Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (17 page)

Several hours later, Green arrived back at the squad room with the signed search warrant triumphantly in hand. He was high with energy, no longer impatient and irritable as he rounded up the only two detectives still at their desks.

“Watts and Charbonneau, I want you to get over to the university. I have a warrant to seize all the files, computers,
disks and any other paper or electronic data belonging to Miller, Difalco, Blair and Halton. Load every last piece of paper in their four offices into boxes. Make sure you label each box carefully so none of the files gets mixed up, and put them all in Halton’s main computer lab. Then seal the offices and post a twenty-four hour guard so no one can tamper with anything until we can get an outside expert in there to look at this stuff. I hope to have someone lined up to start tomorrow. Okay, guys, go!”

Without waiting for the two detectives to get out the door, Green entered his office, pushed the stack of phone messages out of the way and pulled out his phone book. It took him almost an hour of phone calls to four different universities before he located an expert in neuropsychology who was not only familiar with Halton’s work but also willing to drop everything to spend several days holed up in a computer lab going over files. Dr. Stanley Baker, professor of physiological psychology at McGill University, was less than gracious but grudgingly agreed. For a fee.

After Green hung up the phone, feeling very pleased with himself, he wondered fleetingly if he ought to have cleared the expense with Jules first. He was just steeling himself to go upstairs to discuss it when his door swung open and Superintendent Jules strode in, gray eyes as narrow as pinpricks. He shut the door behind him and stood ramrod straight, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Michael, what the hell is going on?”

Green was taken aback. Jules was always polished, precise and understated. In a station full of obscenities, he never swore. “I was just coming up, Adam.”

“How nice. Then you can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to say to the Deputy Chief that he can explain to
Marianne Blair that she can explain to Myles Halton about why the hell all his university files are being carted off by the police.”

Green burst out laughing. He knew it was unwise, but it was irrepressible. “Poor Adam. Superiors are such a pain in the ass, aren’t they?”

For an instant he thought Jules was going to erupt. Never had he seen him quite that shade of fuchsia. But then, in spite of himself, Jules broke into a real smile. This is a day for firsts, thought Green.

Jules pulled back the guest chair and sat down. “Michael, there must be at least the appearance that I control you.”

“I know. So Halton is pissed, is he?”

Jules nodded. “I think he expected something slightly better from his friendship with Mrs. Blair than the appearance of two non-ranking detectives. No me, no you.”

“No brass band.” Green shook his head dolefully. “I would have gone, but I had other arrangements to make, and we had to move very fast. As it is, the horse has probably already left the barn.”

“Enlighten me.”

Green took twenty minutes to summarize the progress of the investigation to date and to outline his next moves. He was about to broach the subject of expenses when there was a sharp knock at the door, and Sullivan flung it open. He was so excited that the sight of Jules barely gave him pause.

“A suspect! Maybe two or three. The Raquel Haddad connection.”

Jules glanced at Green, eyebrows high. “You didn’t mention a Raquel Haddad connection.”

“That’s just another avenue we’re pursuing,” Green replied irritably. “On the back-burner right now.”

Sullivan flourished a report. “Not any more! Some heavy-duty stuff was going on between Raquel, her uncle and Blair on the day he was killed.”

Green perked up. “Tell me!”

“First, you know that Blair and Raquel were likely an item. Well, a student saw Blair in the student coffee shop eating supper with a black-haired woman. The student phoned our hotline once she saw Blair’s picture in the paper. Anyway,” Sullivan flipped open his notebook, “the witness said they were sitting very close, whispering. The black-haired girl was crying, and then this student overheard Blair say to her ‘But he’d never really do it!’ and Raquel said ‘You don’t know him! You don’t know my family!’ A few minutes later these two tough-looking guys come along and they tell her to come with them. She starts to get up and Jonathan Blair tells them to lay off, it’s a free country. And she shouts ‘Jonathan, don’t!’ They grab her arm. Jonathan steps between them, and they punch him. He falls over the table. They’re hauling Raquel along, Jonathan starts after them, and she yells at him to go away. Then they all get out of view, and our witness didn’t see what else happened.”

“What time was this?”

“About six-thirty.”

