Do or Die (12 page)

“So she helped Joe with his research. When was this?”

“Oh, within the past…maybe six months. She turned it into her Honours thesis.”

“Would Joe have confided in her?”

“He might have told her all sorts of things in order to impress her, but probably not the truth. I wouldn't regard her as a credible witness, Detective.”

“Did Raquel also help Jonathan with his research?” Halton frowned. “Not that I'm aware of. I hope not. But your father's old saying has got me thinking. I did see her with him, just recently. They looked…definitely friendly. And he did take her into his office for quite some time.” He sucked in his breath, his eyes narrowing intently behind the bristly brows. “But he wouldn't have told her anything about the investigation. No.” His voice grew more certain. “No, not Jonathan. Too level-headed. Joe, now. Joe is a hothead. Joe might have complained to her about Dave's accusation, but she wouldn't know about Jonathan.”

“Could either of them, Raquel or Joe, find out by searching Jonathan's office?”

He looked alarmed. “I insist that all my students keep their offices and cabinets locked. With all the expensive equipment and the irreplaceable nature of some of the files...”

“Did they have keys to each other's offices?”

Halton shook his head. “Certainly not to the filing cabinets and desk drawers. And Jonathan would not be so stupid as to leave his files out.”

“Even if he planned to return? Just going for supper, say?”

Halton's voice wavered. “I don't know. I tell them not to, but they can be pretty casual about these things.”

Green stood up abruptly. “I want you to come down to Jonathan's office with me. I need to know if anything's been tampered with.”

As if by
prearrangement, Halton and Green were just going down the hall when Lou Paquette emerged from Jonathan Blair's office. He sighed sourly as he peeled his latex gloves off his hands.

“More fingerprints, Green. Hundreds of them. What do you want me to do with them?”

“Fingerprints!” Halton began to splutter. “What the hell is going on!” He tried to push past to see into Blair's office, but Green blocked his way.

“Someone broke into Blair's office, Professor. I want to know everyone who's been in here.” Cutting off Halton's attempts to protest, he turned to Paquette. “Get the prints of all the people on this floor and run a check.”

“All the people—” Paquette gaped. “There must be fifty!”

“Twenty,” Green replied.

Halton burst in impatiently. “This is absurd! Most of my students had nothing whatsoever to do with Jonathan. Their paths hardly crossed. All the Honours students and the first year post-grads—they're down on the other wing. They never even saw him. I won't have you upsetting them.”

Paquette ran a weary hand over the beginnings of stubble on his chin. Like Sullivan, he was a policeman who put in all the overtime a case required, but, unlike Sullivan, his wife had left him because of it years ago. He had little reason to go
home any more and often fell asleep over his microscope. Green took pity on him.

“Okay, just do the people on this wing. They work the most closely with him. Oh, and there's one other person I'd like you to check, but I'll have to get you her prints off something in her house. She's flown the coop.”

Paquette's bleak face brightened. “Are we getting hot?”

“Definitely,” Green replied. “You find anything else interesting in here? Any signs of forced entry? Tampering?”

Paquette nodded. “Not the office door, but the top drawer to this filing cabinet. Someone picked the lock—not very expertly.” He led the way back inside, stepping over the files which still lay scattered on the floor where Difalco had dropped them. Green and Halton followed him into the room. Halton stopped short, staring at the mess.

“What the hell happened here?”

“Someone was curious about his files, apparently.”

“Who?”

Green shrugged. “I'm not at liberty to say, sir.”

“These people work for me!” Halton cried, his voice rising. “I must know—”

“Rumours, Dr. Halton,” Green snapped. “Remember what you said about rumours? This investigation must be kept strictly confidential, for everyone's protection, including yours. Now would you please tell me what those files contain?”

Halton glowered at him briefly, then barrelled his way across the office. He scanned the files and his eyebrows shot up.

“They're computer print-outs of statistical analyses. On the data Jonathan had collected to replicate Difalco's research.”

