Searching For Truth: A Jake Scott Mystery (Jake Scott Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  Two and a half years later

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SOUND OF the newspaper thudding against the door registered somewhere deep in Jake Scott’s subconscious. He pried one eye open to see the clock on the nightstand. After blinking the sleep away, he watched the luminescent orange numbers click over to 8:05. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it must be Saturday. The days had become essentially meaningless since his forced retirement two years prior.

  Saturdays offered some promise. He met his buddies for coffee every week at Brew and Buns on Wellington Street. They always teased the owner that with a name like that, if his coffee business failed, he could open a strip joint. The jabs never more than mildly amused the owner, since he thought the name cleverly advertised his superb coffee and cinnamon rolls.

  Jake dragged himself into a semblance of wakefulness and wondered if the weather forecast was right. He doubted it, since a correct forecast was rare these days, and the newspaper had rattled off his door at the usual time. The forecast called for 30 centimeters of snow to bury the city during the night. Jake still dwelled in an imperial world, so for forty years he had been converting metric numbers to understand what they meant. In his hazy state, he calculated the estimated snowfall to be about 12 inches.

  He lay in bed dozing for another half hour before telling himself to get up. The scheduled breakfast time was 10 o’clock, and besides, falling into a deep sleep in the morning always left him groggy. The breakfast may not even happen if Mother Nature gave the forecasters a win for once. He tossed the covers back, threw on his bathrobe, and shuffled to the bathroom. Returning to the bed, he sat with a groan and decided he must have twisted his arthritic knee in the covers during the night because it was protesting every move. If it didn’t settle down, he would take an Advil, even though it wasn’t something he liked to do.

  Three events in the last few years had changed Jake’s life dramatically. His high school sweetheart, Mia, his wife of 33 years, died abruptly from an aneurysm four years previously. It sucked the enthusiasm for life right out of him. Then he accepted early retirement from the Ottawa Citizen newspaper two years ago. He fought for less opinion and more news, but readers and social media influenced the market. His lack of enthusiasm, decreased resources, increased workload, and a decent retirement package nudged him out the door. He missed it. The pre-retirement course warned him there would be a transition, but he never dreamed it would be so difficult. Finally, his daughter Avery moved to Toronto a few months ago to be with her boyfriend, Nick. Jake supported his daughter’s choice, but a feeling of melancholy dragged him down for days after she left.

  The days merged since retirement with little to show for them. Offers to do freelance work came, but he ignored them. It became even worse during the pandemic. With the loneliness and boredom, he wondered some days if he would survive. He realized he had become lethargic, but he had difficulty digging himself out of the hole. Saturday coffee and a cinnamon bun with the guys and one lady was the bright spot on his weekly calendar.

  He got up and pushed the curtain aside to peer outside. It had snowed enough that the plow service he hired would arrive later to clean out the driveway. He noticed the squirrels had successfully raided the bird feeder again. Large fluffy flakes still drifted down, draping a sheer curtain over the still-lit streetlights. He decided to go if the breakfast was still on. It was a short walk, and the street appeared to be navigable.

  He wandered into the kitchen where his overweight and temperamental tabby cat, Oliver, greeted him loudly. The feline made his distaste for the tardiness of his breakfast delivery clear, but he threaded himself clumsily through his owner’s legs as Jake poured food and milk into the bowls. Food always soothed the cat’s disposition. Jake rubbed his head, saying, “So, who’s in charge today, Oliver? Is it your turn or mine?”

  Oliver ignored him as he buried his face deep in the bowl.

  Jake took a leisurely shower and pulled on black jeans and a bulky worn red sweater as his mood brightened at the thought of meeting his friends. He wore the same outfit every Saturday during the winter and amused his friends by calling it his Sunday sweater since it was “holey.”

