Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (79 page)

“Sweats the booze out of his system, he says. What did he have to say?”

Instead, Sullivan turned to another page with a smile. “I also got a preliminary report from the fire investigation guys. Looks like gasoline was present on the mattress and the floor around the bed, which produced a rapid, hot, localized burn. Now what does that tell you?”

Sullivan was teasing him, but for once their Socratic game held no appeal. Green could only think of a teenage girl lying awake at three in the morning, hanging onto the slim and fading hope that she’d be left in peace. When he didn’t respond, Sullivan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and answered his own question. “You and I were right, Mike. He didn’t set himself on fire accidentally. MacPhail says the guy was dead as a doornail before the fire even hit. Not a trace of soot in his lungs.”

Fuck, Green thought. Not even a chance for reasonable doubt. “What did he die of?”

“MacPhail couldn’t find any physical cause. No signs of smothering or asphyxiation. Looks like he just stopped breathing. We’re waiting on the tox results, but no matter the cause, it looks like someone killed him and set the fire to cover it up. So we’re going to have to go through his old case with a fine-toothed comb.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking...” Green began, but even to himself the idea sounded lame. “We shouldn’t overlook the residents of the rooming house. It might be a simple case of a robbery gone bad. His briefcase was missing, so somebody might have thought it was full of drug money.”

“We’ve done a routine canvass, and there’s no evidence of that. Nobody even knew he was there.” Sullivan frowned and slapped his notebook shut. “Okay Mike, what the hell’s going on? Last night you were hot to trot on this case; now you’re acting like you want it to disappear.”

“I don’t. Well... I’ve got a problem.” Green swivelled his computer monitor around so that Sullivan could see the email. Once Sullivan had read it, he frowned, and a wary skepticism replaced his initial dismay.

“It could be legit, I suppose,” he muttered eventually.

“What do you mean? You don’t think Rebecca Whelan sent it?”

“Well, there is that. It’s obviously sent from Quinton Patterson’s email account.”

The possibility that the note was forged had not occurred to Green, and he pondered it with surprise. In yesterday’s visit, Patterson had certainly been determined to keep a lid on the investigation and to prevent Green from talking to Rebecca himself. Had Patterson decided that an emotional appeal from a victimized girl would have more weight than his own legal posturing? If so, he had been right, and the thought angered Green.

Yet from his brief meeting with Patterson, Green sensed that the man knew no other rules than those of the courtroom. Rationalism, power plays and bluffs would be his weapons of choice, not the raw poignancy of emotion. Whoever had written that email had dredged it from deep in their soul.

Green shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like Patterson. It feels like someone who’s lived it.”

Sullivan raised a baffled eyebrow. “Even if it is, what difference does it make? Jesus, Mike, we’ve been stirring up hornets’ nests all our lives. Murder does that. And I’ll tell you something else.” He leaned forward to tap the computer screen. “That may be what she’s trying to avoid. She doesn’t want you opening up the case, because she doesn’t want us uncovering the truth.”

Green contemplated the idea in silence. He knew he was only thinking with half his wits, but Sullivan’s theory had a ring of plausibility. Patterson was not the only one who wanted the truth to stay buried. If Rebecca had originally lied about Fraser’s guilt to deflect suspicion from the real culprit, she might still be protecting that person.

“So you’re saying this whole email could be a manipulation?”

Sullivan nodded. “Yup. To get under your skin. By the looks of you, you’ve fallen for it hook, line and sinker, which isn’t like you.”

“This feels so real, Brian. She’s just a sixteen-year-old kid.”

“Right at the height of her manipulative powers. Come on, Mike! Your bullshit sensors should be ringing loud and clear!”

They would be, Green realized, if his brain wasn’t clogged with images of another sixteen-year-old kid, who in her own impetuous way was also trying to come to grips with a past that had failed her. And perhaps blundering naïvely into the clutches of some greasy pimp on the prowl at the airport. Fuck, sixteen was so young!

His preoccupation must have been written on his face, for Sullivan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I heard Ashley called this morning.”

