Beautiful Lie the Dead (27 page)

Green was appalled. “Let me see that!”

Wordlessly, Magloire handed the whole box over and Green pawed through the papers, trying to decipher the French. Formal statements, final reports, photos and an incredibly short witness list, but no officers' notebooks. On the top of the box, however, along with the file summary and table of contents, was the name of the investigating officer.

Agent Adam Jules.

* * *

Green slammed out of the police station, fumbling for his cell phone. His heart hammered. Despite his best efforts, Magloire had seen his reaction and watched open-mouthed as he dashed out without a word.

On the trip down in the elevator, Green tried to make sense of this latest shock. He hadn't even known Jules was from Montreal, let alone that he'd begun his police career there. The man had been in Criminal Investigations in Ottawa since Green was a rookie street cop. Thirty-two years ago, Green had barely been in high school. How old could Jules have been?

Yet there was no other officer of record on the file except a note from his supervising sergeant. Had Jules alone been responsible for suppressing the investigation, or had he received orders from above?

Heading over to his car with his fingers freezing and his breath swirling around him, Green phoned both Jules's cell and home number, reaching nothing but voice mail. A cold sense of foreboding gripped him. Where was Jules? What had he been involved in all these years ago, and to what lengths would others go to keep the secret from coming to light?

Now desperate, he thumbed through his contact list and did the unthinkable. He phoned the deputy chief on his Blackberry. On Sunday afternoon, at the height of the holiday season, the man would not be amused.

The phone rang six times and Green was just trying to formulate a suitable message when clipped voice broke in. “Poulin!”

“Deputy Chief, it's Michael Green of Major Case Investigations, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you—”

“What is it, Green?”

Green could hear laughter in the background over the murmur of voices. Terrific, he thought, the man has company. In the chilly confines of his car, he turned the heat on full blast. In his headlong rush, he'd forgotten his coat.

“I've been trying to contact Superintendent Adam Jules for three days without success, sir. There's no answer at either of his phones, no one at his apartment, he's not replying to email or phone messages—”

“What's this about?”

Green took a deep breath, hating to thrust Jules into the middle of a quagmire. But the deputy chief had to take him seriously. “I need to speak to him about a case—”

“What case?”

“Lise Gravelle and Meredith Kennedy.”

“What's Jules got to do with it? He's not CID.”

“He was involved in a case years ago that's connected—”

“Green, it's Sunday. The superintendent is off somewhere enjoying his well-deserved time off. Take your concern to Superintendent Devine in the morning, and she'll follow up through channels.”

Green forced himself to calm down. The deputy chief was an outsider; he couldn't be expected to understand the network of loyalties that knit the old original Ottawa force together. All he knew was the chain of command.

“Sir, I think this is urgent. I'm very worried. Adam Jules is an old friend of mine as well as my boss for years in CID, and it's not like him to disappear without a word. He knows me. He'd never let a dozen messages from me go unanswered.”

Silence on the line. Nothing but the trill of distant laughter.

Then, “Spit it out, Mike. What are you saying?”

“I'm afraid something bad may have happened to him.”

More silence, then a softer tone. “Nothing's happened. He's on two weeks' vacation leave, back home in St. Hyacinth. He came to me last week to request it personally to attend to a family matter. I looked at his record, Mike, and the man hasn't taken a Christmas vacation in years. He was more than due.”

Green felt a rush of conflicting emotions. Relief, but even more so, confusion. Jules had never mentioned any family. “Did he give an address in St. Hyacinth, sir? Or say how he could be reached?”

“He did not, and to be honest, the man is entitled to his privacy. I'm sure when he finds the time, he will return your messages.”

The line clicked dead. Green realized he'd been dismissed, without a word of goodbye. Poulin was pissed.

Well, fuck him, that's the least of my worries.

