Running Cold: A Novel, page 11
“Homicide.”
I thought for a moment I’d misheard him. This was Banff, not Toronto or Vancouver. He must have sensed my confusion, so he clarified.
“A hotel guest was shot in cold blood. I need you over there now.”
I flipped my chips in the trash and grabbed my coat.
CHAPTER 25
Monique
Unlike that book of matches, my sidearm was exactly where I knew it would be, and I had it holstered to my hip in three seconds flat.
I backed my truck down the driveway, glad that I had taken the time to shovel. Not that my four-wheel drive couldn’t have handled a foot of snow. I wouldn’t have spent a year’s salary on it if it couldn’t. My car broke down was not an excuse for being late to work, because there was no being late to work. People’s lives depended on it, never more so than today.
I put the truck in drive and made fresh tracks down my unplowed street. My neighborhood was speckled with modest, single-family A-frames, just like mine. There were no vacation rentals in Banff—you had to work here to buy a home here—so my neighbors and I all knew each other. I made a mental note to check in on Mrs. Potter (who lived alone) when I got back, not knowing I would be in no condition to help anybody when this night was over.
Snow assaulted my windshield as I drove down the hill into town. The bright-white flakes looked like a swirling constellation of stars against the dark night, and I suddenly felt like Luke Skywalker piloting toward the Death Star, emphasis on death.
There were three squad cars already parked in front of the hotel entrance when I pulled up. With my arrival, half the Banff police force was on the premises. That’s only four officers, but typically the only time we all saw each other was at the company Christmas party.
I turned off the engine and stepped out into the snow. A valet opened his mouth to tell me I couldn’t leave my truck there, but I flashed my badge before he could get the words out.
Officer Jason Jarvis, the veteran of the force, was stationed at the front door and met my gaze as I approached.
“Have you been inside, J. J.?”
“Not yet.”
There was too much to do to leave a third of my manpower guarding the hotel entrance. “C’mon.”
I beckoned him to follow me. Bookish, bespectacled officer Kyle Purdy was standing by the giant gingerbread house, hands clasped in front of his waist, waiting for my orders. I was the only one not in uniform—not having to put on that itchy polyester pantsuit was one of the perks of being at the top of the food chain.
“Officer Purdy,” I said as Jarvis and I approached. Normally we called each other by our first names, but there were a lot of eyes on us and I thought it best to keep it formal.
“Good evening, Detective.”
“Who else is here?” I asked.
“Stafford. He was first on scene.” Simon Stafford was our newest officer, fresh out of the police academy. We called him “Babyface,” though after what he’d seen today, that nickname would no longer be appropriate.
“Where’s the crime scene?”
“Room 901, the penthouse. I’ll find someone to take you there.”
Purdy pushed his Harry Potter glasses up his nose as he moved off.
“What’s up with this power outage?” I asked Jarvis, because of the four of us, he’d lived here the longest.
“I was hoping you knew.”
Purdy returned with a pale, chestnut-haired woman whose name tag identified her as Sydney from Sydney.
“This is Detective Monique Montpelier,” Purdy said, and I flashed my badge right on cue. “She was hoping you could take her to room 901.”
“Yes, of course. Let me just go make a key.”
“You don’t have a master key?” I asked.
“I work the front desk. We don’t have access to the guest rooms.” Finding out who did have access to the victim’s room was critical, so I put my best man on it.
“Purdy, I need you to get a manifest of guests with their corresponding room numbers. Make sure it shows when they checked in and their scheduled checkout dates. Scan the list and highlight anyone scheduled to leave tomorrow.”
“Copy that.” He started to move off, but I grabbed his arm.
“I also need a list of all the employees who have access to the guest rooms. Highlight anyone hired in the last two weeks.”
“Got it.”
“Presumably everyone who works here had a background check—”
“I’ll get those too.”
“Thanks, Kyle.” I let go of his arm. He moved off toward the front desk as Sydney returned with my key.
“Jarvis, you’re with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then, to Sydney: “Lead the way.”
Jarvis and I fell in behind Sydney as she led us toward the elevator. Jarvis looked exactly like you’d expect a small-town cop to look: graying beard, sprouting potbelly, twinkle in his eye. He was no longer agile enough to get your cat out of the tree, but he’d hold your hand until somebody did. Officer Jason Jarvis, or J. J., as everybody called him, dedicated his life to serving and protecting the citizens of Banff. There had never been a more committed cop in the history of the RCMP, and if he were a ballplayer, he’d be a first-ballot hall of famer.
A few guests glanced our way, but their lack of concern suggested they presumed we were here because of the power outage, which by now was old news. I was grateful to have the power failure as cover for our presence. The only thing we’d gain by people knowing there’d been a murder was a whole lot of panic.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened, and we filed inside. Sydney pressed the magnetic key to the keypad, then handed it to me.
“I programmed it to work all week, so you can come and go as you need.”
“Thank you.” I don’t want to say I was excited to run my first murder investigation, but yeah, I was excited. I felt calm but energized, nervous but hyperfocused. Every cell in my body was on high alert. I had trained for this. I was ready.
