Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (175 page)

“Did you know Lea?”

He’d stuffed half the sandwich into his mouth, and he nodded vigorously in response. Bread crumbs scattered as he tried to talk. “She’s in my Outdoor Ed class. And I’m the teacher advisor to the Newcomers’ Club, which she is—was— very active on. She was a very nice girl. Private, kept her thoughts to herself, but very friendly.”

“Was she the daredevil kind, as the principal implied?”

“She liked adventure, and she liked to challenge herself, but I can’t see her doing anything as stupid as diving off Hog’s Back.”

“Did she do drugs?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? She had a lot of respect for her body, and she wanted it to perform at its best, so I doubt it.”

He pulled out a Coke can and punched his empty lunch bag into a ball, his melancholy gaze fixed on a distant point ahead. Looking at him now, she saw that despite the unappealing extra chin and the wisps of fine brown hair combed carefully over his bald spot, he had gentle grey eyes and a pair of impish dimples when he smiled. Not too bad to look at after all, she decided, and sneaked a peek at his left hand. No ring. And a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. Both signs of bachelorhood.

Feeling a blush coming on, she brought her thoughts firmly back on topic. “She might have experimented though, if a very special boy asked her to. A sweet-talking boy can get a girl to do many things just to please him.”

He shifted his grey eyes to her pensively. “And vice versa, I might add. The power of attraction can be blinding.”

“At that age, yes,” she hastened to say as the blush reddened her cheeks. “Do you know if she had a boyfriend?”

He resumed walking at a brisk pace, leaving her scurrying to keep up. “You’ve really got a thing about Lea’s love life, don’t you?”

“Well, it’s just that I heard she had a secret boyfriend, and I’m wondering why he hasn’t come forward. He’s supposed to be a big star at the school. Actor, musician, athlete...”

“That covers a lot of territory. Who’s to say he’s even from this school?”

“That’s just what I heard. I could be wrong, but there are a lot of talented kids at this school. The arts students, for example. Would they have been her type?”

He cracked open the Coke and slurped noisily. “I didn’t know her that well, but I think she’d be hard to please.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She was a pretty girl and friendly to everyone, up to a point. But she guarded her privacy and didn’t let people get that close.”

“You mean there might be lots of guys mooning over her who wouldn’t have a chance?”

“I didn’t say that. Only that it would take a very special guy for her to let them in. A lot of these artsy types are pretty selfabsorbed.”

“What about an athlete? You said she liked the outdoors and adventure. You probably know most of the top athletes in the school. Would any of them be her type?”

He didn’t reply for a moment while he dug into his pocket for a chocolate bar. Mars Bar. Nothing lo-cal for this guy. “I’m not sure all this speculating gets us anywhere. Lea’s dead. That’s the whole tragedy. Dragging in other people just makes it worse.”

“If it helps us understand why, or prevents another tragedy, it would be worth it.”

He cast her a sidelong glance. She kept her eyes straight ahead and hoped her red face didn’t show. She was way out on a limb here, going where no one else seemed willing to go.

“You don’t watch much hockey, do you?”

She tensed in bewilderment at his abrupt change of topic. To admit a dislike for hockey in Ottawa this spring was to risk being run out of town. “No, why?”

“If you did, you’d know that by far the biggest name in sports at this school this year is Vic’s whizz kid, Riley O’Shaughnessy.”

“Vic?”

“Vic McIntyre. The guy you met with me this morning.”

“Oh, that asshole.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, he’s in-your-face. But he’s also an upand-coming player’s agent, and right now Riley is one of his hot new finds.”

“In hockey?” she asked dubiously.

He nodded. “Riley O’Shaughnessy is a forward for the Ottawa 67’s, and he’s shaping up to be a first round pick in the
NHL
entry draft at the end of the month.”

“That’s Greek to me, Ken. What does that mean?”

“It means he’s damn good. And potentially worth millions.”

Seven

 M
arija Kovacev spent fifteen minutes with her daughter, praying over her, weeping over her, and ultimately sitting in stricken silence as the morgue staff loaded Lea onto the stretcher. Afterwards, Green drove her home but made no attempt to intrude on the woman’s private, unimaginable grief. Neighbours were waiting outside her home, and he handed her over with gratitude.

