Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (144 page)

Gibbs jerked back as if hit by an electric shock. “I forgot about that! Nobody’s seen it. It wasn’t in her personal effects when they handed them over to us.”

Green’s temper flared. A missing notebook should have been a major red flag to the investigators on the scene. The look of disbelief on Sullivan’s face mirrored his own, but the big detective was diplomatic. “Get them to keep looking. Meanwhile, we’d better get everything we can about her activities from that constable who was with her.”

Which will be fuck-all, Green thought, since the idiot wasn’t with her when she was traipsing around the bars. Suddenly a thought struck him.

He leaned forward, his instincts screaming. “The notebook was probably what the killer was after all along! He was tracking her movements in Petawawa and realized she’d learned something to make her a threat.” He swung on Gibbs. “Who knew she was up there?”

Gibbs scrunched up his face in an effort to concentrate through his exhaustion and fear. He counted on his fingers. “The base commander, Colonel Lyttle. The military police captain and the
OPP
detachment commander—”

“And all their men, of course,” Green added impatiently. “It would have been part of their daily briefing.”

Gibbs nodded bleakly. “And C-Colonel Hamm. That’s it, I think. Besides us.”

“And who among us?” Green said quietly.

Gibbs stared at him in uncomprehending silence for a moment. “My-myself. The staff sergeant, a couple of guys on the squad.”

“And Constable Weiss.”

“Well—yes. Constable Weiss.”

July 20,1993. On some fucking road somewhere in Croatia.

We’re stuck at another roadblock while the
CO
argues with another drunken militia leader who thinks he’s a general. This has been the worst day, bar none, of the whole tour. I’d onlybeen back from leave two days when Sarge wakes us all up atfour a.m. “We’re moving out, pack all your kit, because nobodyknows where the hell we’re going or when we’ll be back.” So Iasked if we could take Fundy and Sarge thinks we can squeezeher in the
APC
, but the Hammer says not a chance. Can’t betripping over a dog when we’re trying to get out in a hurry, andshe might bark when we’re trying to sneak through somewhere.The whole camp loves her and all, but rules are rules. Mahirsays he’ll take her, and I figured he’d take good care of her.

She must have been distracted by all the activity, becausewhen the
APC
s started pulling out, she starts running after us.Mahir is calling her but she cuts a corner and doesn’t see thefucking mine. Blew her twenty feet at least. I can see she’s stillalive, but the Hammer won’t let me go to her. “We’re on theroad, soldier, he says, we’re in formation and we’ve got twentyfour hours to get to our destination.” Wherever the fuck that is.

So the last thing I see is Mahir carrying her towards his house,
and I’ll probably never know what happened to her. She was a
brave little soldier, says the Hammer, and I want to kill the guy.

Sergeant Kate McGrath came on duty that Saturday morning to the news of an assault on an Ottawa police officer in Petawawa. She stared at the email bulletin in dismay. Petawawa. What were the chances that two Ottawa Police investigations were taking place in Petawawa at the same time? Nil. The killer was at it again, and this time not even the police were immune. This killer was turning more deadly and desperate with each passing day.

She thought of phoning Mike, but stopped herself. She had nothing to report and nothing to contribute to the case. What could she say? I’m sorry, and I hope you’re holding up all right? That was a ridiculous luxury. Mike was probably up to his eyeballs in crises, trying to coordinate the investigation and respond to the dozens of pressures from the media, the brass and the public at large. No matter how much he might need a supportive word, that was not her place.

He had a wife, after all.

She set her jaw, squared her shoulders and forced herself to think. The best way to help him was to follow up on the case down here, where it had all begun. She felt as if she was in a holding pattern while she waited for details on Daniel Oliver’s military contacts. Yet something had stirred up the case ten years after Oliver’s murder. Something had happened to set Patricia Ross on the road to Ottawa. Just a tenth anniversary epiphany? Or something more concrete—an encounter, a discovery, a stray fact?

