Blood Pact

unsympathetic. "Look at it this way. She was one of the best police officers I ever served with, probably ever will serve with. If she stays, think of her as an added resource you can tap into and recognize that because of her background she will in no way disrupt your handling of the case. If she goes," he clapped the older man lightly on the shoulder, "you're telling her. Because I'm not.”

    "Like that, eh?”

    "Like that. It'd be convenient that you're already in a funeral home. Trust me. Things will probably go a lot easier if she stays.”

    Fergusson sighed, then shrugged. "I guess she'll feel better if she thinks she's doing something. But if she goes off, you get her out of here.”

    "Believe me, she is my first concern." Watching Vicki cross the chapel toward him, Celluci was struck by how completely under control she appeared. Every muscle moved with a rigid precision, and the intensity of suppressed emotion that moved with her made her frighteningly remote. He recognized the expression; she'd worn it in the past when a case touched her deeply, when the body became more than just another statistic, when it became personal. Superiors and psychologists warned cops about that kind of involvement, afraid it would lead to burnout or vigilantism, but everyone fell victim to it sooner or later. It was the feeling that kept an investigation going long after logic said give it up, the feeling that fueled the long and seemingly pointless hours of drudge work that actually led to charges being laid. When "Victory" Nelson wore that expression, people got out of her way.

    At this point, under these circumstances, it was the last expression Celluci wanted to see. Grief, anger, even hysterics, ". . . and she certainly has a right to be hysterical under the circumstances …" would be preferable to the way she'd closed in on herself. This wasn't, couldn't be, just another case.

    "Hey." He reached out and touched her arm. The muscles under the sleeve of her navy blue suit jacket felt like stone. "You okay?”

    "I'm fine.”

    Yeah. Right. It was, however, the expected response.

    "Now then." The elder Mr. Hutchinson sat forward, placing his forearms precisely on the charcoal gray blotter that protected his desk and linking his fingers. "I assure you all that you will have our complete cooperation in clearing up this unfortunate affair. Never in all the years that Hutchinson's Funeral Parlour has served the needs of the people of Kingston has such a horrible thing occurred.
    Ms. Nelson, please believe you have our complete sympathy and that we will do everything in our power to rectify this situation.”

    Vicki limited herself to a single tight nod of acknowledgment, well aware that if she opened her mouth she wouldn't be able to close it again. She wanted to rip this case away from the Kingston police, to ask the questions, to build out of all the minute details the identity of the scum who dared to violate her mother's body. And once identified . . .

    She knew Celluci was watching her, knew he feared she'd start demanding answers, running roughshod over the local forces. She had no intention of doing anything so blatantly stupid. Two years without a badge had taught her the value of subtlety. Working with Henry had taught her that justice was often easier to find outside the law.

    "All right, Mr. Hutchinson." Detective Fergusson checked his notes and shifted his bulk into a more comfortable position in the chair. "We already spoke to your driver and to your nephew, the other Mr. Hutchinson, so let's just take it from when the body arrived.”

    "Ms. Nelson, you'll likely find this distressing . . .”

    "Ms. Nelson spent four years as a homicide detective in Toronto, Mr. Hutchinson." Although he might have his own doubts about her being there, Fergusson wasn't about to have an outsider pass judgment on an ex-member of the club. "If you say something that distresses her, she'll deal with it. Now then, the body arrived . . .”

    "Yes, well, after she arrived, the deceased was taken down to our preparation room. Although there was to be no viewing, her arrangement with us made it quite clear that she was to be embalmed.”

    "Isn't that unusual? Embalming without viewing?”

    Mr. Hutchinson smiled, the deep wrinkles across his face falling into gentle brackets. "No, not really. A number of people decide that while they don't wish to be stared at after death, neither do they wish to, well, not look their best. And