None So Blind (18 page)

He suppressed a very unprofessional quiver of arousal and confined himself to a single request. “Keep me posted.”

She didn’t answer and he was grateful he had his own inquiries to make.

He returned to his office to study his list of suspects. Several lines of inquiry were still calling out for answers. The boyfriend, Erik Lazlo, still had to be located and brought in for questioning, Rosten’s wife needed to be interviewed and her whereabouts at the time of his death verified, and Paige’s husband needed an alibi. On the evening when Rosten went missing, Tom had sent Paige to stay with a friend, ostensibly because he feared for her safety. But it had left him free and clear the whole night. As a major person of interest, his actions that night had to be investigated immediately.

The hunt for Erik Lazlo had already been assigned to Gibbs, the wizard of the Internet, but so far without success. The team was already spread thin following up the multiple lines of investigation, leaving few experienced officers to carry out the rest of the delicate face-to-face interviews.

What a pity
, Green thought with a secret smile as he reached for the phone.

Ten minutes later he was sitting with Brian Sullivan over coffee in the Tim Hortons down the street from the mother ship. Sullivan looked equally excited by the prospect of climbing back into the trenches.

“Do you have this guy’s work address? No point in tipping off the wife.”

Green nodded. Paige was high-strung, but she was also fiercely protective of her family. Green suspected she would cook up an alibi for her husband without a moment’s hesitation.

“He works for Scotiabank in Stittsville, junior loans manager, but I think ‘junior’ is code for poorly paid. Their single vehicle has seen better days, their big, fancy house is mostly empty, and he was upset by the idea of the ten thousand–dollar funeral.”

“Can’t say I blame him. Happy to shake his tree.” Sullivan tossed back his black decaf coffee with a grimace of distaste. Health had its price, and gone were the days of double-cream coffee with a chocolate-dipped doughnut. He gave Green a sly smile. “What are you going to be doing?”

How well he knows me
, Green thought. “Phoning Rosten’s wife in Halifax. I’ll get the local police to do background inquiries, but I don’t want them doing the interview. I know what questions to ask and I want to hear her reactions.”

Sullivan chuckled. “I’m betting you’re not on her list of favourite people.”

Green thought back to his meetings with Victoria Rosten two decades earlier. Her initial hostility had been palpable, but as the trial wore on, she retreated into silence. Although she resolutely refused to share her doubts with him, he had sensed she knew something more about her husband’s guilt.

“But it will be interesting to get her take on who might have wanted her husband dead.” He paused. Fiddled with his paper cup. “I also have to interview Marilyn Carmichael.”

Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that wise? You’ve had a pretty close relationship with her.”

“I know, but …” He shrugged as if to say,
Who else?

“I can do it.”

“You could. And this may be a mistake —”

“It is. You’re already compromised in this investigation. And we don’t want some defence lawyer accusing you of bias or lack of objectivity. Worse, conflict of interest.”

“If it gets sticky, Brian, I’ll call you. But I’m fed up with others getting it wrong, and for now, my relationship with Marilyn is going to be useful.” He paused, wondering whether it was wise to open up the topic he’d kept at bay all morning. In the end, it was Sullivan who broached it. He eyed Green keenly.

“How is Neufeld taking all this?”

Green ducked his gaze. He twirled his cup. “She thinks it might be time I had a change.”

Sullivan’s jaw gaped. “Goddamn.
Goddamn
! I was afraid of that.”

“Support Services, Brian. Fucking Siberia.”

“Oh, there’s a perfect use of your skills. Courtroom security and prisoner transport.”

“Don’t forget all the liaison and inter-jurisdictional negotiations.” Green threw his hands up. “You know how much I love that stuff.”

“What are you going to do?”

Green began to tear his coffee cup into little pieces. He shrugged. “Nothing. Not now. You know she can do whatever she damn well pleases. But if she sticks me there, who knows? I may decide it’s time for an even bigger change.”

Before Sullivan could protest, Green’s cellphone rang, startling them both.
Levesque.
Grateful for the distraction, Green picked up. Before he could even say hello, Levesque burst in, fairly singing with excitement. “He bought two miniature hidden cameras, sir! The latest high-tech, battery-operated types, with built-in SD cards.”

Green was momentarily speechless as he raced over possibilities. Security cameras? Had Rosten feared someone would come after him? Had he in fact been hiding out at the cottage?

“Did he tell the clerk what he wanted them for?”

