by Rick Blechta
The Smiths lived in one of the nondescript brick houses that lined the streets of North Toronto. Even though it was early spring, pots of pansies decorated the front porch of the house. While the previous day’s snow was quickly melting, they looked forlorn.
Darren Smith obviously hadn’t slept much—if at all.
“Thank you for seeing us at this difficult time,” Pratt said as they shook hands. “My partner, Detective Ellis.”
The two detectives sat on the sofa in the tidy living room while Smith took one of two upholstered chairs to the side. Pratt noticed a nearly empty Scotch bottle on the floor next to it.
“We need to ask you more questions,” he said as Ellis got out his notebook.
Smith shrugged. “Sure, if it will help.”
“We think your wife’s death might be linked to a similar one that happened recently. Did your wife ever mention someone named Bruce Moore?”
Smith looked blank.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Think back to the past few days. Anything odd happen? Did Rebecca seem normal?”
“Provincial tests are coming up. That always makes her tense.”
“Nothing else?”
He thought for a moment.
“She was in a good mood on Sunday evening until she checked her email.”
“Did you ask about that?”
“She said a parent had an issue, and she’d have to deal with it.”
“Do you think that was true?”
“Rebecca wasn’t in the habit of lying to me.”
“So after the email how did she seem?”
“Distant. We were watching a movie she’d picked, but she paid no attention to it.”
“Yesterday morning?”
“Still distant.”
Ellis looked up from his note taking. “And it came in on her computer, not her cell phone?”
“She was in the kitchen checking her email before the movie started. I heard her mumble a profanity. She came out a moment later, and, as I said, she seemed distant, like she was worried. That’s when I asked her why.”
Pratt shifted at his end of the sofa. “We need to look on her computer.”
“Do you have to?”
“It may very well help.”
“I don’t know…”
Ellis said, “We could get a search warrant for it.”
“But we don’t want to do that,” Pratt added. “Will you help us?”
“I should speak to a lawyer first.”
“That is, of course, your right. But it will slow our investigation.” He leaned forward. “Look. We want to nail the person who did this to your wife. There may be a clue in her emails. Will you help us?”
Darren Smith’s sigh was heavy. “If you put it that way…”
SEVEN
Later, Pratt and Ellis sat at their desks, studying preliminary information from the crime-scene techs.
“Certainly gets here a lot faster than it used to,” Pratt said, leaning over Ellis’s shoulder to look at his laptop’s screen. The image on it was a distance shot taking in the entire crime scene. “Our murderer picked a good spot. With that three-meter fence along the sidewalk, there was no way he could miss.”
“And I’m betting the vehicle used was stolen. Even if we find a witness, we won’t know much more.”
Pratt returned to his desk. “Well, if it is some random crazy, we’re in trouble.”
Ellis looked over the screen at Pratt. “You don’t believe that.”
“No. But if we can’t connect the victims, we have to consider it.”
Ellis knew what he wanted to do. But, being the junior partner, he felt it wasn’t his place to speak first. Pratt stared into the distance for a few minutes.
“Okay, David. Go over everything we’ve got from the two rundowns. There’s got to be something that connects them. Find it. Anything you question, let me know. But first, look at Rebecca Smith’s computer. We need to know what’s on it.”
Which was exactly what Ellis would have suggested.
“I’m burning a mirror copy of her hard drive.” Ellis looked at the two computers taking up space on a neighboring detective’s desk. “It should be done in twenty minutes, and then I’ll send hers back to her husband.”
“Call me immediately if you find anything useful.”
“And what are you going to be doing?”
“That friend of the family I mentioned who was at the hospital last night? He warrants another chat. Something feels wrong about him being there.”
Computers were something Ellis just understood. At one time, he’d thought being in IT would be his career. Then, in his first year of university, something happened that turned his whole life upside down. Suddenly policing was the only thing he could see himself doing.
But he still enjoyed “messing with computers,” as his wife called it, and he was amazingly adept at it. Locked or encrypted files laid open their contents for him easily. Secrets cleverly hidden were never an issue for long.
Rebecca Smith had little to hide, but even so, the young detective didn’t like looking. Going through someone’s computer made him feel like a peeping tom.
That weekend email Smith had mentioned was his quarry. It wasn’t in her inbox. It wasn’t in her trash. He did a global search of her files and came up dry.
She’d obviously deleted it. Interesting—considering how many old emails she had.
It would still be on her computer, of course. Deleted files were never actually deleted. Their locations were just “lost” by the computer. He’d have to wait days for one of the computer techs to dig it off her hard drive byte by byte.
But Ellis had an ace up his sleeve. There might well be a copy left out in plain sight—in Rebecca’s webmail. If she was like most people, her emails stayed in her webmail inbox even if she checked them on her computer, and Ellis might find them there.
It didn’t take him long.
The email he was looking for had the subject line it’s happened. we need to talk n/t.
