Beautiful Lie the Dead

by Barbara Fradkin

  Just as he feared it would go to voicemail, MacPhail’s thick brogue growled over the phone. The flamboyant Scot’s voice grew more gravelly every year, the victim of Scotch and Cuban cigars.

  “Don’t rush me, laddie!”

  “MacPhail, come on. When have you not known as soon as you got the body on the table?”

  “When the poor woman’s been knocked from pillar to post.”

  “But I saw the head wound. Lots of blood.”

  “They always have.”

  “I know, but give us a guess. Do you think someone hit her or—”

  “A fist couldn’t cause that damage. Not unless it was wearing iron knuckles.”

  “Okay, so something harder than a fist.”

  “That much I can say. Something hard but not sharp. The skull showed a diffuse radiating fracture pattern, more crushed than penetrated.”

  “So we’re talking the proverbial blow by a blunt object, delivered with enough force to crush the skull?”

  “Lad, you put words in my mouth. I’m a long way from that conclusion. She could have been shoved or tripped backing up, and hit her head on something hard like the curb.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “As likely as not. All I can give you is that her head met up with a hard, blunt object, and it didn’t end well for her.”

  Green thought the scenarios over. By late Monday evening, when this Jane Doe would have been walking down Maple Lane, at least six inches of snow had already fallen, blanketing the road and the surrounding ground. Even if she was shoved or running when she hit the ground, the snow would have cushioned her fall. Not to mention covered up any hard blunt object that might have done her harm.

  “Either way,” he said, “she didn’t incur this fatal blow taking a leisurely stroll through Rockcliffe.”

  “That much I concur. I’ve ruled the death suspicious.”

  When Green hung up, he grinned at Levesque, who was trying to hide her eagerness beneath a bland look. “Okay. We open a major case file. And we get you a team.”

  TWELVE

  Major Crimes was abuzz. Levesque’s excitement was contagious, and the tedious paperwork of the past few days was dropped in a flash. This was unlike most homicides they investigated. Not a routine domestic, nor a barroom brawl or settling of accounts in a drug war. This was a mystery. A well-dressed, middle-aged woman had met a bizarre death in the middle of a snowstorm in the exclusive enclave of Rockcliffe. Many of the detectives had never been to Rockcliffe, let alone had the chance to gain access to the elegant homes to interview potential witnesses. The possibility of diplomatic immunity and jurisdictional squabbles with the RCMP responsible for diplomats’ security only added to the spice.

  Who was the woman? Whom was she visiting? And who had left her for dead? Speculation and rumour galvanized the whole force, and the brass crowded in for updates. Even the Chief dropped in to the newly set-up incident room to address the troops and to caution them to be on their best behaviour. “These people have lawyers” was the gist of his message. “Hell, these people are lawyers.”

  Within an hour, Levesque had the bones of an investigation drafted and detectives assigned to canvass the neighbourhood, re-interview the plow operator, and check with taxi and bus drivers on duty in the vicinity that night. Ident had worked up a decent photo of the dead woman, to be shown to all potential witnesses. Others were expanding the missing persons search across the country.

  Because it was home to numerous embassies and high-ranking members of the judiciary and government, the Village of Rockcliffe Park was reputed to have more surveillance cameras per square foot than any other municipality in Canada. Cameras were not just trained on the entranceways but also on the streets and backyards nearby. Some were on embassy grounds and were operated by the foreign governments themselves, presenting a nearly insurmountable barrier to access by the Ottawa Police, but many were operated by the RCMP. In this age of paranoia and national security, Green expected resistance to his request to view the RCMP footage, and he was happy to hand over that delicate jurisdictional dance to the Chief himself. Green suspected lawyers on both sides would get dragged in, and in these days just before the holidays, he doubted he’d see results for at least a month.

  Into the midst of all this discussion came Sue Peters and Bob Gibbs, looking as if they’d struck gold. Heads turned in the incident room as the door burst open and Sue Peters thunked in, leaning hard on her cane but eyes blazing. Gibbs trailed her, quieter and more apologetic but with a small smile trembling at the corners of his mouth.

