Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (10 page)

Laplante flipped open his notebook. “We’ve tracked most of his day at work. Dr. Halton’s secretary said he arrived at his office just before nine o’clock and asked her if Halton was coming in that day. She said he was in Toronto, and he asked when was the earliest time he could see him. She said first thing tomorrow. That’s today, of course.”

“What was his state of mind at that point?” “The secretary said he seemed upset that he couldn’t see Halton till the next day.”

“Upset how? Distraught?”

Laplante shrugged. “She just said upset. She didn’t say he freaked out. He thanked her for the appointment and went off down to his office.”

“Alone?”

“I guess. His computer shows he was logged on from then till twelve-fifteen. It looks like he worked for three hours straight.”

“Doing what?” “Oh hell, Mike, Jackson and I didn’t try to figure that out. There were print-outs of graphs and numbers and tables all
over his desk. His walls are covered with diagrams of the brain, and he has a big, multi-coloured plastic model of one sitting on his desk. There’s photographs of cats with pink stuff stuck on their head and wires coming out. Gave me the willies.”

“What did he do from noon till five?”

“He was in the lab working with the poor suckers. One of the other guys—Dr. Difalco—showed us around the place and it’s full of high-tech crap. Computers, scanners, videos, machines that measure eye blinks and foot twitches and brain waves…”

“Hard-ons too, I bet,” came a faceless voice from the table, and laughter rippled through the room. Sullivan’s eyes fluttered open.

Laplante grinned and livened up for the group. “Shit, Difalco kept rattling off these long names. and he just lost me. All I can tell is everything you want to measure about someone, inside or out, it seems like you can measure nowadays. Different parts of the brain are working during different tasks, and Dr. Difalco said you can see what parts are working with these new machines. Colours in one part, shapes in another, put colours and shapes together and you get another part going.”

“Sounds like you got a new career out there when the budget cuts come, Laplante,” one of the detectives quipped.

Laplante shook his head. “I’d go squirrelly in one of those little rooms day after day staring at a computer screen. And tempers do get hot. One of the guys told me Difalco and Miller got into a fight one day two or three months ago and nearly killed each other. Broke a computer in the heat of it, and Miller could hardly get out of bed for a week. Difalco’s some kind of martial arts pro. They’re still not talking to each other.”

Green perked up. This incident hadn’t been mentioned in the detective’s report, because in the average investigator’s mind it had no direct relevance to the victim or to the time
frame in question. But it was exactly the type of peripheral detail which might open up an entire new line of inquiry. The type of peripheral detail on which Green’s mind took wing.

“What was it about?” he demanded.

“It was all hushed up,” Laplante said. “Halton’s a guy who doesn’t stand for nonsense. Difalco’s files went missing, and Miller accused him of making them up, so Halton hauled both guys into his office and laid down the law, and I guess nobody else found out the whole story. “

“You’ve met both men. Who do you think is guilty?”

Laplante glanced across at Jackson for support. Neither seemed to have given the matter much thought. Finally, Laplante gestured lamely. “These guys are a little different from the kind of suspect we usually meet on the street, Mike. This Dr. Difalco acts more like the slime we see, but maybe Miller is just a more sophisticated kind of creep.”

“Difalco—who said he was a doctor?”

“Well, he—” Laplante broke off, puzzled. “We just thought…I think he just acted like one. And he never said we were wrong.”

I’ll just bet he didn’t, Green thought. His brief encounter with the man had not left him impressed by his integrity. Difalco remained high on his list of witnesses to be interviewed, along with Myles Halton. But for now he had to focus on the results of the investigation to date so that he could figure out where his men should go from there.

He sat in silence for two minutes, his eyes flitting from one blackboard to another, groping for a toehold. After hours of interviews and mountains of evidence, they had so few usable facts. The killing was perfect—no witness, no sound, no mess, no physical evidence left behind. The victim was perfect, not even his ex-girlfriend hated him. No drugs, no money
problems, no hint of scandal. The only glimmer of suspicion was a dark-haired beauty who may have been his mistress and who had abruptly vanished to Beirut only hours before his death. Raquel Haddad was his only toehold, except for the unknown student who had been up in the library at the time of the murder and who had vanished in the confusion following the alarm.

