Temporary Partner (Valor and Doyle Book 1), page 13
“She kept referring to her nephew in the past tense,” Quaid said, shifting in his seat to face me. “Did you catch that?”
“I did.”
“I didn’t like her. Bad vibe.”
“Me either. She’s bitter and vindictive, don’t you think?”
Quaid nodded.
His next words came out slow like he was forming a thought as he spoke. “Although multiple factors mark her behavior as suspicious, she doesn’t really fit the profile of the person we seem to be looking for. It bothers me.”
“Explain.”
Quaid wet his lips and rubbed them together. It was a distracting action, and it took effort not to stare at his mouth. The enticing scruff from the previous day was gone, leaving him more baby-faced. It wasn’t a bad thing.
“The person posing as a representative from Service Canada who called Clara before Mathieu was taken was male. You stated the back gate would have been tricky to open by anyone under five nine or five ten. Mary Ellen is much shorter.”
“Both true. The gate could have been unlatched ahead of time. It’s possible it doesn’t factor in at all.”
“I suppose.”
“Are you suggesting we could be looking for a duo?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting. I’m stating facts.”
“Hypothetically, who would Mary Ellen be working with if that was the case?”
“Her husband, maybe? The rebirth of the Barbie and Ken killers but with a different twist. Or Giles? Who knows?”
“Giles?”
“Sure. Think about it.” Quaid ticked points off on his fingers. “Giles was unhappy about the pregnancy. He never wanted children, and all evidence suggests he doesn’t like them. If Mary Ellen was telling the truth, he wanted an abortion or adoption. It seems clear he wants his trophy wife back, not the burden of fatherhood. Who better to help him get rid of an unwanted child than someone equally hostile and equally bitter toward the baby who would have preferred it didn’t exist?”
I considered that angle, poking holes everywhere I could. It made sense, but I didn’t like it. “So, if that’s the case, where’s the baby now? What did they do with it?”
Quaid’s forehead creased, and his gaze flicked to the basement window. “I don’t know.”
“Can we get a warrant?”
Quaid sighed. “On what grounds? It’s not against the law to hang out in your basement in the middle of the night. She’s provided enough proof that she was occupied at the time of the baby’s disappearance. We have nothing except a poor attitude.”
“There were gaps in that shopping spree.”
“Barely. I don’t think we have enough of anything to convince a judge to sign off on a warrant. Her fertility issues give her cause to distance herself from the family. It explains her hostility.”
“It gives her motive.”
“Possibly, but what do we have? A gut feeling? It won’t fly.”
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw and tugged fingers through my hair. He was right. Unless we found something substantial, we wouldn’t get a warrant. Not yet.
Bits and pieces of the case floated around in my brain, and I did all I could to fit them together. Who took the baby? Why? What was the motive behind it? And where was Mathieu Paquet?
Things like black-market adoption came to mind, and I was instantly queasy. Kylee’s tiny, heart-shaped face and cupid’s bow mouth flashed across my vision, and I had to pinch my eyes closed to make it go away. It was horrifying to envision my niece in this type of circumstance. Any innocent baby for that matter. There was a reason I didn’t work in MPU. It involved too many cases against children, and the thought of all those sickos out there was enough to set me on fire.
“You said Eyan was a possibility too? How so?”
“I don’t know. I’m just talking out loud. I’m more convinced Giles is somehow involved, with or without Mary Ellen’s help. There’s an intimate connection here. Call it a hunch. I get a bad vibe from him.”
I chuckled. “We’re getting bad vibes from everyone, but I agree with that. Where to now?”
The dash read 8:37. Quaid pulled out his phone. “Give me a sec. I need to touch base with my dad to make sure he took his pills.”
Quaid spent the following ten minutes chatting with his dad. I texted Amelia to see how Kylee was doing. Her fever had come down with the help of the Tylenol, and she was sleeping.
