that bother him. He had come prepared with a variety of tools because he was no expert at breaking into apartments, but in fact it was really not at all difficult to get the lock open. With a look both ways down the still-empty hallway, he opened the door quietly and ducked under the tape, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

He’d brought a small LED flashlight with him and he used it now to survey the apartment. He could probably turn the lights on – after all, he was ten floors up and who would be watching? – but he thought it best to play it safe, just in case. The apartment looked the same as the last time he had been here but also eerily different with the white light and dancing shadows. Where to start? He’d thought this through before he came and had decided on the closets first. He remembered an entrance one and a larger one in the bedroom.

He searched through the closet by the door as quickly as he could. It didn’t take long. It was small and cramped and contained only a miscellany of boots and coats and assorted other pieces of winter wear. There was a metal box on the shelf which excited his interest for a few seconds but it held only some old credit card receipts and service manuals.

He moved on to the bedroom, which he thought was his best hope. He moved through the doorway and to the walk-in closet on the left. The beam of his flashlight wavered and danced around as he entered the small room and explored it with the light.

A bright light, much stronger than his, suddenly shone in his eyes and he could just make out a tall figure standing behind it.

“Hello, Mr. Gill. Looking for something?” Detective McDonald’s voice was calm and cheerful.

The bedroom was suddenly bathed in light as Drumm flicked the bedroom switch. “Maybe we can help you find it, Mr. Gill?” Drumm said.

“I wish to give you the following warning…” Drumm read out the familiar statements, watching Sean Gill all the time for his reaction. The man did not respond at all, did not answer the question about whether he understood what was being told to him and appeared to be deep in thought. He was sitting in the chair staring down at the table.

Gill was in Interview Room Number One, it was two o’clock in the morning and Drumm was tired. But he was also pleased because he had his man, had him right where he wanted him and it didn’t matter at all that Sean Gill was doing his best impersonation of a clam. Gill hadn’t spoken in Kathy Walters’ apartment, he hadn’t said a word in the cruiser that transferred him to the YPS building and he wasn’t talking now.

Gill had been charged with Break and Enter and Drumm was disappointed that was the only charge so far. He’d been hoping Gill would struggle so that they could add a charge of resisting arrest or obstruction or some such thing but Gill had made no attempt to get away at all. He’d just stood silently and meekly and let them cuff him.

“You can wait for a lawyer, of course,” said Drumm. “You don’t have to say anything to me. But if you do, I won’t be able to help you. Isn’t that right, Dick?”

McDonald, who was standing behind Gill, said, “Once the damn attorney gets here, your goose is cooked.” When Gill still said nothing, McDonald spoke to Drumm. “He was a lot chattier in Cuba, you know? God, I wish I was there now, drinking a cold Cristal on the beach… Well, my friend, you’ll never get back there, that’s for certain. Unless maybe you tell us why you were there in Kathy Walters apartment.”

“I want to talk to my wife,” said Gill suddenly.

“He speaks!” said McDonald. “Hallelujah!”

“In good time, of course you can,” said Drumm. “But I wouldn’t advise it just yet. Best to let us know why you were there. Maybe if you had a good reason we can go to bat for you. After all, you’d lost two good friends in unfortunate circumstances. A judge would have to take that into consideration. What were you after anyway?”

Gill looked at Drumm and said, “Alright. I can see it looks bad and I better explain myself. The fact is, I was looking for something.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” said McDonald sarcastically.

Gill shot McDonald a look and then went on, “Kathy and I…well, we had a bit of a thing going on.”

“A bit of a thing?” echoed Drumm. “You mean you were having an affair?”

“Not an affair, exactly…”

“You were banging her, is that what you mean?” asked McDonald. “In Cuba, maybe?”

“I wasn’t banging her,” said Gill. “At least, I wouldn’t use those words…”

“You were having sex with her, is that right?” asked Drumm.

“Well, yeah.”

“A rose by any other name…” said McDonald.

“Go on,” said Drumm. “You and Kathy were lovers.” He held up a hand as he could see that Gill was about to protest. “Or whatever you want to call it. But why were you in her apartment? What were you looking for?”

Gill sighed. “She had some pictures of us together, photos on her cellphone. I wanted to delete them.”

McDonald snorted. “Naked pictures! Yeah! How stupid can you get? Never mind, don’t answer that. You don’t want to incriminate yourself.”

Gill glared at him and then looked at Drumm. “I shouldn’t have gone there, I know. I should have just come to you and told you about them.”

“And why didn’t you?” asked Drumm.

“Because I thought Char might find out.”

“You’re afraid your marriage might fall apart?” asked McDonald. “Gee, that would be a shame.”

“So your intention in going to this apartment in the middle of the night, breaking the seal on her door and illegally entering a closed-off crime scene was to locate and delete some incriminating photos of you and Kathy Walters. Do I have that right?”

“It wasn’t a crime scene, was it? I mean, she didn’t die there. I was just looking for some personal property. I didn’t think it would make much difference to your investigation.”

