Her mind jumped to Abir, her smart, savvy Harvard educated lawyer friend. No, never. Abir’s personal life was chaotic – the woman gave up a stunning career to follow her loser, soap opera actor boyfriend to Canada – no, the beautiful Egyptian born Muslim wasn’t suitable.
Hanya, she’s the most logical choice. A first nation woman, a feminist, an Anglican priest, university lecturer and part time counsellor for the local suicide help line, who could be better? Kate shook her head. No, it wouldn’t work; she couldn’t do it to her; the woman’s agenda was crammed tighter than a fashion model’s clothes closet.
Screw it, she thought. I didn’t get this far for nothing. I’ll figure out how to handle it myself. Manoeuvring the car into the tight parking spot, she shut off the engine and picked up her ringing cell.
Caller I.D. showed Gordon Ramsey, the Team Leader of the Murder Squad. Kate’s heart sank. Did he get a complaint about a disturbance outside a gym? She took a deep breath and answered, his voice bellowing in her ear.
“Kate, whatever you’re doing, drop it. We have a dead body, centre stage, at The Strand. Roger’s out in the boonies with his Mustang, he’ll join us as soon as he can. Meet you there.”
She called Sandra to cancel, put the car in gear, and peeled away.
9:30pm
Roger pulled up in front of the theatre, placed the police sign in the windshield of his Honda Civic and grimaced at the sight of the TV crews, newspaper reporters and curious spectators gathered behind the erected barrier.
He badged the constable, stepped into the lobby of the Strand theatre, recently built on the downtown waterfront and named after the street in the City of Westminster, London, England. The locals, loyal to the city’s first and only theatre, stubbornly ignoring its existence at first, however; the younger crowd was beginning to put it on the map. It also picked up some loyal patrons based on its policy to present only the work of playwrights written before 1970. The sound of waves and smell of salt air continue to add to the growing line of patrons.
Roger glanced at the two line ups of patrons, one for ticket refunds, one for the bar, as he headed towards the main body of the theatre. The sound his shoes made on the wide, bare boards of the floor was absorbed into the conversation of the patrons. Tension and restlessness wired the air.
If we detain this lot too long, there’ll be hell to pay.
He ran up the three side steps to the stage. Off to his left, he noticed a small group of people consisting of a large woman snuffling into a hanky, a tall, man blowing nervously into a hankie, and rocking back and forth on the balls of a pair of size 12’s, was a white haired man, his head bent, his eyes paying homage to his feet. And on the fringe stood a young, dark-eyed beauty staring at her hands as if she were seeing them for the first time. He had seen similar groups at previous murder scenes; the looks on the faces always the same: shock and disbelief.
He turned towards the stage. Two crime scene cops, on their hands and knees combing the floor, dressed in white, looked like giant, white rabbits, sniffing out a burrow. Another two were brushing and dusting the hi-fi cabinet with the intensity of clean freaks armed with their trusty dusters.
The cabinet has to be a hot spot.
He spotted Kate standing stage right looking hot in her black jeans, red blouse. Looking better than he saw her when she left the precinct yesterday afternoon, a heavier rain cloud hanging over her head than the comic character in the Snoopy scenario. He wasn’t sure what was going on and he wasn’t he wanted to know. He had a good working relationship with Kate, was probably the only one in the precinct who did. He liked her, understood her mood swings, the temper, he grew up with five sisters. He tried only once to warn her off but never again. Not if he wanted to continue working with her and he wanted to for she was one of the smartest cops he ever worked with.
And there she was, standing in all her glory, next to her nemesis, Gordon, who was haranguing three bewildered looking constables. He could hear the gruff instructions clear across the stage.
“Cast and crew are to be rounded and taken into the Boardroom in the Office area of the Theatre. Take their names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Tell them to be back at the theatre by 8:00am tomorrow for preliminary interviews, no excuses. Anyone not showing up will find themselves being escorted here in a police car. Don’t let yourself be side tracked by unnecessary questions. If you’re unsure of anything, check it out with Kate.”
Dismissing the constables, Gordon walked over to the man bent over the dead body.
Roger joined Kate who was writing in her notebook. Leaning over her shoulder, he gave her a nudge and a smile. She looked up and was about to say something but Gordon’s voice silenced her response.
“What a fine pair the two of you make decked out in your Saturday night finest. Practicing your poses for the front cover of True Detectives are you? Get the hell over here.”
“Do you feel like you’re being summoned to the Principal’s office”, Roger asked.
“More like my father’s den”, Kate said.
The two crossed the stage. Roger looked at the man dressed in evening clothes who was crouching over the prone body. “Looking mighty spry, George, my man. Glad to see there isn’t any truth
