Once the uniformed officer was installed outside Blair’s office, Green felt it safe to return to his own. He needed more hard facts so that he could make sense of the conflicting stories he was hearing about Halton’s research team. But when he arrived back at the station, he was assailed by half-a-dozen detectives clamouring to give him their reports and demanding their next assignment. I can’t operate this way, he thought. I’m a solo performer, not an orchestra conductor. I need an accompanist, maybe two, and occasional guidance from a music critic, but this cacophony of sound just blows my mind.
Backing into his office doorway, he held up his hands. “Give me all you’ve got on the university colleagues, and leave everything else with Sullivan. Then if you’ve got nothing to follow up on from yesterday, go back to your regular duties. I’ll call you if I need you. And don’t anybody—anybody— disturb me for an hour.”
Once the last of the reports had been handed to him, he shut his office door and took a deep breath. Peace. Swiftly he cleared the clutter from his desk and piled it on the floor, then spread the reports out on the desk. During the next half-hour he pored over every page, and gradually the community of scientists began to unfold. A diverse group drawn together only by their mutual fascination with the brain. And by the magnetism of Myles Halton. Myles Halton was born forty-eight years earlier in Vancouver, the son of a wealthy logging magnate. He spent his winters in the genteel, well-manicured Vancouver suburb of British Properties and his summers among the lumberjacks in the bush. He attended an elite private school, where he was always something of an outsider among the bankers’ and lawyers’ sons, then went on to Simon Fraser University and Berkeley for his Ph.D. in the fledgling field of neuropsychology. In the years since, he had earned a reputation as a rigorous scientist and a demanding professor who used his own personal charisma to keep colleagues, critics and students in line.
At the same time, he liked high living and enjoyed the company of powerful friends. He married the daughter of a Toronto millionaire and sent his two daughters to boarding school in Toronto. It was rumoured that his wife spent most of her time in Europe, and that he had a girlfriend in nearly every major Canadian city. He owned a house in Rockcliffe Park, home of Ottawa’s moneyed and diplomatic elite, as well as a large summer house on the Ottawa River near Constance Bay, where he moored his single-engine Cessna seaplane. The bush was in his blood, and every summer he took two weeks off to fly north into the wilderness to fish.
A man of contradictions, Green thought as he pictured the bearded giant wrestling with timber deep in the B.C. interior, learning the violence of nature and the supremacy of might. Halton had the capacity for murder, he decided. But unless a large piece of the puzzle was missing, he had no motive. And, Green discovered when he read the next report, he had an ironclad alibi.
On the night of the murder, Halton had been in Toronto dining at the Whaler’s Wharf with a colleague from York University. He had driven down the previous evening, spent the day sailing Lake Ontario on the colleague’s fifty-foot yacht and driven back to Ottawa after dinner late Tuesday evening.
Joe Difalco’s alibi was less ironclad but still impressive. He had spent the evening carousing with friends at the Royal Oak Pub on campus, and at least half a dozen fellow students recalled seeing him at one point or another. No one was very clear on the times, but he had certainly been there to close the place down at two in the morning. Everyone who knew Joe agreed that once he arrived at a watering hole, he rarely left before closing.
Unlike his rugged mentor, Joe Difalco was a pampered city boy, the only son of a successful Italian restauranteur who had started as a dishwasher in a back street café and now owned four restaurants and a catering business. The family lived in a multi-turreted mansion on a rolling half-acre in the wealthy suburb of Cedarhill, and Joe drove a Jaguar to the university. In his undergraduate years he had earned a reputation as an amateur boxer. It was in this capacity, rather than through any academic distinction, that he first caught the attention of Myles Halton. Halton was a fan of the sport, which married agility, cunning and brute force, and had dabbled in it himself as a youth. People who knew him theorized that he always regretted not having a son and that he took Joe under his wing to fill that void.
Joe’s lack of discipline and his love of wine, women and late nights proved to be his downfall, however, and he gave up serious boxing in his first post-graduate year. By that time he had already found a comfortable niche among Halton’s favoured few, and he had stayed there ever since. There had been no major concerns or complaints from his professors over the years, but most regarded him as flighty and self-indulgent. Hardly the blueprint for a cold-blooded killer, Green thought.
