Читать книгу Do or Die - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 5

The Village of Rockcliffe Park was not a village in any normal sense of the word, except perhaps in exclusivity. It was a tree-lined enclave perched on a bluff above the Ottawa river, surrounded by the bustling city and boasting the highest per capita income of any municipality in Canada. Mercedes and Volvos sat discreetly on shaded drives, and massive beds of peonies and irises framed the old stone mansions. Even the heat was tempered.

The living room of Marianne Blair’s Rockcliffe mansion was painted Wedgwood blue, perfectly offsetting the rose floral love seats which framed the Persian rug. A discreet, oldmonied room, perfect for a rich benefactress, Green thought, except that the designer had neglected to take a good look at the owner. Marianne Blair contrasted harshly with her surroundings, at least in her current raw state. She hunched on the edge of a love seat, dressed in a shapeless brown sweat suit, her gray hair askew and large jowls quivering.

Her personal assistant stationed himself at her side, glaring at Green. Weiss had met the detective at the front door, wrinkling his nose visibly at Green’s suit and inspecting his ID for a conspicuously long time. Green knew that at five feet, ten inches, with mousey brown hair and hazel eyes, he was remarkable only for his nose. It was the only visible trace of his Semitic heritage, which was generally honoured more in the breach than in the observance.

His parents were both Holocaust survivors who had lost their first families to the ovens, and they had an almost paranoid fear of public exposure. They had met in a displaced persons camp in Cyprus after the war, but it had taken them nearly fifteen years to risk having a child, and even then the Jewish festivals had been muted, secretive affairs. Green had grown up with Hasidic folktales and Klezmer clarinets ringing in his ears, but outside the family walls, his parents cautioned their sandy-haired, hazel-eyed boy to keep his Jewishness to himself.

In the modern, urban world into which he moved, that proved seductively easy. He belonged to no synagogue or Jewish groups, worked in an entirely non-Jewish environment, had almost no Jewish friends and none of the previous women in his life, including his first wife, had been Jewish. His recent marriage to Sharon Levy had been as much of a surprise to him as it had been to his father. Although Sharon had been trying to introduce some Jewish traditions into their family life since the birth of their son, Green’s identity still found its main outlet in his commitment to smoked meat, bagels and Nate’s Delicatessen.

But for some, the nose was enough to fire up old myths and prejudices, and whether Weiss had reacted to the nose or the odour of his suit, Green couldn’t be sure. Weiss had swivelled on his heel without a word and led the way across the vast marble foyer into the mercifully air-conditioned interior. He moved with impeccable grace, but his blue linen suit was buttoned wrong, and his toupee dipped over one ear. Not quite recovered from this morning’s excursion after all, Green thought with some satisfaction.

On the drive over, he had tried to plan his interview strategy. Marianne Blair, he had learned from Jules’ briefing file, was the only child of a wealthy British Columbia shipping magnate who had made his fortune as a young man shipping timber from the virgin forests of the young province. He had diversified into oil and real estate later in life and had established the Lindmar Foundation as a means of purchasing immortality, as well as tax relief. To groom his daughter for her role as elegant patroness, he had sent her first to Eastern private schools and later to universities in British Columbia and Europe. But rumour had it that beneath the civilized veneer, Marianne Blair was her father’s clone: willful, self-indulgent and stubborn as a mule.

Green had expected to find her raging mad and demanding vengeance. Judging from the way the law enforcement top brass had jumped to attention earlier, he had thought he would be bullied and threatened. But seated opposite her now, looking into her eyes, he saw no fire in them. Only bewilderment. She was a mother like any other at this moment, he thought, and felt himself relax. With her permission, he set his tape recorder on the table so that he could give her his full attention.

“Mrs. Blair, I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I need to know about your son. Are you up to answering a few questions?”

She nodded, and he began. She had last seen Jonathan at breakfast yesterday, she said. They lived alone with a housekeeper; Jonathan was an only child, his parents divorced. It had been just like any other morning. Jonathan was an early riser, and she had a busy schedule ahead of her so they had eaten about seven. They had spoken little, but that too was usual. They liked each other’s company but did not feel compelled to talk. She had reports to read, and he was absorbed in a journal article. He had always been a voracious reader and never sat at the table without a book in hand. He had commented that he would be at the university all day and wasn’t sure when he would be home. This too was usual. He spent much of his time in his lab or the library.

