She had to admit that she was really looking forward to the assignment. Then in the morning Gibbsie had ratcheted up the excitement by telling her that one of her interview targets was a hotshot lieutenant colonel named Richard Hamm—Dick in the officer’s mess, no doubt, and Dickie in bed—who had been Oliver’s platoon commander back in Yugoslavia. She was supposed to find out if Patricia had been to see him, and if so, why. Now she was doubly glad she’d decided to show a little cleavage beneath her hot pink suit.
But then Gibbsie and the Staff Sergeant had assigned Mr. Steroids himself to be her bodyguard. A cocky prick who thought he was God’s gift, and who would scare off every red-blooded soldier she tried to cosy up to. At least he had the sense not to wear his body armour and police belt, which would be guaranteed to shut the gossip line down. He was wearing instead a grey sports jacket over a conservative blue shirt, but he tucked his tie into his pocket the minute they left the staff sergeant’s office. Without it, even she had to admit he made a nice package, and by the time they reached the parking lot, she had thought of a use for him. Two could play the bar flirtation game, for twice the info.
She insisted on driving, which meant she had to endure two hours of him staring down her blouse. In your dreams, Constable. I’ve got a colonel to see.
Protocol had required that the military police and Colonel Hamm be notified in advance of their visit, but Larocque had managed to be as vague as possible. Luckily, Dickie Hamm had decided they posed no threat, because he’d invited them to meet him out at his house. Fewer distractions there, he explained.
He lived off the base on Albert Street, in a bungalow overlooking the southern bank of the Petawawa River. The directions had seemed idiot proof, but with Steroids navigating, they managed to tour most of the south side of town before stumbling across the address. The fieldstone bungalow was protected by a hedge so perfectly trimmed that Peters wondered if he used a laser beam. There was no sign of the truckload of military police she’d been expecting, and instead a brand-new BMW sports van in spit-polished black sat alone in the drive. Tucked into the side yard on a flatbed trailer was a classic jewel-green MG.
Peters pulled their puke-brown Malibu in behind and was just climbing out when the front door swung open and a tall, impossibly fit-looking man strode out. He was a perfect match to the hedge and the cars. Razor-trimmed white hair, wraparound black sunglasses, and a jeans and golf shirt combo that would feed the average private’s family for a month.
And the sonofabitch was heading straight for Steroids, hand outstretched and white teeth gleaming.
“Detective Peters? Dick Hamm. No trouble finding the place?”
She hustled around the car to intercept him. “I’m Detective Peters, this is Constable Weiss.” She grabbed his hand before he could snatch it back. Luckily the man was quick on the draw—you don’t make colonel without understanding buttered bread—and he enveloped her hand in a cool, crushing grip.
“I’ve got coffee on,” he said, striding towards the house. “It’s warm enough to sit on the deck, and the blackflies aren’t out yet, so we’re in luck. We have to catch these rare moments of habitable Canadian weather while we can.”
When they were settled on the deck, which perched on a bluff above a bend in the river, with a pot of fabulous coffee on the table between them, Dickie Hamm removed his sunglasses and turned the full force of his ice blue eyes upon her.
“Now, how can I help you, Detective Peters? I understand this is a murder inquiry?”
Peters reached into her briefcase and withdrew the two photos of Patricia Ross taken at the autopsy. She laid them side by side on the coffee table and opened her notebook. Hamm looked at them, his face unreadable.
“Do you recognize this woman?”
“No. Is she the victim?”
“Take your time, Colonel. Have you ever seen this woman?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Not recently?”
He shook his head.
“How about years ago. In Halifax.”
She paused in her note-taking to watch him closely, but he gave absolutely nothing away. But then, you don’t make colonel by letting the enemy read your mind either.
“Halifax,” he said after a moment’s thought. “That was some time ago. I doubt I’d even remember who I met then.”
“When were you there, sir?”
