Blakeley had grown pale at the mention of a witness, and now he lowered his head in his hands and shook it despairingly back and forth. “I . . . don’t . . . know. Nothing. I didn’t have anything to do with the Ross woman’s death.”
“Then someone else killed her on your behalf, John. Because without a doubt she was killed to stop her from revealing what she knew about you.”
Blakeley remained with his head in his hands.
“I’d say the list of people who fit the bill is pretty small,” Green said. “How many people know you killed Daniel Oliver? I can think of three.” He held up three fingers and ticked them off. “Dick Hamm, Roger Atkinson, and by your admission, your devoted wife.”
Blakeley’s head shot up, his jowls darkening with rage. “Don’t . . . don’t—!”
“Am I missing someone, John?”
“How do I know? There were lots of people in the bar that night!”
Green kept his three fingers in front of Blakeley’s face. “And of those three, how many care enough to commit murder for you? Hamm, Atkinson or Leanne?”
Blakeley knocked away his hand with a lightning fast swipe. “This is nothing but the most outrageous speculation!”
Green’s hand stung, sending a spike of anger shooting through him. He fought the urge to seize the man’s wrist. “Let me tell you about this innocent witness whose life hangs in the balance,” he managed evenly. “She was once a school teacher, married to a history professor and the mother of twin boys. When the boys were ten, their father chopped them into pieces with a chainsaw. That’s what Twiggy lives with every day as she scrounges out a half-life on the riverbank. You talked earlier about how much our society needs heroes, John, and I can tell you there have been precious few in Twiggy’s world. So you have a choice here to put your money where your mouth is.”
Blakeley stared at him in stony silence. Green held his gaze and let the silence lengthen until he could no longer trust his dispassion. Shoving back his chair, he stood up. “Think about it, John. Wherein lies honour?”
TWENTY-SIX
It was a good try, Mike,” Sullivan said, after Green had stalked out of the recording room. He had left Blakeley slumped at the table, still resolutely silent.
“Oh, I’m not done,” Green snapped as he headed for the situation room with Sullivan and McGrath on his heels. “I’ve planted some thoughts in his head, and we’ll just let them germinate for a while. Meanwhile, we’re a lot further ahead than we were. At least we know where to look next.”
“I don’t believe for one minute that he didn’t kill Patricia Ross,” McGrath said as they entered the room. She was obviously still smarting from being excluded from the interview, because her tone was glacial. “Just look at the guy’s temper.”
“His temper is why he killed Daniel Oliver,” Green said. “But Patricia Ross wasn’t killed by temper. She was killed by premeditated ruthlessness.”
“I disagree.” Her tone dropped ten more degrees. “They could have had an argument about the blackmail money, and bang—before he knows it, he strangles her.”
Green crossed the room to the blackboard and drew three vertical lines down it. At the top of each resulting column, he scribbled a name. Hamm, Atkinson, Leanne and Weiss.
“These are our suspects. Barring some unknown twist—”
McGrath stalked to the board, screeched the chalk down a fourth line, and wrote Blakeley at the top before returning to her seat.
Green felt a flush creep up his neck. “You’re right,” he said in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. “We should keep all possibilities open.”
“I don’t see why Weiss is up there,” she countered. “He didn’t even know about Daniel Oliver’s death.”
“But he’s clearly involved somehow, and as Brian said earlier, he may be our best hope of breaching the code of silence. Brian, can you check if surveillance has had any sighting of him yet?”
They waited in chilly silence while Sullivan called Charbonneau and Leblanc. The conversation lasted barely a minute, and when Sullivan hung up, he shook his head. “No luck tracking Weiss down, and so far no sign of his ex-wife either. They’re going to keep an eye on both premises for a few hours yet, and call if anything develops.”
“Is Gibbs still in the squad room?”
Sullivan shook his head again. “He went off to see Sue. The lad’s almost dead on his feet anyway, Mike.”