“Yes, sir. He wanted them to be invisible, wireless, and capable of recording in weak light. Sound and motion activated.”

“Did he buy any other security equipment like trip alarms or motion sensors?” Beside him, Sullivan had snapped to attention.

“No, sir. The store owner remembers him very clearly, because he tried to persuade him to invest in a proper alarm system with their company. The disabled are sitting ducks, he told him. But Rosten wasn’t interested. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I just want security cameras, audio as well as video.’ The best resolution he could afford in a miniature device. Spy stuff.”

Spy stuff indeed
, Green thought with a rush of excitement. All his doubts and worries vanished in the thrill of the moment. Rosten had wanted his visitor on tape. Yet Cunningham had found no cameras in his search of the cottage grounds. Had he gone over every inch, or had he screwed up again?

“Great work, Marie Claire,” he told her. “Get a team back out to the cottage and go over it with a fine-tooth comb for those cameras. They may be hidden in plain sight in a smoke detector or clock radio. Even a garden rock.”

“We’re already on our way, sir. I’ll call you the instant we have anything.”

Sullivan was watching him, eager for an update. But Green couldn’t resist a smile as her words sank in. They were both so enthralled with the hunt that she’d forgotten to be offended.

O
n
his walk back to the station, Green glanced up at the third floor and debated paying a visit to Superintendent Neufeld. In light of this latest revelation about the cameras, perhaps she would ease up. In the end, he opted to wait until he’d phoned Victoria Rosten in order to avoid any censure or interference on that front.

He was doubtful Victoria Rosten would be home in the middle of a workday and even more doubtful that she would answer when she saw the call display. Hence, he was surprised to be wrong on both counts. He identified himself.

“Goodness,” she said, her voice more honeyed and resonant than he remembered. “
Inspector
Michael Green.”

“It’s been a long time, Victoria,” he said. “I hope you are well.”

“I am, although fifteen hundred kilometres helps. I assume this is about James? You won’t change my mind about his funeral.”

“I’m not even going to try.”

There was a pause. “Then what can I do for you?”

“We’re still pursuing some lines of inquiry in his death.”

“Lines of inquiry? Why?”

“Have you had any contact with him recently? Phone call? Letter?”

“No. I don’t think he’d dare. It’s bad enough he phoned Paige.”

“So he didn’t phone you at all, not even in the past week or so?”

“No.” Her voice took on a slight edge. “I’m sure he realized I wouldn’t have answered.”

“I’m sorry, Victoria. I just need to be thorough. Did you know where he was living?”

“I did know that. The authorities keep me informed. But I don’t understand what difference it makes. He committed suicide.”

Realizing he was getting nowhere with the “official inquiries” approach, he changed tactics. “Some information has come to light that calls into question the coroner’s original verdict of suicide.” He let the implications sink in, but she said nothing. The woman had clearly learned to play her cards very close to her chest. He gave another nudge. “We need to clarify what happened to him.”

“You’re saying someone killed him? I can’t say I’m shocked. Surely there’s a lineup for that.”

“Not a very long lineup, given the circumstances.”

She seemed to process that. “Ah. And I’m on the list.”

“To eliminate, yes.”

“And my daughters?”

“Can you tell me where you were the evening of Thursday, May 22nd?”

She chuckled. It was a throaty laugh that radiated confidence. He tried to reconcile it with the panicked, angry young woman of twenty years ago, but could not. “Not at that cottage, I assure you,” she said. “I couldn’t stand the place. Bugs, mice, outhouse, boiled water, ugh! That was James’s thing, not mine. So, Thursday May 22nd I was right here with my friend — my new partner. We had plank salmon on the barbecue with a delightful New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, and then we watched TV.”

“Can anyone else confirm that?”

“Our neighbours. We had some wine with them on the patio before dinner. Unless I am capable of teleporting, that should put me in the clear, I hope.”

He hesitated, trying to pinpoint the hint of secrecy he’d sensed from her in the past. She mistook his silence for disapproval.

“I’m sorry if I sound flippant, but the truth is James nearly ruined my life and more importantly my daughters’. I’m afraid I can’t muster much sorrow at his passing.”

“You know he never gave up claiming his innocence.”

“You know James. He always had trouble admitting he was wrong.”

“In this case, there’s a chance he was right.”

He let the words float into the silence, wishing he could see her face. He heard a faint intake of breath. Then, “What are you talking about?”

“New evidence has come to light.”

“What new evidence?”

