Was that the real reason he was charging around looking for Jennifer’s husband?
He was rationalizing. Because in his gut he wanted to find Howard. The man who’d killed Jennifer. The man Greene had betrayed.
And what? Arrest him. Yes.
What else? Apologize?
He decided to try a few more blocks. He kept driving and turning, seeing nothing. At last he came to a dead end at a ravine and got off his scooter.
He felt faint, as if he were going to collapse. The adrenaline, the anger, the shock, the sorrow all hit him at once. He yanked off his helmet and sat on the curb. How could Jennifer be dead? Think, Ari.
Think
, he told himself.
He checked his watch. It was 11:12, much later than he thought it would be. How many homicides had he done when the witnesses lost all track of time after a murder?
He breathed in deeply and exhaled. Did it again.
By now the homicide detective assigned to the case would be on scene.
Greene knew that Daniel Kennicott was next up in the batting order. He’d been a lawyer before he joined the force, and Greene had taken him under his wing, was his so-called rabbi – an ironic title as Greene was the only Jewish detective on the homicide squad.
They’d already agreed that when Kennicott got his first murder call, he would do it alone. It was important. The other detectives would be watching, wanting to see if he could stand on his own two feet.
But Jennifer had been murdered. Strangled. Jennifer. Greene’s whole life turned upside down in an instant.
This was no normal homicide.
Everyone would be surprised to learn that he and Raglan were having an affair, they’d gone to such extremes to keep it secret. But that’s what happened with every murder. All sorts of hidden facts get exposed. Collateral damage, he called it, and now he was part of the fallout.
He pulled off his gloves and threw them inside the helmet. Took out his phone. He had to tell Kennicott the simple truth: I was Jennifer’s lover. We were supposed to get together this morning. When I walked into room 8 she was dead. I checked to make sure she was had no vital signs. I kicked in the bathroom door, looking for the killer. Was about to call 911 when someone outside made a noise. I ran after whoever it was, but just missed him. When I saw the squad car and ambulance rush into the motel, there was no need to call in, so I got on my scooter and raced around all these side streets, hoping to find whoever had been at the door. Was pretty sure it was the husband, and thought he must be suicidal. I lost track of time, driving around so long, and now I’m calling in.
He lifted the cell phone. Hesitated.
Something was bothering him. What if Raglan’s husband, Howard, wasn’t the one who called 911? But who else could it be? The motel room was empty. No one could have seen Jennifer’s dead body inside room 8. Except for the killer.
If he’d arrived on time, at 10:30, and not rushed out, then the ambulance and the police would have found him there alone with the dead body. Was he crazy, or was Howard or someone else trying to set him up?
The phone in his hand started to buzz. He looked at the display. It was Kennicott.
“I was about to call you,” Greene said, answering it right away, on the first ring.
“Then you’ve heard,” Kennicott said, without identifying himself. His voice was faint. There was the gusty sound of wind passing through.
“I’m not far away and on my way over,” Greene said. “There’s something I need to tell –”
“That’s why I called,” Kennicott said.
So he already knows about Jennifer and me, Greene thought. That I was in the room this morning. How did he find out so fast? Jennifer must have got careless and left something on her phone. Or maybe there is a witness. Or maybe they’ve already caught her husband. Anything can happen in the first half hour of a homicide investigation.
“Whatever you do, don’t come here,” Kennicott said.
“But,” Greene said, “I’ve got –”
“Wait.” Kennicott’s voice moved away from the phone and became even fainter. “Send those officers to knock on doors in the streets behind here. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Greene heard another loud rush of air through the phone. Kennicott came back on. “It will look terrible if you show up now, as if I need you to hold my hand. I want this to be my crime scene. Period. Let’s meet somewhere tonight where we can talk.”
Greene shook his head. Kennicott wasn’t saying he’d found out about their affair. Nor was he saying that he knew Greene had been at the motel room this morning. What he was saying was don’t show up and undermine my authority with the troops.
His mind was scrambling to think of a place they could meet in private. “How about the bakery where I took you once?” he said, making sure not to identify it.
