Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (189 page)

Staring at this last item, he realized there was a very large piece of the picture that he’d forgotten in the crises of the morning. Riley O’Shaughnessy. The young man who was probably at the centre of the whole story, the young man whom Jenna Zukowski had been researching the Thursday evening before she disappeared.

Suddenly he realized what Jenna was probably doing Friday morning outside Pleasant Park High School, and who she had gone to see. He could call Gibbs and tell him to follow up, but this was an instance when the power and mystique of his own senior rank would come in handy. Grabbing his jacket, he headed out of the office. Barbara Devine would get her report, but it would be via his cell phone en route to the school.

As Green pulled into the high school parking lot, he spotted a solitary figure jogging around the track at the side of the school. The pudgy, balding man looked familiar, and when Green drew nearer, his theory was confirmed. Ken Taylor ran with his head down, his shirt soaked with sweat and his breath exploding in wet gasps. When Green called his name, he started violently and stopped in the middle of the track, his chest heaving. His face was so red that Green feared an imminent coronary. This was not a man who jogged every day. What had precipitated this sudden burst of activity?

“Mr. Taylor,” Green said, not wanting to give him time to regroup, “you are aware that Ms Zukowski has been missing for three days?”

Taylor nodded weakly.

“And you’re aware the body of a young woman was found this morning?”

Taylor swayed. Green caught his arm and half dragged him to the bleachers, where Taylor sagged onto the bottom bench.

“I...I heard. But I didn’t know it was her.”

Green let the conclusion stand. “She came to see you out here on Friday morning, didn’t she?”

He hung his head and shook it, still gasping for breath.

“I have a witness,” Green said. “So unless you killed her yourself, I advise you to talk to me.”

Taylor raised a shaky hand to wipe the sweat from his face. “Not me. She came to see Riley O’Shaughnessy.”

“And?”

“He wasn’t here. He didn’t come to school that morning.”

“Was that usual for him?”

“He has a big week coming up, what with the draft, so he’s been distracted.”

“So what did Jenna do?”

“She asked if I knew where he lived.”

“And?” Green allowed his impatience to show.

“I don’t. I mean, I know he lives with his uncle, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s none of her business.”

“What did she do then?”

“She said she could look it up. She can, of course, all the student info is in the system computer.”

Green was silent a moment, processing the significance of that, and of Taylor’s sudden burst of energy. “And this morning, when you heard about the dead woman, you suddenly realized what might have happened to her.”

Taylor sucked breath noisily into his lungs. Almost sobbing. “It’s impossible. Riley’s a good kid. He’s got so much going for him. It makes no sense!”

So much going for him, and so much to lose, Green thought grimly as he headed back towards his car, already dialling Sullivan’s cell phone. The big detective picked up on the fourth ring.

“It’s time to pick up Riley O’Shaughnessy, but I want all our ducks in a row first. Call all the guys in and meet me at the station.”

Fifteen

 W
hen Green breezed into the incident room half an hour later, Sullivan was already at the head of the table, an irritated frown on his face. Green wasn’t sure whether it was Riley O’Shaughnessy’s possible guilt or Green’s cavalier assumption of control that had annoyed him the most, although he suspected a little of both. To his credit, however, Sullivan remained calm, jotting down notes while Green filled the detectives in on the Riley O’Shaughnessy connection. Their faces reflected their disbelief and dismay. When Green mentioned laying charges, however, Sullivan raised his head.

“Shouldn’t we wait for confirmation on the Jane Doe?” he asked, the epitome of reason.

“The kid is set to drive down to Ohio any moment. He’s already panicked once—”

“Wait a minute. We don’t know that for sure.” Green saw other heads nod, and he leaned forward to press his case. “It all points that way, Brian, and if everyone wasn’t so infected by hockey fever, you’d have seen it ages ago. Look at the facts. The kid’s an elite athlete in a competitive sport. That means he’s determined, focussed and a man of action. He wouldn’t waste time on analysis. When he sees his opportunity, he’ll grab it. He’s got to be strong, and God knows our killer is strong and not squeamish about using brute force. We know he he was Lea’s secret lover, they met that night, smoked some bad weed. We know they struggled, not enough to kill her, but with the drugs in her system, enough to be a contributing factor when she dies, so he sees his future going down the tubes if he’s implicated. With a potential criminal record hanging over his head, who’s going to sign him at the big draft? So he throws her over the falls, hoping it will look like an accident, and he tries to lie low. But the school social worker starts poking around, and before he knows it, he’s backed into a corner. If he doesn’t shut her up, he’s going to be in even worse trouble, because he covered up the crime. So the social worker has to go.”