“Did he tell you what he planned to do yesterday? Anyone he planned to meet?”

She shook her head. “We didn’t really talk.”

“To your knowledge, did your son use drugs?” He saw her stiffen. Weiss started to protest, but Green cut him off. “It’s confidential, Mrs. Blair, but I have to know.”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I need the names of all known friends and associates.”

“Peter said you’d need that information, so we’ve prepared a list. We haven’t got all the phone numbers, I’m afraid, but we’ll keep working on it.” She glanced across at Weiss expectantly, and he slipped out of the room.

“Thank you.” Green watched until he had disappeared, then leaned forward. Without Weiss, he had a much better chance of reaching her. “Do you know of anyone who might have had reason to kill your son?”

She sighed, and some of the stiffness seemed to dissipate. “I have racked my brains over and over, and I can’t for the life of me think who might have done this. Or why. It makes no sense.”

“Did he have any enemies?” She was shaking her head. “Any conflicts, any fights with anyone?”

“No! Jonathan avoided conflict. He was too nice; people walked all over him. He never seemed to get angry— something he certainly didn’t get from me.” Unexpectedly, she faltered. “But he was a wonderful boy. I’m not criticizing him. He was generous, sensitive, forgiving. Sometimes I was afraid of what life would do to him. And look what it’s done.”

“Was there anything out of the ordinary about him yesterday? Anything he said? His mood? Behaviour?”

She breathed deeply to collect herself. “Actually, he did seem tense. Distracted. He poured juice into his cereal.” A smile trembled on her lips. “I asked him if anything was wrong, but Jonathan is a private person. He’s used to solving his own problems—a casualty of having a busy mother, I guess. If something was troubling him, he became even quieter until he’d worked it out.” She cocked her head thoughtfully. “In fact, he’s been quieter the whole past week or so.”

“Did you get the impression something was troubling him?”

She pressed her large, coarse hand to her lips. A faraway look had crept into her eyes. “I think he was going to tell me. The night before he died. He came downstairs from studying about eleven o’clock, and he asked me if I wanted tea. I said I was going to bed, so he went back upstairs. But…he looked upset. Oh, God.” She put her face in her hands.

Green hated tears. He panicked at the thought that he might have to provide solace. Watching her quiver on the brink, he plunged ahead.

“Do you have any idea what it might have been? Was there anything going on in his life that might have been on his mind?”

She rallied with an effort and rubbed her eyes on her sleeve. Green glanced around the room for a kleenex, but the tables held nothing but china figurines. He wondered what room they really lived in.

“I don’t know,” she replied when she could speak. “He’s been working very hard in his lab, but he loves his work. Jonathan leads—” she stumbled, chin quivering “—led a quiet life. He just had his studies, a small circle of friends, cycling on the weekend. I worried it was too quiet, too restricted a life for a young man. He takes after his father that way, not me.”

“Any girlfriends?”

“Not now, but Jonathan attracts girls. Partly his money, but also his gentleness. And he’s a very handsome man. He’s always been a little bewildered by what his looks do to women.”

“Any recent break-ups? Any vengeful women?”

“A fairly recent break-up, yes. But I believe it was amicable. I can’t imagine Vanessa being vengeful, she’s far too bright. Too much her own woman.”

He sensed an edge, but perhaps it was just natural maternal jealousy. His own mother had never considered any of the many girls in his youth good enough for him either. Of course, considering the girls he had picked…“Vanessa?” he probed gently.

“Vanessa Weeks, one of his classmates. They’d been dating for almost a year, but they broke up last month. I don’t know why, actually, because I had the feeling Jonathan still cared for her.”

“Maybe it was her idea.”

“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Blair drew her brows together. “She called here one night a few weeks ago looking for him, and we talked. She seemed very fond of him. Said he was shutting her out, and she was very worried about him. I’d say she was upset, but certainly not angry. Jonathan is so nice he’s hard to get mad at.” She looked rueful. “Something else he gets from his father.”

