Green checked his notes of the Renfrew visit. The old woman on the neighbouring farm had described the car she’d seen as black and flat-roofed. “That means we’re probably looking for a not-so-new black subcompact hatchback.”
“Yes, sir, do you want me to start looking—”
“No, I need you working on the black tool box. Did you look into it?”
“Oh yes, sir.” Gibbs sat up straighter, if that was possible, and flipped back through his notebook, in which Green caught a glimpse of meticulous rows of tiny script. “I checked the antique dealers in the city, and I also called the Canadian Antique Dealers Association. No one really knows about European tools, but they gave me the name of a dealer near Toronto who specializes in collectible tools and locks. Do you want me to call him?”
Green shook his head sharply. “Take it to him.”
Gibbs blinked. “What, sir?”
“If you hurry, you can just catch the plane Sergeant Sullivan is on. I want you to ask the dealer about the keys. I’m not interested in the tools, just the keys. Who made them, when, and for what purpose.”
Gibbs was gaping at him. As a detective, Gibbs was meticulous and thorough, perhaps to a fault, but he didn’t handle curve balls well. Green stood up to herd him towards the door.
“But sir, I have the fingerprint report from Sergeant Paquette as well. The one Sullivan says makes a whole new ball game.”
“I’ll get it from Lou myself.”
“But I—I—what about travel authorization, sir?”
“I’ll phone the airport and buy your ticket myself. Just go. The box is in Property.”
Green was still grinning when the flustered young detective disappeared into the elevator, trailing his parka behind him, but the grin had faded considerably by the time he’d wrestled with airline red tape and managed to book the flight. He glanced at his watch, swore and scanned the squad room impatiently. Two detectives were just strolling to their desks with fresh cups of coffee in their hands. Green knew they were just tying up loose ends on a big file they’d worked, which meant they were free for the picking.
“Watts, Leblanc! I want you to check the make and colour of the cars belonging to the relatives and friends of Eugene Walker.” Seeing their blank faces over the rims of their coffee cups, he snapped his fingers impatiently. “The stiff in the Civic parking lot Wednesday. I’m looking for a dark subcompact hatchback. When you find it, match it to the tread the lab has.” He held up his hand to forestall their bewildered protest. “I’ll explain later. Just check family members, neighbours, whatever. Start with the Reids.”
Afterwards Green went down the hall and found Sergeant Lou Paquette in his fingerprint lab, shrugging on his parka. He looked bleary-eyed and grim, and when he saw Green he groaned.
“I gotta go out on a call, Mike. Didn’t Bob Gibbs give you my report?”
“No time. I figured I’d get it from the horse’s mouth.”
The Ident man sighed and sat down again. “I don’t know why I keep doing this for you. I must be crazy. I tell you, if I’d had any place to go on the weekend, you wouldn’t have seen me for dust.”
“What have you got for me?”
Lou Paquette gave him a long stare, then shook his head. “You never were a guy to waste words on thank yous. I’ve got a suspect for you, if that’s what you mean. Don Reid. Boy, was he pissed off when I showed up to take his prints Sunday. Said he was going to call the commissioner, the mayor, his MP. Anyway, his prints were all over the investment bonds. All over the booze in the basement too, but I don’t see how that makes him a murderer.”
“Anyone else’s prints on the booze?”
“Yeah, the stiff ’s and his wife’s. Plus an unidentifiable. But every liquor store clerk from here to Seagram’s could have touched those things.”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Don Reid did.” Green swung around, pausing in the doorway to grin. “Thanks, Lou. Go out to your call. And then maybe try your bed.”
Just as he was leaving Paquette’s room, he heard his name being paged. When he glanced at his watch, he saw that he was fifteen minutes late for his committee meeting. Fuck, he thought, Jules sure was giving him no margin for error this morning. Obediently, he ducked into the stairwell and descended to the first floor, where he joined the cross-section of officers on the Building Planning Committee, which was at that moment planning the new Far East station. Green had tried to wiggle out of it, citing the exigencies of his job as well as his complete lack of qualifications for designing buildings, but Jules had been adamant. They needed an inspector, and his number had come up.