“Oh, you didn’t, did you?” said McDonald.

“Alright, Mr. Gill,” said Drumm. “We’ll take a little break. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

Gill shook his head. “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay. Dick?” Drumm gestured with his thumb and the two detectives left the interview room.

Out in the hall, McDonald grinned at Drumm and said, “Getting a brew. Want one?”

Drumm shook his head and waited while McDonald went off on his errand. Through the window he could see that Sean Gill had put his head down on the table and appeared to be asleep. He watched the man stay there unmoving until McDonald returned.

“Good decision not to have coffee,” said McDonald. “It tastes like gasoline.” He stared at Gill briefly and then looked at Drumm. “Can you believe how stupid this guy is? My God.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Drumm. “I thought he did rather well. He took his time and thought it out and then came up with something half-believable.”

“A quarter, maybe, not half.”

“Whatever, he talked. And it’s possible he thinks we’re buying his silly story.”

“He thinks we’re morons then.”

“People often do, Dick, don’t they?” Drumm looked at Gill who was still sitting with his head down. “Come on, let’s take a few hours to get some rest. We’ll transfer him back to his cell and have another go at him in the morning.”

“It is morning,” objected McDonald.

“You know what I mean,” said Drumm. “And by then we can let Lori in on the fun too.”

thirty-two

Gill was none too pleased at being woken up and brought to the interview room again. His eyes were bloodshot, his black hair was an untidy mess needing a wash and his unshaven face had a waxen appearance to it. The tan he had acquired in Cuba had faded considerably, Drumm could see. Studying the man, he thought he was starting to resemble some sort of very tall Goth.

“Why am I here again? I told you everything already.” Gill’s voice was surly.

“Did you? Well, maybe we’ll go over it again, just to be sure I heard you correctly.” Drumm’s voice was smooth and calm. “It won’t take long.”

“Yeah, because this is important, Sean. A woman is dead, you know, and we want to make sure we do everything by the book.” McDonald was doing his circling routine again, walking behind Gill’s chair, stopping, and then moving forward into his line of sight. “Your friend Kathy was killed, and we need to make sure we get the right guy.”

Gill turned his head to look at him. “But you have the right guy, don’t you? I saw it on TV. You arrested the Riverwood Rapist. He’s a vet.”

“Let’s get this straight, then, Mr. Gill. In your statement yesterday, you said that you and Kathy Walters were lovers.” Drumm looked at Gill. “Yes?”

“We had sex a few times. I never said we were lovers.”

McDonald snorted. “Right, no love, just sex. You said you were at it in Cuba. So, when you came up to me all concerned about her dead fiancé – you remember that day in Cuba? – you were coming from her bed, is that it?”

“No! Of course not. We were trying to find out what had happened to Mike.”

“Let’s come back to that,” said Drumm, interrupting. “Back to last night…you stated that you were entering Kathy’s apartment illegally to try to recover or delete some photos on her cellphone.”

“That’s right.”

“How many photos were there?” asked McDonald.

“How many? I suppose…five or ten altogether.”

“And where were they taken?” asked McDonald.

“Where?” Gill looked a little surprised.

“It’s a simple question, Sean,” said McDonald. “Naked pictures of the two of you. Were they taken in Cuba? In her apartment? At your place? At the flower shop?”

“I didn’t say they were naked pictures,” said Gill. He looked at Drumm. “He’s putting words in my mouth.”

“Incriminating pictures, you said.” Drumm was looking at his notes. “What were they, then, if not nude photos?”

Gill hesitated and then said, “They were just pictures of the two of us together. You know, sitting beside each other, heads touching. Selfies. I had to make sure Char didn’t see them.”

Drumm asked, “And where were these selfies taken? You still haven’t told us.”

Gill said, “In Cuba. Some in Cuba, some in her apartment.”

McDonald laughed. “Nick, do you believe this guy?” He rounded on Gill. “Do you think we’re as stupid as you?” he said vehemently. McDonald put his hands on the table and leaned forward so his face was right in front of the other man’s. “We have her cellphone, dickwad, and guess what? There are no pictures of the two of you like you say.”

Gill leaned back and said, “She must have deleted them, then.”

Drumm said, “The thing is, photos are numbered, aren’t they? They’re in sequence. And if Ms. Walters had deleted some pictures, we would know by the missing numbers. There aren’t any deletions. So she didn’t get rid of any pictures of the two of you because there never were any in the first place. This whole story of yours is an invention.” He folded his arms and stared at Gill. “Which means you had another reason for breaking into her apartment.”

Gill said stubbornly, “No, I was looking for some…”

“Give it up, Sean, can’t you see?” McDonald was circling again. “You’re supposed to be a smart man. You’re a buyer for a major grocery chain. I don’t think Metro would hire a dummy to do the job. But you want us to believe that you went to her apartment looking for some mysterious photos that never existed.” McDonald stopped in front of him again. “A woman had been murdered. You thought the police after searching her place, would have left her cellphone there?”

