Divine Justice (6 page)

"Did you get Jasi's report?"

"Yes. It was very detailed. Good job, Jasmine."

Ben smiled. That was about as much praise as anyone would get from Matthew Divine.

"I just sent you the report from the RCMP, Ben."

"Thanks, Matthew. Does Marilyn have any idea where her husband might have gone?"

"No. She says he's never disappeared like this." Matthew cleared his throat. "You need to find out where he was. As discreetly as possible."

"So we have two mysteries to uncover," Jasi said. "We need to find out where Winkler was for those two days and―"

"Who killed him," Ben finished.

Matthew cleared his throat. "There's one other thing. The Winklers have friends in high places. Director Petrie called in a Russian psychic."

"Why would the director do that?"

"Monty Winkler was a longtime friend of the Petrie family. It's some kind of peace trade. This psychic has been in Canada for just over a year, finished basic with the CFBI and was transferred to Quebec City five months ago."

"What's his name?"

"
Her
," Matthew replied. "Natassia Prushenko. She'll be meeting up with you the day after tomorrow."

"Should we pick her up from the airport?" Jasi asked.

"No. She'll contact you at the hotel. She should be there around four-thirty in the afternoon. Ben, I want her to pair up with you or Jasmine at all times."

"No problem."

"Oh, and one more thing. I think you'll work well together. Prushenko is a highly skilled VE. A Level 1."

Ben heard Jasi's sharp intake of breath. He could practically read her mind.

A few years ago the PSI Division had designed a system of testing and documenting psychic skill levels. There were five levels in total. The average tarot card reader or palm reader scored a Level 5. Those with vague premonitory dreams or waking visions might score a Level 4.

PSI agents scored in the top three levels. Level 1 was the highest, most dependable and the rarest. Ben was a Level 3 Psychometric Empath. And Jasi was the only Level 1 he'd ever met.

However, that was about to change.

5

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

~ Ottawa, ON

Jasi stood on the shore of the Ottawa River, miles
from the city center. Being near water always made her think of home…the salty scent of Vancouver air, the roar of the ocean. She loved the ocean.

She inhaled the crisp air and watched cotton puffs sail overhead. On the river, four speedboats and a sailboat glistened like tiny jewels dancing on the waves. A wintry wind whipped through her hair, plucking at the burnished strands like a voracious lover.

Despite her lined jacket, she crossed her arms. "I hate this time of year."

"Do you want to sit in the car for a while?" Ben asked.

"No, I'm fine. My run this morning is keeping me relatively warm."

"You ran?" He eyed her. "By yourself?"

"Yeah, Ben. All by my lonesome."

Back home, her morning routine usually consisted of a set of fifty sit-ups and push-ups, plus a morning jog along the Stanley Park seawall. This morning she'd gotten up at six, done her sets, then gone for a run. She needed to forget about death and work, if only for a few minutes.

The route around the hotel had been hindered by early morning rush hour traffic and impatient pedestrians who stared at her as though she were a member of an alien species bent on taking over the world. Hardly anyone jogged in Ottawa anymore. Maybe it was a new law. Outside of personal vehicles, buses and taxis, bicycles and Segways were the popular mode of transportation, and there was a health club every four blocks for those who had time to run.

Once she'd found her way onto the wide promenade that framed the Rideau Canal, Jasi had forgotten all about Monty Winkler's corpse and the five circular wounds on his scalp. Ignoring a few catcalls from young men racing down the walkway on their bikes, she'd pushed herself forward. The biting wind made her calf muscles work harder, but the sight of the water calmed her nerves.

Jasi was a
water soul
.

That's what her mother had called her.

Now, wearing comfortable navy pants, a v-neck sweater and a heavy jacket, she stood along the Ottawa River and let her eyes drift across the shoreline. She should have gone running here. No people to dodge, no waiting for traffic lights to change, no exhaust fumes to gag on.

She glanced to her right. "I'm ready."

Dressed in a dove-gray Armani suit, open-collared shirt, no tie, Benjamin Roberts looked out of place as he stood in a grassy area a few feet from the rock-lined shore. Next to him, the stocky silver-haired man in his distinctive red uniform gave her a veiled nod. Constable Finn O'Malley from the RCMP was their liaison on the Winkler case. Thankfully, they'd have no trouble from him. He seemed relieved to hand the case over to the CFBI, probably because he was only a few months to retirement.

"Thank you for securing the scene," she said to him.

"If you need anything, let me know," O'Malley replied, his voice gruff. "I'll stay up here."

"Thank you. I think we're good."

When O'Malley stepped away, Ben said, "Have you got
OxyBlast
on hand?"

"A small canister. But I don't think I'll need it. Police found no traces of a campfire or brushfire." She saw his worried look. "I'll be fine."

It wasn't difficult for them to find the secondary crime scene. A few yards down the beach, the area where Winkler's body had been found was secured by four perimeter beacons. The heavy neon orange cones were two feet high and resembled traffic pylons. Two of them rested in about four inches of water. Six-foot high screens of orange light connected the high-tech beacons, creating a large rectangular wall of light, to warn away the public.

