Honour Among Men (43 page)

“What's the use? I'm going down. I deserve to go down.”

“Maybe. But I have some discretion here. You said you wanted someone to understand. Try me.”

Weiss brushed his hand through his blond hair, which now hung in strings rather than curls. Sucking in a deep breath, he began. “I volunteered for John Blakeley's election campaign, that's how it started. I hadn't seen the man since Medak, but like I said, he was a real leader. The Liberal Party and the senior military brass have been jerking the army around for years because no one understood what peacekeeping missions were really like, and the public hasn't got the balls to pay the price, either in taxes or lives. Oh, everyone is paying lip service right now to funding the military, because of the dangers in the Afghanistan mission, but when it comes to forking out the money so the guys can do the job properly, nobody wants to pay. And the first time we get into a firefight over there or suffer a few casualties, suddenly the public and the politicians are screaming ‘Oh this is not the Canadian way.' They just don't understand you have to fight for right.

“Usually I vote Alliance and Conservative, but you know, one sleaze bag is much like another. When I read about Captain Blakeley putting his hat in the ring, I thought there's a guy we really need on Parliament Hill. I know Blakeley wasn't too happy to have me on his team, but I just put it down to our disagreement in Croatia. But Dick Hamm persuaded him to let me work with him—”

“Hamm was working on Blakeley's campaign?”

“Yeah, but in the background, so the military looked like it was keeping out of politics. Hamm did most of the private security work, watched Blakeley's back, that kind of thing. And that's where he thought I'd be useful.”

“How did you make contact with Hamm initially?”

“I went to Blakeley's campaign headquarters to volunteer. Met his wife Leanne, who kind of ran things behind the scenes there. She said I could really make a contribution doing security. She introduced me to Hamm.”

“Did Hamm know about your past history in Croatia?”

“Oh yeah, I told him that's why I really admired the man.” Weiss shook his head in disgust. “Fuck. I was suckered every step of the way, by both of them.”

“So you did security work with Hamm?”

“On my days off. Just bodyguard stuff, working the crowds at rallies . . . I thought that's all it would be. Until . . .” Weiss broke off.

Green leaned in. “Until what?”

Weiss tried to take a sip of water, but the glass trembled so violently he put it down untouched. “Politics can be dirty. The Conservatives were running scared, because they saw there was a chance they could lose the riding, so a lot of people wanted to bring Blakeley down. I don't know how else to explain . . . what I did.”

Green let the silence lengthen. He was not about to help the man with his unburdening. The seconds ticked by in the claustrophobic room. Finally, Weiss sucked in a deep breath and began to recite, like an officer giving a report. “At seven a.m., last Monday, Dick Hamm placed a phone call to my residence just as I was heading out for work. He said there was a situation that could compromise John Blakeley's election.
He said a woman had been found dead by the aqueduct in Ottawa and that Blakeley's name might get dragged in, because he'd had a drink with the woman the night before.”

Seven a.m. Green wracked his memory. The 911 call had come in at 6:37, less than half an hour before. “Did he say how he knew about it?”

“He used to follow Blakeley whenever he was concerned for his safely. This woman had called Blakeley for a meeting. Hamm told me it was for old times' sake because Blakeley had known her fiancé years ago. At the time, I thought it was a crock. I figured he'd picked up a piece of ass in the hotel, and now we had to do damage control.”

Weiss's bloodshot eyes held a hint of the old defiance, as if he were willing Green to call him naïve, yet the explanation was just plausible enough to work. Green retrieved the thread without comment. “So Hamm was tailing Blakeley?”

Weiss nodded. “Blakeley called a cab for the woman, who was Patricia Ross, of course. Then a few hours later the woman turns up dead not five minutes from where he left her. Hamm asked if I could keep an eye on the investigation so that he could handle any of the fallout if Blakeley's name came up.”

“And you agreed to that?” Green allowed incredulity to creep into his voice.

Weiss rubbed his hands through his hair again. “He didn't ask me to interfere in the investigation, just give him a heads up.”

“Didn't it ring any alarm bells that Hamm knew who she was and what had happened to her barely half an hour after her body was discovered?”

The defiance faded from his eyes. He shook his head wretchedly. “Hamm is so focussed, he sucks you right in. He said he'd thought she was up to something, so he'd kept her under surveillance as a precaution.”

“And watched her die?”

“He told me he'd seen her leave the hotel with some other guy as soon as Blakeley left and head towards the aqueduct. Then he checked back in the morning when he saw the squad cars arriving.”

As an explanation, it was just barely credible, but Weiss had been a fool not to be suspicious once the facts began to emerge. To judge from the man's distraught expression, he agreed.

“So you got yourself on the case and kept Hamm informed,” Green said.

“Just if it might have an impact on John Blakeley.”

“Which it did, once you and Peters went up to Petawawa.”

“Hamm said Patricia Ross had been up to Petawawa trying to see John, but he wasn't there. He'd heard she was blabbing in bars around town, and when she'd had too much to drink, she might have mentioned Blakeley's name. So Hamm wanted me to let him know if Sue and I uncovered anything. He gave me his private security line.” He broke off, his jaw working. “I never dreamed . . .”

“What did you think Hamm was going to do with the information?”

Weiss flushed. “I don't know. Create a diversion? Interrupt Sue?”

“You phoned a person of interest in the investigation, and told him what the detective was doing and where. Did you not ask yourself what his motives were? Did you not think maybe you'd put her in harm?”

“No!” Weiss shoved his chair back against the wall. “Fuck, do you think I would have done that if I knew what he'd do?”