He assigned one team to track down the activities of Raquel and Pierre Haddad and another to continue the search for the red-shirted student. The third team was to pursue the routine inquiry into Blair’s known associates and their activities on the day of the murder, while the remaining team was to continue piecing together Blair’s final day, in the hopes of finding out what had brought him to the remote medieval literature section of the library.

Ferreting out the intrigue surrounding Difalco, Miller and the missing files, he left for himself. It was past five o’clock, only an hour before Sharon left for work, but he still had two major witnesses to interview before he could even consider calling it a day. Not to mention the phone messages from Peter Weiss and the Deputy Chief, demanding a progress report. If he were lucky—really lucky—he’d get home in time for Tony’s bedtime story.

But there was no one else he could trust with the Difalco-Miller mystery except Sullivan, who by now was propped up against the wall in the corner, snoring softly. His face was grey with fatigue, and when Green shook him, he seemed to struggle back to consciousness from very far away. He rubbed his square hand over his face.

“What do you want me to do?” he managed thickly.

“Go home, see your family and sleep till morning.”

Sullivan shook his head. “I just need a couple of hours.
Mary’s out tonight showing a house for once anyway. First nibble she’s had all month. I’ll just go home, put the boys to bed, and meet you wherever later.”

Green chuckled. “I’m babysitting Tony, remember? Calling it a night early. I thought you’d approve.”

“I do, I do. But wait till Tony starts to want hockey camp, and his baby sister needs a costume for her ballet recital. You’ll be glad for every overtime hour you can get.”

“Brian, you’re no good to me asleep on your feet. I only have a couple of small things to do, and the sooner I get on them, the sooner I can get home too.”

He pointed Sullivan in the direction of the elevator, watched him weave down the hall, then turned to collect his notes for the interviews. Two hours tops, he thought. But just as he was heading past his office on his way back outside, he was intercepted by the Chief of Detectives.

“Update, Michael.”

“Adam, I have to—” “Two minutes. Your office.” Adam Jules steered him towards the door. Once inside, Green glanced at him sharply.

“Is this for your ears or someone else’s?”

“Mine. I’ll give a one-minute version to Lynch.”

Green smiled. “Nothing solid yet, but some leads. It looks personal, probably something to do with his love life. Can you get the Mounties and Immigration to give us all they’ve got on a Pierre and Raquel Haddad?” He jotted down the addresses.

Jules’ eyebrow shot up. “An Arab connection? Political?” Green shook his head. “I don’t think so, but the RCMP can ask around. Then Lynch can bug them for a change.” He chuckled. “That ought to keep him busy.”

Jules managed his approximation of a smile. “I’ve had several calls from Marianne Blair’s ex, Jonathan’s father. He’s
just arrived in Ottawa. Do you want to see him?”

“Does he know anything useful?”

“He says no. Lives in Vancouver, only sees Jonathan every few months.”

“Find out where he’s staying and tell him I’ll see him there at—” Green glanced at his watch and swore. One hour to see Halton, another to see Difalco, minimum. If he added Mr. Blair Senior to the list, he’d be lucky even to tuck Tony in. Sharon would kill him. “Tell him eight o’clock.”

“He won’t like that. He’s pretty upset. Only learnt the news from the TV.”

“Huh. That tells us where Mrs. Blair’s priorities lie, doesn’t it,” Green noted drily. “She gave me the impression she was still fond of the guy, they just couldn’t work things out.” He shrugged. “Well, you don’t get rich by being nice, do you? Tell the guy I’m sorry, but I’ll give him a personal report at eight o’clock. By then, once I’ve seen Professor Halton and his hot-tempered golden boy, I hope I’ll have something to report.”

Six

Green had intended
to pay a surprise visit to Myles Halton at his home, a tactic which he liked because witnesses had no time to mount a defence. But as he steered the Corolla onto the Queensway towards Constance Bay, where the renowned and wealthy professor had his waterfront getaway, an alternative struck him. He could kill two birds with one stone if Halton met him at the University. In order not to lose the element of surprise entirely, he dispatched a police cruiser to pick Halton up.

