Raw Bone by Scott Thornley

surprised to see DS John Swetsky and DI Montile Williams getting out of Swetsky’s car. They had been partnered up with the OPP on adouble homicide on the edge of Dundurn’s jurisdiction. All killings are senseless, but the slaying of an elderly couple out on Mud Street had set a new record for dumb. Two brothers, who lived nearby, showed up late to the couple’s garage sale. The objective: stealing the cash from the sale, which amounted to about twenty dollars. The murder weapon: a nine iron from an ancient set of golf clubs that nobody had wanted.
    MacNeice turned off the ignition and was about to open the door when Swetsky opened it for him. Startled, he said, “John, what brings you two back to town?”
    Swetsky stuck out his hand and hoisted MacNeice out of the Chevy. “Came back to see the wife, have a decent meal and grab some clean clothes.” Williams stood behind him, a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
    “But we’ve also been watching the news, so we thought you could use another hand,” Williams said.
    “They’ll let you go?”
    “We’ve got one kid in custody, and the other is on the run,” Swetsky said. “I can wrap it up over the next couple a days.”
    Williams shook Swetsky’s hand and headed for the division entrance. Swetsky said, “You’ve got Montile now, and I’ll pitch in soon as I can, Mac.”
    “Do you have a line on where the kid is?” MacNeice asked.
    “His dad says he’s trying to make it to Tijuana. There’s a record of him crossing into the States at Fort Erie an hour after the killings, so he’s got a good sixteen hours on us. His photo and a description of the vehicle are on every patrol car from here to Mexico.”
    Swetsky gave MacNeice a goodbye slap on the shoulder and walked off to his car.
    “Be careful, John,” MacNeice called after him.
    MacNeice updated the whiteboard, then stood staring at the woman from Cootes, the wedding photo, and the barbecue shot of Nicholson in a Hawaiian shirt as if the images would speak to him. At last he put the marker in the tray and turned to Ryan.
    “Keep searching for Jennifer Grant, but first track down members of her family.” And, because MacNeice knew he always underestimated how fast Ryan was with his array of computers and blinking boxes, he added, “Also, scan the incoming inquiries about the Cootes woman from the various police services responding to her photo and description.” There had already been three inquiries, all ruled out because the missing women had tattoos. Looking back to the board for guidance and spotting the images of the Gage Park blast site, he said, “Go to the military sources for M67/C13 fragment grenades and see if one’s gone missing.”
    Ryan mumbled a yes, his fingers already flying.
    “As for street availability …” MacNeice looked at Vertesi. “Get onto the vice and drug unit—see if they’ll squeeze their snitches for word about military ordnance that may have changed hands recently.”
    “On it.” Vertesi turned back to his desk.
    The phone rang; it was Freddy Dewar calling from a pay phone at the corner of James and Robert. MacNeice put him on speaker.
    “I remembered, you know—I told you I would. Well, that young lass, I remember now. She worked at the Royal Dundurn Yacht Club.” He said the name slowly, pronouncing each syllable.
    MacNeice looked sharply toward Vertesi, who whispered, “No way,” and flipped open his book to find the manager’s name.
    “Freddy, you didn’t mention that you were a member of the yacht club.”
    “Oh my, no. But I walk that way a lot, and yesterday it hit me: She came up to me when I stumbled on a curb and asked if I was okay. After that, since we were both going the same way, I walked her to work. She told me she had a job in the yacht club restaurant.”
    “Do you recall when this happened?”
    “Late November, I figure, because I slipped on some ice.”
    “There’s a Portuguese bakery near you, north side of James,