It was past one o’clock by the time he got to his office. He felt shell shocked. Please don’t let there be any more crises, he thought. His message light was blinking wildly, and when he checked it, he found half a dozen calls from Barbara Devine. With a groan, he forced himself to punch in her number. She wasted no time on formalities.

“Who are you assigning to the Kovacev case?”

“It’s Brian Sullivan’s call,” he pointed out irritably. “And he’s handling it himself for now, pending the findings of MacPhail’s
PM
.”

“I caught the news footage of the mother charging the crime scene. Thank God you were there.”

Green counted to five. It was either that or hang up on the woman, and the latter would be unwise, even if he didn’t value his career. “Losing a child is a very traumatic thing,” he said when he could trust himself to behave.

“I’m not an idiot, Mike. I know how hard it must be on her. I’m just saying you handled it well.”

Green said nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It took all of three seconds.

“If it’s murder, this could be very tricky. I want you on media and overseeing the different teams involved. Personally.”

He didn’t waste time pointing out that the police force had an entire department dedicated to media relations. “I’m on vacation.”

“And the sooner this is wrapped up, the sooner you can get back to it. We all have to make sacrifices, Mike. I’ve set up a press conference for five o’clock, to lead on the six o’clock news. Prepare something appropriate. And for God’s sake, get dressed!”

Green managed to hang up before unleashing a string of profanities at his closed office door. He dialled his home phone number and Hannah’s cell, both of which went unanswered. When he phoned Sharon’s cell to explain the situation, he could hear Tony babbling in the background, and he wanted nothing more than to rush back out to the country, sweep his son into his arms, and hold him safe and close forever.

Sharon must have heard the despair in his voice, for she put up no argument. “The poor woman. I can’t even imagine. Barbara Devine may be a pain in the ass with her eye only on the Deputy Chief ’s job, but in this case she’s right. Of course you have to stay.”

He sighed. “I know. Anyway, there’s still no sign of Hannah. I’m almost ready to put out a missing persons bulletin on her myself.”

“Do you want us to come home?”

He thought of how desperately she had wanted—needed— this week in the country. “Not yet. I have a couple of other leads to follow and a few places to look before I totally hit the panic button. And if I find her, once I’ve strangled her, she’s coming out to the cottage with me, even if I have to tie her up and kidnap her.”

“I’ll have a double scotch waiting. For you, not for her.” She forced a chuckle, but there was no humour in her voice. Perhaps like him, she feared the worst.

He spent an hour working on the press release and dealing with urgent reports that had accumulated in his absence before casting everything aside in frustration and heading out. In the middle of this steamy summer day, the streets would be teeming with youth. Somewhere out there, someone had to know about Hannah.

A wall of heat hit him the instant he walked outside. The haze had thickened, and a hot wind buffeted the trees, portending a thunderstorm that would wreak chaos with the crime scene on the Rideau River. His shirt was glued to his back, and his hair hung in sodden strings by the time he was halfway up Elgin Street. At the height of the afternoon, its pubs and trendy shops were crowded, and languid clusters of young people hung out in shaded alleyways and under trees in the parks. Mournful jazz wafted from the bistros as he passed. Ottawa Senators banners still hung in the windows and bits of faded flags and costumes still clogged the gutters, the only reminders of the Stanley Cup madness that had transformed the strip into a screaming, hornhonking frenzy earlier in the month.

There was no sign of a tiny, blue-haired, pixie-faced girl. He passed the sprawling white courthouse and city hall complex and struck out across Confederation Square, dodging the traffic that raced around it from all sides.

The National War Memorial formed the imposing stone centrepiece of the square, but his destination was the desultory group of semi-clad teens who sat on its granite steps, smoking and fanning themselves. As he drew closer, he could see that Hannah wasn’t among them, but he asked about her anyway. He hoped that in his
T
-shirt and jeans, he didn’t look too much like a cop, but his inquiry was greeted by wary head shakes all around.

