Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (83 page)

“What happened? Did Mom do it on purpose? Did that goddamn cop...?”

Patterson’s lips were tight, and Sullivan recognized that glacial “where-have-you-been” glare that fathers reserve for teenage daughters, but then the man forced the glare into a smile as he pulled the girl into his arms. He spoke very quietly in her ear, and Sullivan drifted across the lawn casually so that he could see the girl’s response. Instead of fear or worry, her initial panic gave way to disgust, even contempt, as she thrust him away.

“Oh, that’s rich! Drunken cow runs right in front of a cop car.”

Patterson yanked her roughly away from the listening media, fortunately in Sullivan’s direction. Patterson tried to keep his voice low, but it shook with outrage.

“She was rushing to warn you!”

“More like shut me up,” Rebecca countered.

“Don’t you even care, you little—” He stopped himself. Gripping her by the elbow, he began to march her toward the hospital. “We’re not having this conversation here. You’re going to come upstairs to see your mother. And don’t you ever call her a drunken cow in my earshot again!”

Rebecca wrenched herself free of his grip. “Oh, sorry. Forgot the rules. I’m the one who poured the booze down her throat.”

“All your life, things have been about you!” Patterson snapped. “But just this once, your mother comes first! You’re going to hold her hand and tell her you love her. So help me God, you’re going to help me pull her out of this!”

Sullivan had fallen into step several yards behind them and followed them through the glass entrance doors and across the marble foyer to the elevators. They both seemed oblivious to his presence among the crowds milling to and fro. Rebecca stared straight ahead and gave her stepfather the deep freeze while they waited for the elevator, but Sullivan recognized the unique mixture of defiance and panic that characterized a teenager out of her depth. Rebecca Whelan was scared to death for her mother but damned if she would let her stepfather know it. Patterson broke the deep freeze first.

“Where’s your brother?”

She shrugged, a slight “do I know, do I care” lifting of the shoulders.

“He should be here too. If ever your mother needed you two, it’s now.”

“Yeah, that should keep her in a coma forever.”

“Does he even know?”

“That would be your job, Dad. He doesn’t talk to me, remember?”

The elevator finally arrived, and the crowd pushed in, jostling to punch in their floors. Sullivan eased in with the flow and stationed himself in the corner. Rebecca glanced at her stepfather, and in that unguarded moment, Sullivan could see how much her defiance was costing her. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, and she turned her attention to her black fingernails.

“Steve might know where he is,” she muttered finally.

“I spoke to your father last night,” Patterson replied. “Apparently your brother has skipped out on his rent and on some debt he owes his girlfriend.” He sighed as if the tale had a familiar ring. “Any idea where he might have gone?”

“On the road? Wasn’t he trying to get a tour together?”

Sullivan made a quick mental note to check the whereabouts of Rebecca Whelan’s brother, then glanced up just as the elevator slid open. When Rebecca and her stepfather disembarked, he hung back and followed at a discreet distance. He saw them stop to talk briefly at the nursing station, saw the nurse shake her head, then watched them make their way through a door down the hall. He approached the same nurse, but her face fell at the sight of his badge.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re under strict instructions not to discuss her case with anyone, not even the police, without going through her husband.”

Sullivan was not surprised. From what little he’d seen of him, the man was a control freak. He gestured to a small row of plastic chairs and said he’d wait there if one of the nurses would be kind enough to tell Mr. Patterson of his arrival.

He’d barely settled into a chair and opened his duty book when the door burst open and Patterson strode out. On his heels, despite his sharp words of discouragement, was Rebecca. His eyes raked the waiting room angrily, then narrowed with confusion when Sullivan rose to greet him.

“I was expecting Inspector Green.”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Sullivan. I’ll be handling the investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“Please sit down, Mr. Patterson. It won’t take long.”

Patterson didn’t move. Hovering just behind his shoulder, Rebecca glared out from under her green mop. “What investigation? My wife’s accident?” Patterson repeated.

“To ensure objectivity, all incidents involving the police, including your wife’s accident, will be handled by the Special Investigation Unit. I’m assigned to the assault on Inspector Green.”

“Assault? That’s ridiculous. I was in a state of shock due, I might point out, to the extreme provocation of that same officer. No judge in his right mind would find me culpable.”

