Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (227 page)

Adrian was frowning unhappily. “See, she didn’t have long hair when I knew her, and she wasn’t that thin. It’s the way she is holding herself, that tilt of her chin, that makes me think... You don’t have any other photos of her I could look at?”

Levesque was shaking her head when Green interrupted. “Maybe you can play him that section of the video tape. Sometimes movement helps.”

Adrian’s eyes lit up. “Yeah.”

Levesque half-rose, looking from Green to Crugar warily. She seemed to find no way to refuse, for she headed out the door. Green reached for her file. A brief glance showed that she’d recorded no details about the young man beyond his name. He clicked open her pen. “Just some information for our records, sir?”

The man supplied his full name, date of birth, an address in the far-flung eastern suburb of Orleans, and employment as an assistant loans officer at Scotiabank in Orleans. The man lives and works in Orleans, Green thought, a long way from the inner city throb of the Byward Market, but only a short hop across the open pastures of the Greenbelt from Beacon Hill. He was about to ask if he ever went to Beacon Hill when the door opened and Levesque reappeared, carrying her laptop and a
CD
. She shot Green a suspicious look but said nothing.

Together they hunched over the laptop and watched the grainy images move across the screen. As the prostitute appeared, first her stiletto boots, white jeans, stylish shoulder bag and finally her fur jacket and swoop of hair, Green heard Adrian suck in his breath. He sat awhile in silence once the scrap of tape was done.

“Oh, my goodness.” Adrian’s chin wobbled, and tears brimmed. “What has happened to her?”

“Do you recognize her?” Levesque asked.

He nodded, sucking breath into his lungs. “I think it’s Caitlin. I—I gave her that handbag.”

“Caitlin who?”

“Well, probably O’Malley now.”

“Spell it.” Levesque took down every letter. “Do you know her address?”

He shook his head. “I only know her parents’ place. They live in Rothwell Heights. Patrick O’Malley is a big name attorney.”

Rothwell Heights was an exclusive enclave of wealthy homes on huge natural lots near the Ottawa River. Certainly a neighbourhood befitting a “big name” attorney. More importantly, it was adjacent to Beacon Hill and quite possibly on the same bus route. Patrick O’Malley’s name rang a loud bell in Green’s memory. A specialist in personal injury litigation, Patrick O’Malley sued people for a living, which would go far towards financing a home in Rothwell Heights. There was another distant bell ringing in Green’s memory as well, but he couldn’t place it. Annoyed, he rifled through his thoughts.

“How do you know Caitlin O’Malley?” Levesque was asking.

“I used to be married to her. The smartest, most exciting girl I’ve ever known. We were both too young, and her father never approved. Caitlin had...a gift, but she couldn’t always harness it. It scared her sometimes, overwhelmed her and threw her off course.” He paused, his eyes narrowing at the pain of the memory. “She developed a few problems, and her father had a different idea of how to help her. I thought a loving husband, a supportive community and a trust in God’s greater plan would get her through it, but her father wanted her stuffed full of drugs.”

Green started as the memory clicked into place. Caitlin O’Malley! One of the six beneficiaries of Rosenthal’s will! His thoughts raced afield.

Levesque did not appear to have made the connection as she plowed ahead. “Do you know anything about her recent activities? Her current whereabouts?”

Adrian shook his head. “I haven’t seen her in four years. She had a breakdown, and her father took me to court. He had himself declared responsible for her health care and got a court order barring me from seeing her. I was a danger to her health and safety.” A flash of anger tightened Adrian’s jaw, but he quickly quelled it. “That made the breakdown so much worse. I loved her. I never made her feel like a failure the way her father did. Who was to say she was crazy? All through history, God has spoken to a select few. We used to call them saints, not lunatics.”

Levesque pursed her lips. “Yes, but science—”

Green nudged her foot imperceptibly, but Adrian was not distracted. “Definitions only. Evil is in all of us. Caitlin felt so alone trying to fight it until she met me. When she lost me...” He took a deep, steadying breath to fight back fresh tears. “I’m sorry, this is something that has haunted me for years. I should have fought harder for her, but I was just out of school, and I had no money and no friends in the courts like he had. But I think when she lost me—when I gave up the fight—she lost her only friend. Her only hope.” He gestured weakly to the laptop screen. “And now look at her.”