Green hesitated. It was useless to pretend, because Sullivan could read him like a book. Better to come clean and get Sullivan’s lecture over with. Sullivan never seemed to screw up his own family life, no matter what the demands of his job. He had a wonderfully maternal wife whom he’d loved since he was sixteen and three talented, well adjusted kids. Green and Sharon were still trying to navigate successfully through Tony’s toddlerhood, and Hannah... Well, the therapy bills were testimony enough even before this latest imbroglio.

Green took a deep breath to fortify himself, then filled Sullivan in about Hannah as quickly as he could. To his surprise, after some initial exclamations of astonishment, Sullivan laughed.

“Christ, if she’s anything like you, you’re in real trouble.”

Green scowled. “You know teenage girls. Be a help.”

“You haven’t seen the girl in how long?”

“Since she was three months old. I did try to visit her once, but Ashley said it would just confuse her, because when she was younger, she thought Fred was her real father. And so I...” He shrugged. “You remember. I just thought it would be better for her. I paid the support—Ashley never had a complaint about me on that score—but for the rest...”

“So you never showed any interest in her. No phone calls, no birthday cards?”

“Ashley cut me out.”

“Bullshit.”

Green quelled his protest and counted slowly to ten. How many times had he reproached himself for that very failing? How many times had he thought of her with a rush of yearning and guilt, only to take the easy way out? The truth was, he’d been angry, hurt and ultimately afraid, and hadn’t known how to fit into her life. So he’d simply bowed out.

In the silence that fell between them, Sullivan seemed to soften. “Okay,” he said, “so she’s taken the first step. That probably took a lot of courage.”

“To hear Ashley talk, it just took a rebellious impulse.”

“Yeah. Well, I remember Ashley. Insight never was her strong suit.”

Green eyed him with surprise. In the early years of their friendship, when Green’s first marriage had been teetering on the brink, Sullivan had never implied that any of the shortcomings lay with Ashley. Only with Green and his inability to make others a priority.

Green smiled now with some relief. “No, but she does know Hannah a lot better than me.”

“Which is my point. Your daughter has taken a leap into the unknown. She might be just taking her time coming in for a landing.”

“Meaning?”

“I think she’s wandering around out there screwing up the courage to come meet you.”

Green digested that thought with dawning surprise. It made sense. If they’d been dealing with anyone else, he probably would have thought of it himself. Today was a beautiful, sunny day with clear blue skies and a whisper of a breeze. A day to be outside, soaking up summer. He felt his insides unknot for just an instant before a second thought struck him.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I’ve given her name and picture to the beat cops.”

Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Oh, that will go over well.”

“I was worried.”

“Right. So you sent the cavalry out after her like some common criminal. What a first impression that will make!”

“You think I should call them off?”

“I would.”

Green picked up his phone, reached the staff sergeant and within minutes had rescinded his order. But not before the staff sergeant told him they’d already had some luck.

“One of my units stopped a girl fitting the description on the corner of Sparks and Elgin. Tried to talk to her, but she ran into an office building and never came out. Probably went out the back. You sure you want the search called off?”

Green digested this news with dismay. “How did she seem? Afraid?”

“Afraid?” The NCO chuckled. “Try furious. She’s not going to come in voluntarily, that’s for sure. But if you want, we can—”

“No,” Green said hastily. “Just pull the order, and I’ll let you know if I need further action taken.”

When he hung up, he felt Sullivan’s pensive gaze upon him. He drummed his fingers on the desk and tried to gather his thoughts. “Well, she’s here, that much we know. Not lost or scared, just roaming around taking her own sweet time deciding to come see me.”

“Just as I told you.”

“So now what? I just wait?”

Sullivan nodded. “And try not to bite her head off when she shows up.”

Green expelled his breath in a rush. “Can’t promise that. I don’t know what it will feel like to see her—my own flesh and blood but still a total stranger.” He shook off his anxiety with an effort and leaned forward with what he hoped was a business-like air. “Okay, so maybe I’m a bit sappy on the subject of teenage girls. You’re right, we have a case to solve. A murder, whether Rebecca Whelan likes it or not. And I already have a pretty good working theory.”