McGrath sat bolt upright. The newspaper! In all that had happened, she’d forgotten the newspaper in Patricia Ross’s apartment, with its missing Page 10. It might not be much, it might just be the light-fingered tenant from the apartment below, as the landlord claimed, but it was a place to start. A thread to tug, that might unravel the entire web of secrets.

She clipped on her police belt, snatched up her coffee, and headed for the door. Back issues of the Halifax
Chronicle
Herald
were kept at the public library on Spring Garden Road, a few short blocks from the police station. The chip wagons were out in force along the street, and the air was laden with the smell of stale oil and vinegar. She had to dodge the buskers and the Tai Chi enthusiasts to get in the front door. Inside, a flash of her badge and a quick word sent the young librarian in charge scurrying to the nearby shelves where the latest issues were stacked. He returned with the
Sunday Herald
of April 9th and pointed to a long reading table. Only one other reader was there, and he didn’t even look up from the notes he was taking.

The paper was full of election campaign news, most of it local, and she flipped rapidly through the results of polls and the profiles of candidate hopefuls until she came to Page 10. “Top Ten Ridings to Watch”, announced the headlines, and below were brief capsules of federal ridings identified by political pundits as either traditional swing ridings or ones where candidates could pull off a surprising upset. The article profiled each riding and the main candidates in the race. In each case the journalist, whom Kate recognized as a born and bred New Democrat, had predicted a winner.

The whole article seemed rather more intellectual than the reading Kate would have predicted of Patricia, but she scanned the ridings curiously. Two were in British Columbia, which was way too far from either Halifax or Ottawa to be of interest. Two were in the Greater Toronto Area, representing the ethnically diverse communities that surrounded the metropolis. Surely Toronto was still too far away. Patricia had chosen Ottawa for a reason, yet none of the ridings were in the Ottawa area. Her hopes jumped when she found one in Nova Scotia, but after reading the article, she couldn’t for the life of her see how it fitted in with old murders, the military, peacekeepers, or Ottawa.

The caption for the next riding stopped her in her tracks, however.
Military is wildcard in conservative Ontario riding.
She studied the map of the riding. It sat just beyond the northwestern extremity of the City of Ottawa, and more importantly, right near the centre of it, perched on the edge of the Ottawa River, was the town of Petawawa.

Her heart raced with excitement as she scanned the article. The riding was currently held by a hard-line Conservative and was comprised largely of rural, socially conservative voters. It was generally regarded as a safe Conservative win, and yet the journalist was predicting a tight race and a possible Liberal upset because of strong support among the military for the local Liberal candidate, John Blakeley. Who was himself an exarmy colonel and a highly experienced and decorated veteran of numerous overseas missions. Blakeley’s photo showed a man with a frank, steady gaze.

“Colonel Blakeley speaks to the hearts and minds of soldiers in this riding,” said his campaign manager, Roger Atkinson, reached at Blakeley’s campaign office in Petawawa. “His firsthand understanding of military issues would be an invaluable asset in the halls of power.” As an interesting aside, the journalist noted, Roger Atkinson, born in Sheet Harbour and educated at Dalhousie University, brings a local Nova Scotia connection to this most exciting race.

With a whoop of joy, McGrath jumped up and got the librarian to make her a dozen copies of the page. Barelypausing to thank him, she raced out of the room with the pages shoved under her arm and sprinted back to the station. At her desk, as she punched in Green’s number, she tried to catch her breath and collect her thoughts so that she could sound coherent when he answered. But after four rings, his voicemail came on. She cursed.

“Mike! Oh, damn it! I’ve caught a huge break. Check your fax!”

Leaving Sullivan to prepare for the trip to Petawawa, Green had headed over to the hospital, where Sue Peters remained in the ICU , hooked up to tubes and looking uncharacteristically fragile and still. He hated hospitals and managed to stay only thirty seconds, long enough to lose the battle with other memories from long ago, of the grey, birdlike figure of his mother dwarfed among the pillows and machines that had escorted her to her death. He’d always hoped it was painless at the end, at least for her.