At one point, Quaid said, “Dad, Dad, I have to let you go. There’s another call coming in… Yeah, I’ll call you later.” He switched to the other line and snapped, “Valor,” then his face hardened.
Was it Jack? I cocked an ear, trying to listen. He wasn’t even my cheating ex, but the thought of him made my blood boil.
Quaid mumbled a few affirmatives, then hung up. The scowl remained. He dropped his phone into the cupholder and stared out the windshield at the basement window with a distinct mask of irritation on his face. His whole body was rigid.
“Was that Jack?”
“No.”
“So what’s up?”
“It was Ikeyo. Two things. They’ve been going through Giles’s phone records and found some interesting correspondence. A recently deleted text thread and phone calls to a Kitchener area code. The content of the messages seems to suggest our Mr. Paquet might be having extramarital affairs.”
I slapped the dash. “Ha! I knew it. I totally called that. Didn’t I tell you? Fucking cheating bastard. I could see it from a mile away.”
Quaid remained quiet, and I checked my enthusiasm, realizing too late the reason for his rigidity and discontent.
“Shit. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. The world is full of them. They’re tracing the number right now. Hopefully we’ll have a name soon.”
“What was the second thing? You said two things.”
“They were able to contact the restaurant where he dined last night. His reservation was for six, so his claims that he arrived around four or four thirty don’t match. Not only that, but it was a reservation for two, not for a group of golfing friends. According to the waitress who served his table, Giles was with a young brunette. They were there until eight thirty.”
“Sounds like we need to have another word with Giles.”
“Agreed.”
When Quaid didn’t move and continued to stare at the Bissett house, I took a chance and touched his leg. “Hey.”
The contact snapped him out of his musings, and he brushed my hand away. “I’m fine.” He threw the Charger into gear and pulled into the street.
“You don’t seem fine. You seem pissed. If you wanna talk about it—”
“I don’t.”
We drove a few blocks in silence. At a red light, Quaid asked, “How’s your niece?”
“She’s doing okay. The medication helped, so thank you for doing that with me this morning. She’s sleeping.”
“How old is she?”
“Seven months.”
“Kylee, right? You called her Kylee?
“Yeah.”
“And your nephew?”
“Graham. He’s five. Starts school in September.”
More silence. Quaid’s effort at making pleasant conversation ended.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Work MPU. Deal with all these missing kids. The sickos who take them for God only knows what reason. I picture my niece or nephew missing, and I break out in a cold sweat.”
“It’s not just kids, and it’s not always kidnapping. We get more runaway teens than you realize. Women who up and vanish for no rhyme or reason. Grandpa with dementia who wanders away without warning.”
“I bet half the time the teens are running from abusive homes and the women from abusive husbands.”
“Many are.”
“That’s what I’m saying. It makes me sick. I’m not sure I could be surrounded by it day in and day out.”
“How is homicide any better? At least if I resolve a case, people come home alive. It’s a victory. Your victims are already dead. There’s no coming back from dead. Same brutality, same sickos, except we were too late to save them.”
I stared out the window as the light turned green and Quaid took us through the intersection. “I guess I never thought of it that way. Ignore me.”
Quaid’s phone rang as we pulled into the Port Credit neighborhood. He glanced at the screen before putting it on speaker. “Valor.”
Ikeyo’s professional tone chirped through the line. “Lauren Banks. Thirty years old and lives in the Kitchener-Waterloo area. Works for Krimp Software. Graduated from McMaster University in 2015. That’s all I’ve got so far.”
“Is she in the city still?” Quaid asked.
“Don’t know. We’re looking into it.”
“Find out and call me back. I want to talk to her.” Quaid disconnected.
A minute later, we turned down Maple Avenue and were entrenched in a swarm of media vans and reporters all gathered on the street.
“Shit,” I mumbled. “The vermin are back, and they’ve multiplied like mogwai.”
“And it didn’t even rain.”
I slapped Quaid’s shoulder with a laugh. “Ha! Someone who knows Gremlins. I like it.”
