Читать книгу Dream Chasers - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 6

Sullivan flicked on the emergency lights, but even so, half a dozen police cruisers and the Ident van had arrived before them and lined the curb of Hog’s Back Road just east of the bridge. Sullivan passed the official vehicles and pulled the Malibu into the parking lot near the edge of the falls. Already they could hear the roar of tons of white water plunging through the gorge.

Green climbed out and glanced around the park. The late afternoon sun glared harshly through the trees and glinted off the shiny silver roof of the fast food pagoda nearby. In all directions he could see meandering paths, grassy knolls and copses of trees. Hog’s Back was much tamer than it had been in his youth, when the sheltered nooks had provided the perfect cover and ambiance for young lovers, and where the high rocks along the gorge beckoned to the daredevil divers seeking thrills in the churning water below. Now the paths were paved, the lawns manicured, and a three-foot ornamental iron fence ran all the way along the top of the gorge to keep the divers out. Knowing the determination and ingenuity of youth, he wondered how successful it was.

Hog’s Back Falls Park was just one section of the ribbon of green spaces that ran along the banks of the Rideau River all the way from the heart of Lowertown to the sandy expanse of Mooney’s Bay. Beaches, picnic areas, woodlands, ball fields and bike paths flowed one into the next, creating an outdoorsman’s paradise but a patrolman’s nightmare. Green considered the sheltering trees and hidden nooks, the dips and turns in the landscape. There were a thousand places for an injured girl to get lost, a thousand places for a killer to hide a body.

“We should seal off all of Hog’s Back Road at both ends,” he said. “And call in K-9.”

With a brief nod, Sullivan set off in search of the duty inspector, who was in charge of deploying resources. Green watched a phalanx of officers from the Public Order Unit methodically combing the grounds in huge boots and grey coveralls, sweeping aside shrubbery with long probes and peering into the shadows beneath the trees. Green realized from their attention to detail that they were looking for physical evidence. This area had already been searched for the girl herself.

A uniformed officer directed him along the riverside path towards the bench beneath which her backpack had been found, about a hundred yards from the pagoda and framed by a semi-circle of tall pines that screened it from casual view. The backpack had been placed in a plastic evidence bin sitting in the path. Ron Leclair, the lead investigator from Missing Persons, squatted by the bin, flipping through a student notebook with a latex-gloved hand.

The bag’s contents were spread out in the bin beside it—a wallet, a folded towel, sandals and three neatly folded articles of clothing, including a green cardigan, a white tank top and a denim skirt. Did that mean she was wearing nothing but panties when she disappeared? Green wondered. Or had she changed into a bathing suit? The folded clothes suggested they had been slowly and deliberately removed rather than ripped from her body in a moment of passion. Or rage.

The entire fifty-foot circle around the bench was cordoned off, and a solitary officer dressed from head to toe in a white jumpsuit stood inside the enclosure, methodically dusting white powder on the painted wooden slats of the bench. Green recognized Sergeant Lyle Cunningham from the Ident Unit, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Ron Leclair was doing this by the book every step of the way, knowing that if this ever became a crime scene, or worse a homicide scene, they would need all the forensics they could get to nail the killer.

At the moment, though, it looked anything but. There were no signs of disturbance, no broken branches or gouged turf to suggest a struggle. The bench sat all alone on the bluff near the end of the gorge, overlooking the white water and the sun silhouetting the high-rises across the river. It was a perfect spot for a romantic tryst, with the backpack tucked safely out of sight in the tall grass beneath. It was also a leisurely ten-minute stroll across Hog’s Back Road from the bustle and crowds of Mooney’s Bay beach. What better place to escape for a moment alone?

The problem was that the romantic tryst had been two days ago. What had happened in the interval, and why in all that time would she not at least have put her clothes back on?

The obvious answer send a sliver of dread down his spine. The black ornamental fence was intended to prevent the public from diving off the bluff into the water, but when he peered over the fence, he spotted a well-worn path meandering along the rocky bluff on the other side, suggesting that many had already breached the barrier in order to get closer to the thrill. The roar of the white water masked the voices of the officers nearby, but from their gestures Green suspected their speculations were much like his. Had she gone over the fence and fallen? Dived? Been pushed?

