Beautiful Lie the Dead (8 page)

She clicked more links. “Now, there is a time lag with credit cards, because businesses have to submit the charge to VISA, which has to approve it. It can take a couple of days, so to get the most up-to-date charges, we will have to contact the VISA office itself. However, this list is worth a look.” She printed off the past two months, and Whelan studied them. At first glance there was nothing suspicious. The card had a modest balance of $2110.36 owing, and the latest charge had been posted on the Monday of Meredith's disappearance—a charge of twenty-five dollars at D'Arcy McGee's, a trendy downtown pub, the previous Saturday. Other charges over recent weeks were for shoes, liquor, gas, adventure gear, pharmacy supplies and odds and ends. As he scanned the list, he was aware of the bank manager on the phone with the credit card company. She was jotting notes as she listened and a flicker of curiosity crossed her face. When she hung up, she glanced again at her calendar.

“Any activity after Monday?” he prompted.

“No, but on Monday she did make another charge, which is just going through now. To the bus company for sixty-eight dollars.”

Whelan blinked. Bus company! “What did she buy?”

“You'll have to ask the bus company. Our records just show the transaction.”

He was already on his feet again, ignoring the creaking in his knees as he stuffed the papers into his file. His heart was racing with excitement. If the purchase was for a bus ticket out of town, the woman might still be alive!

* * *

In his excitement, Whelan revved his unmarked car so fast that the tires spun on the ice coming out of the parking lot. Sunlight glared off the snow and snowbanks canyoned the streets, further reducing visibility. Cars raced by, splattering salty slush on his windshield as he tried to merge onto Carling Avenue. He steered carefully towards downtown, his thoughts running ahead. First the bus station and the ATM. Should he call this in? At least ask for some help with the security tapes? He was an old desk jockey working a double shift and in the field again for the first time in three years.

He slipped onto the Queensway for the latter half of the trip and took the exit for the bus terminal. First things first. Find out where the woman had gone, and when.

Just before Christmas, the inter-city station was full of travellers, many of them students laden down with backpacks and shopping bags of presents. Long lines had already formed at the platforms for the Montreal and Toronto Express buses. A chatter of voices reverberated around the huge room. The station manager looked harried from his efforts to handle the overflow, but he barely glanced at Whelan's badge in his eagerness to cooperate. The plight of Meredith Kennedy had captured the city, and any assistance that the bus company could provide in finding her would be not only a goodwill gesture but a PR coup as well. It took the manager less than two minutes on his computer to locate the purchase involved.

“It was a return ticket to Montreal purchased at 9:27 a.m. on December 13. Departing at 10:00 a.m. and returning at 6:00 p.m.”

“What day?”

“The same day. Monday. She bought the ticket and left right away.”

“Do you have confirmation she was on the bus?”

The manager's face fell. “Not in the system. But why would she buy a ticket? She bought it right here.” He gestured out his office window to the large open area where customers snaked behind guide ropes up to the wickets.

“Then one of the ticket agents would remember her?”

“Possibly, although with these crowds...and of course, she could have used one of the machines.”

“You mean you don't keep a record of who actually gets on the bus?” Whelan allowed some cop disapproval to resonate in his voice. He knew that the bus company had been under fire for their poor security controls, knew also that there was little money or political will to invest in changes. The bus system ferried Canada's poor and working class from one little town to another across the country. Those with money and influence generally preferred planes, or at least VIA rail.

The manager glanced anxiously at the crowds milling in the room outside his office. Ticket sellers were overworked and frazzled, and carriers scrambled to add extra buses to handle the long lines. He started to shake his head then spoke reluctantly. “Well, we could check the ticket stubs. The bus drivers hand them in at the end of their shift. Do you want me to have someone go through those?”

Whelan arched his eyebrows. “Yes, please. And could I have the names and contact information of the bus drivers on those two runs?” Hauling himself to his feet, he stifled a grunt. Each hour his joints stiffened more. He handed the man his card and was pleased to see that before he was even out the door, the manager was already on the phone, eager for his own small moment of playing hero.

