Mist Walker

by Barbara Fradkin

  “I’ll take your advice and wait. Meanwhile, I need a crash course in the sixteen-year-old female mind. Perhaps it’s time I meet the young lady who started it all and see for myself what she’s up to.”

  Twelve

  As befitted a junior partner in the law firm of McKendry, Patterson and Coles, Quinton Patterson lived on one of the avenues in the Glebe, in a stone house with a steeply pitched roof, a carved oak door and leaded windows that overlooked a sweep of rose beds in full bloom. As Green walked up the fieldstone path, he eyed the house with a new appreciation. In the past six months, he had gained a whole new understanding of the rigours of home ownership. Old houses didn’t simply mature into the perfect picture of charm; someone worked very hard at them.

  It was nearly noon, but the June air was still fresh, and an easterly breeze rustled the grand old trees that arched their canopy over the street. As was his habit, he had not called in advance. Families almost always circled the wagons, so he was counting on the first moments of confusion and fear, as well as the absence of Quinton himself, to catch a glimpse of the truth. But just as he raised his hand to press the bell, he caught a twitch of movement in the drapes on the second floor and knew that he’d been spotted. No one answered his first ring, which sent a piano chime echoing into the depths of the house, and only after he’d leaned extra long on the bell the second time did the door drift open a crack. Two haggard blue eyes peered out at him from behind a clump of blonde hair, and a whiff of scotch wafted through the crack. The woman’s face was sallow and marred by purplish pouches below her eyes, but her high cheekbones and long limbs still hinted at the elegance which had turned Quinton Patterson’s head fourteen years ago. Green held up his badge and introduced himself.

  “Mrs. Patterson? May I come in and have a word with you and your daughter?”

  The haggard blue eyes revealed no surprise, leading Green to suspect she’d expected him to show up some time. She propped herself against the door frame and shook her head cautiously, as if too rapid a movement would throw her off balance.

  “My daughter’s not here.”

  “Where might I find her?”

  “My husband’s not here either.” She thrust her head forward through the crack in the door to cast a surreptitious glance up the street. Not a soul was in sight. Nothing stirred but a pair of squabbling squirrels chasing each other Tarzanstyle through the overhanging boughs.

  “I’ve already had a word with your husband. I just have a few questions for your daughter. Where is she?”

  “At work. She’ll probably be back this evening.” Anne Patterson made an attempt at a friendly smile. “But you know how teenagers are. Sometimes there’s no telling.”

  So I’ve discovered, Green thought ruefully, but didn’t return her smile. “Perhaps I can catch her at work. Where is that?”

  “Oh...” She flicked a limp wrist up the street. “Some shop on Bank Street. I can never keep track.”

  “I’m sure this is a difficult time for all of you,” he continued chattily. “I imagine your husband told you Matthew Fraser has disappeared and is presumed dead.”

  Now the blue eyes registered shock, and she clutched the door frame. Her jaw dropped, but no words came forth. Only a faint squeak. So Quinton hasn’t told her, Green thought with a surge of excitement. Was he afraid of sending his wife deeper into the boozy swamp in which she lived, or had he a more sinister reason? Green pressed his advantage.

  “It looks as if someone set him on fire. I’m new to the case, and I’m trying to acquaint myself with the background and the people involved. Could we speak inside for a moment?”

  She found her voice at last and threw it at him. “No! I mean... I don’t know anything! I—I haven’t heard about that man in years.”

  Tires screeched around the corner, and she broke off, sagging with relief. Green turned to see a silver Audi swoop into the driveway. Quinton Patterson leaped out, whipped the door shut and strode up the drive, purple with rage.

  “I thought I told you to go through me!”

  Green thought fast. So Anne Patterson’s two-minute delay in answering the door had not just been slow reflexes. Hubbie had not told her about Fraser’s death but had clearly warned her about unwanted visits from the police.

  Green was tempted to squelch the man, but chose not to, for challenge was a battlefield Quinton understood and loved. “Mr. Patterson,” he said amiably, “we’ve been discussing teenage girls, and how you never know what they’re up to.”

