Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (18 page)

Green pulled back into the police station parking lot just as Sullivan slewed his unmarked Taurus around the corner and screeched to a halt. The big man leaped out, eyes dancing.

Green waited for him. “Good news?”

“A double-hitter!”

“What!”

Sullivan slapped Green on the back. “Come on, I’m starved. Buy me a steak at the Crown and Castle and I’ll fill you in.”

“Me buy you? Since when?”

“Who’s the one with the inspector’s salary? And who wants to know the good news?”

Green knew Sullivan was teasing him, but since he had forgotten lunch and it was now past dinnertime, a steak and a draft was not a bad price to pay for Sullivan’s report. He
thought briefly of Sharon, who was probably wondering if she should leave some dinner for him before she left for work. But Sullivan’s dancing eyes got the better of him. Besides, through trial and error, surely Sharon had learned to let him fend for himself. I hope, he thought as he scrambled after Sullivan’s retreating back. The two men covered the three blocks up Elgin Street in two minutes. The sun had mercifully sunk behind the tall buildings, but its heat hung on, and Green felt sweat break out on his back.

“I had a bit of trouble with Raquel’s Uncle Pierre,” Sullivan chatted as he strode, seemingly oblivious to the heat. “He wanted a lawyer’s opinion. I said we were just tracing Blair’s activities and wanted to be able to rule out people who weren’t involved. Eventually, he agreed. Gave me a picture of Raquel too.” He pulled a photo from his pocket and held it out. “Gorgeous piece, eh?”

Green glanced at the picture of a dark-eyed beauty with a wide, sexy smile and sparkling eyes. Like Sharon’s. He pushed it away with a grimace. “Don’t talk to me about gorgeous pieces.”

Sullivan shot him a brief, quizzical glance as they turned to enter the cool, dark interior of the pub. Sullivan was greeted by off-duty policemen and other regulars and stopped to exchange jokes on his way to the table, leaving Green to stand by, impatient and left out. Despite his dedication to his family and his strict one-drink limit, Sullivan could always be one of the boys, whereas Green remained an outsider. As they sat, he frowned at Sullivan irritably.

“So? What did you find?”

“First let me get a beer.” He signalled the waiter.

“Brian!”

Sullivan laughed. “Okay. I showed a photo line-up to David Miller, and without hesitation, he picked out Pierre
Haddad as the guy he saw arguing with Raquel outside Halton’s building Tuesday afternoon. Then I tracked down the student who reported the fight in the coffee shop, and I showed her a line-up with all the Haddads in it—I stuck Miller and Difalco in there too—”

He broke off as the waiter brought them two foaming mugs of draft beer. Eyes alight, he reached for his.

“Goddamn it, Brian! And?”

Sullivan took a long, deep swallow. “Ah-h! And? Guess what, Mike. She took one look at the two Haddad boys and bingo!”

“Bingo? No hesitation?”

“None at all.”

“Hah!” Green pounded the table. “All right! The trap is closing.”

“So what’s next? Haul them in for questioning?”

Green shook his head, his mind racing. “We don’t have enough on them yet.”

“What are you talking about! We have an assault against the victim three hours before his death.”

“But we still can’t place them at the scene.”

“We could lean on them. The two kids’d probably crumble.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But we couldn’t make it stick, and their old man would be screaming police harassment and racial discrimination before the ink was dry.”

“So what?” Sullivan stared at Green in surprise. “Since when do you care?”

“I don’t,” Green snapped, wondering why he was hesitating. Was it because of Jules’ warning or something else? “I just don’t want these guys spooked and covering their tracks. Carrie MacDonald can’t place them at the library that night. That’s a big hole. Without more evidence to tie them to the scene, we’ll lose this one.”

Sullivan sighed and shook his head, deflated. “Oh well, I promised Danny and Mark a Blue Jays game this month. Kind of a Father’s Day treat. Maybe this way I’ll even be able to afford it, if the overtime doesn’t kill me first.”

Father’s Day. Green had a flash of himself with his own son ten years from now. Father-son sports games, especially hockey, were a Canadian rite of passage. He could even remember his own father, with his post-Holocaust fears of crowds and noise, trying to leave
shtetl
Poland behind him and packing them both onto the bus to see the Montreal Canadiens play the Toronto Maple Leafs at the Montreal Forum. Once.
Mechugas
, his father had proclaimed after watching fans scream drunkenly at the little black disc being whacked around the rink. Craziness. And since then, at any sports game he had ever tried to attend, Green could still hear that word ringing in his head.

