Beautiful Lie the Dead (21 page)

Beneath the stack of newspaper articles were some much newer pages, computer print-outs from the web. There was no sign of computer equipment in the apartment, so she must have used a public computer, possibly at her place of work. Most of the print-outs contained stories about Elena Longstreet's professional successes, including reports on high-profile appeals she had won and charities she supported. It was the last page that nearly took his breath away. A brief announcement of Brandon's and Meredith's upcoming wedding at the Ottawa home of prominent attorney Elena Longstreet, complete with a photo of the happy couple.

All the pages had been printed out on the same date, barely three weeks ago.

Green took the entire folder over to the evidence bin. His pulse was racing and his hands shook with the familiar rush of adrenaline. Here was the connection he'd been seeking! For whatever reason, Lise Gravelle had been obsessed with Elena Longstreet, enough to track down and preserve every possible piece of news on the woman, including her son's marriage. The question was why?

He went into the bedroom where Magloire was sitting on the floor by the bed, sorting through a plastic bin that had obviously been pulled out from under the bed. Green could see camera equipment and packets of photographs.

“Jean Pierre,” he said, “get on the phone to your office and ask them to pull the police file on Harvey Longstreet's death in July 1978.”

“Nineteen seventy-eight?” Magloire looked dismayed. “Is it an open file?”

“Not likely. It was ruled a suicide.”

“Then the original would be in a box in a warehouse somewhere, open week days only. It might also be on microfilm in the archives, but they wouldn't be open today either.”

Green pulled a face at the prospect of microfilm. “Can you pull some strings? And if possible get the original file. Once we're done here I'd like to go back downtown and have a look at it.”

FIFTEEN

M
agloire spent the next ten minutes on the phone, arguing in a French too rapid and colloquial for Green's unpractised ear, although it was liberally peppered with “
Non
!” He seemed to be repeating his request over and over as he went up the chain of command, his tone changing from jovial to cajoling to impatient until he seemed satisfied that the request would be carried out.

Once he hung up, he shrugged.

“Budget cuts. On the weekend there is no one in records administration to deal with such a request.”

Green opened his mouth to protest, but Magloire held up his hand. “But I have my ways. The original file I can't promise, but with luck at least the microfilm should be sent to us.”

“Thank you. Have you found anything useful in the bedroom?”

“Besides these expensive cameras and hundreds of negatives she had stored under the bed?” Magloire lifted his broad shoulders in another shrug, as if the whims of women were beyond him. “I can tell you, for a Montreal woman and a photographer, her fashion sense is terrible. Striped socks, flowered polyester, nothing elegant, nothing sexy. No sign in her bathroom that she has a boyfriend or a sex life.
La pauvre
. Just lots of vitamins, medicines and an empty prescription bottle for Paxil.”

“An anti-depressant.”

Magloire nodded. “Filled last year at St. Mary's hospital pharmacy.”

A sharp knock at the front door caused them both to turn. Tessier was standing in the doorway to the apartment, gazing at the photos on the wall. “
Tabernac!
” she breathed. “She was good!”

Green nodded, pleased at the young officer's perceptiveness.

“When you get back to your station, you can research whether she's ever had a show or worked as a professional. Anything from the street canvass?”

Tessier snapped to attention. “You were right about the apartment across the street, sir. He is an old gentleman with a walker who passes all the day to observe the street. He saw her get into a taxi at...” she consulted her notebook, “just after sixteen hours last Monday. He remarked the time because it was getting dark and the snow was beginning to fall. She was all dressed up—boots, hat, winter coat, large hand bag...”

Green calculated quickly. Lise could have been heading for the five o'clock bus to Ottawa, one hour earlier than Meredith, in which case she would have arrived at seven p.m. An hour and a half before she phoned Meredith. Why wait so long? Perhaps to find a hotel?

Or to track down Elena Longstreet's address?

There was another knock at the door, softer and more tentative than the previous, and a thin, tired-looking woman peered in, clutching her winter coat around her. Her eyes were huge as she stared at Tessier.

