Deadly Season Read online

  You have to give a criminal credit for being able to work in that kind of setting. The inner-city neighbourhoods, who guarded their old growth trees, box hedges and privacy, would have been an easier mark. Also, East Hills had a very active neighbourhood watch. Since the second time a dead cat had shown up on its owner’s front steps, members had taken turns patrolling the area in pairs every night.

  The one advantage a criminal had was that the patrol followed a strict routine. Handy for making sure none of the volunteers missed their time slot, it worked in the favour of anyone casing a house—or house cat. The first change I made was to have the neighbourhood patrol mix things up. Not everyone was happy with this.

  “I’m missing Senior Idol,” said Mrs. Parnell, checking her watch for the umpteenth time. “Paulo isn’t going to be happy.”

  I’d only been half listening to Mrs. Parnell’s running commentary on her neighbours. It was my second time out with the woman and most of the stories were reruns, but something didn’t jibe. “Isn’t your husband’s name Graydon?

  “Of course, dear. Paulo’s our neighbour. He watches Senior Idol with me—sometimes World’s Funniest Vids too.”

  “Can’t he come over later? You can stream them whenever you want.”

  She poked me in the arm. “Oh he doesn’t come over dear. He watches through the window. I think he has limited access at home, and I’m sure our wall screen has better resolution.”

  When Mr. “Just call me Gray like my hair” Parnell took his turn on patrol, I asked him about Paulo.

  “Can’t stand the little snot!” He stopped, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry. I’m sure he has reasons for being the way he is. I’m sure it’s not his fault he’s creepy.”

  “Creepy?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. Stella feels sorry for him. I suppose I do too.” He started walking again. “That doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

  “Of course not. What does he do that strikes you as creepy?”

  Mr. Parnell looked heavenward, as if for guidance.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I think he has a thing for my wife.”

  Only professional training kept me from smiling.

  “She thinks he’s watching our vid. But I caught him watching her. I don’t think she’s the only one either.”

  That was nothing to smile about.

  At one, the last patrol called it a night. In the course of the evening I had walked or driven around with five members of the watch and covered most of the area. No one segment could be watched all evening, but the apparent randomness of the schedule would make it hard for the cat-killer to act. After one, everyone who was going to be home tonight would be home with their cats in and alarms set. Even so, I hung around for a little longer.

  I sat in Dad’s beat-up hybrid and sipped on the coffee David made me. Carmedy’s coffee was so terrible I stopped by my mother and David’s house and begged a refill of my thermos. While I was there, I asked David if he knew about the suspected peeping tom. He didn’t, but he offered to ask around. David was the kind of man women liked talking to—an occupational hazard when you’re a doctor and psychotherapist.

  Paulo Crabbe definitely warranted further investigation. A background check revealed that he worked at a paper recycling plant. A quick search confirmed that cyanide compounds were used in processing paper. Of course, cyanide had so many industrial and household uses getting hold of it wasn’t a challenge. Still, he was the best lead I’d got.

  Besides patrolling with the watch, I’d scanned police incident reports for complaints. There were the families that had been reported for not sorting their garbage properly, and a couple who thought their dog was entitled to poop wherever it wanted, had several complaints and an outstanding fine against them. And there were the dozen or so petty grievances, that one neighbour had against another even in a friendly community, going back over the last two years. None involved animal cruelty, domestic abuse or arson.

  No cat-killers jumped out of the crowd.

  Hungry, I reached for my dinner bag. To give him his due, Carmedy put together a good sandwich. Not as good as David’s Reuben but way better than ham and processed cheese sandwiches my mother put in my lunch before she decided I was old enough to make my own.

  Half a sandwich later, I moved to a new spot with a view of the park. Someone was taking a walk. Doing up my coat, I decided to see who was out so late. As soon as I stepped away from the car I activated the recorder on my eCom. In a low voice I told it where I was going and why. An app would add the time and GPS coordinates to my report and a code word from me would download the information with a request for help to Emergency Response Coordination.

  We hadn’t had a major snowfall yet. The paths were clear and grass was visible through the light powder. I plotted an intercept course across the lawn, walking purposefully but not rushing. As I walked, I sent out a ping to make sure this wasn’t a member of the watch. It was the same app that people had been using since the turn of the century to tell them when their friends were close by.

  Not a member of the watch.

  I took a couple of photos. Even with enhancement, they were probably too far away. While I kept my eye on my quarry—who was probably some innocent guy out for a stroll—I tried to work out height, weight and gender, even the colour of his coat. I should have been looking where I was stepping. My heel set down in something soft and slid forward. I tried to catch myself but ended up landing hard on my tail bone.

  “Fu—” Then the smell hit me. “Crap!”

  5

  I’d landed in dog shit. In my pocket my eCom alarm went off. My quarry was now running away.

  “What is the nature of your emergency?” asked the ERC operator.

  “False alarm,” I said.

  “You really have to come up with a better emergency word, Garrett.”

  “I thought I had.”

  When I got back to the car, a blue and white was waiting. It looked pretty sleek beside the company clunker.

