Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (230 page)

A brief silence. “W-would it be all right, sir, if Detective Peters came in to help me? She likes t-to be busy.”

Another reason for Gibbs’ reluctance, Green realized, reminding himself that all his detectives had lives. Including himself, he thought when he hung up to find Sharon eyeing him dubiously.

“A dark green sedan? Sounds like a Le Carré novel.”

“A man driving a dark green sedan paid a visit to the O’Malley house yesterday. Spooked the mother out completely.”

Sharon sipped her coffee. “But that could be anyone. A door-to-door salesman or canvasser for charity.”

“It could be, but Mrs. O’Malley didn’t seem to think so.”

Sharon looked skeptical, a sentiment he was beginning to share. This was turning into a bad spy novel with a young woman in peril and mysterious figures slipping in and out of the shadows. Had Caitlin left the hospital with her father, or had she been abducted by another white, middle-aged man? Was that the same man who had called at her home earlier in a dark green sedan, or were there two different men both out to get her? What for? To find out what she knew? To protect her, or to silence her?

Equally important, how did this mystery man know who and where she was, even before her photo had been released to the media?

“Did Caitlin have any visitors other than her parents during her stay at Rideau Psychiatric?” he asked.

“What, like a young black male wearing a hoodie and giant shoes?”

He laughed. “Anyone.”

“Not that I know of. Just her father, who came every night.”

“Could someone have called to ask how she was?”

“Yes, but they would get no information, not even confirmation that she was there.”

He turned the problem over and over in his mind. It was probably a wild goose chase, but he had to explore it. “Let’s assume the killer realized that a prostitute working that street corner had witnessed the murder. He’d be trying to find her. He’d ask around on the street and probably come back to see if he could find her another night. But how would he know she was at Rideau Psychiatric?”

Sharon’s face registered a belated memory. “Well, Mike, you guys arrested her. Picked her up in the market a couple of days later. Lots of bystanders probably witnessed that.”

He stared at her. “What? The Ottawa Police?”

“Yes. She was agitated and ranting, scaring passersby with stories of blood and Satan. Eventually you guys shipped her to Emerg.”

Green slammed his hand on the table. “Why the fuck did no one tell me! What kind of morons do we have on Patrol that they didn’t think there was a connection? We’re turning over rocks looking for a hooker in the market, and meanwhile they’ve just picked up one who’s ranting about blood?” He was about to grab the phone again, this time to ream out the duty sergeant of Central Division, but he stopped himself and forced a couple of deep breaths. He began to cobble together the chain of events.

“There were probably lots of witnesses to this arrest, maybe even the killer himself. That may in fact be how he knew Caitlin was a threat to him. It would be reasonable for him to assume the patrol officers took her to Emerg, also reasonable to assume she’d be transferred to a psychiatric facility.”

“Rideau Psychiatric is the biggest facility,” Sharon added.

He nodded. “But how would he know where to find her, without her name?”

“Maybe by checking out each ward,” she said. “He could pretend to be visiting someone else. It might take him a few days, but once he saw her, he’d have his answer.”

“And her name?”

Sharon shrugged. “It depends how resourceful he is, and how trustworthy he looks.”

Green pictured David Rosenthal, white, middle-aged, and well-educated, striding confidently onto a ward with a clipboard in hand and a doctor title to back him up. “I bet he could just ask,” he said.

Screech snarled and yanked his new sleeping bag more tightly over his head. Green squatted at his side, balancing a fresh cup of Tim Hortons coffee in one hand as he shook the man’s shoulder with the other.

“Screech, wake up.”

“Fuck off!”

Green pulled the sleeping bag back to uncover the old vagrant, who pressed his eyes shut against the invading sunlight. Dried spittle flecked his beard, and yellow mucous oozed from his eyes. Green held the coffee under his nose.

“Foxy needs your help. She may be in danger. I need your eyes on the street, so sit up and take this. Please.”

It took some coaxing, but finally the old man was propped against the brick wall, clutching the coffee with both tremulous hands.

“This better be good,” he muttered. “Disturbing a man in the middle of his sleep.”

“You remember the night Foxy got arrested? Did you see that?”

“Foxy?” Screech’s eyes clouded over.

