None So Blind (21 page)

“Marilyn, let’s get you some place to sit down. And give me Gordon’s cellphone number. I’ll try to reach him.”

“He — he doesn’t have one. He’s been overseas. Well, you know that. Julia has one.”

“Okay, give me her number.”

Marilyn huddled in the back of the cruiser, shaking her head. “It’s in my book. Inside.” Tears filled her eyes. “With everything else.”

“We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

He left her cradling herself while he went in search of the duty sergeant. Police and emergency Red Cross support had to be mobilized. Besides tracking down Julia and Gordon, they had to ensure Marilyn had a place to stay and someone to stay with her. Beyond that, Green wanted to be informed the moment the fire investigators found anything. A point of origin, a cause, any evidence of a crime.

“There may be a connection to an active case,” was all he said.

T
he
next morning dawned benign and beautiful. Azure skies, puffs of cloud, and a sultry breeze that rippled the soft, new grass of the suburban lawns. Brian Sullivan propped his Tim Hortons travel mug on the dash and stretched out his long legs in a vain effort to ease the cramping. He’d been sitting in his car down the street from the Henriksson house since 7:00 a.m., waiting for Tom to emerge for work. He wanted the element of surprise. He didn’t want to tip off Paige, and he especially didn’t want to give the two of them a chance to coordinate their stories.

The fire at the Carmichael house had made the news that morning, but so far no names had been mentioned and no connection had been drawn to the Rosten case or the man’s recent death. If some inquisitive reporter, or worse the Twittersphere, started to speculate, however, they might converge on the Henriksson’s street looking for a reaction. A juicy quote. An unguarded emotion. Sullivan knew he had to get to them before fear and paranoia shut them down.

All up and down the street front doors were slamming, cars were revving, and school kids were spilling into the sunshine, backpacks on their backs and out-sized sneakers on their feet. He smiled. It had been a long time since his own three had greeted the day like young colts released into the paddock, ginger cowlicks bobbing and freckled faces shining. Unlike Green, he and Mary had started young, and so now, instead of coping with car pools and terrible twos, they were juggling car keys and college tuition. Sometimes Sullivan longed for the simplicity and daily wonder of small children.

Half an hour with Green usually cured him.

Movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye and he watched as Tom came out of the house, swinging his briefcase and shrugging on his suit jacket. He barely looked around as he climbed into his vehicle and revved it down the drive. Sullivan stepped out and flagged him down just as he was gathering steam. The man’s mouth opened in an astonished
oh
as he brought his bulky Hyundai to a shuddering stop.

His protest halted in midsentence when Sullivan held up his shield. Tom was a tall man but no match for Sullivan either physically or psychologically. His belligerence died to a sputter and he glanced back toward the house before following Sullivan meekly into the police car.

“Some questions about your father-in-law, Mr. Henriksson,” Sullivan began.

“More? Why?”

“Routine follow-up, sir.”

Tom gazed through the front window, masking any reaction. “I never met the man. I don’t know what I can tell you.”

“Did you ever speak to him on the phone?”

Tom hesitated, his nostrils flaring. “No.”

“How many times did he phone?”

Again he hesitated. He seemed to be trying to guess what Sullivan knew. “I’m not sure. Two or three times? I saw the number on our call history.”

“How many times did he leave a message?”

“Just once.”

“When?”

The nostrils flared again, like an animal assessing a threat. “The day … the day before his death.”

“Did he contact the house on the day he died?”

Tom blinked. Sullivan could see him once again weighing the safest response. Finally he gave a terse nod.

“What time?”

“In the morning. Maybe 11:30? We didn’t answer.”

Sullivan made a show of checking his watch. It was barely eight o’clock. “Were you home?”

Again a pause. A faint head shake.

“Then your wife might have answered.”

“She said she didn’t.”

Sullivan nodded. So far he hadn’t taken a single note but now he jotted down a few words.
Paige may have spoken to Rosten at 11:30.
Tom, craning his neck, grew pink beneath his freckles.