“Where is his father?”

“Vancouver. Jonathan hasn’t seen him in some time.” Her voice was flat, but she reddened slightly, and Green sensed a surge of hidden feeling. Bitterness? Fear? Or something else.

“Mrs. Blair, do you have any enemies, anyone who might want to send you a warning or punish you for something?”

“Punish me?” Her eyes widened as the connection hit her.

“You’re thinking of Jonathan’s father? Ridiculous. Henry adored Jonathan, would lay down his life for him. I am by far the less important person in Henry’s life.”

Something else, Green decided. Maybe regret. He filed the observation away. “How about other enemies? Disgruntled business associates, psychotic artists?”

A shadow passed over her face, gone before he was even sure it was there. She squared her shoulders and jutted out her chin. “Sure, I have enemies. You can’t deal in money without angering someone. Peter Weiss handles them.”

“Anyone threaten you? Threaten your family?”

She scowled, the softness of a moment ago quite gone. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector. I can be abrasive, but no one hates me that much.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Blair, there are all kinds of nuts out there. Would Mr. Weiss even bother to tell you?”

Her eyes hardened, and she stared at him for a moment. Then colour suffused her face. “If he didn’t, there would be hell to pay.”

Weiss hustled back into the room, paper in hand. Green had heard no footsteps approaching on the marble and wondered if Weiss had been listening at the door all this time.

“Peter!” she snapped. “Have there been any threats against Jonathan that you haven’t told me about?”

Weiss stopped in his tracks. “Certainly not, Marianne. Our investigators don’t tell me all the details, of course—”

“Bullshit!”

Weiss coloured. “But I’m sure anything as important as that—”

Mrs. Blair swung on him, eyes blazing. The fighter had returned. “I want you to tell this officer everything! If I find out you’re withholding information that he needs to find my son’s killer, you’ll be pumping gas in Flin Flon!”

The sight of Weiss’ face was repayment enough for the pompous aide’s earlier disdain, and Green was hard put to keep a smile off his own. Returning to more neutral ground, he spent ten minutes trying to trace Jonathan’s movements on the three days before his death. He learned that Marianne Blair knew very little about her son’s daily life, a discovery which distressed her but did not surprise him. How much had he let his own mother know about his activities in the years before she died?

Afterwards, Weiss showed him upstairs so that he could search Jonathan’s room. It took little time. The small room contained nothing but a single bed, dresser, desk, computer and shelves and shelves of books. His closet held a modest collection of conservative but expensive leisure clothes, as well as two dress suits and a Harris tweed sports coat. His desk was crammed with notes, articles and papers, but there was no diary, address book or appointment calendar to shed light on his activities. If Jonathan Blair kept any personal records, he kept them elsewhere.

On the desk lay a computer printout of a complex statistical analysis which Jonathan had obviously been studying. Red underlinings and asterisks peppered the pages. Was this what Jonathan had been working on the night before his death, when he had come down to his mother, upset and wanting to talk? Green examined the printout curiously but could make little sense of it. He had been forced to confront statistics for his forensic science course at the police academy as well as his masters thesis in criminology, but he had avoided them when possible ever since.

He was puzzled, however, by the array of numbers on the desk of an English literature student, and became even more so when he turned to the books on the shelves. He expected Chaucer, Dickens and an entire shelf of Shakespearean plays. Instead, he found formidable tomes on disorders of the limbic system and the neuropsychology of memory. Suddenly he remembered Marianne Blair’s use of the word ‘lab’ and cursed himself for failing to pick up on it. In the excitement of Sullivan’s tale earlier, they had both made the leap from the place where Jonathan was stabbed to the subject matter he was studying. A rookie’s error in logic, which neither should have made.

Pulling out the nearest book on the brain, he headed back downstairs and found Marianne Blair on the phone in the living room, looking all business.

“What was Jonathan working on at the university?” Startled, she swung on him and pressed her hand over the receiver. “He was doing his Masters in cognitive neuroscience, conducting research on auditory channels in the brain.”

“Does he have an office at the university?” “A lab. At least he has a desk, computer and files somewhere. I’ve never been there.”

