“Looks as if she put up a fight,” Kennicott said.
“She would have,” Greene said.
He knelt down to get a closer look. He reached down to the bottom of her pants. They were too long and she’d folded them up. Greene unrolled the cuffs on the left pant leg. Nothing. He did the same with the right. Nothing in the first two folds, but in the third he spotted a thin piece of paper that looked as if it had been deliberately tucked in there.
Ho grabbed his camera.
“Make sure you get good pictures of it in situ,” Greene said. “Then bag it.”
“What is it?” Ho said, already clicking away.
“It’s a piece of confetti in one of the golf club colours,” Kennicott said. “When Hodgson’s daughter, Britt, was brought into the party, they shot thousands of pieces over the crowd.”
“While Hodgson was there?” Greene asked.
“He was,” Kennicott said. “Right in the middle of it.”
36
Alison flipped open her laptop and checked online. Good. There was nothing in the news yet about another murder in the Humber Valley. Her dad was giving her a scoop, but she had to talk to him first before she phoned it in to Persaud.
She smiled to herself. It was a good thing that Burns hadn’t taken her up on her invitation to come back home with her. Last night, there had been that moment on the Danforth Bridge after their first kiss when everything seemed to hang in the air. Neither of them spoke.
She walked with him in silence into the city. When they got to a quiet park, they held hands. They arrived at her streetcar stop, and there was no one around and only a few cars passed by them. So unlike London. Even though Toronto was a big city, there were pockets that were very quiet.
“I should be getting home,” she said.
“Thanks for volunteering.”
“I enjoyed it.”
She looked over his shoulder and saw the streetcar approaching.
“That’s my streetcar,” she said.
She looked back at him and their eyes met.
“Well,” she said. Wondering if she should invite him over and wondering what he would say if she did.
“Well,” he said. He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.
“Do you want to pop over?” she decided to ask him. “The streetcar won’t be crowded, so you can bring your bike on it.”
“It’s late for you, isn’t it?” he said, letting go of her hand. “You said you were up all night.”
“And I’m on assignment tomorrow morning. I do have to be up early…”
The streetcar was pulling up to the stop.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ve got things to do…”
He was being vague. Does that mean he has things to do with another woman? she wondered. She gave him a quick hug. He kissed her on the cheek.
“Later,” she said before getting on board.
There was almost no one on the streetcar. She’d taken a window seat and looked out. Still standing on the sidewalk, he’d waved at her before getting on his bike and riding off.
She closed her laptop, tossed back her bed covers and threw on some clothes. She was glad Burns hadn’t come, after all. She hadn’t told him that her dad was the head of the homicide squad, the person Burns was publicly criticizing. Besides, she had work to do.
She headed upstairs. Her father had made tea, and she sat down across from him and started to drink while they talked.
“How much can you tell me about this murder?” she asked him.
“A woman was murdered on the golf course, not in the valley. I can’t say more.”
The tea was nicely warm, not too hot. She took another deep sip. Her father always tried to look cool and objective, but she could see he was upset. How could he not be? Three murders in less than a week.
“Can you tell me her name?”
“Not until we notify the next of kin.”
He took a pad of paper and wrote something on it, folded it. “I’m leaving in a minute. Look at this when I’m gone. You’re going to want to do some background research on the victim by yourself. Only you, no one else. Everything you need to know about her will be online. You can’t broadcast her name until I give you the heads-up.”
He passed the paper over to her.
“Thanks, I’ll wait. Can you tell me when it happened?”
He shook his head. “Some time last night, that’s all I have right now.”
“Dad, off the record, do you have a suspect?”
“Off the record? Maybe.”
“There’s a serial killer on the loose, isn’t there?”
“No matter what I say, we both know that’s going to be the headline news today.”
She got up, went over to him, and held his hand.
“Three people dead,” he whispered.
She gave him a long hug. “You’ll catch the killer. I know you will.” She kissed him on the cheek. That got a smile out of him.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
Back in her bedroom, Alison was about to call Persaud at the TV station when her phone pinged with a text. It was from Burns. “Nice to see you last night. Hope we can ‘volunteer’ together again.”
She grinned at his gentle flirting. She had to call Persaud. But it would only take a second to text him back.
Her phone pinged again. A second text from Burns. One word. “Soon.”
She hit the reply button and wrote: “Good idea. Busy day ahead.” She paused. Should she tell him about the new murder? Even before she told Persaud? She pushed send.
She waited a few seconds to see if he’d reply. He did.
“Busy. What’s happening?” he texted back.
“Third victim. Another woman. Horrible,” she typed. She stopped and looked at the words. Maybe she wasn’t being one hundred per cent professional, but this was terrible, and she wanted to share it with someone who really cared. She pushed send.
Before he could text her back, she called Persaud.
37
There were no gated communities in Toronto, but if there ever were a street that could be gated one day, then Hodgson’s would be a prime candidate, Kennicott thought as he drove with Greene up to the alderman’s faux-mansion. Kennicott had already briefed him on Hodgson’s movements at the party, including the two times he’d lost sight of him.