“When and how did you learn that your father-in-law had come to Ottawa?”

“When I got home from work that day. Paige told me the police had shown up looking for him.”

“And what was your response?”

“What’s this all about, Officer? I don’t get the point of your questions.”

“Some information has come to light, Mr. Henriksson.”

“What information?”

“I understand your wife was afraid to be at home that evening.”

“No, she wasn’t afraid. I was concerned.”

“Where did she go?”

“To her friend Melissa’s house.”

Sullivan poised his pen again. “Full name?”

Tom flushed. “I don’t get this. She had nothing to do with his suicide. She didn’t even know where he
was
and she would never have taken our son there anyway.”

“You can’t be sure she didn’t speak to him that morning, or later in the day.”

“She wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Full name, please.”

Tom grumbled in futile protest before providing Melissa’s name and contact information. “But Paige didn’t
do
anything. She wouldn’t.”

“Were you home alone that evening?”

“Yes.”

“The whole evening?”

Tom caught himself in mid nod. His eyes widened. “You’re looking for alibis, aren’t you!”

“Accounting for everyone’s whereabouts, yes.”

“But why?”

Sullivan pretended to flip back through his notes. “Can you account for your whereabouts that night, Tom? Thursday, May 22nd, from 6 p.m. to midnight?”

“I was in there!” Tom pointed his finger in the direction of his house. “Guarding my house in case he showed up.”

“Anyone with you? Anyone verify that?”

“You think one of us had something to do with his suicide?” Tom stiffened. “Wait a minute. You think we … we killed him?”

Again Sullivan didn’t reply. “Can anyone verify you were home?”

“Is that the new information? That he was
murdered?”

“That he had a visitor.”

Tom’s jaw snapped shut. Alarm flared in his eyes as he processed the implications. “Whatever you think, it wasn’t one of us. I didn’t like the guy, but he was Paige’s father. Like I said, I didn’t leave the house, because if the guy showed up I was going to tell him flat out he wasn’t welcome in our home. And Paige would never drive out into the country by herself, especially at night. Anyway, she didn’t have the car.” Braver now that he had settled on his story, he put his hand on the door handle. “Now are we done? Because I gotta get to work and I’m already late.”

“We’re done, Tom. Thanks.” Sullivan smiled as he closed his notebook. He watched Tom rush back to his SUV and peel away from the curb in a screech of rubber. Once he was out of sight, Sullivan started his own car and drove slowly away as if he hadn’t a care. Out of sight, he circled a few blocks; five minutes later he cruised past the Henriksson house again.

He noted with satisfaction that Tom Henriksson’s grey Tuscon was parked in the drive.

Archie Goodfellow expected to be on the phone all morning, trying to negotiate a graveside memorial service involving two feuding families, and he knew he would need all his strength and patience. He pulled into the diner for his usual breakfast special and Nancy cleared his favourite table by the window. As she poured him a large coffee, he placed his laptop and cellphone on the other side of the table. He was in no mood to deal with administrative trivia. Once the caffeine began to course through his blood, however, he revived enough to pick up his phone to make his first call, this one to a nephew who might be able to talk some sense into the dead ex-con’s brothers.

As he thumbed through his recent calls for the nephew’s number, he was startled to see that T Henriksson had called while he was driving to the restaurant. Now that Rosten was dead, Archie had not expected to hear from either Paige or her husband again, and he wondered whether they wanted his help with Rosten’s funeral.

Curious, he checked his voicemail, flipping through the automated links until an anxious voice broke through the line.

R
everend Goodfellow, it’s Paige Henriksson. I’m sorry to bother you, I don’t know if you can help or if you even know … Well, anyway, I’m wondering if you know what’s going on. The police are still asking questions about the suicide. One was outside our house this morning, grilling Tom on his whereabouts. And mine. The night my father died, I mean. The cop said my father had a visitor, and Tom got the impression they’re suspicious about his death. The detective talked about new information. What information? What have they learned? This all seems very unfair, to be treated like common criminals when we didn’t ask to have him back in our lives. Oh, I don’t mean that, since he’s dead now. But we’d like to know where we stand.