“I thought, maybe…there was a chance,” said Gill.

“We found it on her body,” said Drumm quietly. “You were never going to find it in her apartment, which you knew, because a moment’s thought would have told you. You must have known she would have had her phone on her. Everybody carries theirs with them.”

“Which you probably knew as well,” said McDonald. “Didn’t you check her pockets after you killed her?”

Gill looked at McDonald who had completed another circuit and was now standing in front of him again. “What? I didn’t kill Kathy!”

McDonald turned and looked at Drumm. “He doesn’t sound convincing, does he?” Then he turned back to Gill. “Did that even sound convincing to you?”

“I swear…”

McDonald interrupted him. “Where did the knife come from? Your kitchen, maybe? Has your lovely wife noticed one missing from her set?”

Gill looked at McDonald and then back at Drumm. “You’re both crazy. I didn’t kill Kathy. We were friends. Why would I want to kill her?”

“I thought you were lovers.” McDonald was sneering.

Before Gill could answer, Drumm said, “Why? Now we come to it. You killed her to shut her up. She knew something, and you became aware of it, and you had to stop her from telling what she knew.”

Gill was staring at him. “Knew something? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do,” said Drumm. “Kathy Walters knew that you killed her fiancé.” He put his hand up to stop Gill from speaking. “Oh, she didn’t know right away, not back then in Cuba when it happened. She just realized that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t until you were all back home that she figured out that maybe Mr. Kennedy hadn’t just fallen accidentally from his balcony, but that you had thrown him over. And probably she didn’t want to believe it, because you were all friends, and Kennedy had gotten you your job.”

“This is stupid,” said Gill. “I never—”

“So you killed her,” went on Drumm. “You waited for her when she got off the bus, you threatened her and made her undo her coat and pull up her sweater. Then you stuck that knife into her, coldly and cruelly, and you did it to protect yourself. That little woman had no chance against you. You planned it well, didn’t you, especially considering you didn’t have much time? It was just luck that she lived in Riverwood, but good luck for you, you thought. You could make it look like the Riverwood Rapist had done it, and Kathy Walters was just another assault victim. Only this time, the rapist went too far.”

Gill looked at him and said, “Good imagination, Detective. But it never happened.”

“Detective Sergeant to you,” said Drumm. “And yes, it did happen. She called you from the store that night she died. She called you just before she closed the place. Why would she call you at nine o’clock on a Friday night? She told you something you didn’t want to hear, didn’t she? She said she needed to talk to you, and it was about what had happened in Cuba. She knew you’d killed her fiancé, because she’d seen something, and she’d put it all together. How did the conversation go, I wonder? ‘Sean, I know you and Mike had a problem. I need to talk to you about it.’? And you panicked and you knew you had to get rid of her.”

“It’s a good story, Detective, but it’s all make-believe,” said Gill. He was sweating slightly.

“We talked to your wife, you know,” said McDonald. “She said you went out that evening for an hour or so. Between about nine fifteen and ten fifteen.”

“I went out to a convenience store,” said Gill. “I bought some junk food. I had a craving.”

“Should be careful with that crap,” said McDonald. “Junk food will kill you in the end.”

Gill ignored him and turned to Drumm. “I didn’t kill Kathy and I had nothing to do with Mike’s death either.”

“I’m afraid that’s a lie,” said Drumm. “I paid a visit to your employer. It was most eliminating. It seems that there’s a problem with some money that’s gone missing. Quite a lot of money, actually. An audit is ongoing – you weren’t aware of that, were you? Metro is doing it quietly, and they’re conducting this audit because Mike Kennedy put his suspicions in front of them. He was suspicious of you. My guess is that he didn’t want to believe it, that his friend, the one he had recommended for the job, could be stealing from the company.”

“Kind of explains how you and your wife could afford such a huge mortgage, doesn’t it?” said McDonald.

“We inherited some money,” said Gill in a low voice; he was clearly shaken.

“No you didn’t,” said Drumm. “Kennedy was distracted for some weeks. He was thinking about something, trying to make up his mind. It was why he was so quiet at home, and why he was drinking so much in Cuba. He knew his friend was dirty and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.” Drumm looked at Gill. “It bothered him. It bothered him a lot. And he talked to you about it, didn’t he, sometime down there in Cuba? Probably the day he died. And you knew you were screwed, but you thought maybe there was a way out. You listened to him and it seemed that only he knew what you were doing, so you saw your chance and you took it. You were outside on his balcony and you knew he’d been drinking all day. What happened? Was he leaning against the railing and you grabbed his legs and shoved him over? I wonder exactly how you did it.”

“None of this is true,” mumbled Gill.

“And then, when you were allowed to leave Cuba and come home, you thought you’d got away with it,” said Drumm “Except Kathy wouldn’t let it go, would she, and you were starting to get a little desperate. So, just in case, you came up with a backup plan. If it came to it, you would kill Kathy and point the finger at someone else. If it wasn’t the Riverwood Rapist – and you couldn’t be sure the police would attribute her death to him – then it would have to be someone else who knew her.”