For that, David Miller’s profile held more promise.
David Miller’s life was in some ways the mirror opposite of Difalco’s. He was the eldest of five children and had grown up in the tough blue-collar Montreal district of Park Extension. His grandfather had immigrated to Montreal from Russia in the wave of Jewish immigrants escaping the pogroms in the early part of the century. The grandfather had peddled rags, and the father had become a butcher. While his neighbourhood friends dropped out of school and squired girls around in stolen cars, David swept factory floors on evenings and weekends to earn enough money for the tuition. At McGill University he had no friends, played no sports, and belonged to no clubs. All he had were his books.
“Dave Miller couldn’t sell himself to save his soul,” Halton had said. In his final undergraduate year, he had suffered a nervous breakdown and apparently required two more psychiatric hospitalizations at Stanford, where he had spent over ten years completing his Ph.D.
But it was after graduation that his real troubles began. The job market was tight, and he returned to his family in Montreal penniless and depressed until Myles Halton tracked him down almost two years ago.
A history of mental instability, Green thought. He flung open his door and spotted Sullivan hunched over his desk, talking on the phone. As Green approached, Sullivan caught his eye, finished his conversation quickly and hung up. Freshly shaved and wearing a crisp white shirt, he looked revived, but the worry lines were still there. Green eyed the phone.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
Sullivan shrugged. “It’s just as well. I was about to lose my temper.”
Green frowned. His quick eye had noticed a letter from the Toronto Dominion Bank on the desk before Sullivan shoved it into a drawer. “Problems?”
“Just the little guy against the system,” Sullivan replied with a grin. “It amazes me how the system always wins.”
“Yeah, well, the rules are fixed, aren’t they? Sharon and I figure that even if we do manage to find a house we can both stand, after twenty-five years we’ll have paid the bank four times what it’s worth. Talk about indentured service!”
“Why do you think Mary can’t sell any houses? Welcome to family life, buddy.” Sullivan shook his head wryly and nodded at the report Green held in his hand. “You want something, or are you just trying to depress me?”
It was Sullivan’s way of drawing the curtain, closing his personal life off from his professional, and Green followed suit. “I want you to dig around in Miller’s medical history. Especially the Allan Memorial in Montreal and the Royal Ottawa here.”
Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. “Is he a psycho?”
“He’s done some stints. Find out why. Anything that looks like paranoia or violent outbursts, let me know.”
“Is he our best bet?”
Green hesitated. Miller’s anguish had seemed so raw and his protestations of innocence so genuine, that it was hard to see him as a killer. But if Jonathan Blair’s research was correct, he was the one with the strongest motive.
“I’m still going through the reports,” Green replied. “Miller told Jackson he was working on his computer all evening when Blair was killed, but Jackson thought he seemed nervous. He was sure Miller was hiding something.”
Jackson had drawn the same conclusion about Miller’s friend, Rosalind Simmons, Green discovered when he returned to the reports in his office. Before leaving the university that evening, she said she’d dropped in to see if Miller was hungry, because when he became absorbed in his work he forgot to eat and on several occasions had nearly passed out from hypoglycemia. But on the night in question, she found Miller sitting at his terminal with a coke and a half-eaten hamburger at his elbow, intent on his work. She had gone straight home, making no stops and seeing no one who could confirm the time she arrived at her apartment. Rosalind Simmons lived alone, and Jackson’s inquiries into her background had met with limited success.
Her friends and colleagues knew surprisingly little about her. She was raised in Toronto by a single mother, attended local public schools and completed her undergraduate work at York University. She had been working on her Ph.D. with Myles Halton for two years, and Halton reported that her progress was so slow that he was considering dropping her from the program. Other professors recalled that she was not a memorable student; she lacked dynamism and insight, but she had a slow, plodding perseverance that kept her on track. They had no concerns about her ethics, however, and could not even remotely imagine her capable of murder. Socially, no one knew much about her, except that she kept to herself. She had no known friends or boyfriends, and some of her colleagues speculated that she might be gay.
