This Thing of Darkness (36 page)

“No, but I'm guessing. He was reading the paper this morning about that hooker who's a witness? I bet Nadif is running damage control.”

“How did Omar call you? On his cellphone?” When Adams nodded, Green raised his hands in disbelief. “Why don't you just call him back?”

“We did,” the tactical commander said. “The suspect is not answering his phone. Word is he may be barricaded in the Ladies' room.”

The Tactical Unit was simply following procedure. They had secured the perimeter, evacuated the area and were waiting to initiate communication. Green cupped his hands to the front window and peered into the now deserted restaurant. He could see no movement through the glass, but somewhere inside, a scared young man was hiding, while outside, a dozen commandos trained their rifles on the door.

Green drew the Tac commander out of the father's earshot. “I don't believe this requires a negotiator. Let me go inside. I know the layout of this place, and the ladies' bathroom is on the far side. I'll talk to him as soon as I'm close enough for him to hear. He knows me.”

“Sir, I can't let you do that.”

“There are several walls and two doors that will serve as cover.”

“Too risky. We can't confirm his location, his state of mind, or whether he's armed.”

Green looked up at the grim, expressionless face of the commander. Going strictly by procedure, the man was absolutely correct. Omar was, at this point in the murder investigation, their most credible suspect, a young man who had snapped and flown into a rage so violent that he didn't even remember it. He was now at the end of the road, trapped between the threat of jail and the street justice of his gang friends. There was no way to know whether he was cowering in the corner of the restaurant or lying in wait with a gun.

Yet Green could not shake the image of the bewildered and immovable young man in the interview room. A young man who not only claimed to hate violence, but, according to his father, feared it. In all the enigma this young man presented, Green felt sure of only one thing; the boy needed a lifeline. If they followed procedure instead, he would panic. Cornered by an army of black-clad officers armed to the teeth and all intent on railroading him into a murder charge, there was no telling what he might do.

“You come with me,” Green said. “Just you, and try not to point that thing at my back. The rest of your team can follow and be ready to move up at a second's notice, but I don't think it will be necessary.”

“I'm not authorizing—”

Green pushed the rifle aside, eased open the door and slipped into the restaurant. Swing music from the forties played softly in the background, muffling their movements, and the familiar smell of smoked meat and garlic dills filled his nostrils.

Emptiness yawned before him. Green stood inside the door, straining to hear any furtive sounds. Despite his display of confidence, his heart hammered against his ribs, and his mouth was so dry he could barely speak. He prayed he was right about this enigmatic contradiction of a boy.

He heard nothing but muted trumpet crooning a seductive tune. Louis Armstrong, Green thought. Keeping his Glock hidden at his side, he crouched low. No point making himself a huge target.

“Omar?” he called, his voice ricocheting around the empty room. “It's Inspector Green. Can you hear me?”

There was no answer. Satchmo played on.

“I'm coming in to get you out of here. You're safe, Nadif is gone. There's no one outside but the police and your father.”

Still no answer. Green crept down the aisle past the deli counter with its briskets of smoked meat and piles of
latkes
and white fish. He peeked around the door frame into the restaurant and peered up and down, trying to see under tables and behind booths. Nothing. He took a deep breath. Across the room on his left, in a recessed area behind an outer door, was the entrance to the Men's and Ladies' washrooms. If Omar was hiding inside the recess, he would be impossible to see until they opened the door.

Behind him, the tactical officer was almost treading on his heels. Green could feel his hot breath on his neck. So far, however, the commander had not interfered. Green signalled his intention to cross the room to the far wall, which would bring him close to the recess. The commander nodded and waited, rifle trained ahead as Green hurried across the room. He pressed himself against the far wall.

“Omar? I'm outside the bathroom. I know you're scared, but you're safe. Nadif can't get to you. I promise we'll protect you. There are lots of police out looking for Nadif, and we'll catch him. So talk to me, Omar. I'm right here to help you.”

Still silence. Green felt a tremor of fear in his gut. The longer Omar went without answering, the less hopeful the outcome. The boy was resisting help. What was he planning, holed up in the bathroom?

“Once you're out, once you're safe, we can talk about all the rest. I want to hear the whole story, Omar. Your side. I know you're not like Nadif. We can work this out.”

Louis Armstrong played obliviously on through the silent room. His trumpet quavered, high and melancholy. Green pressed gently on the door, which swung open an inch without a noise. The commander rushed to Green's side and tapped his shoulder. He slipped a small camera through the gap.

Nothing. Inside, both men's and women's washroom doors were closed. Green glanced at the man. Readied his own gun questioningly. The commander signalled to the Ladies' room, and both men flung open the door at once. They dropped down and froze just inside.

The room was empty. Four stalls, three gaping open. The commander searched each rapidly, poking his gun inside. Empty. They both looked at the door to the fourth stall. Pressed against it. Locked.

“Omar? You in there?”

Silence. Not even the stifled intake of breath. Green got on his hands and knees to slip the camera under the door, praying he wouldn't get a bullet in the face. The stall was empty.

The tactical commander radioed his team, and they conducted a thorough search of the whole place, including the kitchen and the supply cellar. Omar was nowhere to be found, but off the kitchen, a service door was propped open by a pail to encourage a breeze. The service door opened onto the back parking lot, but right beside the door was a fire escape leading up to a series of rambling rooftops.

“He didn't trust you guys!” Frank Adams raged when he learned the news. “In the end, he didn't trust you could ever keep him safe!”

