She thought back to how from the moment they’d met, he’d been feeding her statistics. The stories about the homeless that he’d encouraged her to do. She rolled away from him, swung her legs out of the bed.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“I’m getting dressed. Maybe you should get on your bike and leave.”
“Why?”
“You found out about my father and thought, Great. You could use me to get inside information. Didn’t you?”
“No.”
She swivelled to stare at him.
“If you weren’t using me, prove it. Tell me the secret location of this big pop-up protest you’re planning.”
“Aha,” he said. “Who is using whom?”
She shook her head. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“I don’t know the location yet. I swear. It’s a committee decision.” He gently pulled her back toward him. “The minute I know, I’ll text you. Before anyone else. I promise.”
She let him ease her back onto the bed. He lay on the pillow beside her.
“What about your family?” she asked him. “I’m an open book, but I don’t know anything about you.”
“My family. Long story. I’m the rebel of the clan.”
He caressed her cheek.
“I’m sure you are,” she said, smiling, loosening her grip on the bed sheet. “You’re going to tell me all about them, aren’t you?”
“One day,” he said.
She heard the sound of her dad’s car coming into the driveway and parking outside her door.
“Who’s that?” Burns asked her.
“That will be him. My dad. When he’s on a case like this, he works crazy hours.”
“I guess he’ll see my bike parked outside.”
“Don’t worry, he won’t care.”
She heard her father walk up the outside staircase and come in the front door and call out “Dad” to Grandpa Y.
“Who’s he talking to?” Burns asked.
“My grandpa. He lives here too.”
“Nice.”
“I’m lucky.”
A few minutes later she heard her father come back down the steps outside, get in his car, and drive away.
“That your father again?” Burns asked.
“You’re wrong to say my dad doesn’t care. He’s hardly slept for days. I know him. He’s determined to catch the killer.”
“I can see that,” Burns said, getting out of bed and starting to get dressed. “I probably should get going.”
She got up too and began putting on her clothes, and then heard the door to the upstairs open.
“Alison,” Grandpa Y called down. “I’m making breakfast.”
“Be there in a minute,” she called back.
“Join us,” she said to Burns. “My grandpa is a great cook. I already told him about you.”
“You did?”
“He thinks you’re very committed.”
“Thanks,” Burns said. “But I’ve got so much to do.”
“Okay.” She walked him outside and gave him a hug before he unlocked his bike and rode away. “Make sure you let me know where the pop-up demo is going to be this afternoon,” she called after him.
He gave her a thumbs-up as he rolled down the hill.
She rushed back inside and ran upstairs. Grandpa Y was there, a big smile on his face.
“You have a good night?” he asked.
“Wonderful,” she said. “I’m starving.”
56
This was something that Greene had taught Kennicott and the other homicide detectives whom he’d mentored over the years: always return to the scene of the crime to take another look. It was surprising what you could see from the perspective of time. Much like when you watched a good movie for the second or third time, and picked up on things you hadn’t even noticed the first time.
He hadn’t called ahead to the Humber River Golf Club. It was better to simply show up unannounced and see the place and the people who lived or worked there going about their normal day.
Instead of parking in the big lot, he left his car on the street a block away from the entrance at an empty lot with a boarded-up candy store on it. He walked down the long tree-lined driveway to the front entrance. He suspected that none of the members had ever walked into their club.
The wind was sharp. Greene pulled his coat tight around his neck. He wished he’d worn a scarf. He strolled past the main entrance to the parking lot. The lot was ringed with tall light stands, and he easily spotted the few cameras mounted on them. It wasn’t a professional system. This didn’t surprise him. Over the years he’d found that most places underestimated their security needs and that rich people were often the most parsimonious about spending their money.
The upshot was that if someone who knew what they were doing wanted to sneak in here and break into a car or slip around the clubhouse and get to the back of the building, where Copeland was murdered, it would be easy to do.
He wanted to see if the security system was activated and how well it worked. He paced around the lot, making sure he was visible. The wind seemed to whistle up from the valley and whip right through him. He turned to go back to the clubhouse and saw Waterbridge coming out the front door dressed in his usual grey flannel pants and blue blazer uniform, cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. He’d obviously rushed out and not bothered to put on an overcoat.
This confirmed Greene’s suspicion. Whoever was monitoring the security cameras in the parking lot wasn’t doing it full-time or wasn’t paying much attention. Exactly what he’d expected at this time of day at this time of the year.
“Good morning, Detective,” Waterbridge called out, as he rushed across the lot, his tie dancing in the wind. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Nothing in particular,” Greene said, meeting him halfway with a firm handshake. “Just want to take another look at the crime scene.”
“Crime scene,” Waterbridge said, with a nervous trill in his voice. “Not quite the moniker we’d want for our club.”
“I’m sure not,” Greene said, walking ahead of him up the clubhouse steps and opening the front door, without waiting for Waterbridge to invite him in.