“Is it true? She's dead?” she asked in French. “The news trucks are outside.”

Green stepped forward before Tessier could respond. “You're her neighbour?”

The woman nodded, switching to English. “I reported her missing. Poor woman. What will happen to T'bou?”

“That's her dog,” Tessier said. “This is Mme Lasalle from the next apartment.”

Green showed the woman inside. Mme Lasalle perched on the edge of the sofa but kept her coat wrapped around her as if guarding herself against the chill of death. Green began the routine battery of questions. How long had she known her? One year. Did Lise have any family or close friends? No, she never talked about her family, said her parents died years ago. Did Lise have any enemies or disputes with anyone? No, she was quiet and kept to herself. Did Lise ever talk about Ottawa?

Here Mme Lasalle coloured and dropped her gaze. “She didn't have much use for the government. Not for the English either, in fact. All rich, all stuck up, she thought they controlled everything and got all the breaks. I don't think she ever wanted to visit there.”

“Did she mention any rich English person in particular?”

The woman shook her head. “She only mentioned it a couple of times, when she was angry. Most of the time we avoided politics. I think she was just sounding off, you know? Because she had a lousy job in an English hospital.”

“Did she ever mention the name Longstreet?”

She shook her head again.

“Meredith Kennedy?”

“We didn't socialize much. She was a bitter woman, not fun to be with.” She shrugged in apology. “I should have been more sympathetic.”

“I understand she asked you to take care of her dog last Monday evening.”

“Yes, just that night. But he's still at my place.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No, but I told the officer she seemed happier. Maybe...”

Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute! There was someone coming out of her apartment earlier that afternoon. I was coming back from the store, and this woman nearly knocked me over as she got on the elevator. She was very upset, crying, and I think she didn't even see me. I never saw her before.” She leaned forward, excited. “I can't be certain where she was coming from, naturally, but when I go down the hall, Lise is there in her doorway. She appeared... I can't even describe the expression on her face.”

“Nervous?”

“Oh no! It seems strange, but almost...triumphant.”

Green blinked. Triumphant was a hell of a strong word. It implied a battle. A conquest. A victor. “Can you describe this woman in the elevator?”

“Thirty years. Quite beautiful, red hair, beautiful red coat.”

Bingo, Green thought.

* * *

Early winter darkness was already seeping into the streets as the two detectives emerged from the apartment building. A Radio Canada media van was parked at the curb, and they had to dodge the glare of camera lights and the press of microphones as they made their way to the Impala. Magloire stopped only long enough to flash his trademark smile at the camera and say that he could not release any details at this time. He herded Green into the car and accelerated away in a spray of ice.

While Magloire drove, Green sat in silent thought, trying to plan the next steps in the investigation. The Kennedys needed to be interviewed about whether they'd ever heard of Lise Gravelle, and Elena Longstreet needed to be questioned about what possible connection there could have been between Lise Gravelle and her husband's death. Knowing Elena, Green suspected it would be more a confrontation than an interview. No one up in Ottawa—not Sue Peters, Bob Gibbs nor Marie Claire Levesque—was ready to go up against her.

In fact, even Green hesitated to face her down until he had all the facts he could muster about that old case and about the intervening years. Had Lise Gravelle nurtured her obsession with Elena in private, or had she contacted the woman? If so, why? In the end, he phoned Gibbs. From the sound of rock music in the background, he suspected he'd caught the young detective off duty. At five p.m. on a Saturday, why not?

“When you're back on, Bob, I want you to do some deep background digging on Elena Longstreet. Perform your magic with the internet. Go back as far as you can, 1978 if possible, and find out if she ever had dealings with Lise Gravelle, if their paths ever crossed in any way. Do the same with the Kennedys, both Meredith and her parents.”

“You want me to do this tomorrow, sir? S-Sunday?”

“No rush,” Green said, knowing full well Gibbs would be on it the moment he got off the phone. “Get Sue to help you. I know it's a needle in a haystack, but whatever that connection is, I think it's the key to both cases.”

