Читать книгу Charlie McKelvey Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - C.B. Forrest - Страница 19

Sullivan stood in the parking lot outside the campaign office, scanning the street for a place to eat. He’d been up since before six o’clock, and it was now almost three in the afternoon. In the distance he spotted the familiar red script of a Tim Hortons.

“Do you suppose he was telling the truth about Sue Peters, Luc?” he asked as he yanked open the car door.

Leblanc looked across at him in surprise. “I don’t know much about the case, sir, so it’s hard to judge.”

“On the contrary, it may give you an advantage. You have nothing to go on but his behaviour.”

Leblanc was silent, gazing out at the street ahead as he considered his answer. Sullivan remembered what he had always liked about the detective; Leblanc never rushed into anything. “I think he was hiding something,” he said eventually. “He avoided eye contact, he fiddled with his hands.”

Sullivan nosed the cruiser into the stream of traffic on Petawawa Boulevard. “I agree. Mr Atkinson was definitely worried about something. It could just be his own butt, which would be in a sling if he brings suspicion into the camp of John Blakeley. But it’s worth a closer look. So—where to next, Luc?”

“To check out Terry Lawlor, sir?”

Sullivan shook his head.

“To the King’s Arms?”

Sullivan swung into the Drive-Thru, grinning. “Food. Never let yourself get worn down.”

Five minutes later, loaded up with sandwiches, doughnuts and coffee, they were back on the road. “Now we check out Terry Lawlor,” Sullivan said. “Find the military police headquarters on that map.”

Leblanc guided them onto the base and through a series of streets commemorating famous battles. The military police platoon commander was a big man with a walrus mustache and a shaved head above a bull neck. He waved them right through to his office, only too happy to help. The assault on a member of the tribe swept away miles of suspicion and red tape. He didn’t even have to consult his records.

“I remember Terry Lawlor. Eight, maybe ten years ago? He was stationed up here in the quartermaster’s unit. Used to get into scrapes in the Sergeant’s mess pretty regular. Harmless enough but a stupid drunk with a mouth on him to swallow a tank.”

Eight to ten years ago, Sullivan thought. That fit the time period. “Where is he now?”

“Mustered out, enjoyed his retirement all of two months before he ploughed his car into a tree.”

“Accident?”

The captain nodded. “Drunk as a sailor on a two-day pass. 0200 hours on a rainy night, going about a hundred klics an hour around that bend just west of town.”

“You said he had a mouth on him. Was he ever in trouble for anything else? Leaking information or...?”

The captain roared with laughter. “Well, he didn’t have much worth leaking. He was a bean counter in supplies. What’s he going to say? The army’s ordering a thousand new dress shirts next year?”

That information might be useful to some, thought Sullivan. Overtly he acted the picture of ease, with his long legs stretched out and his chair tilted back. He chatted a few minutes longer, probing the captain’s opinion of Blakeley— “real stand-up guy”—and Sue Peters’ assault—“a real shame, but we get our share of guys who take it out on women”. Finally, Sullivan thanked him and hauled himself to his feet with a show of reluctance. On the way out, Leblanc glanced at him curiously, but said nothing.

“So what do you think about Terry Lawlor,” Sullivan asked when they reached the car.

“It’s not much, but it seems to back up Atkinson’s story, sir.”

“Maybe. Although it’s hard to see how this Lawlor guy would have the pull to land Atkinson a worthwhile job. He’s a pretty small fish.” Sullivan climbed into the car and revved the engine. “And that accident is damn convenient.”

“You think it wasn’t an accident?”

“No. Just that Lawlor makes a handy fall guy now that there’s no way to check the story with him.”

Sullivan sat in the car, pondering his next move. He still had to touch base with the OPP , hoping to turn up Sue Peters’ missing notebook and probe their take on the local election candidates. But the picture in Atkinson’s office nagged at him. On impulse he pulled up the case file on his laptop and began flipping through photos. He sifted carefully through Oliver’s section members without finding anyone who remotely fit the bill. But when he went further up the chain of command, he hit a match on his very first try.

Platoon commander Dick Hamm.

Well, well, well, he thought, now there was a bigger fish. Big enough to pull a lot of strings and give a guy quite a boost up the ladder. And if there was a connection to Blakeley, who was an even bigger fish... Sullivan tried to dispute the suspicion that sprang to his mind, that Hamm and Blakeley were working together. Blakeley was a very popular candidate among the military. Maybe Hamm was just there as a supporter.

And maybe pigs fly.

“Where are we going next, sir?” Leblanc ventured once they had been sitting some time.

“Well, I was going to pay a visit to the OPP, but Colonel Dick Hamm is beginning to look a whole lot more interesting.”