I’m not at liberty …
was on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself. “I can’t say just yet.”

More silence. She swore softly. “That’s impossible.”

“Believe me, I’m just as shocked as you.”

“
You?
You got it wrong?” Her voice rose. “He was innocent and you got it wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

A wail sliced through the line, quickly cut off. “But he could still be guilty.”

“Yes. But in light of this, can you think back? Did James ever say anything about who he thought might have killed her?”

“You … you drop this on me and you expect me to think back?” Another stifled wail.

“Yes. This is important.”

A muffled curse. He could almost see her mentally thrashing about. “Her stepfather. Always the stepfather. No, briefly it was the boyfriend.”

“No one else? No one he mentioned in passing, like a colleague or another student?”

She took a deep, steadying breath. “He was suspicious of everyone. Lucas Carmichael because James had seen his car, the boyfriend because he was the first to finger him. James kept saying someone very clever had set him up.”

“Ms. MacLeod, this is an intrusive question but I hope you’ll answer it. You started off believing in your husband’s innocence —”

“What woman wants to think she’s been sharing her life with a killer?”

“But by the end of the trial you had changed your mind. Why?”

“Because …” she sputtered. He could hear her struggling to control her voice. “Because of all the evidence, those other girls saying he’d met with them. Do you think it was easy turning my back on him?”

“No. That’s why I think there was something else.”

He expected more protest but instead there was silence. Then some muttering. “I found a note,” she said finally, her voice barely audible, more like the panicked woman he remembered. He could almost picture her, bowing her head and drawing in on herself. “Later, at the cottage among some of his papers. I was getting the place ready to rent. He had obviously forgotten it there.”

Green gripped the phone. “What did the note say?”

“It was from the girl. Jackie Carmichael. It was short, just said she’d be collecting water samples on Morris Island for her lab and maybe she could meet him. The date, the time — it was the same as the day she disappeared.”

It was Green’s turn to be struck dumb. He took several seconds to collect himself. “Did you ask him about it?”

“No. I never spoke to him again. I just …” she faltered. “I just ran.”

“What did you do with the note?”

“I threw it away. I knew right away it would be the final nail in his coffin. I didn’t know what else to do. My children, my girls … I couldn’t be that final nail.”

What the
hell
, Green thought after he’d rung off. Why had the OPP search team never found this note? Why had Rosten never mentioned it? If he were innocent and being set up as he claimed, surely the note could have been crucial evidence!

And most importantly, had Rosten met with Jackie as arranged? Had he murdered her after all?

He paced his office, running through alternate explanations. The search team had been incompetent. Rosten had feared the note was too incriminating. Or perhaps there had been no note at all; perhaps Victoria had made it up. He had only her word for it. Why would she lie? What purpose did the lie serve for her?

It served to make Rosten look guilty again, just when Green was beginning to look for other suspects.

Including her. Had she thrown in this red herring in a desperate bid to deflect suspicion from herself? Or had she simply lied about when and where she’d found it? If she’d found it before Jackie disappeared, then it gave Victoria herself a good motive to murder her. And, last week, to murder Rosten too. What had Rosten said in his final letter to Green?
I have a horrible suspicion who it is.
Horrible. Implying the suspicion was abhorrent to him.

Green phoned the Halifax Regional Police to ask them to confirm her alibi with her neighbours and partner. Before his suspicions ran completely wild, that was a small, rational step he could take.

Half an hour later, he sat in his staff car outside the little bungalow, collecting his thoughts. Noon sunshine beat down. There were two vehicles in the lane in front of him: Marilyn’s rusting CR-V, which had once been dark green but was now a mottled black, and a late-model, white Accent, parked at a crazy angle, half-crushing a peony plant at the edge of the bed. With that exception, the yard was clean and neat, all the shrubs trimmed and the flowerbeds mulched.

Just as Green was approaching the front door, it flew open, framing Julia against the dark hall. Amusement glinted in her eyes.

“Mum will be happy to see her favourite cop. She told me Rosten killed himself.”

“How’s your mother doing?”

She shrugged as if to dismiss his concern. “She’s had so many deaths. Everything upsets her, but her party ought to cheer her up.” She hadn’t moved. To get inside, he would have had to brush past her. From deep inside, he heard the murmur of voices.

“Are you and Gordon staying for long?”

“As soon as the party’s over this weekend, I have to leave. But Gordon will stay on. He’s got no place to go since his French lover kicked him out.”

