Once Upon a Time (16 page)

“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 as 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.

“I'm sorry,” he said humbly. “Sometimes my job gets unpleasant. Please sit down.”

She perched on the edge of her chair.

“We'll change the subject. What I really need to know is what you were doing at your parents' country house the day after your father's death.”

She had just begun to unravel the purse strap from her fingers with a sigh of relief, which changed abruptly to a gasp. The strap went taut.

“The next day?”

He nodded, still encouraging.

“My—ah…my mother wanted me to check the house. She was afraid she might have left something turned on, or the door unlocked, or some food out.” Colour returned as the excuse took form. “It doesn't really make sense to travel all that way, I know, but I was trying to humour her.”

“Did you take anything out of the house?”

“Like what!”

“Clothes, personal items for your mother.”

“Oh! I'm sorry, you've got me all rattled. Things for my mother? Yes, yes, I did. She had nothing with her. I packed a small suitcase.”

“How long were you there?”

She hesitated. “I'm not sure. Time seemed to stand still. It gave me an unpleasant feeling being in the house Dad would never again set foot in.”

“I'm curious…” Green began slowly, shifting his position on his chair so that he could look fully into her face. He did not want to miss one twitch of her reaction. “I'm curious as to why you so carefully wiped out your footprints in the snow on the way in and out.”

It was difficult to decipher the first emotion that flitted across her face, but the closest he could come was surprise. Surprise followed by bewilderment. And finally, as the implications set in, fear.

“I—I didn't do any such thing,” she protested, but Green barely heard her. His thoughts were already racing afield, wondering why surprise had been the first reaction. And why fear the third.

The question nagged at him as he made his way down the drive to his car. Lunchtime had long since come and gone, but he barely noticed the gnawing in his stomach. Puzzle pieces floated through his head, disconnected and elusive. What's going on? Why are they lying? Which one was in the car!

The answer came to him just as he was negotiating his way across three lanes of Queensway traffic towards the Metcalfe exit and the police station. Perhaps it was neither of them! Perhaps the figure the old farm wife had seen in Reid's grey Civic was neither Don nor Margaret. He had thought from Don's confused answers that he was simply protecting his wife, which was probably a life-long habit. But Margaret's reaction had not made sense. Her explanation had been shaky, certainly, but it was her genuine surprise and bewilderment over the footprints that had given her away.

Yet who would Margaret care enough about to lie to the police? She was a moral woman, bound by tradition and society's dictates. The list of people for whom she would break the law was very short. Her children, her husband, her mother…

And her brother.

But that did not make sense. At the time the car was spotted, Howard had not even known his father was dead.

*    *    *

Green strode across the squad room in search of Leblanc, who should have arrived well ahead of him. But there was no sign of her.

“Three-thirty in the goddamn afternoon, and everyone's on break,” he muttered. “Ah, Watts! Finally. Listen, I need you to check out some information for me. It will mean some calls to Montreal and Toronto.”

The detective was wrestling with a computer drawing program designed to make life easier for police officers, and he looked decidedly unenthusiastic about being summoned. Green handed him the details regarding Howard Walker's medical convention. “Check specifically if anyone saw him at the convention on Thursday afternoon.”

He watched Watts slouch back to his desk and pick up the phone. Delegating grunt work was one of the rare perks of being an inspector. Green hated the committees, the statistics and the memos, but he loved being able to issue orders and have the plodding minutiae of a case fall into place. Making sense of those minutiae, interviewing witnesses and pulling it all together—those were things he hated to delegate, even when he should.

It reminded him that he had not yet met with the Staff Sergeant, whose job it really was to coordinate the major crimes cases, and who would no doubt be offended that Green had so completely overstepped him. Egos needed nurturing, Green was learning in his new management sensitivity seminars, and every now and then he actually remembered to try. So he spent an hour with Staff Sergeant Capelli patiently reviewing the case and other major cases before he spotted Watts through his half-open door, returning from the fax machine with a sheaf of papers.