“Which is when you thought you’d screw your other friends,” said McDonald. He had stopped circling and was standing, leaning against the wall. “You helped yourself to some of Deborra Whiteside’s hair when you were over at their place. And then you made sure you stuck some of her hair to the knife before you left the body. “You’re a cool customer, I’ll give you that. You knew we’d find that hair and suspect Deb Whiteside. Or maybe her husband Aaron.”

“This is all a big fantasy,” said Gill. He seemed to have regained his composure a little.

“And maybe all of this would have worked,” said Drumm. “Except Kathy Walters kept a journal. And in it she wrote down her suspicions of you and what you had done to Mike. She saw you, didn’t she? She knew you didn’t stay in the whole night.” Drumm moved forward and got very close to Sean Gill. “I mentioned this journal to Aaron Whiteside when we questioned him. We released him and he called you almost immediately to tell you about how we had treated him and his wife. I knew he’d call you because you people are such good friends, you’re always updating everybody on what we do and say. And surprise, surprise, a few hours after I tell Aaron Whiteside that Kathy kept a journal but we don’t have it yet and are going back the next day to do a thorough search, you show up in her apartment looking for something.” Drumm straightened up and moved to the door. “That’s what you were really doing in her apartment, you were looking for her journal.”

“Not some stupid, non-existent photos,” said McDonald.

“You can’t prove any of this,” said Gill, but the expression on his face said otherwise.

“We’ll see,” said Drumm. “We have the journal, and what she wrote in it.”

Drumm and McDonald closed the door to the interview room to find Lori Singh outside waiting for them. She had a smile on her face.

“You really are a fearful liar, aren’t you?” she said with a laugh.

“Not true,” protested Drumm. “Almost everything I said is true.”

“Except that whole part about the journal,” said Lori.

“Well, it could have been true. She might have had a journal. And she might have written down her suspicions.” Drumm smiled.

“You’re taking a chance, though, aren’t you?” asked Lori. “I mean, Kathy talked to Gill. What if it wasn’t that she saw him go out?”

“A bit of a chance,” admitted Drumm. “But she must either have seen Gill come or go. What else makes sense? She was sleeping in their suite that night after all. I’m guessing she saw or heard him come back in after he killed Kennedy. And it would have been very late at night. What good reason would he have had to leave the unit?”

“Why didn’t she mention it to the Cuban cops then?” asked McDonald. “She could have.”

“She was in shock, not thinking straight. She’d been told he fell off accidentally. The other thought that had been put into her head was that he killed himself.” Drumm shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe he told her he went down to the beach for a skinny dip and to keep it quiet so his wife wouldn’t know or something like that. It was only after she got home that she started connecting the dots and began to suspect him.”

“Gill’s right, though,” said Lori. “You’re going to have a hard time proving what he did. It’s mostly circumstantial.”

“He had a serious fiddle going on at work,” said Drumm. “That’s not circumstantial. He’d created a whole chain of fictitious suppliers that he was paying with false invoices. That money was going into his pocket. Kennedy found out about it and that gives Gill motive to kill him.”

“Why didn’t Metro Grocers tell us about this?” asked McDonald. “You’d think someone there might have had the sense to let us know what was going on.”

“They were keeping it very quiet,” said Drumm. “Until they finished the audit. And the one guy there who knew the whole story was on holiday. He didn’t know Mike Kennedy had died under suspicious circumstances.”

“But the rest, though?” asked Lori. “Is it enough to put Gill away for murder?”

“That’s for the Crown Prosecutor to decide,” said Drumm. “But she’s taken cases to trial with less. And won. It’s a pretty strong case, even if it’s circumstantial. But we’re not done yet – I have still got another card to play.”

“Which is?” asked Lori.

Drumm winked. “You’ll have to wait for it.”

thirty-three

There was a stiff breeze coming from the north, making an already cold day even worse. Her cheeks were tingling and her fingers were turning numb but Lori persevered with her walk, leaning into the wind. She hunched deeper into her coat and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and kept moving. The sidewalks were deserted and no wonder: anyone with any sense was indoors, or if they had to go out, driving in a warm vehicle.

But Lori had been restless, and she had suddenly found the York Police Services building confining and claustrophobic. She’d felt that she couldn’t spend another minute in the place, watching suspects through a window or listening to the same office chatter that she’d heard a hundred times before. She had to get out for a change of scenery, even if it was a cold and wintry day.

She turned the corner and headed down another road, as windswept and deserted as the last one. How could it be that no matter which direction she headed, the wind was in her face? Lori picked up the pace and turned again, onto a residential street. This way was better, more sheltered and with a more pleasant vista.

Lori knew that part of what was bothering her was the memory of her near rape. As hard as she tried, she could not forget being handled like a piece of meat, the cold, blue eyes of her attacker and the knife to her face. It wasn’t a matter of willpower, of simply telling herself to forget it; it didn’t work that way. She wasn’t having nightmares, at least not yet, but her concentration was lacking and she found herself drifting away mentally when she shouldn’t.

