Читать книгу Charlie McKelvey Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - C.B. Forrest - Страница 24

"Bastard!" Sullivan exclaimed as soon as they were in the elevator out of earshot. “If that sonofabitch did that to Peters, I’ll personally string him up by the balls!”

Green leaned against the faux marble wall and looked across at him, puzzling over the final moments of the interview. “Which sonofabitch?”

“Weiss, of course! That’s obviously the cop the wife was referring to. He was the one MacDonald had the beef with.”

“But he wasn’t in a position to cover up anything. He was a civilian cop, he had no power over MacDonald.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re fishing in the dark here, Mike. All we know for sure is that something upset MacDonald. It could have been Weiss accusing him of some wrongdoing, which got under MacDonald’s skin. Then, when he killed himself, Oliver accused Weiss and got killed for his big mouth. Weiss had the strength and the training to deliver the blow, and we know he had the temper. He thought he got away with it, and then ten years later along comes Patricia Ross threatening to blow the lid off.”

The elevator stopped, and they headed outside towards the Malibu. As he scrambled to keep pace with Sullivan’s purposeful stride, Green weighed the idea dubiously. “But why would Hamm cover for Weiss? Hamm is a military bigshot, Weiss is nothing but a low-level cop. And where does Atkinson fit in?”

“Maybe nowhere. Maybe his story about the military contact in supplies is the truth.”

Green snorted. “And Hamm?”

Sullivan yanked open the door. “I don’t know, Mike. Maybe he and Weiss have a history somewhere.” He started the car and revved the engine impatiently. “I say we bring Jeff Weiss in and lean on him.”

“But he’s a cop, Brian. We can’t go accusing one of our own when we’re still missing half the pieces.”

Sullivan pulled a U-turn and squealed the car back down Laurier Avenue towards the police station. “But maybe he can give them to us. He’s the weakest link here. Weaker than Blakeley or Hamm.”

Privately, Green knew he was right, and usually it was he who was itching to plunge ahead and Sullivan who was the voice of restraint. But at the moment, Green’s mind was elsewhere; not with Weiss and his betrayal of his badge, but with Blakeley and his peculiar behaviour during the interview. Of all the men on their list of potential suspects, Blakeley had means, motive and opportunity in spades. He had the most to lose if his complicity in war crimes, or his murder of Oliver, ever came to light. Not just his hard-earned reputation but his promising future at the very centre of government. He was a decisive, physical man trained to size up a threat and eliminate it. He was skilled enough to kill Oliver and Patricia Ross with his bare hands. And with his frequent commuting between Ottawa and Petawawa, he could easily have come to Ottawa to kill Ross, returned to Petawawa to attack Peters and come back in Ottawa to abduct Twiggy.

He made a damn compelling suspect, and his demeanour during the interview had been decidedly suspicious. He had spent the first half giving a campaign speech and the second half dancing evasively around Green’s more pointed probes. When that failed, he had pretended offence and abruptly terminated the interview.

Yet it was his behaviour rather than his words that puzzled Green. At the beginning he had been chatty and collegial when lecturing them on the pitfalls of peacekeeping, but when Oliver’s death was mentioned, he suddenly lost his hearty charm. As the names of more recent victims piled up, he became visibly shaken and distracted, as if the news had shocked him.

Yet if he was the killer, why the shock? Why not a defensive parry or the well-practised evasion he had displayed earlier? Even odder than the shock was his wife’s behaviour. It was astonishing enough that she had interrupted her husband’s meeting with the police in order to come to his rescue, but even more astonishing that he allowed it. Furthermore, at the end of the interview, she had essentially handed them Constable Weiss over the protests of her husband. This was not a stupid woman. She had a reason for what she’d done, and she had obviously thought giving up Weiss would help her husband, whether he wanted it or not. The question was—why?