It was an old police ploy he’d learned during his days of doing foot patrols. They called it “lead with your feet.” Project that you have the right to walk inside someone’s home or business and assume that you won’t be stopped.
Legally, anyone could deny you entry, unless you had a warrant or reason to believe a crime was being committed at that moment or that someone was in danger. But few people knew the law. Even those who did usually wanted to play ball with the police. Most people didn’t want to be seen to be hiding anything.
Waterbridge caught up with him inside the door. “Can we hang up your coat?” he asked Greene.
“No, I’ll be going in and out for a while.”
Greene called this technique “land and expand.” Once you were in the door, exercise your authority, take your time, and get a good look around.
Waterbridge looked shaky. If he’d been a younger cop, Greene might have thought his demeanour was significant. But he’d learned over the years not to put much stock in the way people acted in the presence of the police. Some were naturally calm. Others were worriers. Whatever their personality, no one liked having a homicide detective poke around in their lives, even if they had nothing to hide. And everyone, Greene knew, had secrets.
“I’d like to see the ballroom.” He’d viewed the video of the party and all the photographs, but still Greene wanted to get a feel for the room.
“Certainly,” Waterbridge said. “I’ll get security to unlock the door.”
The security guard arrived. He was a clean-cut, short-haired, muscular man in uniform, mid-twenties. He had a notebook and pen in his hand.
“Detective, this is Oleg. He’s worked security for the past two years.”
“Hello, Oleg,” Green
e said.
“Hello, sir,” Oleg said, sounding polite but officious. He had a hint of an accent, perhaps Russian or Ukrainian.
Greene had seen many young men and women like Oleg. Wannabe police officers, who worked security details to get experience to try to get into police college. They tended to be humourless.
“The detective wants to see the ballroom,” Waterbridge said.
“Certainly, sir.” Oleg brought out a large ring of keys, and Greene noticed that each one had an identifying tag on it. He quickly opened the door.
The room was enormous, bigger than it appeared on the video. Greene spent some time walking around, looking out the window to the pathway across the grass where Roshan had found Copeland’s body.
Besides the main door, the only other door into the room was across from the windows. Greene went through it, and Oleg and Waterbridge followed. Greene found himself in the kitchen. He looked around. There was a service door on the far wall.
If someone other than Hodgson wanted to sneak out of the party unseen, it was unlikely they’d come through what would have been a busy kitchen.
Greene went up to the door. It had a large circular button warning that if it were opened, the alarm would go off.
“Is the alarm always set?” he asked Oleg.
“Yes, sir.”
Greene put his hand on the door. “If I pushed through it now?”
“It would ring. It’s loud, sir.”
“How about on the night of the party? Would it have been set?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where does it lead?”
“To a service road off the parking lot. It is used for food and linen deliveries, sir.”
Greene took his hand off the door and smiled at Oleg.
“Oleg.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can call me Ari or Detective. You don’t need to call me sir.”
“Yes, S…” He smiled. “Yes, Detective.”
“You have a record of the times it’s opened accidentally?”
“Absolutely. Any time that happens, it’s logged, Detective.”
“And Monday night?”
“Nothing. That hasn’t happened for more than a year, Detective.”
Greene thought about telling Oleg he didn’t have to keep calling him Detective.
They left the ballroom and Oleg dutifully locked it up. Greene led them down the hallway that went out to the back lawn, where Kennicott had seen Hodgson walk back inside, and into the men’s bathroom, where Greene checked out the mirror and the stalls.
Waterbridge and Oleg looked on, curious, but didn’t say a word.
Greene went back to the lobby. An idea occurred to him.
“Can we go back in the ballroom?”
“Certainly, Detective,” Oleg said. He unlocked the door.
Greene went straight up to the stage and walked behind a set of curtains. There in the back was another door. There was no emergency lock on this one.
He turned to Oleg.
“I don’t see an alarm on this door.”
“No, there isn’t one, sir,” Oleg said, slipping back into his old habit. “It’s hardly ever used and we don’t have the budget for it.”
Greene opened it and found himself on the side of the building, steps away from the back lawn. He scanned the side wall. There were no security cameras in sight. If the killer had come from inside the ballroom, this was how they would have got outside.
Or if the killer wasn’t at the party but had snuck onto the grounds, they could have gone to the back lawn unseen. He walked out the door and found himself at the end of the parking lot, where it would have been dark at night.
He had an idea. He crossed the lot to where a line of cedar trees formed a natural border between the club and the road beyond. The trees must have been planted many years ago, because they’d grown close together, making a formidable natural barrier. Step by step he walked along the edge, keeping his eyes peeled at the base of the trees.
Waterbridge, clearly uncertain what to do, had come outside and stood by the door, not following Greene any farther.
“Detective,” he called out. “Can I help you?”
“Not necessary,” Greene said, moving slowly. Then he saw it. The lower branches of two of the trees were bent back the way a constant flow of traffic would have reformed their shape.
