Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (238 page)

“I just want the truth.”

Patrick stared into the blackness beyond the floodlights. Whereas before he’d seemed desperate to talk, now he had to dig deep to muster the last of his strength. “Annabeth, as I said, was not a strong person. She had given up on our daughter. Given up fighting for her health, I should say. To spare her, I hadn’t told her about Caitlin’s latest hospitalization nor about the files I found in her room. But she knew something was wrong when Caitlin’s picture appeared on the news, and you showed up looking for her. By the time I brought Caitlin back home from the hospital yesterday, she was already well into the sauce. She didn’t want to hide Caitlin from the police. Caitlin must have heard us arguing about it this morning, because while I was downstairs making them some brunch, she went into our bedroom. Annabeth was still in bed...” He paused, his throat working. “I don’t know exactly what happened. All I heard was screaming and doors slamming, which I’d heard many times before. But when I went back upstairs to see why the dog was barking, there she was dead on the floor. And my girl was back in her room, washing her hands.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

Patrick shook his head helplessly. “That was my first instinct. But in that split second when I saw Caitlin frantically scrubbing her hands, I couldn’t. I knew Annabeth was dead. There was no changing that. But my daughter still needed me.” He looked across at Green bleakly. His eyes were dry, beyond the relief of tears. “She didn’t resist, you know. She knew she’d gone beyond. That small part of her mind that Caitlin still controlled—my Caitlin—knew this was irrevocable. I bound her hands, because I couldn’t be sure, but she came with me... here... almost eagerly. I unbound her. We sat. We talked. About what she’d done and what lay in store for her. Trial, stigma, locked wards, and the unbearable choice between staying crazy or living with the horror of what she’d done.”

He looked across at the bungalow, where the murmuring of the forensic investigators could still be heard. “She chose this way. And after all the destruction she’d caused, I couldn’t stand in her way.”

“I think you made a mistake not to charge him, at least as an accessory,” Levesque said unexpectedly. She was propped up in a bed in the Civic
ER
, her head wrapped in fresh white gauze. She looked pink with outrage. “He protected his daughter when he knew what she’d done. Because of him, his wife is dead. And Lindsay Corsin! We should throw the book at him.”

Green’s thoughts were still reliving a father’s bleak despair, and he took a moment to shift his focus. Not only Lindsay Corsin, but Constable Rikert and Brian Sullivan. Patrick O’Malley’s decision had cost a lot of people.

He nodded. “I know. And maybe we will, but we’ve done enough for today. He’s in the cellblock, so he’s not going anywhere. Believe me, he knows what a horrible mistake he made. Under the circumstances I’m more worried about suicide.”

“Horrible mistake? You’re assuming that story he told you is true? Maybe he killed his wife
and
his kid, got rid of both his big problems, and now he’s one step away from walking free.”

Green felt a flash of anger. “I’m not assuming. Never assume. Wait for the forensics and autopsy evidence. But so far we do have one piece of evidence from the Rothwell house—that phone message the mother supposedly took. Lou Paquette’s partner found it crumpled up in the waste basket in Caitlin’s room.”

“But Patrick could have planted it!”

“That’s why I asked Lou to put a rush on the prints they lifted off it—they belong to the mother, and Caitlin.”

Levesque frowned. “So she crumpled the note. That’s one little thing.”

“But it does support Patrick’s story. I had a quick look at Dr. Rosenthal’s notes, and so far what I read also supports Patrick’s story. Rosenthal was obviously worried about Caitlin. Even a full week earlier, he feared she might be headed for a full psychotic break. She was very paranoid about people around her, including him and her father. She was beginning to believe they were black knights of Lucifer, but she was still rational enough to carry out a sophisticated plan of retaliation. He was concerned, in fact, that his minimal doses of medication might be making her more dangerous by keeping her sane enough to carry out her delusions more effectively.”

“That still doesn’t eliminate her father as a suspect. He already read the notes himself, so of course he’ll make his story consistent. But what about the sexual assault? What about the cabbie picking her up crying and bleeding?”

“The cabbie said she was half naked, bloody and upset. He assumed the sexual assault, she never said it. The blood on her could have been Rosenthal’s.”

Levesque grunted in disbelief. “Convenient that the steel pipe and the handbag are both missing. We only have Patrick O’Malley’s word they ever existed.”