Green mulled that idea over. He remembered the fierceness with which she had defended Miller and the glow in her cheeks when she spoke of him. No, he thought, she’s not gay. Joe Difalco is right about one thing—she’s in love with David Miller. However, given Miller’s social ineptitude and her instinct for self-protection, it was questionable whether the two were actually involved. Green had known lots of street girls like her, who wanted closeness yet didn’t trust. Someone had probably hurt her badly once, and she was reluctant to give anyone a second chance. She would not wear her heart on her sleeve, but beneath the surface…
Jonathan’s former girlfriend, on the other hand, had worn her heart on her sleeve and had suffered the consequences. Everyone had expected wedding bells before the year was out, but then suddenly, with the appearance of Raquel Haddad, the romance was over. Vanessa Weeks had presented a brave front, saying both of them needed to focus on their studies at the moment, but privately her friends thought she was heartbroken. All the more so because her parents had regarded her choice to study at Ottawa University under Halton as misguided rebellion, the one redeeming feature of which had been her alliance with Jonathan Blair. Her father was an ex-chief of surgery at Harvard Medical School who had treated presidents, and her mother was on staff at Massachusetts General Hospital, where she was slated to be the next chief of psychiatry. They had been adding the MD to Vanessa’s name ever since she was old enough to talk, and up to the age of twenty her academic and athletic accomplishments had fuelled their hopes. High School graduation at age sixteen, straight A’s at Radcliffe and a bronze medal at the National Women’s Singles Tennis Championships. But then a broken wrist and the death of her Olympic dreams had prompted her to re-evaluate her direction and to choose a new course. She had been studying under Halton for a year, and he had given her glowing reports. She was one of the few students who could understand David Miller’s work and that, coupled with her self-discipline and drive, was raising her quickly through the Halton ranks.
She had begun dating Jonathan Blair nine months earlier, and through most of the winter, the two had been inseparable. She shared his enthusiasm for skating and cross-country skiing, and they had spent much of their free time together. In temperament too, they had seemed well-suited. Both quiet, private people, they were discreet in their passion, but no one doubted they were deeply attached. There were no fights, no scenes.
Unlike Sharon and me, thought Green wryly, recalling the numerous times Sharon had walked out on him amid screaming and tears in the three years of their marriage. Only to find that being apart was worse than being together.
On the evening of Jonathan Blair’s murder, Vanessa Weeks had been at the university gym, working off her bitterness with laps in the indoor pool. Following a sauna and a shower, she had been seen leaving the facility by the pool attendant at closing a few minutes after eleven. She was a regular evening swimmer, and the attendants knew her by sight.
Green sat back, scanning the reports spread out on his desk. Somewhere in this compilation of facts lay the key to the killer. Rarely had he encountered a killer so subtle and elusive. Not everyone had those qualities, and this murderer, by the very method he had chosen, had left a unique signature on the crime. Match the signature, and the murderer’s identity might leap out at him.
Taking a fresh white pad of paper, he pushed the reports aside and began to write.
Profile of the killer:
—Clever, some knowledge of forensics
—Thorough and prepared, careful with planning
—Quick and agile, maybe some training in fighting?
—Cold-blooded, nerves of steel, capable of closerange killing without panicking
—Passionate about work? Or psychopathic—kill those who get in way?
He studied his suspects. All of them were clever, and all had enough scientific background to be a quick study in forensics. Hell, the books they would need were probably right in the library where Blair was killed! All were thorough and capable of planning—scientific research demanded it. Perhaps Difalco was less so, but Green was not about to underestimate him. He suspected Difalco let people see what he wanted them to see but kept a large part of himself under wraps.
Agile. Now here…
His phone buzzed at his elbow, startling him. Swearing, he pounced on it, and Jules’ dry voice came through.
“Michael, Peter Weiss is in my office.”
“Lucky you.”
Silence greeted him through the wires. It’s that bad, he thought. “Adam, I’m up to my ears in reports. I’ve got to have some time to piece things together.”
“I need something he can take back to Marianne Blair.”
“And then Marianne Blair will take it back to Myles Halton. Absolutely no way.”
He could almost hear Jules processing the implications. Finally, he spoke. “I’m coming down.”
Green hung up, fuming. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone to do his job? Now, with Jules’ deadline hanging over his head, he’d never be able to free his mind for thought. On impulse. he scooped up his reports and headed for the door, catching sight of Sullivan still on the phone. He approached and lowered his voice.