  Quinton shot a glance at his wife, who started to shake her head. The movement made her teeter.

  “I do need a word with Rebecca, and I can find her the hard way, through intensive sweeps of the teen hang-outs, or I can make our little chat much more private and discreet.”

  Quinton edged around Green so that he was next to his wife. The better to shut her up, Green suspected. “Our daughter has nothing useful to tell you.”

  “Entirely possible, Mr. Patterson. But I will question her.”

  “My God!” Anne cried. “You think she killed that man?”

  “Anne, honey, go inside. I’ll handle the detective.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Anne!” Quinton cracked the word like a whip. “Go inside.”

  Anne shifted her bloodshot eyes from the detective to her husband, and her astonishment mingled with something new. Apprehension, even fear. Like the look in Modo’s eyes last night in the driveway, Green thought, when he’d taken her leash. Dutifully, Anne withdrew inside, and Quinton slammed the door shut. He whipped off his sunglasses and skewered Green with his finger.

  “Don’t you ever try to pull a fast one on me again, Green. You piss me off, and the gloves are off. I’ll make you sorry you ever picked up this file.”

  Green worked at keeping his face deadpan and his voice flat. “Your threat against an officer of the law is duly noted, Mr. Patterson. Now, because parents often act under the irrational influence of emotion where their children are concerned, I’ll give you one last suggestion. Produce your daughter, or her whereabouts, in my office by two o’clock this afternoon, or I’ll institute standard police measures to locate her.”

  With that, he turned and walked down the drive, aware of the utter silence in his wake. He would have loved one last glimpse of Patterson’s face, but the game would not allow it.

  As soon as Green rounded the corner onto Percy Street, he pulled his Corolla over to the curb and stopped while he still had a view of the Patterson house through the trees. He was glad he’d taken his own car, which bore no resemblance to even the deepest undercover police car and so wouldn’t give Patterson a moment’s pause.

  Keeping one eye on the house, he dialled the station and spoke to the desk sergeant and to the major crimes clerk, who both reported no sign of Hannah. The same news from airport security. Green sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He ought to phone Sharon to warn her about their unexpected houseguest and to see if her feminine intuition had any light to shed on Hannah’s behaviour. But just as he was dialling the phone number of the Rideau Psychiatric Hospital, the silver Audi roared out of the Patterson drive. Hastily he shoved the Corolla into gear and was about to take up pursuit when Quinton Patterson came flying out the front door, his silk tie flapping, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “Anne! Get back here!” But Anne was already halfway up the block, lurching dangerously from curb to curb and slewing to a semi-stop at the corner. Quinton clutched his head as he watched, then, swearing loud enough to be heard by Green, he stomped back into the house and slammed the door.

  Green’s mind raced as he eased his own car forward. This was a nice mess. The woman was drunk enough to be a menace, and she was heading up Fourth Avenue past two elementary schools on her way towards the popular shop-lined thoroughfare of Bank Street. Yet she was probably going to tip off her daughter, and in the process would lead Green straight to the girl. Which had been his hope, although he�
�d expected Quinton to do the leading.

  But Green didn’t hesitate long. When Anne jumped the curb and breezed within a hair’s breadth of the tree outside the school, Green called for back-up and gunned his own car down the street. She wove ahead of him, straddling the whole street and making it impossible to pass. A red light at Bank Street loomed ahead. He didn’t know how to stop her. If he honked, she might panic and run the light. If he simply trailed her, he was powerless to prevent her from mowing down those in her way. Ahead, he knew somewhere in the distance a patrol car would be responding to his radio call, but it might be too late.

  Then, miraculously, her brake lights lit up, and he realized she was actually slowing for the light. He jerked his wheel and jumped the curb to cut her off, but before he could get around her, she suddenly floored the accelerator, and all the horsepower of the German performance engine leaped into service, hurtling the car out into the traffic with a shriek of rubber.