She followed the avenue around a curve and slowed down a bit. Finally she was starting to warm up a little. She realized she had been practically racing along and she slowed her pace even more.

The other issue that had been weighing on her mind was the SIU investigation. Everyone had said it was a good shooting, that she had nothing to worry about and she knew her colleagues’ statements backed up what she’d said. Her interview had gone well, as well as could be expected given the adversarial nature of the process. But still, until the SIU report was released and she was exonerated of wrongdoing, it felt to her like she was under a cloud. She would feel so much better once their investigation was completed.

Lori turned the final corner and headed back to the station. She had warmed up considerably now and she felt better mentally and physically. A walk usually did that for her, even if it was in Antarctica-like conditions.

She opened the door and entered the building. If not jumping up and down with enthusiasm, she was at least mildly interested in what might come of the Sean Gill interview.

Gill was waiting in the interview room with a sullen and resigned look on his face. He looked, if anything, worse than before, despite the passage of the hours.

“You again! I’ve got nothing more to say.” Gill’s voice was defiant.

Drumm and McDonald had entered the room and sat down facing Gill. Drumm had a folder with him; he took three photos out of it now and placed them on the table in front of their suspect.

“There’s no point doing that, Nick,” said McDonald. “Didn’t you hear him? He’s got nothing more to say.”

Drumm ignored him and said, “This is your friend, Kathy, that you killed last Friday night.” He pointed at the first photo. “That’s what she looked like when we found her in the snow Saturday morning, to be gawked at by anyone passing by.” His finger moved to the second picture. “And that’s what she looked like when we removed her scarf. There wasn’t much blood because you left the knife in.”

“Why did you do that, Sean? Didn’t you want to keep the knife as a souvenir?” McDonald was leaning back in his chair.

Gill said nothing so Drumm went on, pointing at the third picture, “And that’s what the wound looked like when the knife was removed.”

Gill swallowed but all he said was, “I didn’t kill her. I have nothing else to tell you.”

Drumm leaned back also and said, “Suit yourself. We don’t actually need you to say anything else. We’ve got plenty to put you away. Twenty-five years minimum for first-degree murder, ineligible for parole, and that’s on top of whatever you’ll get for the embezzlement and B & E. I just thought you’d like the chance to help yourself make things a little easier.”

Gill looked unhappy but he shook his head. “No. I didn’t kill her.”

McDonald said, “I think it’s time this weasel got a lawyer, Nick. He’s gonna need one.”

“Didn’t want one before, don’t need one now,” said Gill defiantly.

“Okay,” said Drumm. “As you wish. I should tell you, though, you’re shortly going to have to make a tough decision.”

McDonald looked at Drumm curiously as Gill said, “Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Give me a minute,” said Drumm. He stood up, gathered the photos, put them back in the folder and said to McDonald, “Watch him for a few.” Drumm left the room.

He was back in a couple of minutes, and following behind him was a man with grey hair, dressed in a cheap-looking black suit and green tie.

“May I present again, Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Misael Perez? Dick, you remember Lieutenant Colonel Perez? And Mr. Gill, I am sure you recall this fellow.” Drumm smiled complacently and remained standing, as did Perez.

McDonald stood up, surprised, and extended his hand. “Hola, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Hola,” said Perez unsmilingly. He shook McDonald’s hand quickly and then stared at Sean Gill.

“What is this?” said Gill. “What’s he doing here?”

The three detectives stood standing making a semicircle, and none of them said anything. They just looked at Gill.

“He can’t be here,” said Gill. “This isn’t Cuba. We’re in Canada.” Gill’s voice was rising. “He’s got no business being here.”

“Actually he does,” said Drumm calmly. “Since he was invited by the York Police Services. He’s here because you killed Michael Kennedy in his country.”

Gill looked from Drumm to Perez but he didn’t say anything.

“What you may not know, Mr. Gill, is that Canada and Cuba have an extradition treaty.” Drumm was smiling. “It’s fairly complicated in some respects but as far as you’re concerned, it’s simple. Cuba has provided the Canadian government with a formal extradition request for you, and they want us to arrest you provisionally under an extradition warrant.”

“What?” asked Gill.

“They want to cook your goose for throwing your friend off that balcony,” said McDonald. He turned to Perez. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“I do not understand ‘cook your goose’,” said Perez.

“He is here to take you back to Cuba and put you on trial for Michael Kennedy’s murder,” said Drumm.

“He can’t do that!” said Gill, his eyes darting from Drumm to McDonald to Perez.

“He can, and he will,” said Drumm. “That’s what an extradition treaty means, you see. With our permission, you can be arrested here by this man provisionally and taken back to Cuba.” He paused. “With our permission, I said. If we say the word, the process begins and you will be off shortly for a Cuban trial. Hey, at least it will be warm down there.”

Gill said nothing, just stared at Perez.