Green knew enough about scientific research to grasp the significance of the material. In research, the subjects are tested first, then at the end the scores are subjected to statistical
analysis to determine if there were differences, patterns or trends in the scores which supported or contradicted the original theory.

“Are you saying Blair was at the point of proving or disproving Difalco's hypothesis?”

“Apparently. These analyses were dated Monday.” Halton had been scanning the pages avidly, but now he raised his eyes in dismay. “The day before he died.”

“What did he find?”

Halton wrestled his emotions back. “I don't know yet. It will take me some time to study them.”

“How much time?”

“I don't know. Ah, tomorrow morning. I'll take them with me tonight.”

Green shook his head. “I can't allow them to be out of police custody. You can look at them here tonight. I'll post a police guard in the room with you.”

“But I have a meeting with Marianne Blair—”

“I'm sure she would not want the police investigation slowed down in any way.” Ignoring Halton's reddening face, Green called dispatch and requested a police guard. Then he nodded to Paquette, who stood fidgeting at the door. “That filing cabinet. Was it open like that when you found it?”

Paquette nodded. “Open and empty. Looks like those files on the floor came from there.”

“Interesting. Thanks, Lou. I should be down at the station in ten minutes.”

“You going to sleep tonight?”

Green grinned. “Only if I run out of things to do.”

*   *   *

That seemed an unlikely prospect as Green returned to the station and made his way to the interview room where Difalco had been detained. The young man had pushed a chair into a corner and was sprawled with his legs outstretched, pretending to be asleep. He jerked upright when Green appeared, accompanied by a constable who settled unobtrusively in the corner with his notebook. Difalco barely gave him a second look.

“Two hours, Detective,” he snarled at Green, glancing at his watch. “Two hours you left me sitting in this dump. I know my rights. You've got to book me and let me see my lawyer, or you've got to let me go.”

“Paperwork, Mr. Difalco,” Green mimicked, swinging a chair into place beside the table. It was a barren room, small, airless and painted institutional beige. “It takes us ages sometimes. And you're quite right. I have to caution you— you don't have to say anything, you have a right to speak to a lawyer, and a right to free legal advice. But if you really weren't doing anything wrong, you can save both of us all the trouble and paperwork if you tell me what you were doing in Jonathan Blair's office tonight.”

“I told you. Getting some data of his that fit with my own study.”

“He was working with cats. You're working with humans.”

“It's called comparative psychology, Officer,” Difalco sneered. “You've probably never heard of it, but much of our knowledge about human learning comes from animals. A brain is a brain—although some less so than others.” Difalco had sprawled back in his chair again, arms folded, head propped against the wall. His dark eyes simmered with disdain.

Green held his gaze and leaned forward intently. “Don't be too glib. Myles Halton is going over those files right now, and he'll be able to tell me exactly what relevance they have to your work.”
Very briefly, Green detected a flare of alarm in the dark eyes before the smile widened. “You're barking up the wrong tree, Officer. You think just because I'm a rich Italian brat I'm automatically more guilty than that fumbling limpdick, Miller.”

“You're the one who skipped out on my interview this morning. And you're the one I found stealing files from Blair's private office. Miller's done bugger-all.”

“Still waters run deep, Mr. Detective,” Difalco replied darkly. “And you never know what's hidden in their depths.”

His equanimity was maddening. He was far too complacent for someone who had spent two hours awaiting interrogation in a murder investigation. Difalco was fencing with him, switching images and styles faster than Green could keep up. One minute a street tough, the next a petulant child, still the next a serious scientist. He was probably used to running circles around everyone else, and he had made the mistake of assuming Green was just another dumb cop. Perhaps that vanity could be used.

Green abandoned the bullying approach and sat back with a sigh. “Then why don't you enlighten me?”

