Hannah was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a cat in her lap, looking up at the camera with an insolent half smile. Her hair stood out in a halo of blue-tipped spikes around her tiny, heart-shaped face. Even with the silver studs in her eyebrow and the white gloss on her lips, she looked so much like his mother that he felt a sharp twinge of pain.
“Inspector Green?” came the staff sergeant’s voice over the silent line.
“Yeah. Ah... I’ll send the photo along with the email.” He hoped his voice sounded neutral as he hastened to ring off. Five minutes later, he had the photo and description up on an electronic bulletin for all the patrols to see in their car computers and had printed two dozen copies for the bicycle patrols and for street canvassing. A quick glance out his office door revealed still no sign of Sullivan, so Green stuffed some of Hannah’s photos into his briefcase and turned to do one final check of his email. In his long list of unread messages, the name Quinton Patterson in the sender column suddenly caught his eye. Sent at 3:07 a.m. the night before. The prick had evidently not slept well following their confrontation yesterday, Green thought. Now what? More legal browbeating?
Curious, he clicked on the message and was surprised when a long, unlawyerly note filled his screen.
Dear Mr. Green, it began.
It’s three o’clock in the goddamn morning, and thanks to you sleep has disappeared out the door. Sleep has been a fickle, fair-weather friend of mine for years, and even when she came, she used to bring nasty companions. You ever had nightmares? It got so I hated her to come and used to sit awake blasting the TV so I could get through till morning.
Three o’clock is the darkest, lowest hour of the night, and now here I am again, staring into the dark and remembering all those other three o’clocks from years ago. Evil creeps in at the small hours of the morning, detective. Evil memories, evil thoughts, evil wishes. Tonight, thanks to you, it’s visiting our house again.
We all have our tricks to keep it away. My mother is passed out on her bed in front of theTV, my stepfather has been shut up in his study scribbling down legal precedents to keep you out of our lives. Like all the words and pieces of paper and all the laws in the world are going to make a difference. Like they ever have. Quinton thinks the law is a shield. I know it’s more often a knife in the back.
I don’t know you or why you’re doing this, but I overheard Quinton on the phone saying you were going to open my whole case up again. I don’t want it opened. I don’t want your idea of justice. I don’t want the memories or the nightmares or the knockdown fights that put my family at each other’s throats over me. If you think you’re helping, you’re wrong. Or maybe like all the others, you just don’t give a fuck. So what will it be, detective?
Rebecca Whelan
Green reread the email three times, fighting a swirl of very unprofessional feelings. Up until that moment, Rebecca Whelan had been an abstraction, a little girl whose allegation had set in motion a cascade of events that had ended, quite possibly, in the death of an innocent man. It had been the dead man’s cause that Green had been pursuing, lured into the quest by the unanswered tragedy of his death.
Quinton Patterson had tried to warn him about the impact of his inquiry on the living, so had Barbara Devine and even the CAS worker. But Green had thought—arrogantly he realized now with a sick feeling in his gut—that exposing the lie, unearthing the truth, and nailing the guilty man would be cathartic for all involved. Including Rebecca Whelan, the little girl who had never seen justice done in the first place.
The Rebecca Whelan in his thoughts had been the bewildered six-year-old blindsided by a conspiracy of teachers and crushed by an anachronistic legal system run by a cabal of wilfully ignorant old men. Yet here before him was the real Rebecca Whelan, who had learned in her own way to take care of herself, who had overcome the nightmares and made it to morning, metaphorically as well as literally. Tough and jaded though she was, she had nonetheless placed her peace of mind in Green’s hands and challenged him not to destroy it a second time. A challenge made all the more poignant by her underlying suspicion that he would probably fail her.
Do I have any choice? he asked himself as he considered the situation. If Fraser’s death turned out to be a suicide or accident, as others had concluded before he started turning over rocks, then perhaps the whole sorry tale could be allowed to slip into obscurity. He and Sullivan wouldn’t need to resurrect the painful events of years ago, even if they had indirectly driven Fraser over the brink.
