Beautiful Lie the Dead (31 page)

Shoving aside his doubts, Green started the car and aimed it towards the Vanier Parkway and Sullivan's Alta Vista home. It was dinner time, family time, and Mary Sullivan was almost certain to slam the door in his face, but he had to try.

As it turned out, Mary was not even home. When Sullivan himself answered the door, Green stepped back in surprise. He hadn't seen his friend in over a month, and the transformation was astonishing. His six-foot-four frame looked twenty pounds lighter, the jowls and the fatigue lines were gone, and his mottled complexion had been transformed to healthy pink.

He smiled, actually smiled, at the sight of Green. “Come on in, stranger! Just me and the kids tonight. Mary's up in Eganville because her mother's ill. She's looking for a home for her, and I'm praying to sweet Jesus she doesn't bring her back here.” He led Green into the family room, which was cluttered with videos, newspapers and take-out containers. In the background, a huge HDTV blared out a hockey game. Sullivan grabbed the remote from the jumble on the coffee table and hit the mute button. Somewhere in the recesses of the house, a radio was playing teenage pop.

“Can I get you a drink? Beer? Scotch?”

“If you'll join me,” Green said, wary of this unexpected enthusiasm.

Sullivan grinned. “Mary's not here, so maybe a beer. She's got me on a regime to punish a saint!”

“You're looking good, though. Really good.”

“Yeah? I feel pretty good.” Sullivan had headed into the kitchen and had to shout over his shoulder. “Better than I have in years, to be honest.”

“You're not getting bored?”

Sullivan reappeared with two Coors Light and gave Green a wary look. He pointed to his heart. “This has to come first. For years I never had time to think of anything but the job. I wanted a piece of land in the country, never had time to look for it. I wanted to build my own classic boat, never had time. This is an eye opener, Mike. You should try it.”

They sat in opposite lazy-boys nursing their beers while Green let him talk. Finally he leaned forward. “Brian, I've got a problem.”

Sullivan's eyes narrowed. “You do, Mike. I don't.”

“Can I tell you about it?” Green spread out his free hand in a soothing gesture. “That's all. I talk, you listen. There's no one else on the whole goddamn force I can tell.”

“Try the departmental shrink, Mike. They're paid to listen.”

“It's about Adam Jules.”

Sullivan paused, his beer halfway to his lips. He lowered it.

Stared at the floor. “Fuck.”

So Green told him, from Jules's very first query to the scarf in Elena Longstreet's hall, to the car outside Cyril Longstreet's home, to the photo on Lise's wall. The recitation took more that half an hour, during which neither man touched their beers and Sullivan didn't say a word. At the end of it, Sullivan stared at the floor again. “Fuck.”

“My sentiments exactly, Brian. And I don't know what the hell to do, I don't know where Adam is!”

“You're absolutely sure it was Adam you saw in the car and in the photo? You said it was only a glimpse. Maybe you have him on the brain.”

“Wait here.” Green heaved himself out of the lazy-boy and headed out to the car for his laptop. Inside again, he booted it up and opened the photo of Amélie. “You tell me.”

Sullivan chuckled. “Not a very good photo line-up, Mike.

You've already biased me.”

“Just look at it.”

Sullivan peered at the photo. Zoomed in on the shadowy figure's face, then his hands. He sighed. “Certainly could be. But what are you thinking, Mike? If this is Longstreet's kid and not Adam's, where does Adam fit in?”

“I think...” Green groped through his jumbled impressions. “I think Adam knew Lise from when they were kids, or maybe he just felt a bond because they were both from the same area. When he was assigned the case—”

“Longstreet's death?”

“Yes. He investigated and found out Lise was the man's lover. Pregnant with his child, maybe even present at his death. He saw her for what she was—a naïve country girl who'd been used by her prof. So when he was pressured by the Longstreet family to bury the whole investigation, he did so, because he saw it as a way to protect Lise too.”

“But this is Adam Jules we're talking about. Mr. Straight-and-narrow!”

“Now. But maybe not then. He was young, probably in over his head and getting no support from his superiors.”