But that was a father-son sports memory in itself, he thought. As sappy as any once-in-a-lifetime trek down to the Toronto Skydome. And now that Ottawa had its own hockey team as well as baseball, he had no excuse for not giving his own son something to remember him by.

He wanted to ask Sullivan how old a child had to be to enjoy a ball game, but he was afraid Sullivan would have the tickets bought and a picnic lunch packed for them all before he even turned around. Despite twenty years of friendship on the job, he wasn’t ready for that. Instead, he picked up the earlier thread.

“No overtime,” he replied, then had a sinking sensation. “At least not for you. I have to get a search warrant for the Haddad house. We have enough evidence for that. And tomorrow we’ll go in mid-morning when the men are likely to be out.”

“And we’re looking for?”

“Three things. Bloody clothes, Blair’s wallet, or a six-inch, double-bladed knife. If we get any of those, then we pick the bastards up.”

Two search warrants in one day, Green thought as he finally arrived at his apartment door. I should get a medal for devotion to paper pushing. It was past midnight, but he found himself reluctant to go in. He leaned against the door, steeling himself for a confrontation. He had never sent the roses, never even called to apologize or warn her about dinner. He didn’t even know if she was home or still working the night shift, and he realized with a pang how distant they had become. Memories of Carrie MacDonald wafted in uninvited. Of her tumbling blonde curls and her rising breasts. He remembered his arousal, the feeling of freshness and adventure.

“Oh God,” he groaned, shutting his eyes against the images. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. The apartment was dark and stifling, and the fridge hummed in the distance. The acrid smell of diapers assailed him as he moved down the hall towards the kitchen. With the narrow old windows and boxy rooms, the fetid summer air never seemed to move.

“Sharon?” he called, heading into the kitchen. Alone in the middle of the table stood a pair of brass candlesticks, a wedding gift from his in-laws, who lived in eternal hope that somewhere deep inside him, there was a good Jewish boy to be salvaged. Celebration of the Sabbath had not been part of the family ritual during his childhood, and when Sharon had first set the candles out on Friday night, he’d felt oddly alien, like an actor in a foreign play. When she had invited his father over
for Shabbat dinner and lit the candles, however, Sid Green’s eyes had welled with silent tears. Sharon had understood, and the candles had been set out ever since.

Tonight the kitchen was neatly cleared. Too neat. There were no signs of dinner, no notes or instructions for him. Only the white candles standing unlit in readiness for tomorrow night. A clear and eloquent message to him, with no need for words.

He checked the baby’s crib, which was empty. Even the blanket was gone. Irrational fear seized him, like a sense of
déjà vu
. Had it happened again? He hurried into the bathroom and found her toothbrush still in its puddle by the sink. It was then that he saw the note, taped to the toilet—another eloquent message, if he cared to dwell on it: “If you’re interested in knowing, your son is across the hall with Mrs. Louks.”

Relief brought anger and a renewal of his discontent. He left Tony where he was and crawled naked into bed, grateful for the prospect of an uninterrupted night’s sleep. Uninterrupted, as it turned out, except for erotic dreams of tawny curls and velvet thighs…

And the crash of the front door at seven a.m.

He lay in bed expectantly, listening as she tossed her purse on the shelf, kicked her shoes into the closet, and padded shoeless down the hall to the kitchen. She opened the fridge, unwrapped something crinkly and gave a deep sigh. She’ll come in here in a moment, he thought, and I’ll have to fight with her.

But five minutes later, she still had not budged from the kitchen, and he heard no sound but the rattling of paper. He could delay the confrontation no further. He had to get up and shower to get to a briefing he had called at eight. He wanted to get his men started on background checks of the Haddad sons
while he and Sullivan went out to search the house.

With a sigh he climbed out of bed, gritted his teeth and headed toward the kitchen. Sharon was slumped over their little table, a glass of juice and a hunk of stale gruyère in front of her. She held her head in her hands and did not even look up as he entered.

“Get out of here, Mike,” she muttered. “I don’t have the energy to deal with you.”