EIGHT
Based on experience, Pratt thought it best to show up at Dewalt’s workplace unannounced. Something about the man seemed greasy. It was best to just spring out at people like this unawares, and see what the surprise factor could shake loose.
Mayfield & Young Wealth Management had offices on the twelfth floor of Commerce Court. Even the reception area spoke of money—and lots of it. There were two receptionists, one to answer the phone, the other busy on a computer.
Pratt approached the one answering phones.
“I’d like to see Curt Dewalt.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Pratt pulled out his ID. The girl looked at it, eyes big, then promptly picked up the phone.
She didn’t call Dewalt.
A few minutes later a tall gray-haired man came through the inner office door. His smile looked glued on as he approached with his hand out.
“Detective Pratt?”
“Detective Sergeant Pratt, yes. I’m here to speak with Curt Dewalt.”
“About what?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“This is very awkward. You can’t see him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not here at the moment.”
Pratt, temper short from too little sleep, was losing patience.
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“Ah, he didn’t show up for work this morning.”
Shit, Pratt thought, but said aloud, “Is there someplace we could talk?”
Once behind the man’s closed office door, Pratt bluntly asked him who he was.
“Harris Mayfield, one of the senior partners. You’ll have to excuse me today, but the wife of one of our associates tragically died last night in a traffic accident. Is that what this is about?”
Pratt didn’t want to give anything away.
“What can you tell me about Curt Dewalt?”
“Well, he’s been
with us for five years. His results have been good.”
“Any work-related issues?”
“He considers himself a Don Juan. Two secretaries have complained about his attentions. We had to discipline him as a result. He’s kept a low profile since then, but I doubt if he’s, ah, mended his ways.”
“And you intend to do nothing?”
“If there are no further complaints, no.”
“And his absence today—has this sort of thing happened before?”
“To the best of my knowledge, no.”
“And there was no phone call? No email?”
“Frankly, we’re concerned. Now you’re here. I must know—is Dewalt in any trouble?”
“I just wish to speak to him.” Pratt reached into his jacket pocket. “My card. If you hear from him, please let me know. Now, I’d like his home address, if you’d be so kind.”
Pratt was back on the street again five minutes later. He was in the act of pulling out his cell phone when it rang.
“Pratt?” came David Ellis’s voice. “I’ve got our email from Rebecca Smith’s computer. Where are you?”
“Corner of King and Bay. Come down and pick me up. We’re going to Curt Dewalt’s condo.”
There was silence on the line. “How did you know?” Ellis finally asked.
“Know what?”
“That the email was from Dewalt.”
Dewalt lived in one of the condo towers near the mouth of the Humber River, west of downtown. The only reason a patrol car wasn’t dispatched to bring him in was that Pratt wanted to see the sort of place he lived in. It could tell him a lot.
A young man was seated at the building’s front desk.
Pratt and Ellis flashed their IDs. The kid went from cocky to solemn in a heartbeat.
Pratt said, “Which apartment is Curt Dewalt’s?”
He keyed something into the computer in front of him. “He’s in 1807. Is he in trouble?”
“Why do you ask?”
“’Cause you’re cops.”
“We just want to talk to him,” Ellis said.
“He’s not here.”
“How do you know?”
“He left in a taxi early this morning. He hasn’t returned.”
“He didn’t take his car?”
“Dewalt doesn’t have one. Says he hates cars.”
Both detectives looked at each other.
The kid went on. “Seems sort of stupid to live way out here when he doesn’t drive. The guy must spend a fortune on cabs. Hardly ever takes transit, far as I know.”
“Was he carrying anything? A suitcase maybe?”
“No. But he did have a large shopping bag.”
Ellis leaned over the desk and handed the kid his card.
“Your name?”
“Um, Fedorsen. Jon Fedorsen.”
“Well, Jon Fedorsen. When Dewalt shows his face, how ’bout you give us a call?”
“Sure. I can do that. Want me to tell the evening guy?”
“We’d appreciate that.”
Back in the car, Ellis turned to Pratt.
“What do you make of that? First sign of trouble, and our suspect bolts.”
“I don’t think he’s a suspect.”
“How so?” Ellis asked as he eased out into the traffic.
“I had thought he might have tagged along to the hospital last night because the job hadn’t been completed on Rebecca Smith. As soon as she died, he split. Not the mark of a true friend. He seems to have come back home, gathered some things and taken off. Why? If he was our murderer, what did he have to fear now that she is dead? Running now makes him look bad.” Pratt shook his head. “He’s scared. And he definitely knows what’s going on.”
Ellis was silent as he drove east on Lakeshore Boulevard.
Even though he’d had a big breakfast, it was now after four, and Pratt’s stomach was rumbling.
“How about some fish and chips? I know a good place up on Burnhamthorpe. On me.”
Ellis frowned. “Something tells me I ought to be home and hungry at dinnertime tonight. Jen is still really angry with me. Last night did not go down well with her.”
“Could I treat you both to dinner?”