Green did a quick double take. Lover? Such an ambiguous word. Male or female? Had there been any hints in his youth as to which way Gordon leaned? Green recalled he seemed to have lots of friends who flirted and groped each other indiscriminately in the haze of music and drugs. Had there been any special women? Special men?

He became aware that Julia was watching him, a smile hovering on her lips as if she were enjoying his confusion. But she chose not to elucidate.

“I hope you’ll come to the party. It will mean so much to Mum.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“Does it violate some cop code of conduct or something? I wouldn’t tell, you know.”

He ducked the question. She was like the Julia of old, flirtatious and clearly enjoying keeping him off balance. “May I come in? I need to —”

“Julia, what are you doing?” Marilyn said as she appeared behind Julia. If possible, she was even thinner than before. She was wearing old shorts and a T-shirt, and her arms and legs protruded like knobby sticks. “Why don’t you invite the inspector in?”

Julia brushed past him out the door, her keys jangling. “Sorry, Mum. We were talking. I have to go out.”

“Can you pick up some bleach? I used it all.”

“More bleach?”

“The basement is full of mould.”

Julia stopped midway across the peony bed. “Mum! I told you, don’t touch the basement. I’ll get to it.”

“Yes, but when,” Marilyn muttered at her daughter’s retreating back. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to lead the way inside. As usual, the house was stuffy and, on this sunny June day, stiflingly hot. But the clutter of bags and boxes was gone, and any whiff of gin was overpowered by the acrid stench of bleach.

“So much mould,” Marilyn said as she gestured him to a seat. He noticed she made no offer of tea. “I’m cleaning places I haven’t touched in years.”

“Basement mould is nothing to trifle with,” he said. “I hope you’ll take Julia up on her offer.”

She laughed, without humour. “Right. And I’ll just build a pen for the flying pigs while I’m at it. Julia and Gordon are doing their part, planning the party and sprucing up the yard. We’re praying for fine weather so we can hold it outdoors. The irises and peonies are in bloom. You will come, won’t you? It’s this Saturday.”

He hesitated, searching for a way to decline. Now that it was a murder investigation, the boundaries of their relationship had changed.

She misinterpreted his silence. “If Julia put you off, forget what she said. I want you there.”

“This is not a social call, Marilyn. We’re still tying up loose ends in Rosten’s death.”

She froze. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. “When I told you about his suicide last week, you seemed very upset. Why?”

“Why?
Why?
” An angry flush rose to her cheeks. “Why wouldn’t I be, for pity’s sake? That man had tied my life up in knots for years.”

“You said when you went to visit him, he asked about your children. What specifically?”

She struggled to drag her feelings under control, starting to speak several times before settling on a response. “He — he asked how they were coping. How we were all coping.”

“Did you get the impression …” He took his time, trying to temper the edge of his questions. “That he had any ulterior interest in them? Any desire to contact them too?”

“Nay! I … I mean no. He asked how they were handling Lucas’s death, whether their own father was still in their lives. He seemed interested in what kind of man he was. I thought he was fishing for suspects again. Looking for someone else to blame.”

Green masked his excitement at this unexpected twist. Rosten hadn’t mentioned the children’s father in years. “What did you tell him?”

“That I had no idea where their father was, we hadn’t had a word from him in thirty-three years, let alone a support payment, and for all I knew, he was dead or in jail. He was a selfish, violent man, and I am very grateful he left us alone. He did enough damage to the children while he was around.”

The angry spots of colour had returned to her cheeks. Green trod very carefully into the next question. “Did he ever behave …? Marilyn, I’m very sorry I have to bring this up, but did he ever abuse the children either physically or sexually?”

She stared at him, eyes sparking. “I know everyone wonders about Julia, but I took beatings to spare her that. If he’d ever laid a hand on any of them, I’d have killed him myself!”

“But you couldn’t be there all the time.”

“Aye, I was. I had three little ones — Jackie only a baby — and I never left him alone with them. I knew he had other women; he’d disappear for days and come home stinking of sex and booze and pot, but I never let him bring any of that stuff home.”

Green doubted the diminutive young mother could have done much to stop him, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether Julia’s problems stemmed from his abuse. The oldest often gets the brunt of an abusive parent.

Rosten’s sudden interest in the man was curious. At the time of Jackie’s disappearance, the investigators had tried to trace the father, but his last known address had been in Labrador several years earlier. He could be anywhere, or as Marilyn said, he could be dead.