Outside the bus station, Whelan had to lean on his car roof to steady himself. Black spots floated before his eyes and a wave of fatigue crashed over him. The ATM had better be the last stop for today, he decided, before he became more a liability than an asset to the case.

SIX

H
e moved between sleep and wakefulness, drifting up and down as if billowing on a soft, fluffy cloud. He felt no pain or anguish, drugged by the Valium he'd taken at two in the morning. After two sleepless nights, he'd finally acknowledged he needed chemical help. He could barely think straight. On his latest shift, he had misread a consultant's order and forgotten to sign a patient's chart, and yet he'd lain awake at the end of it, exhausted but staring at the ceiling, unable to escape his thoughts. Meredith needed him. What help would he be to her, what guidance could he offer the police if he collapsed? If he could just get some rest, maybe everything would be clearer and calmer when he woke up.

But the Valium didn't quite pull him under. He could still hear voices. The radio news droning on, the commercials blaring. Time stretched. Slipped away. More voices, different now. His mother on the phone. Endless people calling. How many friends did she have? He knew some of the calls were probably for him. Friends and colleagues wanting to help, the Addis Ababa people wanting to know if he was still a go. Curiosity seekers, psychics and other disaster junkies salivating for their next fix.

Meredith, what have you done? The cry welled from deep within him, jerking him above the surface. He wondered if he had spoken it aloud, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. He'd better be more vigilant. Valium was dangerous stuff, lowering his guard and loosening his tongue when he could least afford it. His mother had already warned him about that.

“Of course you're angry!” she'd said at two in the morning when she found him pacing the kitchen. “No matter what happened, no matter who's to blame, she's gone. But you mustn't show it. Anger loses public sympathy, no matter how justified it is. People don't like anger; it scares them, offends them and raises their suspicions. You're the victim here, Brandon. Fear and grief are acceptable; they arouse sympathy and understanding. The police expect you to be panic-stricken and distraught.”

“Mom, I don't give a fuck what the police think!”

“But you must,” she'd countered. “They are studying every inch of your life and your demeanour, looking for cracks, inconsistencies, and yes, emotions that don't ring true.”

He'd fought his outrage. He was not some damn client of hers being prepped for the witness stand, undoubtedly guilty but trying every legal manoeuvre to stay out of jail. She might mean well and she certainly knew far more about the police than he did, but what the hell was she saying? That he had something to hide?

“You talk as if I'm guilty!”

She barely batted an eyelash. The queen of the courtroom stage, trained to make every muscle obey her purpose. “Of course not, honey. But to take liberties with the old legal adage, one must not only be innocent but appear to be innocent as well.”

He'd hoped the Valium would give his battered mind the strength to protect itself, but as he lay on his bed with the duvet pulled up to his chin and the curtains drawn against the pallid winter sun, he felt his mind teeter instead on the brink of disintegration. Despite the prescriptions he routinely wrote for others, he almost never put drugs into his own system. Even during the exhausting years of med school, he'd avoided the uppers and downers that others used to cope. He'd hoped a small dose of Valium would do no harm, but obviously even that was too strong for his unaccustomed brain.

Now he gripped his head in his hands, hoping the sheer physical force would stifle the scream welling inside him and still the urge to run blindly from the house.

How could he control how he acted, let alone what he said, in this disintegrating world?

“He mustn't know!” His mother's voice shafted through the fog of his mind. “I don't care what you do, he mustn't find out.”

He bolted up in bed, his ears straining. Her voice dropped to an indecipherable murmur. The room spun as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. Scraps floated up from downstairs. Was she on the phone in the kitchen?

“Hundred thousand dollars,” she said. Then “Never...that woman...not that way...search warrants... I'll meet you.” Silence, followed by a muffled voice he didn't recognize. Not a phone call then, but a visitor. His mother moved towards the front hall and opened the front door. She sounded calmer as she said goodbye, as if she had resolved something, but before he could mobilize himself to demand an explanation, he heard the distant rumble of her car as she accelerated down the drive.