You and me both
, Archie thought, gazing at the phone in surprise as the various message options played out. He saved it. His first instinct was to phone Mike Green for an explanation, but after a moment’s reflection and a few more swigs of coffee, he opted for a more oblique approach. Constable Pitt of the Belleville police had shared many a strawberry social and charity auction with Archie and they were both on the board of a local youth literacy initiative. The two men frequently worked together to find creative solutions to keep minor juvenile violations off the official books. Bad knees and an excess of pounds kept Pitt on the front desk most of the time, where he learned everything worth knowing.

After the customary exchange of news and jokes, Archie broached the subject of Rosten’s investigation.

“Yeah,” Pitt said. “They did ask us to re-interview a couple of people and double-check phone records. We just got the ones from your Horizon House, so we sent those on to Ottawa directly. Needle in a haystack if you ask me. They’re welcome to it.”

“Any idea why? I’d like to help if I can.”

“They’re still looking for people Rosten was in contact with. Can’t see what you can do.”

“Anyone interesting on that phone list from Horizon House?”

“No one suspicious. We all had a look, mostly to check for known local drug dealers, because Ottawa was interested in that too.”

Archie frowned. Could that have been the new information Paige referred to? The mystery visitor? Were they trying to trace the diazepam and link the source to his death? Was it a bad batch, perhaps? “Were there any local drug dealers on the list?”

Pitt laughed. “Well, we’re talking about a community custodial facility here, Archie. Lots of those guys and their pals are known to us. But between you and me, I think that’s a blind alley.”

Archie didn’t argue. He had spoken to all the other residents in the house, and none of them had seen or heard Rosten show any interest in drugs. But a dim memory stirred from the day he had searched and packed up Rosten’s personal effects from his room. A pharmacy receipt for toothpaste and body lotion, crumpled in the pocket of his windbreaker. He had thought it of no consequence and had shoved it back in the pocket before packing the jacket into the box. Now he remembered there had been a name scribbled on the back of the receipt.

And a phone number.

Last he’d seen, the box had been sitting in the staff office at Horizon House, waiting for pickup by Corrections.

Collecting his cellphone, laptop, and motorcycle helmet, Archie rose from the table and almost collided with Nancy, who was delivering his platter of fried eggs, sausage, and hash browns. With a quick apology and a twenty-dollar bill slapped down on the table, he barrelled toward the door.

Slaloming in and out of the Belleville traffic with an expert eye, he made good time and arrived at Horizon House to find the staff office open and Rosten’s modest box of personal effects still sealed in the corner. The worker at the desk looked startled when he grabbed some scissors and sliced open the packing tape. He suddenly felt foolish. This could be a fool’s errand, yielding nothing but a slip of paper with a doctor’s name and number written on the back. Discarded once the appointment had come and gone.

With an effort he forced himself to slow down so that he could unpack with minimal mess. He found the windbreaker at the bottom of the box. Bunched up in the third pocket was the pharmacy receipt. He unfolded it to reveal the name and number written in Rosten’s trademark jagged hand.

Erik Lazlo 613-555-6853

Did that mean anything?
he wondered as he reached for the phone.

T
he
smell of smoke and damp ash was still suffocating, but by the time Green returned to the site in the morning, the fire investigation crew was tromping through the ruins, ferreting out any lingering hotspots and looking for the point of origin.

Marilyn too had arrived, and was hovering at the end of her laneway. Despite the warm sun, she hugged a baggy sweater around her and cradled a hot cup of tea. Green left his vehicle on the road and walked over.

She managed a wan smile. “It never was much of a house.”

“Any word from Julia and Gordon?”

She nodded. “Julia showed up at Laura’s in the middle of the night. The crew here had told her where I was. Gordon has no phone but Julia thinks he’s with a friend.”