He fought hard not to smile, but it twitched at the corner of his mouth. “My dad made me watch it when I was a kid. Scared the piss out of me. I still have nightmares.”
“I was a child of the eighties. I’m obsessed with all the movies that came out back then. Gremlins was totally rad.”
“Rad? Are you still a child of the eighties?”
I chuckled as Quaid parked on the street across from the house and cut the engine. The Charger had tinted windows, so neither of us moved, both of us watching the tide of reporters move toward us.
“Game plan?” I asked.
“We confront Giles about his bullshit golfing story. Eyan is here, and I want to talk to him again.”
“I want to know what’s in that basement and why someone was down there for two hours in the middle of the night. It’s bothering me.”
“Me too. Maybe he’ll give us permission to have a look. He seems to want to be cooperative.”
“What’s your take on this mistress?”
Quaid worked his jaw. “I need more information, but a jilted lover—”
“Makes the best suspect.”
“Well, then let’s hope Giles feels a little more honest this morning. Shall we?”
“Lead the way.”
Quaid didn’t move.
Reporters surrounded the vehicle, the sun glinting off their cameras. Their shouted questions droned on the other side of the window.
But I got the sense that wasn’t why Quaid had paused.
He was distant and rigid again, lost in his head like he’d been after Ikeyo had confirmed there was an affair going on.
“You’re letting your personal life affect you again.”
Nothing.
“Quaid?”
It was like he didn’t hear me. Instead of touching his leg, I brushed a hand over his shoulder, giving him a shake. “Hey. Are you with me?”
He didn’t throw me off like before, but he snapped out of it and blinked a few times.
He blew out a breath, making his cheeks puff. “Yeah. I’m fine. Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Take the lead with Giles. I’m…” He wet his lips and cut his attention to me for a fleeting moment before staring out the window at the swarm of media. “I’m not in a good head space for this situation. I’m not sure I can be impartial.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.” He reached for the door handle.
I squeezed his shoulder, stopping him, trying to turn him back around. “Hey.”
That time he shrugged me off. “I’m not broken, Aslan. The timing of this case is bad. That’s all. Stop asking if I’m okay. I said I’m fine.”
He was not fine.
Quaid was out of the car and pushing through the crowd before I could say more.
We made it inside unscathed after the two constables at the door stopped us to check our IDs. They were in place to keep the media away from the house, preventing them from breaking down the front door.
Inside, it was Grand Central Station, worse than the previous night. A few unfamiliar constables milled about. In the front room, Clara was the center of attention. By the look of her, she hadn’t slept. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, and she wore silky pajamas I thought were better suited to a private evening with a lover. They were a little too revealing, and I cut my gaze away when Quaid lanced me with an irritated sneer.
“I wasn’t staring at the highly inappropriate, see-through outfit. I swear.”
His glare intensified.
“You’re much prettier.”
“Could you not?”
“Not what? Stare at your ass every time you turn around? I’ll try. It’ll be hard not to.” I gave him a chef’s kiss and mouthed. “Perfection.”
He didn’t rebuke my comment, which was a win.
We stood at the entryway to the front room and scanned.
Eyan sat on one side of Clara, her mother on the other. Clara’s father paced, a frown marking deep crevices in his wrinkled face. The entire family wore bloodshot eyes and weariness. Melissa Rutherford, the media consultant, was sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, holding Clara’s hands and speaking quietly.
Giles was not in the room.
Constable Melbourne stood off to the side. When she saw us, she slipped away from the group and approached. “Good morning, detectives.”
“Any chance we can convince Mrs. Paquet to get dressed? Her outfit is highly inappropriate. And distracting.” Quaid’s tone was bitter.
“It’s true,” I added. “I can see her nipples. I don’t want to, but I can. They’re right there.”
Quaid elbowed me in the gut, knocking the wind from me.
“Ow. What the heck? It’s true. I was stating a fact.”
