Free Under Cold Stone A Constable Molly Smith Mystery by Vicki Delany

How do you know, anyway? Your place is in the opposite direction.”
“Pays,” Kevin said, “to keep in touch with what the cops are up to.”
“Overdose, probably. Or some stupid drunk who fell and cracked his fat head open. No loss to anyone.”
“Tracey.”
“What?”
“They were at Matt’s apartment.”
Kevin’s face had settled into kind lines of the sort she’d never seen before, and that, more than his words, made fear rise into her throat. Her heart pounded.
“Matt? You mean Matt…”
“It’s Barry.”
“Thank God.” Her laugh came out as more of a snort. “Then definitely no loss to anyone. We weren’t exactly friends , Kev.”
“You still don’t understand, Tracey. The cops can’t find Matt. They say he’s done a runner after killing Barry.”
Before she knew what she was doing, Tracey was out the door and down the street. It was about one kilometer to Matt’s apartment. This early on a Sunday morning, the town wasn’t busy, a handful of eager tourists looking for breakfast before going out for the day, some locals having a morning run. The sky was dark, threatening rain.
She called Matt’s number. It went to voice mail. She left a message, trying to sound cheery and only a bit concerned. He hated it when she whined or complained.
By the time she arrived at Beartrack Trail her heart was about to give out. She skidded to a halt as she rounded the corner. The street was full of police cars, both marked and unmarked. Officers patrolled the grounds and yellow tape had been strung from the trees in front of number 214—Matt’s place. A small crowd had gathered on the opposite sidewalk to watch. Tracey walked slowly toward them, her legs numb and her heart frantic.
“You can’t go in there,” a Mountie said.
“My friend…lives there.”
“You’ll have to see your friend later.”
“Is…is someone hurt? Dead?”
“I can’t say anything at this time.” The Mountie turned at sounds coming from inside the building. The door opened. Officers came out. People pushing a stretcher.
“Get out of the way.” The Mountie jerked his head at Tracey, who stood in the center of the path. The bored politeness had left his voice.
She stepped aside. An ambulance was not waiting, no one hurried, the body on the stretcher had a cloth pulled up over its face. The only sound Tracey could hear was the roaring of blood in her own ears. The crowd stopped talking and stood respectfully, watching as the stretcher was maneuvered down the sidewalk to an unmarked black van. An older man took off his hat.
Tracey took a step forward. Then another. She reached out her hand. Someone grabbed her arm and she was pulled roughly back. A man dressed in jeans and a blue jacket, gray hair cut short.
“Out of the way,” he said to her. His voice was not friendly and his eyes were narrow with suspicion. “What’s your name?”
“Tracey.”
“Tracey what?”
“McMillian.”
“Do you have reason to believe you might know this person, Tracey? Or have any knowledge of what went on here?”
“No.” Kevin had said it was Barry dead. Not Matt. And Kevin had good sources; he made it his business to know what was going on in town. Besides, Tracey assured herself, this…body…was tall. Taller than Matt.
“Sorry.” She turned and fled back the way she’d come.
When she was around the corner and out of sight of the police, she tried Matt again. Again it went to voice mail. She left another message, saying she’d been to the apartment and was worried.
What had Kevin said? The police were looking for Matt.
They couldn’t possibly suspect Matt had killed Barry? They were friends and Matt didn’t have a mean bone in his body. It was a mistake, obviously. Just a mistake.
Matt might not even know Barry was dead, not if he hadn’t been home last night or this morning. The reason why Matt might not have come home after work, she tried not to contemplate.
She had to find him. Where could he be? Not at Reds. It was only open in