did.”
“And?”
She heard a shuffling of paper. “Cougars or pumas—
Puma concolor
—are large, tawny or grayish brown carnivores—”
“Just the part I need to know, Mel.”
“Okay. They
are
indigenous to Ontario. But they see them mostly north of here.”
“How north?”
“Two, three hundred kilometers.”
Hazel tapped her pencil tip on her blotter. Little dashes like knife marks appeared under the nib. “Fine. Send two officers down to Kehoe River then, okay? Find out who’s lost their pet kitty, and make sure Ken Lonergan behaves himself. But call Deacon first.”
She pulled her jacket off the back of the chair and went out into the pen. Greene wasn’t in yet, but there was a uniformed cop she didn’t recognize, sitting at the desk beside Ray’s, tapping on the keyboard. She went and stood behind him, and after a moment, he stopped typing and put on his cap. He stood up and faced her, hands at his sides.
“Do I know you, Officer?”
“DC Wingate. Ma’am,” he said. He changed his mind about his cap and took it off again. “Inspector.”
“DC who?”
He coughed into his hand. He looked like an elongated Boy Scout to her—a six-foot-one Boy Scout, mussed yellow hair and freckles, in the wrong uniform. She saw Ray Greene enter through the front of the station. “Just stay there,” she said to the young officer. She met Greene at the counter. “Does the name Wingate ring a bell for you?”
Greene squinted at her. “Wingate. His name come up on something?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “But he’s standing over there with his cap glued to his chest.”
He looked past her. “Oh god,” he said. “
Wingate.
He’s here? I thought he was coming next week.”
“For
what,
Ray? Are we having a jamboree?”
“From 52. Downtown Toronto. He’s replacing Hunter.”
The officer had sidled up toward the counter. “Yes,” he said. “52 Division.”
“We got a
replacement
for Hunter?” said Hazel in complete disbelief. “Now how the hell did that happen? I thought Mason was waiting for us all to die off.”
“We put in the paperwork,” said Greene. “I guess he didn’t notice.”
“Thank god for the right hand’s relationship with the left. So you’re actually here to work for us?”
Wingate
smiled and Greene held his hand out to shake. Hazel looked the officer over. How did a kid this young get made detective? She offered her hand, and he put a cool, ever-so-slightly clammy palm into hers. Looking at his name tag, she asked, “Is it James or Jim, then?”
“James is fine.”
They walked back toward Greene’s desk. “You picked a hell of a day to start,” she said. “Has anyone caught you up?”
“I heard on the way. I’m not supposed to begin until tomorrow, but I thought I’d come in and see if I could be useful.”
“You psychic?” said Greene.
“No sir.”
“Then you’re in about the same boat as the rest of us.” They stood there behind the front desk, awkward now that introductions were over, and Wingate cast a glance back toward the safety of his desk, but stayed screwed to the spot.
“What were you up to at your desk, DC Wingate?” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Miss Cartwright over there for Dr. Deacon’s e-mail. I had a question for him.”
“I don’t mind at all.” She smiled. “God, I’m going to call you ‘son’ if I’m not careful. Did he write you back?”
“I hadn’t finished my e-mail. I wanted to ask him his opinion on which of the injuries killed her. I glanced at Detective Spere’s report, which said there was
some
blood on her. So it occurred to me that, maybe, she—”
“None of her injuries killed her, Officer,” said Hazel.
Wingate slowly closed his mouth to a thin line. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get ahead of myself.”
Greene had opened his copy of the report and was scanning it. “What do you mean, she didn’t die of her injuries?” he said.
“She was already dead
“And?”
She heard a shuffling of paper. “Cougars or pumas—
Puma concolor
—are large, tawny or grayish brown carnivores—”
“Just the part I need to know, Mel.”
“Okay. They
are
indigenous to Ontario. But they see them mostly north of here.”
“How north?”
“Two, three hundred kilometers.”
Hazel tapped her pencil tip on her blotter. Little dashes like knife marks appeared under the nib. “Fine. Send two officers down to Kehoe River then, okay? Find out who’s lost their pet kitty, and make sure Ken Lonergan behaves himself. But call Deacon first.”
She pulled her jacket off the back of the chair and went out into the pen. Greene wasn’t in yet, but there was a uniformed cop she didn’t recognize, sitting at the desk beside Ray’s, tapping on the keyboard. She went and stood behind him, and after a moment, he stopped typing and put on his cap. He stood up and faced her, hands at his sides.
“Do I know you, Officer?”
“DC Wingate. Ma’am,” he said. He changed his mind about his cap and took it off again. “Inspector.”
“DC who?”
He coughed into his hand. He looked like an elongated Boy Scout to her—a six-foot-one Boy Scout, mussed yellow hair and freckles, in the wrong uniform. She saw Ray Greene enter through the front of the station. “Just stay there,” she said to the young officer. She met Greene at the counter. “Does the name Wingate ring a bell for you?”
Greene squinted at her. “Wingate. His name come up on something?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “But he’s standing over there with his cap glued to his chest.”
He looked past her. “Oh god,” he said. “
Wingate.
He’s here? I thought he was coming next week.”
“For
what,
Ray? Are we having a jamboree?”
“From 52. Downtown Toronto. He’s replacing Hunter.”
The officer had sidled up toward the counter. “Yes,” he said. “52 Division.”
“We got a
replacement
for Hunter?” said Hazel in complete disbelief. “Now how the hell did that happen? I thought Mason was waiting for us all to die off.”
“We put in the paperwork,” said Greene. “I guess he didn’t notice.”
“Thank god for the right hand’s relationship with the left. So you’re actually here to work for us?”
Wingate
smiled and Greene held his hand out to shake. Hazel looked the officer over. How did a kid this young get made detective? She offered her hand, and he put a cool, ever-so-slightly clammy palm into hers. Looking at his name tag, she asked, “Is it James or Jim, then?”
“James is fine.”
They walked back toward Greene’s desk. “You picked a hell of a day to start,” she said. “Has anyone caught you up?”
“I heard on the way. I’m not supposed to begin until tomorrow, but I thought I’d come in and see if I could be useful.”
“You psychic?” said Greene.
“No sir.”
“Then you’re in about the same boat as the rest of us.” They stood there behind the front desk, awkward now that introductions were over, and Wingate cast a glance back toward the safety of his desk, but stayed screwed to the spot.
“What were you up to at your desk, DC Wingate?” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Miss Cartwright over there for Dr. Deacon’s e-mail. I had a question for him.”
“I don’t mind at all.” She smiled. “God, I’m going to call you ‘son’ if I’m not careful. Did he write you back?”
“I hadn’t finished my e-mail. I wanted to ask him his opinion on which of the injuries killed her. I glanced at Detective Spere’s report, which said there was
some
blood on her. So it occurred to me that, maybe, she—”
“None of her injuries killed her, Officer,” said Hazel.
Wingate slowly closed his mouth to a thin line. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get ahead of myself.”
Greene had opened his copy of the report and was scanning it. “What do you mean, she didn’t die of her injuries?” he said.
“She was already dead
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