He headed across the Wellington Street Bridge, scanning the buskers along the way, then descended the steps to the pedestrian underpass, which was a popular hang-out. On this hot day, its concrete corridor was packed with street youth, sleeping, lounging, talking and smoking. These teens were poorer than their counterparts at the alternate school. Their hair hung in dirty, uncombed hanks and their clothing was flimsy, torn and ill-fitting. Tattoos, studs and body piercings highlighted every bit of visible skin. Displays of homemade jewellery, crafts and cheap accessories, probably stolen, lined the walls, and the sweet smell of marijuana clung to the humid air.

Still no sign of Hannah. He headed for the Rideau Centre and merciful air conditioning, then back out to prowl the tattoo parlours, jewellery shops and record stores of Rideau Street and the Byward Market. The Market had been his playground when he was growing up in Lowertown, but today’s raucous mix of street stalls, bistros and trendy shops was a far cry from the farmers’ stalls, flophouses and seedy taverns of his youth.

It was nearing four o’clock under billowing black clouds when he finally had to admit defeat. He had only one avenue left to pursue, and he could avoid it no longer. Reluctantly he walked up the six short blocks to his father’s retirement residence. The squat brick building sat on a side street in Sandy Hill, only a kilometre from the crumbling lowertown tenement where Sid Green had settled fifty years earlier. His whole world was within a short walking distance, including the Rideau Bakery and Nate’s Delicatessen. Nowadays, Sid rarely made the walk, which left him breathless and unsteady, but instead waited for his son to chauffeur him around. This time Green was on foot and pressed for time, so he stopped en route to pick up cheese blintzes, Nate’s smoked meat, and a Rideau Bakery rye, hoping that perhaps his father’s favourite foods would distract him from the gravity of the visit.

Green could hear the television even before he entered the room. Stifling heat and the stench of stale sweat assailed his nostrils. As usual, the windows were closed, and the drapes were drawn—an old habit originally intended to keep prying eyes out—but this time his father was not sitting in his old brown corduroy chair where he spent most of his waking hours. A
Seinfeld
re-run was blaring away in the empty room. With momentary alarm, Green hurried through the narrow kitchenette and glanced into the bathroom before entering the bedroom. His father lay on his back on the bed with the comforter drawn up to his chin despite the heat. His eyes were shut, but his mouth hung open.

Green rushed to his side, relief flooding in as he saw the rise and fall of his chest. For twenty years, ever since his mother’s death had sucked the hope from his father’s life, Green had lived in fear of walking in to find his father dead. He picked up his father’s wrist, and Sid’s eyes flew open in alarm. The next instant he scowled as he jerked his wrist away.

“I’m only sleeping. Can’t an old man sleep?”

“You usually nap in your chair.” Green studied his colour closely. In the dim light, Sid’s pale, watery eyes seemed to glitter. Fever? He laid a hand on his forehead. Warm, but not burning.

Sid shrugged. “So I have a cold. It’s not a crime. What do you want?”

Green held out the grocery bags. “I brought blintzes. You eaten today?”

Sid struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. “What’s wrong?”

“Why should something be wrong?”

“Because my son is here in the middle of the day. And... what happened to the vacation?”

“Work came up.” Green went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of ginger ale and some crackers, which he placed on the bedside table. He propped his father up with a pillow. “Plus, I thought I should come back to check on Hannah. We left her here by herself. I don’t suppose...” he paused, choosing his words and his tone, “she dropped in or called you, the way she promised to?”

Sid raised his glass to his lips in tremulous hands. Two drops fell on his chin, but he seemed oblivious. A smile played across his face. “My little Hannushka. Never forgets her
zaydeh
.”

Green’s hopes leaped. “So she did come? When?”

“Yesterday? The day before? Who keeps track? What day is it?”

“Thursday. Was it yesterday?”

Sid shrugged. “She didn’t stay long. Always in a rush, that little girl. Just like her father.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“With a friend. She didn’t say, but I think it was a young man.” Sid stopped, and the smile faded from his lips. His rheumy eyes fixed on Green accusingly. “Mishka, don’t make her go away.”

Green was startled. A quick denial rose to his tongue, but something in his father’s tone gave him pause. Goose bumps broke out on his back despite the heat in the room. “Why, Pop? Did she say something to you about going away?”