“That’s a relief.”

She nodded ruefully. “No casualties. Just my little house.” She tugged her sweater tighter. “We can’t all stay at Laura’s indefinitely, however.”

Green knew that a place to stay, at least temporarily, was the least of Marilyn’s worries. The Red Cross would help with crisis support, but it was the aftermath — the insurance wrangling, the replacement of priceless mementos, the restocking of possessions and clothes, the sheer paperwork — that would wear her down. But for now, everyone had to focus on the immediate.

“Where were they last night?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t ask. I’ve learned not to ask. I left Julia asleep at Laura’s, and Gordon — Gordon is heaven–knows–where. Some mystery friend. He always had mystery friends.”

They both looked up as the fire chief strode down the lane with a grim expression. “Inspector, a word.”

Marilyn tensed. “What is it?”

“Just part of the investigation, ma’am.” With a tilt of his head, he drew Green out of earshot.

“You found something?”

Flannigan nodded. “Multiple points of origin in the basement, and evidence of an accelerant. We’ve taken air samples for analysis, but I’ll bet my paycheque it’s gasoline. This fire was deliberately set.”

Green frowned. “Is there a pattern of arson in the area?”

“Not around here, and starting in the basement like that is unusual. The insurance company will be really interested. The basement was crammed with old paint cans, turpentine, and other flammable liquids. Pile a few rags nearby and it would have been easy to get a good blaze.”

Green pondered the implications. The arsonist would have had to have access to the house and perhaps knowledge of the flammable potential in the basement. Flannigan was right. This was not a random act of destruction, but a deliberate targeting.

He glanced back at Marilyn, standing watchful guard by the road. Did she know who did it? One of her mercenary children, grown restless with waiting for their share of the profits and deciding to speed up the process by which developers would take over the land? It happened all the time, netting the homeowner a tidy insurance payout as well as the profits from the sale of the land. Julia and Gordon had no attachment to the house and very few possessions to lose inside it.

Green felt a twinge of anger at the thought. According to Marilyn, Gordon had been the last to leave the house the evening before, but Julia had a car and could easily have come back. But how could she have known her mother would be out? And could she or Gordon have had all the equipment ready in reserve to seize the moment when Marilyn left the house?

“It was a bit of overkill,” Flannigan was saying. “Either this is an amateur or he really wanted to make sure to get the job done fast. If your officers hadn’t spotted it when they did, there’d be nothing left but a pile of bricks.”

Green contemplated the blackened shell. From Gibbs’s description, the whole house had been engulfed in moments, with no smoke alarm going off. Perhaps whoever did this hadn’t cared whether Marilyn was inside. Or worse, perhaps they had intended her to be there.

He shook off the thought. Surely that was too callous even for Marilyn’s children. A moment later, Marilyn herself marched up to join them.

“What are you two up to? What’s going on?”

Flannigan pulled no punches. “I’ll be turning this investigation over to the Arson squad as a suspicious fire, Mrs. Carmichael.”

Her face was a mask. She tightened her jaw as if to prevent a word from escaping.

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to burn it down?”

“Must have been kids out for a lark.”

“Was there a working smoke detector in the house?”

“Yes. As I said, two.”

“Then they were disabled, ma’am.”

She absorbed this, blinking rapidly. “Maybe I forgot to change the battery.”

“Do you have insurance on the structure and the contents?”

“There is nothing worth insuring inside, but yes, I have some. Can I get inside to look for some things in the ashes?”

“It’s not safe, ma’am. But we will be going through the whole place carefully ourselves.”

“Why?”

“Arson is a serious offence. Can you make a list of valuables we should be searching for?”

“There is nothing worth searching for.” She turned away, her jaw quivering. “I don’t want anything from there. Just … just bulldoze the whole thing!”

“Even so,” said Flannigan impassively, “I’d like you to sit with one of my men and draw up a list. Items may come to you.”

