At least three times a week, she reminded me that the only reason I was promoted to homicide was because the other applicants didn’t qualify, and they had to hire someone. The underlying message was clear. They wished that someone wasn’t me.

  Golding’s icy eyes watched me with contempt, waiting for me to screw up so she could drag me into her office for a reprimand. Did she have a reason to be so derisive? Oh yes. My years on street patrol were far from exemplary. But alas, due to a shortage of applicants and strain in the homicide sector, she had no choice but to take me on.

  “Hello? Are you with me, Haven?”

  “Yeah. No problem. On my way.”

  “You better not have been drinking.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I’ll know.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m aware.”

  The phone clicked before I could ask for further details.

  “Your boss is nothing but a cock block. You should have told her you had a hot guy in your bed.”

  I huffed and tossed the phone on the coffee table. “That is the last thing I would ever tell her. Besides, you weren’t getting laid today, so quit pretending you were.”

  Elifet and I weren’t in a relationship. Our personalities didn’t mesh. We hooked up on occasion, but it was rare.

  “A travesty. Look at the bright side. Maybe a certain new-hire pathologist will be at the scene. Are you still pining after that handsome devil?”

  I grinned but didn’t answer.

  “Thought so.” Elifet’s teasing faded, replaced by an expression of worry. “So, you gotta go, huh?”

  “Yeah. DB somewhere on Rideau Nature Trail, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Maybe an old guy went out for a cold-weather run and collapsed from a heart attack. It’s been known to happen.”

  True, but I sensed I wouldn’t be so lucky. Rue and I wouldn’t have been called to evaluate had the responding officers not suspected a homicide.

  I handed Elifet my untouched beer. “When Buffalo wins—”

  “They won’t.”

  “When Buffalo wins…” I pointedly glared. “Just know I’m happy-dancing even though you can’t see it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get outta my house, Haven.”

  We both laughed as I grabbed my phone and keys and headed home to change. So much for a lazy Sunday off.

  It had yet to snow, but for early December, the air crackled with cold, especially near the water where the wind took flight, slashing icy blades across unprotected skin. Telmon, a normally quiet side street, was packed on both sides with black-and-whites, an ambulance, fire rescue, and several other vehicles I suspected belonged to authority of one kind or another. Someone must have used 9-1-1 to call it in. Citizens spilled from houses, gathering on front lawns and curbs to gawk and whisper. The press hadn’t yet arrived, but it was a matter of time. Those vultures had a nose for juicy stories.

  I spotted Rue near the trailhead, chatting with a uniform who must have been giving her a rundown since he gestured toward the river more than once. The constable scrubbed a hand over his nape and shook his head, conveying a sense of disbelief.

  Violence and atrocities like murder didn’t shock me anymore. In my short time with Ottawa’s homicide division, I’d learned that human beings were the cruelest species in the animal kingdom and the only ones who killed for sheer pleasure. It didn’t take much to tip someone over the edge. Brutality came in all shapes and sizes.

  My partner, ten years my senior, showed no expression as she listened to the constable. Rue’s severe countenance was both a shield and part of her personality. I had gotten used to it, but some people found it off-putting. Paired with her height—she matched my six feet inch-for-inch—Rue was the definition of intimidating.

  She had a quiet beauty. Her jet-black hair was always pulled into a tight, low ponytail. It hung to the middle of her back and flapped in the breeze across the nylon shell of her Ottawa Police parka. I’d zipped my matching jacket to my chin, wishing I’d grabbed a beanie. My ears ached already. If we were out here for any length of time, I was going to freeze.

  More than a nugget of truth existed in the saying “It’s too cold to snow.” The heavy clouds that had blanketed the sky for days seemed unable to release their burden, clinging to the promised winter storm with frozen fingers.

  Rue caught my eye and touched the constable’s arm, disengaging and meeting me on the road.

  The officer retreated down the path to the river trail as I studied my partner’s unreadable face. “Are we sure it’s a homicide?” I asked.