Green tried to recall what else he knew about Patrick O’Malley. The man was a local success story and philanthropist who’d been consolidating his network of friends in high places since his early years at St. Patrick’s, once Ottawa’s most prestigious Catholic college. Adrian Crugar wouldn’t have stood a chance.

Masking his excitement, he stepped into the silence. “What was her diagnosis, do you know?”

Adrian dragged himself back from the past to focus on Green’s words. “Lots of them. Schizophrenic, bipolar, borderline—whatever that is. How she hated the labels and all the different meds the doctors tried. They made her fat, they gave her the shakes, they made her feel weird inside. She was afraid they were killing her brain cells.”

“Does the name Dr. Samuel Rosenthal mean anything to you?”

“The man who was murdered?” When Green nodded, he shook his head.

“He was never one of her treating psychiatrists?”

“Not that I know of. But once her father cut me off, I never knew what was going on. Friends would pass stuff on, rumours they’d heard. She’s back in school, she’s earned her PhD, she’s on the streets. It seemed like a real roller coaster. She probably had lots of psychiatrists, because I’m sure Mr. O’Malley fired them every time she had trouble. Dr. Rosenthal could have been one of them.”

Green studied the man closely. He looked genuinely distressed, and he had one of those open, honest faces that made lying impossible. Yet there was something... something he was holding back. “What else do you want to tell us?” he asked gently.

Adrian dropped his gaze. Flushed. “She phoned me six months ago, the first time in four years. I didn’t speak to her. I was out, and she left a message on my machine. She sounded good, she said she wanted me to know she was doing well and finally taking charge of her life. She’d found her own lawyer and was going to stand up to her father. That was all.”

“Did you call her back?”

He flushed even more deeply. “I was just starting a new relationship, and I thought... God help me, Caitlin can be so draining. But the new relationship didn’t work out, and when I went to return her call, the number was out of service.”

Twenty

Levesque navigated the unmarked Impala with one hand. A misty drizzle coated the landscape in a drab grey sheen, and Green peered through the rain-spattered windshield, trying to read the house numbers.

It had been Levesque’s idea to pay a cold call to Caitlin O’Malley’s father, even though evening was almost upon them, her daughter’s skates were a distant memory, and she claimed to have a dinner engagement. Green had been champing at the bit to follow up on Adrian Crugar’s lead, but once they’d escorted the young man out, he had deliberately refrained from suggesting it. Mary Sullivan’s indictment still rang in his ears. “You demanded it!” His obsession had already cost his friend dearly. Nothing on the job was worth that price.

Whether Levesque had sensed his underlying impatience to follow up or whether she herself had caught the bug, this time it was she who was not content to delegate the job, she who insisted on doing it herself.

Police work did not often bring Green into the cluster of winding, hilly streets known as Rothwell Heights, where sprawling mansions were tucked artfully into the hillsides, camouflaged by huge trees and sweeping gardens. Green thought of the decayed, litter-strewn corner where Screech and the mystery hooker spent their nights. If Caitlin O’Malley was that woman, her life had gone into free fall.

Mental illness could do that, of course.

“Here it is,” Levesque said as she drew to a stop at the curb. Green looked at the house, a rambling, west-coast style bungalow set well back from the road. Behind it, thick woods dropped away into a ravine of reds and golds muted under the grey sky. A silver
BMW
sports car sat in the driveway in front of the three-car garage. Green scanned the windows but saw no movement behind the sheer curtains as he and Levesque strode up to the door.

“Your call,” he said quietly as they rang the bell, sending a melodic church bell peeling through the house. A small dog set up a frenzied barking, obscuring all other sound. No one answered the door, however. Green stepped back to peer in the front bay window while Levesque leaned once more on the bell. The dog reached a frantic pitch just inside, partially masking the sound of the automatic garage door. The roar of a car startled them, and they swung around to see a late model Lexus
SUV
shoot backwards down the drive and swerve into the street, narrowly missing their Impala. Green caught a brief glimpse of a thin, long-haired woman behind the wheel.