* * *

It was well past lunch time and Green’s head felt like a pinball machine. Reports were flying in from various fronts so fast that he could barely keep track. Sue Peters had been the official file coordinator for the case, and although the task had been reassigned, Green suspected in reality he was the only person besides Gibbs who knew the whole picture.

Captain Ulrich from National Defence had emailed the photos of the remaining members of Oliver’s and MacDonald’s section in Yugoslavia, along with the names and photos of Major Kennebec, their company commander, and Colonel Thomas, the battalion’s CO . He had even faxed over a chart describing the name, rank and function of everyone in MacDonald’s chain of command. With one of their ranks implicated in an attempted cop killing, the military had apparently changed its tactics in favour of full cooperation with civilian authorities. Green muttered a silent prayer of thanks to the Police Chief, whose deft handling had undoubtedly been behind the change. He hoped the Chief could use the same silver tongue with the politicians if the time came.

Green immediately forwarded all the photos to Kate McGrath in Halifax, in the hope that the witnesses and bartender at the Lighthouse would recognize Daniel Oliver’s killer among them. He was about to head out to his much delayed lunch meeting with Staff Sergeant Vaillancourt when Gibbs arrived at his office door, looking wan and defeated. He handed Green two short reports.

“This is all I could get on Blakeley and Atkinson for Sergeant Sullivan, sir. It-It’s not much, I know.”

Green scanned the meagre reports. His interest was piqued by the reference to John Blakeley’s peacekeeping missions. Eight tours in six different countries. What were the odds of Yugoslavia being one of them?

“Have you sent this to Sullivan already?”

“Yessir. He needed it by two o’clock.”

“Okay, but I want you to keep digging. Find out exactly where and when Blakeley did his peacekeeping tours, especially if he was ever in Yugoslavia. And I also want some background on Lieutenant Colonel Richard Hamm.”

Gibbs’s face fell. He propped his lanky frame against the door as if he could no longer support himself. “Well, I—I was wondering if... I’d like a few minutes to check on Sue, sir.”

Green cursed his insensitivity. “Of course. I have a lunch appointment anyway.” For which I am already half an hour late, he thought, glancing at his watch. He shooed Gibbs on his way to the hospital, then grabbed his jacket and headed out of the station up Elgin Street. He had chosen a small deli off the cops’ beaten track, for he didn’t want any curious ears tuning in. He wanted the discussion of a fellow officer to be as frank and confidential as possible.

To his surprise, Michel Vaillancourt had brought another man with him, whom he introduced as George Nelson. Both men were already halfway through heaping platters of deli sandwiches and fries.

“George was Weiss’s staff sergeant when he was in uniform,” Vaillancourt explained. “So I figured he’d know more about him than I do.”

Nelson was a pear of a man, with a pointy bald head, three chins and a paunch that eclipsed his belt. He extended a hearty handshake, then thudded back into his booth with a resounding crash. Green looked from one man to the other thoughtfully. His vague cover story about wanting more details about Weiss’s investigative experience was pretty lame, and he was surprised by both men’s obvious eagerness to talk about him. With his very first comment, Nelson provided the answer.

“You’re thinking Jeff Weiss might’ve had something to do with the hit on Peters?”

Green toyed with his menu. “Not thinking, just exploring. Why, do you?”

Nelson had stuffed his mouth full of fries, and he munched noisily as he shook his head. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say not a chance.”

Green’s stomach contracted at the sight of the melted cheese oozing from the Reuben sandwich. He signalled to the man behind the counter and yelled for a double smoked meat on rye. “What do you mean, under normal circumstances?”

“Regular street work. Drugs, bar fights, turf beefs—the day to day stuff. He’s rock solid, got good instincts, never gave me a moment’s doubt. Well—” Nelson paused to suck his fingers noisily. “He has a bit of a temper. Sometimes he’d give his sergeant a little lip, but he usually backtracked the next instant. Only a couple of incidents were written up.”

“How much is a bit of a temper?”

“Enough to get him off the promotion track,” Vaillancourt said ominously.

Nelson shrugged impatiently. “Just a flash in the pan. Like if somebody pushed his buttons. But what you’re talking about; that would have been premeditated. I mean, to call her out of the bar and set her up like that—”

Green was surprised, then realized he shouldn’t be. Details of the assault would have raced through the police grapevine like lightning.

“That’s not like Jeff,” Nelson continued. “He’s a straight arrow and a more committed officer you’re never going to see. And he wants to get ahead. Nothing wrong with that.”

“But there is something, or you wouldn’t both be sitting here. You’re saying these are not normal circumstances?”

Nelson looked uncomfortable. He glanced around the deli as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping. The midafternoon crowd was sparse, comprised mainly of courthouse workers enjoying a cappuccino. No one looked remotely like a cop. Or a reporter.

Vaillancourt wiped his mouth carefully before stepping into the breach. “He did a three-month stint with the UN as a police officer in Yugoslavia.”