By the time Sullivan pulled into the parking lot of police headquarters, Green still had no answers, but at least he had a plan. He glanced at his watch, which read noon. No time to spare. He jumped out of the car before Sullivan had even brought it to a stop.

“Okay, we’re going to lean on Weiss,” he said. “But first we’re going to make sure he’s got no room to weasel out. So I want you to round up all the available detectives in the squad room and meet me in the incident room in ten minutes.”

Sullivan smiled. “Are you going to tell Superintendent Devine about this? Otherwise, she’ll have your balls.”

“I know. That’s partly what the ten minutes is for.” He started for the door.

“It’ll take more than ten minutes!” Sullivan yelled.

“Just watch me!” Then he sprinted inside the building, took the stairs two at a time and was dialling his office phone in less than thirty seconds. Kate McGrath was not at her desk, and he wasted several minutes badgering the duty clerk before remembering that he had her home number in his book. She picked up on the second ring.

“I need you to check one last thing before you come,” he said.

“I’m just packing to go, Mike. My taxi will be here in half an hour.”

“I’m emailing you two more photos. Just check them out with the Lighthouse bartender.”

“But I’ll miss—”

“No, you won’t. Have you got a laptop at home? I’ll send them directly to you, and you can bring your laptop by the Lighthouse on your way to the airport. Ten minutes, tops.”

“It won’t be a proper line-up.”

“So I’ll email you a whole photo array. Kate! We’ve lost another person up here, this time an innocent old lady.”

She fell silent, and he could almost hear her calculating the time. Then she rhymed off her email address. “Just make it quick, Mike, and pray the bartender is there. It’s Sunday.”

After he’d sent the photo array, he grabbed his address book again and flipped through it for another number. While he waited for the MacDonalds to answer their phone, he took deep breaths to slow himself down. This next call was going to be delicate work.

After over half a dozen rings, Mrs. MacDonald’s quavering voice came on the line. Defeat seeped into her very cadence, a defeat so profound that nothing could ever lift it, except her son’s return to life. Green hated the part of his job which required him to probe the unhealed wounds of survivors.

He introduced himself and reminded her of their last visit. He heard a little gasp of dismay, but she said nothing. He wondered if her husband was in the room.

“Can you talk?” he asked.

A wary “Yes.”

“I’m told Ian kept a diary of his months in Yugoslavia. It may be very helpful to our investigation here. The man who killed Daniel Oliver has tried to kill again, this time one of our police officers.” He paused, debating how deep to poke the knife. She waited in silence. “He may also have killed an innocent bystander. I think the key to the man’s identity may lie in your son’s diary.”

Still silence.

“I’m really hoping you’ll let us have the diary for a day or two. I could send someone from the local RCMP to pick it up.”

A slight moan.

“I promise we’ll handle it with care and send it back as soon as possible.”

“It’s gone.”

Green was so startled he wasn’t sure he’d heard properly. “Where?”

“It disappeared years ago, and I don’t care where,” she repeated, her voice gathering force. “I didn’t want to ever be reminded of those hateful, hateful times. They killed my boy, as truly as if they’d pulled the trigger. They killed his soul.”

Oh, fuck. Green sank back in his chair, listening to her slowly spin out of control. He reached out to stop her.

“Did you read it?”

“No!”

From her vehemence, he suspected she might be lying, but he also knew he was not going to budge her. He forced himself to be gentle. “Did Ian ever mention a Constable Weiss? Or a Captain Blakeley?”

“He didn’t talk about those times. He kept them deep inside, as if he was ashamed. And nothing I said...” Her voice broke horribly.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. MacDonald. I’m so sorry I had to trouble you this way. If you do remember anything you want to tell me, please, please give me a call. Any time.”

Green dropped the receiver back into its cradle with a despairing thud and took a moment to collect himself and make sense of this latest news. What had become of the diary? Had Daniel Oliver taken it at the same time he took the medal? If so, had he read something in it that led to his fatal confrontation with Blakeley? And where had it ended up after Oliver’s death? In Patricia Ross’s apartment, lost among the photos and letters from Daniel’s army days?