He studied her ruefully. Her head rested against the pillow, her jaw was slack, but unlike him, her thoughts were still clear, and her eyes burned with excitement. Her take on Patrick O’Malley was far less forgiving than his, perhaps because she’d never been a parent struggling to manage a child whose life was careening out of control. Reluctantly he inclined his head to acknowledge her point. “Tomorrow we’ll get another chance at him, Marie Claire. By that time forensics may have more answers, and we’ll have had time to study the files. But for now, your brain needs a rest.”

To his surprise, Sullivan greeted the theory with equal skepticism. He was sitting up in his guest chair after refusing to lie in bed any longer. Green was hoping the resolution of the case, albeit tragic, would take his mind off himself.

“So that skin and bones woman managed to beat Rosenthal to death?” Sullivan said.

“Looks that way.”

“But using what? Where’s the weapon?”

Green hesitated. He’d left Levesque grumbling in her
ER
cubicle, surrounded by snuffles and bandaged limbs, while he’d dropped in for a quick visit to Sullivan. It was nearly midnight, and he’d promised the nurses on his eternal soul not to discuss the case. They hadn’t reckoned with Sullivan, however, who was thirsty for the diversion. Green decided a few more details couldn’t hurt, so he told him about the steel pipe.

“Tomorrow I’ll order a search of the route she took,” he added, “including the Rideau River below the Montreal Road Bridge. We might get lucky.”

Sullivan chuckled. “Right. And how many officers do we have to spare for this?” His laughter faded, and he grew thoughtful. “Steel pipe from the house? That sounds almost premeditated.”

“Apparently she always carried it with her, to help her hear God,” he said, “but I have been playing with the possibility that the murder
was
planned, at least partly. Let’s assume father’s scenario for the moment. Caitlin discovered that Rosenthal had contacted her father and she became suspicious, so she broke into his house to steal his files. There she found Rosenthal’s notes on how he and her father were planning to have her committed. God knows what her paranoid mind made of that. She would certainly have seen him as a threat in the days before his death. And look at the circumstances of his death. She always went to see him on Friday nights, but that night she didn’t show up. I think she knew he would go out to look for her, and so she was ready with the steel pipe.” Literally God fending off Lucifer, he thought, but kept the more demented elements of the story to himself.

“But what about Nadif Hassan and company? They’re the ones who started it all.”

“I’m out on a limb here, but I’m thinking we may have that backwards. I’ve been putting together the bits we know from Screech and Nadif. Screech says he heard her say ‘help, get away from me’. But he didn’t see who she was talking to, because he was hiding. We assumed it was Nadif, but what if it was Rosenthal himself? Nadif also heard her shout for help. He’s fuzzy on the details, because he’s pretty much wasted on some bad street drug, but he says Rosenthal was hassling her, and he and his friends only went in to help.”

“But Mike, come on! Nadif ’s credibility is—”

“I know, but let’s see where this goes. Let’s say she was hiding in the alleyway waiting for Rosenthal. When he showed up, he tried to persuade her to come home with him, and they argue. Then she spotted the Somalis coming along the street, noisy and drunk, and she sees her chance to get them involved. So she calls help, screams like she’s being attacked, and in they charge.”

“So you’re saying she set them up?”

Green hesitated. He was way beyond the known facts, way beyond his expertise, but it seemed too devious for a devout young woman who believed in the voice of God. “We may never know if it was a deliberate set-up, or if she just wanted their help to fight Lucifer.”

Sullivan looked dubious, searching for holes in Green’s tattered theory. It almost felt like old times again. “Either way, it sounds mighty clever and well-organized for someone on the brink of psychosis.”

“I know. I admit there are still a lot of holes to plug. As to her being organized enough to carry out the murder, I’ll leave that to the shrinks to explain. She was psychotic, but she was also very smart. Rosenthal himself said in his notes that his minimal meds might be keeping her just sane enough to be dangerous.”

“But Mike, that’s a lot of luck, those punks coming along at exactly the right moment.”

“If they hadn’t, she would have done the job by herself. That was probably her original plan; they just made it easier.”

“Assuming she’s the killer at all.”