“I’m going home to work and don’t tell a damn soul where I am.”
Over the years, Green had often retreated to the peace and solitude of his own apartment when he needed to think. The drive home took five minutes but he was already beginning to unwind by the time he unlocked the door to his apartment. Until he heard the all-too-familiar sound of the baby whining. He had forgotten all about them! How much simpler life had been before…
He stomped into the kitchen to find Tony banging pots together and Sharon on her knees, wiping up the puréed peas beneath the high chair. Seeing him, Tony crowed in delight. Green gave him a distracted pat on the head and tossed his reports on the kitchen table.
“Sharon, could you take the baby for a walk? I’ve got to have some peace and quiet.”
She rose slowly to her feet, pushing her black curls out of her eyes with the back of her hand. She was dressed in her usual baggy shorts and shapeless T-shirt, and she fixed him with a cold, level glare.
“Excuse me? You have an office to work in.”
“And a million people on my ass. Honey, I haven’t got time to explain. Just please bear with me, okay?”
“If we’d bought that house in Barrhaven, there’d be room for all of us, you know. But no, Barrhaven didn’t have enough character. It had plumbing that worked, nice quiet streets, but God forbid you should join the grey suits in suburbia.”
It was a refrain she dredged up every time they felt the pressure of their tiny home, and his own response had become automatic. “Barrhaven isn’t suburbia, it’s the end of the earth.”
She set her jaw as if preparing to defend the sprawling suburb that had sprung up in the cow pastures southwest of the city, but then seemed to sense the futility of it. She tossed the sponge into the sink, scooped up the baby and stalked by him out of the room. “I’ll take your son out for a walk, Green, but don’t be surprised if we’re mowed down in the streets the minute we step out the door.”
Fuck, he thought. Just what I need. I’ve got two hours— tops—before Jules tracks me down, even if I take the phone off the hook, and I’ve got so much adrenaline coursing through me I’ll never be able to think. Why can’t she realize that the murder of Jonathan Blair is not just another day at the office? It’s always her and her needs! Hers, and now the baby’s. She has a new weapon to brandish over me now. Tony needs a father, Green. Tony needs a home. Get your priorities straight, Green. Green, Green, Green... Whatever happened to Mike? Or darling? What happened to the tender look in those sparkling black eyes? What happened to the wide, sexy smile?
He heard the front door slam behind her, and he plunged his face into his hands wearily. I’m getting nowhere this way, he thought. I can’t deal with this now. I can’t afford to wonder if my marriage is falling apart.
Clear your mind, Green. Focus on Jonathan Blair and on the facts of this case. Logic, Green. Means, motive and opportunity—focus on these, and the answer will come.
He fixed himself an ice cold coke and slipped a CD of instrumental blues into his player. Music to think by. Clearing the kitchen table of all its debris, he put his pad of paper in the centre. In a column down the left-hand side, he listed the major players in the drama. Using the basics tenets of police deduction, he began to fill in the right side of the page.
Of these four, Difalco had the most promising behavioural profile for the killing, but he had a strong alibi and a weak motive. David Miller had no alibi and the strongest motive, but…quick and agile?
There was, however, one more name. Thoughtfully, Green put it down.
Myles Halton: Motive…
At this point, Green laid down his pen. Heat was seeping into the airless little room, and he wiped a trickle of sweat from his temple. Taking a sip of lukewarm cola, he pondered the character of Myles Halton. Halton was a brilliant scientist, no one disputed that, and no one seemed to question the integrity of his rise to prominence. In the interview, Halton had come across as an intense, no-nonsense, ambitious man committed to the pursuit of his research. He had not seemed self-serving or unethical, and if he was determined to protect his research effort, it was only because he had fought so hard for it, and it was just beginning to pay dividends.
Green felt his antennae quiver. How hard had the man fought, and just what was he willing to sacrifice in order to preserve his status? He was uncompromising. Was he also ruthless? He was ambitious. Was he also unethical? Henry Blair had said Halton didn’t care whom he stepped on to achieve his goal. And one of his goals right now was a three million dollar magnetic resonance imager and the competitive research it promised.
Powerful men were rarely lily-white, but would Halton go as far as murder? Particularly the murder of a wealthy scion, which he knew would make his operation the focus of an intense, highly publicized police investigation? He would only have done so if he had no choice. What possible scenario would give him no choice?