  He wandered into the second bedroom he had converted to an office and fired up the ancient desktop computer he used as little as possible. Since retirement, the computer’s sole use had been to converse via email with Avery in Toronto. As usual, it took its time booting up. Jake thought it had some life left, even though Avery urged him to replace it. She wanted him to follow her on social media, but his old computer wouldn’t handle it. He smiled as he opened an email from her that offered greetings and a political joke that she thought he might appreciate. The joke elicited a chuckle. Even from 250 miles away, Avery seemed to sense when his mood needed a lift. He would have to remember to reply later.

  The email he was looking for was in his inbox. It was from Eric Jacobson, the oldest of the breakfast group and the organizer of the Saturday coffee get-together. Like Jake, Eric lived within walking distance of Brew and Buns, and his emails were always short and to the point. This one encouraged them to show up despite the weather. “Okay, Canadians. We aren’t letting a little snow stop us, are we? See you at Buns.” Eric loved to refer to the restaurant by the half of the name that got under the skin of the owner the best.

  No one else had replied.

  Jake hit “reply all,” typed, “I’ll be there,” and tapped on the “send” button. That ended today’s computer use, he thought as he powered it down. He puttered around the house, frequently checking his watch until it was time to go. He wandered to the front door and pulled on a puffy black nylon winter coat and bent to lace up his thermal winter boots.

  He stepped out into the frigid air and stooped to pick up the cold newspaper from the doorstep. He glanced at the headline. In large black font, it read, “HUSBAND SENTENCED IN PARK SLAYING.” He tossed the paper on the bench in the hallway as he closed the door. It bounced once before settling on the floor, accompanied by a shower of ice crystals.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JAKE LEANED INTO the wind as he slogged through snow up to his boot tops on the driveway. He decided walking on the street would be easier since the plow had already gone by. The sidewalk lay under a blanket of snow. He hadn’t noticed the bitter wind, but as he moved away from the sheltered porch, it bit into his exposed skin. He tucked his chin into the collar of his coat to hide from the blowing crystals. Branches of forlorn trees in the mature neighborhood drooped, burdened by heavy clumps of snow.

  He was already puffing from the exertion when the familiar whine of spinning tires cut through the wind. A car ahead rocked back and forth as the driver attempted to pull from the curb. Jake peered through the falling snow and instantly recognized two problems. The driver was applying too much gas to his older model Volkswagen, turning the snow beneath the tires to ice. Second, since the plow had gone by recently, a mound of snow surrounded the car, sealing it in its spot. Jake thought the driver fortunate he didn’t receive a ticket because of the overnight parking ban that became effective with sizable snowfalls.

  He tapped on the driver’s window, startling the young man behind the wheel. The driver rolled down the window a crack and lifted his foot off the accelerator. He glanced anxiously at Jake with an exasperated expression, looking like he was already late for something. Jake motioned to the rear of the car.

  “Just press the gas slowly. I’ll push and we should be able to get you through that mound of snow.”

  Jake pressed his shoulder to the back of the car as the inexperienced driver sped up. Ice rattled against the undercarriage of the vehicle from the front tires. Jake’s knee protested but held up as he put all his weight into pushing. The wheels spun at first, then the grips on the tires caught. The vehicle hesitated when it hit the mound, but with one last shove, it made it through. A padded thermal-clad arm waved through the open side window as the driver gunned the accelerator and the car slithered down the street.

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nbsp; Jake walked past shuttered businesses on Wellington Street, victims of the economic slowdown caused by the pandemic. It was 10:10 when he arrived at Brew and Buns. As he put on his mask, he glanced through the window to see two of the group sitting around their usual table: Eric Jacobson and Ryan Cambridge. He went inside, stamped his feet to shake the snow from his boots, and pulled off his toque as he wandered to the table.

  Jacobson’s bald head reflected the overhead light as Jake approached. Eric spent his entire working life in the government bureaucracy like many others in Ottawa. At close to 70, he carried several extra pounds and was the oldest of the bunch. Tight wrinkles surrounded his eyes, and his mouth turned down at the corners, leaving people with the impression he was always sullen or angry. It surprised Jake to learn as they became friends at school that the opposite was true. Eric Jacobson had a great sense of humor. He also played bass in a classic rock band.