But Peters wasn’t going to die, he told himself over and over as he looked down at her. The doctors were promising nothing, and the nurses were gently hinting at the worst, but Green shrugged them off. She was too young and brazen to be silenced this way. She would awaken to tell the police all they needed to know, and they would nail this murderous bastard for good.

He left the hospital fired with new resolve and with a long list of inquiries to be followed up. En route back to the station, he phoned Constable Jeff Weiss’s staff sergeant to arrange a meeting later in the morning.

“Good man,” said Staff Sergeant Vaillancourt once Green had explained his request. “He’s pretty new to General Assignment, so I don’t know much about his background, but I’ll bring the file. He had some problems with insubordination sometimes, but I could always trust him to think on his feet.”

Right, Green thought grimly as he hung up. Like this time,
putz?
As one of the
NCO
s under his command, Green had known Vaillancourt for several years, but the man’s police instincts had never filled him with confidence. Green suspected he would have to do some additional detective work of his own to get the real story on Jeff Weiss. Just one more small task to add to his pile. Next he phoned Frank Corelli of the
Ottawa Sun
for an update on his anonymous news source.

“Not a word since that botched meet,” Frank said. “She’s either a crank, or she’s gone to ground. Maybe something about the set-up spooked her.”

Green pondered Frank’s words as he pulled into the parking lot of the station. The latter theory made a lot of sense, but even if the woman had gone to ground, he needed to find her. Now more than ever. If she really had seen Patricia Ross’s killer, she might be the only person who could stop him.

As he parked, signed in and waited for the elevator, his thoughts kept drifting back to Twiggy. She had been in the vicinity at the time of the murder, she was clever enough to know how to use her knowledge to her own advantage, and she was just jaded and fearless enough to do so. Yet Twiggy, despite her relentless path to self-destruction, had an instinct for survival. Never again would she let some bastard try to dictate the terms of her exit from this world. If Twiggy had caught even a whiff of trouble, she’d be gone.

Or so he hoped. But she was also old, fat and sick. Not to mention she was up against a calculating, determined killer who didn’t hesitate to target a cop. Indeed, if Twiggy did know something, Green needed to find her for her own safety as much as for her knowledge of the case. Yet Twiggy would never cooperate with any of the police officers he could assign to look for her. She hated cops, courts, judges, social workers and just about any official representative of the society that had failed her. If anyone was going to find Twiggy and get her to talk, it had to be him.

The unhappy realization came to him on the elevator trip upstairs. He really couldn’t afford to take off up to Petawawa and leave all these crises simmering here. The last time he’d done that, one of his officers had nearly died.

By the time he got off the elevator, he’d decided to send Gibbs along with Sullivan instead. The young detective deserved as much. The squad room was nearly deserted, but Gibbs was hard at work reviewing reports on the canvass of downtown Ottawa bars. No doubt sifting each word for a nugget of information that might trip up their killer. Green told him to round up Sullivan and meet him in his office.

Inside his office, he looked at the pile of papers on his desk and the furious blinking of his phone. No matter how many times he checked his message box, there were always new ones. With a sigh, he flicked the machine on speaker phone so he could listen as he sifted through his paperwork. Several calls were from the media and fellow officers, asking for news or volunteering information.

Then the voice of Kate McGrath broke through, breathy and excited. Check your fax! He pawed through the papers on his desk. What huge break? Had she already
ID
’d one of the military photos?

Papers scattered to the floor, but no fax. He dashed outside to the fax machine and snatched up the wad of waiting papers. Cursing the office inefficiency, he scanned them until he came to the one from Kate. Not an
ID
of a photo, but a page from a newspaper, with several lines highlighted. He skimmed these, then the whole article, and fell back down in his chair with a thud.

Good God, what was this? Another twist? Another tentacle? How did all this fit in with old peacekeeping secrets and a ten-year old murder? Or was it a red herring, its significance only peripheral to the investigation. He was still puzzling over it when Gibbs and Sullivan walked into the squad room. Silently Green handed Sullivan the fax.

The big detective’s eyebrows shot up as he read it. “Well, well, well. Politics gets into the act.”