Sullivan’s expression was deadpan, but there was an ominous edge in his voice which Green recognized all too well. He was warning Green to put the brakes on before he let his own impatience and single-mindedness trample over everyone else’s views. Green forced himself to nod in agreement. “How is Sue? Any change?”
“Apparently she’s conscious for short periods, but that’s about all. The doctors will be running more tests in the morning.” Sullivan stifled a yawn. His hair was standing in tufts, and his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. “It’s probably about time we called it a night ourselves, Mike. There’s not much that won’t wait till morning, when we’ll all be much sharper.”
Green glanced at his watch. It was now past ten o’clock, and night was settling in. But with every passing hour, the hope of finding Twiggy dimmed.
“I’d like us to run through what we’ve got on these suspects, to make sure we’re not missing anything and to see if there’s anything the night shift guys can follow up on in the meantime.”
Sullivan groaned and reached for his cellphone. He punched in a number on his speed dial.
“What are you doing?” Green demanded irritably.
“Ordering us pizza and coffee. If we’re going to be here half the night, I want food.”
Green stole a sheepish glance at McGrath, who returned it with a stony stare. Oy, he thought, this is going to be a tough sell. Maybe food will help. Once the pizzas were ordered, he turned his attention back to the blackboard.
“Let’s ask a few basic investigative questions here. First of all, if we assume the killer was protecting Blakeley, then he or she had to have known about Blakeley killing Oliver—”
“Why?” McGrath demanded. “The killer could be any of Blakeley’s friends or staffers, for example, who found out about the blackmail and decided to eliminate the threat to him even without knowing the cause.”
Green mustered some patience through his fatigue. “That’s an outside possibility but unlikely, because only a few hours elapsed between the blackmail attempt and the murder. Not much time to learn about it and react, particularly if Blakeley told no one.”
“If you believe that.”
“Good point. So let’s rank these five. Who had the strongest motive for protecting Blakeley?”
“His wife, Leanne,” Sullivan said.
McGrath thrust her chair back and crossed her arms, mentally withdrawing herself from the discussion. Green pretended not to notice. “Absolutely,” he said. “She’s very protective of him anyway, and her fortunes are irrevocably tied to his.”
“And I’d say Hamm has the least motive,” Sullivan added.
“He does have a motive, though. Both of them are military men, and we don’t know enough about their relationship. That’s something for the night shift to look at.” Green jotted down some notes before returning to the list.
“Atkinson is a behind-the-scenes man whose fortunes are also linked to Blakeley’s,” Sullivan said. “If Blakeley gets a cabinet portfolio, imagine how high Atkinson could fly. And for an ambitious lad from Sheet Harbour, that’s pretty heady stuff.”
“But hardly on a par with what Leanne has to gain or lose. I’d put Atkinson in the middle between the wife and Hamm.”
Sullivan eyed the board dubiously. “I don’t know where Weiss fits in.”
“No. Until we know what his connection is, we can’t know his motive.” Green put a question mark under Weiss’s name.
McGrath shifted irritably in her seat. “I still say Blakeley is number one,” she muttered. “No one had more reason
to protect his secret than the man himself.”
Green nodded. Within the context of the question, she was right, and at this point he was glad for any participation. He didn’t dare mention the gut feeling he’d had staring at Blakeley across the table as the man denied point blank that he was the killer. Either he wasn’t the killer, or he was a damn good liar.
“Next question,” he said instead. “Which one has the physical strength to do the job? Crushing Patricia Ross’ vertebrae and beating Peters within an inch of her life both require considerable strength. My money’s on Hamm for this one.”
“Yeah,” said Sullivan. “Although beneath his suit and slick manner, Atkinson has a lot of muscle. I’d say he works out.”
“Leanne . . . Well, as tough as she is, there’s no way a woman—”
McGrath nearly shot out of her chair. “And who was huffing and puffing up the hills in Halifax?”
