Honour Among Men (37 page)

McGrath nearly shot out of her chair. “And who was huffing and puffing up the hills in Halifax?”

Sullivan laughed, and Green felt his cheeks grow hot. “I'm the first to admit I'm no basis for comparison. But between a fit man and a fit woman—”

“Both of these victims were women themselves,” she shot back. “And a fit woman can be a match for many men, especially if she's had martial arts training.”

Green regarded her ruefully. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes blazed. He forced himself to separate her anger from her message. “You're quite right, and we need to check that out. In fact, we need to know much more about her background, her health and even her political activities. Superintendent Devine mentioned that her father is a Liberal bigshot, and getting her husband into that inner circle may be a big deal for her.” He jotted down another note for the night shift. “In the meantime, Hamm and Weiss earn the highest score, Atkinson next and Leanne last.”

McGrath sat back, a stubborn scowl on her face. “You're forgetting Blakeley again. I think he'd rate at least with Hamm and Weiss.”

Reluctant to add further fuel to her anger, Green cast a silent plea for assistance at Sullivan, who seemed to read his mind. “He's older, so that's a factor, but he's probably on a par with Atkinson.”

Green ploughed on before McGrath could object further. “Third question. Opportunity. Who could have been in Ottawa on Sunday night and up in Petawawa the following Friday?”

All three of them studied the list of suspects in silence. Sullivan spoke first. “Weiss obviously was in both places at the
times in question, and on the face of it, the four others all have good mobility and legitimate reasons to travel back and forth without attracting attention.”

“But we have gaps in our alibi information,” Green said. “So far, what do we know?”

“We know Hamm was in Petawawa when Peters was attacked, but . . .” Sullivan activated the incident room computer and clicked through boxes. “Hamm said he was in Petawawa with his wife when Ross was killed. Corroborated by the wife.”

“Which doesn't mean much, but at least it's an alibi,” Green muttered. “Leanne will probably back up Blakeley's statement about what time he got home, but we still have to substantiate that.”

Sullivan rubbed his face wearily. “More work for the night shift.” Unexpectedly, his cellphone rang and his face lit up. “Ah! That will be our pizza.”

When a duty officer brought the pizza up, Sullivan dived in with gusto, but Green didn't know which he needed more, food or sleep. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him halfway through the first slice. Small wonder, he though, when he realized he'd been on the job now for nearly eighteen hours, with little more than a fitful few hours the night before to tide him over. Half an hour later, they called it a night, handed over the notes to the night shift for follow-up and packed up to leave. McGrath, who had barely taken a bite of her pizza, headed towards the door without a backward glance.

“Do you want me to pick you up when we're ready to get started in the morning?” Green asked.

She swung around. “This part of the investigation isn't really my case. Not that it would make any difference if it was.”

She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms.
Even though her eyes were hooded with fatigue, the tilt of her chin was defiant. Green didn't know how to placate her and hadn't the spare energy to think about it. He tried for a sympathetic tone.

“Do you want me to drop you off at your hotel on my way home?”

“What I want is a shot at interviewing Blakeley in the morning.”

He considered her request. They had left Blakeley in the holding cell overnight to contemplate his future, and his conscience. A little extra nudging might be just what he needed after a long night. If Devine and the Chief went ballistic, tough.

He nodded. “I'll leave word. Now let's get some sleep.”

Green felt as if his head had barely hit the pillow when his cellphone rang on the night table beside him, prompting muffled curses from Sharon's side of the bed. He groped to silence it before the second ring and croaked a greeting through the fog in his brain.

Leblanc's voice came through uncertainly. “Sorry to wake you, sir, but Sullivan said you wanted to be informed. We just checked on the status of Weiss's wife.”

Green sat up, the fog clearing abruptly. “And?”

“Her car's in the drive now, sir. There are no lights on, but I figure she's probably asleep. Do you want me to ring the bell and see?”

Green peered at his clock radio. Three a.m. Jesus! What maniac goes out on the streets at three a.m. He thought about it for all of two seconds. Me.

“No, don't do anything. We'll be right there.”

Sept. 16, 1993. 3 a.m. Middle of no-man's land, Sector South, Croatia
.

We're sitting in our
APC
on a stretch of deserted road, in the middle of the combat zone. I'm a million miles from sleep. Two rows of tanks are pointed straight at us, and I'm listening for every sound. A few hours ago we had all-out war with the Croats, who have machine guns, rocket grenades, 20 mm. cannons and at least twenty tanks. Apparently nobody told them about the withdrawal agreement their president signed in Zagreb, and they didn't want any part of it. We were told that we could fire back if fired upon, so we were giving them everything we had. The noise was unbelievable. Our first real combat. Some of the guys were like ‘yeah, finally!'
.

The miracle was, we didn't lose a single soldier. After it was over, we ran around checking that we were all okay, then Danny and I went across to their position for a look. There was blood all over, and a little ways away, a Croat soldier lying all by himself. A kid, really. I wonder if he took a long time to die, and if he was scared. It bothered me, thinking it might have been my bullet
.