Reluctantly she turned to follow the man across the clearing to his truck. Green pondered her reaction as he watched her progress. Did she suspect that one of her children might have burned it down? And that they might have intended her to be in it? He needed to interview both children as soon as possible, before their mother could warn them. Before they had a chance to cook up a story.

Quickly he set off down the lane. He’d probably be waking Julia up, but it would be worth it to catch her off guard.

He found Laura Quinn’s house on Trim Road on the edge of Navan. The Victorian clapboard, two-storey building was located next to a cemetery and defiantly painted pink with purple trim. It was engulfed by flower gardens, and hand-painted leprechauns, bunnies, and butterflies peeked out between the flowers everywhere. A pink, heart-shaped W
ELCOME
sign hung on the door and a large brass bell said, P
LEASE
R
ING
. No one answered when he did, but the door was unlocked. Inside, he was greeted by more animals — painted, stitched, and carved. Floral air freshener filled the air.

Once his senses had recovered, he heard the sounds of a shower. Bedding and clothes were piled in a jumble on the couch and a cellphone lay on the coffee table. While he waited for Julia to emerge, he picked it up to peek at recent activities, but a password blocked his access.

Her open purse spilled receipts, candy wrappers, broken pens, and makeup onto the sofa. From the jumble, he picked up a battered old address book held together with an elastic band and flipped through it, trying to locate a phone number for Gordon. There were several numbers under his name, all scratched out, but Green also noted in passing a number for Erik Lazlo. It might be old, but just in case, he jotted it down.

Just then, Julia entered the room, swathed in fluffy towels that slipped off her shoulder. Her face glowed pink, and a flirtatious smile was playing across her lips. It vanished at the sight of her address book in his hand. “What the
fuck
do you think you’re doing?”

He set the book down calmly. “I need to talk to you, Julia. Do you want me to make us coffee while you get dressed?”

“You don’t have permission to go through my bag!”

“If you prefer to be interviewed without coffee, that’s fine with me.” He gestured toward the couch.

Stuffing everything back into her purse, she grabbed it and her phone before retreating to the bedroom. Inside the kitchen, as he hunted through meticulously labelled cupboards in search of coffee, he kept his ear tuned to hear whether she would use the phone. He was absent-mindedly rooting through tins of specialty teas in the pantry when he came upon an antique-looking metal box. He popped open the latch.

A snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 was nestled inside.

The gun was in perfect condition, oiled and shiny, its grip worn smooth by countless hands. The box wasn’t locked, not remotely secure, but Laura Quinn lived alone and probably thought nothing of it. He was not a fan of handguns — in his hands nor in the hands of civilians — but this was the country, where help was sometimes far away. How much havoc could a little old lady who painted leprechauns actually wreak? Besides, it looked as if it had been in the cupboard since before the modern era.

When the dust settled, he would advise her to lock it up, but meanwhile he shoved the box back and moved on to the next cupboard. He finally located the coffee canister sitting in plain view on the counter and had just finished brewing the coffee when Julia re-emerged. She was dressed in a silky blue top that plunged deep into her cleavage, her damp hair fell in artful curls and her lips glistened red. He poured coffee into two mugs shaped like bunnies and held one out to her. She took it without a word of thanks and leaned against the counter, stretching her long, tanned legs before her.

He waited, sizing up the best plan of attack. She grew impatient. “I don’t know anything about the fire, if that’s what you want to ask about.”

“What time did you leave your mother’s house yesterday?”

“Why?”

“I’m trying to establish the chain of events.”

“Chain? What chain?”

He said nothing. She took a sip and made a face. “I don’t even know when the house burned down, but it was so full of junk, I’m not surprised. Luke saved everything. Every can of paint, every broken stick of furniture. I’m just grateful Mum wasn’t there.”

“What time did you leave?”

She pushed herself away from the counter, strolled across to the sofa, and sank into it with a dramatic sigh. “I left at six o’clock. Took my car and went into town to meet a friend.” She smiled. “And no, Mike, I did not burn the house down. The first I heard of it was 4 a.m., when I got back and found it … barbecued. A cute firefighter told me where to find Mum.”