Sullivan laughed, and Green felt his cheeks grow hot. “I’m the first to admit I’m no basis for comparison. But between a fit man and a fit woman—”
“Both of these victims were women themselves,” she shot back. “And a fit woman can be a match for many men, especially if she’s had martial arts training.”
Green regarded her ruefully. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes blazed. He forced himself to separate her anger from her message. “You’re quite right, and we need to check that out. In fact, we need to know much more about her background, her health and even her political activities. Superintendent Devine mentioned that her father is a Liberal bigshot, and getting her husband into that inner circle may be a big deal for her.” He jotted down another note for the night shift. “In the meantime, Hamm and Weiss earn the highest score, Atkinson next and Leanne last.”
McGrath sat back, a stubborn scowl on her face. “You’re forgetting Blakeley again. I think he’d rate at least with Hamm and Weiss.”
Reluctant to add further fuel to her anger, Green cast a silent plea for assistance at Sullivan, who seemed to read his mind. “He’s older, so that’s a factor, but he’s probably on a par with Atkinson.”
Green ploughed on before McGrath could object further. “Third question. Opportunity. Who could have been in Ottawa on Sunday night and up in Petawawa the following Friday?”
All three of them studied the list of suspects in silence. Sullivan spoke first. “Weiss obviously was in both places at the times in question, and on the face of it, the four others all have good mobility and legitimate reasons to travel back and forth without attracting attention.”
“But we have gaps in our alibi information,” Green said. “So far, what do we know?”
“We know Hamm was in Petawawa when Peters was attacked, but . . .” Sullivan activated the incident room computer and clicked through boxes. “Hamm said he was in Petawawa with his wife when Ross was killed. Corroborated by the wife.”
“Which doesn’t mean much, but at least it’s an alibi,” Green muttered. “Leanne will probably back up Blakeley’s statement about what time he got home, but we still have to substantiate that.”
Sullivan rubbed his face wearily. “More work for the night shift.” Unexpectedly, his cellphone rang and his face lit up. “Ah! That will be our pizza.”
When a duty officer brought the pizza up, Sullivan dived in with gusto, but Green didn’t know which he needed more, food or sleep. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him halfway through the first slice. Small wonder, he though, when he realized he’d been on the job now for nearly eighteen hours, with little more than a fitful few hours the night before to tide him over. Half an hour later, they called it a night, handed over the notes to the night shift for follow-up and packed up to leave. McGrath, who had barely taken a bite of her pizza, headed towards the door without a backward glance.
“Do you want me to pick you up when we’re ready to get started in the morning?” Green asked.
She swung around. “This part of the investigation isn’t really my case. Not that it would make any difference if it was.”
She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms. Even though her eyes were hooded with fatigue, the tilt of her chin was defiant. Green didn’t know how to placate her and hadn’t the spare energy to think about it. He tried for a sympathetic tone.
“Do you want me to drop you off at your hotel on my way home?”
“What I want is a shot at interviewing Blakeley in the morning.”
He considered her request. They had left Blakeley in the holding cell overnight to contemplate his future, and his conscience. A little extra nudging might be just what he needed after a long night. If Devine and the Chief went ballistic, tough.
He nodded. “I’ll leave word. Now let’s get some sleep.”
Green felt as if his head had barely hit the pillow when his cellphone rang on the night table beside him, prompting muffled curses from Sharon’s side of the bed. He groped to silence it before the second ring and croaked a greeting through the fog in his brain.
Leblanc’s voice came through uncertainly. “Sorry to wake you, sir, but Sullivan said you wanted to be informed. We just checked on the status of Weiss’s wife.”
Green sat up, the fog clearing abruptly. “And?”
“Her car’s in the drive now, sir. There are no lights on, but I figure she’s probably asleep. Do you want me to ring the bell and see?”
Green peered at his clock radio. Three a.m. Jesus! What maniac goes out on the streets at three a.m. He thought about it for all of two seconds. Me.
