Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (8 page)

This was home, he thought, as his car wove in and out between parked cars and potholes on the back streets of Sandy Hill. He covered the six blocks to the administration building with his accelerator foot to the floor. For once he appreciated the spritely little blue Corolla Sharon had insisted he buy last winter. At the time he’d considered it an alien yuppie affectation, but his rusty yellow Pony had been twelve years old by the time Tony was born, and Sharon had refused to allow the baby anywhere near it.

His first impulse had been to buy a Suzuki Swift, which was one step above a moped and the cheapest, most anti-inspectorish vehicle he could find, or, as a concession to his incipient midlife crisis, a used Mustang convertible. But Sharon was pushing for a mini-van. The Corolla was her bottom line, and given that choice, Green considered himself lucky. He’d parted with his Pony reluctantly because, like his apartment, it had sentimental value, but as the Corolla leaped in response to the gas, he realized how loathe he’d been to admit that everything, including himself, was growing old.

His old Pony would have been smoking by the time he pulled into the parking lot of the University of Ottawa administration building. He parked the Corolla in a spot marked “Dean of Arts”, slapped a police sticker in his window
and headed for the records department. The mention of murder and Professor Myles Halton sent the chief records clerk scurrying for the confidential file on Raquel Haddad.

Raquel was twenty-two, born in Beirut to a Lebanese physician, but she was listed as living with her uncle Pierre Haddad, a Canadian citizen with a local Loretta Street Address. Green jotted it down, then scanned the rest of her file. She appeared to be in the fourth year of an Honours Biology program with a heavy emphasis on physiology, anatomy and biochemistry. Something Vanessa Weeks had said came to mind. Jonathan had told her Raquel was only a research assistant. Did senior Honours students help Masters students with their research?

A visit to the eminent Dr. Myles Halton was certainly in order, but first he had to check out Pierre Haddad. The Loretta Street address proved to be a corner convenience store on the fringe of Little Italy. The front door sagged and the “L” and “Y” on the sign “Loretta Confectionery” had peeled off. Another victim of big box stores, Green thought as he pushed the door open with a screech of rusty hinges and entered a room full of dark, half-empty shelves. No wonder business was bad. Mr. Haddad needed some pointers in presentation.

In response to the screech, a curtain parted at the back of the store and a man emerged. Early forties, swarthy and prematurely gone to fat. He rolled down the aisle to the cash.

“Pierre Haddad?”

The man scowled, drawing his heavy black brows over his eyes. Green produced his badge and kept his voice soothing. Experience had taught him that people from violence-plagued countries were easily alarmed. “I’m Inspector Green of the Ottawa Police. As you probably know, a student at the University of Ottawa named Jonathan Blair was murdered last
night. I’m told that Raquel Haddad was one of his research assistants. We are asking everyone who knew him if they know anything that might help us. Raquel listed you as next of kin, and this as her address. I wonder if I could speak to her.”

Haddad had betrayed nothing during the entire speech, no doubt a habit learned on the streets of Beirut. But once Green had finished, he arranged an expression of dismay on his face.

“Murdered! No, I did not know that. How terrible.”

A foolish error, Green thought; he had passed the newspapers stacked for sale by the door. The news was blazoned across the front in large bold print.

Green let the lie pass. “Yes, it’s terrible, and we need all the help we can get. She’s your niece, I understand? Living here with you?”

“She is the daughter of my brother in Beirut. But we don’t live here. This is my business.”

“Did she ever talk about someone named Jonathan Blair?”

He shook his head, then smiled and became effusive. “My brother sent her over here to be safer with me, but Canadian girls, they have much more freedom than Lebanese girls. She doesn’t like to talk to me about her school. I try to take care of her—keep an eye, you know, but not too much. I know she studies science, but I don’t know who are her friends.”

Green knew it was ludicrous to think Haddad knew little of his niece’s university life. Mediterranean families brought their traditional values and their protectiveness with them, and it took several generations to wash out. Raquel might have refused to tell him anything, but he would have found out anyway.

But it was not yet time to get tough. “Can you give me the address where I can find her?”

