Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (231 page)

“Technically yes,” Zoe said. “But nothing stops her from walking out on her father the minute she gets home. She’s done it before.”

“I don’t think he’ll let her,” Jessica said. “He seemed pretty determined yesterday.”

Gibbs thought of the steely-eyed stare in Patrick O’Malley’s photos. He doubted anyone crossed the man without a serious fight. “Just for the record, can you describe the man who signed her out?”

Jessica rattled off a clear, concise description that fit O’Malley perfectly, right down to the pale grey eyes. Gibbs showed them the photo, and both confirmed his identity without a second’s doubt.

“Those eyes unnerved me,” Zoe said.

“But you could tell he cared about her,” Jessica countered. “He visited her every day, met with staff, brought her some nice comfy clothes from home. She’d arrived with nothing but—” Jessica broke off.

“Skank clothes,” Zoe supplied. Jessica frowned. “Well, what else would you call six-inch heels and jeans so tight they—”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Jessica said. “She’s a patient.”

Zoe flushed and looked about to crawl into a hole. Gibbs hunted about for a way to keep them talking. At least he hadn’t taken a note. Hadn’t even taken out his notebook, another technique Inspector Green had taught him. “So you feel confident that her father will take good care of her in her own home?”

“Oh, yes, he assured the doctor of that,” Jessica said. “I overheard his conversation with her treating psychiatrist. Old friends, it sounded like. He told the father to pick up the phone and call him directly if he needed to.”

“We never met the mother, though,” Zoe added. “She never once came to visit, so I don’t know how supportive—”

Jessica cut her off. “I’m sure everything will be fine. But if you want to talk to Caitlin...” she drew herself up and seemed to recover the full force of her professionalism, “would you wait a few days? She’s very fragile. Even in the most loving, supportive home environment, she may find the trauma of that evening too stressful to relive.”

Gibbs was feeling very pleased with himself as he thanked the nurses and ducked back into the elevator without so much as a glimpse of the nurse in charge. He knew he had pried more personal information out of them than they ever should have revealed. He went back to his car. Time to report his news to Inspector Green, and then... On to Sue Peters.

His phone rang before he could dial out. To his dismay, it was Sergeant Levesque, sounding fuzzy, as if she’d just woken up. “Anything important on the search for Caitlin O’Malley so far, Bob?”

Gibbs hesitated. He hated squad room politics, because somehow they always managed to bite him in the ass. While he searched for a safe answer, she added, “I see that Inspector Green ordered surveillance on her father’s house last night.”

“Yes, ma’am, and he asked me to follow up with—”

“I know, the nurses at the hospital. What did you find?”

Gibbs relaxed fractionally. At least Inspector Green had kept her informed, rather than doing his usual end run. He summarized his interview with the nurses.

“So our witness is probably safe and sound at her parents’ home.” She paused. “Did Inspector Green ask you to do anything else this morning?”

“Background on David Rosenthal. I was going to ask Detective Peters to help. Is that all right with you, ma’am?”

“That’s fine. Go ahead with that, and leave this hospital information with me. I’ll pass it on to Inspector Green when I speak with him.”

Her voice cut like a whip now, like she’d woken up in a hurry. Gibbs was more than happy to step out of the line of fire between her and Green. After a totally unnecessary apology, for which he privately cursed himself, he hung up and set off for Sue Peters’ apartment. Breakfast with Sue followed by a leisurely drive back to the station and a morning spent in companionable silence tracking David Rosenthal through cyberspace. That was the police work he loved.

He and Sue had just arrived in the squad room an hour later, however, when his phone buzzed. It was Collins, the detective sergeant on duty. “Got a man. Down in the lobby. To see you.” He spoke like a train jolting along a rusty track. “Cabbie, called in earlier about your mystery
ID
. Sounded important. Told him to come on in.”

“Did you notify Sergeant Levesque?”

“No. Knew you were on.”

More squad room politics. Gibbs glanced at Sue and hauled himself tall. Before getting all worked up about who should know what, maybe he should hear what the cabbie’s important news was.