“Did he have an associate? Was he working with anyone?” “Oh yes. There’s a whole group of graduate students, most of whom are on the list I gave you. They’re all working under Dr. Myles Halton.”

There was respect in her voice as she uttered the name, as if her accomplishments were nothing compared to his.

Green had never heard of him. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“To a neuropsychologist, yes. He’s one of the up-and-coming experts on language and the brain. Students from all over Canada, even the world, would sell their souls for the chance to work with him.”

*

The ten detectives from the Major Crimes Squad had been waiting for half an hour by the time Green barrelled through the door of the conference room. Sullivan had installed them in the unrenovated briefing room walled in blackboards and cork, for which Green secretly thanked him. How he hated the high-tech flash that passed for progress in modern meetings. More time was wasted fiddling with control buttons than it took to fill an entire chalkboard with facts.

Sullivan had used the waiting time to brief them on the background of the case and to pin sketches and photographs of the scene to the cork board on the wall. It took Green an additional ten minutes to report on his visit to the Blair house.

“You are to keep the procedural screw-ups strictly to yourselves,” he admonished in the most inspectorish tone he could muster. “I’ve looked at the case, and I don’t think the crime scene would have told us a hell of a lot more anyway. Jonathan Blair was a quiet, law-abiding kid with no priors, not even a speeding ticket. There aren’t any obvious motives for his murder, and we certainly have no ready suspects. But we’ve got more than enough leads to follow. As the facts stand now, and ruling out robbery and psychos, there are three possible motives. The first two, given the age of the victim, are predictable.”

Green turned to the blackboard and wrote a word in block letters. “Drugs. Was a deal going down in that remote section of the library? Jonathan Blair had no wallet in his possession. No money was found at the scene. But Ident has vacuumed every inch of the carpet in the vicinity, and if some drugs spilled, they’ll find them. The forensic pathologist is working on Blair’s body now, and he’ll tell us if Blair was a user. Meanwhile, we use our standard investigative techniques. Ask his associates, check his bank accounts.”

He jotted the words “forensics, autopsy, interviews, bank” under “Drugs” and moved over to write a new column. “Passion. Blair attracted girls. His mother says there was a recent break-up; check into it, check into jilted lovers and jealous rivals. According to his mother, Jonathan never got angry and never treated people badly, a rose-tinted view of her boy. Let’s find out the truth. He was twenty-four years old, single, rich and handsome. There’s got to be some skeletons.”

Green studied the men around the conference table. He had worked with most of them in the fourteen years he had been solving major crimes. Jules was no fool. He had given Green the ten best officers on the Squad. Sometimes when Green took a personal interest in a case, he ended up doing much of the field work himself because he doubted the competence of anyone else. It didn’t make him popular with the staff sergeant who managed the squad or with the brass, who liked their pigeon holes, but it felt good to be on the streets again.

The men before him were all solid, experienced investigators who needed little direction, but Deputy Chief Lynch’s personal interest added an extra twist. Thoughtfully Green turned to the third column on the blackboard and wrote “Innocent Bystander”, debating how much to let his own disdain and suspicion show through.

“That’s the third motive in this case, the one that Lynch believes most likely. Jonathan Blair may be dead simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, standing in the medieval literature section of the university library while a heavy drug deal went down. Or while some freshman got mugged for his bus money.”

There was a cautious ripple of laughter. The detectives generally shared Green’s view of the top brass, but they never knew who the spies might be.

Green shrugged, deadpan. “It is possible. So check it out, get the help of university security, ask the drug squad, poke around to see if anyone saw anything suspicious last night.”

Green dusted chalk dust off his hands and stepped away from the board. “That’s it. I don’t have any idea which motive is right. Maybe it’s something else entirely. I don’t think it was robbery, but his wallet was missing, so ask his friends how much money he usually carried around with him. I also don’t think it was a psycho. Too clean. So we have five things we need to do.” Green picked up the chalk again. “One team— Watts and Charbonneau—you search for possible witnesses to the crime. I know the guys last night did a routine canvass of people who were at the library, but I want us to do it again. Set up a hotline and advertise it on the radio stations and in the newspapers, on the University’s PA system. Another thing you can do is check the computer records of books taken out or returned on the evening of June 9, especially with call numbers from the fourth floor.”