“Naturally, we don’t really want to do that. We’ve got you up on all those embezzlement charges for one thing, and for another, there’s the murder of Kathy Walters. You did that one as well, and we want you to see the inside of Millhaven as soon as possible.” Drumm walked around behind Gill and the man’s head turned to look at him. “Now, we have plenty of evidence to put you away for that killing, but it’s just possible that a jury may see it differently. It’s unlikely but it is possible. A full confession, though, that would be a different story. Cut and dried – we’d hardly even need a trial.”

Drumm moved back in front of Gill. “You remember I said you’d have a choice? Here it is, then. Continue your denials and we hand you over to Lieutenant Colonel Perez and the Cuban government. You’ll get an all-expenses-paid Cuban vacation for the rest of your life. Have you ever seen the inside of a Cuban prison? It doesn’t need to happen. Tell us all the details of Kathy Walters’s death and you’ll stay here.”

“We have the death penalty in Cuba,” said Perez, looking at Gill. His English was very good.

“Hanging?” asked McDonald.

“Firing squad.”

McDonald laughed. “Talk about being between a rock and a hard place!”

“We’ll let you think about it,” said Drumm. “Gentlemen?”

The three detectives left the room without another look at Gill.

Out in the hall, Drumm introduced Perez to Lori who was looking a little bemused. “Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to earlier when I brought him in.”

“I understand now,” said Lori. “How much of that in there was true this time, Nick?”

Drumm smiled. “Almost all of it. Although it is a lot harder to extradite a suspect than I made out. The courts get involved and the Minister of Justice and God knows who else. It’s not simple.”

McDonald turned to Perez. “Lieutenant Colonel, are you really here to take him back with you?”

Perez said, “If I can bring him back, I will. We would like to interview him some more.”

“Do you really have the death penalty?” asked McDonald.

“Si,” said Perez. “But it has been many years since we executed anyone.”

Drumm said, “Lieutenant Colonel Perez knows that there’s very little chance Gill would be going home with him. He’s here as a favour to me, more or less.”

“So it’s a bluff,” said McDonald.

“Partly,” agreed Drumm. “It would be a lot simpler to put him away for killing Kathy Walters.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” asked McDonald.

“We may be about to find out,” said Lori, pointing at the window, where Gill was gesticulating with his arms. He was clearly agitated.

Drumm smiled. “Let’s go see what he has to say.”

McDonald said to Lori, “You go in this time, love. Maybe the sight of your beautiful face will cheer him up.” He turned to Perez. “It’s cold out, Lieutenant Colonel, but we can’t smoke inside. Can I interest you in a Cohiba?”

Perez smiled for the first time. “Si,” he said.

thirty-four

“So you think you’ve won?” Drennan was sitting at his desk, fiddling with a row of pens which he had lined up nicely on his desk blotter. He was avoiding looking at Drumm even though he’d summoned him to his office.

“It’s not a question of winning, sir,” said Drumm. “You should know that.”

“Should I?” Drennan suddenly looked up at Drumm. “Feeling pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you? You shouldn’t be. You took far too long to solve that case. If you’d been faster about it, that last young woman wouldn’t have been raped.”

“You can always tell Susan Benitez that when you have your press conference, sir,” said Drumm. “I’m sure she’d run with it.” He looked out the window and wished he was anywhere but here. What was the point of this?

“Don’t be insolent, Drumm,” Drennan said sharply. “Or I’ll have you up on charges.”

Drumm said nothing. He knew as well as Drennan did, that if the Staff Inspector was going to charge Drumm, he would have done it by now. And how would that look, just after the Riverwood Rapist had been found and put behind bars?

Drennan said, “I understand Gill confessed to stabbing Kathy Walters.” Drennan had picked up a pen and was turning it idly in his hands. “Funny how that Cuban detective showed up like that. Remarkable.”

So this is what this is about, thought Drumm. “No, sir, not really. I arranged it. I was certain there was a connection between the Cuban death and Kathy Walters.”

Drennan ignored him. “Yes, remarkable. Especially when I told you specifically not to get involved in that Cuban death. I ordered you, in fact.” He looked up suddenly. “Do you recall that, Drumm?”

“I do, sir. But then it became clear to me that the deaths of Mike Kennedy and Kathy Walters were related. And I didn’t have time to run my ideas by you, so I went ahead and got Perez up here. It worked out okay, don’t you think?”

Drennan looked at him and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Some people might call that disobedience of a direct order. Or insubordination.”

“Not really, sir, no. I felt sure that if I’d had the time to get your approval, you would have agreed. But time was of the essence, so, as it was, I had to move quickly and well…the results speak for themselves. Another case cleared.”

“Going behind my back like that, contacting the RCMP, calling down to Cuba, bringing that Lieutenant Colonel up here.” He leaned back in his chair, the twirling pen still in his hands. “It’s all noted in your file here, Drumm. All documented – your wilful disregard of direct orders, your insubordination, your refusal to keep me informed. It’s all on your docket.”

“Yes, sir.” Drumm thought, is that all? He really didn’t care what was written down on a piece of paper. It was results that counted, and the clearance rate. “Will that be all?”