He ducked in between the trees and found what he was looking for: a frozen-over path.
57
Every funeral was sad, but this had to be just about the saddest one that Parish had ever attended. To think, in her prime, when Melissa was one of the most successful young lawyers in the city, she had so many friends, so many colleagues, and so many hangers-on: salespeople in high-end shops who would call her weekly about the latest fashion that was “perfect” for her—some would even come to the office when she was working nights and weekends; jewellers who would do the same; hair stylists, masseuses, makeup specialists. There was even a woman who gave Melissa a facial every month.
That wasn’t all. There were personal health consultants; personal trainers and nutritionists; a concierge who took care of her travel arrangements and front-row tickets to shows, and even had her dry cleaning and laundry picked up and delivered to her, and had her shoes repaired. When Karl stopped coming to the office with Britt, her personal chef would bring in meals for her almost every night.
Then there were her law partners, who marvelled at her energy, her commitment, and her firm-leading billable hours. Year after year she brought in a river of money they were all happy to dip into.
Where were they all now? Parish thought as she looked around the near-empty little West End church where Karl had chosen to hold the funeral. He’d told her that they wanted to do it quickly for Britt’s sake.
The only person here from their old law firm was Isolina Marciano, the older Italian receptionist who had been there forever. The year the Three Amigas began as articling students and were working insane hours, Marciano would bring them all large lattes at five o’clock when her shift ended. “Go, you girls, go,” she’d say, often in a half whisper. “My papa would never let me go to law school, so you show them.”
As for all the lawyers at the firm whom Melissa had worked with, mentored, made money for, not one of them had the nerve to show up. Or perhaps they didn’t want to sacrifice their precious billable hours. Cowards.
Isolina saw Parish and rushed up to greet her.
“Oh, Nancy, Nancy,” she said, embracing her in a firm hug. “You three girls were my most favourite, all so smart, so beautiful. And our Melissa.”
She shook her head. “Every year on my birthday. Even this year. She would come. Draw me a card. I would buy her a latte.”
“I never knew that.”
“I would save up for months. Give her a package with socks and underwear and bras and well, you know, ladies’ things. She still wore those stylish clothes but now they all looked like rags.”
“I know.”
“Melissa, she said to me so many times that you were her only true friend.”
Parish spotted one more person she recognized. Violet, the kind Vietnamese woman who used to give Melissa her facials.
“Thanks for coming,” Parish said to Violet.
“Of course, love. Melissa was one of my oldest clients.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Two days before she died, love.”
“Really?”
“She was going to court with you the next day. We did it all. Facial. Nails. Eyebrows. Mani. Pedi. She sure needed it. She was rougher than usual.”
“How often did you see her?”
“First Wednesday of every month.”
“Still. Even when—”
“Never missed.”
“And, if you don’t mind, how did she pay—”
“She didn’t. Karl paid. He’d give me an envelope with cash for her.”
“He did?”
“He
still cared for her, you know that, love.”
Parish shouldn’t have been so surprised. Melissa always seemed to have enough money when she needed it, and over the years, any time she saw Karl, he’d ask Parish if she’d seen Melissa and how was she doing. And her skin. Well, that explained why despite her living rough it always looked so good.
The rest of the pews were filled with a smattering of people Parish didn’t know. Many of them looked like homeless people who were doing their best to look proper. She suspected at least one or two of them were undercover cops. There was a police security detail outside the church, and thankfully they’d kept the horde of reporters and TV cameras at bay. She saw Detective Greene join Detective Kennicott, who was already seated in a back row.
As the service was about to begin, a handsome young man with longish blond hair approached her. He looked familiar but she wasn’t sure why.
“Excuse me, you’re Nancy Parish, aren’t you? Melissa’s friend, her lawyer.”
“I am,” she said.
“I’m Dr. Burns, from the People on the Street Health Care Clinic.”
That’s where she recognized him from. He was the doctor on TV who was leading all the protests.
“I’ve seen you on TV,” she said.
“Melissa would come to the clinic and give the women legal advice. Landlord-tenant, fights with welfare about their benefits, disability claims, child welfare when the CAS would try to grab a woman’s kids.”
Parish remembered how from time to time Melissa would call her from the clinic and ask her to help some homeless woman facing minor criminal charges, such as shoplifting, mischief, and fraud. She hadn’t made the connection between the clinic and the doctor.
“She spoke highly of you,” he said. “Thank you for the pro bono work you’ve done for many of our people.”
“You’re welcome,” Parish said. She took a seat alone in the second-row pew and shook her head. So many things she was learning about Melissa only after she was gone.
The preacher came in from a side door, followed by Karl, Lydia, and Britt. Britt saw Parish and rushed over. They held on to each other tight, like two overboard passengers stranded on a lifeboat in frigid, turbulent waters.
Downfall Page 24
