Dream Chasers (30 page)

“That a threat?”

“No,” said Sullivan, wishing he'd brought someone with him. Given his previous acquaintance with Darren, this was not going to look good if a defence lawyer got hold of it. “But just so you know, we did find blood on the axe, shovel and wheelbarrow in your backyard. That needs an explanation.”

“You're bluffing. I keep all my tools clean as a whistle.”

“I guess you don't watch enough
CSI
. Blood is impossible to get out of all the cracks and pits.” Darren's jaw fell open. Sullivan pressed on. “We also know that the board social worker, Jenna Zukowski, visited Riley here last Friday morning, asking questions. That's the last time anyone saw her alive. It doesn't take much to build a case once we get forensics.”

Darren still blocked the doorway, but now his body swayed. Sullivan stepped forward. “Maybe we should continue this inside.” Darren glowered up at him, then shrugged and turned to lead the way into the living room. Hockey memorabilia was everywhere, including a signed photo of Wayne Gretzky, dozens of trophies and a picture of the Salt Lake City gold medal team. There was not much else in the room except a giant screen
TV
and a scuffed old lazy-boy chair sitting directly in front of it. A plaid couch with a broken spring was shoved into a corner, covered in newspapers, plumbing pipes, two cases of Labatt Blue, and some bags from the hardware store. Thumbtacked over the mantlepiece was a huge Ottawa Senators flag. A true bachelor's pad. Sullivan's own wife Mary, being a real estate agent, would never stand for the mess, but then Darren's wife had left him in disgust years ago. Sullivan remembered talk about domestic assault, but nothing had ever been proved.

But in spite of the mess, the floor didn't have a speck of dust, and the lazy-boy looked freshly washed. Pretty selective housekeeping, Sullivan thought with interest. He wandered over to the mantlepiece and pretended to study the photos propped along its top. Front and centre was a large photo of Canada's World Championship Junior Hockey Team, with Riley beaming from the front row. Sullivan was about to comment when he detected some tiny flecks of brown against the white border. Darren had planted himself by the door with his arms crossed. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he was saying. “If that broad came here Friday, I didn't see her.”

“Is that what the blood analysis of these specks is going to tell us, Darren?”

Darren turned white. He said nothing, probably a wise move when you don't know what the other guy is holding.

“Where were you Friday morning?”

“Fuck you, Sullivan.” Sullivan strolled around the room, trying to look casual as he inspected the walls and floor. “Darren, we're going to get to the bottom of this. We've got forensics going over everything. Riley's clothes and shoes, your tools, the pressure-washed spot in the back yard. I'll get them to check out this room too. A young woman has been brutally murdered. Do you think the department is going to let this slide? You can answer my questions here and now, man to man, or I can take you down to Elgin Street and do a whole formal interrogation. Your choice. Where were you Friday morning?”

Darren looked like he was turning over Sullivan's words. Finally, he shrugged. “Here. Off and on. I don't always hear the doorbell when I'm in the back. Maybe she rang and no one answered.”

“Who else was at home Friday morning?”

“No one.”

Too quick, Darren boy, Sullivan thought. “Where was Riley?”

“Out. Training. His agent has been on his case, so he went for a long bike ride.”

“From what time to what time?”

“All morning. He went out early, maybe seven o'clock. Didn't come back till noon.”

“How do you know that if you were in the back?”

Darren started to speak, then snapped his jaw tight.

Sullivan considered his next move. He had evidence that Jenna had planned to come here, evidence that there was blood on the axe and wheelbarrow, and possible traces of blood in this room. But three men lived at the O'Shaughnessy house— Riley, Darren and his son Ben—and there was no way to know for certain which of them was involved. Not to mention how the hell McIntyre figured into the mess.

He should wait for the rest of the evidence, and he should do this interview by the book, down at the station with all the proper procedures and warnings. But Riley was out on the streets in his sports car, running from something but refusing to go to the police. Sullivan thought that if he could lean on Darren, he might be able to get some answers that would help the police know what they were dealing with.