Watts and Charbonneau exchanged grimaces. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Lots of work and very little payoff.

“The second team—Jackson and Laplante—find out all you can about the victim, including his friends and his recent movements.” Green paused as a small inconsistency niggled into his thoughts. “Blair was studying neuropsychology, which is on the fifth floor of the library. He was killed on the fourth, plus he was killed in a remote corner, not a place you’d usually pass going from one part of the library to another. Find out what he was doing in the literature section.

“The third team—Gibbs and O’Neil—get the autopsy and forensic results, bug them until every last detail is in, and follow up any lead they give. If there are none, help Watts and

Charbonneau. Don’t bug me for every little thing. You guys know your job, but if anybody gets a major break, radio me ASAP.”

He paused a moment, scanning the scribbling on the board. “The fourth team is to conduct a search of Blair’s university lab and interview all his professors, fellow students and associates who aren’t on Jackson’s list. That’s a big job. Goodwin, you better work with Perchesky and Proulx on it.” He grinned at the last remaining detective unassigned. “Brian, you’re coming with me.”

“And what are we doing?” “We’re going to start with the woman who discovered the crime.”

*

Carrie MacDonald had been given the day off to recover from the shock, but it didn’t seem to Green that she needed it. She had just washed her hair, and it was piled high on her head in a pink towel when she greeted the two detectives at her door. Her blue terry cloth robe gaped slightly over her breasts, and her cheeks were pink from the shower. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Sullivan.

“Hi, Sergeant! Are you on duty again?”

“Still,” he muttered.

“You’ll need some coffee, then.” She stepped back to allow them to squeeze past her into the narrow hall. “I sure need it. Boy, what a night we had!”

Green bristled. Carrie MacDonald seemed to have overlooked him completely as she turned to lead them down the dimly lit hall. Sullivan was five inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than he was. He looked like a cop, and people responded instinctively to his authority. His ruggedness appealed to women, evoking some primal suppliant need in them, but all this was wasted on him. Sullivan had loved his wife since he was sixteen and seemed impervious to the fire in other women’s eyes.

Green, on the other hand, drifted through a crowd unobserved. His boyish freckled face evoked nothing except the occasional urge to mother him. At times it was an advantage, when he wanted to be unnoticed or underestimated, but there were times when it was a curse.

“I’m Inspector Green,” he said sharply at her retreating back. “I’m in charge of the investigation.”

“Oh!” She turned her blue eyes on him in surprise. “Sorry, I thought you were...” She let her dismissal of him go unvoiced and gestured him into her kitchen. Standing on tiptoe, she rummaged in her cupboard for two mismatched mugs, one with the university crest and the other featuring the slogan “World’s Greatest Mom”. She poured two coffees, then pulled her robe over her breasts self-consciously.

“Do you guys mind if I get some clothes on? I’ll be two minutes.”

True to her word, she emerged two minutes later, barefoot but clad in blue jeans and black t-shirt. Her hair tumbled damp and honeyed down her back, swinging as she prepared her own cup.

Joining them at the table she smiled. “How can I help you guys today?”

Her frank smile and the honey hair falling over one eye unnerved him. Control was essential during an interview, and this one was starting off all wrong. To regroup, he dropped his gaze to his notebook and riffled the pages officiously. Normally, he would have let Sullivan take the notes, but this time he sensed he was going to need the prop. “I’d like to review the information you gave Sergeant Sullivan last night, and see if there’s anything else you’ve remembered since.”

Dutifully, she related the events leading up to her discovery of the body. By the time she had finished, Green felt back in full control.

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Hear anything? Any voices? Signs of a struggle? Any items on the floor— money, a wallet?”

Her eyes were grave as she searched her recollections. She’s no fool, Green thought. Sexy, but sharp. She knows what she saw, and she’ll be good on the witness stand.

“It’s strange, actually,” she said, “that I didn’t notice anything. I mean, how does a guy get stabbed only a hundred feet away in a deserted room and you don’t hear a thing? Of course, my cart squeaked—I was meaning to fix it—so I only heard the guy groaning once I stopped my cart to get this book.”