  “They’re connected!” Peters announced.

  Levesque, who’d been marking assignments on the smart board, scowled.

  “Well,” Gibbs amended, “we think they are.”

  “What’s connected?” Green asked. He’d been conferring quietly with the Chief at the back, trying to let Levesque run the show.

  “Meredith Kennedy and this Jane Doe.”

  Green snapped alert. “Explain!”

  “That cell phone number you gave us—the person who called Meredith at eight thirty Monday night?”

  “Lise Gravelle? Yes?”

  “We called Montreal and spoke with the Montreal cops. Turns out Lise Gravelle was reported missing by her neighbour Wednesday.”

  “They’re sure it’s the same Lise Gravelle?”

  “Well, not absolutely,” Gibbs said, cutting Peters off. “It’s a different street address than the cell phone company gave us, but it’s in the same neighbourhood, and the neighbour said she’d only lived there a short while.”

  “How did this neighbour know she was missing?”

  “Her dog was barking non-stop,” Peters said. “The neighbour had to go in to try to shut it up, and she said the poor dog hadn’t gone out in over a day. There was poop all over the place and the dog was starving.” Peters swung around to Green. “I grew up with dogs, sir. No dog owner would leave a dog like that without phoning someone or making arrangements, unless something bad had happened to them.”

  “What investigation have the Montreal Police done?”

  “Just the usual hospital, ambulance, accident reports,” Peters said. “They probably don’t think a nosy neighbour and a barking dog are enough to put manpower on.”

  In a busy metropolis like Montreal, with its chronic staffing shortages, bankrupt coffers, systemic corruption and organized crime wars, that was probably true, but Green kept his thoughts to himself.

  “But they did open a file, and we have a photo.” Peters whipped an eight by ten glossy from the papers in her hand. “I have a jpeg of this for us to distribute, but I think she looks damn familiar. I’d say Lise Gravelle and this mysterious Rockcliffe Jane Doe are one and the same!”

  Green took the photo and studied the face. Hazel eyes, brown hair, the beginnings of crows’ feet and the suggestion of a hard, bitter life in the set of her mouth and chin. Sue was right.

  * * *

  “Sir, Gibbs and I want to go to Montreal.”

  Sue Peters had followed Green back to his office from the incident room at the end of the briefing. She was now crowding into the tiny room and leaning over his desk. Peters wasn’t big, but she took up a lot of space. Behind her, Gibbs stood uncertainly in the doorway, peeking over the top of her head.

  Green glanced from one officer to the other. What a pair. Combined, they almost made one good detective. “It’s Sergeant Levesque’s case,” he said.

  “But it’s ours too. We’re the ones who tracked down the snowplow operator, the cell phone number and the dead woman’s identity.”

  “You’re not even cleared, Sue.”

  “Then send Bob! This death is obviously connected to Kennedy’s disappearance. Our case.”

  Peters had raised her voice. Flushing, Gibbs squeezed inside and closed the door behind him.

  “I haven’t said anyone is going to Montreal,” Green countered, keeping his voice even. “The follow-up at that end can be done by the Montreal Pol
ice. They can track her known associates, interview friends and neighbours, and trace her movements there. Our job will be to find out when and why she came to Ottawa.”

  “That obviously means finding out what was going on in Montreal,” Peters shot back. She was still leaning in over his desk.

  Laying a hand on her arm, Gibbs murmured, “Sue, sit down.” She looked ready to take his head off but thought better of it. She sat down with a thud and took a deep breath. “Meredith went to Montreal on Monday. Before she was even back home, she got a phone call from this Gravelle woman, and by the end of the night, Gravelle was dead. What was their connection? What was it that freaked out Kennedy and left Gravelle dead? We can’t leave all that to the Montreal cops! They don’t have the background.”

