This Thing of Darkness (19 page)

“Okay, I'll send—”

“I want this nailed down
ASAP
, Brian. Show the photo to Screech again on your way. Use your Irish charm and try to shake a few facts loose from the old bugger. Then bring a photo line-up over to Rosenthal's place so my witness can look at it.”

Sullivan shifted cautiously. The heartburn was worse, and he wasn't sure he could walk to the car, let alone interview witnesses. “Mike, I'm beat. Sean has a big hockey game tonight in Brockville, and I'm driving. I was hoping to book off early.”

“You can. Right after we do the photo line-up.”

“What's the rush? Your witness going somewhere?”

“No, but the prostitute might.”

“It's Friday night. She'll be at her post drumming up business.”

There was a beep on the line. “Hold on,” Green said, and the line clicked, engulfing Sullivan in silence. He used the few seconds to lean back and savour the moment of peace. When Green came back on the line, his tone was urgent. Almost angry. “Listen, I gotta go. Talk to Screech, then meet me at the Nelson Street address.”

The line clicked dead, leaving Sullivan little choice but to pop another Rolaids and haul himself to his feet.

The traffic on Rideau Street was crushing. Because it was the Friday before the most glorious weekend for fall foliage in the Gatineau Hills, the rush hour exodus across the river into Quebec had begun early. The homebound cars mingled with transport trucks amid the perennial road construction, snarling King Edward Avenue and backing up onto Rideau. Sullivan put on his emergency flashers to almost no avail and finally drove down the bus lane in the wrong direction in order to reach Screech, who was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk in his spot of choice by the liquor store. He gave those who dropped the occasional quarter into his Tim Hortons cup no illusions about what he would spend it on.

Screech recoiled instinctively into a ball as Sullivan jumped his pick-up half up on the curb and climbed out. His fearful look gave way to a smile as he recognized the big detective.

“Hey, Sarge.” He held up his cup. “Spare a loonie for a dying man?”

Sullivan laughed. It had been Screech's line since he'd hit the city ten years earlier. That and his snaggle-toothed smile netted him a fairly good take most days. Sullivan squatted and dropped a toonie in the cup.

“I may have more somewhere. First things first.” Sullivan held out the photo of the prostitute. He didn't recognize her himself, but he'd been off the street too long, and faces changed rapidly in that business. “My buddy the inspector says you recognized this girl.”

Screech scrunched up his old, shoe-leathery face, looking blank. “No, I didn't. I said no.”

“But your eyes said yes. You gotta give him credit for some brains, that's how he made inspector.”

Still Screech shook his head. Sullivan's legs felt like jelly, and the heartburn was worse. Spreading. Fuck, he was tired. What the hell bug had he picked up? He sat on the pavement and propped himself against the wall next to the vagrant. “Come on, Screech. She may be in danger if she saw something Saturday night. Or if the killer thinks she did.”

Screech chewed his gums and ran his tongue around his caked lips. He cast a longing glance at the liquor store, and Sullivan twisted to pull his wallet out of his pocket. Pain knifed through his shoulder. Goddamn Green, he thought. He dangled the wallet in view but didn't open it.

“She's not a regular,” Screech said. “But I seen her around.”

“How long?”

He squinted. “Who counts? Springtime? She has a fur coat. Fake for sure, but nice. Mostly on Saturdays. Best crowds. I figured she had a home somewheres.”

“Name?”

He shook his head. “Never got beyond Foxy, on account of the fur. Don't know what the johns called her.”

Foxy was better than nothing, Sullivan thought, taking ten dollars from his wallet. If she was in the police database, that name would catch her. “Have you ever seen her with the murder victim?”

Screech plucked the bill from Sullivan's fingers and stuffed it directly into his pocket out of sight. It was still early in the day, but Sullivan saw he had nearly enough to visit the liquor store and send himself into his nightly oblivion. He was already looking vague, as if his brain had fired its quota of neurons.

“Screech?”

“Maybe,” Screech replied eventually. “I seen him with some others, the young ones. Brings them a coffee, a bite to eat. Just for talk.” He shrugged. “Well, he's old, eh?”

“Was she around that night, when he was killed?”

Screech's expression closed. “I didn't see nothing. I was in my sleeping bag. But I heard...” a sly look flitted across his face, “bunch of black punks shouting to her. Mighta been the ones that killed him. I seen in the papers. She was screaming help, get away from me.”

Earlier in the week Levesque had released the photos of the four gang suspects to the press with the usual police nonsense about wanting to eliminate them from their inquiries. Sullivan was surprised that Screech had even glanced at the newspaper, but then street people were full of surprises.

He felt a surge of energy. This was an interesting twist. Coincidence was rare in detective work, and if this Foxy had been both a special girl to Rosenthal and the victim of unwanted overtures by the main suspects, that put a new spin on things. Had Rosenthal stopped to intervene? Or had the boys come back to exact revenge for their earlier humiliation at her hands?

Sullivan hauled himself to his feet, massaging his stiff hand and breathing lightly to avoid the pain. Wishing Screech good luck, he got into his truck and flipped the flashers on. The sooner he got this information to Green, the sooner he could go home to bed. A sliver of fear was creeping into his gut.

After Green had finished the call to Sullivan, he ducked back inside Harvey's to find Lindsay dumping her tray into the trash station and preparing to leave. She smiled shyly.

“Thank you for lunch. I'd better get to class now.”

“Wait. I have an officer coming over to show you some photos.” He led her out to his staff car. “We'll meet him back at the house, because the intruder you saw earlier in Rosenthal's apartment is back. The surveillance officer just called.”

