He pushed back his chair. “Not your job to think, Constable. After ten years on the job, you're allowed to think.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
He laughed. “Get me one of those.” He pointed to the can of Coke in my hand. “And then you can tell me what's up.”
I got his drink and hurried back. I hoped I wouldn't be called out by dispatch again. Not before I could say what I wanted to say.
“I know it's not really my job, Sergeant,” I began.
“But?” he said.
“How did you know I'm going to say but?”
“Eager young officers always have ideas. Go ahead.”
“Maureen Grey.”
“What about her?”
“I'm local, right? I've lived in the County all my life. My mom's heavily involved in the community. She volunteers at the youth center. She knew Maureen.”
The sergeant hadn't offered me a chair. I shifted from one foot to the other. My boots dripped melting snow onto the carpet.
“I think a boy named Jason Fitzpatrick knows something about her death.”
Malan linked his fingers together. “Fitzpatrick. I remember him. We interviewed the kids at her school. He said they weren't friends.”
“That's not true. They dated.”
“Who told you this?”
I felt my cheeks turn red. “Actually, no one told me. I guessed.”
“You guessed?”
“You saw him at her funeral. The big good-looking boy in the nice suit. Remember how sad he was?”
“Everyone was sad, Constable. It was a funeral.” The sergeant began to turn back to his computer.
“They were pretending to be sad. The kids, I mean. They didn't like her while she was alive. They laughed at her because the family's on welfare and her father's a drunk. They only care about her death so they can be part of the drama. But Jason really was sad. I saw him later, at the cemetery. When everyone else had left. He was the only one who stayed. He shouldn't have been there anyway. The burial was private.”
“Thank you, Constable. If I think of anything more, I'll ask you.”
“You don't have a suspect, do you?” I blurted out. “It wasn't Mr. Grey. If he'd killed her, it wouldn't be any mystery. He would have got mad and bashed her brains in.”
He swung his chair back around to face me. “That's true, Nicole. You think this boy Jason killed her. Why?”
“She was pregnant. He got her pregnant.”
“Happens all the time. No reason to kill her.”
“I know that. See, sir, I don't think Jason killed her. I think he was in love with her. I saw his face at the cemetery. He gave her that ring, the one with the blue stone. Sure, it was just a cheap thing, but it meant something to both of them. Someone else killed her. Because Jason was in love with her.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. I thought I'd mention it, that's all.”
He gave me a tight smile. “Thank you, Nicole. You've given me something to think about.” He looked at his watch. “It's not too late to make a call.” He got to his feet. “You can drive me.”
“Where?”
“I want to talk to Jason Fitzpatrick again. Sounds like he lied when he said he hardly knew Maureen. I wonder what else he might have lied about.”
T
he Fitzpatricks lived on Highway 33, heading east toward the Glenora Ferry. The long winding driveway passed big oak trees. The lawn was a wide expanse of untouched snow running down to the lake. The small harbor was dark, but lights twinkled from houses on the opposite shore. It was still snowing as I pulled up in front of a large modern house. All wood and glass.
Plenty of money.
I rang the doorbell. It was opened by an attractive woman in her forties. It was after nine o'clock, but she was dressed in a tailored suit, stockings and pumps, and nice jewelry. Her makeup was perfect. Her blond hair was expensively cut and colored.
“May I help you?” she asked. Her words were slightly slurred. I suspected she'd been drinking.
Sergeant Malan introduced us and showed his id. He said he wanted to speak to her son, Jason.
She blinked in confusion but opened the door. The house smelled of furniture polish and the woman's expensive perfume. A man came out of a side door. He carried a crystal glass half full of a smoky brown liquid and cubes of fresh ice.
“What's this about?” Brian Fitzpatrick asked.
“I'm Sergeant Paul Malan. I'm investigating the death of Maureen Grey and would like to speak to your son, Jason. I believe Jason knew the dead girl.”
Fitzpatrick's eyes flicked across my face. He didn't recognize me from the funeral this afternoon. “Jason went to the same school as Maureen. So did a lot of kids. Are you planning on paying a nighttime visit to them all?”