  Horns blared, tires squealed, and everyone shouted at once. But Anne, hunkered down behind the wheel, seemed oblivious as she veered around the corner and gunned up Bank Street. Praying for safety, he followed. He heard the wail of a siren, and over the rooftops of the streaming traffic, he could make out the approaching flash of red. She would soon be cornered, he realized with relief as he followed her wobbly path. But at the next block, she suddenly swerved into a parking space, jerked to a stop and leaped out into his path as if to cross the street. He slammed on his brakes and watched in horror as her figure loomed in his windshield. At the last minute she turned in surprise, her eyes locked his with a terrified dawning of recognition, and she bolted across the street.

  Straight into the path of the speeding police car.

  The crunch was sickening, and in the swirl of movement that followed, Green made out the blur of red lights as a massive white missile hurtled toward him. He had time to think “Fuck, I’m dead” before the missile hit, and the explosion rocked his car. A huge whoosh of air and heat flattened him against the seat, and in this marshmallow cocoon he felt himself careening sideways, ricocheting against cars and curbs and street poles before crashing to a stop through a store front window. In the aftermath, something thudded on the roof of his car, and a thousand shards of glass rained onto the hood.

  “Fuck, I’m alive” was his next thought as the airbag slowly deflated and he fought to uncover his face. Around him bedlam erupted.

  “Sir, are you all right?” Anxious eyes peered at him through his shattered windshield. It was a young police officer, her face ashen, her hair in disarray and her eyes huge with shock. I don’t have the least idea, he thought to himself, for he hadn’t yet reconnected with his body. But that didn’t matter now. Anne Patterson had been hit, and it was she they should be attending to.

  “I’m a police officer, and I’m fine. Check the woman!”

  She nodded hastily and withdrew. Through the gaping hole in his windshield, he surveyed the street. Bystanders stood in hushed knots, eyes glued to the drama, and the pavement was littered with glass, blood and streaks of black. The police cruiser that had hit him had spun around and come to rest wedged against what had once been the Corolla’s trunk. The cruiser had a broken windshield, a crushed grill and a smear of blood across its hood. Near the opposite curb he could see a small group on their knees, murmuring urgently, and although he couldn’t see her, he knew Anne was there. He struggled to open his door but couldn’t budge it. Miraculously, his radio functioned, allowing him to call for the Duty Inspector and Traffic Investigations. He had no idea whether he sounded coherent.

  More sirens screamed up the street, among them the deep, commanding blast of a fire truck. Soon paramedics and uniformed officers were swarming over the scene, trying to attend to the traffic jam, the witnesses and the wounded. As the ranking officer on the scene, no matter that he knew nothing about emergency response, crowd control or traffic investigations, he knew he was supposed to be in charge until the Duty Inspector arrived.

  He also knew the fallout would be messy, and that every “ T ” needed to be crossed. A police car responding to a radio dispatch had struck a civilian and endangered numerous other lives on a crowded downtown street. The media would be arriving any second, eager for blood, of which there looked to be plenty.

  He yanked at his door and flung his shoulder against it, but to no avail. Black spots laced his sight, and pain stabbed his head. Gingerly, he pressed his fingers to his left temple. They came away bloody.

  “That’s quite a gash, sir,” came a voice through the window, and he looked up to see a young paramedic peering inside, his eyes scanning the interior rapidly. “Pain anywhere else, sir?”

  Green didn’t dare shake his head. “I’m fine. I’m Detective Inspector Green of the Ottawa Police. How’s the victim?”

  The young paramedic hesitated. “Can you wiggle your fingers and toes, sir?”

  “How’s the victim?”

  “They’re working on her.”

  “Help me get out of here.”

  “I have to wait till my boss checks—”

  “I’m fine! Now get a couple of firemen and a crowbar.”