Almost a year earlier, Greene had a case when a stray bullet killed a young boy. Kennicott had helped him out, and late at night when they needed a break, he’d taken Kennicott to Silverstein’s Bakery. The place was run by one of Greene’s old school friends and it never closed.
“Done. Five o’clock. Got to go,” Kennicott said, and hung up before Greene could say another word.
KENNICOTT SLID HIS CELL PHONE INTO HIS JACKET AND TURNED BACK TO LOOK AT DETECTIVE
Alpine. He had walked a few steps from him to call Greene.
“I got someone at the Crown’s office to pull up Raglan’s employment file,” Alpine said. “She and her husband live in the Beach, it’s about fifteen kilometres from here. I sent a car right away. The officer says it looks like no one’s home. She’ll stay there and keep an eye on it.”
“What about her kids?”
“Three children, all at different schools. I’ve got cars on the way to each one. They’re going to talk to the principals, make sure the kids are safe, but not tell them anything yet. I got a family photo out of Raglan’s office to headquarters. They scanned the face of the husband, name Howard Darnell, and every squad car in the city has it now with instructions to stop him if they see him.”
“What do we know about the guy?” Kennicott asked.
“Works at an actuarial firm on Queen East, about a five-minute walk from their house. I got another car in front of the office. I told them not to go in. Here’s the address.”
“Good,” Kennicott said. Going to Darnell’s place of work was the obvious next move. But he still had things to cover here. “Did the Crown’s office expect Raglan to be in today?”
Alpine shook his head. “No. She didn’t work Mondays. Hasn’t since she went back to the job six weeks ago. She’s a long-distance runner. Said Monday was her training day.”
Six weeks, Kennicott thought. Enough time for her husband to figure out that she was having an affair. He could tell Alpine was thinking the same thing.
He tilted his head in the direction of room 8. “We found a wig and sunglasses and some clothes under her bed in a little backpack. Get Zeilinski to photograph them before she bags them and have a few officers go up and down
the motel strip. See if anyone remembers renting out a room to a redhead in sunglasses on Mondays in the last six weeks.”
“Done,” Alpine said.
Kennicott had been a marathon runner himself in law school. Raglan probably started out after the kids left for school. If she ran with her disguise in her backpack, she’d have had to change somewhere close by.
“Check every restaurant and gas station for a mile or two between here and her home.”
“What are we looking for?” Alpine asked.
“Video cameras. Staff that worked today. Did anyone see a women go into the washroom dressed as a jogger and come out wearing clothes and sunglasses?”
“Good thinking.”
Kennicott walked back to the motel room door. Zeilinski had spread a cloth out on top of the bed and had emptied the contents of Raglan’s purse onto it. She had a cell phone in one gloved hand, a pair of pillowcases in the other.
“I find in backpack, nice cotton,” she said, referring to the pillowcases.
“Good,” he said. “Can I see the phone?”
She put the pillowcase down. “I bring you.”
She came to the door and reached into her fanny pack for a new pair of gloves. Kennicott saw her catch Alpine’s eyes as she handed them over to him.
Rookie mistake, he realized. Taking his gloves off too soon. He slipped the new pair on and checked the cell’s phone records first. There was one outgoing call this morning, to
Jo Summers, Crown attorney
, at 8:45.
Kennicott knew Jo Summers quite well, but not as well as he’d like to. They’d met in law school and had a one-night stand in their last year there. Then two years ago their paths had crossed again. She’d left the big law firm where she’d been an associate and became a Crown attorney, and by then he was a cop. Since then, they’d danced around each other, never quite getting involved.
They had talked on the phone one night in August. She’d heard he’d made the homicide squad and had called to congratulate him. He couldn’t be sure if that was the only reason she’d called.
She was excited because she’d been assigned to be the junior lawyer on a big fraud case and would be working with Jennifer Raglan. They were prosecuting a well-known movie producer and there’d be a lot of media coverage. The trial was set to start next Monday. This murder would be horrible news for Jo. Horrible.
He tapped the text button on the cell phone. There was one chain of correspondence from this morning. It started at 9:51.
The first message was from Howard, her husband:
Jen. Trip to Beantown cancelled. Do u want to grab a coffee this a.m.?