Green glanced at his watch and was dismayed to see his ten minutes was long over. Reluctantly he picked up the phone, prepared for battle. But Barbara Devine was not answering her cellphone or her phones at either the office or home. Grateful for small mercies, including the fact that Devine’s efficient secretary was not on duty Sunday to take up the search, Green left urgent but vague messages on all lines, then grabbed his notebook and headed to the incident room.

When he walked in, seven detectives were assembled around the table. Only Gibbs was missing. They were casually dressed but sat upright in silent attention. Notebooks were open, and a sense of anticipation hung in the air. Green stared at them all gravely. A good bunch, seasoned and level-headed. They would need both those qualities in the next few hours.

He walked up to the head of the conference table and slipped a fresh disk into the laptop which was used to collect and organize all the reports on the case. He dreaded the task ahead.

“The Ross/Peters investigation has reached a highly sensitive and confidential point, and I’m going to ask you not to tell anyone—anyone!—what we’re looking at. We’re going to be investigating a fellow officer. Anyone uncomfortable with that had better leave now.”

Eyes widened, but no one moved.

“Has the officer been charged?” Leblanc asked.

“No, he has not been charged.” Green summarized the latest developments in the case, including the disappearance of Twiggy and the involvement of high profile Liberal candidate John Blakeley. The energy around the table was electric, until Green came to Weiss’s role. As they listened, Green could see the outrage and disbelief on their faces.

“This is all just coincidence and speculation,” Charbonneau protested. “You don’t actually know anything.”

Green nodded. “That’s right, and that’s why you’re here. To clear him, or to expose him. Let’s hope I’m wrong, but remember, if he’s guilty, he betrayed Sue.” He waited a moment for that message to sink in, then resumed quietly. “We have five tasks to complete. First, we have to find something more than coincidence to tie him to the case. Charbonneau and Leblanc, I want you to prepare a photo line-up with Weiss in it, then pay a visit to a witness named Hassim Mohammed, a manager at the Tim Hortons on Bank Street.” He handed over the photo he’d taken from Weiss’s file. “Ask Mr. Mohammed to ID the man who was asking about Twiggy. And get going, because the next steps hinge on that ID.”

The tension in the room eased as the detectives focussed on the job. Charbonneau and Leblanc jotted some notes and rose to go. “Have you got a home address? It’s Sunday.”

Green read off the address. “Nice cooperative guy with a soft spot for Twiggy, but he’s a bit jumpy, so go easy on him.”

The two detectives rolled their eyes before hustling from the room.

“Second, search warrants—”

The door burst open, and Gibbs rushed in, his face flushed and his eyes shining. “Sorry I’m late, sir. I was just waiting to confirm something up in Petawawa. That mystery cellphone? I just got the phone log on it, and it received a call about two minutes before the call went to the bartender at the King’s Arms—” He stopped, looking flustered. “I mean, whoever called the Petawawa bartender to set up Sue? He got a call two minutes earlier from another phone.”

“We got that, Bob,” Sullivan said patiently.

Gibbs grinned sheepishly. “That other phone? It was a payphone in a convenience store just down the street from Sue. One of the places Jeff Weiss would have been canvassing at the time she was attacked.”

Silence descended as the grim implications set in. Had one of their own really set her up for the kill? Or received instructions to do it himself?

Green spoke first. “Good work, Bob. We’ll have to tie Weiss to that call, so send the Petawawa OPP the same photo line-up and get them to follow up with the staff at the store. Meanwhile, it’s more ammunition for our search warrants. We need two— one to access Weiss’s phone records, both cell and landlines, and another to search his house. Jones, you’re the search warrant genius. You and Wells get started on the paperwork. We’ll have to wait till Mohammed’s positive ID before we finalize it.”