Green stared at him, his heart in his throat. “When?”

“Fall of 1993.” “Where?”

“Mostly Sarajevo. He was doing regular law enforcement and training, beefing up the Bosnian force. It was finger-inthe-dyke stuff, trying to prevent looting, control riots, catch local thugs who didn’t think the law applied to them.”

Green’s thoughts raced afield. In an effort to understand which peacekeepers had been where, he’d studied the map of the former Yugoslavia as it had been reconfigured in 1993. Daniel Oliver and Ian MacDonald had been with the Second Canadian Battalion, which had been deployed solely in Croatia. Nearly two hundred miles of rugged, hostile mountain territory separated them from Sarajevo. It seemed unlikely Jeff Weiss would have even met them. Unless...

“You said mostly?”

Nelson shrugged. “He was assigned to assist in war crimes investigations a couple of times, helping the UN investigators collect physical evidence and interview witnesses. I know that stuff still gets to him.”

Green’s smoked meat sandwich arrived, and he was glad for the diversion. While he doused his French fries with vinegar, he pondered the possibilities. The coincidence was incredible. What were the chances of an Ottawa Police officer being assigned to investigate war crimes at exactly the same time and place that MacDonald and Oliver were posted? There had been thousands of peacekeepers in the Balkans, and probably thousands of local conflicts where war crimes could occur.

It was just a shred of a theory, and a farfetched one at that, until he had facts to back it up. He tried to appear casual as he posed his next question. “Where were these war crimes he was investigating, do you know?”

Nelson and Vaillancourt exchanged questioning looks. Vaillancourt lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug, but Nelson slapped his palm against his forehead in an effort to shake the memory loose.

“Croatia.” He nodded several times. “Yup, I’m positive, because I remember when all the accusations of ethnic cleansing and mass murder were being levied against the Serbs, Weiss kept saying ‘The fucking UN doesn’t know the half of it. The Croats were just as bad.’”

Croatia, Green thought. Suddenly his smoked meat lost its taste, and he pushed the plate away. The coincidences were converging, but with them came more questions. What had Weiss uncovered in his investigation, and how was the military involved? His mind raced over the links he had formed so far. Something had happened in Croatia that had haunted the lives of the soldiers for years afterwards. MacDonald had killed himself, Oliver had slipped into bitterness and drink, and someone else had committed not just one but two murders to cover it all up.

These were simple country boys, Inspector Norrich had ranted that night in Halifax, unprepared for the brutality and hatred they encountered and equally unprepared for the visceral rage they might have felt in response.

What if they themselves had committed a war crime?

In 1993 the Canadian military had been reeling under the revelation of a murder committed by their elite forces in Somalia, and they were struggling to repair the damage to their peacekeeping image. What would be the worst thing that could happen at that moment? News of further atrocities committed by their soldiers in Yugoslavia would be high on that list. The pressure to suppress the knowledge and to prevent any investigation would have been huge. Certainly murders had been committed for far less.

Green’s heart beat faster as the theory took shape. Yet even as his excitement grew, sober second thought began to take hold. What kind of war crime? Surely not a systematic, large scale massacre, which would have been impossible to hide. It had to be something more private. A small misstep that could easily have been buried in the chaos of battle. Was that where Weiss fit in? Had the military put pressure on him to cover it up? Who in the chain of command would have the clout to do that? Certainly not someone at the lowly section level.

Green reached for his coffee and twirled his spoon slowly in it, trying not to betray his excitement as he gathered his thoughts. In the silence, the spoon tinkled and both men watched him intently. He tried to keep his voice neutral. “So what’s your guess about how Weiss could be involved with all this? You’ve obviously got some concerns. That he covered something up in Croatia?”

Nelson whipped his head back and forth. “Oh, no. Just this temper. Things that remind him of that time seem to set him off. I just think he’s...”

“Unstable?”

“Not usually. I mean, we all have our buttons, eh? His is Croatia.”

Vaillancourt had leaned forward on his elbows, his hands folded and his forehead creased in uneasy thought. Now he shook his head slowly. “But he did ask to job shadow the Rosscase, right off the bat when he first got involved in the search of the scene.”

Nelson scowled. “But at that point there was no known connection to the military or to Yugoslavia. Patricia Ross looked like just another luckless hooker.”

Unless Weiss already knew the connection, Green thought. And the players. He glanced at his watch, pretended to be surprised, and shoved back his chair. “Gotta run. Thanks for this. Can you do one more thing? Find out exactly when and where he was in Croatia, and anything you can about the nature of the assignment. ASAP. Off the record and just between us, of course. I don’t want the rumour mill to ruin a good officer’s career.”

Or get anyone else killed, he added silently, as he tossed some money on the table.