Normally, the power balance between a graduate student and a prominent professor is highly weighted in the latter’s favour. If conflicts arose, the student would simply be failed. This would be more difficult in the case of a potential backer’s son, but the alternative, killing the student, hardly seemed designed to maintain friends in high places.
The balance of power shifts in the student’s favour only if the student has some leverage, perhaps something on the professor that could destroy his career. A politician had once said that only two things could ruin his reputation—being caught in bed with a live boy or a dead girl. What could ruin Halton’s reputation? A sex-related charge? Fairly iffy. Professors were not politicians. Universities and granting agencies were probably much more tolerant of the sexual perversities of their errant geniuses than the general public was of its elected officials. If Halton had been accused of sleeping with a student, particularly the likes of Raquel Haddad, he would have endured a slap on the wrist, some unpleasant publicity, some hisses and boos from the feminist community, and then it would be business as usual. A sex scandal involving a male student might prove stickier and more humiliating, but was it worth the risk of murder?
It was possible that an old skeleton, which Halton had thought safely buried in his closet, had come to light and was threatening his career. An old research fraud, a suspicious death, a serious crime. If Jonathan had unearthed it, what would he do with it? He was not the blackmailing kind. Everyone said his moral standards were unassailable. He would not use information against his professor for personal gain. But those same standards would not allow him to turn a blind eye to a crime. If he had uncovered a major breach of ethics or law on Halton’s part, he would have agonized, but he would have turned him in.
Yes, Green thought, in this remote scenario the dynamics for murder were there. The personalities fit—Halton’s ambition pitted against Blair’s moral rectitude. Now it was time to speculate on what might have happened.
The timing of Blair’s murder was crucial. He had been murdered just as he completed his investigation into the research fraud. The statistical analysis was done. On the morning of his murder, in fact, he had asked for an urgent appointment with Halton, probably to discuss those very results. But Blair had not been relieved or triumphant, he had been upset, as if he had uncovered something unexpected in his study of Difalco’s work. Yet the activities of Miller and Difalco, no matter how nefarious, would hardly have upset him that much. He had been disillusioned to the point of considering a transfer to another university. Disillusioned with Halton? What might he have discovered? That Halton had been party to the fraud? If so, why ask Blair to investigate in the first place?
Green stood up, stretched his stiff legs and unglued his sweaty shirt from his back. Leaning on the kitchen counter, he frowned down at his notes. Was he clutching at straws? Winging out into the wild blue yonder, as Sullivan called it when his deductive fantasies took flight? Possibly, but over the years he had learned to trust his fantasies. Halton, with his ambition and his reputation to protect, was as good a murder suspect as the rest. Maybe even better.
But to uncover the motive, Green had to put Halton’s research, and that of Miller, Difalco and Blair, under a microscope to determine who was lying. He had only Halton’s word that Blair’s results supported Difalco. He needed an impartial expert in neuropsychology and a search warrant to seize all the files in the four offices. A sense of urgency gripped him; search warrants took hours to write up, but if he didn’t act fast, Halton and the others might get to the files first.
* * *
Several hours later, Green arrived back at the squad room with the signed search warrant triumphantly in hand. He was high with energy, no longer impatient and irritable as he rounded up the only two detectives still at their desks.
“Watts and Charbonneau, I want you to get over to the university. I have a warrant to seize all the files, computers, disks and any other paper or electronic data belonging to Miller, Difalco, Blair and Halton. Load every last piece of paper in their four offices into boxes. Make sure you label each box carefully so none of the files gets mixed up, and put them all in Halton’s main computer lab. Then seal the offices and post a twenty-four hour guard so no one can tamper with anything until we can get an outside expert in there to look at this stuff. I hope to have someone lined up to start tomorrow. Okay, guys, go!”
Without waiting for the two detectives to get out the door, Green entered his office, pushed the stack of phone messages out of the way and pulled out his phone book. It took him almost an hour of phone calls to four different universities before he located an expert in neuropsychology who was not only familiar with Halton’s work but also willing to drop everything to spend several days holed up in a computer lab going over files. Dr. Stanley Baker, professor of physiological psychology at McGill University, was less than gracious but grudgingly agreed. For a fee.
