Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (195 page)

“So you hit her?”

“Maybe. That’s for you to prove.”

“Where did this happen?”

“This room looks like a good place.”

“So how exactly did it happen?”

“Could have been just like you said, a burst of temper. One pop to the mouth, and she goes down, hits her head, and she’s done. There’s no intent to kill.”

Sullivan sized him up. “Then why didn’t you call 911?”

“Like you said, panic is a funny thing. Maybe I thought about what it would do to Riley if the whole mess got in the papers. No way would I want anything to screw up his big chance.”

“So what did you do?”

“So I dumped the body in the park.”

“How did you transport it?”

Darren paused. “In the wheelbarrow.”

“I mean what did you drive it in?”

Abruptly Darren swung around and headed for the door. “You want any more information, you arrest me, you bring me downtown, and I want a lawyer. I’m not giving you another fucking thing for free.”

Bob Gibbs approached the Norman Bethune Alternate School with a confidence he hadn’t felt in weeks. He had a mission to focus on—to track down a missing teenage girl—and there was slim chance of a homicidal assailant leaping out of the shadows of the school. So far he had struck out with all of Crystal’s friends. If they knew anything about her, they weren’t talking. He’d spoken to enough sulky Avril Lavigne wannabes to turn him off having children entirely.

Norman Bethune School seemed deserted, with nothing but a single bicycle chained to the fence by the drive. The doorbell brought no response, but when he pounded on the door, he finally heard the shuffling of feet within. A few seconds later, the door cracked open warily, and a middle-aged woman peered out. Frizzy grey hair flew around her head.

“School’s out, sir.” He showed her his badge and asked for a word. She led the way down a dark, creaky hallway into a minuscule office stuffed with files and books.

“I’m just working on final report cards,” she said, stacking the papers on the floor to clear a space on the chair for him. “Is this about Inspector Green’s daughter?”

Gibbs masked his surprise and shook his head, pulling out his notebook. After recording her name and occupation— Eleanor Hicks, guidance counsellor—he produced a picture of Crystal Adams. “Have you seen this girl?”

Ms Hicks arched her thick eyebrows. “Oh, dear!”

“Have you seen her?”

“Is this an official investigation?”

“Yes, this girl is missing.”

“Oh dear. Well, I think she was the girl who was here this morning.”

So she’s still alive, Gibbs thought triumphantly. Finally a lead! “You’re positive?”

“Well, she didn’t look like this. She had no make-up on, and her hair was all over the place. She looked awful. But I’m pretty sure it’s the same girl.”

“What did she want?”

“To talk to the girls. They were almost all here this morning, clearing out their things. We had a little goodbye party, because most of them won’t be back next year.”

“Did she talk to anyone in particular?”

“She came here really upset and demanding to see one of our girls. Normally I wouldn’t let anyone in who wasn’t one of our students, but we were just having juice and muffins together and a couple of the girls recognized her. And as I said she seemed in trouble, so I decided maybe it would be best. We try to have a supportive, welcoming atmosphere here.”

“Who did she talk to?”

“I’m not sure that matters.”

The woman’s evasion surprised him. “This is important. She may be at risk.”

“That’s the thing. She came here looking for answers...” She hesitated. “I didn’t eavesdrop, you understand, but she wasn’t speaking very quietly once she got upset. I could even hear her from this office. She seemed to feel that someone had ratted on her. Her words. She wanted to know who. These kinds of altercations are common enough with the student population we serve, so at the time I didn’t think much of it.”

“Did she find out who it was?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I overheard the girls telling her who it could have been. And now that you’re here...”

Gibbs readied his notebook. “Who?”

“Hannah Pollack. Inspector Green’s daughter. Hannah wasn’t in school, but last I knew, this girl was heading off to find her.”

Gibbs sucked in his breath, the flutter of nerves returning to his gut. “Did she have an address?”

“Oh, yes. One of the girls told her. Hannah’s been having a hard time since the students found out her father is a police officer.”

Nineteen

 G
reen was grateful once again for the flashing lights as he raced down Carling Avenue. He’d barely breathed since Gibbs’s call. He didn’t dare think about what he might encounter. How dangerous was Crystal? Could she have been the killer all along? First responsible for doctoring the drugs that killed Lea and later killing the social worker who knew too much. Did she have the strength and ruthlessness to sever the woman’s head? God only knew. Desperation—or crystal meth—sometimes gives a woman the strength of six men.