He followed the fence to its end point downstream, rounded the end and clambered back up the path on the outer side to reach the rocky outcrop. Below him the water tumbled down in foamy chaos. Spray landed cool and slick on his skin, and up close, the roar of the falls thundered in his ears. Suddenly he realized how far the drop was. He clutched the rock face and shut his eyes as dizziness washed over him. Why hadn’t he remembered his fear of heights before embarking on this excursion? Now the safety of the fence was some twenty feet away, and the eyes of half a dozen police officers were fixed on him.

He forced his eyes open and willed them down to study the rough grey rock at his feet. There were no telltale scuffs or drag marks to suggest someone had slipped or been pushed over the edge. Loose bits of gravel and broken glass lay undisturbed. Studying each square centimetre of the ground, he picked his way out over the rock until he was directly opposite the bench. Nothing. If Lea had met with tragedy, there was no sign of it here.

What then? Had she simply run off with a boyfriend? Been carried away by the romance of the moment and lost all track of time? Had they got so drunk or high that her judgment and memory went out the window? But later on, when the drink and the drugs wore off, surely she’d realize she’d forgotten her backpack and return for it. Surely she’d phone her mother.

What girl would leave her mother frantic with worry for two whole days?

Don’t even go there, Green chided himself, acutely conscious of the heavy, silent presence of his cell phone in his pocket. Of course she might, because teenagers are idiots, whose parents’ existence are barely even on their radar. Hours are suddenly days. How time flies when...

“Mike, what the hell are you doing out there!” Sullivan’s voice crashed through his thoughts. He tore his eyes from the ground in front of him to see Sullivan peering down over the fence. Sullivan was one of the few who knew Green was terrified of heights, and his eyes were wide with astonishment.

To Green’s relief, he sized up the situation immediately. “You want a hand over there?”

Green nodded. Sullivan vaulted over the fence and slithered down the slope, grasping at shrubs to slow his pace. Out on the clifftop, he made his way over to Green with sure, nimble strides that belied his bulky frame.

“It doesn’t look as if she fell or was pushed over,” Green shouted, more loudly than he needed, even with the roar of the falls. “There are no marks on the ground.”

Sullivan squinted down into the foam. “There wouldn’t be if she jumped, though. All her clothes were neatly folded like she’d taken them off to go in the water.”

Green shuddered at the thought. “Suicide?”

“Probably just misadventure. We’ll have to ask her mother if she was a good swimmer and liked to dive. The mother should know if her bathing suit is missing too. That will tell us if she set off with a swim in mind.”

Green nodded, but a small inconsistency nagged at the corner of his mind. If she had been wearing a bathing suit, why hadn’t her panties been found among her clothes? “Can we carry on this discussion back up there on flat land?”

Sullivan chuckled. “Sure. Want a hand?”

“No! Just walk behind me.” No point in giving the guys more to laugh about. Green knew that, as a Jew with two university degrees and an aversion to blood and guns, he was an oddity in the locker room as it was. His knees were wobbling when he clambered back over the fence, but he feigned nonchalance. He glanced questioningly towards Ron Leclair, who was just closing the student notebook.

“Not much useful stuff in here that I can see,” Leclair was saying. “It’s her English notebook, seems to be mostly class notes, doodling and lots of stuff that looks like Shakespeare.”

One of the officers guffawed. “Oh, like you’d recognize Shakespeare if he bit you in the ass, Ron.”

Leclair grinned. “Well, it’s not Don Cherry, is all I’m saying.”

“Any names, contacts, phone numbers hidden among the Shakespeare?” Green interrupted.

Leclair sobered as if only just remembering his inspector was here. “Not that I could tell. But maybe you should take a look, sir.”

Green ignored the jibe. He doubted Leclair was aware of the hint of mockery in his tone. Plenty of police officers had university degrees nowadays, and even Green’s masters degree in criminology was not unusual. Unlike Green though, for many it was less about knowledge than about gaining a toehold up the promotional ladder. Leclair himself was ambitious enough that he’d probably go home and read a Shakespeare play that night, so that he could sound better informed in the morning.

Green nodded distractedly. “I want Ident to give everything a thorough going over first,” he said.