“How much are you going to tell Hodgson?” he asked Greene.
“Keep it simple. His ex-wife is dead. We’re investigating this as a possible homicide. He’ll need to tell his daughter.”
“Will you tell him where the body was found?”
“No. Let’s see if he acknowledges that he went outside to the back lawn during the party.”
The implication of what Greene was saying was clear. If Hodgson denied that he’d been outside, then they’d almost certainly caught him in a lie. But it was tricky. If Greene believed Hodgson was a suspect, then Greene had an obligation to read him his rights to counsel. This was not something you would do when you were telling someone their ex-wife, the mother of their daughter, is dead.
So almost anything Hodgson said now would never be admissible in court. Still it would help to know if Hodgson was lying. And to see him doing it.
They walked up the granite steps of the house to the ornate front door. Greene pulled out his cell phone, put the phone on speaker, and let it ring. On the fourth ring a male voice came on the line.
“Hello.” The voice sounded as if the man had been woken up from a deep sleep.
“Mr. Hodgson,” Greene said.
“Greene. Your number came up on my call display. Why the hell are you calling me? What time is it?”
“It’s four thirty-five. I’m here with Detective Daniel Kennicott. I’m afraid we have to talk to you immediately.”
“What the—”
“We’re standing at your front door.”
“Why didn’t you call my lawyer? What are you doing here at this time of the night? Do you have a warrant?”
“We don’t need a warrant. We’re here to tell you about something that has happened.”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds. Then Kennicott heard a woman’s voice say, “What’s going on?”
Then the sound was muffled. Hodgson must have put his thumb over the speaker. He came back on the line.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Greene said, and hung up.
Kennicott looked at him. “What do you think?”
“He sounded genuinely surprised, for what that’s worth,” Greene said.
They both knew that meant little. Cold-blooded killers could appear perfectly innocent, and perfectly innocent people could appear to be cold-blooded killers. And at some later date when they were testifying at a trial, a defence lawyer would try to pounce on their first impressions as evidence of their client’s innocence.
The cross examination in front of the jury could go something like this:
“You will agree with me, Detective, my client sounded surprised, shocked, didn’t he, when you told him this devastating news?”
To which Greene had taught Kennicott to reply by turning to the jury and saying: “Yes, that is how he seemed to react, but in my experience this could equally be the reaction of a pathological liar and killer who was in self-denial or is simply a good actor.”
It took almost ten minutes for Hodgson and his wife, Lydia, to open the door. They were both dressed, Lydia in stylish jeans and a bulky sweater, Hodgson in sweatpants, his head covered by a hooded sweatshirt pulled tight over a baseball cap. Both the sweatshirt and the cap were adorned with the Humber River Golf Club logo. Clearly they’d changed out of whatever they’d worn in bed.
Hodgson stood in the doorway, his arms firmly across his chest.
“Can we come inside, or do you prefer to speak out here?” Greene asked.
Lydia, who was standing nearest the door, reached to open it further. She said, “Karl, maybe we should—”
“Here is fine,” Hodgson said, waving her off with a flick of his hand. “Detectives, what do you want to tell us?”
Kennicott looked at Greene.
His focus was entirely on Hodgson. “Sadly, we have to inform you of tragic news.” His voice calm. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hodgson, your ex-wife, Melissa Copeland, has been found murdered.”
Hodgson uncrossed his arms and thrust his hands to the top of his head.
“What?”
“Oh no,” Lydia said. “Mel.”
“I know you two were close friends from childhood,” Greene said, turning to Lydia.
“Where, when?” Hodgson asked.
Kennicott had to admit, they both did seem genuinely upset and shocked.
“I can’t say yet,” Greene said. “We needed to inform you right away. You’ll want to tell her daughter.”
Kennicott took note of how Greene used language. “Tell her daughter.” Melissa’s daughter.
“Britt,” Lydia said. “This is terrible for her.”
That surprised Kennicott, coming from this couple who had fought for years to keep Melissa from seeing Britt.
“I suggest,” Greene said, “that you tell her soon. I’m afraid with everything that is going on, this will be all over the media.”
“My God,” Lydia said.
“Don’t be surprised if there are TV vans parked outside your home this morning,” Kennicott said.
“Not again,” Lydia said.
He realized she was referring to the media frenzy that had surrounded Hodgson’s murder trial.
“I’d advise you to make no comment to the press,” Greene said.
Hodgson frowned. “Thanks for that, Greene. You know it’s going to be a circus.”
He took his hands from his head, wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulder, and pulled her to him. His tone softened. “It’s going to be hell for Britt. Losing her mother, and then the media. I bet the bastards camp right outside our door. What can we do?”
“Nothing right now,” Greene said, then he asked casually, “When was the last time you saw Melissa?”
Smart. Now Greene was calling her “Melissa,” no longer “your ex-wife.”
Kennicott watched Hodgson carefully. He got a quizzical look on his face. He turned and looked at Lydia before answering.