“Is Jason at home?” Malan asked.
“Yes, I'm here.” The boy stood at the top of the basement stairs. He was dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a PEDH T-shirt. A towel was tossed over his broad shoulders. His hair was wet and his shirt was damp. He was breathing heavily. He'd been working out.
His eyes widened when he saw me, but he said nothing.
“I want to talk to you about Maureen Grey,” Malan asked. “May we have a seat?”
“Come in, please,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.
“No,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said at the same time. “Go back to your program, Leslie,” he told his wife. “I'll handle this.”
The woman nodded and slipped down the hall. A door opened and I could hear the sound of a tv. Then the door shut and all was quiet.
Malan turned to the boy. “Jason, when I interviewed you at school you said you didn't know Maureen Grey other than as someone you saw around.”
“Yeah.” The boy glanced at his father out of the corner of his eyes.
“Is that true?” Malan asked.
“If my son said it, then it's true,” Fitzpatrick said. “Now, it's getting late and Jason has school tomorrow. He's in grade twelve, and we have hopes of a good scholarship. He has to keep his marks up.”
“Football player, are you?” Malan asked.
I shifted the heavy weight of my gun belt. I was very warm in the overheated house in my winter uniform jacket. No one paid any attention to me.
“Yes,” Jason answered.
“Pretty good player, I hear.”
“That has nothing to do with anything. Good night, Sergeant,” Brian Fitzpatrick repeated.
“Pretty good, yeah,” Jason said with a touch of pride in his voice.
“What was your relationship with Maureen Grey?”
“They had no relationship,” Fitzpatrick said quickly. “They went to the same school. They were not even in the same grade. My son was kind enough to go to the girl's funeral and pay his respects. Why are you making something out of that? You should be arresting the girl's father. She was a cheap slut, and her father's a drunken bully.”
“She wasn't a slut,” Jason said. His handsome face turned dark with anger.
“What I mean”âFitzpatrick took a deep drink from his glassâ“is that the unfortunate young woman was not friends with my son. You've taken up enough of our time.” He moved to open the door.
“Is your father right, Jason?” I said. Malan shot me a look. It wasn't my place to say anything. But I couldn't just turn around and leave.
Jason let out a sob. His voice broke as he said, “No. He's not right. I loved her. I loved Maureen. We were going to be married.”
“That's nonsense,” his father shouted. “You're seventeen years old. You don't know what the hell you're talking about. Now you.” He turned to Malan. “Get out of my house.”
“I can leave,” the sergeant said. “And take Jason down to the station to finish this conversation. Is that what you want?”
“You gave her the ring,” I said. “Didn't you, Jason? The ring with the blue stone.”
Jason nodded. Tears ran down his handsome face. “It was just a cheap thing. Something for her to wear until I could buy a real diamond.”
“And where the hell did you think you were going to get the money for a diamond ring?” his father snapped.
Jason ignored him. “I know what they said about her. The kids at school. They were wrong. She was a wonderful person. A beautiful girl. I loved her.”
“Did you kill her?” Malan asked, very softly.
Jason shook his head. His father sputtered.
“We planned to be married when I finished university,” Jason said. “I'd decided not to go to the States to play football. Even though it was what my dad wanted. I've been accepted at Queens University in Kingston. That way I wouldn't be too far away and could come home and see Maureen on the weekends. She'd graduate next year and get a job. Or something.”
“Or something,” his father spat. “That's a great plan. Or something. How the hell long do you think it would be before the slut started sleeping around on you? A week, a month? While you worked your ass off to support her and her brat. What about football, eh? A top-ranked college in the States. The NFL. All our dreams and hopes.”
“Your dreams, Dad. Your hopes. I like playing football, and I'm good at it. But I plan to go into law. That's what I've always wanted to do.”
“She got pregnant,” I said. “That changed things didn't it, Jason?”
He nodded. “She was having my baby. Our baby. We talked about abortion or adoption, but neither of us wanted that. We wanted to keep it.