“How long was it from the time you left the elevators till you found the victim?”

“Only two or three minutes. I had only returned half a dozen books.”

Green studied the diagram he had constructed. The bank of elevators in the centre was the only exit route from the fourth floor except for the fire stairs at each far corner. It would have been impossible to get into an elevator without being seen by Carrie MacDonald as she sorted books. The paramedics and other medical personnel estimated from the nature of the wound and the amount of blood lost that Blair was stabbed no more than half an hour before the paramedics arrived. If the information in the logs could be trusted, the paramedics arrived on the scene twelve minutes after the 911 call. Allowing a few minutes for university security to relay the call, that meant Blair was stabbed less than fifteen minutes before she found him. Probably a lot less.

To escape, the killer had three options. He could have taken the stairs, in which case he would have escaped unnoticed. He could have walked directly past Carrie and got on the elevator, which meant that he had to wait for it in plain view of her, covered in blood from his shirt sleeves to his shoes. Or he could have hidden in one of the side aisles until she set off with her cart and then slipped to the elevator. It was a mere two or three minutes before Carrie discovered the victim and returned to make the call.

“Did you see anyone around when you called security?”

“Just one student waiting at the elevator. I yelled at him to go meet the ambulance, but he was so freaked, he pulled the fire alarm instead.”

Green’s antennae quivered. “Can you give me a description of this student?”

She searched her thoughts, chewing her lip. “It happened so fast, and…I was so shaken up. Things are just a blur. All I remember is thick dark hair and a red top. Plaid, I think.”

“You said ‘he’. What makes you sure it was a male?” “He was kind of tall. And there was something about his face...” She shut her eyes, remembering. “I think he had a mustache. Yes, a big, dark mustache.”

Green leaned forward, willing her to focus. “Did you notice anything unusual about him? Was he breathing hard? Seem scared? Did you see anything on him that could have been blood?”

She was shaking her head firmly. “He looked more…bewildered than anything else.”

“Did you actually see him pull the fire alarm?”

“No, but it’s right by the elevator.”

Green turned to Sullivan. “Did you get a lead on him, Brian? Did the rescue guys get a name?”

“I haven’t checked with them yet. I ran out of time.”

Green tossed his notebook down. “What? Call over there and tell them to find him right away!”

“Watts and Charbonneau will be—”

“They’ll think you did it! Who the hell wouldn’t follow up a potential suspect and one of the two witnesses in the case?”

Sullivan flushed red. Pushing away his cup, he glanced at Carrie. “Is there a phone I can use?”

Her eyes were sympathetic as she smiled at him. “In the bedroom. Just ignore the mess.”

With a twinge of guilt, Green watched Sullivan stalk across the room and bang the door shut behind him. When he turned his attention back to Carrie MacDonald, he found her eyes on him appraisingly. There was no sympathy in them now, and he felt his annoyance return.

“Hard taskmaster, aren’t you, Inspector?”

“I expect competence from my men,” he said. “Especially him.”

“He was very competent last night, I assure you. But by now I’d say he’s been without sleep for quite a while.”

“He should be used to that,” he replied, his eyes on his notes. Her level tone, and his own resentment, unsettled him.

“Most of us are a long way from perfect, Inspector.”

“A man has died, and we not only have to find out who did it, but we have to prove it in court, so mistakes are not an option. Now, can we get on with this?”

Chastened, she got up to pour herself another cup of coffee, which gave him time to chastise himself. Jealousy, professional or personal, had no place in police work. By the time she returned to the table, eyes averted, he felt he was back on track.

“Okay, let’s go back to the few minutes when you were sorting books by the elevator, just before you left with the cart. Can you remember who came to the elevator?”

She searched her memory for a long moment, shaking her head. Just as he was about to intervene, she held up her hand. “Give me a minute.” She sat back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap and shut her eyes. She remained immobile, breathing deeply. Without her gaze to unsettle him, he allowed himself to study her. There was a peace and control in her expression that surprised him. An unusual woman, he thought, full of unexpected twists. He found himself looking at her chest as she breathed, watching it swell as she inhaled, stretching the black T-shirt. He felt himself stir in response and hastened to return to his notes. Not that he was upset by his response, which was familiar and harmless, only by the scattering of his thoughts, which he could not afford yet again. He was still trying to collect them when she resumed.