“It was what, three, four months ago when Britt was in the school production of Peter Pan. I ducked out of a city council meeting early. You remember, I got there just before the end of the first act. Britt played Captain Hook.”
Lydia nodded. “It was in May, May twenty-eighth, dear.”
Hodgson turned back to Greene. “We worked out a deal in advance through the lawyers so that Melissa could come to see the show if she stayed in the back three rows.”
“Did you talk to Melissa then?” Kennicott asked Lydia.
“No. She stayed in back,” Lydia said. She started to cry. “I wanted to but all I could do was wave. I can’t believe this happened to Mel.”
“Lydia and Melissa met in kindergarten, for goodness’ sake,” Hodgson said. “They had nicknames for each other. Mel and Lyd.”
Greene turned to Lydia. “I’m sorry,” he said.
He turned back to Hodgson. “We’ll be in touch later.”
“That’s all?” Hodgson looked taken aback that they were leaving. This often happened. Once you’d delivered horrible news to a family, they were paralysed. Didn’t want the police to leave too quickly, didn’t want the finality of that moment.
“I’m afraid that’s all for now,” Kennicott said.
The couple looked at each other. They seemed lost. “Okay,” Hodgson said. Without saying another word, he slowly shut the door.
Back in the car, Greene said to Kennicott, “Well?”
“I have to admit they looked as if they were surprised and upset.”
Greene eyed Kennicott.
“Looked as if,” Greene said. “Did you notice, the only time he hesitated in his answers was when I asked him about the last time he’d seen his ex-wife?”
38
Parish didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d taken a shower and even though she hardly ever cried, she cried. She lost track of time wandering around her house, trying to get organized. What the hell should she wear? Was it cold or warm? Where were her keys?
By the time she got herself together, the sky was brightening. She drove slowly, realizing she was in a fragile state. As she crossed the Danforth Bridge, the sun burst over the horizon, gleaming off the downtown office towers, splaying across her windshield. It was beautiful. There were some good things in life, weren’t there?
Thankfully there was no one else in the office. Ted DiPaulo had a trial out of town this morning. Although she would have loved to talk to her partner of more than ten years, she didn’t have the energy to break the news to him. It could wait. She appreciated the silence.
Was there anything in all of Melissa’s endless emails and texts and letters and voice mails that could somehow help the police? Plus, she had stacks of legal files and interview notes from all her cases. Melissa was paranoid but brilliant. Did she leave some kind of clue?
Parish opened her briefcase and pulled out her trial binders. They felt heavy, like weights at a gym. She dumped them on her desk and stared at them. She went to her filing cabinet and pulled out all of Melissa’s other files and piled them up, one on top of the other.
She stared at all the paper. She didn’t want to face this.
There was a noise down the hallway. Footsteps coming her way. Who could it be? Ted was the only other person with a key.
“Ted?” she called out.
More footsteps. Closer now. No answer.
“Ted?”
The footsteps slowed.
She looked back at Melissa’s files. Was there something in them? Is that why she had been killed? She stepped behind her desk, wrestled open the top drawer, and felt around for a pair of scissors. She had them in here, didn’t she? Somew
here?
The footsteps stopped.
Where were the scissors? There. She grabbed them.
“How about an extra-hot cappuccino?” a voice she recognized asked from the hallway. It was Ted. He popped his head around the doorframe. “Plus homemade cannoli.”
She flushed. Dropped the scissors back in the drawer. “Jesus. You scared the life out of me.”
He strode into her office and pushed the binders and files on her desk aside to make room for the coffee and pastry, then turned to her with his arms open.
“I heard,” he said.
“How? It’s not public yet.”
“Ari called me.”
She folded herself into his arms.
“He told me to keep an eye on you,” DiPaulo said.
“We all thought Melissa was paranoid. Now look what happened. She was right. Someone was out to kill her.”
“The wise fool knows best.”
Something occurred to her. “Wait, you’re supposed to be in court up north this morning.”
“I told them I’d be late.”
“Thanks.”
She slipped out of his arms and pointed to her desk. “Greene wants to talk to me. I’m going to go through everything I’ve ever received from Melissa to see if there’s anything there that could be useful to him.”
DiPaulo rubbed his goatee and nodded. This was what Parish called “Ted the Sage in His Deep Think Mode.” He was a brilliant and thoughtful lawyer who cared about the law. It was part of his being, the thing that made him a great advocate.
“Don’t forget,” he said slowly, “that even when a client dies, they’re still covered by solicitor-client privilege.”
This was Ted in lecture mode. Parish thought back to how she’d written out one of Melissa’s texts for Kennicott. She wondered what Ted would think of that. He might not be happy about it, but right now she didn’t want to worry about legal niceties. Melissa was dead.
She picked up the cappuccino and returned to her seat. “Thanks, Ted. You’re the best. Good luck in court.”
He pointed to her file-filled desk. “Happy hunting. The most important thing to know is that my mother made that cannoli last night,” he said on his way out the door.
Downfall Page 17