When he hurtled the car down his quiet street, dog walkers and mothers with strollers scattered before him. The front of his house looked peaceful, and the door was locked. When he burst inside, he was greeted only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint smell of coffee. He ran through the house, shouting for Hannah, but to no avail. He forced himself to calm down and inspect the house through the eyes of a detective. There were no signs of a struggle. No overturned tables or broken lamps, no paintings askew. No blood. He breathed a little more easily. In the kitchen, Hannah’s empty cereal bowl sat on the counter, just as she always left it. On the kitchen table was an empty plate with crumbs on it, and two cups. He picked one up and sniffed it. Just coffee. Maybe she had gone out before Crystal arrived. Maybe she was safely off on one of her whimsical adventures.

He tried her cell phone, only to hear it ringing from inside her bedroom. A bad sign. Hannah never forgot her phone. Her backpack was also there, but her wallet was missing. He took a deep breath. This case was getting crazier at every turn. How many more people could be on the loose in the city? McIntyre, Riley, Crystal and now Hannah! Who the hell was pursuing whom, and why?

He returned outside and stood in the drive, looking down the street. No sign of Hannah. He drove slowly down to Richmond Road. The bus stop was vacant. He fought an overwhelming frustration. His daughter was an infuriatingly free spirit, inclined to pick up and disappear on a whim. If she had caught a bus, she could be anywhere in the city. There was really no evidence she was in danger. He had a murder case to solve and a search to coordinate. Reluctantly, he turned around and was just heading back towards Carling Avenue to return to the station when his cell phone rang. He wrestled it off his belt, praying it was Hannah. An unfamiliar voice burst through the speaker, deep but youthful and cracking with urgency.

“Inspector Green?”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Riley O’Shaughnessy.”

Green nearly drove off the road. One handed, he swung his car under the Queensway overpass and accelerated towards the on-ramp. “Where are you, Riley?”

“I didn’t kill her. You have to believe me.”

“Where are you?”

“In my car.”

“Where?”

“It doesn’t matter where!” Riley’s voice had a manic edge. “I need to know you believe me.”

“I do believe you. I’ll be at the station in five minutes. Can you meet me there?”

“It wasn’t my idea to throw her into the river.”

Keep him talking, Green reminded himself. In the background, he could hear the rumble of the powerful Mustang. “I know it wasn’t. We know all about it. But—”

“How do you know?”

“We’ve been piecing things together. We know you called Vic McIntyre. But I really want to hear the whole story.”

“He’s looking for me! He wants to kill me.” For the first time, the youth’s voice broke, revealing how young he was.

“Then come in.” There was a pause. Green barrelled down the Queensway, lights flashing. “Riley? It’s the safest thing you can do.”

“I thought he was in my corner. I thought he wanted my dreams too. But the bastard doesn’t care. I called him for help, and he...he threw her away. Like a piece of garbage! And now that poor social worker. It’s not worth it! All the money in the world, all the contacts, are not worth this! Oh, God, I just wanted to play hockey!”

“Riley, where are you?”

“On the 416. I’m going home.”

The youth’s voice broke, and Green could hear him sobbing. He pictured him streaking down the highway, one hand clutching the cell phone, the other locked on the wheel. Tears blurring his view.

Christ. “Riley! Come back to the station. We’ll get McIntyre, but I need to know you’re safe.”

“No! I want to go home! Shit! There he is!”

Green’s pulse leaped. “McIntyre? Where!”

“I just passed his car, sitting behind the pillar. Fuck, he spotted me! He’s getting on the highway.”

“What’s the next exit?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! Oh...Bankfield.”

Green forced his own voice to be calm. Commanding. “Turn around at Bankfield and come back towards town.” He tried to visualize the highway. Bankfield was near the southern extremity of the city. There was nothing but farmland around, and even at highway speeds, it was a good twenty minutes drive from the station. Far too long for an inexperienced driver in a Mustang to run against a Lincoln Navigator. He did some rapid calculations.

“Riley, I’m going to get you some help. Turn around, and get off the 416 at the exit for Hunt Club Road. I’ll have a police cruiser waiting for you.”

