“Still thawing,” he said in lieu of hello.
“I didn’t smell perfume. The rose was crushed. Stomped on. I never got close enough. Did you notice a smell or if it was sprayed?”
Dominique was silent for a long time, then, “I don’t recall smelling anything, but considering the weather and time frame, it’s possible the particulates had dispersed by then. There’s a nasty wind off the water, moisture from the snow.”
“Right. Shit. Okay.”
More silence.
“I won’t keep you.”
“Are you making any headway?” Dominique asked when I was about to say goodbye and hang up.
“Haven’t got far yet. A lot of hunches.”
“Keep me posted?”
“I will. You too.”
“I will.”
A pregnant pause bled through the line, then Dominique hung up.
Something was wrong, but I didn’t have the capacity to deal with it right now. I had to focus before my boss showed up and decided to reassign me or the case itself.
My heart knocked harder and faster as I considered the events that might have led to the murder of four men. Whatever the circumstances, it would have been bad. Worse than bad. Ugly. Vicious. Enough to cause a break from reality. Enough for her to spiral and stop thinking rationally.
Enough to turn a vulnerable woman into a killer. And yes, I was convinced it was a woman.
Fatemeh had never struck me as vulnerable. Angry and vengeful, yes.
Cheyenne? She seemed meek and mild, incapable of harming a fly, but if she was put in a compromising situation…
We tried to report them.
We still aren’t safe.
It was our word against theirs.
We still aren’t safe.
We still aren’t safe.
We still aren’t safe.
The school had done nothing.
I glanced at Navid’s photo again before putting it aside and locating one for Ford and Jesse. I lined them up and peered into the still images of two young men who, at one time, thought they ruled campus.
“Did you rape her?” I asked them. “Did three of you team up and attack an innocent woman? Did you take something from her that she could never get back? You fuckers did, didn’t you?”
The photographs didn’t respond, but it felt like their smiles grew more sinister the longer I stared at them. Taunting. Asking me what I was going to do about it.
I shoved the photos aside and drew the laptop forward. Building a profile for Malik Quinn took no time. He was a fourth-year law student, still enrolled at the University of Ottawa. No driving infractions. His lawyer father ran a prominent firm in the city. His mother was a nurse working in a cancer clinic. Malik’s school record was immaculate. Awards. Scholarships. Commendations in the media. A high-achieving student who was expected to go far.
I wasn’t buying the aura of perfection. “If that’s the case, then why are you dead, Malik?”
Lastly, I performed a standard criminal reference check, and when the results hit the screen, I sat back with a grin, vindicated. “And there it is, you motherfucker.”