Staring out his car window into the crowded parking lot, Green tried to put together the chronology of Jules's connection to the case. Thirty-two years ago he'd been the young officer of record in the Longstreet case. As part of that, he'd met Elena Longstreet and presumably other witnesses in the Longstreet case, ultimately agreeing to close the investigation and turn a blind eye to any suspicious evidence. Shortly afterwards, he'd not only left the Montreal police to join Ottawa, but he'd never mentioned his Montreal days again, at least to Green.

Flash forward to last week, when Jules had begun to act oddly. First asking Green about a possible missing person hours before anyone was reported missing, then cutting Green off abruptly when he asked for details afterwards. Next he'd begun to avoid Green's calls, failed to attend to his police duties, and finally stopped coming to work altogether, without a word of explanation to his clerk. The crowning touch—his scarf hanging at Elena Longstreet's house on the day he dropped out of sight for good.

Bit by bit, Green was beginning to form the haziest theory of how the pieces of the Longstreet Gravelle puzzle fit together. Suspicious circumstances in Harvey Longstreet's death had been hushed up and witnesses either bribed or threatened to keep quiet. By whom was an open question, although Green suspected Cyril Longstreet was the only person with that kind of power.

Somehow, however, Lise Gravelle had known something and had been trying to keep track of Elena Longstreet ever since, but had lost the trail after Elena's move to Toronto. Perhaps she had only rediscovered her three weeks ago during a lucky internet search, unleashing a tragic cascade of events which began with her contacting Meredith Kennedy and travelling to Ottawa. She'd been murdered en route to Elena's home, presumably to prevent her from bringing the mysterious secret to light. Murdered by whom? Meredith?

Who besides Meredith even knew who Lise was or what she was up to?

A cold sweat formed on Green's brow. Over all these questions loomed the dark, formless shadow of Adam Jules. But Green had known Jules for over twenty years! The man was rigidly moral. Impossibly upright. He might have found himself caught in an ethical trap from his past, he might even have dropped out of sight, at least temporarily, to avoid exposure. His reputation as a police officer was all he had, but it paled against the worth of a human life. Surely, he would never, ever, resort to murder.

Green shook his head and forced himself to confront his worst fear. How often had he told his detectives “Never assume anyone is incapable of murder. Everyone is capable of murder, of the right person in the right circumstances and for the right reason.” The right reason. What would make Jules desperate enough, and ruthless enough, to kill? And what from his past, besides the spectre of professional ruin, could have returned to haunt him? The shadowy images in his head came together with a sudden, startling shock. In his horror, he struggled to breathe. Reaching under the passenger seat, he retrieved his laptop and booted it up. He watched with fascination as the beautiful, poignant snapshot once again filled the screen. Amélie reaching up, touching fingertips, gazing with awe—and yes, a mixture of fear and adoration—at the dimly-lit man looking down at her. Adam Jules.

* * *

Irrational rage billowed through him. Outrage, pain, and fury at being thrust into this position by a man he'd held up as an icon all his years on the police force. He couldn't protect him. Not against a crime this heinous.

What had connected Jules to Lise? Had they been lovers, way back in his Montreal days? And who was Amélie?
Their
child? He studied the strange mixture of emotions on her face, the tentative, almost reverent touch between them. Certainly closer than strangers. But if she was their child, what had become of her?

He forced himself to slow down. He had absolutely zero evidence to support this wild speculation. He needed to put one foot in front of the other, to chip away at the puzzle until one at a time he uncovered the facts to connect the dots.

Heading back upstairs, he found Magloire still at his desk reading a file which he put aside the moment Green appeared. Concern was written all over his face, but Green merely shrugged.

“Ottawa business. Sorry.” He sat down. “We need to find out much more deep background on Lise Gravelle. Specifically, did she have any connection to Harvey Longstreet's death? Did she work for the police back then, maybe as a low-level clerk? Was she a neighbour in the apartment building where he died? I want you to phone this...” He paused to read the supervisor's name on the file, “Sergeant Martin, and find out if he remembers her. He's probably retired by now—”

Magloire grimaced. “Retired? Try dead. I attended his funeral myself two years ago.”