But as the discussion of toilets droned around him, Green found himself drifting back to the case. Sullivan should soon be arriving at Gryszkiewicz’s Hamilton house. What would he learn there? Where did Mr. G. fit into the saga of concentration camps and stolen identities? And what would Gibbs learn about the keys? Mass produced during World War Two for storage depots or the like, Mr. Fine had said. “Or the like…” Like what? In the story of the three old men, there might be enough intrigue and hatred and secrecy to last a lifetime.
But was there murder? Or were Sullivan’s more pedestrian suspicions right? He obviously thought that the motive lay among the missing investment certificates and the hidden whiskey in Walker’s cellar, and that the killer was from Walker’s present life, not his past. Certainly something didn’t seem right about Don Reid. He was hiding something—too edgy, too secretive, too eager to divert the blame elsewhere. He might be a thief, he might even be the clandestine whiskey supplier. But how did that make him a killer?
When Green finally managed to liberate himself from the committee meeting, it was past noon, and he hurried back to check whether there had been any calls from Sullivan or Gibbs. None. But there, sitting at the top of his list of incoming e-mail, was a report submitted by Detectives Watts and Leblanc, brief and to the point.
Dark grey 1994 Honda Civic hatchback L.P. Ont.149 XOA, registered to Donald Reid, 92 Riverbrook Road. Ident is working on a match right now.
* * *
“Aw, come off it, Inspector! Am I the suspect of the day? Yesterday Howard, tomorrow…maybe even Ruth?”
“Standard police procedure, Mr. Reid,” Green replied blithely. “I’m simply taking a statement of your whereabouts on Wednesday between eleven and two p.m.”
“Should I have my lawyer?”
Green shrugged. “That’s your right, of course. In fact, although I’m not charging you with anything, there are some formalities we should cover.” He went on to recite the standard Charter caution about Reid’s rights. Because of the official nature of the visit, he had brought along Detective Leblanc, who had the misfortune to be in the squad room when Green read her memo. They had found Don Reid at work in a glass office tower ten floors above the noon-time bustle of Queen Street. His lunch of a shwarma, coke and Danish was spread out on his desk, and the reek of garlic permeated the room.
Reid had not been pleased to see the two police officers, and, as the precise and official-sounding caution droned on, Green detected a hint of panic beneath the veil of indignation. At the end, Reid leaned back in his swivel chair and surveyed Green across his black lacquered desk. His eyes were slightly pink, and a pen twirled restlessly between his fingers, belying his casual pose.
“I was at lunch with a colleague, Mason Whitmore. His office is on the seventh floor.”
“From when to when?”
Reid looked bored. “About twelve fifteen to two. We ate at Daly’s. That’s in the Westin Hotel,” he added, as if a mere police officer might never have heard of it. In fact, Green had once questioned a suspect as he ate his goat cheese fettuccine at the discreet rose-linened table. The memory caused him to smile, but only briefly before briskly requesting Whitmore’s address and telephone number. He signalled to Leblanc, who slipped her notebook into her pocket and left the room. Green turned back to Don’s defiant stare.
“Did you know Ruth and Eu
gene were coming for tea that day?”
“Oh yes, that’s why I worked late that afternoon.”
“Why?”
Reid shrugged. He was now working the pen slowly up and down through his fingers, the restlessness abated but not gone. “Margaret had to play the dutiful daughter for her mother’s sake—to help ease the burden—and she was used to Eugene’s mean streak. I couldn’t stand the guy. I used to try, for Margie’s sake, but when he started taking his meanness out on my boys, yelling at them, shoving them around, I drew the line. Now I stay as far away from him as I can.”
“Is that why you bought him five hundred dollars worth of whiskey to hide in his cellar?”
Reid’s fingers stopped. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“There are three cases of twelve with your fingerprints all over them.”
