This Thing of Darkness (24 page)

Green was still upset when he reached the police station, where he found an impatient Sergeant Levesque parked outside his door. She wore blue jeans and a battered leather jacket, but with her blond hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, she still managed to look like a model. She glanced pointedly at her watch.

“I've sent out a fresh bulletin to the patrols in the market, and I've assigned a team to check with cab companies. Uniform has been showing those video stills around the Byward Market all week without success, but they'll try again.” She paused just long enough for her skepticism to show through. “Is there anything else you want me to do, sir?”

Green unlocked his office and ushered her in. “Look, Marie Claire, I'm not a hard-ass. This case is proving to be much more complicated than our original theory. Staff Sergeant Sullivan has a lot of respect for you. The best way we can help him recover is to work together and solve this case as fast as we can. Bring him some good news.”

“We have a suspect, sir. He's at home, just waiting for formal charges to be laid. The Crown has so much confidence in our evidence that she's ready to go for arraignment first thing Monday. The defence will walk all over her if they learn we're still looking for suspects.”

Green held onto his fraying temper with an effort. “We have a son who has been disinherited and a mystery woman who was known to the victim and who was present on Rideau Street shortly before he died. We need to eliminate them both as suspects, or the defence will walk all over us at trial.”

That seemed to reach her, for she frowned down at her hands clasped in her lap. Before she could speak further, his phone buzzed. The duty officer on the front desk was an old warrior drifting towards retirement. After years on patrol, very little phased him, but he sounded rattled. Perhaps Sullivan's brush with death has unnerved us all, Green thought.

“I knew you were in, Inspector, so I thought I'd run this by you. There's a Mr. Frank Adams here, claims to be Omar's father, and he's demanding to speak to the Chief of Detectives.”

“That would be Superintendent Devine.”

“Well, I know that, and I tried to tell him it was Saturday, but he's not taking no for an answer. He's pacing back and forth across the lobby, clicking his heels and threatening to go to the media. Ex-military. I can spot them a mile off.”

Green glanced at Levesque. This might be interesting. He told the duty officer that he and Sergeant Levesque would be down shortly.

“The father will lie through his teeth to protect his son,” Levesque protested once Green had filled her in. “He's already given a false alibi.”

Green didn't bother with a reply as he led the way down the back stairs to the lobby. His first glimpse of Omar's father was a surprise. Omar was so black that Green had forgotten the father was white, his skin so pale it was almost translucent. His shaved head glistened like a skull, and a network of fine blue veins ran beneath the skin of his forehead and neck. His blue eyes were like the sky on a misty morning, so light they were haunting. Soulless.

Green felt the man appraising him coolly as he introduced Levesque and himself. The handshake too was devoid of warmth. Green ushered them all into a small, featureless room off the lobby.

“I asked to speak to the Chief of Detectives.”

“I'm the senior supervising officer,” Green replied.

“A middleman,” said Adams with contempt. “I know how it works. Just enough power to carry out orders and take the blame. Not enough to call the shots.”

Green felt his temper flare. I've taken enough crap for a Saturday morning, he thought. “I call the shots in Major Crimes, Mr. Adams. What is it you want?”

Adams fixed him with his empty eyes for five seconds before he blinked and shifted in his chair. “I want the police department to stop railroading my son. He gets caught in a couple of minor lies, in the wrong place and at the wrong time, and because he's black, he's guilty. If you're going to play the race card with my son's life, I'll have the black community so up in arms that the whole justice system will come to a halt. You think the O.J. Simpson trial was a circus?”

“There's a solid circumstantial case against your son, but the courts will—”

“Bullshit. If he wasn't black, there's no way it would have gone this far.”

Levesque leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. Sensing she was about to erupt, Green changed direction. “We're still investigating, Mr. Adams. Believe me, I want to make sure we have the right person too.” He paused, trying to soften his tone. “Do you have information that you think would help your son's case?”