Then came Raglan’s reply:
Too bd about trip. Can’t meet a.m. Doing lng run. Crt this aft. C u 2 nite.
This was amazing, Kennicott thought. He was holding right in his gloved hand the evidence of a spurned husband with motive and now the opportunity for murder.
Something made him jump. It took a moment for him to realize that Raglan’s phone was vibrating. Someone was calling.
He looked at Alpine. What should he do? Answer it? Let it go to voice mail?
The call display came up.
Jo Summers. Crown attorney.
Oh no, he thought. He hit the answer button. “Hello,” he said slowly.
“Hello. Who’s this?”
“Hi, Jo,” he said.
“Who is this?” She sounded angry. Suspicious.
“It’s me. Daniel.”
“Daniel.” He heard her exhale in relief. “Oh, sorry, I was calling Jennifer. I must have pushed the wrong button . . . ”
Wrong button, Kennicott thought. Does she have me on speed dial?
“No, Jo. This is Jennifer’s cell.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked back to room 8, where Zeilinski was on her knees, combing the rug.
“You called Jennifer.” His voice sounded dead to him. “I’m holding her cell phone.”
“I don’t get it,” Summers said. “She always does a long run on Monday mornings. I was calling to leave her a voice mail about what happened in court.”
He tried to speak but couldn’t.
“My God,” she said into the silence between them. He could tell by the sudden fear in her voice that she was putting it together. She knew he had made Homicide. She knew he was first in line for the next murder. He had Raglan’s cell phone.
“Daniel,” she asked. “Where is Jennifer?”
A CAR HORN BLARED. BRAKES SQUEALED.
Greene swivelled his head and saw that his scooter had drifted into the lane of a huge pickup truck. He yanked it back.
“Watch it, buddy!” the driver yelled as he zipped past Greene and gunned it down Kingston Road.
All these years as a homicide detective, and you haven’t learned a thing, Greene scolded himself. Time after time he’d seen people who were in shock after coming upon a murder scene. It was always the same. They did irrational things, found easy tasks almost impossible to perform, made foolish decisions, lost track of time and space.
And here he was almost getting killed on his stupid scooter.
Concentrate, he told himself. As anxious as he was to tell Kennicott the whole story, he’d have to wait until this afternoon. What to do in the meantime?
He got to the end of Kingston Road and headed into the city, keeping to side streets.
Think like a detective. Get home. Take your clothes off and preserve them. Take a hot shower. Sit down. Use your brain.
The image of Jennifer under the sheets flooded his mind. Her bruised neck. Her dead eyes.
He pictured the room. The one candle still lit by her bed. The champagne in the bathroom sink. Something about it felt wrong. What was it?
Another horn blared at him.
Shit. He’d just gone through a stop sign.
Enough, Ari. Get home in one piece. Fortunately, traffic was light this time of the morning. He started talking to himself to make sure he didn’t get in an accident. There’s a stop sign. Stop. Speed limit is forty. Keep to it. Red light coming up.
But his mind wouldn’t leave the motel room.
The crime scene pointed squarely to a domestic homicide. Howard had found out about the affair and that Jennifer was about to leave him. He’d killed her in a rage. Then he’d called 911 to set Greene up, before he’d run away. He’d assumed Greene would be there when the cops showed up.
Maybe, just maybe, Greene thought, it wasn’t so bad that he hadn’t spoken to Kennicott yet. Deep inside, a voice was warning him of danger.
“The night the Nazis came to our village,” his father had told him many times, “everyone said the best thing to do was stay there. Don’t try to escape. I had no choice, because of my wife and children I couldn’t leave. But my little brother, Jacob, was a bachelor. He ran into the valley and hid in the woods. Two thousand Jews lived in our village and he and I were the only ones who survived.”
Greene parked behind the old garage and, out of some ingrained sense of caution, took out a rag he always kept under the seat and rubbed the scooter down, making sure that none of his prints was left on it. Then he put his gloves back on and walked it out to the street, leaving the keys in the ignition. Although Hap Charlton was basing his campaign for mayor on fears that crime in Toronto was spinning out of control, in fact it was still a very safe city. But when it came to car and bike theft, the numbers were sky-high. By tomorrow morning, the scooter would be long gone.