Sullivan bent his head, thinking. “Even so, I don't see Adam doing that. Not just to protect reputations or family names, particularly when the reputation getting the most protection is this sleazeball Longstreet himself.”

He was right, and that was a sticking point for Green too. “He stayed in touch with Lise. He probably continued to help her.”

“And you're absolutely sure it's not his kid?”

“I'm not remotely sure of anything! But it makes sense. He...” Green pointed to the screen, to the fingertips brushing each other. There was something warm and familiar in the gesture. He was transported back to Jules's apartment, to his bedroom and the album of children on the night table. All ages and colours, smiling out at the photographer with affection and thanks. “He's done this other times.”

“Done what?”

“Helped children.” Green felt his way forward. “Been involved in their lives somehow, like a big brother. No, more like a benefactor.” “What the hell are you talking about?”

Green told him about his search of Jules's apartment. Once

Sullivan had recovered from his shock, his eyes grew dark. “You could put a whole different slant on this interest in children, you know.” Green suppressed a shiver. He'd had the same fleeting fear.

“Adam's a pretty odd guy,” Sullivan added. “No women, no family ties...”

“We have no evidence of that.” Green knew his voice lacked conviction. “I found no child porn or paraphernalia in his apartment, just pictures of happy children.”

“We both know what that's worth. How charming these guys can be. You'll need to track down this Amélie kid. She'd be a young woman by now, I guess. If your theory is correct, thirty-two?”

“I've got a Montreal detective looking for—” Green broke off. A thought came crashing through his consciousness, driving out all else. “My god!”

“What?”

Green rummaged through his folder, which contained bits and pieces about the case that he'd accumulated. At the bottom was the Missing Person poster of Meredith Kennedy. Without a word he held up the picture side by side with the black and white photo of Amélie. A round, cherubic little girl and an impishly beautiful young woman. The hair was straighter and the dimples gone, but the upturned nose was the same.

Furthermore, Meredith Kennedy was thirty-two years old.

* * *

Green's first instinct was to drive straight over to confront Meredith Kennedy's parents. Even if they didn't know Meredith's biological parenthood, why wouldn't they at least have mentioned it if she'd been adopted?

Unless they had something to hide. Unless it wasn't an adoption but something worse.

It seemed an impossible coincidence, but coincidences happen, and Green couldn't believe he'd missed that possibility when it was screaming to be noticed. He'd been so obsessed with the minutia of the case—the role of Adam Jules, the secrecy of Cyril Longstreet, the identity of the lover—that he'd failed to ask the most obvious question of all.

What the hell did Meredith have to do with any of this?

Why had Lise contacted Meredith rather than Elena or the Kennedys? This explained all the niggling pieces that had not fit anywhere in his grand reconstruction of the case. It explained Meredith's complete meltdown upon learning the truth, for she was about to marry her half-brother. It explained Lise's continued obsession with the Longstreets and her expression of triumph upon meeting Meredith. It explained Lise's willingness to brave snowstorms in the middle of the night to contact the families once she'd learned that the two young people were about to wed.

Most importantly, it could also be a powerful motive for murder.

As he drove away from Sullivan's house, Green almost turned west towards the Kennedys' house but restrained himself with an effort. He needed to step back so he could think through all the new implications, and he needed to confirm some facts before he confronted anyone.

For tonight, he would only set a couple of balls in motion. Tony was asleep when he arrived home, but Sharon was waiting to share dinner and a glass of wine. He slipped away only briefly to make two phone calls. The first was to Magloire, whose cell phone was wisely turned off for the night. Green left him a message asking him to check Montreal birth and adoptions records for Meredith Kennedy during the same time period as Amélie, and to check for cases of child abduction or disappearance.

The second call was to Gibbs, who picked up on the second ring. He rushed into a report before Green could get in a word. “I-I put out the alert, sir, and Patrol's kind of keeping an eye on Elena Longstreet's house. Nothing to report yet. Patrol sergeant was pretty hopping, said the place is already crawling with RCMP and we should let the horsemen do the damn job. S-sorry, sir.”

