This Thing of Darkness (22 page)

“But he was getting
CPR
,” she said. “And he's alive. That's already a huge plus in cardiac arrest cases.”

“But for what? To be an invalid? A vegetable?”

She slipped her arm through his as they walked down the street. “We don't know that. Let's hope.”

“And if he wakes up, he's going to know he killed a twenty-year-old girl. He has to live with that.”

“I know, and that's tragic. Poor girl. But it was an accident, hardly his fault.”

Green gazed up through the tall, brooding trees into the sky. Pinpoints of starlight showered the inky expanse. So far away. Some long dead. “I think he may have known he was in trouble,” he began slowly. “Mary said he was afraid to tell me. She didn't say what, but maybe he knew he wasn't well.” He shook his head impatiently. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. Because of us, that girl is dead. She was an innocent kid just trying to help the investigation. I put her in harm's way, and Brian killed her. We can't either of us escape—” He broke off. Took a deep, ragged breath.

Sharon stopped him and drew him to a nearby bench on the edge of the hospital grounds. She took his hands in hers. She said nothing, but he felt his defences slowly crumble. He wanted to flee, to scream, to drive a knife into his insides to gut out the pain.

“Brian came because I insisted. He knew there was something wrong, but he pushed his limits because I insisted. He had that heart attack because I—”

“He would have had that heart attack anyway, honey. Maybe when he was driving 100k an hour on the Queensway, taking a bunch of other innocent drivers with him.”

“But this was an innocent girl who was there because I put her there. She didn't even want to stay, because she was late for class, but once again, I insisted.”

She scrutinized him in the darkness for a moment, then sighed. “This was in connection to the Rosenthal case?”

He nodded. “She was going to
ID
a young woman who had regular visits with Rosenthal. Brian was bringing a photo line-up to show her. Because, damn it, I couldn't wait till tomorrow. Levesque is all set to railroad the Somali kid, and I was determined to find out who this mystery woman was and what she had to do with the murder.”

Sharon pulled back, her gaze probing. “What did she look like?”

“I don't know. Another stupid thing. I didn't even get a decent description from Lindsay, only that she thought the woman was young and a prostitute. I've been out of the trenches for so long, I don't even follow basic procedures!”

“What makes you think the woman has anything to do with Rosenthal's death?”

“Nothing specific. It's just a coincidence that has to be clarified. The woman apparently visited Rosenthal at his apartment most Saturday nights. We don't know if it was for sex or—”

“He was pretty old.”

Green shot her a glance but squelched a protest. “He'd also been known to try to help people. One of my street sources says he kept an eye on the street kids. Anyway, for whatever reason, this woman was a regular visitor, but the night he died, she didn't show. But a sex trade worker was seen on video close to the scene.”

Sharon shivered and rubbed her arms. The night wind had picked up. “Do you have the photos from Brian's line-up?”

He was jolted. “Probably still in the truck. When we hauled him out of the truck, he had nothing with him.” He swung on her, energized. “The truck was towed to our forensic bays, waiting for the Special Investigations team to take a look at it. We should get the photos out of it. They're crucial to the Rosenthal case.”

“Are there other people who can identify this mystery woman?”

“Maybe others in the apartment building. It's worth showing the line-up to them.”

To his surprise, she stood up. “How far are these forensic bays?”

“Down at headquarters.”

“We'll take my car. I'll drive.”

He flexed his bandaged hands. “No, I can—”

“You're in shock, Mike. I'll drive.”

“But what about Tony? Hannah?”

“Hannah is more than capable.” Sharon was heading down the street when she turned and slipped her arm through his to pull him along. “Come on, Mike. This is one way I can share the burden a bit with you.”

He felt his steps quicken. It would fill the long, agonizing hours of waiting, and it would give him a much-needed focus. It would ensure that what Lindsay started did not die with her, and give him something to report to Sullivan when he finally woke up.

“Oh my God.” Sharon breathed the words with awe. They were standing inside the first forensic bay in front of what was left of Green's beige Impala staff car. It was still sitting on the flatbed tow truck, awaiting the first of the forensic collision specialists. Involuntarily she reached over to clutch his arm. “You could have been in there.”

Amid the despair and self-recrimination of the past six hours, that thought had never occurred to him. His reaction now surprised him. If only he had been, instead of Lindsay Corsin.

“It's hard to be comforted when a young woman is dead and a rookie patrolman faces months of rehab.”

“How is he?”

The ambulance had taken the young man to a different hospital, but his partner had been phoning in with regular updates. “Broken bones, ruptured spleen, concussion. Not to mention every inch of his body is in pain from the impact.” He studied the jagged hunk of metal in the brilliant light of the overhead beams. The truck had hit the rear right corner, and its higher bumper had ridden right up over the trunk, crushing the rear and side windows. The vehicle parked in front of the Impala had blocked its forward momentum, causing it to crumple like an accordion.

Sitting on the right side, Lindsay hadn't stood a chance, as the relentless bumper, having demolished the trunk and the seat back, zeroed in on her skull. Sullivan must never see this, Green thought.

The duty officer was standing at their side with the sign-in log in his hand. He shook his head. “Hell of a mess. I see it all the time when these supersized pick-ups and
SUV
s hit passenger cars. Even worse with the tractor trailers, of course. We'd have been scraping her up off the pavement.”