  Ryan Cambridge was the youngest and the athlete of the group. Tall and thin with a full head of jet-black hair and chiseled features, he played forward in a hockey beer league. He was 50 and a senior partner in the law firm of Cambridge and Tremblay LLP, downtown. He became part of the group because of a friendship that developed after he worked on a real estate deal for Eric.

  Jake greeted them and draped his coat over the back of the chair as he thumped down, digging deeply for each breath. Each of his friends had coffee and a partly eaten cinnamon roll sitting in front of them.

  Cambridge peered at him over the coffee mug he held in both hands in front of his face.

  “Good morning, Jake. You’re breathing hard. Did you run here?”

  “Mornin’ guys,” The words rode out of Jake’s mouth on an exhale. “No, I pushed some kid’s car from a snowbank. He parked illegally on the street overnight. He had a heavy foot, so he wasn’t gaining much traction. At the speed he raced away, I think he’s probably in the ditch by now.”

  Jacobson recommended they give Daniela, the lone female of the group, the license number so she could give him a ticket. Jake reminded him it wouldn’t do much good since Daniela worked homicide. She had risen to the rank of acting Staff Sergeant in charge of the homicide division after her boss retired. They decided laughingly that maybe Daniela could just shoot the kid.

  The owner of Brew and Buns, Jason Pruitt, wandered to their table carrying a mug of coffee and a warm cinnamon roll that he set in front of Jake. The restaurant offered sandwiches, other pastries, and specialized deserts, but it gained its reputation for the coffee and cinnamon buns. Pruitt was in his mid-thirties and handsome in a Brad Pitt kind of way, but the mask that had become de rigueur since the pandemic covered half his bearded face. He recognized early in the pandemic that he could provide curbside service for his treats, and the sight of his customers using that option supported and encouraged him. Other neighborhood restaurants were not so fortunate. He admitted it was tough, but his quick response paid the bills and kept his business solvent.

  Jake had the same order since the first day he started meeting the others for breakfast. He glanced up at Pruitt and thanked him with a smile. He regarded the mostly empty tables surrounding them. Customers typically filled the place by now, but the snow apparently convinced the usual patrons to stay in bed.

  Pruitt turned and strolled back behind the counter, but he tossed over his shoulder for the benefit of the others, “So, you’re late, Jake. Hot date last night?”

  Jake searched for a witty answer, but Jacobson chimed in loud enough that everyone in the room heard. “He wouldn’t know how to handle a woman if he caught one. He’s kind of like a dog chasing a car. If he catches up to it, it’s like ‘what do I do now?’”

  A round of laughs erupted from Cambridge and Pruitt and other customers tried to hide grins. Jake forced a grim smile onto his face. It wasn’t far from the truth.

  Jake removed his mask and inhaled the aroma of the restaurant as he cut into the gooey bun with a knife. The mixture of freshly brewed coffee and baking from the oven transported him back to the kitchen in his childhood farmhouse. The coffee pot was always on and fresh baking available without exception in case, as his mother said, “someone showed up.”

  He glanced at Eric and said, “No sign of the other two?”

  Jacobson leaned back in his chair and touched his cheek. It was a familiar tic he used before speaking. “I haven’t heard from Daniela. Pierre replied he couldn’t make it. Unlike you, Jake, the others don’t hit ‘reply all’ when responding to an email, so you wouldn’t see their answers.”

  Jake was disappointed that Daniela wasn’t there. Breakfast was more enjoyable when she showed up. Pierre Chevrier’s absence didn’t bother him. He was French Canadian, in his fifties, and drove a city bus. Jake sensed Chevrier didn’t like him. He had even given Jake the nickname Gloomy Gus, but fortunately, it hadn’t stuck.

  The three friends sat around the table enjoying their coffee and rolls and discussing the weather. The conversation occasionally veered towards politics, and sports always found its way into the discussion. Some days the discussions could get heated, but today the group remained relaxed. Jason Pruitt brought refills for the coffee when Cambridge said, “Did you guys see this morning’s paper about the husband who got life in prison for murdering the couple in the park at Hog’s Back three years ago?”

