Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (2 page)

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Copyright

This is a work of fiction and, although the Ottawa locales and the institutions such as the University of Ottawa and the Ottawa Police do exist, all the events and people are the invention of the author and any resemblance to actual events is strictly coincidental. The University of Ottawa does not have a self-contained neuroscience or neuropsychology department as constituted in this book.

One

Later, Carrie MacDonald
wondered why she had heard nothing, but in the bustle just before closing, she had been too busy to pay much attention. Photocopiers whirred, pages crackled and students hustled past. She heard the hollow ping of the elevator bell and the rattle as the door slid closed, but she did not look up from her stacking. The library closed in ten minutes and she knew that unless she got all the books back onto the shelves, she would face Margot’s wrath in the morning. The wizened prune wielded her puny power with the zeal of an SS officer, always after Carrie for sketching when she should be working. As if that were all she was good for.

A big lout in a studded leather jacket and cowboy boots shoved past her and lumbered to the elevator without so much as a glance in her direction. He jingled change in his pocket, wheezing as he waited for the next elevator. I’m invisible, she thought. Just hired help, only useful when you have no quarters, or the photocopier has run out of paper. She wanted to shout “I’m a student too, you know. I’m one of you. I sit in classes and take copious notes and think great thoughts, just as lofty as yours. But unlike you, I don’t get an allowance from Daddy, and I have a ten-year old to support.”

When the elevator door slid open, the fat man barrelled in and punched the button. At the last minute, a girl shoved past Carrie, frizzy hair flying. She paused at the entrance to the
elevator for one last anxious look behind her, then flung herself through the closing doors.

Everyone was gone abruptly in a final flurry of excitement before the late-night hush settled in. Carrie went back to her books, placing the last of them on the cart in proper sequence by call number. Wheeling the cart, she set off down the nearest aisle.

She knew the entire library by heart—the busy sections with the well-worn titles in English literature and social science as well as the remote corners whose riches hadn’t been explored in years. The blonde had come from the education section, the lout probably from the literature section. Although he didn’t exactly look the sonnet-spouting type.

The first four books on her cart were from the law section. After disposing of them, she wheeled the cart past obscure shelves bearing esoteric titles she barely understood, all long undisturbed and thick with dust. She was scanning the titles as she walked, relishing the impossibly long words, when a misplaced book leaped out at her well-trained eye. It was stuffed into a gap, askew and half hidden in the dark. She stopped, grumbling to herself. This was how books were lost, misplaced by some careless student and not found again for months. This book was on the wrong floor miles from home, a book on neuropsychology in a section on Victorian novels.

She placed it in her cart and was about to move on when she heard a moan. On second hearing, more a gasp than a moan. Abandoning her cart, she followed the sound around the corner to the next aisle. The sight stopped her short.

A young man lay curled on the floor, his arms clutching his stomach. His sleeves, his chest, the once-grey carpet were all soaked in blood. She recognized his face immediately. Just the week before, she had sneaked a sketch of him hunched over a
stack of books, staring into space. She was always on the lookout for special faces, and his look of bewildered sadness had captured her. He had looked like a young man with a burden far too great for his years.

Now his face was drawn tight in a grimace, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth gaping in a silent scream. He was deathly pale, and this, even more than the blood, galvanized her to action.

Shouting for help, she dashed across the library to the emergency phone to call security. As she returned, she caught sight of a red plaid jacket, dark hair and widened eyes by the elevator.

“There’s a man hurt up here! Go meet the ambulance guys downstairs. Fast!”

Barely had she turned in the aisle when the fire alarm began to clamour.

“No! Not the fire—” She spun around just in time to see the red plaid shirt disappearing into the elevator. Cursing, she ran on.

By the time she reached the young man again, he was unconscious and lay inert in his pool of blood. As she flung her sweater over him in a vain attempt to combat the shock, he stopped breathing.

“No!” she cried and flipped him onto his back to begin CPR. It was only then, as she applied her fists to his chest, that she saw the wound.

At six-twenty the next morning, Inspector Michael Green lay sprawled across his bed with his pillow over his head. Heat glued the sodden sheet to his back. The baby was crying, and
his wife clattered irritably around the kitchen preparing a bottle. In between howls, the baby kicked his overhead toy with his feet, causing the bell to clang and the crib to thump against the wall. In their tiny apartment, it sounded like World War III.

Oh God, Green thought, the start of another day. A day in the life of middle management in the new bigger, better, amalgamated police force, a day now spent sitting in boring committee meetings, drafting service models and pushing papers around his desk. Murders were up in Ottawa, thanks to government cutbacks to social services and health, which drove people to increasingly desperate solutions. But it was all routine stuff, easily handled by the regular field detectives of the Major Crimes Squad. Not a serial killer or a mystery assassin in sight. Nothing that required his deductive powers or intuitive ingenuity, only his woefully inadequate supervisory skills. Not that he wished for a real murder to sink his teeth into, exactly, merely some new spark in his life. What the hell had possessed him to become an inspector anyway?

Clamping his pillow more firmly over his ears, he burrowed further under the sheets until the baby was reduced to a distant whine. He did not even hear the phone ring; Sharon yanked the pillow off and shoved the cordless phone in his face.

“Sounds like Jules.”

Shaking sleep from his head, Green took the phone. The Chief of Detectives’ dry voice crackled through the wires, unusually urgent.