“Enjoy your little triumph while you can, Drumm. I hope it was worth it to you. Because this isn’t the end of it.”

“It was good police work, Staff Inspector. And while we’re talking about this, I would like to put forward a commendation for Detective Lori Singh. Her behaviour was exemplar, and she put herself in extraordinary danger. She should be recognized for that.”

“I think you mean exemplary, Drumm.” Drennan stood up abruptly. “Don’t press your luck. Now get out of here.”

“Sir.” Drumm turned on his heel and left Drennan’s office. He couldn’t help a little smile as he passed Drennan’s secretary, but then he repressed it. He’d been lucky to get away so lightly.

“I’ve never had one of these before,” Drumm said to McDonald and Lori. “And I’m not sure I will again. I can’t say I care for it.”

The three of them were sitting in a restaurant called Inferno’s. It was newly opened and Drumm thought it was an appropriate choice to celebrate the end of an another case. “Because,” he said. “It was a helluva case. Or cases, I should say.” He looked around the restaurant. The dominant colour was red: red walls, red and yellow outfits on the servers, who were equipped with devil’s horns, and red lighting. There was a huge log fire pit in the middle of the eating area and it was throwing off an enormous amount of heat. Drumm had taken off his coat and he was sitting comfortably in short sleeves with a Cuba Libre in front of him. The others had identical drinks.

“The lime juice makes it interesting,” said Lori.

“I’d rather have a beer,” said McDonald. “But I know you can’t get a Cristal or Bucanero here. Too bad.”

Drumm took a sip, made a face and said,” Like I was saying, Drennan let me off lightly. He just rapped my knuckles a little. I’ve had worse.”

“You’d think he’d be pleased with you,” said Lori. “You made him look good, finding the Riverwood Rapist and Kathy’s killer. He’ll take a lot of the credit for those.”

“Let him,” Drumm said. He took another sip of his drink. “You know, this is growing on me.”

McDonald said, “I can’t say it was fun to see old Jorge again. He doesn’t give a lot away. It was good to have a smoke with him though.” He looked at Drumm. “I don’t understand how you were able to get him up here so quickly. I mean, you couldn’t have called him until what – a day or so ago?”

Drumm smiled. “We’d talked to each other before that, though. I called him just after you spoke to me, Dick – when you got back from your trip.”

McDonald stared at him. “Did you now? Kinda forgot to tell us that, didn’t you?”

“Did I? Quite possibly, I guess.” Drumm took another sip. “Anyway, I called him. When I thought of flying him up here, I realized he probably wouldn’t have a passport. But I’ve got a contact with the RCMP – he put me in touch with our Cuban friend in the first place – and he was able to help with getting approval for Perez to come up here.”

Lori said, “I’m surprised that you were able to get the YPS to pay for the flight. Normally we have to jump through hoops for even the smallest expenses.”

Drumm smiled again. “They didn’t pay for it; I did. And his accommodation. And a rental car. I knew the YPS would never agree to do it and I was in a hurry. So I’ve paid for everything. I’ll put in for reimbursement and who knows?”

McDonald laughed. “You know, when I spoke to him down there, he told me he would never get to see Canada. Too bad he had such a short visit.”

“Oh, he’s still here,” said Drumm. “He’s got a week. He’s up at Blue Mountain right now. I got him a package deal: room, ski rental, lift tickets, even a lesson.”

“Huh!” said McDonald. “Big expense. But it worked out for you. But if it hadn’t, if he’d called your bluff…”

“It was only partly a bluff, Dick,” Drumm objected. “If Gill hadn’t copped to her killing, we could have taken our case to the Crown as it was. And Cuba might have sought to extradite him and go after him for Kennedy’s death. Perez would have flown home pretty quickly, of course, because it would have taken all the lawyers and government weenies months to figure out how to get him down there. But Perez knew that – he knew that he’d probably be going home empty-handed.”

“But he was willing to come anyway?” asked Lori.

“Free vacation,” said Drumm and grinned. He sipped again from his drink and held it up to them. “This is tasting better and better. Now, if it was me, I’d stay down there in the heat. But I guess he wanted to see what winter is like up here.”

“Well, I’ve seen both, and he definitely made the wrong choice,” said McDonald.

“Gill sang like a bird, didn’t he?” said Lori. “It was nice to get everything cleared up like that. The knife from his parents’ house – I wonder when he lifted it? And you’d think they would have noticed it was missing.”

“Well, they didn’t,” said Drumm. “And they did have a lot of knives.”

“And the call from Kathy wanting to speak to him about why he was out the night her fiancé died,” went on Lori. “That really shook him up. He thought he’d been able to slip out of the unit and back in unobserved. And all the time she’d seen him come back in.”

“She didn’t want to believe Gill killed her boyfriend,” said Drumm. “I’m sure that’s true. And it helps explain why he was able to get so close to her in the park the night she died. ‘We need to talk, Kathy.’ And she was probably thinking she could spare Charlotte from getting involved.”

