Free Beautiful Lie the Dead by Barbara Fradkin

hung up, she glanced again at her calendar.
    â€œAny activity after Monday?” he prompted.
    â€œNo, but on Monday she did make another charge, which is just going through now. To the bus company for sixty-eight dollars.”
    Whelan blinked. Bus company! “What did she buy?”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask the bus company. Our records just show the transaction.”
    He was already on his feet again, ignoring the creaking in his knees as he stuffed the papers into his file. His heart was racing with excitement. If the purchase was for a bus ticket out of town, the woman might still be alive!
    * * *
    In his excitement, Whelan revved his unmarked car so fast that the tires spun on the ice coming out of the parking lot. Sunlight glared off the snow and snowbanks canyoned the streets, further reducing visibility. Cars raced by, splattering salty slush on his windshield as he tried to merge onto Carling Avenue. He steered carefully towards downtown, his thoughts running ahead. First the bus station and the ATM. Should he call this in? At least ask for some help with the security tapes? He was an old desk jockey working a double shift and in the field again for the first time in three years.
    He slipped onto the Queensway for the latter half of the trip and took the exit for the bus terminal. First things first. Find out where the woman had gone, and when.
    Just before Christmas, the inter-city station was full of travellers, many of them students laden down with backpacks and shopping bags of presents. Long lines had already formed at the platforms for the Montreal and Toronto Express buses. A chatter of voices reverberated around the huge room. The station manager looked harried from his efforts to handle the overflow, but he barely glanced at Whelan’s badge in his eagerness to cooperate. The plight of Meredith Kennedy had captured the city, and any assistance that the bus company could provide in finding her would be not only a goodwill gesture but a PR coup as well. It took the manager less than two minutes on his computer to locate the purchase involved.
    â€œIt was a return ticket to Montreal purchased at 9:27 a.m. on December 13. Departing at 10:00 a.m. and returning at 6:00 p.m.”
    â€œWhat day?”
    â€œThe same day. Monday. She bought the ticket and left right away.”
    â€œDo you have confirmation she was on the bus?”
    The manager’s face fell. “Not in the system. But why would she buy a ticket? She bought it right here.” He gestured out his office window to the large open area where customers snaked behind guide ropes up to the wickets.
    â€œThen one of the ticket agents would remember her?”
    â€œPossibly, although with these crowds...and of course, she could have used one of the machines.”
    â€œYou mean you don’t keep a record of who actually gets on the bus?” Whelan allowed some cop disapproval to resonate in his voice. He knew that the bus company had been under fire for their poor security controls, knew also that there was little money or political will to invest in changes. The bus system ferried Canada’s poor and working class from one little town to another across the country. Those with money and influence generally preferred planes, or at least VIA rail.
    The manager glanced anxiously at the crowds milling in the room outside his office. Ticket sellers were overworked and frazzled, and carriers scrambled to add extra buses to handle the long lines. He started to shake his head then spoke reluctantly. “Well, we could check the ticket stubs. The bus drivers hand them in at the end of their shift. Do you want me to have someone go through those?”
    Whelan arched his eyebrows. “Yes, please. And could I have the names and contact information of the bus drivers on those two runs?” Hauling himself to his feet, he stifled a grunt. Each hour his joints stiffened more. He handed the man his card and was pleased to