Lyle Cunningham looked up from his camera. He had identified one useable print on the left side of the bench where the paint was still fairly new and glossy, and he was focussing his lens for the shot before he lifted it. “I’ll get to it tomorrow. I’ve still got lots to do at the scene here tonight. When it gets dark, I want to check the vicinity for semen and blood.”

Green rifled through his memory quickly. It hadn’t rained since Sunday, which was one blessing, although dozens of lovers and hikers could have trekked through the scene in the last three days. Finding and matching any bodily fluids was a long shot, but all avenues had to be followed up. He was grateful that Cunningham and his partner had been on call. The Ident officer was an obsessive, infuriatingly meticulous pain in the ass, but the evidence he collected and the case he built would be beyond reproach.

“Thanks, Lyle.” Green glanced back at the MisPers sergeant. “Anything useful in her wallet?”

“The kid is a packrat and a doodler. There must be three dozen receipts from her local ATM and Mac’s Milk stuffed into it. It’ll take me awhile to sort through it.”

“Has there been any activity on her bank card in the last two days?”

Leclair shook his head. “The first thing we checked after her known friends. She had a VISA and a TD debit card. Neither has been touched. In fact, her bank account hasn’t been touched since Saturday, and even then there was no big single withdrawal like she was planning to do a bunk. She has a nice couple of grand in there which could have financed a decent trip somewhere, but her mother insists she is saving it for college.”

Green’s heart grew heavy. Their missing girl was looking more and more like everyone’s perfect daughter. Phoned her mother like clockwork, studied Shakespeare and saved her money for college. Despite the romantic setting here by the falls, despite the absence of a struggle, he had a horrible premonition about her fate. Along with a pretty good idea of who had sealed it. Next to finding the girl herself, they needed to nail down the existence of any special boy in her life.

* * *

Jenna Zukowski let herself into her apartment and tossed her keys and mail on the bookcase just inside the door. They teetered precariously on the pile already there before tumbling onto the floor. An obese ginger cat who was ambling over to say hello shot back behind the sofa with surprising speed. Jenna picked them up and plunked them in the corner of the kitchen counter, where a secondary pile was already forming. Who had the time for this? When you worked all day and had to find time for yoga, shopping, cooking and friends in the precious hours left, who had time to vacuum and keep the junk at bay? It wasn’t as if anyone ever saw the place. She met her friends at movies or in pubs. This was her private space, and if it was a pigsty, who was to care?

She was feeling particularly annoyed after her futile afternoon. No one else at the high school seemed to want to confide in her or to speculate on the identity of Lea’s boyfriend. When she hinted that he might be one of the school’s acting students, they clammed up even more. Even the female teachers, from whom she’d expected a little solidarity. No one wanted to imagine that one of their perfect boys next door might have a dark side.

The drama teacher turned out to be Nigel, the handsome young teacher who’d been offended by the cops’ suspicions earlier in the day. No way he was going to give the cops any other innocent victims to go after, he said. Jenna stayed around to watch the rehearsal of the musical West Side Story, which was being staged that weekend by his senior students. She noticed that the three leading boys were not only handsome but talented. They belted out their songs with a clarity and power that might take them as far as Broadway some day.

She wrote their names carefully on her list of suspects. After the rehearsal, she hung around the main door of the school, hoping to see what they did afterwards. None of them acted at all guilty, at least as she imagined guilty people should act. No agitation or preoccupation, no shifty eyes or furtive gait. They laughed with friends, talked about acting ideas, hugged each other and headed off to bus stops. Two of them linked up with girlfriends who were waiting outside the door and went off with arms entwined. Unless my Romeo is not just a killer but a cheat, I can scratch them off my list, she thought.

That left Justin Wakefield, who played Tony, the doomed lover in the story. He had a voice like honey-coated chocolate and dark liquid eyes to match. Not that Jenna was obsessed with chocolate, although over the years, many more of her pleasures had been derived from the luscious confection than from men. Justin had emerged from the stage door with his knapsack over his shoulder and his head bowed in a sulky scowl. He had barely acknowledged the hugs and the encouragement from the others in the cast and had slumped to the bus stop alone.

As if he’d lost his best friend.

Jenna had scurried back inside the auditorium, anxious to catch Nigel before he left. Even if the drama teacher denied it, she should be able to tell from his expression whether Justin was Lea’s boyfriend. Nigel had not had too many kind words about Justin’s performance throughout the rehearsal, which he called worse than a braying donkey, so she hoped he would not be too protective.