Hamid Farahani’s dark eyes danced with curiosity as Gibbs ushered him into the squad room. He reminded Gibbs of a spider monkey he’d seen once on the Nature Channel, all scrawny limbs and tufts of black hair. He talked so fast that Gibbs struggled to understand his guttural Middle Eastern accent. Slowly he learned that Farahani drove a taxi for Blueline, but only at night, to supplement his income while he tried to expand his small shwarma take-out shop into a viable restaurant. In this economy, probably not the best idea, but... Farahani raised his spider arms expressively.

Gibbs finally saw an opening. “You phoned the police because you recognized the woman in the photo?”

Farahani’s head bobbed. “I want to do my civic duty.” A pause. “But I’m wondering, is there some money for this?”

“If your story checks out, I’ll have to ask—”

The man held up his hand. “I do my duty anyway. I only ask because, well, I am trying to start my business, and on
CSI
....
”

“I understand, sir. Why don’t you start by telling me how you recognize this woman.” He laid the photo line-up Sullivan had prepared on his desk. Because the pawn shop photo had been splashed all over the news, he had removed it and substituted Caitlin’s graduation photo. “Just to confirm, point out the woman you picked up.”

Farahani looked at all the photos, a deep furrow working its way into his brow. “She is not here. That photo is not here.”

“But do you recognize the woman in any of these photos?”

The long spidery fingers hovered over the photos, pausing a long time over the graduation photo before picking it up. “This one, possibly. She looked very different that night in my cab.”

Gibbs made some notes and packed away the photos. “When did you see her, and where?”

“Last Saturday night, the night that man was killed. I’m sorry, I didn’t see a connection before, because I picked her up in Vanier, more than a kilometre away. I thought she was a working girl. She dressed like a hooker, so I thought she was working Montreal Road. The girls along that strip, they are everywhere. Used to be even worse. All the side streets, all the alleys. You can’t believe what I was seeing. Friday and Saturday nights, men call me all the way from Kanata and Nepean. Where are they going to find girls on the streets out there? It’s all behind fancy glass doors, booked by cellphone. But down here in the city, if you don’t want a trail...”

Farahani looked pleased with himself, like he was acting as guide to a dangerous but titillating world. Gibbs could sense Sue Peters grinning. Time to bring the man back to earth. “Did this woman phone for a cab?”

“No, no, I see her. She is walking along Montreal Road, holding herself like this.” He jumped up and gripped his stomach as he hobbled across the room. “Like she was hurt. It is dangerous that time in the night.”

“What time was this?”

“3:20 a.m., sir. I check my log today.”

“And what direction was she walking?”

“East, to St. Laurent Boulevard.”

And ultimately towards Rothwell Heights, Gibbs thought, although it would be a really long walk. “What did you do?”

“I stop. First I slow down. I was worried. A young woman alone on the street at that hour and dressed in nothing, only a black bra and jeans. I asked her where is she going, and she said she is walking home. I offered her a lift.” Farahani paused. He looked nervous. “I have two daughters, younger, but I hope if ever they are in trouble...”

“And she accepted the lift?”

“When she got in the back, I see she is very upset, making no sense, and her jeans are...” He makes a gesture towards his crotch. “I see some blood there. I asked what happened, but she only shakes her head. I want to take her to hospital, but she says no, just take me home.”

“What address did she give you?”

Farahani looked at his notes. “1714 Montreal Road. Near Blair Road in Beacon Hill. Much too far walking.” He waved his hands to signal distance. “She has no money, but I say it doesn’t matter. I get her home safe.”

Gibbs recorded the address then carefully closed his notebook. All the time he was thanking the man and escorting him back downstairs, he was thinking ahead. Caitlin had been captured on video on Rideau Street an hour earlier, at 2:10 a.m. What had happened during that hour, and why had the woman walked over a kilometre from the site of the murder? Had she been sexually assaulted, and even if she had, what did it have to do with the murder of Sam Rosenthal?

The minute he was back in the squad room, he picked up the telephone. Inspector Green needed to know this.

Green propped his notebook against his steering wheel and jotted notes as Gibbs reported his interview with the cabbie. He frowned as he wrote down the address. “That’s not Patrick O’Malley’s address.”