Haddad sighed. “This is too bad, because I just put Raquel on the plane back to Beirut yesterday. Her school was finished,
and she had been looking forward to going home.”

Green’s thoughts raced. The trip to Beirut could easily be verified through the airline records, but he suspected Haddad was not lying. Raquel had suddenly flown halfway around the world to a country where it would be almost impossible to find her. The question was why? And how much did Haddad know behind his impenetrable smile?

Green jotted down the Beirut address Haddad gave him and dashed back to his car to use his cell phone. A quick call confirmed that Raquel had been on the eight p.m. flight from Ottawa to New York the night before. It was interesting, though, that the flight for the long-awaited visit home had been booked only two hours before.

Four

Green arrived back
at his office six minutes later, his colour high with excitement.

“We’re on the scent! I can feel it!”

Sullivan looked up from Green’s desk with relief. His eyes were half-shut with fatigue, and he stretched noisily to get the stiffness out of his joints. “Jeez, Mike, I should be the inspector and you should be the field man. I thought you said you’d be back in an hour. I’ve been manning the fort for two and a half hours. This Peter Weiss creep has called three times. Jules is circling. There’s so much stuff coming in, I can’t keep up. So I set a progress meeting for three-thirty. I hope that’s okay.”

Green glanced at his watch. It gave him barely half an hour, but the meeting was timely. He needed to get an overview of the findings and then focus the investigation to follow the leads he had uncovered.

“That’s good. Anything on the student in the red plaid shirt?”

Sullivan shook his head. “But your wife called. She wants you to call, because she’s got the long night shift tonight.”

He frowned as he calculated his time. Sharon worked as a psychiatric nurse on an inpatient ward at the Royal Ottawa Hospital. The long night shift meant seven p.m. to seven a.m., which gave him barely three hours before he had to be home.
To encourage father-son bonding, and to help them save money for a house, he had agreed to babysit in the evenings and nights if Sharon had to work shift, and they would only pay a sitter if both were working days. But things kept getting in the way, and the old excuses were wearing thin.

“Did you tell her I was on the Jonathan Blair case?”

“I told her you’d call.”

Even he wants me to grow up, Green thought with a sigh. He picked up the phone and could tell from Sharon’s irritated croak that he had woken her. Oh no, Tony’s nap time. When she worked the night shift, she caught sleep whenever she could. How different from four years ago, when he’d first walked onto her ward to investigate the death of a psychologist. He could still remember how her warmth and humour had taken his breath away.

“Will you be home, Mike?”

“Is Mrs. Louks available?” The elderly widow across the hall rarely went out and had often rescued him from a child care crisis.

“I’m sure she is, but I thought Tony might enjoy your company. It’s such a rarity.”

He winced. “I’ll try to get there.”

“Try?”

He suppressed a flash of irritation. There was nothing he hated more than being on the moral low ground. “I tell you what. I promise I’ll do my best, and if you have to, take him to Mrs. Louks and I’ll pick him up as soon as I can.”

He felt Sullivan’s disapproving eyes on his back when he hung up, but he didn’t turn. As if to counterbalance the depravity he confronted every day, Sullivan had dedicated his life to being the perfect father and he set a tough standard, which Green rarely met. Tossing a quick “Back soon” over his
shoulder, he headed for the door.

“Mike! Where are you going?”

Green paused on the threshold. “I’ll be back for the meeting. I’ve just got one last thing…” Without waiting for the wrath, he ducked out.

The University Sciences building was a squat concrete bunker built in the psychedelic sixties, but more evocative of post-war Moscow. Virtually the entire fourth floor was devoted to the offices, labs and equipment rooms of Myles Halton’s research group. Green imagined that normally it was alive with the bustle of students and the hum of equipment, but on the afternoon following Jonathan Blair’s murder, everything was hushed. Most of the offices were empty, and only one secretary sat at her desk, staring at her blank computer screen. Somewhere in the background he could hear the murmur of voices, but there was no one to be seen.

The secretary was called back from her trance by his cough. She raised startled gray eyes, which made her look even younger than her probable twenty years. A pretty secretary, he thought. My first clue to Halton’s character.

“I’d like to see Professor Halton, please.”

