LITMIR.BIZ

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but structured it in a new way. Then I went on to design the undercarriage and the body. I built a small prototype in my garage and ran tests.” He leaned forward in his effort to convince them. “It looks very promising. Exciting, truly.”

      “How did you end up dealing with Tom Underwood?”

      “It was through his partner, J.P. Belliveau. I approached Belliveau with my idea after I had it patented. He came to Montreal and we met. I’d researched their company and knew they supplied the armed forces with vehicles. Belliveau said he was going to get Underwood to set up the deal. He said this vehicle, if it was as good as I said it was, would make us all very rich.”

      Archambault kept adding facts to what he’d told them before. Kala jotted down the latest pearl.

      “Was Underwood as convinced that this would make them rich?” Grayson leaned back in his chair as if he was listening to the biggest tall tale ever told.

      Archambault’s face paled. He looked toward Kala, his eyes begging for support. “Underwood was crunching numbers. I believe he arrived at the same conclusion as Belliveau. This was going to make us all some serious dough.”

      “You believe or you know?”

      “I know. I’m sure. The contract was to come through that day. The day Underwood died.”

      “The day he was murdered,” said Grayson.

      “I had nothing to do with that. Why would I kill the man who was going to make me rich? I needed him.”

      “Maybe he saw through your design. Maybe he was going to scrap the whole deal and you couldn’t handle that.”

      Archambault shook his head. “No. That’s not how it was. Underwood had come around to believing in my product. He reviewed my credentials, all my material, the tests, everything. He knew my prototype could withstand a roadside bomb.”

      “Where were you the week before Christmas?”

      “I was right here, in Montreal, when he was killed. I haven’t been to Ottawa since last summer. You have to believe me. This is a good product. It will do what I designed it to do. Belliveau already was speaking to the brass at the Department of National Defence. They were very interested. We’re all going to become wealthy men once this deal gets completed. It’s a virtual certainty. I spent that day by the fax machine, waiting for the contract, but it never arrived.”

      “So you think he’s responsible?” asked Grayson as they drove across a bridge on their way back to Ottawa.

      Kala thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think he had anything to do with it. He has no motive that I can see.”

      Grayson nodded as if in agreement.

      “Unless …” Kala let the word tail away. She was thinking about all the money Archambault was so certain would come his way.

      “Unless what?”

      “Unless Underwood had found out something that could sink the deal. Was the contract ready to send?”

      “Yeah. It was standard except for the clause about paying Archambault half a million for exclusive rights even if it tanked. No pun intended.” He smiled at her, relaxed and confident. The charm had returned.

      “What do you think of J.P. Belliveau?” she asked.

      “Kind of a slippery character. Loud suits, big mouth. I think he’s involved in the murder. He probably set it up.”

      “The problem with this case is that there are too many suspects. The murders I’ve dealt with before were clear cut: a jealous spouse or a bar fight gone too far. Underwood had several people in his private and professional life who could have been behind this.”

      “My money’s on a business associate,” said Grayson. “The kind of murder, stuffing him in the trunk of his car, that speaks mob to me.”

      “I’m not willing to bet yet,” replied Kala. “But I do think it was someone close to him. Somebody he trusted.”

      “Not a paid hit?”

      “No. I think he knew his killer.”

      “I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Grayson. “It looked impersonal to me, but maybe I just don’t want to believe that a friend or family member could leave their loved one in the trunk of a car to freeze to death. Call me an optimist, but this is Ottawa, not a big American city where violence is a way of life.”

      Kala kept her eyes straight ahead. Grayson had grown up in the protected white, middle-class world. He had no idea the cruelties loved ones could inflict upon each other. What strangers could do to children. The violence a person could do if pushed.

      “So what are you going to tell Rouleau?” she asked.

      “That Archambault was nervous and hiding something. We need to look more closely at Belliveau.”

      She knew there was no point arguing with him. He might be right in the end, but her instincts told her they were missing something. The family had too much anger and too many secrets that began and ended with Tom Underwood.

      Rouleau spread the crime scene photos of Under-wood and the Central Experimental Farm parking area on his desk — various angles of Underwood lying in a fetal position in the trunk, his cheek resting on the carpet, his eyes open and staring. He’d filled the space inside the trunk without much room to spare. Somebody had stuffed him in, slammed and locked the trunk, and left him to die. What kind of person could do that? Whoever they were was cool enough to then drive him to the Central Experimental Farm and walk away. What kind of terror had Underwood felt when he regained consciousness and realized he was trapped and going to die? How long had it taken for his core body temperature to drop from mild to severe hypothermia … for the extreme pain and shivering to give way to numbness, and his heart to slow to the point that oxygen stopped reaching his brain? He would have hallucinated at the end. If he’d had room in the trunk, he would have clawed off his clothes as his body raged with the feeling of burning up, the final paradoxical stage before death. Rouleau studied the waxy pallor of Underwood’s skin. Hopefully the DNA tests would come up with something. They needed a break.

      Rouleau raised his eyes and looked through his office window. Grayson and Stonechild were coming in separately, neither smiling or looking at the other. Stonechild took off her parka and wiped off a dusting of snow before she sat down and began typing at her computer, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. Grayson stopped at Malik’s desk and the two men laughed about something. Grayson gestured toward Rouleau’s office, then walked over to the coffee machine and filled a cup before ambling over.

      “Well?” Rouleau asked. “How did it go with Archambault?”

      “I think we’re narrowing in on motive. The deal was going to be worth a lot of money. Either Underwood was going to upset the plans and Archambault put out a hit, or Belliveau wanted rid of Underwood so as not to have to share the profits. Archambault knew more than he was telling. I’ll get the guys digging deeper on the paper trail on both ends. I’d also like to bring Belliveau in for more questioning.”

      “What does Stonechild think?”

      “She hasn’t come up with anything else. She’s doing up the report now on Archambault.”

      “Okay then. Arrange an interview for first thing tomorrow.”

      “Will do. Any word from Whelan?”

      “His baby is doing better. He’ll be back just after New Year’s.”

      “Good.” Grayson turned to leave but stopped and looked back at Rouleau. He seemed reluctant to talk but then said, “I think Stonechild could use a partner. She needs a more experienced detective to guide her, help her to put the clues together.”

      “She’s not connecting the dots?”

      “I’d have to say no. I think she has potential, but she’s in a bit over her head when it comes to interviewing and

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