“How long have you worked at the Banff Springs Hotel, Sydney?” I asked as we rode up the elevator. The poor girl looked terrified. Not likely she knew anything that could help my investigation, but there was no reason not to get to know her a little.
“About eighteen months.”
“This must be quite a shock for you.”
“We haven’t been told what happened, ma’am.”
“No?”
“Only that one of the guests had a medical emergency.” Interesting. I would have thought news of a homicide would have traveled quickly among the staff.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened. Officer Simon Stafford was standing at the end of the hall with a trim, dark-haired man in a suit. By the irritated look on the man’s face, I knew Stafford was doing his job and not letting him in the room.
“I can take it from here, Sydney. Thanks.”
Jarvis started to follow me down the hall, but I stopped him with my hand.
“I need you stationed here,” I said. “In case anyone wanders up to this floor.”
“Copy that.” I thought he’d be disappointed to be relegated to elevator duty, but his eyes registered relief.
I walked over to where Stafford and the irritated-looking man were standing.
“Officer Stafford.”
“Detective.”
“I’m Detective Monique Montpelier of the RCMP,” I said to the dark-haired stranger. “And you are . . . ?”
“Remy Delatour,” he said, rolling the r’s at the beginning and end of his name. I knew of, but had never met, the manager of the Banff Springs Hotel. The word around town was that he was a bit of a player. As I stood in front of him, looking into those baby blues and breathing in the warm vanilla notes of his cologne, it was easy to see what all the fuss was about.
“Have you been in the room?” I asked, pushing those other thoughts aside.
“I was the one who found her.”
“And you called 911?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately what time was that?”
He looked down at his phone. “5:33 p.m.” I glanced at Stafford, and he nodded that he understood we would verify that with dispatch.
“How did you know she needed help?”
“She phoned me. On my mobile. At”—he peeked at his phone again—“5:27.” We would verify that too. But also—
“You give hotel guests your cell phone number?”
“Madame Rousseau was not a typical guest.” I was curious what he meant by that, but I was eager to examine the scene. I did have one last question.
“How was she when you got here?” If Mrs. Rousseau had seen her attacker and told Delatour, this case might be open and shut.
“Dead, I’m afraid.” But no such luck.
“As I’m sure my colleague Officer Stafford informed you, we have to seal off the room now.” In other words, go away, I almost said, but stopped myself.
“I understand,” he said, though the fact that he didn’t move suggested that he didn’t. I turned to Officer Stafford.
“You were first on scene?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Anything strike you?” I wanted to ask his first impressions before he forgot. He hesitated before answering.
“Stafford?”
“It was not quick and painless.” He coughed into his fist to cover the tremble in his voice. Simon Stafford was a burly guy, a former hockey player who might have gone pro if his Achilles hadn’t snapped. He had the bones of a draught horse and hands as big as boxing mitts. It was unsettling to see him rattled.
“Noted.”
I prepared myself for the worst as I put the key to the lock. The light went from red to green. I opened the door.
Despite being a cop for almost twenty years, I had never been on a murder scene. I was prepared for the sight of blood. What I wasn’t prepared for was the smell of it—sour, metallic . . . like rotten apples mixed with old car parts.
I saw the crumpled form of the victim on the floor by the desk. Given that EMTs had already declared her beyond help, the body was supposed to remain untouched until the medical examiner got here to determine the cause and time of death. I had a flash of panic. Am I supposed to call him? Or did Stafford do that? This was new territory for all of us, but I still cursed myself for not knowing the protocol.
I turned my attention to the victim. She was a slight woman in her early sixties with shiny, platinum blond hair. Darkening blood encircled a gunshot wound in the center of her chest. Her hands and arms were covered in blood, as if she’d tried to tamp the bleeding. There were crimson handprints everywhere—on the carpet, the drapes, the sofa, the phone. Stafford was right. There had been nothing quick and painless about her death. Someone either wanted her to suffer or was a piss-poor shot.
Other than the smears of blood, the room was tidy. A fleece blanket was neatly folded on the side of the couch. Twin throw pillows were fluffed and symmetrically placed. There was a full glass of wine next to an open laptop on the writing desk. Just one glass. Did that mean she wasn’t expecting company?
I took out my phone and photographed the scene, then stepped into the hall to talk to Stafford.
“Did you call the ME?” I asked, even though I should have known the answer.
“Chief did that.” That’s right. First on scene calls the chief of police. He calls the medical examiner and his star detective. Or rather, his only detective.
Remy Delatour was still standing next to Stafford. It was unclear what he was waiting for, but I decided to take the opportunity to ask him one more question.
“Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
And when he hesitated before answering, I knew that he did.
CHAPTER 26
Julie
“We’re going to die here on this mountain, aren’t we?” Izzy asked through terrified sobs. Her gloved hands were balled into tight fists, her eyes bulged with terror. We’d been stopped in midair for over ten minutes, bouncing and swaying like a playground tetherball.