He made a show of thinking. “I’ve been there three times, in fact. I did a stint as instructor at Gagetown and visited Nova Scotia on leave. That would have been between June and October 1997. I gave a talk at a joint forces peacekeeping conference in May of 2000. And I was there again briefly on a flight overseas last year.”
“How about 1996?”
“I was in Edmonton in 1996, but I may have made a few trips in and out on my way overseas. I travelled a great deal in that time. What time period were you thinking of?”
“We have a witness who places you in Halifax on April 9, 1996.” It was a bluff, but Peters figured it was worth a try. Witnesses could be wrong, after all. Hamm raised an eyebrow and fixed his ice blue eyes on her like he could stare right through her. She stared back, hoping her poker face was as good as his. Steroids, luckily, kept his mouth shut.
“I have no recollection of being in Halifax in April 1996.”
No recollection, she thought. Spoken like someone who’d been coached by a lawyer. “Do you know a woman named Patricia Ross? Also known as Patti Oliver?”
“The victim?”
Peters said nothing.
“Neither name is familiar.”
“She was Daniel Oliver’s fiancée. You do remember him, I hope.”
The icy stare softened, and his gaze shifted to the river. “Of course I do. Danny was an exemplary soldier, and his death was a tragedy.”
“Try murder.”
His lips thinned. “I understood it was unintentional. Too much drink all around.”
“Maybe not. How did you hear about it?”
He flicked his gaze back to her. “The army is rather like the police force, I imagine. When death strikes one of our own, the news travels across the continent. All the way to Edmonton in my case.”
“But who told you?”
“One of the other platoon leaders from that mission. Soldiers talk, you know, about who’s doing what. Who’s encountered trouble and who got promoted. I heard Oliver was in trouble, so I kept an ear to the ground.”
“Did you contact him?”
“No.” He looked back at the river. Neat trick, she thought. Commune with nature, look regretful, and avoid my eyes all in one shot. “Maybe I should have.”
Peters studied her notes, taking mental stock. So far, it was the colonel three, herself zip. She ploughed ahead. “On Monday of last week, Patricia Ross came up to Petawawa to speak to you. Do you recall that meeting?”
Dickhead laughed. “You must think me a fool, Detective. You show me a picture of the dead woman and ask if I’ve ever met a Patricia Ross, and despite my professed ignorance of both, you ask if I met her last week!”
Peters could feel her face flame. She tugged at her hot pink skirt furiously to get it further down her thighs. Mr. Steroids leaned in, as if threatening to come to her rescue.
“I don’t think you’re a fool, Colonel, and your answers were duly recorded. But people lie to the police all the time, sir. We have information that she travelled to Petawawa on the one o’clock bus to meet with you.”
“Well then, she never made it here. I apologize for sounding rude, Detective Peters. I appreciate that plenty of people lie to the police, but I give you my word as an officer that I did not meet with her.”
How fucking quaint, she thought, scrambling to rescue her line of questioning. “Do you have any idea why she might have been trying to meet with you?”
“Absolutely none. Not at this late date, anyway. Back when Danny died, she might have wanted to know about his tour overseas under my command. Which as I said had been outstanding. She
might have derived comfort from it had she asked me. I personally promoted him to master corporal so that he could lead his section.”
“Why didn’t you tell her anyway, even before she asked?”
“I didn’t know she existed. I did write Danny’s parents.” He began to collect coffee cups onto a stainless steel stray, lining up the spoons along the edge like a drill parade. “I hope this hasn’t proved to be a complete waste of time,” he said. “I’d feel badly if Danny’s fiancée was trying to find out information about him, and I was unavailable to help.”
“Where were you between the hours of one and six p.m. on Monday April 17th?”
“Monday?” He paused only fractionally. “I was at my office, in a meeting with General Stubbing and nine other senior officers and civilians. I can get them to make formal statements if that would be helpful.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Peters saw Mr. Steroids jot the information down. The first note he’d taken in the entire interview. Did he notice that the guy had barely paused to think?
“Thank you,” she said. “The general’s statement should be sufficient.”