  “No question.”

  “Have you been down there?”

  “Not yet. I was waiting for you. Responding officers have it marked off. Crime scene investigators showed up five minutes ago. Forensics is here, and…” Rue trailed off, a subtle twitch appearing at the corner of her lips. Not a smile, god forbid, but about as close as I was going to get. Rue’s dark eyes glimmered.

  “What?” A jolt of anticipation surged through me, and I knew.

  Rue wet her lips and glanced over her shoulder. “The new guy was on call.”

  Despite the bitter cold, a seed of warmth ignited inside my belly, and I flashed my attention to the trailhead as though I could see through the dense trees blocking the view of the river. “Oh yeah?”

  Dominique Chevalier was the talk of the department, or rather, the talk of anyone who worked in homicide and utilized the various forensics teams on a regular basis. He’d especially caught my attention, and I may or may not have developed a slight obsession with the guy. Ottawa’s newly hired forensic pathologist was, in a word, striking.

  During our first meeting a couple of weeks ago, I’d been unable to take my eyes off him, crippled by his good looks and curious about his quiet introspection while studying the scene of the crime. He spoke little to those around him, but I had chalked it up to being a fresh face in a new city. Our brief rendezvous hadn’t given me enough time to puzzle him out, so I’d shamelessly asked around, eager for gossip. Unfortunately, I learned fewer details than I hoped.

  I may or may not have openly commented on Domnique’s attractiveness, and Rue forgot nothing. She also had the worst habit of treating me like a child.

  I returned my focus to my partner, who somehow managed to look smug, despite her firmly set jaw. A few wispy strands of black hair danced across her face. It was her finely plucked brows, sharp and angular, that gave her away. They spoke volumes without Rue ever saying a thing.

  “You’re like a flustered teenager.”

  “I’m not flustered.”

  “Think you can manage to concentrate and not spend the entire time ogling the guy? We have a job to do.”

  “I can multitask.”

  Rue studied me for a beat, her non-expression somehow managing to convey doubt. Without another word, she plucked two pairs of nitrile gloves from her pocket and handed me a set. “Let’s see what we’ve got. If you can control your libido, I’ll let you chat with the handsome doctor. Get his opinion, not his phone number.”

  “Yeah. I’d be so lucky. He’s probably straight. The gorgeous ones always are.”

  I’d met Dominique once. We’d exchanged less than ten words. It wasn’t enough time for a proper assessment, and I wasn’t about to assume a person’s orientation. The last thing I wanted to do was flirt with someone who might take offense. The department was ripe with homophobes, and I’d suffered my fair share of their indignation over the years. The whole times are changing mantra was bullshit. People were as nasty as ever, especially cops or those cop adjacent.

  I followed Rue to the trail, ignoring the slight upward tick of my heart that had nothing to do with viewing a dead body and everything to do with the new forensic pathologist.

  We came upon the scene about thirty yards northwest of where the trail exited from Telmon Street. CSIs had strung yellow crime tape in a wide, rough circle around the body. Several evidence markers littered the ground, more still being added. A dropped cellphone. A pair of earbuds. Tread marks from shoes or boots. Skid marks possibly made by a heel digging into the path. It told a story we had yet to decipher.

  Anything and everything was tagged and photographed, collected if possible or necessary. A member of the investigative team circled the area, snapping pictures from every angle. A second photographer, assigned to the victim, was positioned in a way that partially blocked my view.

  His focal point was a slated wooden bench positioned at the side of the packed dirt trail that ran parallel to the Rideau River. The bench faced the water and would ordinarily have functioned as a peaceful resting place where a walker might stop to rest and enjoy the view. The middle-aged man presently occupying the bench would not be continuing his journey today… or ever.

  The photographer shuffled to the left, giving me a clear line of sight, and I stalled, taking in the victim but distracted by the doctor himself.