But if, as Green feared, Fraser had been murdered in a calculated move to silence him, then Green would have no choice. This investigation wasn’t about the events of ten years ago. It was about the brutal death four days ago of a man whose own clash with injustice had been almost as compelling as hers. Because if Matthew Fraser had been innocent, then it was her lie that had brought it all down on him in the first place. Could Green turn a blind eye to Fraser’s death just to avoid reawakening the demons in the lives of Rebecca and her family?
He heard footsteps outside his office and looked up just as Brian Sullivan filled his doorway. The big man’s face was alive with excitement.
“Well, buddy, your instincts are as sharp as ever.”
Green’s heart sank. The one time he was hoping they were wrong. “Where have you been?” he asked peevishly. “I expected you hours ago.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t here, so I went ahead with some leads. I’ve already talked to MacPhail and the Fire Department. And it’s dynamite.”
Green eyed Rebecca’s email out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, shoot,” he sighed.
Sullivan eyed him curiously then sank into the guest chair and propped his huge feet on Green’s desk. He flipped open his duty book with a dramatic flourish. “Well, the PM’s interesting. So interesting that MacPhail phoned me at six o’clock this morning before he’d even gone for his morning jog. How that guy drinks all night and then gets up at dawn for a run is beyond me.”
“Sweats the booze out of his system, he says. What did he have to say?”
Instead, Sullivan turned to another page with a smile. “I also got a preliminary report from the fire investigation guys. Looks like gasoline was present on the mattress and the floor around the bed, which produced a rapid, hot, localized burn. Now what does that tell you?”
Sullivan was teasing him, but for once their Socratic game held no appeal. Green could only think of a teenage girl lying awake at three in the morning, hanging onto the slim and fading hope that she’d be left in peace. When he didn’t respond, Sullivan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and answered his own question. “You and I were right, Mike. He didn’t set himself on fire accidentally. MacPhail says the guy was dead as a doornail before the fire even hit. Not a trace of soot in his lungs.”
Fuck, Green thought. Not even a chance for reasonable doubt. “What did he die of?”
“MacPhail couldn’t find any physical cause. No signs of smothering or asphyxiation. Looks like he just stopped breathing. We’re waiting on the tox results, but no matter the cause, it looks like someone killed him and set the fire to cover it up. So we’re going to have to go through his old case with a fine-toothed comb.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking...” Green began, but even to himself the idea sounded lame. “We shouldn’t overlook the residents of the rooming house. It might be a simple case of a robbery gone bad. His briefcase was missing, so somebody might have thought it was full of drug money.”
“We’ve done a routine canvass, and there’s no evidence of that. Nobody even knew he was there.” Sullivan frowned and slapped his notebook shut. “Okay Mike, what the hell’s going on? Last night you were hot to trot on this case; now you’re acting like you want it to disappear.”
“I don’t. Well... I’ve got a problem.” Green swivelled his computer monitor around so that Sullivan could see the email. Once Sullivan had read it, he frowned, and a wary skepticism replaced his initial dismay.
“It could
be legit, I suppose,” he muttered eventually.
“What do you mean? You don’t think Rebecca Whelan sent it?”
“Well, there is that. It’s obviously sent from Quinton Patterson’s email account.”
The possibility that the note was forged had not occurred to Green, and he pondered it with surprise. In yesterday’s visit, Patterson had certainly been determined to keep a lid on the investigation and to prevent Green from talking to Rebecca himself. Had Patterson decided that an emotional appeal from a victimized girl would have more weight than his own legal posturing? If so, he had been right, and the thought angered Green.
Yet from his brief meeting with Patterson, Green sensed that the man knew no other rules than those of the courtroom. Rationalism, power plays and bluffs would be his weapons of choice, not the raw poignancy of emotion. Whoever had written that email had dredged it from deep in their soul.