Finally, the dickhead blinked. Or rather, set the coffee tray down with a clatter. Gotcha, she thought gleefully, and jotted the lapse in her notebook. When she looked up, he was watching her warily.
“One more question, Colonel. Where were you on Sunday April 23rd, between six p.m. and six a.m.?”
This time the slick bastard didn’t even pause for breath. His alibis seemed to be right at his fingertips. “Here, with my wife. We sat in this very spot for dinner and at dusk we went inside. She to watch TV and I to deal with three hours of paperwork, after which we went to bed. I did not awaken until 0500 hours. Too late to travel to Ottawa, I suspect.”
Peters made a show of glancing around, even though there was no sign of anyone else. “Is your wife here this afternoon?”
“No, Sandra works in town. Do you want her to send you a statement as well?”
“No. I’d prefer to take it myself. What is her work address?”
He realigned the coffee spoons as he rattled off directions to an address on Petawawa Boulevard. Steroids wrote down every word, and Peters stood up to leave. She thanked him for his cooperation and handed him her card, according to her detective training. As she headed back towards the car, she resisted the urge to look back. Wondering if the dickhead was already racing inside to put in a warning call to his wife. Rallying the troops, so to speak.
As she and Steroids headed towards Petawawa’s main street, she took the time to observe the surroundings, looking for sleazy hangouts the soldiers would love. She was quick to discover that it was not your typical Ontario town. Almost none of its streets went in a straight line where you thought they should, and businesses seemed to be scattered helter skelter along the way; car dealers next door to banks and pizza joints, old Victorian cottages next to strip malls. Maybe it was because it had never been a town on its own, but had spread like a drunken spider’s web from the big military base at its core.
Soldiers in combat fatigues were everywhere. So, surprisingly, were election placards. The drive through Renfrew County en route to Petawawa had taken them through solid Conservative blue countryside, but here in the town there seemed to be a competition of one-upmanship between Tory blue signs and Liberal red. Was it the influence of the military or of the scientists in Chalk River Nuclear Research Facility just upriver?
“It looks like a close race up here,” Steroids commented, like he’d read her mind.
Peters tried to decide if it was worth replying. She was sick and tired of politics, and there was still another two weeks of media overkill before it would be over. “They’re all a bunch of crooks,” she said. “It blows my mind that some people still vote Liberal. How much of our hard-earned tax dollars do they have to dish out to their pals before people get the message?”
He opened his mouth, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to argue, but just then they whizzed past the strip mall housing Sandra Hamm’s craft boutique, barely visible between a pawn shop and a pet food store. Peters did a U-turn, her fifth of the day, and swooped into a parking spot outside the shop. In the window was a display of painted eggs and giant twig wreaths decorated with yellow ribbons and bunny rabbits. Bit late for Easter, thought Peters, as she shoved open the door. I guess wifie doesn’t share hubbie’s love of precision.
But hubbie had obviously tipped wifie off, because she trotted out an alibi almost word for word the same as his, except that she specified the TV shows. Survivor, a gardening show, and the tape of her soap. Exciting life you lead, Peters thought as she recorded the list. The whole interview took less than five minutes.
“Well, we’ve learned absolutely fuck-all on this trip,” Mr. Steroids said once they were back outside.
“Yeah, but now the fun part begins.”
“What? Food?”
“First the bus station. Then yeah, food, and maybe even a beer or two.”
“Ah, my kind of woman!”
Without bothering to explain, she tossed the address of the bus station at him and pulled out of the mall. The bus station, it turned out, was no more than a ticket booth inside a hotel at the central crossroads of the town. The King’s Arms had obviously seen better days. The desk clerk did remember Patricia leaving, but not arriving, and had no idea what direction she’d come from. She recalled only that Patricia seemed excited.
“Well, that was about as useful as tits on a bull,” Steroids pronounced as they came back out of the hotel.
“You’d be surprised how useful tits can be,” she retorted. If the guy couldn’t see the implication of Patricia being excited, he was a dead loss. Patricia must have had more luck uncovering secrets than they had.
