Free Just Fall by Nina Sadowsky Page A

oddly grateful. Here is a body that has to go to the coroner, fingerprints taken first in the hope they would identify the victim, witnesses that have to be interviewed, a crime scene to be photographed, evidence to be analyzed. There are things he can do. After months of chasing the elusive vapor trails of children gone missing, swept from the streets of the island only to vanish without a trace, a solid, corporeal dead body feels like a gift, albeit a macabre one.
    Lucien assembles his team, assigns tasks, puts what they know so far on the murder board in the squad room. He calls the coroner, Alphonse Dafoe, and after the expected exchange of gallows humor, asks that Dafoe put a rush on the examination of the corpse.
    He reports to his captain, who approves of the team and the delegation of tasks, but who can’t hide his agitation. Already, Bonnaire is fielding calls from reporters, as well as from the governor general and the prime minister. Not to mention the wealthy and influential CEO of the chain that owns the Grande Sucre and is in the process of building another multimillion-dollar resort on the island.

    “This has to be our absolute priority, Lucien,” insists Captain Bonnaire. His right eye twitches, a tic Lucien has seen before when the captain was under pressure.
    “Of course, sir. As for the missing kids, I suggest Detective Gagnon run point. She’s been working very closely with me and—”
    “No, no, no. There is nothing more to be done about the kids at this time. All eyes must be focused on this hotel murder.”
    “But—”
    “Don’t argue with me! We have no leads on any of the children and you know as well as I do that given how long they’ve been missing, they are probably dead.”
    Ire floods Lucien, along with a sick, sinking feeling. He knows Bonnaire is probably right about the kids being dead. It’s a likelihood he hasn’t allowed himself to name.
    Bonnaire continues. “But without bodies, we can’t even declare them homicides!” His eye twitches faster.
    Bonnaire takes note of the distress on Lucien’s face and his tone softens. “I’m as sick about those kids as you are, don’t think I’m not. But we’re stalled there, you know it too. Now go catch me a murderer.”
    Lucien nods once and leaves Bonnaire’s office.
    Lucien knows Bonnaire to be a good man (although more ruthlessly political and ambitious than Lucien could ever be), and the captain’s seeming callousness more a function of the external pressures he is now enduring than disregard for the fate of the missing children. But Lucien also knows that if these four unfortunate children had been the offspring of white tourists instead of island kids, it would be quite different. This thought he shoves from his mind. It is pointless; its truth makes it no less frustrating.
    Back at his desk, Lucien takes a moment. Surreptitiously he reaches into his bottom drawer and pulls out a sealed plastic bag. Inside is a blue-and-green chiffon scarf. He slides open the bag’s seal and takes a quick whiff of the aroma imbued in the delicate fabric. It smells of perfume and powder, hard work and church Sundays. It carries the scent and the memory of his mother. Hastily he closes the bag and shoves it back into its hiding place under cold case files and the half-eaten packet of shortbread.

    Lucien had been an only child, raised by a single mother, a hardworking woman who spent most of her life toiling in one of the island’s high-end resort hotels. His mother had started in the kitchen doing prep work, rising after many years to become an assistant banquet manager. She had applied to work in the kitchen initially (after Lucien’s father left one season to work on a cruise ship and never returned), rather than as a maid (which would have been an easier path), because she figured if she were a kitchen worker her son would never go hungry. And Lucien never had. She had made certain he was fed and schooled and loved. She had