  “What’s up, Garrett? You stink.”

  Just my luck, it was Zander Mohr. He was one of my father’s old cronies. He was also my field training officer when I was hired. He saw it as his duty to keep me humble.

  “Hold on a sec.”

  I wrenched opened the passenger side door of Dad’s car and grabbed a handful of napkins from the glove compartment. Heading for the nearest receptacle, I wiped the worst of the mess off as I walked. When I got back, Mohr was holding out an industrial sized wet-wipe.

  “Thanks.”

  “So?’

  “I was checking on someone in the park and slipped on dog poo.”

  “I can smell that. What happened to the other guy?”

  “Got spooked and ran away.”

  “Natural response to an alarm going off. I heard it from the other side of the park.”

  I winced. “Too loud?”

  “Nope,” said Mohr, shaking his head. “Just loud enough. Go home, Garrett. Or go to a laundry. Get outta here. The cats are safe tonight.”

  It was three by the time I got back to the loft. I’d been staying there more often than not, what with all the packing I needed to do. Not tonight, though. Tonight I’d go straight to bed with a nice cup of tea.

  I didn’t bother turning on lights. There was enough ambient light streaming through the front windows to navigate. The light in the bedroom was filtered by a large stained glass panel set into the dividing wall. Whether I stayed or rented the apartment, that panel was mine. I helped design it and I cajoled Mum and David, the Thorsens and a bunch of Dad’s friends, including Mohr, to pitch in so I could get it made as an office warming gift. I was young and foolish and thought a thumbprint and a magnifying glass was the perfect image for a consulting detective. Diplomatic as usual, Dad announced it was exactly what he needed for his apartment.

  After a quick shower to get rid of any residual stink, I headed for the kitchen and turned on the bar lights.
Once the kettle was on, I pulled up a stool and started looking through some of the odds and ends I found while boxing books.

  My father was highly organized in the office, probably thanks to Carmedy. At home he had a habit of shoving things on top of books on the shelf. I’d found old birthday cards, junk mail and a number of recycled mailers that Dad used to store paperwork.

  I picked up one of the mailers. It was thick and heavy. The postmark indicated it was twelve years old.

  The kettle started singing its shrill note. I made a pot of tea and returned to the mailer. Might as well take a look while the tea steeped.

  An old-style memory card slid out of the envelope with a neatly bound file folder. I felt a shiver of anticipation ripple down my neck, making my shoulders twitch. The card was the kind my father used in his audio recorder. In addition to official recordings and reports, he found it useful to keep a more conversational record of his thoughts on a case.

  I set aside the plastic-cased card for later. Instead, I thumbed through the report copies and yellowed newspaper clippings, trying to get a sense of what the case was about and why my father would keep the file.

  One headline on one tear sheet answered my questions—Local detective shot defending domestic abuse victim.

  This was my father’s last case as a police officer.

  6

  December 19

  Bleary-eyed, I shuffled into the office at nine.

  Carmedy looked up from his mail. “How did it go last night?”

  I grunted and automatically went to the kitchenette to start the coffee. It was already made.

  “I figured you’d be down soon, so I started a pot. I also brought bagels and cream cheese to go with the peach compote.”

  I gazed at him for an uncomprehending minute, then at the counter which held a bag of bagels, a tub of cream cheese and six mason jars of peach preserves, one of which was half empty.

  “Mr. Koehne’s sister has a small business producing peach preserves,” he said. “Peach jam, peach syrup, peach chutney…you get the idea. He’s marketing the stuff for her. He has a display set up on his front counter.”

  I poured coffee and made up a bagel with cream cheese and jam, licking the knife when I was done. “This is good!”

  “That’s why I got six jars,” he said, grinning. “And why one of the jars is half empty. Oh, and Koehne asked me to deliver an envelope to you. It’s on your desk.”

  I set my breakfast on the desk and opened the envelope. It was the rent cheque.

  “Did you lean on him?”

  I knew he wasn’t hearing impaired, but he acted deaf.

  “Carmedy?”

  He responded without looking up. “Maybe a little.”

  I nodded. Putting the cheque to one side, I sat and took a sip of coffee.

  “Carmedy.”

  This time he met my gaze.

  “Yes.”

  “Never, ever make coffee again.” I tried to stay serious despite the comical look of surprise on his face. “I don’t blame you. My father couldn’t brew a decent cup of coffee either.” I pushed my mug away and picked up the cheque again. “About this, thanks.”

  “No digs about being able to handle it yourself?”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t want to handle Koehne at all. I was an idiot to rush into renting the space.”

  Carmedy said nothing but his eyes were so wide with shock, I started to laugh.

  “I must be tired if I said that aloud.”

  That made him laugh. Two laughs in two days. I was on a roll.

  I dumped the coffee and started fresh. I noticed Carmedy staring and was afraid I’d gone too far insulting his coffee. After all, he was nice enough to make it. I was trying to decide what to say, if anything, when he spoke.

  “Tell me about your case.”

  “The cat-killer case?”