“No, don’t do anything. We’ll be right there.”
Sept. 16, 1993. 3 a.m. Middle of no-man’s land, Sector South, Croatia.
We’re sitting in our APC on a stretch of deserted road, in the middle of the combat zone. I’m a million miles from sleep. Two rows of tanks are pointed straight at us, and I’m listening for every sound. A few hours ago we had all-out war with the Croats, who have machine guns, rocket grenades, 20 mm. cannons and at least twenty tanks. Apparently nobody told them about the withdrawal agreement their president signed in Zagreb, and they didn’t want any part of it. We were told that we could fire back if fired upon, so we were giving them everything we had. The noise was unbelievable. Our first real combat. Some of the guys were like ‘yeah, finally!’.
The miracle was, we didn’t lose a single soldier. After it was over, we ran around checking that we were all okay, then Danny and I went across to their position for a look. There was blood all over, and a little ways away, a Croat soldier lying all by himself. A kid, really. I wonder if he took a long time to die, and if he was scared. It bothered me, thinking it might have been my bullet.
Later, the CO and a few officers went over to the Croat side to prove there was an agreement, and the CO said we were going to put two APCs at the crossover point just to keep our foot in the door till morning. So here we are, like sitting ducks with tanks staring at us from both sides. We’re flying the biggest UN flag in the battalion and we’re hoping nobody over there gets trigger-happy after a snootfull.
Sept 16, 1993. 6 p.m. Croatian front line, Sector South, Croatia. The next day started off bad and got worse. We were stuck inside the APC, trying to get some sleep, when this huge explosion shook the ground and blasted our ears. I poked my head out of the hatch and saw a massive column of dust and smoke up ahead, behind the Croat line. There’s supposed to be a ceasefire, so what the hell is this? There’s the stink of gunpowder and smoke everywhere. I’m so sick of this shit, people who just fucking destroy for the hell of it.
Soon the CO and the rest of the company came up to join us and we set off in a convoy down the road to the Croat side. That’s when the trouble really started. Another fucking Croat roadblock. Anti-tank mines across the road, tanks and missiles pointing at us and some tin-pot general saying we’re not going through. The orders come down from the CO to pick a target, so Danny points the C-6 at this missile that’s pointing at us. Talk about playing chicken. I thought, this is it, I’m going to die over here. Two wee
ks left till the end of my tour and I’m going home in a body bag. Two hours later, I’m still shaking, even way down deep in my gut.
The suburb of Orleans was a mushrooming tangle of crescents lined with cookie cutter houses and big box malls that had gobbled up the vast plains of farmland sloping up from the Ottawa river. It owed its name to the tiny French Canadian farming village that had once been its core, but beyond the ornate, silver-roofed stone church on St. Joseph Boulevard, very little remained of its village roots.
Green could never get in and out of Orleans without becoming lost, so he was counting on Sullivan to navigate their route to 1765 Appletree Court. Sullivan had not offered a word of protest about being roused at three in the morning, and had arrived at Green’s house bearing two extra large Tim Hortons double-doubles. These were almost gone by the time the car had looped endlessly through Applefield Drive, Applewood Avenue and Appleglen Crescent, past identical vinyl-sided houses with minivans in the driveways and juniper beds under the front windows. Rounding yet another bend, they spotted a familiar beige Malibu parked discreetly at the curb.
“Ahah!” Green exclaimed. “That’s got to be Charbonneau and Leblanc.”
A moment later Leblanc and Charbonneau had joined them in the back of the car, where Sullivan thoughtfully provided them with yet two more double-doubles from a box on the seat.
“It’s that house with the green Dodge Caravan in the drive,” Leblanc said between grateful gulps.
Green studied the townhouse, which was dimly lit by a street light across the way. He could see a couple of bicycles and a spindly sapling on the front lawn, but the house itself was masked by curtains. A light shone from a window upstairs, and he thought he could see a faint glow through the front door.
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