“Surely the gondola can withstand a little wind and snow,” Christa said with her typical confidence. There was nothing “little” about the blizzard we were in, and the wind was damn near hurricane strength. But I opted not to say so.
“Definitely,” I said, trying to match Christa’s optimism. Unlike when you’re experiencing turbulence in an airplane, there was no pilot to reassure us that what was happening was normal and would pass. We were left to worry and wonder.
“I mean, there must have been storms like this before?” Suki asked.
The three women were looking at me like I was some sort of expert on winter.
“It snows here all the time,” I said. “Sometimes even harder,” I added for good measure.
“You said the gondola has been here for almost seventy years,” Christa reminded me.
“That’s right.”
“Then it’s held in worse weather than this,” she reasoned.
Without people in it, I thought, but didn’t say out loud. I was no engineer, but the strain on the cable when the cabins were full had to be significantly greater than when they were empty. They had evacuated the restaurant all at once. That’s a lot of full cabins.
“OK, but if the power is out, how do we get down?” Suki asked.
“I would imagine they have a generator,” I replied, because if they didn’t, that would be very bad for us.
“So why isn’t it on?” she pressed.
There were several possible explanations: they didn’t know how to work it, it’s out of gas, the gas was frozen—diesel fuel freezes in subzero temperatures. If it’s not treated, it turns into a giant petrol Popsicle.
“Oh my God, do you think it’s broken?” Izzy’s eyes were as wide as truck tires.
The generator is broken was also a possibility—but I didn’t want to say it.
“Firing up a generator takes time,” I said, hoping it was true.
“Takes longer if they don’t have one,” Izzy shot back.
“Of course they have a generator,” Christa said. “They wouldn’t leave people to die up here.”
And then, not two seconds after Christa had spoken the word die—
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!”
A gust of wind lifted our capsule into the air and—
“Ahhhhhh!”
Dropped it like a hot potato. We bounced so high we hit our heads on the ceiling.
“Ow!” Suki cursed.
“Are you OK?” Christa asked.
“I bit my tongue.” Suki stuck out her tongue so we could see it. “Ithz it bleeding?”
I leaned over for a closer look. There was a line of blood where she’d bitten it, but I didn’t think she would bleed out.
“I think it’s OK.”
The snow was falling in sheets now. I had experienced squalls before, but never while suspended in midair.
“Why ithz thithz happening?” Suki lisped, and I had to wonder the same thing. I wasn’t what you might call a God-fearing person. I didn’t pray or believe in karma. My coaches had taught me that good fortune is the result of hard work. It’s your talent, training, and perseverance that determine your lot in life, not some supernatural force. A poor result is the product of insufficient preparation—full stop.
“I can’t get pregnant,” Christa blurted, as if this was her last chance to confess that not everything came easily to her. “We’ve been trying for two years, even before we got married.”
Nobody said anything. Christa was the one who always got what she wanted because she went out and grabbed it by the throat. It was disorienting to imagine her struggling, and we were all rendered speechless.
“I don’t want kidzzz,” Suki said with her tender tongue. “Never did.” She said it like an apology. Perhaps because she was a schoolteacher and feared it seemed blasphemous.
“Funny how the universe works,” Christa said.
“Not alwaythzz that funny,” Suki replied, putting a consoling hand on Christa’s shoulder.
The wind screeched like brakes on an aging tractor trailer. As snow pummeled the windows of our tiny capsule, I suddenly wondered if my coaches had been wrong about we humans exclusively controlling our destinies. Because right now, the universe wasn’t just toying with us, it was furious. I looked down at my designer clothes—Ceci Rousseau’s designer clothes—and had to consider the possibility that our perilous situation had something to do with me.
I looked up at the panicked faces of my friends. They’d traveled over a thousand miles to be with me in my time of need. If it was confession time, I owed them mine. Not just about why I’d come to Banff, but all the lies my ego had made me tell since I’d gotten here. I didn’t know if it would assuage the universe, but I owed it to my friends to give it a try.
“You guys,” I started. “I have something to confess too.”
And as they all looked at me, I braced myself to be not only widowed, but friendless too.
CHAPTER 27
Monique
Banff doesn’t have its own ME, and given the weather, I knew it would be tough to get one here. As I steeled myself for a long night of waiting, I got a whiff of good news. Calgary’s chief medical examiner was on his way to Lake Louise, the town just west of Banff. When my boss connected with him, he was just fifteen minutes away on Highway 1. As I waited for him in the hall outside the crime scene, I went over what I knew.
The hotel manager had identified the victim as Mrs. Cecile Montgomery Rousseau. His nonanswer when I’d asked him if he knew who may have done this had piqued my curiosity. While I’d been tempted to press him about his suspicions, I thought it better to wait until I had more facts. Who was this woman? What was she doing in Banff? And who might have a motive to kill her in cold blood?
Delatour told me “Ceci” had been a hotel guest since sometime in June. When I’d remarked that six months was a long time to stay at a hotel, he explained that she was going through a divorce. I’d tried not to jump to conclusions. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not always the husband. Even when he’s a soon-to-be ex-husband. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check him out.