After Green hung up the phone, feeling very pleased with himself, he wondered fleetingly if he ought to have cleared the expense with Jules first. He was just steeling himself to go upstairs to discuss it when his door swung open and Superintendent Jules strode in, gray eyes as narrow as pinpricks. He shut the door behind him and stood ramrod straight, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Michael, what the hell is going on?”
Green was taken aback. Jules was always polished, precise and understated. In a station full of obscenities, he never swore. “I was just coming up, Adam.”
“How nice. Then you can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to say to the Deputy Chief that he can explain to Marianne Blair that she can explain to Myles Halton about why the hell all his university files are being carted off by the police.”
Green burst out laughing. He knew it was unwise, but it was irrepressible. “Poor Adam. Superiors are such a pain in the ass, aren’t they?”
For an instant he thought Jules was going to erupt. Never had he seen him quite that shade of fuchsia. But then, in spite of himself, Jules broke into a real smile. This is a day for firsts, thought Green.
Jules pulled back the guest chair and sat down. “Michael, there must be at least the appearance that I control you.”
“I know. So Halton is pissed, is he?”
Jules nodded. “I think he expected something slightly better from his friendship with Mrs. Blair than the appearance of two non-ranking detectives. No me, no you.”
“No brass band.” Green shook his head dolefully. “I would have gone, but I had other arrangements to make, and we had to move very fast. As it is, the horse has probably already left the barn.”
“Enlighten me.”
Green took twenty minutes to summarize the progress of the investigation to date and to outline his next moves. He was about to broach the subject of expenses when there was a sharp knock at the door, and Sullivan flung it open. He was so excited that the sight of Jules barely gave him pause.
“A suspect! Maybe two or three. The Raquel Haddad connection.”
Jules glanced at Green, eyebrows high. “You didn’t mention a Raquel Haddad connection.”
“That’s just another avenue we’re pursuing,” Green replied irritably. “On the back-burner right now.”
Sullivan flourished a report. “Not any more! Some heavy-duty stuff was going on between Raquel, her uncle and Blair on the day he was killed.”
Green perked up. “Tell me!”
“First, you know that Blair and Raquel were likely an item. Well, a student saw Blair in the student coffee shop eating supper with a black-haired woman. The student phoned our hotline once she saw Blair’s picture in the paper. Anyway,” Sullivan flipped open his notebook, “the witness said they were sitting very close, whispering. The black-haired girl was crying, and then this student overheard Blair say to her ‘But he’d never really do it!’ and Raquel said ‘You don’t know him! You don’t know my family!’ A few minutes later these two tough-looking guys come along and they tell her to come with them. She starts to get up and Jonathan Blair tells them to lay off, it’s a free country. And she shouts ‘Jonathan, don’t!’ They grab her arm. Jonathan steps between them, and they punch him. He falls over the table. They’re hauling Raquel along, Jonathan starts after them, and she yells at him to go away. Then they all get out of view, and our witness didn’t see what else happened.”
“What time was this?”
“About six-thirty.”
“These tough-looking guys, what did they look like?” Sullivan glanced through his notebook. “Twentyish. Medium height and weight, thick dark hair, brown eyes, heavy eyebrows. One had a mustache. Dressed in casual summer clothes. One had on a light T-shirt and jeans, the other a black Metallica T-shirt and black jeans. No distinguishing marks.”
“Twentyish?” Green frowned. “Raquel’s uncle is in his forties and fat.”
Sullivan shrugged. “Henchmen, probably. An older, heavy-134 set, dark guy was seen arguing with Raquel outside Halton’s building earlier that afternoon.”
Green sat up sharply. “Seen by whom?”
“David Miller.”
“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me!”
“I’m telling you now. I just saw the report.”
Green frowned in thought, tapping his pencil against his desk. “Might be just a coincidence. Okay, this has to be low key. Get a photo of Pierre Haddad and show a photo line-up to Miller. See if he can make a positive ID on the guy arguing with Raquel.”
Sullivan’s eyes flitted from Green to Jules. “Low-key?”
Green shrugged. “Just don’t spook him. The guy’s paranoid about cops. Tell him it’s routine, standard operating procedure—improvise. Just don’t mention the fight in the coffee shop. If this is our guy, I don’t want to tip him off, or he’ll send those young thugs underground.”