“Why should I tell you a damn thing?”

“Because I'm the one in a position to help. I've spent twenty-five years tracking down murderers, and it's important to me that the guilty ones pay.”

Adams' eyes flickered. He glanced at Levesque but said nothing.

“There is something, isn't there? If it helps your son...”

Adams flexed his right fist, forming ropes of muscle along his forearm. His jaw tightened, and a vein pulsed at his temple. “I don't have much faith in middlemen—the military drummed that out of me—but I'll tell you this because you said you want to get at the truth. My son is not a killer. He's a physical coward, he could no more cave a man's head in than he could pull the wings off a fly. We live in a tough neighbourhood where it's pretty damn hard for a kid to avoid violence. Either you're beating others up or you're getting beaten. You either join the tough guys or they eat you for a snack. This starts about senior kindergarten on the playground.”

Adams raised his head to stare at the wall opposite. His eyes were bleak now. “I chose to live where we do so my kids would know the real world, so I'm not making excuses. I tried to toughen the boy up, but it was no use. Omar used to get beaten up all the time, until he figured out how to hang out with the tough guys. He's smarter than he looks, my boy. He's not in a gang, he doesn't do bad things, but he gets some protection by hanging around with a few who live on our street. I've tried to stop it, because I know someday they're going to make him pay his dues, but you can't ride a twenty-year-old two-four-seven.”

Green sensed Levesque beginning to fidget at his side. He wanted to kick her under the table. The man was telling a story, and he had to tell it his way.

“Friday night, he sneaked out. I knew he was gone, and I was listening for him to come home. I always do. Kids get knifed on buses, they stumble drunk into the paths of trucks.” He paused as though circling the core of his story. “Omar came home at five to three in the morning. I heard someone a block away, running, and I looked out the living room window and saw him run smack into a hydro pole. Knocked him over, and he went sprawling into the street. When he came in the house, he was bleeding like a pig. I thought his nose was broken. He was drunker than I'd ever seen him. Stumble down, passing out drunk.”

Adams switched his gaze to Green. “Even if Omar was the type to beat up old men, there was no way, that night, he could have landed an effective blow.”

“Was he alone when you saw him in the street?”

“Yeah. He was out with his friends, but they'd split up.”

“Did you speak to him when he came in?”

“Tried to, but he was beyond hearing. I figured he'd better just sleep it off.”

“Did you do anything else?”

Adams frowned. “What do you mean?”

Green shrugged. “Did you touch him, help him upstairs?”

“I don't see why that's important.”

Green let the silence lengthen, suspecting there was more to the story. He'd seen the scars on Omar's back, no doubt part of Adams's “toughening up” techniques.

“Well, I did grab him.”

“Grabbed him how?”

“By the arms. He was so piss drunk, I was trying to get his attention.”

Green stood up and faced him. “Show me.”

Adams recoiled in surprise. He stood up warily, taller and heavier than Green. Omar was also at least four inches taller than Green, but he hoped the comparison would suffice. Adams reached across and grasped Green lightly by the upper arms.

“That's it? Just gently like that?”

Adams dropped his hands. “Well, no, I was mad. It was three a.m. I grabbed him hard.”

“Shook him?”

“Maybe a little, to get his attention. But he was beyond that. He just pulled away.”

“And?”

“And went upstairs.”

“What did you do?”

“Just let him go. No point in anything else.”

Green returned to his seat and turned to face Adams gravely. “Mr. Adams, your son's back is crisscrossed with scars. Like he's been beaten. For years, I'd say.”

Deep red spread slowly up Adams's neck and face. He flexed his fist again, and for an instant Green thought he was going to punch him. “Like I said, he used to get beaten up in school as a kid.”

“These looked like lashes from a belt.”

“What's the relevance? Trying to pin the ‘abused kid turns abuser' label on him?”

“No, just trying to explain the marks on his body.”

