Beautiful Lie the Dead (26 page)

“No, but as a reporter, it never pays to trust too much in man's better nature.”

Nor as a police officer, Green thought wryly, making a mental note to check on Brandon's love life more thoroughly. “What did he want?”

“Same as you, he'd read my stuff on his father's death— his mother kept the clippings—and he wanted the rest of the story.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Don't worry, not much. He has no clue who Lise Gravelle is, not even that Meredith had met her here, and I didn't enlighten him. He knew his father liked it varied and kinky, but he didn't know specifics. He'd asked all his relatives including scary old Uncle Cyril, but no one budged. No one admitted to seeing Meredith either. However, he did uncover one really interesting fact that I thought you should know.”

“Uhuh,” Green said drily. Waiting. Once a storyteller, always a storyteller.

“He went to visit his father's grave this morning, and someone had put fresh red roses on the grave.”

“How fresh?”

“Well, he said hardly any snow had fallen on the flowers and on the footprints around the gravestone, and the flowers still looked fresh, so they were probably put there in the past few days.”

The snow had started Monday, Green thought. The day Lise Gravelle died, and Meredith disappeared. “Meredith?”

“That's what the kid thinks, although I'm not so sure. Why would Meredith go there, to put flowers on the grave of a man who died years ago? No matter how much she loved the son.”

* * *

Green drove through the stone archway into the cemetery and eyed the rows of tombstones stretching out over the snow-covered slopes, bleak markers of death in this strangely idyllic scene. Armed with the section number Hatfield had given him, he studied the map displayed just inside the gate. Longstreet's section was off to the right. He found the grave without trouble by following the trail of footprints leading up the slope. More than one fresh set of boots had tromped through the deep snow on the same path, Green observed. Clutching his camera, he bent to peer under the overhanging pine bough, careful not to disturb what was left of the footprints. Ahead of him, a simple granite tomb was cradled in the hollow of snow. Green read the inscription.

Gotcha.

Trying to see past the fresh boot prints, Green took in the scene. The older trampling of the snow had been made by delicate, high-heeled boots. The rose petals were still plump and red, and the leaves glistened a bright green, but a frosting of fresh, fluffy snow covered everything despite the thick shelter of the tree.

He stepped further inside to check the depth of the fresh snow. Everywhere beneath the tree, it was only an inch deep. Brandon was wrong. These flowers had been placed before last week's snow, but they were high quality silk that looked as lush as the real thing. He snapped half a dozen photos of the footprints and the grave before reaching forward to brush the snow away from the base, revealing something Brandon, in his haste to capture hope, had not seen—a shiny red satin heart pinned to the stem of the bouquet. No card, no insignia. A simple heart.

This bouquet had been left not by Meredith on her journey to discover Brandon's father, but by a woman who, after thirty years, still loved him.

He took more photos before retracing his steps through the snow as quickly as the uneven path allowed. Finally he was on the hunt! Here was physical evidence to confirm his speculation. This mystery stemmed from the past, with the man in that grave at the centre of it.

Back in his car, Green booted up his laptop and searched for Cyril Longstreet's address. Green suspected the old man knew exactly what had happened thirty years ago and who all the players were. At the time, he'd had the power to have the whole investigation stopped, but Green was counting on old age and frailty to have mellowed his defiance and perhaps piqued his conscience as well.

As he followed the narrow, twisting road up the mountain towards Summit Circle, Green could see glimpses of the city far below; silver steeples, glass towers, and the St. Lawrence River glittering blue in the distance. He passed an eclectic mix of homes. Old limestone mansions stood next door to bold, sleek slabs with walls of windows overlooking the city below. New construction was everywhere. Once the exclusive domain of Montreal's English elite, Green wondered if most of the homes weren't owned now by Hong Kong millionaires and oil sheiks.