Her hopes were soon deflated on that score. Nigel was talking to the musical conductor and paused only long enough to glare at her. When she finally seized a break in the conversation to pose her question, he exploded.

“You are playing a very dangerous game,” he snapped. “It’s no business of yours who Lea’s boyfriend is. If the cops want to know, they will ask. But I will tell you this, in the hope you’ll take your nose out of it. Lea is not Justin’s girlfriend. Plenty of girls would like to be, and I’m sure one of them is, but it’s not Lea.”

“Does she hang around with the acting crowd?” Jenna pressed. “Maybe one of them will know more.”

He took a deep breath, as if trying to make up for his initial rudeness. “She hung around here, yes. Sometimes. She liked the story and wanted to understand how each character felt.”

“Anyone in particular she hung around with?”

“I’ve already told the police all of this.” He picked up his thick black binder and turned towards the door. “Look, the students are upset enough as it is. Let’s just leave it alone and let the police do their job.”

I would do that, she thought, if they knew what they were looking for. But who else besides her knew about the secret lover, the Romeo to her Juliet. In fact, wasn’t West Side Story a modern-day version of the play, and wasn’t the character of Tony the same as Romeo? How was that for a coincidence?

By the time she left the auditorium again, it was after five thirty, and the rest of the school was deserted. There was no chance to follow up on Justin or to inquire about other school leaders who might fit the bill. Musicians, artists, maybe even exotic poets. Tomorrow she would have limited time to poke around, because she was booked at another school in the afternoon, so at this rate she might solve very little of the mystery unless another student came forward to confide.

As was her habit upon arriving home, she grabbed a Diet Coke and flicked on the television in the background as she sat down with her laptop. Google was her best friend. It had an answer for everything, from techniques for dealing with cross-dressing twelve-year-olds, which they’d never taught her in social work school, to the real scoop on the latest man she’d met at yoga. She navigated its quirks with ease and typed in the words “Justin Wakefield Pleasant Park Ottawa”. Those few specific terms should be enough to catch anything there was on the net about the boy.

There were some newspaper reviews of shows he’d been in and an article about a recent Ottawa fringe show, but best of all, the very first hit was Justin Wakefield’s own web page. How easy was that? She clicked on the link and found a gold mine. Blazoned across his home page was the announcement of his acceptance into the National Theatre School in the fall. A quick check revealed the school to be the most prestigious drama school in Canada, with an impressive roster of alumni including Sandra Oh, Michael Riley and Colm Feore.

Justin’s web page provided a list of previous acting credits, which to her untrained eye seemed astonishingly long for a boy barely eighteen. There was also an effusive bio which thanked his devoted parents for recognizing his talent early and making the move to Ottawa from the town of Prescott so that he could pursue his dance, singing and drama lessons. Jenna had passed through Prescott once when she took a wrong turn off the 401 from Toronto, and she knew it was minuscule. Justin Wakefield, poised on the brink of future stardom, had come a long way indeed.

Some testimonials from directors and acting coaches described the sophistication and charisma that shone through, despite his simple beginnings. His confidence and work ethic were a rare treat among today’s spoiled and insecure stars, they said. Jenna recalled the scowl on his face earlier in the day when the director Nigel had criticized his focus and lack of energy. “Where are you today?” Nigel had said.

With the opening night of the show less than a week away, could it be that mentally he was somewhere else, Jenna wondered? Reliving the last moments of his girlfriend’s life?

Lea Kovacev’s name intruded into her hearing, and she glanced up to see the six o’clock news just beginning. The camera panned over a scene of rolling parkland, police cars and yellow tape before zeroing in on a group of officers in dark grey coveralls with POLICE in large white letters across their backs. They were poking at the underbrush with long poles. Jenna froze, dread crawling down her spine.