Green prodded him. “Yeah, your Foxy—the working girl with the fur coat. A patrol car picked her up last Tuesday night. Ten o’clock in the evening, in that parking lot right over there.” Green gestured across the parking lot to a building painted sky blue and surrounded by crumbling pavement intended for client parking but more frequently used for drug deals and fast sex. A cluster of garbage bins, recycling bins and dumpsters lined the back of the building, which housed a discount hair salon in its death throes. The building itself looked on the verge of being condemned.

Screech swivelled his head to follow Green’s finger. The caffeine began to penetrate, and slowly a frown creased his leathery brow. “Yeah, I seen it. More like heard it. It were enough to wake the dead. Started off just telling people they were all going to die, then they were all dead.” Screech shook his head. “Poor Foxy, always did have a bad view of things. That night all the folks was evil, out to trick her. She was up and down the sidewalk jabbering and scaring off my business. Anyway, they came and got her. Fought them like a wildcat. I never seen her that bad.” He swivelled back to Green. “You got a loonie for a dying man?”

His eyes were runny and criss-crossed with spidery red, but Green could see the telltale yellow tinge of liver disease. He felt a fatalistic sorrow. He took out a five-dollar bill.

“This is very important. Was there anyone else hanging around watching her, who might have witnessed her arrest? A John maybe, or just a curious guy?”

Screech blinked. “What arrest?”

“Foxy’s. Did anyone see Foxy get picked up?”

Screech shrugged. “Lots of guys. Peak cruising hour.”

“Anybody try to intervene?”

The vagrant scrunched up his nose in bafflement. “Mix in,” Green amended.

Screech locked his gaze on the five-dollar bill. “Sure. Maybe.”

The hand holding the coffee cup began to droop, spilling some of the hot liquid on Screech’s leg. He didn’t flinch. Gently Green eased the cup back up towards his lips. Wondering whether he was wasting his time, he pulled a sheaf of photos out of an envelope. He’d downloaded some of them from the internet, but they made a passable lineup. David Rosenthal from his company website, Patrick O’Malley from a recent fundraising gala, and three recent victims of fatal crashes. He held the photos up one by one.

“Did you see any of these guys on the night she was arrested?”

Screech studied them all, blinking slowly and flicking his gaze at the money frequently, as if afraid it would vanish. “I was pretty busy, like,” he began. He looked unhappy at the prospect of losing his payment. Then his face brightened. “That one. I seen that one. Not that night.”

Green glanced at the photo of Patrick O’Malley. “When?”

Screech wagged his head in bafflement. “Coupla nights later? He was around awhile. Parked his car at the beer store. Asked me the same thing as you.”

“What exactly did he ask?”

“If I seen the girl get arrested. If anyone else did.”

What’s this all about? Green wondered. “What did you tell him?”

“That I was busy. He asked if she left anything, then or another night.” He slurped his coffee. “Didn’t like the look of him, didn’t want Foxy in trouble, so I said no. He went looking anyway.”

Green almost dropped the photo. “Looking for what?”

“Beats me. He was looking through all them garbage cans, dirty job for a fancy man like that, got a silver sports car and all.”

“What did he find?”

Screech fixed his gaze on Green’s face. “You gonna give me that five or not? Mr. Fancy pants gave me a twenty.”

Green put the five away and took out a twenty. “For this, I expect a straight answer. What did he find in the garbage?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Screech scowled. “Didn’t I say that? He looked in corners, he opened up bags. Nothing.”

Green grasped his arm and began to haul him to his feet. “Show me where he was looking.”

Grumbling, Screech stumbled upright and turned to the wall. “Need a piss.”

The man stank of urine and sweat. “Later. Show me.”

Green cajoled him across the street into the vacant parking lot still cluttered with the detritus of last night. Screech shuffled over the cracked asphalt, oblivious to the condoms, needles, and crumpled bits of foil. At a row of dumpsters by the back of the building, he stopped.

“I ain’t getting up in them dumpsters.”

Green dragged a chunk of broken cinderblock over and peered inside the first dumpster. It was almost empty, containing a rancid collection of plastic bags, take-out boxes and loose garbage. He did the same with all the dumpsters, to no effect. He made a mental note to check the pick-up schedule.