No, you were just going to screw up a police investigation, Green thought, allowing his eyes to convey his disbelief. Come on, you idiot, you've been on the streets, you've even
been overseas. You can't tell me you're that naïve.

“Why did you obey the request, Jeff? Hamm had no rank over you.”

“Because I believed in Blakeley! I thought Patricia Ross was just a drunken hooker, and that because some random sicko killed her, a good man's political career was going down the toilet.”

And what's one washed-up whore compared to the good of the country, Green thought. He shook his head in slow disbelief. “You've been a cop now what? Almost twenty years?”

Weiss thrust back from the table and jumped up. “I knew this was a waste if time! Just get the charges over with!”

Green gestured calmly to the chair. “Sit down, Jeff. We're not done yet. I want the whole story. How did Hamm explain the request?”

Weiss hesitated, staring at Green through reddened, defiant eyes. Slowly he righted his chair and sat back down. “He said all he wanted to do was protect Blakeley.”

“When did you realize Hamm himself was guilty?”

“When Sue Peters was attacked. That's when I realized I had truly and royally fucked up.”

“Why didn't you tell us then?”

“I had no time. The
OPP
and the paramedics were all over me, and all I could think of was getting Sue to hospital.”

“Then why didn't you tell me that night at the hospital?”

Weiss shifted. “Because by that time I'd remembered that homeless woman.”

Green hadn't been expecting an honest admission that Weiss was simply protecting his own ass, but nonetheless his bizarre answer startled him. “Twiggy?”

“I knew Hamm had her in his sights. He said she'd seen Blakeley with Patricia outside the hotel, and he was afraid she'd recognize him from the papers. She hoarded papers, he said. He
asked me to find out more about her. Once I realized the truth, and how ruthless he was, I knew he'd come after her. I couldn't think how else to protect her but to get her away from here.”

Green gritted his teeth. “Why didn't you inform us, Jeff? We could have picked her up.”

“I needed time to think! I knew you wouldn't believe I had nothing to do with the attacks. My career was down the tubes . . . my pension, my benefits, all the stuff I've put nearly twenty years of my life into. And while you were busy throwing the book at me, he'd get to her.”

“You don't give us much credit, Jeff. You could have brought her in yourself, and kept her safe.”

Weiss jerked his head up and his eyes flooded. “Do you think I don't know that? That if I'd had the guts, she might still be alive? But you don't give him enough credit! He's fast, he's deadly, and he strikes before you even know he's there.”

Green remembered Hamm that morning, slipping silently through the trailers like a cougar stalking its prey. Undeterred by police, unflinching in his goal. Green didn't want to believe Weiss; he wanted instead to despise the man for his treachery and his self-serving cowardice, but in truth he might be right. Maybe Twiggy's fate was sealed the moment she first laid eyes on Blakeley talking to Patricia at the hotel that night.

Whether it justified Weiss's actions in spiriting her away was a question for the courts to decide.

Tuesday morning Green awoke to the steady drum of rain upon the roof. He opened one eye to squint at the clock radio by the bed. 11:45. Half the day was over, but every muscle in his body refused to move. Mentally he reviewed his schedule, which had been shot to hell in the past week.

Blakeley was awaiting the paperwork on his transfer to Halifax, Weiss was facing arraignment on the one criminal charge they'd decided to fling at him—obstructing a police investigation—but Professional Standards would handle that. Green suspected Weiss would plead to something even more innocuous in exchange for giving them Hamm. The real villain in the piece was still on the Quebec side while the two provinces squabbled about who should have first go at him.

Green also had a routine committee meeting on the
RCMP
's new information sharing system and a long-overdue briefing with Gaetan Larocque about what had been happening in the rest of his department in the past week. And there was also a meeting with Devine, about the inter-provincial mess he'd embroiled her in.

All of it was expendable, all of it deadly dull. Downstairs he could hear Sharon humming a Raffi tune and laughing at some antic their son was performing. Without a second thought, he rolled over, reached for the phone, and called in sick.

Wednesday morning, he was back at his desk, sorting through
the extraordinary backlog of messages, memos and emails that had accumulated in his absence, when a bulky package arrived in the mail. It was bound completely in scotch tape and addressed only to “Detective Green, Homicide Department, Ottawa Police”. By some miracle it had survived Canada Post.

There was no return address. Curious, he unwrapped it carefully so as to preserve the packaging as much as possible, and extracted a well-worn student notebook. On the cover was the name “Corporal Ian MacDonald, West Nova Scotia Regiment” and attached to it with a paper clip was a simple note.

Dear detective, Danny sent this back to me before he died, and I decided you should have it after all. If it can help save other people's lives, I think Ian would have wanted it. Please don't judge my boy too harshly
.

Sincerely, Mary MacDonald

Green opened the notebook. Tight, spiky handwriting crammed every wrinkled page. With a racing heart, he began to read.

Two hours later, Green closed the notebook and sat staring into space, fighting a sense of overwhelming defeat. He still hadn't moved when Sullivan stuck his head into his office.

“Richard Hamm is on his way over from Gatineau. Do you want a go at him?”

Anger and disgust swept through Green, chasing out the despair. He picked up the notebook and jumped to his feet. “You bet I do.”

Richard Hamm looked none the worse for wear, in body or spirit, for his flesh wound and his short stint in the Gatineau jail. He strode into the interview room two hours later with
his shoulders squared, his head high and his gaze sharp with defiant pride. Green half expected him to salute as if he were greeting a fellow officer on the battle front.

“Sit down, Mr. Hamm,” Green said brusquely, to disabuse the man of any notion that he was among equals. Hamm perched on the edge of the plastic chair, poised and alert. Green let a full fifteen seconds elapse while he pretended to study the notebook.