Chapter 4
Kobe
I met Rue at the station at seven the following morning, with a bounce in my step I couldn’t hide.
Although the time I’d spent the previous day with Dominique had left me with more questions than answers, he’d agreed to meet for drinks, so it wasn’t a complete loss.
Whether our expectations aligned or not was yet to be determined.
Rue immediately noticed my high spirits—my partner never missed anything.
Her dark gaze lingered as I dropped into the seat at my desk. I suffered further dissection as I logged into the computer and pulled up my email. The autopsy report wouldn’t be there yet, but I was waiting on labs and correspondence for other cases, so it didn’t hurt to check.
“You asked out the handsome pathologist, didn’t you?”
I couldn’t contain my grin. “Maybe.”
“Haven. Look at me.”
I looked, knowing everything was on display. Some people could hide their emotions behind a shield. I was not one of those people.
“In my defense, you sent me to the autopsy. What did you expect?”
Rue narrowed her eyes as she studied every nuance of my face. “Did he say yes?”
I pursed my lips and rocked my head from side to side. “Sort of.”
A single sculpted brow inched toward her hairline as she rolled a hand. “Might as well get this out of the way so it doesn’t interfere with our job later. God knows you’ll be insufferable otherwise.”
“I will not.”
“Talk.”
I heaved an exaggerated sigh and leaned forward, scanning the bustling room.
Dozens of detectives and constables rushed around. The harried energy in the bullpen was typical of a Monday morning as people raced about collecting new assignments or getting updates on the weekend arrests.
“You might as well join me at my desk,” she said. “I have stuff to show you anyhow.”
I dragged my chair beside Rue’s. A faint hint of floral perfume surrounded her, reminding me of the out-of-place tropical essence at the crime scene the previous day.
Rue wore a black pantsuit with a white blouse under the suit jacket. Sleek and professional as always. Her silky black hair hung past her shoulders. No ponytail that morning.
Our age difference meant Rue tended to mother-hen. It drove me up the wall. Once I got comfortable, she rapped the desk. “Talk.”
“We’re meeting at the Apothecary for a drink.”
“When?”
“Whenever I set it up. I was thinking tonight or tomorrow night.”
“Sounds like a date. Why the hesitation?”
“It is a date. I think. In a way. It was how I intended it when I asked, except…” I replayed the parking lot conversation in my head for the hundredth time but came up with the same unclear picture as I had the previous night.
“I don’t think he accepted the offer as a date invitation.
He seemed to stress it was a meeting with the sole purpose of discussing the results of the autopsy. ”
“I can’t imagine you were subtle in your delivery.”
I wrinkled my nose. “No. Elifet is convinced I’m incapable of being subtle. He says my body language gives me away. I don’t know. I suppose if Dominique’s not interested in men, the invitation might have seemed bizarre or too forward. It could be why he emphasized discussing work.”
I sighed and scrubbed my face. Two days of scruff rasped against my palms. I’d forgotten to shave again, and if I wasn’t careful, my sergeant would pull me in for a reprimand.
She wanted her detectives to fit a certain mold, and I never quite met those qualifications in her eyes. She nitpicked at everything.
“There’s a reason I’m single, you know. I truly suck at asking guys out.”
“Do you get a vibe at all? Don’t all the gays brag about having a sixth sense about these things? What do they call it? Gaydar?”
“Ugh. Mine is clearly broken. It’s weird. I do and I don’t get a vibe. Dominique is… reserved to excess. He stares at me in a way that feels like interest, but if I acknowledge it, he finds somewhere else to focus his attention, and I can’t snag it back. Did you know he has a kid?”
Rue flinched. “He does?”
“Yeah. She’s little. Two and a half. He has a picture of her on his desk. She’s fucking adorable.”
“A wife?”
“I asked. She passed away.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Rue smacked me across the back of my head so unexpectedly, I yelped and grabbed at the afflicted area. “Ow. What the heck was that for?”
“You’re an idiot, Haven.”
“Yeah, I know. Be more specific. What did I do?”
“You failed detective school, apparently. Do you want to know why he’s wishy-washy about your invitation and you can’t get a read on him?”
“Because he’s straight?”
“No, Haven. He’s grieving.”
“I mean… yeah, maybe. Probably, or he’s straight. He was obviously married, so he likely isn’t sure what to do with some random guy hitting on him.”
