Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (101 page)

Rouleau hung up and made an effort to reread the morning reports. The words blurred after ten minutes. He removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. He could use a nap himself. He’d been on the move since he got the Pankhurst call at five fifteen.

Vera poked her head around the door. She was slightly winded, her blond hair in disarray. “I just came to warn you. I overheard that lawyer Suzie Chen talking on her cell outside the ladies washroom. She told somebody that she was on her way to rattle your cage about the Munroe case.”

“I’ve got nothing new to tell her.”

“I thought you might want to head home and miss another confrontation.”

“Has anyone ever told you what a treasure you are?”

She smiled. “All the time. By the way, Heath is due back tomorrow.”

“He’s fished out the lake?”

“Oh, I don’t think he ever catches anything.” Her smile shifted sideways, turning up one side of her mouth. “But I’m sure you do.” She was gone before he could formulate a reply. He shook his head and grabbed his jacket. Vera was turning into his Moneypenny. He was a far cry from James Bond, however.

He checked the hallway for Chen and hurried across to the fire escape. The best way to beat fatigue and to avoid an angry lawyer was to get out and do some investigating; leave his desk and get into the field. He felt his spirits rise before his foot hit the first step. The heaviness in his head had lifted by the time he reached the parking lot.

Della was moving around the living room, talking into her cellphone and pacing back and forth in front of the window. Once she stopped and looked out, her hand raised to the curtain. Her long black hair was tied up on top of her head but a piece had escaped and hung lankly across one eye. Her free hand pushed the hair away every so often but it always fell back. She wore a silky green dress that Rouleau imagined rustled when she moved. He could detect no grief in her face as she looked out onto the street, her mouth opening in laughter. She turned her back to the window and disappeared from sight.

Before opening the car door, Rouleau checked the side mirror. A car was racing up the street toward him and he hesitated. The red Explorer pulled into the driveway in front of Della Munroe’s house and he slumped lower in the seat.

A short Mexican woman in a rainbow-coloured skirt got out of the driver’s side and opened the back door. A small boy got out. He was a mixed-race child dressed in shorts and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. He looked across the street toward Rouleau’s car, and even from that distance, Rouleau could see that he had his mother’s large blue eyes, although the black hair that surrounded his face was a mass of kinky curls inherited from his father. He was a startlingly handsome boy, a miniature model with a face that was going to break hearts. The woman took his hand and they walked to the front door. They waited nearly a minute for Della to answer, the boy hopping from one foot to the other while the woman kept hold of his hand. Finally, the door opened and the two stepped inside. Rouleau saw the flash of Della’s green skirt before the door closed.

Rouleau debated watching the house a while longer or heading to the fish restaurant for takeout. It was going on five and if he left now his dad could eat his supper in front of the early news. He sat for a while longer, going over in his mind everything he knew about the Munroes and their marriage. While he reviewed the information, he kept an eye on the front door, but nobody came outside. The living room window remained empty. Twenty minutes later, he started up the car. He took one last look at the house. Something niggled in his memory but he couldn’t pin it down.

He was turning onto Brock when it struck him. There hadn’t been any mention of a nanny or domestic help in the reports. Had Della hired someone this week? He’d have thought the Munroes couldn’t afford one from what he recalled of their finances. He made a note to himself to check the next morning when he got into work.

It was nearly five when he pulled into the fish restaurant downtown, a street over from Princess. The entire time he waited at the counter for his order, he pictured Della Munroe in her silky green dress standing in the window, laughing at whatever somebody had said over the phone. Head tossed back and red lips parted. The eyes that had looked out across the yard had been excited, happy even. Her recovery a week after killing her husband was nothing short of miraculous. It was enough to give a seasoned detective pause.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 T
he whole family gathered around the dinner table to eat the meal Dalal had cooked after school. As instructed by her mother, she’d made a simple chicken korma simmered for an hour with ginger, garlic, and cashews, served over basmati rice. Her mother had shown a generosity of spirit by preparing a big bowl of phirni, Dalal’s favourite dessert, a rice pudding made with cardamom and pistachios. Dalal worried that the delicious pudding was to soften whatever her mother was planning to do next. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d prepared a treat and done something horrible soon afterward.