“Thanks, Bob. I've got one more small thing for you and Sue to do in the morning. I know you're checking into school and community connections between Lise Gravelle and the Kennedys.

Try to find out if Norah or Reg ever worked for the Longstreets or for the apartment building where Harvey Longstreet died.”

“Oh! Well, Norah did work for the police.”

“The Montreal police?

“Yes. Just a secretary or something.”

“When?”

In his urgency, he snapped the word out and he sensed Gibbs recoil. “I-I don't know, sir.”

“Then that's another job for the morning. Find out the exact dates, location, who she worked with and what her job was. But try to do it without tipping off the Kennedys.”

Green's mind was still racing long after he and Sharon had gone to bed. He slipped out and took his laptop downstairs. Sitting in his easy chair, he drafted a list of questions to which he still had no answers. At the top of it were four people, whose current whereabouts and activities were unknown. Meredith Kennedy, Adam Jules, Cameron Hatfield and Cyril Longstreet. Four people on the loose, each with their own agenda. Some were hunters, some the hunted.

Some of them, perhaps, were both.

* * *

Brandon sat at his computer, staring at the word.
Safe.
Adrenaline coursed through him, pummelling his body and washing thought from his brain. Tears blurred his eyes.

His first instinct was to run into the streets, screaming “She's alive! She's alive!” But he remained rooted in his chair. Bit by bit he caught his breath and retrieved his scattered thoughts. She's alive, but where is she and why the secrecy? Why the code name and the ridiculous, cryptic message? He checked the email address, a Yahoo account that told him nothing. Anyone, anywhere in the world, could set up a Yahoo account with any user name they chose.

He typed in a reply asking both those questions. “Where are you and why the secrecy?” Once he'd pressed “send”, the adrenaline finally drove him from his chair. He paced. Wrung his hands, pulled his hair, returned to check for a reply. None. It had only been two minutes. Maybe she didn't have continuous access to the internet. He paced again, considering his next move.

The police and her parents needed to know. Even as he picked up the phone, however, he stopped himself. Why the secrecy? Was she in hiding? In danger? What was the reason she couldn't let anyone know where she was? Meredith was smart and levelheaded. She was no drama queen, and yet that message, sent after a week of silence, suggested she feared for her life. What other reason could there be? If she'd simply wanted to disappear from his life, she wouldn't have answered at all, or replied ‘Sorry to hurt you. I'm fine but it's over.' Or even more likely she'd never have run away at all, but just told him to his face.

Unless she had something to do with the murder. The appalling possibility had been dancing around the edges of his mind ever since the body had been discovered, but he'd refused to face it head on. Now dread raced through him. Could the compassionate, peace-loving woman he knew be capable of such a brutal act? Impossible. He knew that, but would anyone else? What if the police suspected her? Was that why she had fled, because she knew they'd be after her and she had no defence?

As he paced, the questions swirled in his head, refusing to settle, refusing to make sense. No, maybe instead she had witnessed something and feared for her life. But from whom? And why wouldn't she simply go to the police?

Unless the danger lay with someone close to him.

His hands trembled at the thought. Equally horrifying, equally impossible. He needed answers. If he simply blundered in to tell the police, they would try to track her down, thereby putting her at risk. How could he find out more while still protecting her? He sat back down at his computer, created a Yahoo account with the user name yourboy, and sent her a simple message.

“Tell me what to do.”

Then he paced some more, replaying every minute they'd spent together, every conversation he could remember and every place and friend she'd ever mentioned. He made a list, longer and more thorough than the one he'd given the police. He studied it with only one question in mind. Where would she have gone that no one would think to look for her? Where no one would know her or recognize her picture from the news?

By the middle of the night his brain was exhausted, but he had no answer. A shorter list, but still no way to go forward. He'd heard his mother arrive home but dared not go downstairs to speak to her, in case his suspicion gave him away. Paranoia paralyzed him. Until he knew what the danger was, no one— especially his mother—could know.