The tactical commander lambasted his team for failing to block the fire escape when they secured the perimeter, but Green suspected Omar had fled long before the team even set up. He strode through the back parking lots, trying to trace the escape route the young man had probably taken. There were drain pipes, cables, ledges and low hanging roofs, all of which would be easy routes for a young, agile fugitive who was desperate enough. Omar Adams was long gone, and it was impossible to know where.

Levesque joined him as he stood in the back alley. “No question about his guilt now, is there, sir?”

“Scared people run too, Marie Claire.”

She thrust out her lower lip in a disapproving pout. “Where do you think he went?”

“Friends? Friends of friends? Obviously he can't rely on Nadif and his buddies to protect him.” Green mulled over the events of the day. “If he isn't guilty, he may be trying to clear himself. Trying to find Caitlin O'Malley to find out what she saw.”

“Or if he is guilty, to kill her,” she replied.

He acknowledged the harsh fact reluctantly. “Good thing we have that surveillance on her father's house.”

Levesque said nothing, but her sudden quiet unnerved him. “What?” he asked.

“I took the surveillance off that house this morning.”

Green whirled on her. “What the fuck for?”

She shrugged, her pout deepening. “When we learned it was her father who picked her up, and we got the forensics on Omar Adams—”

“You figured it didn't matter? That her life no longer mattered?”

“No, sir. I didn't consider her in danger.”

He spun on his heel, not trusting himself to reply. Regardless of whether Omar was after her, Nadif certainly would be after this morning's news article. Nadif was desperately running around the city covering his tracks, with the help of his gangster friends. Levesque was a dangerous fool to have put a power struggle ahead of civilian safety.

He rounded the front of the restaurant and caught sight of the duty inspector on his radio, no doubt in complex negotiations with the Com Centre as they coordinated the city-wide search not only for Omar Adams but also for his pursuers. Green rapped on the duty inspector's window to get the man's attention. Inspector Doyle raised his finger irritably, signalling for him to wait. Green rapped again, then opened the door without waiting.

“Get a unit over to 180 Rothwell Drive
ASAP
. We have a witness needing protection, and Omar and Nadif may be on their way there.”

He waited to make sure the call went out then phoned the O'Malley residence. After four rings, the machine kicked in. Green called again, but still no one picked up. Not in, or screening calls from the Ottawa Police? He left a message urging caution and suggesting they vacate the premises for a few hours.

Afterwards he grabbed Levesque's elbow. “We're not done with this,”he snapped. “But for now, let's get out to the O'Malley house. I've got some questions for Mr. O'Malley anyway.”

Rothwell Drive was still deserted when they rounded the curve into view of the house. So much for the
ASAP
part of my order, Green thought. Fortunately there was no sign of Nadif or his threatening pals either. Five black males with bandannas would face a tough challenge trying to sneak up on the house in any case. Diversity was hardly one of the neighbourhood's strong points.

Like its neighbours, the O'Malley house looked sleek and serene, the curtains drawn, the garage door closed, and the silver sports car sitting alone in the drive. Either the
SUV
and the Lincoln Town Car were in the garage, or the family was away. This time he directed Levesque to park diagonally behind the sports car to block an unexpected exit. Then he told her to go around to cover the back door.

She didn't budge. “Aren't we going to wait for the uniforms?”

“I'm not expecting the family to come out shooting,” he retorted, his temper still raw. Did the damn woman have to question every simple order?

She shrugged and started down the flagstone path to the back. Inside he heard a heavy thump and the muffled, furious yapping of a dog. At least someone was home. He pressed the bell and listened as the dog yapping crescendoed and footsteps thudded down the upstairs. Came close to the front door then receded. It sounded like a lot of footsteps for just one person. Green felt a prickle of alarm.

From the back, he heard a crash, shouts and a scream. He tore around the side of the house, wrestling his gun from its holster. Levesque was sprawled on her stomach beside the French doors which gaped ajar onto the patio, their glass shattered. Blood stained her blond hair and oozed onto the flagstones.

At the rear of the yard, disappearing over the ornamental black fence, was a young man in baggy pants and massive shoes which snagged on the fence post, sending him plunging head first on the other side. Green raced to the fence, but by the time he reached it, the man had disappeared. Behind the O'Malley house was nothing but a thickly wooded ravine, tipped orange and yellow in the autumn sun.

Green whipped out his cellphone as he flung himself down at Levesque's side. Not again, not again, this can't be happening! All because of my goddamn temper!

The young woman was stirring. She moaned as she reached up to touch her head. “Don't move,” he whispered and snapped out information to the 911 operator. “Officer down, send ambulance and police back-up. At least one suspect fleeing northeast on foot. Set up roadblocks in and out of the neighbourhood and send search teams including K-9 to the wooded ravine backing on Rothwell Drive.”

“What's the status of the downed officer?” the dispatcher demanded.

Levesque was struggling to sit up, staring in disbelief at the blood on her hands. Conscious, all extremities moving, he reported with relief. He stripped off his jacket and tried to wrap it around her, but she shoved it off.

“I'm sorry, Marie Claire. You were right, we should have waited. Can you give us a description?”

“Tall, black, late teens or early twenties.” Her teeth chattered. “Wearing the Lowertown Crips colours.”

“Omar or Nadif?”

She gestured to her face. “He had a bandanna over his face. He rushed the door. There was maybe more than one of them, I don't remember.
Ah maudit, ça fait mal!”

“The ambulance and patrols are on their way, Inspector,” the dispatcher said. “What are the officer's injuries?”