Briefly, he filled Sullivan in on his discussions with Sharon and Devine. The big man looked as skeptical as Green had been on hearing the psychological test results suggesting Fraser was not an abuser. “But a guy who has a little girl tattooed next to his dick has got to have some pretty interesting fantasies on the go, Mike.”

Privately, Green agreed that the tattoo was a big hole in his theory, but then nothing was straightforward in this case. It was like grappling with shape shifters in the dark, and today he hadn’t the patience for the fight. “Yeah, but he’s the one who ended up dead, so somebody didn’t like whatever he was up to.” He flipped open his notebook to his conversation with Barbara Devine and tossed the book across the desk. “I want you to start with background checks on each of these guys, and be alert for any other close friends and family Devine and company might have overlooked.”

Sullivan looked up from his notes with surprise. “You think Devine was sloppy? The Sexual Assault guys are usually first rate.”

“I think Devine was...” Green searched for the right word to capture the passion and frustration she’d radiated. “Determined,” he finally settled on. “But when I pushed her, she fingered the biological father, Steve Whelan, as the most likely suspect. I haven’t met the man, but she knows the players better than us, so start with him. Try to make inquiries discreetly if possible so we don’t tip them off that we’re suspicious. Unfortunately, Quinton Patterson knows that we’ll be sniffing around the old abuse case because Fraser’s dead. But Patterson thinks I consider it a revenge killing. Nobody has any idea I think Fraser might have been killed by the man who actually perpetrated the abuse.”

Sullivan nodded toward the computer. “Except Rebecca there. If she was lying to protect someone ten years ago, it was probably one of these guys. No wonder she’s trying to shut you down.” He jotted a few final notes, shut his notebook and hauled his feet off the desk. “What about you? What are you going to do about Hannah?”

Green mulled over the chaos of his morning thoughtfully. He could waste time running around the Byward Market waving Hannah’s picture, but in truth he’d already done all he could to find her. The next move was up to her. Meanwhile, Rebecca’s email troubled him. He knew his objectivity was nil and his instincts were shot, but something about it drew him like a magnet. Perhaps it was just teenage girls and the mysterious whims that drove them. He reached for his own notebook.

“I’ll take your advice and wait. Meanwhile, I need a crash course in the sixteen-year-old female mind. Perhaps it’s time I meet the young lady who started it all and see for myself what she’s up to.”

Twelve

As befitted a junior partner
in the law firm of McKendry, Patterson and Coles, Quinton Patterson lived on one of the avenues in the Glebe, in a stone house with a steeply pitched roof, a carved oak door and leaded windows that overlooked a sweep of rose beds in full bloom. As Green walked up the fieldstone path, he eyed the house with a new appreciation. In the past six months, he had gained a whole new understanding of the rigours of home ownership. Old houses didn’t simply mature into the perfect picture of charm; someone worked very hard at them.

It was nearly noon, but the June air was still fresh, and an easterly breeze rustled the grand old trees that arched their canopy over the street. As was his habit, he had not called in advance. Families almost always circled the wagons, so he was counting on the first moments of confusion and fear, as well as the absence of Quinton himself, to catch a glimpse of the truth. But just as he raised his hand to press the bell, he caught a twitch of movement in the drapes on the second floor and knew that he’d been spotted. No one answered his first ring, which sent a piano chime echoing into the depths of the house, and only after he’d leaned extra long on the bell the second time did the door drift open a crack. Two haggard blue eyes peered out at him from behind a clump of blonde hair, and a whiff of scotch wafted through the crack. The woman’s facewas sallow and marred by purplish pouches below her eyes, but her high cheekbones and long limbs still hinted at the elegance which had turned Quinton Patterson’s head fourteen years ago. Green held up his badge and introduced himself.

“Mrs. Patterson? May I come in and have a word with you and your daughter?”

The haggard blue eyes revealed no surprise, leading Green to suspect she’d expected him to show up some time. She propped herself against the door frame and shook her head cautiously, as if too rapid a movement would throw her off balance.

“My daughter’s not here.”

“Where might I find her?”

“My husband’s not here either.” She thrust her head forward through the crack in the door to cast a surreptitious glance up the street. Not a soul was in sight. Nothing stirred but a pair of squabbling squirrels chasing each other Tarzanstyle through the overhanging boughs.