Jones was nodding as he scribbled in his notebook. “What are we looking for?”

“Jean Calderone. AKA Twiggy. And/or evidence she’s been there.”

Jones stopped writing and looked up in surprise. “He wouldn’t be stupid enough to take her to his house.”

“No, but it gets us in the door, and we’ll have to search everywhere very thoroughly to find evidence of her, like fingerprints and stray hairs. And while we’re searching, who knows what else we might turn up.”

Soft chuckles rippled through the room.

“You should also add stuff like clothing and shoes, for traces of blood, dirt from the crime scenes, you know the drill. We’ll seize every stitch of clothing he owns if we have to.”

For a few minutes they ironed out the contents and timing of the search warrants. Both detectives recorded everything in their notebooks, but Green didn’t make a single entry to the official case file. Too many eyes had access. Once the detectives had headed out to complete their job, Green entered a short note on his own disk. Sullivan watched him in silence, and Green was grateful he made no comment. He needed no reminder how fragile a limb he was climbing out on. He looked up at the remaining detectives.

“Next, we need to keep track of Weiss while we get all these pieces in place. Wallington and Connors, I want you to locate him and keep him in your sights at all times. And whatever you do, don’t tip him off till we’re ready to bring the bastard in.”

After the two had left, Green looked across at Gibbs, who was now alone with Sullivan in the room. Gibbs was looking at him expectantly.

“What’s the news on Sue?” Green asked.

“The nurses say she’s the same. But I think she knows I’m there. I’m sure she squeezed my hand.” Gibbs flushed and shifted his lanky frame restlessly. “What’s my assignment, sir?” Gibbs looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. In his time off, he’d kept a vigil at Peters’ bedside, never giving up hope that she’d open her eyes. Green knew he should send the young man home to bed, but he also knew Gibbs needed to be here, fighting on Peters’ behalf. Green told him about his fruitless conversation with Ian MacDonald’s mother. “After you send the OPP Weiss’s photo, I want you back on the computer finding out the name and location of every member of Blakeley’s sweep team. Soldiers, medics and police. We need to confirm the connection between Weiss and MacDonald, and if possible find out what the hell happened over there.”

* * *

Results began to pour in very fast. First to report in were Charbonneau and Leblanc, so excited with their success that they phoned in from their car outside Hassim Mohammed’s house.

“He nailed him, sir!” Leblanc exclaimed. “Took a good long look at each one, hesitated only a few seconds, and picked out Weiss.”

“Even with the sunglasses?”

“Even so. It was the wide forehead and the cheekbones, he said.”

Green felt a peculiar surge of emotion. Part triumph that they were closing in on the culprit, part outrage that he was proving to be one of their own. He realized that he’d been hoping against hope that Weiss would be exonerated, and that it would prove to be just one of those crazy coincidences that plague detective work from time to time. But there was no imaginable reason why Weiss would be inquiring about Twiggy unless he was somehow connected to the case. Moreover, Weiss was the only one of their suspects who would have known that Twiggy was a potential witness to the murder, because he had seen her at the scene that morning, giving her statement to the police.

“What did you do with her, you bastard?” Green asked himself after he’d thanked the detectives. Twiggy had apparently dropped off the face of the earth. The uniformed patrols had turned up no sign of her, and the questioning of street people at her favourite haunts had yielded nothing. Among her usual hangouts, the only place she could have gone without anyone seeing her was the art gallery, because no one had dared return there since the murder. It was the one place she would have gone to wait for Green. It was also the one place, however, where Weiss would have known to look for her.

Green cursed the twist of fate that had intervened to prevent him from meeting her. If he’d gone there Friday at sunset as she’d asked, she would be safe today. On Friday Weiss was in Petawawa, his whereabouts accounted for until well into the night. Therefore, if he’d snatched her, he had not done so until some time Saturday morning. When the bastard had called in sick and was supposedly at home recovering from his trauma.