“I can’t believe I have to say this. Not all married men are straight. Not all people in hetero-presenting relationships are straight. He could be bi and grieving.”
“Okay, no need to emphasize the obvious and lecture me. I hear you. My timing is shit. I should back out.”
“Kobe, he could be interested but not sure if he’s ready to move on.
” Rue made a noise of exasperation in her throat and faced her laptop.
“Tread carefully. That’s all. If he agreed to have a drink with you on the premise of discussing work, then maybe he’s unsure what he wants.
Let the night unfold naturally. Play it by ear. Don’t push yourself on him.”
“Yes, mother. I didn’t plan to. I know how to date. Sort of. Did you know he’s from Gatineau?”
“I heard. Can we move this along? I IDed our victim from last night.” Rue motioned to the laptop screen.
“Dr. Navid Kordestani. Forty-seven years old.
Owns a house on Brantwood Drive, next to the river, south of where we found him.
He worked part-time at the University Hospital in the ER and taught three nights a week at the University of Ottawa.
His father is deceased. His mother is a resident at Billingswood Manor, a retirement home off Bank Street.
He divorced his wife two years ago. They had no children.
“When he didn’t show up for his morning shift at the hospital and no one could get a hold of him, a concerned colleague made a friendly house call.
She discovered his vehicle in the driveway but got no answer at the door.
She called the local PD for a wellness check.
They found no sign of him inside the house, but his wallet and keys were by the door.
The pieces swiftly aligned when they came back to the station to file the report. ”
An image of the deceased appeared on Rue’s computer screen.
“Yep. That’s our guy.” I gave my partner a rundown of what I’d learned at the autopsy the previous night, confirming the cause of death and explaining the postmortem insertion of the spike.
Rue spun in her chair to face me. “What do you make of the flower and note?”
“Our perp is telling us something. I’m not sure what exactly, but by calling Navid a heartless bastard, I assume they are justifying their kill. The perfume is bizarre. Do you think that was intentional?”
“Yes. It was too strong to be a transfer. I asked a tech for an analysis on it specifically, but the decomposition of the rose is an issue. Are you still leaning toward a male suspect and potential infidelity?”
“I’m not locked in, but it makes sense.”
“So, a jaded husband found out his wife was cheating and went after the lover?”
I waffled my head from side to side. “It’s been known to happen. I’m more apt to believe a husband went after his wife’s lover than a wife sought retribution for a cheating husband.”
“Why?”
“Strangling him like that? No fucking way.”
“That’s sexist, Kobe.”
“It’s a fact. We discussed it.”
“It’s sexist. There are plenty of women capable of bringing down a man twice his size.”
I held my hands up. “Okay. I submit. I could be wrong, but it’s not likely.
Besides…” I tipped my head at the computer.
“He’s divorced, remember? We’ll keep a female suspect on the table, but I’m not sold.
We should talk to a few of this guy’s colleagues and see if he had any enemies or was dating someone. ”
“And the mother? We have to deliver the news at some point.”
“I know.” I shifted uncomfortably as my gut twinged. “I hate giving bad news to the elderly.”
“It’s delicate. Word will get out, and we have to stay ahead of it.”
“Fine. Nursing home first, then we visit the hospital and university.”
Rue signed out a department stealth SUV, and we traveled together to the nursing home to tell an elderly woman that her son had been murdered. I let Rue do the talking, melting into the background.
Delivering bad news to families was the worst part of the job.
It had a strange effect on me, one Rue had noticed but never questioned.
The instant that loved ones heard about their loss and broke down in tears, something toxic pooled in my gut.
That poison, once released, was accompanied by a low-grade anger that stuck to my ribs and clotted my arteries.
The anger wasn’t directed at the grieving families but at my absent mother, who hadn’t bothered contacting me in over sixteen years.
Not that I wanted her to. In fact, if she ever deigned to pick up the phone, I would likely hang up.
If I ran into her at the supermarket, I would turn and walk the other way.
Rooted in childhood trauma, the anger often surfaced when I faced situations where I was forced to witness something I’d missed out on.
Unconditional love. Watching families who cared, who grieved, who cried for lost sons or daughters, only reminded me I had no one of flesh and blood who would do the same if I ended up a victim.