Shaken, he withdrew. Standing under the hot shower, he berated himself. He should have spoken to her. She had worked a twelve-hour graveyard shift the last three nights in a row. He should have made some gesture of support, but he couldn’t face her. A simple caress, a simple “Hard night, sweetheart?” would not have been enough for her. It would have unleashed a torrent of rebuke, and he didn’t have time for that. He was grateful when he emerged from the bathroom to find she had gone across the hall to fetch Tony. He would be able to slip into the kitchen for some juice and cereal before she returned. Then maybe a quick kiss and a “Sorry, darling” before he dashed from the house.

But before he had even poured his juice, his attention was drawn to the morning newspaper which lay scattered over the table. Right in the centre of the front page, smiling out at him, was Carrie MacDonald and across the page above ran the headline: “Librarian Key Witness in Murder Hunt”.

Goddamn it! He scanned the article to see how bad it was. There was the usual human interest detail: Carrie MacDonald, 28-year-old single mother…worked at the library to pay her way through university…no stranger to violence, grew up in a neighbourhood where drunks beat down doors at two a.m. and women locked themselves in the bathroom...

Interspersed with these tidbits from her private life was the
real meat of the story, however. About her habit of observing and recording interesting faces, about the sketches of possible suspects. Enough to make her a threat.

Cursing, he abandoned his juice, grabbed his suit jacket and dashed out the door.

Carrie stood wide-eyed in her doorway. “But Mike, I didn’t tell them anything secret!” she cried. “It’s just background. I mean, you’ve told me nothing. I don’t even know who those guys were that you showed me last night.”

He pushed past her into the apartment and shut the door. “You shouldn’t have even told them your name.”

“They wouldn’t settle for that.” She flushed as she followed him into the living room. “They knew I was at the library, they knew you’d been to see me. I had to tell them something.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Her gaze shifted as she pondered the question. Slowly, a rueful smile spread over her face. “I guess I found it kind of fun being the centre of attention like that, my name in the newspapers. Even my picture.”

“Did it ever occur to you that the killer might not be amused?”

She waved her hand in dismissal. “Oh, phooey. I didn’t say I knew anything.”

“The paper makes it sound like you did.” He held out the article, and she read it in silence. Curled up on the sofa, she gradually sobered. At last, she looked up in dismay.

“I didn’t say half these things, Mike. It’s all out of context!”

“I know,” he replied grimly. “A reporter’s modus operandi.”

“What do I do now? Should I write a letter to the editor?”

“You keep your mouth shut and you lie low. Have you got some place you can stay for a few days?”

She frowned in thought, her fingers idly twirling her golden hair. Finally she bit her lip. “I have no family. It was just my mother and me when I was growing up, but she’s dead. And I haven’t any real friends. I’ve always been too busy for a social life.” She cocked her head. “Do you think it’s that serious?”

He hesitated between reassuring her and scaring her into greater caution. Why was even the simplest of professional decisions so complicated with her? “I don’t know,” he equivocated. “But I think I’ll send a female officer over here to stay with you till you’re set up in a hotel.”

“A hotel! I don’t have money—”

“Departmental expense. Just for a few days, for your safety.” She smiled, a little wryly. “I’ve handled worse than this, you know. But it’s kind of nice having you worry over me. Can I repay you with some coffee?”

He glanced at his watch. The neuropsychology professor from McGill was due within the hour, and Sullivan would be waiting to begin the search of the Haddad house. I really have no time, he thought, watching the blonde curls bounce as she walked down the hall towards the kitchen.

“Sure, just a quick one.”

Her kitchen was so small that when she turned to hand him his coffee, her shoulder brushed his. She looked up into his eyes. “Sorry I was bad,” she murmured.

He thought he was melting, so great was the heat. He didn’t trust his voice not to betray him, so he merely shook his head. She smiled.

“We should go sit down.” But she didn’t move. Her eyes held his, intensely blue. He burned beneath her gaze. When she set her coffee down and touched his arm, all willpower
vanished. He pulled her into his arms. Wedged between the counter and the fridge, they grappled like a fire out of control. Her mouth bruised his, her breasts filled his hands. Lilac scent rushed to his head, and dimly through the haze of arousal, he felt her hands upon his groin. She had his clothes half-off before he wrenched free.