“Here's what I think happened,” Sullivan said quietly. “I think Jenna came here to see Riley, and she got kind of pushy. I hear she's like that. You know these social workers, they always think they're right. I bet she accused him of dumping his girlfriend's body, maybe even of killing her. Anyway, Riley's been under a lot of pressure recently, for a small town kid who's just eighteen. His girlfriend just died, his agent is on his case, the media are watching his every move, the scouts are picking apart his recent slump, and the speculators are saying the sky could be the limit if he keeps his shit together. He's been trying to wrap up his exams, he hasn't been sleeping, and Friday, when the social worker got in his face, he just lost it.”

“He wasn't here!”

“I've seen Riley play, Darren. He's real aggressive on the ice, trained to go after what he wants, trained to see what he can get away with. He sees his whole future crumbling before his eyes. Maybe he has the O'Shaughnessy men's famous temper, eh? Or maybe it was ‘roid rage. He's filled out a lot in the last year. Is he taking steroids?”

Darren snorted. “He would never touch the stuff. Thinks it's cheating.”

Sullivan shrugged. “Still, I heard McIntyre's into that. And I know how much Riley listens to him.”

Darren tightened his arms defiantly, but his eyes twitched, and Sullivan knew he'd hit a nerve. “Steroids could be enough to push him over the edge,” he said. “They could also be a defence, remember, if it comes to that. Whatever happened when Riley and the social worker argued, he just snapped and popped her. Didn't mean to kill her, I'm sure. Freaked out and tried to get rid of the body, forgetting we'd have all kinds of forensics to tie him to the case.”

“You don't have shit!”

“But we will. And now Riley is racing around Ottawa in his Mustang. Maybe he's in a panic, maybe he can't think straight. You know what steroids do to the human brain? Irrational rage, paranoia, maybe even hallucinations. There's no telling what he's thinking. We have to get him in, Darren. You need to tell me what happened.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Riley's not on drugs. And you're so far off base with that social worker it's a joke.”

“Okay, maybe it was your son, Ben. He's got a temper on him, I can see that.”

Darren turned the colour of raw steak. “You leave Ben out of this!”

“Why? Riley's almost like a brother to him. Maybe they even talked about girlfriends. Ben's seen the papers, he knows all about this dead girl and how the cops are trying to figure out what happened to her.”

Darren opened his mouth, but Sullivan rolled over his protests. He hadn't primed the pump enough yet. “So when this social worker shows up asking for Riley, Ben puts two and two together. He tells her no way she's seeing Riley, she gets pushy, and before he knows it—pop!” Sullivan slammed his fist into his palm, making Darren jump.

“Your fuse has always been your downfall, right, Darren? No matter how hard you tried, you could only take so much before all of a sudden, before you even know it, someone is on the floor. Almost like you couldn't help yourself. I bet it's like father, like son.”

Darren walked over to stare out the window, flexing his fists. Finally he turned to face Sullivan, backlit by the sun. “You fucking bastard. That's dirty, even for you. You know Ben's got nothing to do with this.”

“Do I? I saw his temper this morning. And he's bulked up a lot since last year too. I know he hangs out at McIntyre's place. Maybe he's been slipping him some performance enhancers too.”

“You said yourself there are three guys live here. How do you know it wasn't me popped that bitch?”

“You said you didn't see her.”

“What if I was lying?”

“Are you saying you did see her?”

“I'm not saying anything. I'm saying maybe it was me. Maybe she came like you said. Maybe she pissed me off. Fucking social workers are all the same. It's always the guy's fault. Women are just these poor, helpless innocents that never start anything. Lying? A woman never lies. Conning? A woman never cons. And temper? A woman can tear a strip off you up one side and down the other, but if the guy so much as shows his fist, well, it's jail for him. And sex? Women never heard of sex, it's all some big macho conspiracy to take advantage of them. Sometimes a guy can only take so much shit before he blows.”

“So you hit her?”

“Maybe. That's for you to prove.”

“Where did this happen?”

“This room looks like a good place.”

“So how exactly did it happen?”

“Could have been just like you said, a burst of temper. One pop to the mouth, and she goes down, hits her head, and she's done. There's no intent to kill.”