“These tough-looking guys, what did they look like?” Sullivan glanced through his notebook. “Twentyish. Medium height and weight, thick dark hair, brown eyes, heavy eyebrows. One had a mustache. Dressed in casual summer clothes. One had on a light T-shirt and jeans, the other a black Metallica T-shirt and black jeans. No distinguishing marks.”

“Twentyish?” Green frowned. “Raquel’s uncle is in his forties and fat.”

Sullivan shrugged. “Henchmen, probably. An older, heavy-134
set, dark guy was seen arguing with Raquel outside Halton’s building earlier that afternoon.”

Green sat up sharply. “Seen by whom?”

“David Miller.”

“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me!”

“I’m telling you now. I just saw the report.”

Green frowned in thought, tapping his pencil against his desk. “Might be just a coincidence. Okay, this has to be low key. Get a photo of Pierre Haddad and show a photo line-up to Miller. See if he can make a positive ID on the guy arguing with Raquel.”

Sullivan’s eyes flitted from Green to Jules. “Low-key?”

Green shrugged. “Just don’t spook him. The guy’s paranoid about cops. Tell him it’s routine, standard operating procedure—improvise. Just don’t mention the fight in the coffee shop. If this is our guy, I don’t want to tip him off, or he’ll send those young thugs underground.”

Even before the door had closed on Sullivan, Green was riffling through the files on the floor. He had glimpsed the background check on Pierre Haddad earlier in passing, but had discarded it as irrelevant to the mystery of the research data. Now he pounced on it.

The team investigating the background of the Haddad family had come up with precious little. From the tone of the report it sounded as if the entire Lebanese community had shut down tight at the first sight of the police. Official records provided a skeleton of information but little insight into the family. Pierre Haddad, a Christian, had immigrated from Beirut in 1978 through regular immigration channels, not as a refugee. Initially, he had worked as a taxi driver, but in 1984, he had purchased the corner confectionary store in Little Italy. His payments to the Toronto Dominion Bank were regular
and reliable, and his business dealings seemed completely above board.

A search of police and motor vehicle records had revealed the same wholesome picture. Haddad had no record of criminal activity and only a handful of traffic tickets to his name. He owned two cars, a Taurus family sedan and a four-wheel drive pick-up. Expensive, but not outrageous. Since 1988 Haddad had lived with his family in a modest bungalow in the older Ottawa suburb of Elmvale Acres. His wife was also a Lebanese Christian and the couple had made a strict, traditional Lebanese home for their two sons, who were now young men. The neighbours reported that the Haddads were a quiet, courteous family who kept to themselves but were happy to lend a hand in an emergency. The father in particular was popular with the neighbourhood children, because he sometimes gave out free candy.

Another Mr. Perfect, thought Green grimly as he saw his theory gradually turn to dust. No temper, no history of violence or intimidation.

As he was scanning, he had forgotten Jules, who was reading over his shoulder, until Jules’ quiet voice cut in. “Michael, this could be sticky.”

Green cocked his head, puzzled. Jules waved a manicured hand. “The Middle East, you know. Things can be …misconstrued.”

“Adam, so far I have a fight and a tyrannical uncle, not an international plot. There’s nothing here to suggest anything political.”

“What about the young men who assaulted Blair in the coffee shop?”

“They could be just sons of friends. Did CSIS or the RCMP turn up any connection to political groups? Terrorists, organized crime?”

Jules shook his head. “But ethnic groups usually stick together. If one person is in trouble, the others pitch in, like one big happy family—”

Green broke in abruptly, his eyes widening. “Family!” He dived for the report he had tossed aside and scanned it, reaching for the phone. “Pierre Haddad has two sons who might be twentyish.”

“Michael, please. Remember the rule book.”

Green paused, his hand on the receiver. “I’m just going to tell Sullivan to get pictures of the two sons and show them to our coffee shop witness. If she can ID either of them as being involved in the fight, we’ll take it from there. Is that ‘by the book’ enough for you?”

Jules paused on his way out the door. “Keep me informed.”

Once he had relayed the added requests to Sullivan, Green sat in his office, feeling restless and ill at ease. Had he forgotten anything? The Halton files had been seized and an expert lined up to review them the next day. Alibis had been obtained on all Blair’s known colleagues, and background checks had been done on Pierre Haddad. Blair’s activities had been traced on the day he died and arrangements made to identify the suspects who had assaulted him shortly before his death. Nothing tied in directly to the murder, but it was the best he could do. For now, it was a waiting game.