Green shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like Patterson. It feels like someone who’s lived it.”
Sullivan raised a baffled eyebrow. “Even if it is, what difference does it make? Jesus, Mike, we’ve been stirring up hornets’ nests all our lives. Murder does that. And I’ll tell you something else.” He leaned forward to tap the computer screen. “That may be what she’s trying to avoid. She doesn’t want you opening up the case, because she doesn’t want us uncovering the truth.”
Green contemplated the idea in silence. He knew he was only thinking with half his wits, but Sullivan’s theory had a ring of plausibility. Patterson was not the only one who wanted the truth to stay buried. If Rebecca had originally lied about Fraser’s guilt to deflect suspicion from the real culprit, she might still be protecting that person.
“So you’re saying this whole email could be a manipulation?”
Sullivan nodded. “Yup. To get under your skin. By the looks of you, you’ve fallen for it hook, line and sinker, which isn’t like you.”
“This feels so real, Brian. She’s just a sixteen-year-old kid.”
“Right at the height of her manipulative powers. Come on, Mike! Your bullshit sensors should be ringing loud and clear!”
They would be, Green realized, if his brain wasn’t clogged with images of another sixteen-year-old kid, who in her own impetuous way was also trying to come to grips with a past that had failed her. And perhaps blundering naïvely into the clutches of some greasy pimp on the prowl at the airport. Fuck, sixteen was so young!
His preoccupation must have been written on his face, for Sullivan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I heard Ashley called this morning.”
Green hesitated. It was useless to pretend, because Sullivan could read him like a book. Better to come clean and get Sullivan’s lecture over with. Sullivan never seemed to screw up his own family life, no matter what the demands of his job. He had a wonderfully maternal wife whom he’d loved since he was sixteen and three talented, well adjusted kids. Green and Sharon were still trying to navigate successfully through Tony’s toddlerhood, and Hannah... Well, the therapy bills were testimony enough even before this latest imbroglio.
Green took a deep breath to fortify himself, then filled Sullivan in about Hannah as quickly as he could. To his surprise, after some initial exclamations of astonishment, Sullivan laughed.
“Christ, if she’s anything like you, you’re in real trouble.”
Green scowled. “You know teenage girls. Be a help.”
“You haven’t seen the girl in how long?”
“Since she was three months old. I did try to visit her once, but Ashley said it would just confuse her, because when she was younger, she thought Fred was her real father. And so I...” He shrugged. “You remember. I just thought it would be better for her. I paid the support—Ashley never had a complaint about me on that score—but for the rest...”
“So you never showed any interest in her. No phone calls, no birthday cards?”
“Ashley cut me out.”
“Bullshit.”
Green quelled his protest and counted slowly to ten. How many times had he reproached himself for that very failing? How many times had he thought of her with a rush of yearning and guilt, only to take the easy way out? The truth was, he’d been angry, hurt and ultimately afraid, and hadn’t known how to fit into her life. So he’d simply bowed out.
In the silence that fell between them, Sullivan seemed to soften. “Okay,” he said, “so she’s taken the first step. That probably took a lot of courage.”
“To hear Ashley talk, it just took a rebellious impulse.”
“Yeah. Well, I remember Ashley. Insight never was her strong suit.”
Green eyed him with surprise. In the early years of their friendship, when Green’s first marriage had been teetering on the brink, Sullivan had never implied that any of the shortcomings lay with Ashley. Only with Green and his inability to make others a priority.
Green smiled now with some relief. “No, but she does know Hannah a lot better than me.”
“Which is my point. Your daughter has taken a leap into the unknown. She might be just taking her time coming in for a landing.”
“Meaning?”
“I think she’s wandering around out there screwing up the courage to come meet you.”
Green digested that thought with dawning surprise. It made sense. If they’d been dealing with anyone else, he probably would have thought of it himself. Today was a beautiful, sunny day with clear blue skies and a whisper of a breeze. A day to be outside, soaking up summer. He felt his insides unknot for just an instant before a second thought struck him.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What?”