We
. We were going to love it and raise it.” He looked at his father. Then he leaned against the wall. His broad chest moved with his sobs. “None of it matters anymore. Maureen's gone. The baby's gone. I'll go to your damned college and play fucking football. You can brag to all your friends what a hotshot your son is.”
Brian Fitzpatrick lifted his glass and finished the rest of his drink in one gulp. The edges of his mouth turned up in a sly smile. “Of course you will, son. You've got what you wanted, Sergeant. Now, please leave us alone.”
“No,” Malan said. “I don't have what I wanted. There's still the question of why Maureen died. Jason, do you know anything else you're not telling us?”
Brian Fitzpatrick threw his glass against the wall. It shattered. “Get the hell out of my house,” he roared.
Malan nodded to me. I opened the door. A gust of snow and icy wind blew in. “Very well,” Malan said. “But this case is still open. Someone killed that young woman and I intend to find out who it was. Someone who had dreams and hopes and ambitions. And a pregnant schoolgirl from a poor family was standing in the way.”
“I didn't kill her, Sergeant Malan,” Jason said. His voice was low and very sad. “I loved her. I wanted to be with her forever.”
“I'm not thinking of your dreams,” Malan said. “Your dreams included Maureen.” He looked directly at Brian Fitzpatrick. “But someone else's didn't.”
Jason gasped. All the blood drained from his face.
“Don't be ridiculous,” Fitzpatrick said.
“I told you,” Jason said. “That night, at dinner. I told you I was accepting the offer from Queens and turning down the American ones. I told you Maureen was having a baby.”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “I knew you'd come to your senses soon enough and see that I'm right.” He tried to look unconcerned, but a vein throbbed in his forehead. It was cold, standing in the open door while the snow blew in. Fitzpatrick was starting to sweat.
“I'd been afraid to tell you,” Jason said. “I figured you'd yell and carry on. Threaten to cut me off. I told you Maureen was pregnant and we were going to get married in the summer. Mom cried a little bit. She left the table before we were finished. You just kept on eating. You said I'd change my mind.”
“And you would have, soon enough.”
“Pregnancies have a way of continuing while people make up their minds,” I said. “University scholarships don't. Was there a deadline from the American college, Jason? If you turned them down, they wouldn't make the offer again.”
Malan lifted a hand, telling me to be quiet.
Jason looked at his father. “The deadline's this week. Now that Maureen's dead, it didn't seem to matter anymore what I did. I sent in my acceptance yesterday. Mom took pictures of you posing while I signed the papers.” He let out a roar. A cry of pure rage and pain.
He flew across the room.
He punched his father full in the face. Fitzpatrick's nose broke in a spray of blood, and he dropped to the floor. Jason pulled back his foot and aimed a kick at his father's head. Before he could connect, I was on him, pulling him off balance. I slid my leg between his, twisted and brought him crashing down.
I stood over him, expecting him to try to get back to his feet. But he rolled up into a ball and lay there, sobbing.
Malan had Fitzpatrick by the arm. He pulled the man to his feet. Mrs. Fitzpatrick stood in the hallway. Her eyes were wide with shock and her hand was pressed to her mouth.
Brian Fitzpatrick spat out a mouthful of blood. More blood streamed down his face. “I did it for you,” he shouted at his son. “Don't you understand? You were going to throw your life away on a no-account slut and her bastard. The kid probably wasn't even yours. She probably spread her legs for every boy in that school. Got herself knocked up. Figured you'd make a good meal ticket.”
“Brian Fitzpatrick,” Sergeant Malan said, “I am arresting you for the murder of Maureen Grey. It is my duty to⦔
I snapped handcuffs on Fitzpatrick's wrists. He did not look at his son or his wife.
M
rs. Fitzpatrick ran for the phone. I gripped her husband's arm and led him outside. I stuffed him into the back of the cruiser. He didn't say anything. Jason lay on the floor and cried.
When we left the Fitzpatrick home, heavy snow was falling. I could hardly see the road in front of my headlights. As I pulled into the police station, we got a call. Another accident. A bad one. A car had gone off the road in Bloomfield and crashed into a group of people coming out of a restaurant. At least one dead.