“Who was still in the house when you left?”

“What did you make this coffee with?”

He grinned. “Coffee, I hope. Who was in the house?”

Another dramatic sigh. “Gordon and Mum. Gordon was waiting for his ride and Mum was … Mum was passed out on the couch.”

“Passed out as in …?”

“Drunk. Hammered. It’s not just bad girls like me that go over the top, Mike. Nice, proper British mums do too.”

“Gordon wasn’t taking the car?”

Julia sipped her coffee and ran her tongue over her red lips. “Gordon wanted to party. And he doesn’t think tooling around in a battered old Honda has enough cool factor anyway.”

“So he left the car for your mother.”

“Oh, he took the keys. In case. We do that sometimes when she’s having an especially bad day.”

“When you phoned him this morning, where was he?”

“He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s having a fling. He’s probably in bed somewhere.”

“Can you give me a name and address?”

“If I knew that, I would call him myself. He doesn’t confide in me. He has a new lover — man this time, I think. Always his first choice. But it’s all very hush–hush. Some married businessman from out of town.” She was watching him coyly, no doubt hoping for a reaction, but he gave her none.

“He still needs to be notified. Where is he?”

Irritation flitted across her face. She set her mug down with a thud, sloshing coffee onto the table. “Is this part of the chain or are you just being nosy? There is nothing more I can tell you. I left at six o’clock and I got back at 4 a.m. The house was already totalled. I wasn’t there, Gordon wasn’t there, and luckily Mum wasn’t passed out on the couch anymore. It was an accident. Period.”

He didn’t reply. Her eyes narrowed. “What — you’re implying it wasn’t?”

He shrugged. “A convenient accident for those of you who wanted to sell.”

She uncurled herself and stood up. “What the hell do you mean by that? Mum set the fire. She was drunk, she turned on the stove, the microwave, the barbecue — whatever — and forgot about it. You know how many kettles she’s burned dry making her damn tea? Stupid, but not ‘convenient,’ as you put it.”

“You may be right,” he said blandly. “I’m sure it will all come out in the investigation. It’s amazing what they can tell from the ashes these days.”

On that note, Green left the house and pulled his vehicle around the corner, curious to see what Julia might do now that he’d stirred things up. His phone vibrated on his belt and a quick glance revealed it was Archie Goodfellow. Surprised, he picked up.

Archie’s operatic voice blasted through the little phone. “Paige Henriksson called me. She said you guys have new information? Rosten had a visitor that night and you guys suspect her and her husband?”

Green hesitated. Sullivan was far too experienced an interviewer to give information away by accident. He had planted this tidbit for a reason. Green ducked the question. “Archie, we’ve uncovered a lot of things. We believe he contacted someone in the days before his death, and we’re trying to determine who.”

“Well, you certainly freaked her out.”

“It’s complicated. Did Rosten have a Facebook account?”

“Are you kidding? We monitor stuff like that.”

“So you found no trace — on his computer or in his emails?”

“Not unless he used the library computer and a fake account. The guys do that, but Rosten’s never been that devious.”

“Archie, Rosten did a whole lot of things we knew nothing about.”

Archie fell quiet. “Okay. Does the name Erik Lazlo mean anything to you?”

Green nearly dropped the phone. “Where did you get that name?”

“On a scrap of paper in Rosten’s jacket, along with a phone number. The man isn’t anyone Rosten has been dealing with since his release, to my knowledge.”

“Did he mention the name to you at all, ever?”

“Nope.”

Green asked for the phone number and, as Archie read it out, he compared it to the one in Julia’s address book. They didn’t match. He was so excited he barely paused to thank Archie before dialling the station. He was surprised to find Gibbs at his desk despite orders from the paramedics to take the day off. The young detective’s voice was hoarse and he struggled to suppress a cough.