Just as the two detectives were arriving back at major crimes, Green's cell phone rang. It was Chief Inspector Fournier with the news that the Longstreet file was not immediately accessible but should be delivered to headquarters first thing in the morning. The chief inspector apologized but jokingly suggested that Green might enjoy a night on the town in Montreal. The chief inspector would love to join him but unfortunately had family obligations. He could, however, recommend some excellent restaurants. Green thanked him and hung up, quelling his impatience. He didn't want a night on the town, he wanted the warmth and comfort of his own home.

The lights were dim and the sixth floor was almost completely deserted as the two detectives lugged the evidence bins upstairs. Presumably, the day shift had gone off and the evening shift was already out on the streets. Magloire showed no inclination to punch the clock, however, but instead immediately set Green up at a desk adjacent to his in the open office area. The floor was a maze of cubicles equipped with the latest in computer and telephone technology. Except for the bulletins and lists of assignments covering the walls, it looked more like a corporate high tech firm than the hub of police investigations.

Magloire checked his phone and email messages and muttered a few curses under his breath. “Nothing worse than a bottle of Christmas cheer and a guy with no reason to celebrate.”

Chuckling, Green gestured to the computer in front of him. “If you'll get me into your system, I can entertain myself while you deal with the drunks and domestics.”

Magloire pushed himself away from his computer screen. “The evening boys have all that under control. I'm assigned to you, so what's next,
patron?
”

Suppressing a smile, Green pulled out the file of newspaper clippings he'd found at the victim's apartment. He sifted through the faded papers. The eulogizing and the dead man's achievements filled pages, but details of the investigation were surprisingly thin. The same reporter, Cam Hatfield, had covered the story from the initial report to the final wrap-up, and Green could almost feel his skepticism. It was worth finding out what else he remembered. But a subtle, oblique approach would be best, without the intercession of the large, amiable but decidedly cop-like Magloire.

“We need to widen our net,” he said instead. “Lise Gravelle has had no contacts with Montreal Police, but I want you to run checks on possible relatives—”

“Agent Tessier had no luck finding any so far.”

“Then check all the Gravelles.”

“That will be hundreds!” Magloire exclaimed. “Montreal has more than three million people. Here!” He swung back to his computer and Green could see him typing in a 411 search. His face fell. “Okay, maybe not that many.”

“Good. See what you can learn about them, and their relationship to Lise. Run checks on the Longstreet name too, and the Kennedys. See if any family members have been in the system.” Green affected a yawn that was not entirely fake. “The 411 stuff can wait till the morning. I'm going to check into a hotel, grab some dinner, and maybe follow up on a couple of these news stories. Once you've done the police checks, you should knock off for the night. It's Saturday night. You got a family? Girlfriend?”

“Can I say both?” Magloire laughed. “Just kidding. I've got a wife and a beautiful little girl who keep me too busy to get into trouble.” He hesitated. “You want to come meet them? Come for dinner?”

Green heard the reluctance in his voice and shook his head.

“Thanks for the offer, but you've gone above and beyond today.

I'm going to make it an early night.” He stood, stretched and nodded to the evidence bins. “I'll leave those for you to sign in, and I'll just use the photos I took with my own camera.”

Stepping out the front door of the major crimes unit five minutes later, he took a deep breath of the bracing winter air and drew in the scent of crisp snow, salt, car fumes and the hint of grilled steak from a nearby restaurant. Cars streamed along Sherbrooke Street East in a blur of red and yellow lights, their engines revving and their tires hissing on the salt-slushed pavement.

He had already booked a room for the night in an inexpensive boutique hotel on Sherbrooke Street West near McGill University, and once he'd checked in, he connected his laptop to the internet. Thirty years was a long time in the life of a news reporter, and since the
Montreal Star
had been defunct for decades, Cam Hatfield might be anywhere in Canada, or even abroad. Green was delighted when a simple Google search turned him up as a freelancer writing the occasional political and current events piece for the CanWest chain. Even more delighted when a Canada 411 search found him living on Greene Avenue, less than five kilometres from Green's hotel.