CHAPTER SEVEN

"Repeat that, Detective, " Welsh said into the telephone, as he jotted notes on a pad. "Uh-huh. And the Forensics?" He looked grim, but continued writing. "Yes, I understand. You and Huey go home. It's been a long night. Yeah, you too." He returned the phone to its cradle and sat back in his chair.

Thatcher sat opposite his desk. She met Welsh's eyes. He seemed to have aged a decade since yesterday. Thatcher put a hand to her bruised throat. Haven't we all?

"That was Detective Guardino," he began, then cleared the huskiness from his throat. "The barrels of Canadian Club whiskey you identified have been confiscated by U.S. Customs. They confirmed your observation that there were no import or export stamps on them and agree with your conclusion that they were smuggled into this country illegally."

She nodded. Any rookie in the RCMP would have spotted the telltale Customs and Tax stamps, or lack thereof.

"A thorough search of the warehouse will take several days, but the prelim has turned up several keys of cocaine in a crate of canned peaches." He paused. "That alone makes this a major bust, Inspector. And, I suspect more contraband will come to light. Some very dirty scumbags are going down over this one. You should be proud."

"What about Forensics?" she said, impatiently.

Welsh drew a deep breath, then let it out. "Based on your information, the crime scene team concentrated on the big trap door. The results are preliminary, of course." He paused.

"Of course," she echoed.

"The warehouse floor had been cleaned and bleached pretty thoroughly. But they weren't so thorough on the groove that the trap door fits into. The team found traces of blood. Recent." He leaned forward. "Human. Two blood types. A negative and A positive."

She swallowed hard, then said, "Constable Fraser's blood type is A negative."

Welsh said, without expression, "And Detective Vecchio's is A positive."

They stared at each other. He broke the silence. "I'm so sorry, Meg," he said, gently.

"As am I, Harding."

There was a knock on the door. Welsh bade Elaine to enter. Like the Lieutenant, she was dressed casually, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, face scrubbed, no makeup. She carried a tray with a coffee pot, mugs, and the fixings.

"I thought you might like some coffee," she said, setting it on Welsh's desk. When she straightened, she saw their faces.

"What is it?" she asked. Her voice whistled in her suddenly dry throat.

"Sit down, Elaine," he said, kindly. She backed away, eyes wide. Thatcher rose and put an arm around her, escorting her to a chair. Elaine looked up at her, stricken.

Thatcher kept her arm around her as she spoke. "It appears that Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio were shot in the warehouse on Wednesday night."

"Shot?"

"Killed." Meg barely got the word out.

Elaine stared at her for a long moment, then buried her face in her hands. Thatcher patted her back awkwardly, struggling to keep her own composure. Behind her, she heard Welsh blow his nose. After a minute, Elaine swiped brusquely at her eyes and looked up.

"I knew it. I was so afraid when they found the car ... but ... I hoped ... " She swallowed, and straightened her shoulders. "What should I do? There must be something ..." she trailed off. "I have to do something."

Welsh said, "Keep a lid on this for me. For now. I'll make an announcement to the squad in a few minutes. And, I'll need a press release for later. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, standing. She looked at Thatcher, and squeezed her hand briefly, before leaving the office.

Welsh watched her go, then poured coffee into two mugs. He opened a desk drawer and removed a small bottle of brandy. He poured a dollop into his mug, then raised his eyebrows inquiringly at Thatcher.

She nodded. He poured, then handed her the mug.

"Thank you," she said, taking a sip. It was early in the day for her. But, on the other hand, she had never gone to bed ...

They were silent as they sipped their drinks. A wave of sorrow swept over Welsh. Ray Vecchio was dead. One of his own. He had often wished that Veccho was more by-the-book, but on the whole, his stubborn, impassioned, infuriating approach had been an asset to his command. A good man. He would miss him. He was beginning to suspect that he would miss him more than he would ever have imagined.

He watched Thatcher over the rim of his cup. There were dark circles under her eyes, her voice was hoarse, and she looked weary beyond measure. He had tried to brace himself for the possibility that Vecchio and Fraser were dead when he had initially heard Huey's informant's tip, but he hadn't really believed it till now. This confirmation hit him like a ton of bricks. How much more difficult was it for the young commander to accept?

Welsh reached into his desk drawer and extracted a plastic evidence bag. He removed a piece of paper. He looked down at Fraser's note. Welsh had liked the young Mountie, despite his quirks. Or maybe, because of them. Life around here had become much more interesting when Fraser had teamed up with Vecchio. He suddenly realized that he had lost two officers tonight. Somewhere along the line, the Mountie had become one of his.

He removed the note from the bag and handed it to Thatcher. "Perhaps you'd like to keep this, Inspector?"

She looked at it. "Isn't this evidence?"

He shook his head. "It's not probative. And we don't need it."

She smoothed it out with her fingers, then folded it carefully and tucked it into a pocket of her suit. "Thank you."

Welsh sighed and looked at his watch. It was time. "I have to call upon the Veccho family." He looked at Thatcher. "Is there someone you need to call about Fraser?"

She looked bleakly at him, then shook her head. "He updated his NOK form a few months back. He named Detective Vecchio ... Ray ... as next of kin."

Welsh felt a prickling behind his eyes. "This is the part of the job I hate the most," he said, gruffly.

"I haven't ... that is ... " She cleared her throat. "I have never had to do that."

"It doesn't get any easier," he told her, then pushed himself away from the desk. He got to his feet, wearily.

"May I ... that is, would it be all right if I accompanied you?"

Welsh looked at her, surprised.

"Constable Fraser considered the Vecchios as family," she said, in explanation. "But, if you think it inappropriate –"

"No, of course not," he said, quickly. "I would be grateful for your company." He grabbed his coat, then helped her into hers. "But first, I have another duty to perform." He led the way out into the precinct. She stood stoically beside him as he made the announcement to his people. Amid the shocked looks, the gasps, the exclamations, and the tears, Thatcher met Elaine's dry eyes. She picked up the Stetson that was sitting on top of her desk, and handed it solemnly to Meg. With the hat in hand, she followed Welsh out of the grief-stricken room.