“I’ve given her name and picture to the beat cops.”
Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Oh, that will go over well.”
“I was worried.”
“Right. So you sent the cavalry out after her like some common criminal. What a first impression that will make!”
“You think I should call them off?”
“I would.”
Green picked up his phone, reached the staff sergeant and within minutes had rescinded his order. But not before the staff sergeant told him they’d already had some luck.
“One of my units stopped a girl fitting the description on the corner of Sparks and Elgin. Tried to talk to her, but she ran into an office building and never came out. Probably went out the back. You sure you want the search called off?”
Green digested this news with dismay. “How did she seem? Afraid?”
“Afraid?” The NCO chuckled. “Try furious. She’s not going to come in voluntarily, that’s for sure. But if you want, we can—”
“No,” Green said hastily. “Just pull the order, and I’ll let you know if I need further action taken.”
When he hung up, he felt Sullivan’s pensive gaze upon him. He drummed his fingers on the desk and tried to gather his thoughts. “Well, she’s here, that much we know. Not lost or scared, just roaming around taking her own sweet time deciding to come see me.”
“Just as I told you.”
“So now what? I just wait?”
Sullivan nodded. “And try not to bite her head off when she shows up.”
Green expelled his breath in a rush. “Can’t promise that. I don’t know what it will feel like to see her—my own flesh and blood but still a total stranger.” He shook off his anxiety with an effort and leaned forward with what he hoped was a business-like air. “Okay, so maybe I’m a bit sappy on the subject of teenage girls. You’re right, we have a case to solve. A murder, whether Rebecca Whelan likes it or not. And I already have a pretty good working theory.”
Briefly, he filled Sullivan in on his discussions with Sharon and Devine. The big man looked as skeptical as Green had been on hearing the psychological test results suggesting Fraser was not an abuser. “But a guy who has a little girl tattooed next to his dick has got to have some pretty interesting fantasies on the go, Mike.”
Privately, Green agreed that the tattoo was a big ho
le in his theory, but then nothing was straightforward in this case. It was like grappling with shape shifters in the dark, and today he hadn’t the patience for the fight. “Yeah, but he’s the one who ended up dead, so somebody didn’t like whatever he was up to.” He flipped open his notebook to his conversation with Barbara Devine and tossed the book across the desk. “I want you to start with background checks on each of these guys, and be alert for any other close friends and family Devine and company might have overlooked.”
Sullivan looked up from his notes with surprise. “You think Devine was sloppy? The Sexual Assault guys are usually first rate.”
“I think Devine was...” Green searched for the right word to capture the passion and frustration she’d radiated. “Determined,” he finally settled on. “But when I pushed her, she fingered the biological father, Steve Whelan, as the most likely suspect. I haven’t met the man, but she knows the players better than us, so start with him. Try to make inquiries discreetly if possible so we don’t tip them off that we’re suspicious. Unfortunately, Quinton Patterson knows that we’ll be sniffing around the old abuse case because Fraser’s dead. But Patterson thinks I consider it a revenge killing. Nobody has any idea I think Fraser might have been killed by the man who actually perpetrated the abuse.”
Sullivan nodded toward the computer. “Except Rebecca there. If she was lying to protect someone ten years ago, it was probably one of these guys. No wonder she’s trying to shut you down.” He jotted a few final notes, shut his notebook and hauled his feet off the desk. “What about you? What are you going to do about Hannah?”
Green mulled over the chaos of his morning thoughtfully. He could waste time running around the Byward Market waving Hannah’s picture, but in truth he’d already done all he could to find her. The next move was up to her. Meanwhile, Rebecca’s email troubled him. He knew his objectivity was nil and his instincts were shot, but something about it drew him like a magnet. Perhaps it was just teenage girls and the mysterious whims that drove them. He reached for his own notebook.
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