“And that misunderstanding about Aaron Whiteside’s previous job,” said McDonald. “Just a small privately-run group home, not on the government roll. So we couldn’t find a record of it, which meant we suspected him.”

“Little things can make a big difference,” said Drumm.

Their Canadian champagne arrived. McDonald popped the cork and poured three overflowing glasses. He raised his in celebration. “Hola,” he said. “Or whatever the hell they say in Cuba.”

“Salud,” said Drumm, lifting his glass as well. He smiled. “I looked it up.”

“Salud,” said Lori and McDonald together.

thirty-five

The plane was crowded, full of sun worshippers looking forward to a vacation in the tropics. There was an excited buzz throughout the cabin. They’d just heard the announcement about preparing for landing and people were stowing bags, fastening seatbelts and craning their heads to see out the window.

“Twenty-seven Celsius! Heavenly,” said Lori to her companion.

Cindy nodded. “Wait ‘til we get off the plane. It’s like stepping into an oven. “ She shook her long blonde hair and said, “And we’ll be all sweaty in no time.”

“Good,” said Lori. “I’ve had enough cold this winter to last me a lifetime.” Then she frowned.

Cindy looked at her and then put her hand on Lori’s arm. “It’ll be okay. Sint Maarten is a lovely island. I’ll show you all the best spots. We’ll start with lunch at Turtle Pier.”

Lori looked at her. Cindy had suggested, half-jokingly, that her reward dinner should be in the Caribbean, and on the spur of the moment, Lori had agreed. “I know. It isn’t that. It’s just…”

Cindy smoothed Lori’s hair back from her forehead. “That’ll be okay too. Trust me. It’ll be fine.”

“I know. I’m just nervous.”

“Ah, the landing will be great. It always is.” Cindy smiled at her.

“I meant…”

“I know what you meant.” Cindy leaned over and brushed her lips against Lori’s cheek. “Fasten your seatbelt; it’ll be a wonderful ride.”

Drumm threw his towel over his shoulder, adjusted his bathing suit slightly and headed down the path to the beach. A swim in the ocean was first on his list and then he would lie on the sand and bake until he was tired of it. The pool would be next and then the swim-up bar for a drink.

The resort was full of Canadians, Brits, Germans and the odd Spanish-speaking couple, just like McDonald had said it would be. Drumm supposed he could strike up a friendship with someone but just at the moment that didn’t appeal to him. He was happy on his own, glad to sit and soak up the heat of the day and forget his troubles. He had two weeks of eating, drinking, swimming and sleeping. Especially sleeping. After weeks of stress and long hours, he had decided to take some vacation time, and a last-minute trip to the Playa de Trinidad had seemed appropriate.

Sometime, if he felt like it, he might wander along and find the spot where Mike Kennedy had fallen to his death. After all, if it weren’t for that, he wouldn’t be here. He should pay homage, perhaps. But he was also on a mission. Drumm was on the lookout for a keg mug and he wouldn’t be going home until he’d seen one. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have to wait long.

Later on, sitting in the heat and the sunshine at the swim-up bar, Drumm looked ruefully at the drink in his hand. He could see why people brought mugs with them; these silly plastic cups were enough to drive a man crazy.

A middle-aged, attractive woman in a green bikini swam lazily up to the bar and gracefully mounted onto the submerged seat beside him. She shook her head to get some of the water out of her eyes and hair and then looked over at him.

“Sorry! Did I spray you?”

Drumm lazily waved a hand. “Not to worry. I’m tough; I can take it.”

The woman smiled. “You don’t look all that tough.” She studied the array of bottles at the bar and then turned back to him. “What do you recommend?”

His thoughts about keeping to himself for a couple of weeks were disappearing. Perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea after all. And maybe two weeks would be far too short.

Drumm raised his glass and said, “A Cuba Libre?”

Author’s Note

The inspiration for A Cuban Death came from a story I read in the Toronto Star newspaper, from the August 24, 2012 edition. It detailed how a twenty-two-year-old man from Mississauga, Ontario died after falling sixteen metres (about fifty feet) from a third-floor balcony in Varadero, Cuba. The death was mysterious to say the least. And as far as I know, the family of the dead man has never received any adequate explanation as to how and why he died.

The descriptions of Cuba that are used in the story are accurate, although the resort that I used is fictional. Cuba is a wonderful country to visit, with terrific beaches and friendly people. As it says in the book, however, the food can be so-so and there are shortages of nearly everything. Many Canadians travel to the country every year, taking with them necessities for the Cubans they meet, everything from school textbooks to shampoo.

It is too bad that Americans cannot yet easily travel to the country but there is hope. At the time of this writing, US President Barack Obama has just shaken hands with Cuba’s leader, Raul Castro, on the occasion of the funeral for Nelson Mandela. This has been seen by some as a significant step forward in US-Cuban relations.

December, 2013

Table of Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgments

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

thirty-two

thirty-three

thirty-four

thirty-five

Author’s Note

Excerpts