The winter sun reflected off the snow and cast deep shadows that hampered his efforts to read house numbers. Rounding a curve, he was straining to see the next house number when he heard the roar of an engine and a car careened around the corner in the opposite direction. Instinctively Green jerked the wheel and swerved just as the car sped past. Green glanced over just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of the driver's profile. Head bent, gaze focussed ahead, features in shadow. Green barely had time to register the make of the vehicle and the Avis rent-a-car sticker on the rear bumper before the car disappeared.

Green sideswiped a snowbank as he slithered to a stop. He took a few deep breaths. Up ahead on his left was Cyril's house. Sitting in the car a minute to collect his wits, he replayed the near-accident. Recalled the driver's intensity of focus and complete inattention to his surroundings. A man on a mission, hell-bent on something.

Green had caught only the briefest glimpse of his profile. The sun had glared off the window, casting the figure in light and shadow. Yet the image struck a chord. Was there something familiar about it? Had he seen it before? There was almost no traffic on this exclusive circular street, and the roar of the engine suggested the car had accelerated hard. Where had it come from? Possibly from Cyril's house itself?

Green didn't believe in coincidences. A vaguely familiar face, visiting one of the central architects of this decades-old secret? Green rifled his memory, trying to conjure up the image he'd seen before. It also had been a vague profile, full of shadow and mood. Almost artistic.

That was it! Green booted up his laptop and accessed the photos he'd taken at Lise Gravelle's apartment. He scanned through the thumbnails quickly until he came to the framed photos on her wall, among them the Amélie series. He clicked on the first and watched as the image of the little girl filled the screen. She was looking up with outstretched hand, but only the shadow of the adult with her was visible. He clicked on the next photo, and both figures filled the screen. Little Amélie's curly hair, sparkling eyes and round cheeks glowed in the sunlight, but the young man was in shadow as he looked down at her, his fingertips touching hers.

It was the same man! Despite the tricks of light and the decades separating the two, Green was convinced of it. Here was one more person linking the Longstreets to Lise Gravelle, over a span of almost thirty years. Green raised his head to study Cyril Longstreet's house. It looked deceptively calm and unassuming, a solid, two-storey block with leaded windows, an arched oak front door and a grey limestone façade. Freshly painted black shutters framed each window and a sweep of carefully trimmed evergreen shrubs bordered the front walk. All signs of an attentive owner who preferred quality to ostentation.

He was just wondering how he was going to breach Cyril's defences with this latest discovery when his cell phone rang. It was Magloire, triumphantly announcing that the original Longstreet file had been found at last and was on its way to the major crimes offices by cruiser. Green hesitated. Cyril Longstreet was less than a hundred feet away, and he had a dozen questions to ask the man. A return to Sherbrooke Street East in the pre-Christmas Sunday traffic would set him back well over an hour. However, right now he would be going head to head with Cyril lacking the most crucial piece of information in the case to date—the identity of the man in the photo. He doubted Cyril would let it slip by mistake. The old man had not dominated a multi-million dollar empire for half a century by being a poor poker player. He would call Green's bluff and knock down the entire house of cards on which this case was propped.

If the police file contained the identity of the mystery man and even better, his role in the case, the brief diversion would be worth it. Cyril had kept his secrets for thirty years; he could wait another hour.

NINETEEN

A
t one o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, the Montreal Major Crimes floor was virtually deserted. Dozens of work stations sat idle, but Magloire was at his desk in the corner. A battered legal box sat open on the floor beside him and he was bent intently over a folder, frowning.

“That the file?”

Magloire nodded. “Not going to be much fucking help.”

Green wheeled a desk chair over beside him. “Why not?”

“Nothing in it. After all that stonewalling and fuss, it's nothing but a whitewash. Worst example of record keeping I've ever seen.

I know this was policing pre-computers, but come on!”

Green reached out a hand for the file, but Magloire was on a roll. He slapped the piece of paper on top. “Autopsy report. Nothing we didn't know. Healthy, well-muscled male died of asphyxiation, ligature bruising to the neck but no other signs of trauma to the body, no defensive wounds, no evidence the body was moved or tampered with after death.”