“No, sir. It’s a townhouse unit in a large, low-rent complex. Sue Peters is looking it up now to see who owns it. But I think it’s a red herring, sir.”

“How so?”

“It’s just across the street from the back of the neighbourhood where her father lives. I think she didn’t want the cabbie to know where she lived, so she had him drop her on a main street nearby. Maybe she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by pulling up outside her father’s place in a cab at three thirty in the morning either.”

Green pictured the quiet street, at that hour almost certainly asleep. Nonetheless, there might be some nosy insomniac peeking out the curtains to see what shenanigans the O’Malley family was up to at that hour. Given Caitlin’s erratic history and her mother’s drinking, he imagined the gossip had been fairly fierce over the years.

“What about the nurses, Bob? Did you get the father’s photo over to the hospital?”

There was a pause. “Oh, yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I—I reported in to Sergeant Levesque. She s-said she would tell you.”

Green squinted through the windshield as he wrestled his temper under control. This was not Gibbs’ battle.

“I’m sure she’ll call,” Gibbs rushed on to fill the silence. “She was at home, sounded like she just woke up. Or something.”

Despite his annoyance, Green had to smile. He could almost hear the young detective’s embarrassment through the phone line. From the sound of it, Levesque had managed a successful dinner date after all.

His annoyance dissipated entirely as Gibbs’ described his visit to the hospital. With his gentle manner, the kid was developing quite a talent for drawing people out. But in the midst of all the concern about Caitlin’s fragile mental health, no one had asked the very crucial question—why now? Why had Patrick O’Malley suddenly shown up at the hospital that afternoon and insisted on taking his daughter home? Insisted to the point of interrupting her psychiatrist in the middle of his weekend off. What had sent him into a panic? The photo of his daughter released to the media that afternoon?

“The nurses were pretty surprised she’d been discharged,” Gibbs was saying. “She’s still very ill, they said, and they asked if we could hold off interviewing her for awhile.”

Green peered at his watch. It was edging towards midday. Sharon was going to sue for divorce, if she didn’t murder him outright. He’d promised to take Tony and his new kindergarten buddy bicycling on their brand new two-wheelers today. And to tackle the yard. There were two massive maples and an oak in the backyard, and if he ignored nature much longer, the house might totally disappear under their leaves.

“Not possible. But it’s Patrick O’Malley I really want to talk to right now. As soon as Sergeant Levesque shows up at the station, have her give me a call.”

Twenty-Four

Green leaned on his rake and stared at the back yard with dismay. After an hour, six bags brimming with leaves were already lined up at the curb, but the yard looked untouched. The task was not helped, of course, by the enthusiastic contribution of Tony, his friend, and Modo, who were making a game of jumping in the leaf pile. It was amazing what havoc two little boys and one huge dog could create.

From inside the house, he heard the distant ringing of the phone. A moment later, Sharon emerged, pouting darkly. She surveyed the leaf-strewn chaos wordlessly before she handed him the phone. About time, he thought, tossing the rake aside. No one should get to spend the whole day in bed.

To his surprise, the dessicated voice of Lyle Cunningham came through the phone. “Gibbs said I should call you. He thought you’d want to know right away that we’ve got two interesting results back about Rosenthal’s cane. First, the tissue and blood on the tip of it. Levesque wanted me to expedite that analysis, so I rode the
RCMP
lab hard. They can’t give me
DNA
yet—that’ll be another few weeks—but they did do some tissue typing for starters, so we could focus our inquiries. The good news—the blood is Type B negative.”

Green’s excitement jumped. Type B negative was rare and could go a long way to eliminating suspects quickly.

“The bad news,” Cunningham continued before Green could muster a comment, “is that none of your four suspects, including Omar Adams and Nadif Hassan, are Type B. However, your victim is.”

“So he was hit with his own cane?” Green pictured the blows to the head, which according to MacPhail were caused by a long cylindrical instrument. “Could it have been the murder weapon?”

“I highly doubt it. You could hit someone hard enough to stun them or knock them down, especially a frail old man, but I can’t see the cane having the strength to break the skull without snapping in two itself.”

Green agreed. “But let’s run it by Dr. MacPhail for confirmation.”