The trauma of setting up his partner to be killed.

The call from the Petawawa OPP came in fast on the heels of Leblanc’s call. The convenience store owner remembered Weiss coming in to ask questions about a woman, whom the store owner claimed he never saw, then using the payphone on his way out. Asked about Weiss’s demeanour, the store owner said he seemed distracted, and he’d glanced out the window several times during the interview. The phone call was brief, no more than two minutes, after which he had headed next door to the pizza restaurant.

To his credit, the OPP investigator had pressed for further details about the call. Had Weiss known the number by heart, or had he looked it up? If so, in what? The store owner recalled that he’d consulted a piece of paper from his breast pocket, which was hardly surprising, Green thought, since it was a private cell number not found in any book. Had Weiss made more than one call? No, the owner assured him. A two-minute call, tops, and he’d gone on his way.

Two minutes was plenty of time to tip someone off and set the assault in motion. Green still had that nagging suspicion that Weiss was merely a bit player, a conduit whose strings were being pulled by the real villain in the case. Who? And why was Weiss cooperating? What did the killer have on him that he could coerce an otherwise dedicated officer to betray his oath of service and the very colleagues he worked with?

In less than an hour, Wallington and Connors phoned in to report on their surveillance efforts at Weiss’s home. Green already feared what they were going to say. The curtains were drawn, the doors were locked, and the pick-up truck registered in his name was missing from the drive. Weiss was not there.

Of course he’s not, thought Green in frustration, because he’s gone into hiding somewhere. The question was whether he had Twiggy with him, or whether her body had already been dumped.

“We’ve checked with the neighbours on all sides, and no one has seen him since early Friday morning,” Connors said. “One of the neighbours phoned his home and his cellphone at our request and got no answer.”

“What about mail in the mailbox?”

“It was empty, sir.”

So either he received none on Friday, or he picked it up sometime after returning from the hospital Friday night, Green thought. Had he received orders to snatch Twiggy at that time, or had he been trying to find her since Thursday and had struck it lucky at the art gallery on Saturday morning because she’d still been waiting for Green?

Stop going there, he chided himself. It serves nothing but to cloud your objectivity, which is already clouded enough.

“Do you want us to set up a stake-out, sir?”

Wallington’s question stopped his spiralling thoughts. Weiss had to be found, even if they had to look under every rock. “Yes. Get that neighbour’s cooperation to do surveillance on the QT from his place, and interview all the neighbours again to see if any of them know where he might go to get away from things. Relatives, a fishing lodge, a cottage...anything like that. Also work up a list of known associates. I’ll put some guys on that from this end as well.”

“And if Weiss comes back?”

Green thought about that for less than five seconds. Weiss had proved too elusive to risk losing him all over again, along with all chance of finding Twiggy and catching the other players in the game. “Apprehend the bastard and bring him in.”

“On what charges?”

“I’ll be working on that.”

After he hung up, Green sat at his desk a moment, pondering that very question. He was about to arrest a fellow police officer and bring him in. All hell would break loose at that moment, from the police chief and Barbara Devine on down to the Police Association. He needed to know what was going on before he committed himself to an action that would be dissected for months, possibly years to come. He needed to know whether Weiss was the ruthless mastermind, or some small player caught in a web way beyond his control.

Green had always prided himself on his intuition, and after twenty years in the trenches, he’d witnessed human distress in all its varied guises. Weiss’s behaviour at the hospital on Friday had been unusual in its extreme, but his distress had seemed real. Only a very gifted actor could summon up the pallor, the trembling and the tears on cue.

Whatever part Weiss had played, however willingly he had played it, something was tearing him up inside. He was not the cold, calculating person Green had imagined the killer to be. He was conflicted, desperate and unpredictable, which made him dangerous not only to himself and to the Twiggy, but to the ruthless killer who was pulling his strings.

And that killer was almost certainly smart enough to realize that.