“No, I can outrun him easily in this machine!” The engine’s roar increased, almost deafening.

Green shouted over the din. “Riley. Riley! Listen to me. Hunt Club exit. My officers will be waiting for you.”

He hung up and immediately called the Com Centre, hooking up with the duty inspector. Without hesitation Ford dispatched a unit to the Hunt Club exit then sent word to the Ontario Provincial Police to watch the highway further south in case Riley continued on toward Gananoque.

Green pulled into the front of the station, leaped out and dashed through the glass doors into the lobby. Just as he was climbing on the elevator, his cell phone rang again. An unknown number. Not Riley, not Hannah. McIntyre himself, perhaps? He punched “talk”.

“Mike?”

Relief flooded through him.
Baruch Hashem
. “Hannah? Are you okay?”

She paused. “Are you at the station?”

The elevator hummed upwards. “Sort of. What’s up?”

“Just stay put.”

“But—”

The line clicked dead. He frowned at his phone but had no time for bewilderment before the elevator door opened onto the tense excitement of the Com Centre. Inspector Ford was pacing behind a row of dispatchers, coordinating the search. “Any news from Hunt Club?” Green asked.

“Not yet, but the unit’s just arrived.”

“We should call up the Tac Team,” Green said. “Just in case things go sour.”

The duty inspector ran his hand through his bristly crew cut, frowning. “Where would we send them?”

Green thought fast. “There’s no way to know where—or if—the situation might explode. I think we should at least have them mobilized and ready to move.”

The inspector shrugged. “I’ll see what the team supervisor says,” he muttered and flipped on his phone. While he waited, Green glanced around, but there was no sign of Sullivan. He phoned him. When Sullivan picked up, he sounded tense.

“I’m en route. I’ve got a cruiser bringing Darren O’Shaughnessy in.”

Green was astounded. “What for?”

“For questioning in the murder of Jenna Zukowski.”

“What!” Riley O’Shaughnessy had been their prime suspect, Vic McIntyre a late alternative, but Darren had never even been on the radar.

“Ident found blood on Darren’s axe and wheelbarrow, and I think there’s traces of blood in his living room.”

“Did he admit it?”

“He’s playing coy. It’s hard to tell—” At that moment, the Com Centre dispatcher shouted for attention. “It’s the unit at Hunt Club exit,” she said, turning up the speaker. A strident female voice penetrated the static. “A red Mustang just blew past us on the highway, going at least a hundred and sixty klics an hour.”

Green’s relief was short-lived. The boy had turned around, but he hadn’t stopped for help. “He’s coming all the way in. Any sign of a black Navigator?”

“Not yet. Oh! Yeah, there he goes! He’s about one kilometre behind.”

Green glanced at the duty inspector, who was still tied up on the phone with the Tactical Unit. Green thought fast. “Take up pursuit. Try to box in the Navigator. We’ll send some other units to help.” He studied the wall map. The cruiser was positioned only about four kilometres from where the highway 416 merged with the much busier Queensway that drew local traffic as well as long distance traffic into the city’s core. In the middle of the day, all the lanes would be crowded, and a high speed pursuit along the Queensway would put countless lives at risk.

The duty inspector put the Tac supervisor on hold and joined Green at the map. He immediately relayed the information to all available units in the west end, with orders to intercept and contain the Navigator if possible.

“Tell the Tac Team that our boy in the Mustang will probably be coming into the station off the Queensway in about ten minutes,” Green said. “We have a unit in pursuit, but have them clear the area and work out a plan to secure him, and the driver of the Navigator in case the unit can’t apprehend him en route.”

“Mike!” The shout came from Green’s cell phone, which he’d forgotten. Sullivan was still on the line. “What’s going on?”

Green filled him in with three terse sentences.

“We’re coming down Main Street,” Sullivan said, “only about a kilometre away.”

“Stay clear of the Metcalfe-Queensway area, Brian. We’ve called the Tac Team to control it, but I’m not sure what the hell is going to happen.”

By this time, half a dozen senior brass had piled into the Com Centre, as well as the Tac supervisor, who was conferring urgently with the duty inspector. Both were snapping orders into their radios. Green left the coordination of the take-down in their much more capable hands and snatched up a radio.