Later, the
CO
and a few officers went over to the Croat side to prove there was an agreement, and the
CO
said we were going to put two
APC
s at the crossover point just to keep our foot in the door till morning. So here we are, like sitting ducks with tanks staring at us from both sides. We're flying the biggest
UN
flag in the battalion and we're hoping nobody over there gets trigger-happy after a snootfull
.

Sept 16, 1993. 6 p.m. Croatian front line, Sector South, Croatia. The next day started off bad and got worse. We were stuck inside the
APC
, trying to get some sleep, when this huge explosion shook the ground and blasted our ears. I poked my head out of the hatch and saw a massive column of dust and
smoke up ahead, behind the Croat line. There's supposed to be a ceasefire, so what the hell is this? There's the stink of gunpowder and smoke everywhere. I'm so sick of this shit, people who just fucking destroy for the hell of it
.

Soon the
CO
and the rest of the company came up to join us and we set off in a convoy down the road to the Croat side. That's when the trouble really started. Another fucking Croat roadblock. Anti-tank mines across the road, tanks and missiles pointing at us and some tin-pot general saying we're not going through. The orders come down from the
CO
to pick a target, so Danny points the
C
-6 at this missile that's pointing at us. Talk about playing chicken. I thought, this is it, I'm going to die over here. Two weeks left till the end of my tour and I'm going home in a body bag. Two hours later, I'm still shaking, even way down deep in my gut
.

The suburb of Orleans was a mushrooming tangle of crescents lined with cookie cutter houses and big box malls that had gobbled up the vast plains of farmland sloping up from the Ottawa river. It owed its name to the tiny French Canadian farming village that had once been its core, but beyond the ornate, silver-roofed stone church on St. Joseph Boulevard, very little remained of its village roots.

Green could never get in and out of Orleans without becoming lost, so he was counting on Sullivan to navigate their route to 1765 Appletree Court. Sullivan had not offered a word of protest about being roused at three in the morning, and had arrived at Green's house bearing two extra large Tim Hortons double-doubles. These were almost gone by the time the car had looped endlessly through Applefield Drive,
Applewood Avenue and Appleglen Crescent, past identical vinyl-sided houses with minivans in the driveways and juniper beds under the front windows. Rounding yet another bend, they spotted a familiar beige Malibu parked discreetly at the curb.

“Ahah!” Green exclaimed. “That's got to be Charbonneau and Leblanc.”

A moment later Leblanc and Charbonneau had joined them in the back of the car, where Sullivan thoughtfully provided them with yet two more double-doubles from a box on the seat.

“It's that house with the green Dodge Caravan in the drive,” Leblanc said between grateful gulps.

Green studied the townhouse, which was dimly lit by a street light across the way. He could see a couple of bicycles and a spindly sapling on the front lawn, but the house itself was masked by curtains. A light shone from a window upstairs, and he thought he could see a faint glow through the front door.

“The lights are on,” he said.

“Yeah, they just went on a few minutes ago,” said Leblanc. “After we called you.”

Green frowned. It was not yet four o'clock. What could have roused her in the middle of the night? News of Weiss? Maybe even his arrival? Weiss would have recognized the beige Malibu a mile away and slipped into the house unseen through the back yard.

Green opened the car door, his mind made up. It was time to find out what she knew, and who she might be hiding.

Frenzied yapping erupted inside at the sound of the bell, followed by a flurry of footsteps and a hoarse “shut up!” which did little good. He waited a minute and rang again. This time above the din he heard the slap of shoes upon the floor, and a
pair of bloodshot eyes glared through the small glass panel in the door. Sullivan held up his badge to the glass, and the eyes grew wide. A predictable enough reaction at this time of the night, Green thought, trying not to read anything more into it.

Locks clicked, and the door swung warily open to reveal a tiny woman wearing red flannel polka dot pyjamas that hung on her scrawny frame. Her bleached platinum hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, and her thin face was pinched with worry. Smoke curled from the cigarette in her hand, causing her to squint as she peered at them.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm Inspector Green, and this is Sergeant Sullivan from the major crimes unit. Are you Eleanor Weiss?”

She recoiled, reaching to steady herself against the wall. A faint whiff of whiskey drifted around her. “Yes. Why?”

“May we have a word inside?”

“No. I don't know. What's happened?”

“Is your husband at home?”

She hadn't moved, and now she shook her head vigorously. “He doesn't live here any more. We're separated.”

Sullivan stepped forward and loomed over her, taking her arm to soften the impact of his size. “Mrs. Weiss,” he said gently, “it's very important that we speak with you. Please, let's go inside.”

She looked up at him, her pale eyes blinking with alarm. Something in his gaze seemed to reassure her, for she nodded and stepped aside for them to enter. “We can talk in the kitchen. The children are asleep.”

A black terrier swirled around their feet as they followed her down the hall. Green cast a quick glance around, not really expecting to spot Weiss hiding behind the curtains or Twiggy stashed in the corner. The living room and the hallway were
strewn with clothes and children's toys. A peek into the open hall closet revealed a jumble of clothes, including a pair of men's boots and a beige parka far too big for Eleanor Weiss. There was no proof they belonged to Jeff Weiss, but if so, he still had a toehold in the family.