Even before the door had closed on Sullivan, Green was riffling through the files on the floor. He had glimpsed the background check on Pierre Haddad earlier in passing, but had discarded it as irrelevant to the mystery of the research data. Now he pounced on it.
The team investigating the background of the Haddad family had come up with precious little. From the tone of the report it sounded as if the entire Lebanese community had shut down tight at the first sight of the police. Official records provided a skeleton of information but little insight into the family. Pierre Haddad, a Christian, had immigrated from Beirut in 1978 through regular immigration channels, not as a refugee. Initially, he had worked as a taxi driver, but in 1984, he had purchased the corner confectionary store in Little Italy. His payments to the Toronto Dominion Bank were regular and reliable, and his business dealings seemed completely above board.
A search of police and motor vehicle records had revealed the same wholesome picture. Haddad had no record of criminal activity and only a handful of traffic tickets to his name. He owned two cars, a Taurus family sedan and a four-wheel drive pick-up. Expensive, but not outrageous. Since 1988 Haddad had lived with his family in a modest bungalow in the older Ottawa suburb of Elmvale Acres. His wife was also a Lebanese Christian and the couple had made a strict, traditional Lebanese home for their two sons, who were now young men. The neighbours reported that the Haddads were a quiet, courteous family who kept to themselves but were happy to lend a hand in an emergency. The father in particular was popular with the neighbourhood children, because he sometimes gave out free candy.
Another Mr. Perfect, thought Green grimly as he saw his theory gradually turn to dust. No temper, no history of violence or intimidation.
As he was scanning, he had forgotten Jules, who was reading over his shoulder, until Jules’ quiet voice cut in. “Michael, this could be sticky.”
Green cocked his head, puzzled. Jules waved a manicured hand. “The Middle East, you know. Things can be …misconstrued.”
“Adam, so far I have a fight and a tyrannical uncle, not an international plot. There’s nothing here to suggest anything political.”
“What about the young men who assaulted Blair in the coffee shop?”
“They could be just sons of friends. Did CSIS or the RCMP turn up any connection to political groups? Terrorists, organized crime?”
Jules shook his head. “But ethnic groups usually stick together. If one person is in trouble, the others pitch in, like one big happy family—”
Green broke in abruptly, his eyes widening. “Family!” He dived for the report he had tossed aside and scanned it, reaching for the phone. “Pierre Haddad has two sons who might be twentyish.”
“Michael, please. Remember the rule book.”
Green paused, his hand on the receiver. “I’m just going to tell Sullivan to get pictures of the two sons and show them to our coffee shop witness. If she can ID either of them as being involved in the fight, we’ll take it from there. Is that ‘by the book’ enough for you?”
Jules paused on his way out the door. “Keep me informed.”
Once he had relayed the added requests to Sullivan, Green sat in his office, feeling restless and ill at ease. Had he forgotten anything? The Halton files had been seized and an expert lined up to review them the next day. Alibis had been obtained on all Blair’s known colleagues, and background checks had been done on Pierre Haddad. Blair’s activities had been traced on the day he died and arrangements made to identify the suspects who had assaulted him shortly before his death. Nothing tied in directly to the murder, but it was the best he could do. For now, it was a waiting game.
He glanced at his watch. Past five o’clock. He looked at the phone, thinking of Sharon and remembering the bitterness in her eyes when he had thrown her out. He should send her some flowers. A dozen red roses with a note saying “I’m sorry”. She was his wife, after all. She put up with a lot, and she was entitled to better.
Entitled, he thought with dismay. Is that the word that comes to mind when I think of her? Not love, not passion— but entitlement? He put his face in his hands with a groan. This relationship was not going to go the way of all his previous ones, three or four years and off to greener pastures. He tried to picture Sharon as she had been in the beginning, when he had fallen so hard. Fresh, wise-cracking and sexy, with a sly smile that drove him crazy and a tender wisdom that brought a lump to his throat.
But instead, his mind conjured up honey-blond hair, tight jeans and a full, pouting mouth.
He jerked his head up, the memory chasing out all else. There was a stone unturned! There was someone who might be able to tie the Haddads directly to the murder.