  Crouched at the deceased’s side, visually examining the body, was Dominique Chevalier, as stunning as the first day I’d laid eyes on him. He was older than my thirty-two years, but by how much, I couldn’t tell. Forty, maybe? Faint threads of silver showed in his tawny brown hair. He might have been younger, but I doubted it.

  Lines of distress pulled at the corners of his restive eyes as his gaze flicked from one part of the victim to another as though taking a silent inventory. A tightly trimmed beard covered his angular and aggressively clenched jaw. He wore the same brown leather jacket I’d seen on him before. It was open partway, displaying a cream-colored button-down underneath. The top few buttons of the shirt were open, and I absolutely did not linger on the notch at the base of his throat between his collarbones or the dusting of chest hair peeking out from beneath.

  Dominique’s hair, neatly cut and gelled off his forehead, barely rustled in the wind. He balanced his elbows on jean-clad thighs, his gloved hands dangling loosely between. A medical tote of instruments sat off to the side, the compartments stuffed full of tools and devices used frequently at crime scenes.

  Rue nudged my arm, jerking my attention back as she shoved a clipboard and pen into my hands. “This is going marvelously,” she mumbled, fitting booties over her shoes and ducking under the tape. “Try to focus, Haven. You’d think you’d never seen a good-looking man before.”

  My cheeks burned as I dashed a quick glance around. Was I that obvious? I wasn’t closeted, but I didn’t go around broadcasting my interests, especially to people I wasn’t close to. The constable waiting for me to sign in remained blank-faced, but I could guess what he was thinking.

  I scribbled my name on the form, added my badge number, and tugged a pair of booties over my boots before following Rue under the tape.

  Careful not to step anywhere that might disturb the crime scene, we moved toward the bench, stopping a dozen feet away to get a read on the victim and situation.

  Rue made a soft, airy whistle between her teeth as she shook her head. “This is… interesting.”

  The body was that of a man in his early to mid-fifties. He appeared to be in decent shape and might have been out for an afternoon jog as Elifet had originally suggested, but he did not die of an unexpected heart attack. That much was obvious.

  Buffeted by the wind, his sweat-greased hair, more grey than its original brown, flapped comically atop his head. His leathery skin showed a plethora of scars, puckers, and wrinkles. A life story etched into flesh. A history he took with him to the grave. The man wore navy jogging pants with the sportswear company name Columbia emblazoned in white letters down one leg. A faded dark spot over the crotch suggested he’d voided his bladder upon death. The matching hoodie was unzipped to his middle, showing a white waffle undershirt—not Hanes or the packaged crap you bought at Walmart, but something of quality. Red Nike sneakers covered his feet, the laces brilliantly white in contrast. With his toes pointed skyward, the patterned soles were visible, dirt-speckled but showing little wear. I guessed they were relatively new.

  The man’s head, tilted at an angle, chin aimed high, exposed a stretch of skin marred with several abrasions, including an angry red mark circling his extended throat. It alone told a story. His wide, sightless eyes stared at the leaden sky, lips slightly parted. His hands rested in his lap, fingers curled, palms upturned in what appeared to be an intentionally meditative pose.

  What stood out, no doubt the cause of Rue’s comment, was the plastic spike protruding from the man’s chest, green and about the diameter of my thumb. Four inches stuck out, but I had no way of knowing how many were buried inside the man. I assumed, based on its location, that it impaled his heart. Attached to the spike, inserted somehow, was a single white thorny rose. Dangling from the rose’s stem by a silver ribbon was a piece of cardstock no bigger than a Post-it note, dancing and fluttering in the wind. Writing in black ink stood out, but I couldn’t read it for movement and distance.

  “He’s been staged on that bench,” I mumbled, stating the obvious.

  Rue hummed in agreement, wandered closer, and circled behind Dominique to stand on the other side.

  The pathologist acknowledged our arrival. He glanced momentarily at Rue, nodding a cordial greeting, then he spotted me.