Sullivan sized him up. “Then why didn't you call 911?”

“Like you said, panic is a funny thing. Maybe I thought about what it would do to Riley if the whole mess got in the papers. No way would I want anything to screw up his big chance.”

“So what did you do?”

“So I dumped the body in the park.”

“How did you transport it?”

Darren paused. “In the wheelbarrow.”

“I mean what did you drive it in?”

Abruptly Darren swung around and headed for the door. “You want any more information, you arrest me, you bring me downtown, and I want a lawyer. I'm not giving you another fucking thing for free.”

Bob Gibbs approached the Norman Bethune Alternate School with a confidence he hadn't felt in weeks. He had a mission to focus on—to track down a missing teenage girl—and there was slim chance of a homicidal assailant leaping out of the shadows of the school. So far he had struck out with all of Crystal's friends. If they knew anything about her, they weren't talking. He'd spoken to enough sulky Avril Lavigne wannabes to turn him off having children entirely.

Norman Bethune School seemed deserted, with nothing but a single bicycle chained to the fence by the drive. The doorbell brought no response, but when he pounded on the door, he finally heard the shuffling of feet within. A few seconds later, the door cracked open warily, and a middle-aged woman peered out. Frizzy grey hair flew around her head.

“School's out, sir.” He showed her his badge and asked for a word. She led the way down a dark, creaky hallway into a minuscule office stuffed with files and books.

“I'm just working on final report cards,” she said, stacking the papers on the floor to clear a space on the chair for him. “Is this about Inspector Green's daughter?”

Gibbs masked his surprise and shook his head, pulling out his notebook. After recording her name and occupation— Eleanor Hicks, guidance counsellor—he produced a picture of Crystal Adams. “Have you seen this girl?”

Ms Hicks arched her thick eyebrows. “Oh, dear!”

“Have you seen her?”

“Is this an official investigation?”

“Yes, this girl is missing.”

“Oh dear. Well, I think she was the girl who was here this morning.”

So she's still alive, Gibbs thought triumphantly. Finally a lead! “You're positive?”

“Well, she didn't look like this. She had no make-up on, and her hair was all over the place. She looked awful. But I'm pretty sure it's the same girl.”

“What did she want?”

“To talk to the girls. They were almost all here this morning, clearing out their things. We had a little goodbye party, because most of them won't be back next year.”

“Did she talk to anyone in particular?”

“She came here really upset and demanding to see one of our girls. Normally I wouldn't let anyone in who wasn't one of our students, but we were just having juice and muffins together and a couple of the girls recognized her. And as I said she seemed in trouble, so I decided maybe it would be best. We try to have a supportive, welcoming atmosphere here.”

“Who did she talk to?”

“I'm not sure that matters.”

The woman's evasion surprised him. “This is important. She may be at risk.”

“That's the thing. She came here looking for answers...” She hesitated. “I didn't eavesdrop, you understand, but she wasn't speaking very quietly once she got upset. I could even hear her from this office. She seemed to feel that someone had ratted on her. Her words. She wanted to know who. These kinds of altercations are common enough with the student population we serve, so at the time I didn't think much of it.”

“Did she find out who it was?”

“Well, that's the thing. I overheard the girls telling her who it could have been. And now that you're here...”

Gibbs readied his notebook. “Who?”

“Hannah Pollack. Inspector Green's daughter. Hannah wasn't in school, but last I knew, this girl was heading off to find her.”

Gibbs sucked in his breath, the flutter of nerves returning to his gut. “Did she have an address?”

“Oh, yes. One of the girls told her. Hannah's been having a hard time since the students found out her father is a police officer.”

G
reen
was grateful once again for the flashing lights as he raced down Carling Avenue. He'd barely breathed since Gibbs's call. He didn't dare think about what he might encounter. How dangerous was Crystal? Could she have been the killer all along? First responsible for doctoring the drugs that killed Lea and later killing the social worker who knew too much. Did she have the strength and ruthlessness to sever the woman's head? God only knew. Desperation—or crystal meth—sometimes gives a woman the strength of six men.