“What did he die of?”

Magloire shrugged. Sensing hesitation, Green pressed. “This is important. There's something funny going on.”

“He was old.” More hesitation. “But I don't think his liver looked any too good by the end.”

“How many years had he been drinking?”

“Forever. He was one of those old-time cops, always went out with the guys after a shift. Just to unwind, you know? Two hours, three, four...”

“Only after the shift, though? He was good on the job?”

“Maybe at first. But by the time I knew him, he was a...”

Magloire searched for words. “Hazard.”

Green suppressed his disappointment. He'd been holding out hope that Jules had been a rookie bullied into line by a powerful sergeant who ran the show. It was equally likely, however, that the drink-addled sergeant had not even listened to the briefings nor read the reports he was signing. Seeing conspiracies everywhere, Green wondered whose idea it had been to put the man in charge.

When he handed back the file, Magloire flipped it open. “What about this Agent Jules? Why don't we ask him?”

Green shook his head. “I just tried. He's no longer with the force. But...” He hesitated only briefly, feeling one last twinge of guilt about the investigation he was about to launch against his old idol. “He comes from St. Hyacinth. Where's that?”

“A town about a hundred kilometres east of here.”

“Make discreet inquiries to try to locate him, but don't tip him off. Meanwhile I also want you to see if you can find any other police personnel who remember the case. We also need to know if Lise Gravelle ever had a child, or if anyone named Amélie Gravelle even exists.”

Magloire was jotting notes. He glanced up in surprise. “We found no record of children.”

“Broaden the search beyond Montreal. I'll get my officers to check Ottawa, you check the neighbouring areas and villages around here, including St. Hyacinth. And try searching under the name Amélie Jules as well.”

Magloire's eyebrows shot up. “Wow! Boss, what are you digging up here?”

“I don't know. I'm casting a net, trying to see what connects Lise Gravelle to the Longstreets. That connection may start with Adam Jules.”

Looking perplexed, Magloire waved his hand across his jotted notes. “Most of this will have to wait until tomorrow. Checking old birth registries in little parishes, that would be a nightmare today. If there was a witness I could ask...”

Green caught his breath. There was one. Two, in fact. He'd been so shaken by the revelation about Jules that he'd forgotten all about them. Grabbing his jacket, he stood up. “Get your notebook, Jean Pierre. I'm going to pay a visit to Cyril Longstreet, and I need you along to make it official.”

* * *

Magloire steered the staff car down Sherbrooke Street, ignoring all yellow lights and dodging in and out of traffic with an aplomb Green had to admire. He never swore at the winter cyclist who cut him off, nor honked his horn at the puttering old jalopy searching for a parking space in front of him. He never lost his dazzling grin.

Clinging to the ceiling strap, Green thumbed through his cell phone contacts until he found Cam Hatfield. When the reporter answered, Green could hear Springsteen blasting over the rumble of traffic in the background. Was Hatfield in his car?

“You got something for me, Inspector?” he shouted.

Green smiled to himself. “Getting there. Do you remember any mention of Lise Gravelle in the Longstreet case? Police secretary, neighbour, witness, background source?”

“Born in the U.S.A.” screamed through the silence. An engine roared by. “No,” Hatfield said finally.

“Even the smallest mention? Name ring any kind of bell from back then?”

More silence. “What have you got, Green?”

“More and more evidence that there's a crucial connection in the past.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No, but Lise has a history of low-paying jobs over the years. I think she knew something about the Harvey Longstreet case.

Something that was hushed up, possibly something that got her killed.”

“Can I use that?”

“All in good time, Cam. I have to figure out what's going on first, without tipping the guilty parties off.”

“I guess... I may be able to save you some time.”

Magloire veered abruptly right onto Guy Street, causing Green to slew across the seat. His grin broadened as Green hung on.

“What?”

Another engine roared by. The sound of a fast-moving transport truck blocked out Hatfield's reply.

“Where the hell are you?” Green yelled. “The Indy 500?”