At seven in the evening, the offices of Halton’s team were even more deserted than they had been that morning. The secretary had gone home, and most of the lights in the hall and reception area had been turned off, leaving only hazy yellow splashes at intervals down the hall to guide the cleaning staff. The chatter of Green’s police radio was deafening in the silence. He was just reaching for the light switch by the secretary’s desk when he heard a distant crash. He paused, straining his eyes to see down the hall. The security guard downstairs had told him everyone from Halton’s floor had gone home. All the doors were shut and dark. From down the hall came a screech of metal, like an unoiled wheel. Then a soft rustling, barely audible even in the tomb-like silence of the building.

Green dropped down behind the desk, turned his radio
down and fumbled beneath his jacket for his gun. He hated it. Hated carrying it and hoped he never had to fire it except on the range, but the rule book and every instructor he’d ever had said that one day he’d be grateful he had it. Clairvoyant bastards. Green stared at the gun lying cold and alien in his hand, then cautiously lifted it in front of him. For a moment he crouched behind the desk, his heart thumping and his mind racing as he tried to organize his thoughts. He had always been a lousy policeman. A good detective, but useless on the front lines. If Jules had not yanked him off the street into CID fourteen years ago, he would have been kicked off the Force within a year. He never followed procedure and rarely worked within the team.

Now, as he crouched low and took deep breaths to slow his heart, he tried to remember those basic procedures. He had surprised an intruder in a deserted office complex after hours. An office where a recent murder victim had worked and where a lot of questions remained unanswered. He could not tell from the muffled sounds how many intruders there were nor in which office they were working. Procedure dictated that he call for back-up. Otherwise he would be crucified by the Professional Standards Unit if things went wrong. If he were still alive to be crucified.

On the other hand, the intruder might hear his voice if he used his radio to call for back-up. It was also possible that the intruder was merely a researcher working late, in which case he would be a laughingstock. Among the muffled sounds, he could hear nothing resembling voices, so it was possible there was only one intruder. With only one intruder and the element of surprise on his side, surely he could gain the upper hand in a confrontation.

On the other hand, I don’t know where the bastard is, he
thought, so who’s going to surprise whom? I could sneak down the hall listening at every door until…but the guy could suddenly decide to come out and…

Jeez, Green, what a cop you make!

Leaning his head against the secretary’s desk, he took several slow, deep breaths. Then he rose, gun ready, and began slowly down the hall toward the sounds. Outside Jonathan Blair’s office, he stopped. A thin shaft of light leaked under the door and the sounds of rustling were sharp and near. Gingerly, he touched the knob and felt it give beneath his fingers. Levelling his gun, he took a deep breath, flung the door back and leaped into the doorway.

“Police, freeze!”

Difalco dropped the sheaf of papers he was holding and staggered back, jaw gaping.

“What the—! Inspec...what—!” He stammered incoherently.

“Turn around! Hands on the wall!”

“I—I—”

“Against the wall!”

Ashen-faced, Difalco stumbled against the wall and remained immobile while Green frisked him. There were no hidden weapons.

“Sit down.” With the gun, Green gestured to the chair in front of the computer. Difalco bent to pick up the scattered files and a handful of CDs fell out of his jacket pocket.

“Don’t touch a fucking thing!”

Difalco scrambled into the chair and stared at him.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Green demanded.

“Nothing! My office is next door. I—I was just getting some of my files that were in Jonathan’s room.”

“What files?”

“Computer print-outs. Just raw data.” Some colour was
returning to Difalco’s cheeks. “It wouldn’t mean anything to you, it’s just brain wave patterns and stuff. Jonathan and I were working on similar questions, and we often checked how each other’s data were coming along.”

“So you’re saying these are your files?” “Well, they’re not exactly my—I mean, no, they’re Jonathan’s files. But—”

“So you were removing Jonathan’s files from his office.”

“Yes, but he was going to give them to me anyway. We had arranged it a couple of days ago.”

“And you figured why let a small thing like his murder interfere with your day’s work, right? The same reason you didn’t stick around this morning when I asked you to wait.”