LITMIR.BIZ

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kept his mouth shut.

      “I have no recollection of being in Halifax in April 1996.”

      No recollection, she thought. Spoken like someone who’d been coached by a lawyer. “Do you know a woman named Patricia Ross? Also known as Patti Oliver?”

      “The victim?”

      Peters said nothing.

      “Neither name is familiar.”

      “She was Daniel Oliver’s fiancée. You do remember him, I hope.”

      The icy stare softened, and his gaze shifted to the river. “Of course I do. Danny was an exemplary soldier, and his death was a tragedy.”

      “Try murder.”

      His lips thinned. “I understood it was unintentional. Too much drink all around.”

      “Maybe not. How did you hear about it?”

      He flicked his gaze back to her. “The army is rather like the police force, I imagine. When death strikes one of our own, the news travels across the continent. All the way to Edmonton in my case.”

      “But who told you?”

      “One of the other platoon leaders from that mission. Soldiers talk, you know, about who’s doing what. Who’s encountered trouble and who got promoted. I heard Oliver was in trouble, so I kept an ear to the ground.”

      “Did you contact him?”

      “No.” He looked back at the river. Neat trick, she thought. Commune with nature, look regretful, and avoid my eyes all in one shot. “Maybe I should have.”

      Peters studied her notes, taking mental stock. So far, it was the colonel three, herself zip. She ploughed ahead. “On Monday of last week, Patricia Ross came up to Petawawa to speak to you. Do you recall that meeting?”

      Dickhead laughed. “You must think me a fool, Detective. You show me a picture of the dead woman and ask if I’ve ever met a Patricia Ross, and despite my professed ignorance of both, you ask if I met her last week!”

      Peters could feel her face flame. She tugged at her hot pink skirt furiously to get it further down her thighs. Mr. Steroids leaned in, as if threatening to come to her rescue.

      “I don’t think you’re a fool, Colonel, and your answers were duly recorded. But people lie to the police all the time, sir. We have information that she travelled to Petawawa on the one o’clock bus to meet with you.”

      “Well then, she never made it here. I apologize for sounding rude, Detective Peters. I appreciate that plenty of people lie to the police, but I give you my word as an officer that I did not meet with her.”

      How fucking quaint, she thought, scrambling to rescue her line of questioning. “Do you have any idea why she might have been trying to meet with you?”

      “Absolutely none. Not at this late date, anyway. Back when Danny died, she might have wanted to know about his tour overseas under my command. Which as I said had been outstanding. She might have derived comfort from it had she asked me. I personally promoted him to master corporal so that he could lead his section.”

      “Why didn’t you tell her anyway, even before she asked?”

      “I didn’t know she existed. I did write Danny’s parents.” He began to collect coffee cups onto a stainless steel stray, lining up the spoons along the edge like a drill parade. “I hope this hasn’t proved to be a complete waste of time,” he said. “I’d feel badly if Danny’s fiancée was trying to find out information about him, and I was unavailable to help.”

      “Where were you between the hours of one and six p.m. on Monday April 17th?”

      “Monday?” He paused only fractionally. “I was at my office, in a meeting with General Stubbing and nine other senior officers and civilians. I can get them to make formal statements if that would be helpful.”

      Out of the corner of her eye, Peters saw Mr. Steroids jot the information down. The first note he’d taken in the entire interview. Did he notice that the guy had barely paused to think?

      “Thank you,” she said. “The general’s statement should be sufficient.”

      Finally, the dickhead blinked. Or rather, set the coffee tray down with a clatter. Gotcha, she thought gleefully, and jotted the lapse in her notebook. When she looked up, he was watching her warily.

      “One more question, Colonel. Where were you on Sunday April 23rd, between six p.m. and six a.m.?”

      This time the slick bastard didn’t even pause for breath. His alibis seemed to be right at his fingertips. “Here, with my wife. We sat in this very spot for dinner and at dusk we went inside. She to watch TV and I to deal with three hours of paperwork, after which we went to bed. I did not awaken until 0500 hours. Too late to travel to Ottawa, I suspect.”

      Peters made a show of glancing around, even though there was no sign of anyone else. “Is your wife here this afternoon?”

      “No, Sandra works in town. Do you want her to send you a statement as well?”

      “No. I’d prefer to take it myself. What is her work address?”

      He realigned the coffee spoons as he rattled off directions to an address on Petawawa Boulevard. Steroids wrote down every word, and Peters stood up to leave. She thanked him for his cooperation and handed him her card, according to her detective training. As she headed back towards the car, she resisted the urge to look back. Wondering if the dickhead was already racing inside to put in a warning call to his wife. Rallying the troops, so to speak.

      As she and Steroids headed towards Petawawa’s main street, she took the time to observe the surroundings, looking for sleazy hangouts the soldiers would love. She was quick to discover that it was not your typical Ontario town. Almost none of its streets went in a straight line where you thought they should, and businesses seemed to be scattered helter skelter along the way; car dealers next door to banks and pizza joints, old Victorian cottages next to strip malls. Maybe it was because it had never been a town on its own, but had spread like a drunken spider’s web from the big military base at its core.

      Soldiers in combat fatigues were everywhere. So, surprisingly, were election placards. The drive through Renfrew County en route to Petawawa had taken them through solid Conservative blue countryside, but here in the town there seemed to be a competition of one-upmanship between Tory blue signs and Liberal red. Was it the influence of the military or of the scientists in Chalk River Nuclear Research Facility just upriver?

      “It looks like a close race up here,” Steroids commented, like he’d read her mind.

      Peters tried to decide if it was worth replying. She was sick and tired of politics, and there was still another two weeks of media overkill before it would be over. “They’re all a bunch of crooks,” she said. “It blows my mind that some people still vote Liberal. How much of our hard-earned tax dollars do they have to dish out to their pals before people get the message?”

      He opened his mouth, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to argue, but just then they whizzed past the strip mall housing Sandra Hamm’s craft boutique, barely visible between a pawn shop and a pet food store. Peters did a U-turn, her fifth of the day, and swooped into a parking spot outside the shop. In the window was a display of painted eggs and giant twig wreaths decorated with yellow ribbons and bunny rabbits. Bit late for Easter, thought Peters, as she shoved open the door. I guess wifie doesn’t share hubbie’s love of precision.

      But hubbie had obviously tipped wifie off, because she trotted out an alibi almost word for word the same as his, except that she specified the TV shows. Survivor, a gardening show, and the tape of her soap. Exciting life you lead, Peters thought as she recorded the list. The whole interview took less than five minutes.

      “Well, we’ve learned absolutely fuck-all on this trip,” Mr. Steroids said once they were back outside.

      “Yeah,

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