“I think tonight will be about staying home with her. As a matter of fact…”
Ellis slipped into a driveway and made two calls. The first one was to his wife, telling her he’d handle dinner. The second was to preorder said dinner from their favorite sushi restaurant.
Pratt didn’t get why raw fish was a suitable dinner, but then, he’d been brought up on things like fish and chips.
“Could I at least buy you a bottle of wine?” he asked.
Ellis smiled. “That would be very kind. Thanks, boss.”
“Don’t call me that,” Pratt growled, but he was smiling. “And there won’t be any calls. I’ll handle anything that comes up tonight.”
Though they knocked off early, both men spent a good part of their evenings moving the investigation forward.
Pratt spent his on the Internet, reading the coverage their case was getting. The media had it all wrong, of course. But he noted Mac being quoted as saying that it wasn’t about “some random crazy” and “we’ll get to the bottom of it. Have no fear.”
The detective wished his boss had spoken with him first.
Ellis waited until his wife’s breathing showed she was asleep before slipping out of bed. In the room they hoped would someday become a nursery, he sat at his computer and began a search. He’d had an interesting idea and wanted to try it out.
His night was again a very late one.
NINE
Pratt was on the phone to Ellis at eight the next morning.
“We’re driving out to Burlington to talk to the first victim’s wife again.”
Ellis sounded like he had a mouthful of cereal when he answered, “I thought that might be on our docket today.”
“I want to see if our second victim’s name or Dewalt’s shake anything loose. I’ve had cases break wide open on a lot less.”
“Put your coffee down, if you’re holding it,” Ellis said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“It’s down.”
“I had an idea during dinner last night. I didn’t say anything to Jen. She’s just started to thaw over our ruined date night.”
“Very wise.”
“Anyway, after she’d fallen asleep I went online to try out my theory.”
“And?”
Ellis took a deep breath. “I don’t think there are two victims. There are three.”
“Continue.”
“Six weeks ago in Ottawa, another person was run down in what’s nearly a carbon copy of our crimes—caught unawares, a fatal hit-and-run, no witnesses, car used was stolen. Too close for a coincidence, eh?”
“Any other things the same?”
“Only the age. The victim was thirty-six, female, never married. She worked for the government. I got in touch with the Ottawa police and asked for someone connected with the case to call us. So we have another victim’s name, and we should use it this morning.”
“Did you check for any other hit- and-runs?”
“Nothing so far, but Canada’s a big country.”
Ellis picked up his partner at the Kipling subway station. Pratt tossed a copy of Metro, the free transit newspaper, between them on the seat.
“Got your picture in the paper, young feller.”
It was a photo of Ellis at the accident scene, talking to a crime-scene tech. The caption said something about the poor weather being a factor in the accident—which certainly wasn’t the case. But often it helped to have the media go off in wrong directions.
The drive to Burlington took over an hour due to the traffic. Using the GPS on Ellis’s phone, Pratt actually got them to the late Bruce Moore’s home without a single error. Ellis didn’t tell his partner he could have done it without the help.
Susan Moore still looked drawn and sad when she opened her front
door. Hovering in the background were her dead husband’s parents.
“The brave Toronto detectives,” she said. “Do you finally have word about Bruce’s death? Have you caught the person who murdered my husband?”
“I’m sorry about the slow pace of our investigation,” Pratt answered evenly. “May we come in? There have been developments.”
“That hit-and-run the other night?” asked Bruce Moore Senior, looking pleased with himself.
Ellis didn’t like him. The gray-haired man obviously considered himself the smartest man in any room.
“May we come in, Mrs. Moore?” Pratt repeated.
Once seated in the living room, the elder Moore asked, “Well?”
His wife finally spoke up. “Bruce, Susan, we should offer our guests coffee or tea.”
Both detectives accepted, and she bustled from the room.
“As you guessed,” Pratt began, “this is about that hit-and-run Monday night. It has many things in common with Bruce’s death. We feel there may well be a connection.”
Ellis, eager to get on with it, added, “Do the names Rebecca Smith, Sara Penrose or Curt Dewalt mean anything to you?”
Susan Moore immediately said, “The first person was the one killed the other night.” She considered a moment longer. “The others mean nothing to me.”
“Think back. They may have been old friends of your husband.”
She turned to her father-in-law. “Dad?”
Moore shook his head. “Never heard of any of those people. But if only two have been run down, my son and the Smith woman, who are the other two?”
Ellis was about to answer, but Pratt got in first.
“I’d rather not say at this point. We believe there is a connection between all these people.”
“And that’s all you’re going on? Seems a pretty slender hope.”
“I’ve been successful with less.”
“So you say. I must admit that I’m very disappointed by the lack of progress you boys have made. It has been three weeks.”
“We’re doing our best.”
“You’re lucky I’m not your boss.”
His wife’s returning with a tray diffused the situation. Ellis could tell his partner was steaming more than the pot of coffee.