Her father was silent during supper. He only roused himself after dessert was served to ask Ghazi about his latest soccer game. Dalal tried to decipher the looks that passed between her mother and Ghazi during the meal, but she was at a loss. Meeza was quieter than usual, her eyes downcast and her head bowed, but she ate everything on her plate and asked for a second helping of phirni. For once, their mother placed another scoop into Meeza’s bowl without chiding her for being a glutton.

Dalal became more and more agitated as the meal progressed. She practised a question in her mind but couldn’t make the words come out of her mouth. Fear kept her from asking what she most wanted to know. Her father pushed his bowl away and placed his spoon on the table, and she knew it was now or never. She took a deep breath before speaking.

“Mother?” she began in a small, questioning voice.

“Yes, Dalal?” Her mother, father, and Ghazi fixed on her with their eyes. Even Meeza’s spoonful of pudding stopped half-way to her mouth as she lifted her head. Her black eyes widened and she looked across at Dalal. Dalal wanted to crawl into a safe, dark hole, but the thought of Meghan’s phone call kept her speaking.

“I’ve been working on a school project with a girl named Meghan in my class. She’s invited me to her home after school tomorrow to finish it. She asked if I could stay for supper.” Dalal folded her hands in her lap and lowered her head in the sign of submission that her parents liked to see.

“Where does this girl live?” her mother asked.

“A few blocks from the school. Her mother and father will be home tomorrow evening. She has assured me.”

“What do you think, Burhan?” Her mother looked across the table at her father.

He didn’t speak and Dalal stole a glance to gauge his reaction. He seemed deep in thought. She lowered her head again and waited.

“Dalal has been working hard and she is an obedient girl. I think we can let her finish this project with her schoolmate. Will it be too much of a burden for you to prepare the meal with Meeza?” he asked her mother. His voice brooked no dissension and Dalal dared to hope.

“I can prepare the meal,” said her mother with a loud sigh. “If you think it is proper for Dalal to eat at this girl’s house, I will gladly do the work at home.”

“I do not see any harm,” her father said.

Ghazi remained silent. Dalal couldn’t believe her good fortune. She would get to spend an evening with Joe away from the suspicious eyes of her family.

She was nearly done her English homework when Ghazi walked into her room without knocking. He sat on the edge of her bed and waited for her to turn around. He tossed a foam football from one hand to the other. When he looked at her, Dalal felt a shiver travel up her spine but she kept her eyes steady on his.

“What do you want, Ghazi?”

“How come you never mentioned this girl Meghan before?”

“She’s just a girl the teacher put me with to do a project. She seems okay.”

“What is the project about?”

Dalal had expected this question and she was ready. “We had to pick an early American author and analyze their work.”

“Really? And who are you analyzing?”

“Benjamin Franklin. He wrote the
Poor Richard’s Almanack
from 1732 to 1758. It had a print run of ten thousand copies per year, which was very impressive for back then.”

Ghazi shook his head and tossed the football into the air. He caught it with his left hand and leaned back against the pillows on her bed. “Fascinating,” he mocked.

“I think so.” She kept typing even though she’d already finished putting down all she had to say. What was he waiting for? The bed springs creaked and he shifted closer. She froze when she felt his fingers on the back of her neck. His breathing had gotten heavier, the opposite of hers, which had stopped altogether.

“Have any boys tried to touch you?” he asked harshly. “Like this?” His fingers moved around to the front of her neck and down the space between her breasts. She felt the heat of his fingers through her blouse. She shook her head hard from side to side.

“Have they ever tried to touch you here?” he whispered into her ear. His hand had moved to cover her right breast and his thumb rubbed against her nipple.

“Stop it, Ghazi.” She batted at his hand, but he resisted and squeezed her nipple until she squealed.