“We’re not at the stage of charges yet, Mr. Patterson. I’m still investigating, but are you prepared to give me a statement as to your recollection of the incident?”

“Certainly not while I’m standing vigil—”

“Don’t even try, Dad,” Rebecca chimed in. “He’ll twist it and turn it, until pretty soon he’s making you say things you never meant to say, and claiming you said things you never did.” Sullivan eyed her sharply, wondering if she was referring to her own attempt to change her story. The whiff of rot that he’d detected yesterday floated by again, but he steered carefully away.

“How is your wife, sir?”

“Not well,” he replied curtly. “She’s in extreme pain.”

“Is she conscious? Able to speak?”

“Under no circumstances would I permit you to speak to her even if she were. She’s had a severely traumatic experience.”

“I won’t be disturbing her, I assure you, sir. I asked out of concern.”

“Right. Concern for just how much trouble I can make for the Ottawa Police, isn’t that correct, Sergeant?”

“Sir, as you’re aware, Inspector Green was investigating the death of Matthew Fraser—”

“He
what!
” Rebecca barged in, her black-rimmed eyes suddenly huge with shock. Too late, Sullivan realized no one had told her. All the bravado and armour in the world could not hide the raw horror that raced across her face. “How did you—”

But before she could react further, Patterson caught her arm. “Rebecca, that’s what your mother was rushing to tell you.”

Emotions warred across the girl’s face so quickly that Sullivan had no time to interpret them before she wrestled her veil of sullen bravado back into place. “What happened to him?”

“We don’t know yet.” Sullivan thought quickly. Patterson looked close to apoplexy and about to leap to her rescue, but perhaps some useful tidbits could be gleaned from the few words she let escape before he silenced her. “Have you seen or heard from Mr. Fraser in recent weeks, Miss Whelan?”

“Why would you think I’d seen him?”

Her mask hadn’t slipped. Chilly piece of work, Sullivan thought, looking for a way to unsettle her again. “Because he was trying to prove—”

“That’s enough.” Patterson gripped his stepdaughter firmly by the elbow. “We don’t have time for idle police speculation. Come on, honey, let’s go find your brother. Your mother’s asking for him, remember?”

As Sharon ushered Brian Sullivan into the living room, Green struggled to a sitting position and hoped he looked better than he felt. Sullivan was dressed in jeans, golf shirt and his trademark mirrored sunglasses, and the lines of worry across his brow eased at the sight of Green.

“I can’t stay long, but I wanted to see how you were doing—” He spotted Modo, who was planted in the middle of the living room, her massive head lowered and her dark eyes watchful. “Holy Mother of God! What’s that?”

“That’s Sharon’s latest charity case,” Green replied. “Meet Quasimodo.”

As Green explained, Sullivan folded his bulk into the armchair and tried to get the dog’s attention, but to no avail. Modo returned to her guard post at Sharon’s feet.

Sullivan smiled at Green grimly. “You look a hell of a lot better than yesterday, buddy. But I hope you’re going to take a few days off.”

“Two weeks, the doctor said,” Sharon interjected.

Green snorted. “That means one week, and I’ll take two days. But tell me what’s up? How’s Anne Patterson?”

“Conscious, I think. Patterson’s pissed.”

“Oh, I know. I read the news just now, saw him laying the curse on me.”

“Jules is concerned he’s going to sue.”

Green probed his bandaged temple gingerly. “Just let him try, I’ll bury him.”

Sullivan didn’t smile. “All the same, Jules wants you to keep out of his way. Patterson can be a persuasive sonofabitch.”

Green’s temper flared. “Why didn’t Jules just pick up the phone? Why send you?”

“He didn’t send me, Mike. For Christ’s sake, can’t a guy come to see how you are?” The dusky red had returned to Sullivan’s face, and his gaze was evasive.

Green eyed him sharply. “Okay. But you’re here for another reason too. Something’s not right.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“What?”

Sullivan cast Sharon a questioning glance before returning to Green. “You sure you’re up to this now? It can wait, I was planning to take my boys to the air show anyway.”