“You’re telling me he went through all these?”

“Yep. And further down the street too. He was some determined.” Screech’s eyes strayed to Green’s pocket. “Gave me another twenty before he took off.”

Green laughed as he tucked two twenties into Screech’s shirt. “You watch you don’t spend that all in one place, eh?”

Even before he’d returned to his car, Green was on the phone calling Gibbs. Surely the young man had managed to finish his interviews at Rideau Psychiatric. It was time to talk to Patrick O’Malley.

Twenty-Three

Bob Gibbs had needed less than ten minutes to locate a good photo of Patrick O’Malley on the web. A simple Google search of Ottawa and his name generated hundreds of images, many of him handing over cheques at fundraising galas, giving keynote addresses at corporate gatherings, and commanding the centre of boardroom portraits. Patrick O’Malley was a busy man. Besides being a prominent civil litigation lawyer, he was also on numerous charitable and social service boards such as The Children’s Aid Society and The Children’s Wish Foundation. He must have a soft spot for children, Gibbs reflected.

From his thinning grey hair and deeply etched face, Gibbs guessed that he was close to sixty, although in his tailored suits, he was still a handsome figure. But the camera captured something in his eyes that unnerved Gibbs. A challenge, an icy control. Gibbs hoped he never had to meet him on the witness stand.

He printed off a couple of friendlier photos and tucked them into a file, glancing at his watch as he prepared to leave the station. It was still too early to phone Sue Peters, who fatigued easily and needed at least ten hours’ rest at night. He would make the quick trip out to the hospital and perhaps drop by her place with coffee and muffins on his way back. If she was up to it, they could both spend some time at the station researching David Rosenthal. The overtime would come in useful for the big plans he had.

Gibbs had only visited an inpatient ward at Rideau Psychiatric Hospital a handful of times in his career, and he was always taken aback by how different it was from a regular ward. Gone were the white coats and officious trappings of authority that separated patients from staff, gone were the ubiquitous IV poles, wheelchairs, and monitors crammed into the rooms and the carts and guerneys that cluttered the tile halls.

Gone, most strikingly, was the smell of disinfectant, fear and disease. In its place was the friendly cheer of nurses, the chatter of
TV
s and the sense of shelter and calm. Gibbs knew that every one of the patients sitting in the lounge or walking the halls was desperately ill, but there was not a bandage or a walker to be seen.

Sunday morning was a quiet time on the ward. Many patients were still in bed, and when Gibbs got off the elevator, two staff members were sitting in the nursing station working on charts. They seemed happy for the diversion and for the chance to shed some light on the mystery.

Gibbs did not consider himself old—in fact, he battled the image of a baby-faced choirboy in the unit—but he felt old beside the pair who greeted him now. One sported a wedding ring but otherwise had the pink cheeks and ponytail of a high school cheerleader. The other one, with a name tag Zoë Wark, still had a mouthful of braces.

“The nurse in charge is down the hall dealing with a patient,” said the cheerleader, whose name tag said Jessica Derkson. “She may be awhile.”

“All I require is a simple
ID
,” Gibbs said, privately thinking that he might get more out of them without the senior nurse.

“So it
is
Caitlin!” Zoe exclaimed. “I was so shocked when I saw the photo on the news last night. Makes you wonder if all her talk about blood and stuff was real!”

Gibbs pounced on the opening. Green would have been proud. “What did she say? Anything that could help in the investigation?”

“Oh, it was mostly word salad,”Jessica interjected. “Gibberish. Blood, Lucifer, radio waves orbiting the earth.”

“She seemed really upset,” Zoe said. “And no wonder, if the poor thing witnessed that murder. She kept hugging herself and shaking her head. Almost like she was trying to wipe out the memory.”

Jessica frowned. “I don’t think we should read anything into all that. She was extremely delusional. I was amazed when they let her go yesterday.”

“She wasn’t ready?” Gibbs asked.

“Absolutely not. She was just beginning to respond to her meds. She needed a stable, stress-free environment for quite some time yet.”

“But we’re just nurses,” Zoe piped in, flashing Gibbs a smile full of wires.

“She was signed out into the care of her father, right?” Gibbs asked. “She wasn’t just let free.”