“Stop it, Ghazi,” he mimicked. His other hand had snaked under her shirt and was moving up her skin toward her other breast. He’d pinned her against his chest and his breath was hot and shallow in her ear.

“I’ll scream,” she said.

“You’ll regret it,” he said. “I’ll make sure.”

She stayed as still as she could while he massaged both breasts up and down in circular motions. Hot tears welled up behind her eyelids.

“Do you have the diary?” he asked. His breath was hot on the side of her face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone.”

“You know where she …” he began, but a voice at the door to the room made him stop.

“Can I play?”

Dalal felt Ghazi’s hands drop from her chest as she looked toward Meeza framed in the doorway, holding her teddy bear, Boo. She had a smile on her face, but her eyes were rimmed in red as if she’d been crying. Dalal stood and moved away from Ghazi.

“Come in Meeza,” she said. “Ghazi is just leaving.”

His eyes were angry bees staring into hers. Dalal glared back, trying to hold her ground, all the while fear beating like butterfly wings inside her.

“This isn’t over,” he said so quietly that Meeza could not possibly overhear. His hand pinched through the fabric covering Dalal’s ribs and he gave a sharp twist before he pushed his way past Meeza and out of the room. Dalal waited until he’d slammed the door to his bedroom and the music from his stereo was once again beating through the wall before she crossed to her bed and lowered herself onto the edge, one hand clutching the place where he’d hurt her.

Meeza ran the short distance between them and flung herself into Dalal’s arms. Dalal patted her head and wondered how much Meeza had seen. Her little sister was more intuitive than most, even with her limited mental capacities, and Dalal guessed this was the case now. Meeza sensed the danger lurking in their family even if she didn’t understand it. It was up to Dalal to protect her … to protect them both.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 G
undersund waited for Stonechild in the hallway near the nurses’ station. He checked his messages and saw one from Rouleau. He read it and speed dialed Rouleau’s number. They finished talking just as Stonechild approached from the direction of Gail Pankhurst’s room. Her face was grim.

“May as well go,” she said. “Gail’s been put into a medically induced coma. They’re waiting for the brain swelling to go down and hope there isn’t any lasting damage. We won’t be able to talk to her today or maybe not all week. Maybe not ever if she doesn’t pull through this.”

Gundersund fell into step beside her. “Have her parents showed up?”

“Apparently not.”

She’d expressed a lot in two clipped words. He had a good idea what she thought of parents who wouldn’t make the trip to a severely injured child’s hospital bedside. He pressed the elevator button. “Rouleau just told me that the same brand of rope used on Gail was used to tie up Leah Sampson. Forensics said it’s an exact match. No prints.”

“Had to be the same sick bastard.”

“We just need to figure out what they were after.”

They didn’t speak on the elevator. Stonechild was wedged in between a patient in a wheelchair and the back wall. Gundersund exited first and stood off to one side to wait for her while the others filed out. He and Stonechild began walking toward the front doors.

Gundersund resumed the conversation. “Rouleau said to carry on with the interviews. He’s on his way to Toronto for the afternoon.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. Just that he’s checking something out.”

“So who do we start with first today?”

“I think Wolf Edwards could do with another visit.”

“I agree. Jucinda Rivera is working today and I’d like to speak with her after we’re done with Wolf.”

“Looks like a full morning.”

“Looks like.”

They found Wolf still in his pajamas, frying two eggs in a skillet. His black hair was curled in matted chaos around his head, his eyes bleary from too much alcohol and not enough sleep. He had them sit at the crowded kitchen table while he scraped the eggs onto a plate and turned off the burner. He poured three cups of coffee without asking and slid two in front of Gundersund and Stonechild. Then he sat down and pushed the runny egg yolks around his plate with a fork while he supported his chin with his free hand.

“You don’t seem too concerned about Gail Pankhurst,” commented Gundersund. Wolf had told them he’d already heard about her assault when he answered the door.

“Not much I can do,” Wolf said. “Luckily, this blinding headache is keeping me from thinking too deeply about anything.”