  Gibbs was visibly cringing, but insubordination aside, she had a point. He had been wrestling with the same dilemma. The Montreal connection seemed to be at the core of the case. It made no sense to farm that part of the investigation out to the Montreal force. Peters was also right that she and Gibbs had done the lion’s share of the detective work on the case and knew much more about Kennedy’s background and activities than did Levesque. On the other hand, Levesque was higher ranking, Francophone and—he had to admit—more skilled at handling the intricacies of inter-agency cooperation. With one swish of her ponytail, she would dazzle.

  The truth was, he wanted to send none of them. Levesque was needed here to coordinate the Lise Gravelle homicide investigation as a whole, which was still in its early stages. Peters was still medically unfit, and Gibbs would be hopeless let loose in the ranks of Montreal’s tough, overworked police force.

  Further complicating things, it was now two p.m. on Friday, barely a week before Christmas. The Montreal cops would be thrilled at the added workload. After a moment’s deliberation, he rose, opened his door, and signalled for Marie Claire Levesque to join them. Once all three detectives were squeezed in a line opposite him in the tiny room, he addressed them all.

  “The Kennedy missing persons case and the Gravelle homicide are clearly linked. As the last person to talk to Gravelle, we need to find Meredith now more than ever. Sergeant Levesque, I’m assigning Detectives Gibbs and Peters to your team, where they will continue to pursue the Kennedy angle under your direction.”

  Sue Peters scowled, but Gibbs nudged her before she could open her mouth.

  “Follow-up is clearly needed in Montreal to share information with the Montreal Police and to obtain their assistance in tracing both Kennedy’s and Gravelle’s activities. All of you are needed here in Ottawa to follow up on leads. In the staff sergeant’s absence, I will go to Montreal.”

  All three jaws dropped. Before Peters could say anything to get herself into trouble, Green stood up. “It should only take a day or two. I’ll be accessible by cell phone at all times. Marie Claire, you’ll be in charge of the unit while I’m gone.”

  * * *

  Brandon Longstreet drove quickly, both hands gripping the wheel of his Prius in case he encountered an unexpected icy patch. The road surface was dry and bleached white by salt, but the Ottawa-Montreal highway was notorious for white-outs and drifting snow.

  It had taken him almost a day to cancel or rearrange his shifts, take care of emergencies and cajole colleagues into handling everything else. By the time he had freed up a couple of days to make the trip, he was feeling the pressure of lost time. The car’s acceleration was effortless, and in his excitement he didn’t notice how fast he was going until he spotted an OPP cruiser up ahead. He forced himself to slow down. He had so many questions to ask and so many leads to follow up that he’d better arrive in one piece.

  Having recovered from the shock of the discovery of the body, he was now absolutely convinced that Meredith was alive. She had uncovered something upsetting that had taken her on a mysterious trip to Montreal then prompted her to drop out of sight, for reasons as yet unknown. She was running from something, or hiding from someone, or desperately on the hunt for someone. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t confided in him, but Meredith was a stubborn, independent woman, and recently he had not shown her the loyalty she deserved.

  He blamed himself. Replaying their last fight endlessly in his head, he knew he’d screwed up by taking his mother’s side. Years of living with such a forceful, confident personality had taught him to take the easy route, to give in on the little battles. Over time, everything looked small compared to the colossal thrust of his mother’s will.

  But at least he understood that now. He only had to find Meredith, take her in his arms, and promise her that no matter how awful the obstacle, she could conquer it with him at her side. Deep down, he had a nagging suspicion that his mother was at the centre of Meredith’s discovery. Disjointed fragments seemed to hint at that: his mother’s secrecy, her cryptic “He mustn’t know!”, the lies about his father’s death, Meredith’s refusal to confide in him...

  Anger rolled over him. Enough! What was he? A fool and a child? There were too many secrets, and he was damned if he was going to be shielded any more. Meredith’s search had brought her to Montreal. He was flying blind with no idea whom she’d met or where she’d gone, but he figured he’d start with the family and see how many secrets he could pry loose himself.

  In his pocket he also had the newspaper clippings about his father’s death. As the highway curved left onto Montreal’s crumbling expressway, boulevard Métropolitaine, he wondered where to begin. In Westmount, he decided, steering for the Decarie exit ramp and following the sign to Centre Ville.