“Uh…” she wavered, until he produced his badge. “He spoke to two detectives earlier,” she supplied hastily. “After that, he went out.”

He took down her name in his notebook. “Could you tell me where the professor went?”

“I didn’t ask. We’re all upset, sir. Professor Halton told us to take the day off.”

“Is there anyone here from his staff?”

“Umm...” Her hands fluttered to her face distractedly. “I could check for you. Mr. Difalco was here earlier, he might still be here. Dr. Miller’s in his office, I think.”

“Is Raquel Haddad here?” He knew she wasn’t—she would be in Beirut by now—but he wanted to see her reaction. For a split second her eyes widened, before she drew her brows down over them in a frown.

“Miss Haddad doesn’t really work here. She’s only been helping out a bit with the research.”

“Helping who?”

The brows drew lower. “I wouldn’t know. I’m Dr. Halton’s secretary, and I don’t keep track of all the projects his students are doing. I only type their research when it’s part of the book.”

“What book?”

“Dr. Halton’s book on language mechanisms in the brain. All the research goes into it.”

“So all his students are doing research on his theory?”

“Well…” Her gray eyes roamed up the hall nervously. “I’d prefer you talk to Dr. Halton himself about it.”

He raised an innocent eyebrow. “Why?” “I’m just the secretary. Dr. Halton told us it would be better if he handled all the police and press.”

“But he’s not here, and I need information. How long did Raquel Haddad work for Jonathan Blair?”

The girl’s eyes flitted nervously up and down the corridor. “Maybe you should talk to Dr. Miller.”

“Who’s he?”

“Dr. Halton’s research fellow. I’ll get him.” She scurried down the hall and disappeared into an office without a backward glance. Curious, he padded down the hall until he could make out what she was saying.

Her voice was breathy, anxious. “Dr. Halton said specifically
that people were not to talk to anyone about his or Jonathan’s work. He was afraid the press would distort things.”

“But this is a policeman, right?” A male voice responded.

“Yes, but you know I don’t like to go against what Dr. Halton says. And the detective was asking about Raquel. Oh David, would you talk to him? Please? Dr. Halton wouldn’t get mad at you.”

“I don’t know about that right now.” Green heard a scraping sound and a sigh. “Fine, show him in.”

David Miller was a paunchy, balding man of medium height with stooped shoulders and pale blue eyes. No thick black hair, no mustache. Not my first choice for killer of the year, Green thought as he introduced himself. Miller gave a nervous laugh as he shuffled forward, head bent and eyes averted.

“An inspector! I guess I’m going up in the world. It was a plain detective this morning.”

“I’m just verifying some new information. You’re Dr. Miller?”

“Dave. The doctor handle is kind of new, and it still makes me nervous. Besides, for the money I make…”

Green made notes. “What’s your position here?”

“I’m a post-doctoral fellow working under Dr. Halton. Which means I’m a highly educated gofer, but I’m so grateful to work with him that the money doesn’t matter. Besides,” Miller ran his stubby fingers over his bald spot, “I’ve been penniless for so long, I wouldn’t know what to do if I found a real job.”

“Halton’s a real hotshot, eh?”

Miller hesitated a fraction of a second. “Oh yes. Tops in his field in Canada and doing some fascinating research.”

“What can you tell me about Raquel Haddad?”

“Raquel?” Crimson suffused his doughy face. “I—I hardly
know her. She was in my class—I teach one undergraduate course—and she helped out in the labs sometimes.”

“Was she friendly with anyone here?”

“I didn’t notice. I told you, I hardly know her.”

“What was her connection to Jonathan Blair?”

“I believe he hired her to help him with some data collection.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all I know.”

“They weren’t involved?”

Miller picked at a brown stain on his jeans. Green saw that his fingers were quivering very slightly. “Some people thought so, but I never saw it. Jonathan was a straight kind of guy. He took his work seriously.”

“Do you know if Raquel had any friends or family nearby?”

Miller licked his finger and rubbed at the stain. “I never paid any attention. But Rosalind—Miss Simmons, my associate, might know. Her office is three doors down.” He stood up as if to escort Green.

“One last question, Dave. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Jonathan Blair dead?”