The beacons used instant GPS tracking and facial recognition identification. If anyone tried to move them, enter the wrong code, or if a screen was broken by anything bigger than a sparrow, the beacon would lock onto the person's face and track them anywhere. It also emitted an ear-piercing alarm that would drive even the most resilient criminal to his or her knees.

There was some controversy over this, just as there had been over the use of police Tasers a few years ago, and certain activists felt it would be better to let someone corrupt a crime screen rather than to risk a city lawsuit for hearing impairment.

Three officers from OPS stood at various positions on the beach. They had thoughtfully cordoned off the area surrounding the beacons, just in case some idiot couldn't see the bright orange light. In the daylight, the light was more yellow than orange, but it was still hard to miss.

Jasi moved toward the bushes, followed closely by Ben.

A thorough search uncovered nothing but a few trampled patches of grass and broken branches.

"Probably from investigators," she said.

"Or curious onlookers," Ben added.

The wind and rain had swept away any footprints, and there were no drag marks, nothing to indicate that Winkler had been carried to the shore and dumped.

On the beach Jasi stepped over the rope, then moved to one of the perimeter beacons. She pulled out her data-com, retrieved the code and entered it on the beacon's panel. The light screens retracted and she clipped her 'com to her jacket pocket. She didn't expect to have anything to report, but better to be safe than sorry.

"You ready?" Ben asked.

She nodded. "Voice record on."

She gave a brief description of the scene. Three gray boulders jutted out of the water about four feet from shore. Winkler's bloated body had been discovered wedged between two of them. A small red flag marked the spot.

"
Shake 'n bake
time," she muttered.

She made her way to the water's edge, thankful she'd worn her CFBI-issue steel-toed boots. She moved into the river and even though the boots were waterproof, she flinched from the sudden chill that surrounded her feet.

Holding onto a boulder for support, she crouched over the flag and examined the rocks. Each boulder was polished smooth from years of erosion, and there was no trace evidence. She circled each boulder, prodding beneath the water with her boot. She found nothing but sand and pebbles.

With a sigh, she looked at Ben and shook her head.

"I want to walk further down the beach."

Ben signaled O'Malley. "Make sure we don't have any unexpected visitors while the screen is down."

O'Malley nodded. "Will do, Agent Roberts."

"Wait," Jasi said. "Were there any witnesses?"

"Just a couple of teenagers. They're the ones that found the body."

Jasi blew out a breath. "Did they see anyone else?"

O'Malley shook his head.

Ben followed her as she walked the shoreline, inspecting every bush, every square foot of beach and every piece of driftwood. A few yards ahead, a rickety boat dock jutted out into the water.

"Winkler could've been dumped off the dock," she said.

As they walked the length of the wood contraption, Jasi imagined someone tossing Monty Winkler off the end of it.

"Maybe his body got caught in the beams under the dock," she suggested. "Then brought back to shore by the current."

"Why would someone dump him in the river?" Ben said. "Why not bury him?"

"Animals could dig up a body, which means early discovery. The river might take the body out of range of the dump site, which is what the perp would want."

"Any other reason?"

Another test.

She smiled up at him. "The combination of fresh water and marine life destroys a lot of trace evidence. If it were summer, the river would've sped up decomposition of the body. Still, the river is…convenient." She glanced over her shoulder. "Did I pass?"

He ignored the question. "Who uses the river?"

"Tourists, fishermen, shipping companies…"

A silver speedboat with a blue stripe across the body cruised past, maybe forty yards from shore. In its wake, lapping waves swept up the beach and washed over Jasi's boots.

"And boat owners," she added.

She shielded her eyes and squinted at the boat. There was one person aboard, a man in a hooded maroon-colored jacket and reflective sunglasses. She switched her data-com to camera mode and took a few pictures, although she thought it unlikely that their perp would be so foolish as to come back to the crime scene when it was still under investigation. However, she had captured some really stupid criminals in the past.

She turned back to the task at hand―finding the murderer responsible for putting Monty Winkler in a body bag.

"Voice record off."

"So what are your conclusions?" Ben asked.

"I'm thinking he might have been tossed off the dock, but there's no evidence to prove that theory."

"I'll get some divers to check around the beams."

"Have they done a sweep with an X-Disc yet?"

"Yeah. OPS said they'll send us the data as soon as it's in."

While Ben reset the perimeter beacons, she pocketed her data-com and checked her watch. "It's almost one."

"Let's go back to the hotel, have some lunch. Then we'll figure out what we're gonna do next."

"I think we need to talk to some of Winkler's family. And his associates." She paused. "Why would someone go to all the trouble to drug him, beat him, set him on fire, then dump him in the river?"

"Maybe they didn't like his political policies."

"Or it was someone with a personal score to settle."

She mulled this over in her mind.

"So who had it in for Monty Winkler?" Ben asked.

"And what could anyone hope to gain from his death?"

She glanced back at the man in the speedboat and allowed herself a moment to envy his freedom.

Winkler is free too. You can't get freer than dead.