Silence greeted his analysis, and when Sullivan spoke, he was more subdued. “It’s a nice theory, Mike, but what do we have to hang it on? To lay a charge, I mean.”

“That’s why we need our ducks in a row. I want search warrants for Riley’s cell phone records and for his uncle’s house.” He glanced at the short, squat detective who had already opened his notebook. “Jones, you’re the warrant wizard, so you start the ball rolling. We’re looking for calls he made last Monday night or early Tuesday morning when Lea died, and again on Friday. The kid’s only eighteen. I want to know if he had advice or help. In the uncle’s house, we’re looking for Lea’s cell phone and panties, all Riley’s shoes and clothes. Also a shovel and some kind of cart. Cutting up the body would have been messy, so we’re looking for an implement like a saw—”

“MacPhail is sure it was an axe,” Sullivan interjected. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Green winced in spite of himself. “And not for the squeamish, that’s for sure. There would be lots of blood, probably in the shed or garage. You’re hardly going to chop someone up in the backyard in full view of the neighbours.” Green’s eyes scanned the computer screen where Gibbs was recording the assignments. “We need a team out at the house interviewing the neighbours—did they see or hear anything between Friday and Sunday, etc. etc.” He gestured to Wallington and Charbonneau. “You guys take that. The moment the search warrants are signed, we all move. Watts and LeBlanc, you execute the search warrant and Brian, you and I will pick up Riley. I don’t want him tipped off beforehand, so we’ll hang on to him down here until the results of the search come in.” He paused, studying the screen and the postings around the room. “Have we forgotten anything?”

“The vehicle he transported the Jane Doe in?” Gibbs ventured.

Green nodded, grateful for the young detective’s meticulous mind. He pictured the brand new Mustang that Riley had been driving on Sunday. There was barely room to squeeze a body in its trunk, let alone a shovel and a cart. But then he remembered the large plumbing van sitting in Darren O’Shaughnessy’s drive, with way more room than a Mustang. There would be plenty of room for everything in the van, even for the murder itself.

He nodded at Watts and LeBlanc. “Impound Darren O’Shaughnessy’s plumber’s van and have Ident go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

Jones had been writing furiously. Now he glanced at the clock on the wall, which read three p.m. “These warrants will take a while. They probably won’t be ready before the morning. If I was the kid, I’d be halfway to the U.S. border by then.”

Green nodded. “That’s why we’re going to put him under surveillance. He should be in school writing exams. Watts, you and LeBlanc set that up, for overnight if you have to. As soon as Jones gets the warrants signed, we’ll pick him up.”

The late June sun was still blazing off their living room window when Green pulled into his driveway at six o’clock, having exhausted all possible leads he could follow up that day. He felt restless and out of sorts, and the silence that greeted him when he opened the front door only heightened his mood. No Tony rushing into his arms, no Modo thumping her shy tail on the rug, no cooking smells wafting from the kitchen.

Just the roar of his neighbour’s lawnmower and the burned smell of this morning’s coffee. Then gradually the pulse of rock music penetrated the roar, and he smiled. To his amazement, Hannah was home. Five nights in a row, previously unheard of. What miraculous transformation had occurred? Not that he dared ask, but he was glad of the result. He picked up the mail and sifted through it as he padded down the hall. Bills, promotional flyers, charity requests—all badges of suburban middle age. He tossed them aside unopened and headed upstairs to shower, the whiff of decay still clinging to his clothes.

He stripped, turned on the hot water full blast and climbed into the tub. An object looped around the showerhead startled him. He picked it up and stepped out of the tub, rubbing it to clear the steamy film.