  * * *

  Sid Green’s face sagged as he watched his grandson light the Hanukkah menorah. It was the first year the five-year-old had been trusted with the honour, and it should have been a celebration. Yet even Tony looked as if he’d lost his best friend.

  It was the first night of the eight-day Festival of Lights, and the single candle looked lonely all by itself on the candelabra. Green felt the ache of its symbolism. Hannah hadn’t bought a return ticket, claiming she’d play it by ear depending on the reception she received. She’d said she wanted the freedom to come back after two days if things went badly, but Green feared the opposite. That she would never return.

  Judging from the wistful faces around the festive table, the rest of the family harboured the same fear. Sharon had dressed the table in white and sparkling silver to honour both Friday night Shabbat and the first night of Hanukkah. A platter of golden latkes filled the air with the scent of onions and oil, but the beauty only sharpened the sense of loss. Hannah’s place was set, as a symbol of her inclusion, but the empty chair spoke volumes.

  “Mike’s going to Montreal tomorrow,” Sharon said to Sid brightly. “I’ve given him a Hanukkah shopping list.”

  Sid raised a desultory eyebrow. “Montreal? What’s in Montreal?”

  “A couple of witnesses,” Green said. “And I have to talk to the Montreal Police. I won’t be there long. A day, maybe two.”

  “You bring back Lester’s smoked meat?”

  Green laughed. “It’s at the top of Sharon’s list. How much you want? Ten pounds?”

  “Ach.” Sid waved a dismissive hand. Green’s father was nearing ninety and seemed to be shrivelling before their eyes. Now, hunched over and turned in on himself, he looked barely a hundred pounds. Green’s heart constricted as he watched him push his single latke around on his plate, uneaten.

  “I’ll miss a couple of Hanukkah nights, but we’ll have a big celebration the last night,” Green said, matching Sharon’s gaiety. “Hannah should be back by then, and we’ll make a big spread of smoked meat and kosher dills.”

  Sharon rubbed her hands with glee. “With presents from the Sherbrooke Street boutiques for Hannah and me!”

  Green smiled. They both knew that trusting him with the selection of designer accessories, even if they could afford them, was an invitation to catastrophe. His taste ran more to discount department stores than Yves St. Laurent.

  Sid glanced at Green. �
�You’re looking for this missing madeleh?”

  Green was surprised, for his father rarely paid attention to the news. He left the television blaring all day in his minuscule senior’s apartment, but it was tuned to talk shows and old friends like Wheel of Fortune. They provided a background of silly patter that gave no reminder of the darker side of life. Sid Green needed no reminder.

  Green weighed his answer carefully. While it was true he would be investigating Meredith Kennedy’s movements in Montreal, his main focus was Lise Gravelle. He had spent the rest of the afternoon getting the necessary travel permissions and making arrangements with the Montreal Police. They had made no progress yet in tracking Lise’s next of kin, but Green suspected up till now they hadn’t tried very hard. To them she was a throwaway, an anonymous citizen of the city with no one to mourn her loss or push the police for answers. She’d had an erratic history of low-paying jobs and welfare, broken relationships and frequent moves, most recently to a small apartment in one of the dozens of cheap low rises in the Van Horne area. The Montreal Police made the obligatory grumbling noises about the upcoming weekend but agreed to get a search warrant for the place.

  “We’re hopeful Meredith Kennedy is alive,” was all he said now. “She has some friends and family in Montreal.”

  Tony had been listening with rapt attention. “She’s going to be in big trouble when you find her, right, Daddy?”

  Green chuckled. “I think everyone will just be happy to have her home again, buddy.”

  Sid had retreated into one of his faraway places. Back in the Warsaw ghetto with his little children, perhaps. Children who had been lost to him forever. An all too familiar sight to Green.

  “So!” he announced, reaching down and putting a shiny silver gift bag on the table. “Tonight’s presents are from Hannah, who wanted to make sure we wouldn’t forget her.” He distributed the small wrapped parcels around the table. Tony pounced on his and gleefully unwrapped The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.