“Sacrifice!”
Levesque shouted, sprinting back down to the Impala. She had started the engine and was gunning away from the curb before Green could even yank his door shut. He clung to the shoulder handle while she slewed through the twists of the winding road. The tires slithered as they struggled for purchase on the pavement slick with rain and sodden leaves.

Thankfully, because of the rain, there were no pets or small children to contend with, but Levesque had to dodge the occasional bike, each time with a muttered
“calice”
or
“tabernac”.
Green refrained from advice. She was a good driver; she kept the Lexus in view but made no attempt to catch it.

There were few access roads out of this maze of streets, and no matter where the woman fled, she would likely end up at the same intersection. Green dialled the com centre and requested back-up to intercept the Lexus once it reached the major arterial of Blair Road. Levesque relaxed marginally but still drove hunched forward, gripping the wheel with both hands. She risked a glance at Green.

“You think it was Caitlin?”

“I couldn’t tell,” he said, “but it’s a strong possibility. People don’t usually take off on the police unless they have something to hide.”

She was silent while she negotiated a four-way stop sign. The Lexus had blown right through it, but cross traffic stopped Levesque from taking the same risk. The Lexus disappeared from view up ahead.

“I wonder how she knew we were police,” she mused as she gunned forward again.

Green didn’t bother to answer. Plain clothes and an unmarked car did not disguise the aura of authority that street people and criminals instinctively seemed to recognize on sight. Perhaps as an attractive young woman, Levesque had encountered that less often, but Sullivan could not step into a room without everyone falling silent.

On the straight stretch of road up ahead, the Lexus was visible again, along with the stop sign marking Blair Road. Green frowned. There was still no sign of police cruisers. The Lexus approached the stop sign, where two cars waited ahead of her. Cross traffic streamed by, sparse but steady. Green sucked in his breath as the Lexus brake lights came on and it slewed sideways. He could imagine the panicked driver fighting with the wheel. As it hurtled towards the cars at the stop sign, the Lexus jumped the curb, ran through a hedge and a signpost, and flew off the curb again. It landed with a thump on Blair Road, inches in front of a delivery truck. Horns blared and tires screamed. The Lexus roared ahead.

Levesque raced towards the stop sign, where the two cars still sat as if stunned. She glanced across at Green, seeking permission. Still no cruiser in sight, which was hardly a surprise. In this remote corner of the city, hemmed in by the sprawling National Research Complex, the Ottawa River and the Greenbelt, a routine patrol car was likely to pass by less than once a week.

He shrugged. “Go for it. She’s already paved the way.”

Levesque flicked on her emergency lights and deftly steered towards the demolished hedge. Broken branches tore at the undercarriage, but she managed to avoid the signpost, which was bent in two. She swerved back onto the road in front of the startled driver of a Hyundai.

Green was already studying the map, tracing their route north towards the Ottawa River. “She’s not going far. Blair Road dead-ends just before the parkway. Unless she wants to get trapped in another maze of residential crescents, she’ll end up—” He broke off as they crested the hill just in time to see her brake lights disappearing down a small road on the left.

Levesque cursed. “Where does that go?”

He squinted at the map. “Under the parkway to a parking lot by the river. There’s nothing there but a boat ramp and bike trail through the bush.”

“Not much of an escape plan.” Levesque muttered as she swerved onto the side road.

They found her in the parking lot, standing on the boat ramp in the rain, peering out into the roiling chop of the river. She turned at the sound of gravel crunching under their wheels and watched without moving as they climbed out of the car.

The woman was tall and slender, dressed in an elegant, red leather coat and hastily wound white silk scarf that did nothing to offset her pale, pinched face. At first glance, the resemblance to the photo was so strong that Green thought it was Caitlin, but as he drew closer, he could make out crow’s feet around her eyes and deeply etched furrows in her brow.

“Mrs. O’Malley?” he guessed, extending his hand. Beside him, Levesque had her badge ready.

The woman glanced at the badge and Green’s hand but said nothing. Her nostrils flared with fear, but her scowl was defiant. A strong odour of Scotch wafted around her.