“We have yet to receive official confirmation,” the local reporter was saying. “However, an anonymous source within the police services here told CTV News that a backpack has been found somewhere within the Hog’s Back Park, and although police are waiting for formal identification, it seems likely from the description that it belongs to the missing teenager Lea Kovacev. She was reported to be going with friends to a beach, and just across the road, a few hundred yards away is Mooney’s Bay Beach—” the camera cut away from the reporter’s face to a broad, crowded expanse of beach, “a popular gathering spot for teens. Numerous sports such as tennis, ultimate frisbee and beach volleyball are played there, and close friends describe Lea as an athlete active in several high school sports. There is no word yet on the whereabouts of Lea herself, but police are optimistic that this discovery will narrow down the search.”

Jenna shut her laptop in a trance. She had just had an epiphany. Sports! That was another field in which a young person could go far. Scholarships to university, berths on the Olympic team... For a young athlete on the rise, the sky was the limit in money and in fame. Jenna was going to have a very busy morning tomorrow, not only following up on the disconsolate Justin Wakefield but also ferreting out the star athletes who might have turned Lea’s head.

* * *

Once the media broke the news about the backpack, Green realized someone had to get to Lea’s mother before the woman came racing over to Hog’s Back in a full-blown panic. The news leak had caused a small crisis in the police ranks, and Ron Leclair was frantically trying to stifle its source while still fielding directives about the search. In any case, Mrs. Kovacev’s panic was unlikely to be soothed by the sight of the Missing Persons squad leader on her doorstep. The only other ranking officer, Brian Sullivan, was busy coordinating assignments with the duty inspector. Green considered sending him. Sullivan had an almost magically soothing effect on distraught victims, especially female ones. His very bulk inspired confidence, and his large square hands could be remarkably gentle.

Yet Marija Kovacev had not met Sullivan, and the sight of a large, official-looking stranger appearing at her door would be sure to frighten her. Besides, no matter how inept he was at support and sympathy, it was Green himself that she trusted.

Since Alta Vista was only a short drive away, he commandeered one of the patrol cars and drove to the Kovacev house. For a brief moment he sat in the cruiser, studying the neat facade and gathering his thoughts. Long evening shadows shrouded the street, blurring the details, but Green could discern a brick bungalow identical to hundreds across the city, built in the early fifties to accommodate the vets returning from the Second World War. But Marija Kovacev had made the most of the tiny box. A shaft of sunlight illuminated fresh white trim and lush, colourful flower beds that would have made Sharon green with envy as she wrestled their unruly, overgrown perennial weed patch into some semblance of style. It was a house tended with extraordinary care, by a woman grateful to be here, he thought. Sadly he picked up the evidence bin and got out.

When he rang the bell, the door flew open as if Marija Kovacev had been standing just inside. Her eyes widened, and she pressed her fists to her chest. Hastily, he held up his free hand in a reassuring gesture.

“We haven’t found her,” he said. “But we’ve found what we believe to be her backpack.”

“Where?”

“By a bench at Hog’s Back Falls.”

“Oh! A favourite place!” She drew herself tall and sucked breath into her lungs noisily, as if struggling for calm. “But what about Lea? Where’s Lea? Are you looking...?”

“Yes, we’re looking.” Spotting a media van headed down the street towards them, he took her by the elbow with his free hand. “Let’s go inside. I’d like you to look at the items in the bag, to see if you can identify them.”

Inside the door, she turned to him. “Your shoes—” She checked herself with an impatient shake of her head. “Ach! What does it matter?”

A half dozen shoes were aligned in a neat row on a mat inside the door. Understanding her force of habit, he kicked off his sneakers and padded in his stocking feet across the immaculate although somewhat worn cream carpet. For an absurd moment, he was grateful that for once his socks had no holes in the toes. The living room had the same immaculate but worn look, with mended floral slipcovers and an ornate wooden crucifix over the sofa. He placed the bin on the coffee table and pried off the lid to reveal the contents, all now safely encased in plastic evidence bags.

Marija peered into the bin. Clutching her hand to her throat, she sank onto the sofa beside it. “What happened to her?”

“All the clothes were neatly folded.” As you taught her, he thought to himself. “There were no signs of trouble or struggling, nothing to suggest she was hurt or taken by force. We think she left there voluntarily.”

“But why? Where did she go?”

“We don’t know yet. But we’ve got every available officer searching the beach, the park and all along the shoreline. We’ve brought in our canine unit too. As soon as anyone learns anything, I’ll let you know.” He paused and gestured to the bin. “But you can help us figure out what she might have been doing. Are all these items of clothing hers?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Is there anything missing? Except a white tank top, which we retained for the canine unit. And a notebook, which we took down to the station for analysis.”