Difalco sat forward with a smile and pulled his chair up to the table. “I'm not fooled by that righteous ‘research-is-my-life' routine of his. He's got as many desires as the rest of us, but he's just no good at getting them fulfilled, so he pretends they're not there. But don't believe it for a moment! I've seen how he looks at Rosalind Simmons—she's the cheap piece with the peroxide hair you met this morning—and he'd fling her down on the office floor and rape her in a second if he thought he could get away with it. But he can't, so he's sneaky and secretive. He makes out like he's interested in her work, in her mind.” Difalco threw his head back with a laugh. “Oldest line in the book. God, some women are dumb!”

“Including Rosalind Simmons?”

“When it comes to men, yeah. They believe what they want to believe, and who am I to disillusion them? Rosalind bought Miller's act, she might even have let him between her legs, although I can't imagine what he'd do there, but it's Halton she really wants. And poor old Miller hasn't a hope in hell against the big man.”

“What makes you think Rosalind wants Halton?”

“Because every chick in the place wants Halton! You got to see how she looks at him in our research seminars. Her tongue hangs out, she lives for his every word. Miller doesn't exist any more.”

“Does Halton respond?”

Difalco's handsome face grimaced in disgust. “Rosalind's not his type. Too old and tough. He likes them young, tender and adoring.”

“Like Raquel Haddad?”

A shadow flitted across his face, marring the studied smile. “Where'd you hear about her?”

“She was your research assistant. I heard she kind of hung around the floor, and I wondered if Halton had noticed her.”

Difalco flicked a piece of lint off his black Polo shirt as he worked to repair the smile. “He noticed her, sure. We're talking a ten here, Officer, and there's no way she could parade around the place unnoticed even if she wanted to, which she didn't. But you don't mess with Raquel. Lebanese women are worse than Italians. You get their whole goddamn family on your back.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“No, but that's what happened to Jonathan Blair, I'll bet you any money. And isn't that why we're here? I mean, you want to learn who killed him, right? Not why I was poking around in Blair's office or what lurks beneath Miller's choir boy smile.”

“All right, what do you think happened to him?”

Difalco seemed to sense the sarcasm in his voice, because he pouted theatrically. “Oh, but you've got to take me seriously, man. Don't play me along like some dumb Eyetalian from the street.”

“I don't think you're dumb, believe me, Mr. Difalco. I'm just getting tired of the fancy footwork.”

Difalco sighed like a child deprived of his game. “Everyone else thinks Blair is another dickless wonder like Miller, but I know Raquel had the same effect on him as she had on every other red-blooded male in the place. He got her into his lab, then he fucked her, and before he knew it, he had the entire Canadian contingent of the Lebanese Christian Militia on his ass. They're not subtle, those guys. The honour of their women is a sacred thing.”

“Do you have any evidence to support your theory?

“Oh sure. I'm sitting here with a signed confession which I forgot to give you because I'm enjoying this so much.”

Green grinned at him patiently. He had learned the art of silence from Sharon, who used it as a therapy tool to get people to open up. Green had found it equally effective with suspects. Most people couldn't stand silence, and Difalco was no exception.

“No, I don't have any proof,” he snapped peevishly. “Raquel never said to me ‘my uncle is going to kill Jonathan Blair' or anything. But she talked about her uncle always interfering in her life, trying to fix her up with nice Lebanese men, screening her phone calls, threatening to send her back to Beirut if she didn't shape up. Not that I blame the guy, actually! Raquel was wild. If my sister did half of what she did, I'd be packing her off to a convent so fast her head would spin.”

“Did Raquel seem afraid of him?”

“Afraid, but defiant—that was the way she was. She wasn't going to let that fat old blow-bag push her around.”

“Do you have any proof Raquel was sexually involved with Blair?”

“Sexually involved?” Difalco repeated the phrase as if it were in a foreign tongue. “God, you cops. How about the sated look in Raquel's eye, does that qualify? She draped herself all over him, whispered in his ear, stuck her tits in his face. It didn't take an Einstein to figure out what was up.”