  Jacobson shook his head, but Jake acknowledged seeing the headline.

  Cambridge continued his story, although the others had displayed little enthusiasm. He said, “The husband, Gary Thomas, received life in prison with the possibility of parole after 15 years. I remember it well. The couple was having an affair, and the husband didn’t take kindly to it. He shot them both three times. The police found the gun with the husband’s fingerprints all over it. Slam dunk.”

  Jacobson, who had been leaning back in his chair with one leg over the other, bent forward to pick up his cup with a disinterested shrug. Jake wiped his mouth with his napkin and eyed Cambridge. He said, “I saw the headline, but I can’t say I read the article. No time. I hardly remember the incident. I don’t know how you remember these things.” Then recalling Ryan was a lawyer, Jake wondered out loud, “Were you involved in the case somehow?”

  Cambridge shook his head as he said, “Not me. I handle real estate, as you would know if you ever sold your house and moved into a condo you could handle. No, I remember because I knew the man who died. He worked at our firm. His name was Matthew Pawsloski.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A CHILL FROM the outside air shivered through the restaurant as the door swung open, admitting the newest member of the group, Daniela Perez. She had joined the group a few months earlier when she arrested a drug-crazed man in the neighborhood one Saturday morning. A foot pursuit ended on the street in front of Brew and Buns. She had to tase the man, and after her colleagues took him away in a squad car, Daniela entered the restaurant to sit for a minute, apparently to calm her nerves. She sat at a table alone until the men asked her to join them. After some cajoling, she did, and an instant camaraderie developed.

  Daniela sat in the empty chair beside Jake and greeted the group. Jake immediately noticed her eyes were heavy and red. It didn’t detract from her Venezuelan beauty, which featured a small, turned-up nose, firm chin, and dark eyes. She had olive skin and a slim, toned body that was enhanced by the blazer and pant outfit she wore. She always brightened the room with her quick sense of humor. Jake enjoyed her sharp wit, but her eyes could quickly turn cold if something offended her. She shared her opinions and spoke her truth. Because of her job, she attended the coffee meetings sporadically. Jake was glad she showed up this time.

  Pruitt, ever alert to his customers, brought Daniela a coffee and set it down in front of her. He hesitated to see if Daniela wanted her usual cinnamon roll, but she said, “I have to sleep when I get home. No sugar highs for me today.”

  Cambridge piped up, “We were just talking about the Pawsloski and Thomas murder.”

  Jacobson grinned as he
said, “Ryan was talking. We were listening.”

  Daniela removed her mask, shoved it in her pocket, and poured cream into her coffee, stirring it slowly while making a face.

  “Don’t get me started about that case. My partner and I were the lead investigators. Let me just say it didn’t turn out the way I expected.” She examined the attentive faces around the table and abruptly stopped speaking as if thinking she had said too much.

  Cambridge prodded her. “Tell us more.”

  “No, I can’t. It’s not something I should talk about.”

  Cambridge persisted. “C’mon, you can’t leave us hanging. How did you expect it to turn out?”

  Jacobson, sensing Daniela’s discomfort, changed the subject by noting how difficult it is to keep a group of musicians together and that his band was auditioning guitarists. The conversation drifted to music for a while until they exhausted that subject.

  Daniela turned to Jake saying, “So, how have you been?”

  Cambridge and Jacobson started analyzing the previous night’s hockey game, knowing that Jake and Daniela were about to have their own conversation.

  Jake had noticed when Daniela came in that her hair was damp, and it still had not dried completely. She had it fastened at the back with a colorful scrunchie, and Jake thought it enhanced her beauty. The dancing flames of the restaurant’s gas fireplace reflected off random droplets of water in the raven blackness of her hair. He assumed it was from the cascading snow, but for a moment, he imagined her stepping out of the shower. It had been quite a while since thoughts like that wormed their way into his brain. Since his wife died, in fact. He frowned and forced himself to concentrate on the question.