He glanced at his watch. Past five o’clock. He looked at the phone, thinking of Sharon and remembering the bitterness in her eyes when he had thrown her out. He should send her some flowers. A dozen red roses with a note saying “I’m sorry”. She was his wife, after all. She put up with a lot, and she was entitled to better.

Entitled, he thought with dismay. Is that the word that comes to mind when I think of her? Not love, not passion—
but entitlement? He put his face in his hands with a groan. This relationship was not going to go the way of all his previous ones, three or four years and off to greener pastures. He tried to picture Sharon as she had been in the beginning, when he had fallen so hard. Fresh, wise-cracking and sexy, with a sly smile that drove him crazy and a tender wisdom that brought a lump to his throat.

But instead, his mind conjured up honey-blond hair, tight jeans and a full, pouting mouth.

He jerked his head up, the memory chasing out all else. There
was
a stone unturned! There was someone who might be able to tie the Haddads directly to the murder.

Nine

Carrie MacDonald answered
her apartment bell on the second ring, at first peering out warily, then flinging the door wide at the sight of Green.

“I thought you had forgotten all about me!” she cried, eyes shining, and he was grateful she could not read his mind. Forgotten like hell! “Come on in. I’ve been getting so many nuisance callers that I’m almost thinking of moving.”

The policeman in him reacted. “What kind of nuisance callers?” he demanded sharply.

“Oh, reporters, nosy neighbours. I just slam the door in their faces.” Seeing his worried look, she smiled. “I can take care of myself, have since I was nine. It’s my daughter. If they start bugging her…”

“Get a good dead bolt installed, and a chain and peephole.”

She pranced after him as he made his way into the living room. “Aye, aye, sir. Want some tea? Coffee? You look tired.”

He rubbed his eyes as he sank down on the sofa. Toys were strewn all over the floor, reminding him of home. And Sharon. He still hadn’t called her, hadn’t sent her flowers. He banished the guilt with an effort. “Long hours. Tea would be nice.”

“How’s it coming?” she called over her shoulder from her tiny kitchen.

“It’s coming. That’s why I’m here. I want you to look at some photos.”

She came back into the room and leaned against the doorframe. Her smile scattered his thoughts. With an effort he took out the envelope he had just obtained from Sullivan and laid eight scanned photographs out on the cluttered coffee table, among them Pierre Haddad and his two sons. She came to sit at his side on the sofa, her thigh brushing his.

His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke. “Did you see any of these men on the fourth floor of the library at any time on the evening of the stabbing?”

Honey-coloured hair cascaded over her face as she bent close to study the line-up. The urge to brush it aside for her was almost irresistible. He locked his hands in his lap. She took the task seriously, and her eyes probed each picture in turn before she finally looked up at him, curls falling in her eyes. She pushed them aside as she shook her head.

“I feel bad. I’d like to help, but none of these guys looks familiar.”

The kettle began to whistle, and she sprang to her feet. For a moment he was left to slow his breathing and wrestle his desires under control. This time it’s bad, he thought to himself. But it’s purely physical, something to do with coming home every night to find your wife on her knees mopping up pablum and smelling of milk.

He could hear the soft tinkle of spoons, and even that sounded seductive. When she came back into the room balancing two mugs in her hands, he thought she too looked flushed. She held out his tea and his fingers brushed hers, sending a jolt of electricity through him. He realized she was talking, and he forced himself to focus on her words.

“I do have the drawings you asked me to do, though. Maybe they will help.”

She disappeared and reappeared seconds later with a large
sketch pad. Eagerly, she sat at his side again and leaned forward to spread out her drawings. Her loose fitting plaid shirt gaped open at the neck. Green wrenched his eyes from her cleavage to the table. Arranged before him were four pencil drawings of faces gazing out at him. There was a fat John Candy look-alike, a skinny horse-faced youth with acne and a dark, liquid-eyed man with wavy hair and a mustache. The fourth was a woman, staring out hard-eyed through a cloud of frizz. The drawings were exquisite and almost seemed to breathe as he looked at them. He sensed something strangely familiar about them, but the more he stared the more elusive the feeling became. He had seen someone like this, he knew it. Perhaps, when his body was calmer and his thoughts more collected, he would be able to remember.