  The loss of temper cost him, and he leaned back, fighting pain until the reinforcements arrived. Car metal screeched, and more glass shattered as they pried open the door. Green felt an irrational twinge of sorrow,. The Corolla had served him well but far too briefly. Two paramedics took his arms and drew him out. As he straightened, the street spun and his legs jellied, but he forced himself to stand tall. Red lights strobed the scene, and distant horns honked as the traffic backed up. Ahead, in the middle of the street, more paramedics worked on Anne, surrounded by a crowd in a grave and quiet ring. Even the uniformed police were hushed as they moved through the crowd taking statements.

  The hush told him all he needed to know. Suddenly through the drama, Green heard shouting and the thud of racing footsteps. They drew nearer and the crowd parted as a man shoved his way through. The angry shouting rose to panic.

  “Out of my way! What’s happened? Where’s—”

  Quinton Patterson stopped short at the sight of his wife’s crumpled body. He stared, sweaty, purple and panting for breath, then raised his eyes to beseech the crowd. His eyes locked Green’s.

  “ You! You fucking son of a bitch!” He lunged forward, and before anyone could stop him, he slammed Green backwards against his mangled car.

  * * *

  Following his meeting with Green, Brian Sullivan spent several hours combing through files and court records to get his own overview of the case. By the time he’d finished, he was convinced of two things. Rebecca had truly been molested, and the entire school staff had ganged up on her. In their testimony, the little girl had been demonized as a trouble-maker, a liar and a manipulator desperate for attention at any cost. Reading this and piecing together the girl’s pathetic family portrait from the testimony of her family, he felt himself grow taut with anger. Not all children had white-picket-fence childhoods, but in the years before the molestation occurred, no one—not the courts, nor her teachers, nor her mother—seemed to care. Except perhaps her father. Steve Whelan had been cast as a bitter outsider, striking back at his wife’s newfound happiness by accusing her new husband of being the abuser. No one had taken him seriously. Barbara Devine had dismissed him as a chronic malcontent who manipulated the truth to serve his own ends. But from the man’s own statements, Sullivan had the sense he really loved the girl. Perhaps beneath the avalanche of petty letters and tedious complaints, there was a kernel of truth in what he alleged.

  At least it was a place to start.

  From the reports in the police files, Sullivan had visualized Steve Whelan as a ferret-like man with small, shifty eyes, tight lips and a thin, coiled body. But the man he found on his hands and knees in the flower bed outside his suburban Orleans townhouse was rotund, with a bald, sunburnt dome and sagging jowls. When he straightened up to watch Sullivan approach, worry lines carved deep across his brow
. His shoulders stooped, as if worn down by life.

  But when Sullivan introduced himself, he stiffened in alarm. “What’s happened?”

  “I just have a few questions, sir.”

  “About who? Becky? Billy? Has something happened to them?”

  “No, I’m conducting some inquiries related to your daughter’s old abuse case.”

  “Why?”

  “There have been some new developments.”

  “What developments?”

  Patiently, Sullivan gestured towards the door. “This may take a few minutes. Perhaps we could sit down.”

  Whelan didn’t budge. The worry lines grew hard. “What developments?”

  “At the time of the trial, you always maintained that Fraser was innocent. Why was that?”

  Whelan’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You’ve found proof. You know that poisonous snake Patterson did it.”

  “Why were you so convinced Quinton Patterson was the perpetrator?”

  “If you’d read the file, Sullivan, if that bitch lady detective hadn’t been so hot to trot over the curly-haired wunderkind with the thousand dollar suit, if any of you guys had listened to a word I said, you’d know why.”

  “I wasn’t there at the time, Mr. Whelan. So cut me some slack, okay?”

  Whelan seemed to deflate. He peered out across the lawn of his modest townhouse as if trying to draw strength. “I don’t know if I want to go there again. Christ, I beat my head against that brick wall for years trying to get you cops and your fancy judges to see my side of things. Spent my last fucking dime on lawyers, who probably pocketed it and went off to buy a round for their buddy Patterson at some overpriced Elgin Street pub. Not the fairest system in the world, eh, when a poor working man has to go up against the likes of Quinton J. Was anyone listening?”