He could hardly breathe. Who was she talking to and what the hell did all that mean? Who mustn't find out? Who was “that woman'”? What was his mother trying to hide, and the most dreaded question of all, what did it have to do with Meredith's disappearance?

His head pounded with the effort needed to focus. His mother was a highly respected lawyer with a string of high profile wins and an unassailable reputation. She held herself and all around her to a high ethical standard. She had always taught him that right must prevail and that the moral high ground would be rewarded in the end. It seemed impossible that he was harbouring the fears he was, impossible that she could have strayed so far off course.

* * *

Green had called a briefing for noon that Thursday, anxious to follow up on leads and put the pieces together as quickly as possible. In the crowded incident room, the smell of stale coffee and the sound of murmuring voices and rustling papers filled the air. As police officers filtered in from the field, they draped their bulky parkas over their chair backs and rubbed their chilled hands to restore circulation. Once Gibbs had activated the smart board and pulled up the list of assignments, the search coordinator summarized the progress of the ground search.

It was a brief report. Zero. The neighbourhood around her house had been gridded and searched, as had the blocks on either side of the bus routes she typically used. Meredith was nowhere around her usual haunts.

Green turned to the computer specialist, who had just started on Meredith's laptop and was working on accessing Facebook. He launched into an explanation of passwords and security settings, and Green's mind was just beginning to glaze when Whelan came limping into the room. He was red-faced and breathless. Frost still clung to the scarf around his neck.

“Sorry I'm late, sir,” he began, looking more triumphant than sorry as he slapped a file down on the conference table. “We're on the wrong track.”

All heads turned, and Green abandoned the password conundrum in a flash. “Something to report, Whelan?”

“I've been checking bank records. On Monday, our subject bought a return bus ticket to Montreal, leaving on the 10 a.m. bus and returning at 8:00 p.m.”

All murmuring stopped. “She's been confirmed on the bus?” Green asked.

“Not yet. The bus company has to check the ticket stubs with the drivers of those buses. One is due in from Montreal at noon and the other at two.”

Green riffled through his memory of the case but could turn up no connection to Montreal. “Anyone know any reason why our subject would make a day trip to Montreal?”

“Fashion centre of Canada?” the computer tech said with a grin. “The girl was getting married.”

Green poked the idea for holes. “Possibly, but why wouldn't the family or friends mention it to us?”

“It could be a surprise. A special wedding dress or a gift for her bridesmaids.”

“Good point.” He signalled to Gibbs. “Follow up with the family, see if she hinted at anything like that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of checkered fuchsia as Sue Peters leaned forward in her chair. He felt a surge of delight at the garish outfit. Bit by bit, the old Sue was coming back to them. In her eyes too was a glint of the old excitement.

“I don't know if this is important, sir,” she said, “but there is a bit of a mystery about the death of Brandon Longstreet's father.

He was a prominent lawyer and he was found hanging in his Montreal apartment, supposedly a suicide—”

Green perked up. “When was this?”

“Thirty years ago, but the whole thing was hushed up. It looks like the investigation was just stopped.”

“Thirty years is a long time ago,” Green said doubtfully. “Suicide was much more of a stigma in those days.”

“I know,” Peters said, undeterred. “But maybe Meredith wanted to know more about him and the family secret before she got more involved with them. A day trip suggests she wasn't going to visit family or go out for an evening on the town with a friend. She just zipped in and out for a few hours, long enough to check something out.”

“Or to pick up a wedding dress,” the computer tech said.

Green saw a scowl gathering on Peters' face. “First things first. Whelan, confirm that she took the trip and came back. It may in fact be irrelevant, but if she went to Montreal, that's the last thing she did before she disappeared. People do not disappear over a wedding dress, even the worst tailoring job in the world. But a discovery about the family might make her drop out of sight, at least for a day or two, to think things through.” This trip to Montreal was a ray of hope in an investigation that turned gloomier with the passing of each frigid day. The longer they could all hang on to hope, the better.