Steroids chuckled. “Speaking of eating . . .”
Ignoring him, she stood in the parking lot to figure out her next move. There didn’t appear to be any obvious bar scene in this jumbled up town, but when Patricia got off the bus, she would have been on foot. Which limited the places she might go.
“We’d do better to split up and canvass all the places nearby.” She pointed down the street. “You take that far side of the block, and I’ll do this side, including the hotel. And while I’m driving you there, you’re going to get a crash course in interview techniques. Not anything like the ones you learn in cop school.”
Before she dropped him off at the first restaurant on the block, she made him ditch the sports jacket and undo another button on his blue shirt, but he still looked like a cop. She could only hope the girls mistook his steely gaze for a special forces hotshot on leave.
She drove back to the hotel and parked around the back near the railway tracks. She’d spotted a bar tucked into the back of the dank old hotel, and instinct told her that, after a long bus ride, that would be the first place Patricia would go. She tossed her pink jacket into the backseat, unbuckled her gun, and hesitated before shoving it into the glove compartment. It was bending the rules, she knew, but the Glock was too damn big to conceal in her purse. The worst she was likely to encounter in broad daylight was a lecherous drunk anyway, so she slipped her tiny pepper spray can into her purse along with her notebook. After peering at herself in the car mirror, she smeared on some hot pink lipstick and shook her frizzy red hair loose. Eat your hearts out, boys, she muttered and set off for the hotel bar.
At three o’clock in the afternoon, it was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for anyone but the serious drinkers, but nonetheless she found a bunch of rookie privates shooting pool in the corner. Their freshly shaved heads and lean, trim bodies despite the quantity of beer cans stacked on a nearby table gave them away. They hooted when she walked in, but she ignored them. Not one of them looked over twenty, and she was looking for an older crowd. The type of men Patricia would have sought out were the type who’d been around and had the war stories to prove it. Cops or soldiers, they were all the same. Old drunks only needed a listening ear and the oc
casional top-up to recount the horrors they had survived. Proud of the wounds and the toughness they stood for. When in fact they hadn’t survived at all.
She found her man at the back of the bar, nursing a beer and scotch chaser as he watched the pool game. She walked the length of the bar and chose a stool several down from his, ignoring him. The bartender, a skinny mass of sinew and bone, was leaning against the wall, watching her. He made no move to approach.
“Give me a Blue,” she said.
He shoved himself off the wall, reached beneath the bar and pulled out a can. Without cracking the tab, he plunked it down on the counter.
“I’m looking for a woman,” she said to the bartender. “Friend of mine who went missing a couple of weeks ago. She said she was coming up here to see an old friend. Mid-thirties, blonde going grey, on the thin side. She looks a bit rough right now. Has this big, ugly-ass black purse with pink daisies on it. She likes her liquor, so I’m hoping she’s been in here.”
The bartender’s expression didn’t change, but he lifted his scrawny shoulders in a shrug.
“Thing is,” Peters said. “I’m worried about her. We’ve been through a lot of shit together, and she’s not handling it as well as me. She might get in with a nasty crowd.”
“What do the cops want with Patti Oliver?” The voice came from the corner. Gravelly from cigarettes and booze.
Peters swung around to stare at the man against the wall. For a moment she was dumbstruck. “Patti Oliver. Yeah, that’s her name. Did you see her?”
“Depends.”
She picked up her Blue and shifted to the stool next to him. Losing interest, the bartender wandered off towards the front.
“But you saw her. Is she all right?”
“You think I’m an idiot, lady? You come in here at three in the afternoon, as cool as you please, nice outfit, no fear. You got cop branded on your forehead. So I repeat, what do the cops want with Patti Oliver?”
Peters scrutinized him in the semi-darkness. At closer quarters, he was not as old or as far gone as she’d first thought. Amidst his wrinkled, leathery skin, his eyes were clear, and at the moment they appeared to see right through her. With a sigh, she reached into her purse and took out the photos.
Honour Among Men Page 12