  His gaze lingered an extra beat, and he subtly took me in with his achingly spiritless eyes. Their color matched the weather—a winter-faded Siberian husky blue with a distinctly darker ring around the circumference. Like the clouds above, they seemed to carry a heavy burden, an inner pain I had yet to understand.

  I offered a cautious smile, moving closer so I stood at his side. “We meet again.”

  Dominique rose to his feet, his attention diverting to the body as he cleared his throat. “Detective Haven, is it?”

  “You remembered.”

  “I’m good with names and faces. We worked the Erlander case together.”

  “We did.”

  “Did you solve it?”

  “Yep. Within a week. I’m just that good.” I regretted the flex the instant it left my mouth.

  Dominique nodded, and a thick silence grew between us. Did I imagine the extended perusal? Was he surprised to see me? Pleased to see me? I wanted to fill the void, but scrambled, unsure what to say. How are you getting on? Do you like the city? Are you settled in? Why Ottawa? Where are you from? Would you like to go for a drink?

  A crime scene was not the time to get personal, and I was too much of a stumbling idiot to make a proper advance anyhow. Rejection was a hard pill to swallow, which was why I tended to avoid putting myself in situations where it might happen. Besides, I really needed to get a feel for the guy before I made a fool of myself. One lingering perusal was not a definitive answer.

  I focused on the dead man instead, ejecting all thoughts of sharing private time with the handsome doctor.

  The wind blew, bringing with it an out-of-place scent that gave me pause and redirected my attention to the case. Was that coconut? Something tropical? Floral? I couldn’t quite discern its properties, so I sniffed again, but the breeze had taken it away.

  Rue circled the bench, examining the victim from a different vantage. “Are you thinking strangulation, Doc?” She pointed to the man’s face. “There’s hemorrhaging around the eyes.”

  “Petechiae. Yes. It’s also present on the conjunctiva. Considering the injuries to his neck, it is a theory. I can’t say definitively until he’s on my table.”

  “Is that a flower spike?” Rue indicated the rose.

  “It appears so.” Dominique moved toward his tote of instruments.

  “Does it go through the heart?” my partner asked.

  “I assume, but until he’s on the table—”

  “You can’t tell me for certain. Gotcha. Pre or post?” my partner asked.

  “Post.” I spoke before Dominique had a chance to answer. “There isn’t a lot of blood on that white shirt, which means the heart had already stopped pumping when he was stabbed.”

  Rue skewered me with a challenging look. “Or the spike could have acted like a stopper, preventing it from bleeding profusely.”

  We both looked at Dominique, who held up his hands, warding us off. “I’ll know conclusively once he’s on the table.”

  Rue moved closer to the victim and angled her head as she studied the flapping piece of cardstock attached to the ribbon.

  The scent hit me again, then faded. Frowning, I glanced around, certain one of the nearby CSIs must have been wearing perfume.

  When I couldn’t ascertain its point of origin, I turned to the pathologist. “Do we have an approximate time of death?”

  Dominique’s gaze never moved from the victim. “He’s close to full rigor, and although the cold day has dropped his body temperature significantly faster than usual, I’d say roughly between five and seven this morning, but I’ll have a better idea once he’s—”

  “On your table. Got it.”

  Dominique raised a brow as he glanced sidelong in my direction. “Yes.”

  I smiled flirtatiously. “Every pathologist I’ve ever known falls back on that response.”

  “Well,” Dominique wet his lips and ducked his chin, “every detective I’ve worked with over the years tends to demand answers before I get my hands dirty.”

  “We’re assholes like that. No patience to speak of. Gotta put us in our place.”

  Before Dominique could respond—if he was going to respond at all—Rue interrupted. “Haven. Look at this.”

  With gloved fingers, my partner held the edge of the cardstock, her brows knit.

  I joined her, bending to read the inked scrawl, and was hit with a punch of tropical perfume. I jolted back and glanced at my partner. “Is that you?”

  “What?”

  “The smell. Can’t you smell that? Are you wearing perfume?”

  “No. It’s the rose.”

  “Roses don’t smell like coconut.”