Todd slammed his palm on the table. “He did two years for Christ sakes. What’s the matter with you?” His voice cracked. The air was thick and heavy. A premonitory chill ran down Gibson’s spine. The silence was like a shroud. It stretched thinner and thinner, ready to rupture.
“Did you see anything, Savannah?” Gibson pressed on.
“Like what?”
“Did you see anybody leave?”
“I guess Gregory left before the fireworks.” She paused. “But so did a few of the other guys. So what.”
“Anything else?”
Todd shrugged.
“No.” Savannah looked up at him.
“Okay. Thanks for your help. Take care.”
They trudged down the pathway to the truck. Gibson studied the shuttered windows of the store. “We have a dilemma.”
“What?” Eckhart asked.
“Presumably Gregory is on parole.”
“Oh.”
“He may have breached his parole in several aspects.”
“Such as?”
“Hanging out at a party with alcohol available. Alternatively, were there any adolescents present? We don’t know his conditions of release.”
“And he seems to be missing,” Eckhart said.
“Yeah. Maybe that’s why he’s taken a runner. Let’s go to the station.”
“Maybe catch a snack on the way.”
“Sure,” he replied.
She fired up the Expedition. They stopped at a local takeout and snagged sandwiches and coffee. He ate his veggie roll on the road. There wasn’t a soul in the office. The constables had taken off for the day.
They headed to Eckhart’s office. It was painted a light shade of yellow with cream coloured baseboards. Limited edition prints hung on one wall. A naked oak desk faced the door, a power position for the boss. The floor-to-ceiling window behind it overlooked the same row of maples as the other offices. A bookshelf bursting with law books took up the rest of the room.
“Nice.”
“I’m partial to it.” Eckhart pulled a laptop out of a top drawer and placed it on the desk. It fired up but there wasn’t any internet access. “My computer isn’t hooked up yet.”
“Oh.”
They headed to the lab, brushing hands as they squeezed through the doorway.
“Nothing yet,” Frenchy said before they asked.
“Can we use the computer?”
“You bet.” She punched in her password. “There you go.”
Gibson sat down and logged into the RCMP database. He scrolled through a few pages before he found Gregory Cunningham.
“Yup. He’s on parole.” He looked up at his partner.
“What are the conditions?”
“The regular. He can’t leave the city. He must keep the peace. Be of good behaviour and obey the law. Duh.”
Eckhart giggled.
“Abstain from alcohol and illegal drugs. Forbidden to contact victims or children. Stay away from people involved in criminal activity. Not allowed to keep any weapon. That’s it.”
“Has he broken any of the conditions?”
“If he consumed beer with the guys,” he answered.
“Okay.”
“One further condition I see here.” He passed his finger down the screen. “If you have been arrested or questioned by the police, you must notify your supervisor immediately. That doesn’t help. We can’t question someone we can’t find. So, has Gregory made himself scarce because he’s afraid of being involved – because of his parole? Or the worst-case scenario we have to consider is, did he kill Elsie?”
“Oh, god,” Eckhart said.
“His parole can be suspended for up to fourteen days even if there’s a suspicion he has violated his release conditions.”
“I would hide from us too.” Another giggle erupted.
“He can be arrested and returned to jail.”
“We better talk to his parole officer.”
“Maybe there’s a number online.” He searched through the webpage. “Nope.”
“Call the central switchboard.”
“You should do that. You have the right badge.” Gibson chuckled.
She stabbed in the numbers and waited. “Hi, there. This is Inspector Rene Eckhart. I’m looking for a contact number for a parole officer.” She rattled off her badge number and Gregory’s full name and address. An elevator song trumpeted into the earpiece. She yanked the phone from her ear and pouted. The operator returned within a few minutes and provided her the info. Eckhart hung up and shifted to Gibson.
“Brandon Sullivan.” She dialed, but the call flipped to an agent. Brandon was out of town, so she made an appointment for when he returned.
“We have an appointment for Sunday at ten.”
“We need to find Gregory. Where would he have gone?”
“I think you might be right. He’s gone to Grimsby.”
“If we find him there, that would be an infringement of his parole,” Gibson said. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Right. Early morning then?”
“Pick me up at seven?”
“Okay.” She bit her tongue.
They cruised down the service road to the main street and through Port Dalhousie. She pulled into the motel’s circular driveway and shifted into park. She watched him go in the front entrance and drove home.
Chapter 11
The grim twist of Gibson’s mouth revealed his sombre mood. He stood outside the café waiting for his ride, leaning against the building, hands in his pockets. Not even the sun-kissed sky caused him to smile. He watched as thin, feathery clouds drifted lazily through the forget-me-not blue.
Eckhart pulled up in the truck. What attracted him to her beauty, her silliness? The doubts had started to creep in. The last few years had been challenging. Was he burned out? Or looking for a way out? He wasn’t certain. Yes, he loved Katherine, but something had become buried in the struggles. He slid into the passenger seat.
“Hi, cowboy. It’s been a few rough days.” She tapped lightly on his sleeve and lifted her eyebrows mischievously.
Gibson flashed a quirky smile and stretched out for the run to Grimsby, gazing out the window. She turned around in the motel parking lot and took Ontario Street to the Queen Elizabeth Highway West, four lanes in each direction. Large trucks shook the Expedition as th
ey rocketed past. Gibson sank deeper into his seat and tried to enjoy the ride. The road ran parallel to the shoreline with scenery that replayed itself every so often: trees, fields, houses; repeat.
When they reached Jordan Harbour, the highway converged with the lake. Gibson looked at the never-ending expanse of light-dappled water. Just as he had focused on the horizon, Eckhart swung the truck inland. Ten minutes later, Gibson spotted the turnoff for Beamsville.
“There’s our exit. I haven’t been out this way for thirty years.”
“Really?”
Eckhart took the off ramp and circled round the overpass. She zigzagged through the back roads. They passed several vineyards, acres of greenhouses and apple orchards before Lincoln Avenue came up at a crossroads.
Gibson considered the signpost. The numbering was faded. Which way to go? “Turn right.” Just before some railroad tracks, he saw a mailbox on the roadside with the address they were searching. He pointed to the run-down house. “Here.”
It was more like a shack, black stains running down the siding, moss on the roof.
Eckhart pulled behind an old Ford Escort with rusted-out fenders. Two kids came shooting around the corner, torn shorts and dirt covered knees. They stopped and gawked at the gleaming new truck. She shut off the motor. “What’s this guy’s name again?”
“JT Henneberry,” he said, reading from his notes.
They stepped out into a drier, warmer air than the city, away from the water. A skinny boy ran straight at Gibson, head down like a battering ram.
“Whoa there, big fellow.” He chuckled.
“Are you a friend of my dad?” the boy asked, swaggering on a pinpoint, fixed to rumble.
“Ah. Could be.”
The front door lurched open. A skinny guy stood there with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wore jeans tattered at the hem and a T-shirt with a label from some rock band.
“You must be the detectives.”