“That's something we didn't know.”

Magloire shrugged it off. “Okay, a few things. Tox screen positive for cannabis and alcohol. Tested .15. Our guy was pretty drunk.”

Drunk enough to impair his judgment, but not drunk enough to pass out, Green thought. Alcohol was often the drug of choice for depressed men, although it never improved their mood and more often lessened their self-control. Had it been false courage in a bottle to help a suicide attempt? “Is there a doubt about suicide?”

“None mentioned. They found traces of the rope fibre in the ligature marks but no finger marks from clawing at the rope.” Magloire tossed the report aside and snatched up the next. “Witness statement from landlord. Gained access to apartment when victim's uncle expressed concern.”

“Uncle?”

“Yeah. Cyril Longstreet. Harvey's wife alerted him when he failed to come home.”

What is this? Green thought. Nobody in this family says boo without checking with the old man at the top of the mountain? He held out his hand for the report again, but Magloire was holding it close to his eyes, peering at it.

“Wait. It's in French, and the handwriting is impossible. Landlord says the door was locked, and no one else was in the apartment. He found the victim in the closet, hanging out the open door. He was too freaked to notice anything else, but he didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary in the previous few days.”

“Was anyone with him when he discovered the body?” Magloire glanced at the report. “Doesn't say. Maybe the investigator never asked. Here's another thing. No forensics. No fingerprint report, no analysis of dirty dishes. Just a few dozen crime scene and autopsy photos.”

Green snapped his fingers impatiently. “Let me see them. Those I can read.”

This time Magloire handed over the thick packet of photos and Green studied the old, slightly discoloured Polaroids. Harvey Longstreet's body hung from a hook on the closet ceiling, not from the rod as he'd imagined. It seemed a strange place for a hook, as if it had been placed there for a purpose. The body sagged forward. Avoiding the protruding tongue and bulging eyes, Green focussed instead on the ligature marks on the neck. A clear purple line ran below the jaw line and up on an angle behind the ear. Classic example of a hanging death.

Oddly, however, the toes touched the ground, suggesting that had he wanted to save himself, he could simply have regained his footing. The closet was completely bare except for a pair of slippers on the floor and a couple of shirts hanging to one side. All the clothing looked neat and undisturbed. Longstreet had not fought back or thrashed around in his final moments of consciousness, suggesting he hadn't been coerced. Even suicides sometimes panicked at the last minute unless they were extremely drunk. Harvey Longstreet had submitted quietly and willingly to death.

Green flipped through the rest of the photos. Autopsy close-ups of the body showed no other signs of violence, although Green thought he could detect some red marks on the genitals. The apartment was neat, the dishes all washed and the counter clear. There were no ropes, handcuffs, or other paraphernalia of sex play. The queen-sized bed was perfectly made, its pillows plumped and its satin quilt smooth, as if the apartment was there only for show and not for habitation. Amid the perfection, the naked man was an affront.

He looked up. “How often did this guy stay there?”

Magloire leafed through more papers. “The rest of the witness statements are a joke. Neighbours were busy, kept to themselves, didn't notice a thing. Blah, blah, blah. Longstreet's widow said about once a week when he had a late seminar. She also said he sometimes went there during the day between classes, for some peace and quiet.” Magloire said these last words with heavy sarcasm.

“Did she say he was a neat freak? That keeping the apartment this neat was usual for him?”

“It's not in the reports. Probably didn't ask that either.”

Green was beginning to understand Cam Hatfield's accusation of shoddy police work. It was as if the police had been paid off.

Green was betting Longstreet was not alone when he died, but someone had cleaned up the scene after the fact and locked the door, to erase all evidence of another person. The police had failed to ask the crucial question why. Was it just to hide the embarrassment of kinky sex? Or to cover up a murder.

“Let me see the notebooks. Maybe there's more detail in the police notes.”

“There are none.”

“What!”

“That's what I've been looking for. They're not here. Nada.

Almost like the file's been purged.”