Green gave him a sharp look before turning to look at the pick-up in the next bay. Sullivan's new pride and joy, intended to carry him not only out to deer hunting camp but well into his retirement years as well. It had sustained almost no damage beyond the shattered windows and the crumpled grill, but Green doubted Sullivan would ever be able to look at it again. He could still see the bloody threads of his jacket caught on the glass shards of the driver's window.

Sharon was still holding his arm and her grip tightened. “You pulled him out through there?”

It looked impossible, yet he barely remembered the strain, only the desperation. And something else. David Rosenthal hammering Sullivan's chest with a sharp blow, a risky move that can do more harm than good at the hands of a novice. Not for the first time, Green wondered what would have happened to Sullivan if Rosenthal hadn't been there.

He shivered and strode briskly up to the cab of the pick-up. He peered inside and there, strewn across the floor of the passenger side was a sheaf of papers. He was about to grasp the passenger side handle when his years of training kicked in.

“Has Ident been here to photograph all this?”

The duty officer shook his head. “Tomorrow, they said. They're still at the scene.”

Green remembered the pair of them consulting with the collision investigators and fanning out over the scene. They had videoed and photographed every inch of the crash site, including the truck, from every angle, inside and out. That ought to be enough. He grappled with the handle in his bandaged hands and began to search through the papers, lifting the edges carefully so as not to disturb the array of photos.

It was a good line-up. They were all photos of young women in partial profile, most of them stock photos from police archives doctored to appear amateurish. Only one did he recognize—the grainy photo of the hooker from the pawn shop security camera. He hesitated only a fraction of a second before scooping the photos back into their folder and taking them all out of the truck. It went against all procedure, but he was the boss of this whole section; he didn't have to seek permission.

Sharon had been pressing in, peering over his shoulder. Now as he straightened up, she looked at him expectantly. “How do the photos look?”

“It might be hard to identify the woman, but it's worth a try.” He signed the duty officer's log and headed out of the garage.”

Sharon scrambled to follow him. “What now?”

He glanced at his watch. Nine thirty. “Now's as good a time as ever. Maybe I can catch some of the other tenants at home.” He glanced at her. “If you want to go home, my own car is right over there. I should be able to drive.”

She was eyeing the folder with alarm, as if she were worried about his obsessive state. But paradoxically, he felt better than he had since the accident. He had something to do. But she shook her head as she opened the driver's door. “I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're post-traumatic, and whether you know it or not, your judgement is impaired.”

He snorted but didn't rise to the bait. What did she think twenty-five years on the force had taught him? Instead, he let her drive while he turned his attention to the photo. The photography tech had done a nice job of cleaning up the prostitute's image. Green could make out a fur coat falling open over her chest and long, loose hair framing a pale, delicate face. On second inspection, she didn't look as young as he'd thought. Her facial muscles carved valleys that gave her the apprehensive yet defiant expression of a woman who's spent years on guard against something ill-defined and hostile.

They were stopped at a red light, and he sensed Sharon's eyes straying to the photo curiously. He held it up for her. “With every street person there's a story to be told.”

“How do you know it's a street person?”

“I don't. But she was out on Rideau Street by herself dressed like pretty much every other street prostitute, around the time of Sam Rosenthal's murder. Hardly the time for a regular stroll.”

Sharon said nothing, instead dedicating herself to the challenge of navigating downtown on a Friday night. The streets were full of young people walking in clusters, some headed for the clubs, others on cellphones trying to make plans, some perhaps even going to spend much needed time at the university library. Nelson Street was still partially cordoned off as the last of the investigators measured marks on the pavement and sampled minuscule bits of debris, all to aid them in their reconstruction of the accident. The crowds of onlookers had long gone, and Number 235 had a dark, forlorn look. Two of its five occupants were dead.

Two of the other occupants were not home, but a light shone in the window of the top floor. He and Sharon climbed the stairs, and as they drew nearer, Green heard the chatter of a young child and the sound of running water. Eventually an East Indian man answered the door with a pyjama-clad toddler on his hip. He looked damp from exertion, and his expression was wary. Probably understandable, given the murder, the break-in and the accident outside the building.

When he spotted Green's badge, his wariness vanished. “I already told the police everything I know,” he said in a precise Indian accent. “I wasn't here, and my wife was in the back. All she heard was a bang.”

“It's not about the accident, sir. I have some questions about Dr. Rosenthal.”

“I'm very sorry about him. His son was already here earlier, telling my wife he was going to sell the building.” The man's eyes flashed with anger. “I have only six months left on my course work, then I return to Sri Lanka. It is very inconvenient for us.”

“I wouldn't worry just yet. I would wait for the official word from the estate executor,” Green remarked drily. “May I have your and your wife's names for my records?”

Dutifully the man supplied the names, spelling the impossibly long surname without being asked. “Most people call me Dharma. Please come in.”

Inside, the tiny gabled apartment smelled of spices. Green recognized the furniture as second-hand
IKEA
, but bright colours and knickknacks were everywhere and plastic toys littered the floor. Dharma shoved these aside hastily with his toe and gestured Green and Sharon to a small sofa covered with an ornate red throw. Even before they sat down, Dharma was offering them tea. Sharon moved to decline, but Green suspected that hospitality was important to the man. Dharma shouted their order, presumably to his wife in the back.

“Thank you for taking the time,” Green began. “I'm making inquiries about people who visited Dr. Rosenthal in recent weeks.”