Green hesitated. “Well...yeah. Bottom line, she was a confused, desperate young woman who thought she was fighting for her life.”

Sullivan sagged back in his chair with a sigh, and Green felt a stab of concern. He had stayed too long and dragged Sullivan far too deeply into the case. He stood up.

“Anyway, I should go before the nurses have my head. I told Marie Claire I’d drive her home when they discharge her.”

Interest flared again in Sullivan’s weary eyes. “How’s she working out?”

“She’s a pain in the ass. Contrary, controlling, know-it-all...”

“Uh-huh.”

Green laughed. “Touché. But she’s not you—”

“Don’t even go there, Mike. I’m done. The Big Guy sent me that message loud and clear.”

Green didn’t argue. Midnight, barely two days after a life-threatening ordeal, was not the time to persuade him. Green could afford to wait. If three days of enforced bed rest had Sullivan craving details on the case like an addict his next fix, Green suspected he would persuade himself.

Twenty-Eight

The day of Sam Rosenthal’s funeral dawned gloriously sunny and warm. No wind disturbed the gilded, leafy canopy of maples and oaks that stood sentinel over the small community of gravestones in the rural cemetery. Grey squirrels scampered about, snatching acorns and racing up into the trees. Green arrived unexpectedly early, having made good time on the back country roads, and he found the small chapel barely half full. The mostly elderly mourners gathered in clusters and traded hushed gossip about Sam’s life and lurid death.

David Rosenthal stood near the front, looking stiff and ill-at-ease as his father’s acquaintances filed past offering condolences. He wore the traditional mourner’s black tie, cut to symbolize the tearing of garments, and it contrasted oddly with his brown cords, suede jacket and steel-toed boots. Standing at least a head taller than the crowd, he spotted Green easily and detached himself to join him. He grabbed Green’s elbow and steered him outside to a private corner of the garden.

“I was going to call you today. I’ve been a fucking moron the past few days, and I apologize.”

Green masked his surprise. “I didn’t take it personally, Dr. Rosenthal. Losing a loved one to murder is an awful shock.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been good at tact. Been told that often enough, starting with my father.” David extricated a thin sheaf of folded papers from his inner jacket pocket. “I found these in my father’s desk. I think they’re as close to a death-bed accusation as you’ll ever get.”

Green glanced at the dense, handwritten pages. One was an annotated list of people and the other some notes about Caitlin O’Malley, including one dated the night of his death. The handwriting was spidery and difficult to read. “Is this why you went looking for her on Saturday?”

David’s gaze flickered with surprise. He seemed about to protest, then thought better. “I should have gone to you instead, but I didn’t recognize their significance. I figured that was the list of my father’s beneficiaries, and I wanted to see her for myself, to see if she was conning him.” He shrugged. “That’s my style, Inspector. I see something needs doing, I do it.”

“Thanks to that style, my best friend is still alive.” Tempted as he was to try to decipher the notes, Green slipped them into his pocket of his leather jacket for later study. He took out a plastic evidence bag. “I have something for you too. It’s broken, but I know a good jeweller.”

David’s tangled brows shot up. “My mother’s Star of David.”

Green nodded. “The inscription says
To life and hope, my darling.
It seems fitting.”

David took it from the bag and held it up by its chain. It spun lazily. A peculiar mix of resentment and regret flitted across his face. “She didn’t choose life, you know. She hated the chemo. It might have bought her a couple of years, but it made her so sick that she decided what was it worth, this life she had left? So she took up some macrobiotic diet and meditation to fight the cancer with her mind. It didn’t work, but my father told me it gave her the best few months she could have asked for. At the time I was so furious at him, I didn’t even hang around for
shiva.
But now...”

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, and both men turned to see Rabbi Tolner approaching. He looked spry and tanned, wearing a rumpled suit that was now too big for him and a black
yarmulke
perched on the top of his shiny pate.

“It’s time, David.”

Back inside, the funeral was quick. Tolner whipped through the formalities, leading the mourners through some traditional prayers and speaking briefly about his own admiration for the deceased before inviting David Rosenthal up to give the eulogy. David strode to the lectern and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from his back pocket. Even from a distance, Green could see it was heavily scribbled over in red. The speech had not come easily to him. He smoothed it out, surveyed the crowd of expectant faces and took a deep breath.