It was a clear glass pendant in the shape of a tear drop, hanging from a leather cord. He’d never seen it before. It was a new age piece of jewellery quite unlike the beads, chains and silver studs that Hannah wore. Yet who else could have put it there?

After his shower, he dressed and knocked on Hannah’s door. The music stopped and after some shuffling, the door opened to frame Hannah’s delicate face. To his surprise, she was wearing no make-up, and her hair was wrapped in a towel. She looked almost soft enough to hug, but he contented himself with a smile.

He held up the pendant. “What’s this?”

Her eyes flicked over it, betraying nothing. “Looks like a pendant.”

“What was it doing in my shower?”

She lifted her shoulders languidly. “Maybe it migrated there. They’re supposed to have magical powers, those things.”

He played along. “And why would it migrate there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe so you’d see it? Maybe it’s trying to tell you something.”

A faint smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “Tell me what?”

“How should I know, Mike? You’re the detective.” His smile faded. Hannah herself was trying to tell him something. Give me a name, he’d told her, write it in invisible ink if you have to. He studied the pendant, watching the light refract as it twisted on its cord. His heart quickened.

“It’s a crystal,” he said.

“So it is.”

“Does it have any other name? A specific kind of crystal, maybe?”

“Gee, Mike, don’t ask me. I’m not into all that woo-woo crap.”

“Do you suppose if I rubbed it, it could tell me any more?”

“Oh, crystals love to be rubbed.” She paused, deadpan. “In the right hands, they’ll give you anything you ask.”

He remained standing in the doorway, feeling like a fool as he tried blindly to follow her cryptic clues. They were on a delicate footing. Because it was a confidential police investigation, he could not tell her what he knew, and because of loyalty, she would not. He tried a more oblique approach.

“Do you know anything about these crystals?”

She shrugged. “I’ve heard things. But I gotta go. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Can we talk about it over dinner? Hypothetically, of course. Not this particular crystal.”

She looked past him into the hall as if sizing up the legion of police lined up behind him. Her eyes, devoid of their usual make-up, looked wide and guileless. Without all the harsh black, he could see his own deceptively innocent hazel eyes.

He cooked hamburgers on the barbeque, a skill he’d been trying to master since becoming a suburban family man, but he could almost hear the laughter of his colleagues on the force, who discussed
BTU
s and side burners as easily as they discussed cars. The hamburgers were nearly done when Hannah joined him on the back patio, her make-up now complete and her hair freshly spiked. It was, however, now orange instead of blue. Two new silver studs had joined the others on her left eyebrow.

She handed him some unrecognizable brown lumps in a shrink-wrapped package. “Veggie burger. I don’t eat red meat any more.”

He took the package without protest, for he needed her at her most congenial. “What do you like on these? Onion? Tomatoes?”

“Hot salsa’s good.”

Kills the taste, he thought but refrained from saying so. A moment later, she sneaked him a smile. “Kills the taste.”

He laughed and waved a fork at the wine bottle on the patio table. “Help yourself. A little merlot might help things too.”

If she knew he was softening her up, she gave no sign as she poured them both some wine. He waited until all the food was served, and she had doctored her veggie burger to her satisfaction. A soft pink flush glowed through her pale make-up.

He lifted his glass.
“L’Chaim.”
She sipped thoughtfully without replying.

“So,” he said, holding up the crystal. “Hypothetically, what can you tell me about this.”

She pushed her burger around her plate, and when she spoke, her tone was troubled. Gone were the teasing and the enigmatic allusions. “It’s a whole different way of looking at things. Cliques, who’s in, who’s out, who gets to fuck who and show it off. Everybody’s using everybody else. You see it in school all the time, and I hate it.” She stole him a glance from under her thick mascara, as if expecting an argument. When he said nothing, she continued.

“At least I’m honest. My sex is honest. If I like a guy, it’s because he’s interesting or he’s hot or maybe just because he’s a really good fuck. Not because he’s the most popular or richest guy in the school. And I don’t go around with my boobs falling out, offering free blow jobs just to get him. All so I can brag.”

He clenched his jaw to refrain from commentary. “What kind of crowd would this crystal hang out with?”