“Michael, something important has come up. Be in my office for a briefing in half an hour. Oh—and Michael, wear a decent suit.”

Green stared at the phone. Jules had hung up before he
could even rally a protest. Decent! In the old days, Jules had never told him what to wear. Hinted, sometimes, when the media were going to be around, but never ordered.

“I don’t even have a decent suit,” he muttered to Sharon when he emerged from the shower five minutes later. “Both my court suits are at the cleaners.”

“Three nice suits wouldn’t exactly kill you,” she retorted without looking up. She was slumped on the bed, dark eyes haggard, giving Tony his bottle. “By forty most men own a few decent suits.”

No support from that end, he thought with more sympathy than annoyance. She’s all tapped out. In their early years, she’d found his fashion ineptitude endearing and would have been ready with a wise-crack retort, but now she couldn’t even muster a smile. A good jolt of Starbucks French Roast might help, but he didn’t have time to make it for either of them.

Instead he appeased her with a brief kiss on the head before turning his attention to his cramped corner of the closet. He did in fact have a few proper suits, the most promising being a mud-brown, double-breasted tweed that had served him well at funerals and weddings over the years. The cuffs were faded and the pants seat shone, but it still fit, if he could survive tweed in a June heat wave. He didn’t notice the odour of sweat until he had climbed into his car and headed across the canal to the station. Serves Jules right, expecting a decent suit on half an hour’s notice.

Jules’ clerk leaped to her feet as Green burst into the office. Despite the obvious gravity of the summons, she couldn’t suppress a smile but quickly wrestled it under control as she ushered him into Jules’ office.

To Green’s surprise, the Chief of Detectives was not alone. Seated with him at the small round conference table was a
familiar, bull-necked figure in a too-tight suit. Jules rose to greet him, but Deputy Police Chief Doug Lynch did not.

Adam Jules was a tall, reed-thin, silver-haired man in a crisp cotton suit. His eyes flickered briefly, and his nostrils flared, but otherwise he betrayed no hint of reaction to his subordinate’s attire. He extended a manicured hand.

“Michael, thank you for joining us.”

Playing along with the formality, Green returned the handshake and then took the only remaining chair at the table. His pulse quickened. Something big was in the air. Maybe the answer to his prayers…

Belatedly Lynch shoved out a broad, callused hand. “Mike, good to see you.”

I’ll bet, Green thought to himself. I’m about as welcome a sight as a cockroach in the vichyssoise. Unless you want something from me.

And sure enough… “We’re hoping you’ll be able to help us with a very difficult case.”

Us? Green thought ironically. As in the force, or you and your buddy the Police Chief, who’s wily enough to let you play frontman for him? If you think that will get you into his shoes someday, you’re deluding yourself. There are no letters after your name, no useful friends in the wings. You’re his pit bull, nothing more.

Green raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Perhaps sensing trouble, Jules moved in. He took a thin file from his desk and held it out. “A student was stabbed in the University of Ottawa library last night. Young man by the name of Jonathan Blair.”

After fourteen years in Criminal Investigations, very little surprised Green any more, but murder in a university library was
a first. The second eyebrow shot up before he could stop himself.

“Marianne Blair’s son,” Lynch cut in. “Name ring any bells?” Obviously it was supposed to, but it didn’t. And it was really too early in the morning to play one-upmanship with a pit bull. Especially before even one cup of coffee. Without much hope, Green glanced around Jules’ office. As usual, not a pencil out of place, not a hint of human habitation. And of course, no coffee.

“Should it?” he grumbled.

Lynch smirked, but Jules was faster. “Marianne Blair is the head of the Lindmar Foundation, a major funding organization that underwrites charities, research, the arts.”

Ah! Suddenly the fog began to lift. One of Chief Shea’s famous “connections”. The Police Chief had come to power the new, corporate way, attending management courses and cultivating connections that could serve him well on the way up. Now, at the apex of his career, he had a fair network of expectant friends. Among them, no doubt, the rich and generous Marianne Blair.

“Mrs. Blair is understandably very upset,” Jules was continuing in his dry monotone. “When she called this morning, I told her we would be assigning our best men.”

Green eyed Lynch warily. “Is there anything I should know?” Lynch held his gaze a moment then broke into a smile and leaned back in his chair, hitching his pants up. “I’m just an observer in this, Mike. This is Adam’s and your show. You know my policy on non-interference. But I just wanted to let you know who we’re dealing with here. This is a high profile case. The spotlight will be on the department. If we don’t deliver, Marianne Blair will make enough noise to be heard at City Hall, and I’m sure none of us wants that. I want you to know I have every confidence in you—that’s what we made
you an inspector for, isn’t it? To handle tough cases. Hell, it’s the only thing you’re good at. I know you won’t let us down. And it goes without saying that you’ll have the full cooperation of the force. Anything you need, you let me know.”

Green fingered the file before him, trying to figure out the hidden agenda. He hated politics and had no talent for it, preferring to plough straight ahead like a bloodhound on the scent. Yet now he had the sense of waiting for some other shoe to drop. Lynch could have applied his pressure without having to meet him personally. Jules knew—in fact all the brass knew—that Green loved the thrill of the hunt. Unlike most managers, he preferred the trenches and when he took over a case, he drove himself and everyone else on the case to exhaustion till it was solved. This little pep talk wasn’t necessary. There must be something more at stake.