Green didn’t say anything, just leaned back and waited. He knew he had to look healthy for Sullivan to unburden his worries, and he hoped his act would be good enough. Sullivan looked tired, and the crease of worry over his brow ran deeper than usual. A moment of silence ensued before Sullivan sighed, fished out his notebook, and began to speak. Over the next fifteen minutes, he filled Green in on his visit to Steve Whelan and to the hospital. Green listened, pressing his fingers to his temple and willing his scrambled brain to put things together.

“So, bottom line,” he observed, when Sullivan finished, “is that, even after all this time, the disgruntled ex is still fingering his arch rival Quinton Patterson as the molester, and saying the loving mother covered for him.”

“Yeah, to protect her new wealth and status.”

“At the expense of her daughter?” Green frowned. “Seems a bit of a stretch.”

“A stretch? You’re obviously not yourself. You love stretches.”

Green pondered the observation wryly, unsure why he was reluctant to admit the obvious. Only the day before, he’d been arguing the case for Patterson’s guilt with Barbara Devine, and the intervening events had not improved the man’s image one bit. Even Rebecca’s email appeal made sense in this context, for exposing Patterson would slice through the very core of the family bonds. Patterson had certainly tried every way he could to keep Green from his wife and stepdaughter. He’d been obnoxious and threatening, and to top it off, Green had him to thank for his scrambled brains. Patterson was desperate to protect something. But was it his wife and stepdaughter, as he claimed? Or was it his own ass? It would be a long, hard fall from the carpeted halls of McKendry, Patterson and Coles to a cell in Kingston Pen.

Yet despite all Green’s years dealing with human depravity, he found himself hoping that Patterson’s concern was above board. The man had undertaken the task of loving someone else’s angry, rebellious daughter and had tried to stick by her through all these heart-wrenching years. Few men would do as much, he reflected with a twinge of guilt.

“Brian, you saw father and stepdaughter together. How did they strike you? Close? Loving?”

Sullivan grunted. “This kid is not into loving, not so’s you can tell. Prickly as a cactus. But I didn’t get a creepy feeling. And she calls him Dad, for what it’s worth. Calls her real father Steve.” Sullivan flipped through his notes, as if trying to recreate his impressions. “In fact, I’d say she was more angry at her mother than her father. Almost like her mother was the one causing all the grief in the family.”

Which she would have, in the girl’s distorted perception, if all those years ago she had sold her daughter’s innocence for a plush and pampered lifestyle in the Glebe. But before he could voice that observation, Sullivan’s cellphone rang. It was the clerk in Major Crimes. Green listened as Sullivan asked a few clipped questions, jotted down a number and rang off, immediately punching in another number. As he waited, he glanced across at Green.

“Speevak, the forensic ondontologist. He’s got some results for us. I—” He broke off as a voice crackled over the line. Sullivan introduced himself, then listened. The conversation was brief, and as Green waited, he saw a look of dawning astonishment pass over Sullivan’s face. When he’d rung off, Sullivan raised his head.

“This absolutely takes the cake! The crispy critter? It’s not Fraser. The fucking teeth don’t match!” He chuckled wryly. “I wouldn’t like to be in the Police Chief ’s shoes when Quinton J. Patterson learns this.”

Sullivan was barely out the door before Green crashed on the sofa with relief. For once he was grateful for being an invalid. Let Jules and the Force’s legal beagles handle the fall-out from Patterson’s wrath. Let Sullivan go back to his tattoo search, and let the Fraser file revert to a simple missing persons. Important, but not a homicide. He sensed there was something definitely off-kilter about this whole case, but right now he couldn’t think of it through the incoherent mush his brain had become. He was dimly aware of Sharon pulling the cover up over him, touching her lips softly to his brow and whispering, “Sleep, love. I’ll go get Tony and pick up a few groceries.”

At least he thought that’s what she’d said. Beyond that, he was aware of nothing until the phone rang, dragging him from a deep, cobwebbed sleep that robbed him of all sense of time and place. When Sharon didn’t pick up, he staggered off the sofa and found the phone by its fourth ring, praying it was Hannah.

At first he was greeted by silence, followed by a brusque, wary “Sharon Levy, please.”

He mustered enough authority to reply in kind, indicating that she was out and could he take a message.

“Damn,” came the most unprofessional reply, followed by “Sorry...uh...are you her husband, the police officer?”

Suddenly the voice sounded much younger and more insecure. Green felt his hopes surge. “Hannah?”