“Oh.” Reid leaned back into his chair, and for some curious reason, Green thought he looked relieved. He shrugged. “I bought the old bastard some booze to keep him happy. Is that a crime?”
“Weren’t you aware that in his physical condition, that was tantamount to killing him?”
Reid sneered. “Oh, come on, I didn’t pour the stuff down his throat. No way you can pin a murder on me for that.”
“No, you’re right.” Green smiled. “Embezzlement might be a better charge.”
Reid’s sneer vanished. “What?” he managed.
Green leaned forward quietly. “What did you do with the other fifteen hundred?”
“What the hell—”
“I should warn you I have a man speaking to your bank manager right now, so choose your answer carefully.” He doubted the bank manager would divulge a thing without a subpoena, but Don Reid didn’t have to know that.
“My bank manager?” Reid half-rose from his chair. “Where the hell are my rights!”
“Taken care of, I assure you.”
Reid sat back, regrouping his thoughts. “I made a deal with Eugene. I buy the booze for him, I take a cut of the money.”
“Pretty big cut, Reid. Five hundred bucks worth of whiskey for him, fifteen hundred cash for you. Maybe Walker found out you’d ripped him off, threatened to tell Margaret about your money problems, and you killed him to keep him quiet. Better sooner than later anyway, eh? He was drinking up all your inheritance money.”
“It was a lousy fifteen hundred bucks! Who the hell would kill for fifteen hundred bucks?”
“A desperate man. A man in so deep a hole he has nowhere to turn. A man with an image to protect and a lifestyle to maintain.” Green took a gamble. “A man with some kind of problem that uses up money faster than he can make it. What is it, Reid? Blackmail? Gambling? DotCom investments?”
Reid sputtered briefly before his gaze dropped, and he lifted his hands in defeat. “I—I just needed a little to tide me over. Hell, who doesn’t sometimes? I lost a bundle when the Nortel stocks went in the toilet, but the boys still want designer clothes and all the latest snowboard equipment. I didn’t want to worry Margie because she gets so nervous. I didn’t like squeezing the old man, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have killed him over it.” The pen quivered in his hands. “Goddamn it, Green, a little fucking privacy…”
“Why were you at your mother-in-law’s house in the country the day after Eugene’s death?”
Reid raised his head again, frowning blankly.
“Your car was seen at the house on Thursday.”
Reid’s eyes shifted from Green’s face to the notebook in his hand. Green could sense his thoughts scurrying as he tried to assess this new threat.
“So what?” he blustered finally. “Is it a crime to take a drive?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to complete the picture. What were you doing there?”
Reid wiped his temple with a trembling hand. “I…I went to pick up some clothes for Ruth. She needed things, but she couldn’t face the place. What’s the big deal?”
“What time was that?”
“How the hell should I know? That day was such chaos. Margaret was trying to organize everything, and Ruth was trying to find Howard.”
“How long did you stay?”
“I don’t know—five or ten minutes?”
At that moment the door opened, and Leblanc reappeared. After an exchange of whispers, Green turned back to Reid sharply.
“What time did you say you met Mason Whitmore at the Westin hotel?”
Reid blinked at the shift in focus. “Twelve-fifteen. Perhaps a couple of minutes later.”
“How did you get there? On foot? Car? Bus?”
“On foot. It only takes ten minutes. I always walk from the office to the Rideau Centre.”
“Even on that day? If you recall, there was a snowstorm.”
“All the more reason to walk. Traffic was at a standstill.”
“What time did you leave your office?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your secretary says before twelve. She tried to find you for an overseas call.”
“Oh. Yes, well, I had to go to the bank.”
“What bank is that?”
“Look—” Reid’s voice squeaked, and he cleared his throat, trying to recapture some bluster. He looked battered. “I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer.”
Green smiled affably. “Sure, no problem. Although, as you said, if you have nothing to hide, you should just answer my questions and save yourself the money.”
“I have nothing to hide, But you keep throwing things at me, and I’m not sure where you’re going.”