Adams jutted out his chin. “You think you know. Hard-ass military father from the Airborne, and we all know what those cowboys were like. Probably figured a little harsh discipline never hurts, builds character. That's what you think.”

Green said nothing. He knew Adams would set him straight without prompting.

“I never laid a hand on that boy. At least not a serious hand. Beyond that, you can think what you like.”

Green pondered his choice of words, his refusal to name the culprit or even to admit there was one. As if he were protecting someone. Green took a shot in the dark. “I've seen mothers do some pretty violent things to their children in a fit of rage.”

Adams said nothing, but the fist flexed.

“Somalia was a terrifyingly brutal place—”

“Still is.”

“Some women suffered unspeakable violence. Sometimes the only way they can lash out is at others who are even more vulnerable than themselves.”

Adams snorted. “Pop psychology. Same crap all the white, middle-class social workers dish out. Gemalla has panic attacks, she has flashbacks and hallucinations, but she beat Omar so he wouldn't turn out like his father—” He snapped his jaw shut.

Green masked his surprise. “You?”

“Not me.” He shot Green a sharp look. “Omar doesn't know. How can you tell a boy he's the product of some rebel thug who raped your mother when she was thirteen years old. After he'd beheaded her father before her eyes. When Omar was little, she swore she could see that thug mocking her through Omar's eyes.” He smiled, a tight, twisted smile. “I don't know why she thinks that. Omar is all her—timid and gentle. Not a single drop of that sadistic bastard's blood runs through his veins.”

Maybe not, Green thought, but that timid, gentle mother had, in repeated fits of rage, laid open the flesh on the back of her child.

Sixteen

L
evesque was surprisingly quiet as she and Green headed back upstairs to the squad room. At the top of the stairs, she shot him an oblique glance. “He could have seen the marks on Omar's arms and made up the story about grabbing him to cover it.”

Green nodded. It was possible, even probable given the man's protective instincts. But nevertheless it was one more piece of evidence weighing down the scale of reasonable doubt. However, he was even more intrigued by the father's other revelation. Between his mother's abusive rage and his father's efforts to toughen him up, the young man might well be a powder keg. Alcohol, peer pressure and the taunts of a defiant victim—had all that been the match?

“Maybe,” he replied,“but in the meantime keep on top of the news coming in about our mystery hooker. She could be an important player. And if you're hoping to beef up the case against your suspect, I suggest you rattle the cage of his buddy Nadif. He's already shown a healthy appetite for self-preservation.”

Levesque frowned as she tried to recast his words in her own language. Her English was normally so good that he forgot it wasn't her mother tongue. “Any suggestions, sir?”

Her request was unexpected, but he could detect no hidden mockery. “You might want to check his phone wiretaps.”

“Those have been useless. He uses a cellphone for his private calls. He must know he's being tapped, because there's nothing but his mother talking to friends and his father discussing Somali association business. Everything is very controlled.”

“But they can't control incoming calls. I suggest you keep on top of it. You never know.”

“Sir...” She stared back at the elevator door longingly. “This is Saturday. There's no crisis that the guys on duty can't address. I want to visit Staff Sergeant Sullivan. Also I have a daughter. She's starting figure skating lessons next week, and last year's skates are too small.”

Green was about to tell her that the updates she needed would take less than half an hour, but he stopped himself. He thought of Brian Sullivan fitting one last thing into his already long day, of Mary saying he could never say no to Green.

Inside his office, he could hear his own phone ringing. What the hell is this? It was his Saturday too, not Grand Central Station. All he wanted was to hug his own children and go for a long walk with them in the leaves. He debated not answering, but anxiety won out. It could be about Sullivan.

“No problem,” he said to Levesque as he opened his door. “You can get the duty detectives to contact you if anything important turns up.”

It was not about Sullivan. It took Green a few seconds to place the wheezy, age-frayed voice at the other end of the line.

“I'm glad I caught you in. I wasn't sure who else I should ask.”