Melbourne smirked and dashed a glance at Clara. “Oh, I’ve tried, sir. Several times. She seems fond of flaunting her assets.”
Once I caught my breath and straightened, I placed a hand on the small of Quaid’s back. He stiffened, but he didn’t move away. “What my partner meant to say was, how are things here?”
“It’s been a treat. It was chaos not too long ago. Things have come down a few degrees. All it took was removing the husband.”
“Where’s Giles?” Quaid asked.
“Upstairs in his office. Brett, a neighbor and close family friend, showed up earlier with his daughter. He seems like a decent guy, and he’s the only one who’s been able to get that mouthpiece to shut up for more than five minutes. Pardon me, sir. I know that’s terribly unprofessional, but that guy is… He’s…”
“A piece of work?” I offered.
“Yes. I’m about done with him. He isn’t very upset for someone whose infant son is missing.”
“Brett Vallencourt?” Quaid asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Quaid glanced at me. “That was one of Giles’s golfing alibis.”
“Interesting. Wanna start there?”
Quaid nodded and addressed Melbourne. “I think we’ll slip upstairs to the office and have a chat with Mr. Paquet and his friend.”
“I’ll continue to referee this bunch.”
We climbed the stairs, Quaid keeping a few paces behind me—probably knowing if he went ahead, I’d stare at his ass. When we reached the top, voices carried from across the mezzanine and down a short hallway. Two rumbling, quiet men’s voices. Their tone was level and calm. Hushed. I held out a hand, halting Quaid, then pressed a finger to my lips as I headed toward them.
It wasn’t that I was spying, per se, but I was curious what two close friends might be casually chatting about at a time like this when the rest of the house was in a tangled knot of worry over a missing infant.
The office door was partly ajar.
I paused.
Quaid moved in behind me, close enough his clean, shower-fresh scent hovered in the air. Whatever body wash he used, I liked it. It was spicy with a hint of citrus. Again, I smelled the lingering hints of fabric softener as it wafted off his clothing. Why did he have to smell so appealing? I tried to ignore it and concentrate.
The talk beyond the door was hushed, but I cocked an ear and listened.
Quaid must not have been able to make it out. He moved closer until he was against my back, one hand resting lightly on my arm. All it would take was a subtle shift of my hips and I would be able to grind against him.
I didn’t move.
“I can’t make out what they’re saying,” Quaid whispered. His hot breath ghosted my ear.
It was too much. I glanced back. We were close enough that my cheek grazed his nose.
Quaid jerked back an inch. “Sorry.”
“You’re kinda distracting.”
He made a face like he didn’t understand.
“And you’re so, so oblivious.”
He mimed for me to shut up and listen. I wanted to say more, but the talk in the room grew a fraction louder.
“It wasn’t part of the deal, Giles,” came a voice I didn’t recognize. I assumed it belonged to the friend.
“I panicked.”
“Well, next time, leave me out of it.”
“What was I supposed to say? Clara would have found out, and it’s the last thing she needs.”
“You mean the last thing you need.”
“Daddy?” The question came from a little girl.
With his voice no longer hushed, the friend responded. “Yes, Princess.”
“Does this look like Snowflake?”
There was a shuffling of papers. “It does. You are such a brilliant artist. Look at that. Amazing.”
The girl giggled, and they chatted some more. She said something about drawing the stable where the horse lived. The clandestine moment had passed.
I glanced back at Quaid, who was still standing close enough we were sharing body heat. Straightening and putting space between us, he tipped his chin at the door, indicating I should knock.
I couldn’t stop staring at his long lashes and the dazzling hints of silver that sparkled in the depths of his baby blue eyes when the light caught them just right. Between his shapely cheekbones, chiseled jaw, stylish blond hair, and delectable lips, he could have passed for one of those teenage heartthrobs—if he was ten years younger. I supposed teenage girls weren’t interested in thirty-something-year-old men.