“Only one man stands out in my mind. He was the last one to take the elevator before I began shelving.” She remained with her eyes shut, scanning.

Green hoped his voice was neutral. “Describe him.”

“He was gross. Huge and fat. He wheezed as he waited. At least 275 and six-foot-two. He reminded me of John Candy— you know, the movie star?—but his hair was lighter brown, and he had a silly little mustache. He was into leather, but if he was hoping to score points with it, no woman in her right mind— Oh!” Her eyes flew open, intensely blue. “There was a woman too! Dashed in at the last second. She seemed kind of worried, like she was looking for someone.”

“Any physical details?”

“Kind of hard looking. Blonde, but out of a bottle and with one too many perms. Bony face. Full of angles. It’s hard to describe people in words.” For the first time, she smiled at him, her eyes crinkling and two dimples framing her cheeks. His lustful thoughts took wing again. “I could draw them if you like.”

“You draw?”

“One of my many talents, Inspector. I’ve always doodled, and sometimes the hours at the library are long and boring. I draw sketches of the people I see, just for fun. In fact, I drew a picture of Jonathan Blair last week.”

He stared at her. “You’re kidding!”

She jumped to her feet. “I’ll show it to you. I look for special faces, unique expressions...”

She skipped out of the room, and Green found himself looking around for clues to her many facets. The apartment was small and crammed with cheap furniture. In the corner of the room stood a ten-speed and a child’s bike. Bunched into the cushions of the sagging sofa was a young girl’s jacket, and a pair of children’s rain boots stood by the door. Stacks of notes, books and old newspapers covered most of the surfaces. A busy woman, he thought, full of curiosity and ideas, but not enough hours in the day for them all.

She emerged from the other room holding up a sketchpad in triumph. He was struck by how vividly blue her eyes were. It was an effort to force his down onto the paper she held. Then he received a second surprise. Jonathan Blair gazed out at him from the sketch, sad and contemplative. His face, partly cast in shadow, was breathtakingly handsome. The drawing was brilliant.

“Was he really this handsome?”

Reverence glinted in her eyes as she studied the picture. “Yes, he was. Thick dark hair and blue eyes you could die in. That’s why I noticed him. He was reading this journal article and taking notes, just like any other student on the floor. But then he set down his pen, rested his chin on his hand and stared into space. There was such profound despair on his face! Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He stayed that way for the entire fifteen minutes it took me to draw him.”

“Had you seen him before or since?”

“I had, in fact. He was a regular, and once you see that face you never forget it.”

“Ever talk to him?”

She smiled and shook her head, suddenly sheepish. “No, I keep my fantasies to myself. The last thing I need is a man in my life.”

I don’t know about that, he found himself thinking and pulled himself firmly back on track. “Ever see anyone with him?”

“A few times he had a girl with him. Hung all over him. She was gorgeous, too.”

Green’s pulse quickened. “Describe her.”

“Mediterranean-looking. Maybe Arab or even a light-skinned Indian. Thick, wavy black hair that framed her face like a halo. Large black eyes, long-lashed. That satiny milk chocolate skin that doesn’t have a flaw in it.”

“I can tell you hardly gave her a second glance.”

She laughed. “You’re much nicer when you’re human, Inspector. I can draw her for you too.”

He felt himself flush. “Could you? I’m serious. These are important witnesses. Could you draw all four? The guy who pulled the fire alarm too?”

“No problem. I’ve got the day off and my daughter’s not back from school till three-thirty. I can have them ready for you by tonight.”

He knew there was no further reason to stay. Not with a dozen leads to follow up and his report to Weiss already two hours overdue. He was reluctantly closing his notebook when the bedroom door yanked open and Sullivan emerged, tight-lipped and grim.

“Mike, you’re not going to believe this. Another problem. No one in the rescue crew remembers even seeing a kid in a red plaid shirt!”