  Dumb question, I know, but he caught me off-guard. He didn’t get snarky about it. He just waited for me to get over it and start talking.

  I started with the usual avenues and how they hadn’t produced any likely suspects. No relevant criminal activity. No lead on where the poison or darts was procured.

  “Although there is one interesting thing,” I said. “The darts weren’t preloads that were tampered with. They’re hand loaded, the kind that wildlife handlers use so they can customize the dosage for the animal and length of time they need the target down.”

  I’d spent a couple of hours researching the topic and finding out how easy it was to order the necessary equipment to make custom darts. On the other hand, you can’t just buy a tranquilizer pistol or rifle through legitimate channels without a permit. Not in Canada. Fortunately, as a police officer, I didn’t have that problem. I didn’t mention this to Carmedy. He might worry about me using him for target practice. Instead I skipped to the poison.

  “There’s no point trying to track down the source of the cyanide until I get the lab’s profile.”

  Carmedy nodded.

  “I agree. Too many potential sources. So, meanwhile you’re beating the pavement.”

  “Basically. By talking to the watch, I’ve come up with a few persons of interest.”

  I told him about Paulo Crabbe, the suspected peeping tom.

  “Then there’s Mr. Theo Konstantin. According to most of the watch, he just doesn’t like new people. Mrs. Parnell thinks he’s a bit sinister, but that might be because he reminds her of Nosferatu—which is a bit harsh.”

  Carmedy made a show of preening.

  “Mrs. Parnell says I have the voice of Hugh Jackman playing Wolverine.”

  I thought about that and nodded. Mrs. Parnell had a point. Of course, Mrs. Parnell thought that Paulo Crabbe looked a bit like the guy in the Nabob ads. She didn’t specify which storyline so I couldn’t picture him.

  “Anyway, I asked who had changed their habits since I joined the watch patrols.”

  “And?”

  I closed my eyes to view my mental white board of notes. “Marc and Evelyn Chauvelin used to walk their cat nightly, but not since the changes. Mr. Parnell says it’s because they can’t coordinate with the patrol anymore. Mrs. Djohns stopped going out, but since she’s ninety-three, it might just be the cold. Then there’s Ms. Cole. She’s more elusive than Mr. Konstantin. I get the impression she’s agoraphobic. She won’t go out at night if there’s anyone strange in the neighbourhood, and she won’t go out in the daytime at all. Then there’s Crabbe, of course. He’s hasn’t been seen out and about much lately which lends credence to him being a peeping tom if nothing else.”

  “You think he’s a good suspect?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll interview him this afternoon. If I have time, I’ll drop in on the Chauvelins as well. And don’t worry. I’ll finish the last report before I go.”

  Carmedy said nothing but went to check the pot for more coffee. He brought it back and topped up my cup.

  “Actually, I did the last report this morning.”

  I stared at him.

  “You’ll need to prepare it for publication,” he said. “I didn’t want to mess with your system, but it occurred to me that doing the report on your father’s last case might—”

  “Might be too emotional for me?”

  “Nah.”

  He put a little extra gruff into his tone.

  “You’re tough as nails. But it might seem inappropriate for a daughter to report on her father’s work—might seem biased.”

  That was the worst excuse I ever heard, but I nodded as if it was perfectly logical. Silently I thanked the mistletoe for its salubrious effect.

  “So, if it wasn’t the reports, what kept you up all night?” he asked.

  Oh good god! He was going to mother me again.

  7

  “Have you been up all night going through Joe’s stuff? You should get some help with that so you don’t dwell on it so much.”

  I wanted to snap at him. It was my job. I was his daughter and executor of hi
s estate. Magnus would round up a posse when it was time to move things, but it was my job to sort through the remains of my father’s life.

  Before I started to rant, I did a mental check and decided that it wasn’t an appropriate response. Some of my feelings must have shown judging by the expression on Carmedy’s face.

  He shook his head.

  “I’d order you back to bed if I thought it would work.”

  “Order?”

  I forced my tired eyebrows to rise.

  He grinned.

  “I am the senior partner. And you’re the one who put my name above yours on the door.”

  I looked at the mistletoe. Peace. It would be a lot easier to maintain if we collaborated instead of butting heads.

  I took my coffee to the couch. This was where my father seated clients when he wanted to make them feel comfortable. I curled up at one end of the three-seater. Carmedy sat at the other end.

  I confessed.

  “I was going through one of Dad’s case files. I knew that his last police case involved domestic violence. I remember reading the papers at the time. There were conflicting reports of the incident depending, I suppose, on who provided the information to which reporter. I tried to sort it out while we waited for my father to come out of surgery. I figured I’d come up with a theory and Dad would tell me if I was right or not.”

  “Assuming he knew. Trauma often causes the victim to block out events immediately before, during and after the event.”

  Sometimes I forgot that Carmedy was a combat veteran and had been through his own medical and emotional trauma.

  “You’re right. Like my father said after the surgery, we constantly train for the moment we hope will never come, when we need to act without thinking about it. And a good job too.”