“Where I’m going, Mr. Reid, is that I’m trying to figure out what you did with the extra thirty minutes that are missing from your story. Whitmore says you were twenty minutes late and out of breath.”
“There was a line at the bank!” Reid retorted, half-whine and half-defiance. “I waited fifteen minutes in line, almost gave up. The Toronto Dominion Bank on Metcalfe Street. Call them if you like. And I knew I was late for lunch, so I rushed. Nothing sinister, Inspector. Nothing guilty.”
* * *
Half an hour later, confronting the fear in Margaret Reid’s eyes, Green wondered what it was about him that compelled others to defend themselves even before he had accused them. It was an idle question, of course. He knew the answer. He treated everyone as if they were guilty, and he shifted moods so unpredictably that witnesses never felt secure about what he was thinking. It had begun as a natural character flaw which had scattered friends and lovers over the years, but he had learned to use it to his advantage. Now he smiled at Margaret Reid to take the sting out of the question he had just posed. They were sitting in her kitchen, and he had sent Detective Leblanc away so that he could speak to Margaret more gently. Unlike her husband, who needed bullying, Margaret needed kid gloves.
“It’s merely routine, Mrs. Reid, just so I have everyone’s whereabouts for my files. I can assure you I honestly don’t think you killed your father.”
Margaret rallied slightly, twisting her purse straps through her fingers as if to give herself strength. Her look was almost plaintive. “But I don’t…I don’t really have an alibi. I was expecting Mom and Dad for early tea, so I was out shopping. The grocery store and the drug store, then I mailed a parcel at the post office, a Christmas present for a friend in Toronto. I started about eleven, and I got home about one. But I have no one who could say ‘Yes, she was with me from this time to that time.’”
“Did you save any of the receipts? They often say the time on them.”
She shook her head. “After I’ve checked off the items at home, I throw out the receipts. After all, it’s not like clothing, which I might return.”
He smiled inwardly. Margaret Reid’s methods were like her house, neat and rational. Unlike his own, where a bag from the drug store might lie on the counter for weeks, unnoticed by either Sharon or him.
“It’s not important,” he soothed. “Were you looking forward to your parents’ visit?”
“Looking forward?” She spoke a
s if that were an alien concept to her. “Yes, of course. Mom enjoys the boys so much.”
“Did your father?”
She hesitated. “He loved them, of course, but they tired him. Dad was never very good at…at showing his affection. You had to look for the little things—a wink or ‘that’s my girl’. Sometimes he’d get embarrassed by his feelings, and he’d get angry, but even then you knew it was because of his love. But the boys weren’t used to that. Don—their father—is so different. Affectionate, up front. What he feels, he shows.” Her eyes glowed.
“Quite an adjustment for you, then.”
“Don’s been my rock. I know I’m not a very strong person, Inspector. Not like my mother. I lean on him a lot. Too much, in fact. It’s hard on him. His father left them when they were small, and he always had to be the strong one in his family, take care of his mother and little brother. And now me. It makes him tense sometimes. I know he’s seemed…moody to you, but underneath he’s really a wonderful man.” Her eyes pleaded. “Don’t misjudge him.”
“How long has he been moody?”
“He’s not moody all the time. Sometimes he’s very happy and relaxed. In fact, I’ve been wondering if it isn’t something physical. He’s been getting nosebleeds.”
Nosebleeds! That was it! The reason for Don’s financial problems and his bloodshot eyes. Not grief, not family responsibilities. The next question was, did Margaret know?
“Nosebleeds,” he interjected. “You know what causes those?”
“Hypertension,” she replied, a little too quickly. “I’m a nurse, remember?”
“And snorting cocaine.”
Her colour fled, but for a moment she didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. “Don’s a respectable, professional man, not some…”
“Even respectable professionals get caught up in it.”
“Ridiculous,” she snapped, beginning to rise. “My father was an alcoholic. I’ve seen what that’s like. Do you think I’d put myself through that again?”
It happens all the time, he thought grimly, but he didn’t say so, since she was fleeing behind the barricades and he needed her back.
Once Upon a Time Page 12