She fingered the bags and rooted around between them. “Her...ah, bra and panties.”

Green recalled the skimpy white tank top. No nubile seventeenyear-old girl would even consider wearing a bra underneath, even if it could fit. But he sensed Marija was uncomfortable enough as it was. “What kind of bra and panties did she wear?”

“White. I always buy her white. Perhaps she is wearing them?” She shook her head almost angrily, as if rejecting the evidence of her senses. “No. Lea would not leave her clothes and go away only with bra and panties.”

“What about a bathing suit? Did she own one?”

“She has three bathing suits. She loves swimming.”

“Can we look at them? See if any are missing?”

She seemed to recover some composure at the possibility her daughter was not running around half-naked. Rising, she led the way down the narrow hall to a tiny bedroom at the back. It was freshly painted in Wedgwood blue, with matching blue flowered curtains and duvet—a marked contrast to Hannah’s “eggplant”—and to Green’s amazement, her clothing was all neatly folded in her drawers. The girl was abnormal!

Marija emptied the contents of the top drawer on the bed and began to sort through the lingerie, all of it delicate but a practical white. She set aside first a red Speedo then a shapely black one-piece with virtually no back. She frowned.

“Her new bikini,” she exclaimed in dismay. “It’s not here. I don’t like it, and I tell her that, but...” She shrugged in resignation. “Recently she wants to dress like all the other girls.”

Green made a mental note. Romantic setting, warm summer evening, sexy bikini... This was all fitting together. “What colour is it?”

“Yellow and black. It’s very little, only covers...” Her voice faded awkwardly. “Lea says it is not good for swimming.”

I don’t think swimming was foremost on her mind, Green thought. Marija had obviously made the same deduction, for she flushed as she busied herself folding the items back into the drawer.

“Is she a good swimmer?” he asked. She nodded. “She is good at many things. She took lessons in the public pool.”

“Diving too?” Marija looked up from her folding, startled.

“What?” “Does she like to dive from the high diving board?”

Marija frowned, and Green could see her trying to make sense of his question. Suddenly, fear raced across her face. “The falls? You think...”

“I don’t think anything. I’m just looking at possibilities.”

Marija pressed her hand to her mouth. The stark panic in her eyes gradually died as she wrestled her emotions under control. Reason crept back in, and she shook her head. “No. Lea loves to swim, but she’s careful. She’s a lifeguard, and she knows the dangers of water. Never.”

Unless she was so drunk or high she threw caution to the wind, Green thought grimly. Teenagers did foolhardy things all the time, believing in their utter invincibility, when in fact the human body is very fragile indeed. Before Marija Kovacev could make the same observation, he focussed her on practical details. “Is there anything else missing that may give us a clue? Even something fairly ordinary?”

She had moved from the lingerie drawer to straightening the knickknacks on the top of the dresser. A photo of a man in a silver filigree frame, her father perhaps, two hand-painted ceramic dolls, a Swiss cuckoo clock, a carved wooden jewellery box and an assortment of creams and make-up containers. She ran her hand lovingly over the jewellery box as she considered his question.

“Sergeant Leclair asked me the same question, and police searched all through this room yesterday, looking for clues. They even took her cell phone bill to check her records.” She broke off with a sharp intake of breath. “Her cell phone! It should have been in that bag! She carries it everywhere. Possibly she took it with her where she went?”

“Does the bikini have a pocket?”

The brief flare of hope died in Marija’s eyes. “No, there is not cloth for that.”

Then where would she carry it? Green thought. She had left all her clothes and even her wallet with all her bank cards. Clearly she had not planned to go very far or stay away very long. Moreover, if she had gone for a swim, she would certainly not have taken her phone into the water. Not with the cost of the latest little gadgets. A further thought struck him.

“Does her cell phone have a camera or a video?”

Marija nodded. “I bought it for her birthday in April. The salesman said it had all the best technology. I can’t understand how to operate it, but Lea was thrilled. She took pictures of everything.”

She smiled faintly at the memory, obviously failing to see the sinister connection between pictures, panties and the missing cell phone. But Green spotted it, and his sense of foreboding grew.