Lindsay's face grew pinched. She looked trapped, like a child in water way over her head. Green guessed the cause. “You'll wait with the patrol officer in my car. He won't even see you. Once you've had a look at the photos, the officer will drive you to school.”

She had no argument left, so she hung her head meekly and buckled her seatbelt as he slammed on the accelerator. When he pulled up in front of the house, all appeared quiet. The white van was still in place, but the antique oak door to Rosenthal's house was ajar. After instructing Lindsay to stay out of sight, Green walked back and hopped into the surveillance cruiser.

“I called you as soon as he arrived,” the patrol woman said. “He's been in there about ten minutes.”

“Loading things into his van?”

“No, sir. He hasn't come out at all.”

“What was he wearing? Carrying?”

“Jeans, a black shirt and a red fleece vest. Not carrying anything.”

Green pondered his options. The man did not appear to have a weapon, although no one knew what he had already stashed inside. Green sent the patrol woman's junior partner back to sit with Lindsay and directed the patrol woman to accompany him. Together they slipped into the house and listened at the interior door. Nothing but the creak of floors and the rustling of what sounded like papers. Green banged on the door.

There was no answer. The faint sound of movement ceased. Green knocked again, his best, authoritative police knock. He heard a curse, footsteps, and the door flew open. The man looming before him was well over six feet, trim, handsome and lithe on his feet despite his grey hair. He peered down at Green irritably.

“Yes?”

Green flashed his badge and pushed past him into the room. A quick scan revealed that some of the paintings were gone and that the filing cabinet drawers were open. Stacks of papers littered the mahogany dining table.

“Who are you?” Green snapped.

“And who the hell are you?”

“You're trespassing, sir. Please answer the question.”

“I'm Dr. David Rosenthal. I have every right to be here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Rosenthal. I'm Inspector Green, in charge of your father's investigation. These premises are still under police authority—” A small lie, but the man got his back up. “Nothing is to be touched or removed until we release it.”

“It's my property! I'm his heir.”

“The disposition of his property is a matter for the courts, and his executor. Surely, Dr. Rosenthal, you're aware of proper procedure.”

Rosenthal grunted and turned away. “I've already spoken to his lawyer. There's nothing valuable here. I'm taking a few personal papers and some paintings my mother bought years ago.”

“Why did you not contact the police when you heard of your father's death? You must have known we wanted to speak to you.”

“Oh, I'm sorry if I violated proper procedure. I was reacting to my father's death.”

“Yet the first thing you do upon arriving in town is to try to spirit things out of his apartment.”

“My
things. Therefore mine to take. And I resent your insinuations. I didn't ‘spirit' them. I don't have a lot of time to pick up what little I want of this.” He flicked his hand to encompass the elegant but shabby old-fashioned furniture.

Green was tempted to tell him about the new will, which he either didn't know about or was pretending not to know about. But he resisted the cheap gesture of retaliation. There would come a better time for that. Instead he asked for some identification. After a pause, Rosenthal produced his passport. American. Green studied it for a few seconds longer than necessary, flipping through the pages to see the visas and customs stamps. The ex-wife was right; the man travelled all over the world.

Rosenthal said nothing, feigning disinterest. Green thought it telling that he had expressed no curiosity about his father's case, not even asking how he'd died, let alone at whose hand.

“I understand you and your father were estranged.”

Rosenthal tucked his passport back into his pocket as if buying himself time. “Is that a crime up here?”

“I'm wondering why you didn't contact the police for details when you arrived.”

“I got all the details I needed online.” He grimaced. “Sounded like a pointless mugging by a couple of immigrant thugs. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

“Nonetheless, sir—”

“Am I under arrest here? Because otherwise I'd like you to leave. You're trespassing—”

Green's temper flashed, but he clamped it down. He wanted Rosenthal to lose his temper, not himself. “No,
you're
trespassing, Mr. Rosenthal. And refusing to answer police questions—”

“Because I know they'll be pointless!” Rosenthal shot back. “I haven't seen my father in ten years, we didn't communicate, he didn't even know he has a grandson! I have no idea what he was doing with his life or who his friends or enemies are, although I bet there are few of the former. The man had lots of time for broken souls, but plain ordinary human warmth was in short supply. I don't recall ever meeting a single genuine friend of his growing up. I have no idea who might have killed him and frankly I don't give a rat's ass—”

“Then why refuse—”

“Because I'm not an idiot. I know you'll be trying to pin this on me. The only son, a high flyer, caught in the middle of the global economic meltdown, estranged from his father but set to inherit the father's millions. I know cops. Imagination is not a big requirement of the job. I figured up here in this keystone cop backwater, I'd be your number one suspect!”

Green burst out laughing. “I'm sorry. You'd be the darling of my superiors. They don't like my imagination either.”

Rosenthal darkened from red to purple. He stepped forward as if to take a swing, then checked himself. Drawing himself up, he stepped backwards with a mock bow. “There you go. I expect I've answered all your questions.”

“All but one,” said Green, still smiling. “Where were you on the night of September—”

A prolonged horn blared outside. Distant but approaching fast. Instantly alert to trouble, Green and the patrolwoman rushed to the bay window. Metal flashed in the sun as Brian Sullivan's brand new black Chevy pick-up slewed across the lawn on the corner and rocketed towards them at full speed, horn blasting. The patrol woman cried aloud, while Green stood frozen, unable to move as before his horrified eyes, the truck smashed headlong into Green's staff car, obliterating the back end.

The bang shattered the calm of the street. Glass and metal flew from the impact and ricocheted off other vehicles in the road. The horn stopped abruptly, replaced by an ominous hiss.