Honour Among Men (23 page)

Sullivan glanced around the room at the dozens of framed photos and press clippings that covered the walls. “He's that impressive, is he?”

“He's that important.”

Sullivan rose and began to peruse the display while he planned his next move. So far, as he'd feared, Atkinson had given him nothing. Most of the clippings trumpeted the missions Blakeley had led or the famous people he'd met. Blakeley's stern, clear gaze dominated all the photos, whether as an officer surrounded by his men or as a political hopeful shaking hands with the Liberal leader. One picture in particular caught his eye. Blakeley stood in the middle of a semi-circle of men, all in formal dress and smiling broadly for the camera. Atkinson was visible to one side, looking smug. And at the back, barely discernible was a face that rang a vaguely familiar bell. It had been among the many faces Green had shown him earlier in the day. But the name eluded him.

He turned back to Atkinson. “After we're done here, I'd like a word with Mr. Blakeley too.”

Atkinson's proud smile disappeared. “That's not possible. He's in Ottawa.”

“Oh, does he live there most of the time?”

“Oh no, no. He lives here, but his business with the defence department often brings him into the city for long periods.”

“What business?”

“Consulting on peacekeeping operations, helping to draft new policies.”

“I thought he was retired.”

“He is. But all that expertise . . . His advice is quite invaluable.”

Sullivan returned to the chair. “Who was your army friend who got you the first job here?”

Atkinson blinked at the sudden change of topic. “I don't see what that's got to do with anything.”

“Humour me. Was it Blakeley?”

“Of course not. I've only known him a year. It was just an old drinking buddy. No one important.”

“Patricia Ross thought it had something to do with shutting you up. You say it was just a lucky contact. It would be nice to be able to verify that, and get you off my list of suspects.”

Atkinson flushed and clenched his fists involuntarily.

“Before the opposition parties get wind of it,” Sullivan added, to help him along.

Atkinson sputtered a protest. He cast about as if looking for an escape route, but found none. Slowly he deflated. “I don't want any trouble for him. He was just a friend, a noncom in logistical support. He tipped me off to a job with a company that was going to re-outfit the 2
CMBG
.”

“2
CMBG
?”

“Second Canadian Mechanized Brigade Group—that's the
group based in Petawawa.” He pulled on his nose awkwardly. “It wasn't really illegal but they aren't supposed to use their knowledge or influence . . . He put in a good word for me.”

“Why?”

Atkinson shrugged. “I fixed something for him in Halifax. Lost some paperwork at City Hall. It was nothing, but it could have hurt his career.”

“A name, Atkinson.”

“Terry Lawlor.”

“And I can find him here on the base?”

“Oh, not now. This was years ago. He's retired now, and I have no idea where he is.”

Sullivan swore inwardly. More names, more fucking twists in the trail. He leaned forward on the desk and stared the man down. “Don't fuck with me now, Roger. The truth. Did you tell Detective Peters about any of this?”

Atkinson whipped his head back and forth, scrambling to recover his shattered cool. “On my grandmother's grave, no. I never even spoke to the woman.”

July 22. Some shithole in Sector South, Croatia
.

Our new assignment. It's hotter than hell here, nothing is moving and we're waiting it out while Command finds us a suitable camp. It looks like the moon. Villages torched, big mortar holes in the ground, no trees or crops. The belligerents have tanks down here and they've dug professional trenches
.

The Hammer says we're waiting for the politicians and
UN
bigshots to work out a withdrawal agreement, and then we're supposed to enforce it. Apparently this used to be a Serb area protected by French peacekeepers, but the Croats think it's part
of Croatia, so they grabbed a bridge and a dam right under the French noses. Anyway, the Serbs were some pissed at the French, so in come the Canadians again to do the job right
.

This is war, our
CO
says, and we're sitting right in the middle of it, so keep your head down. And by the way, watch where you step and shake out your clothes and shoes before you put them on. Lots of snakes and scorpions. I say bring the suckers on. It'll be my pleasure to kill them
.

Sullivan stood in the parking lot outside the campaign office, scanning the street for a place to eat. He'd been up since before six o'clock, and it was now almost three in the afternoon. In the distance he spotted the familiar red script of a Tim Hortons.

“Do you suppose he was telling the truth about Sue Peters, Luc?” he asked as he yanked open the car door.

Leblanc looked across at him in surprise. “I don't know much about the case, sir, so it's hard to judge.”

“On the contrary, it may give you an advantage. You have nothing to go on but his behaviour.”

Leblanc was silent, gazing out at the street ahead as he considered his answer. Sullivan remembered what he had always liked about the detective; Leblanc never rushed into anything. “I think he was hiding something,” he said eventually. “He avoided eye contact, he fiddled with his hands.”

Sullivan nosed the cruiser into the stream of traffic on Petawawa Boulevard. “I agree. Mr Atkinson was definitely worried about something. It could just be his own butt, which would be in a sling if he brings suspicion into the camp of John Blakeley. But it's worth a closer look. So—where to next, Luc?”

“To check out Terry Lawlor, sir?”

Sullivan shook his head.

“To the King's Arms?”

Sullivan swung into the Drive-Thru, grinning. “Food. Never let yourself get worn down.”

Five minutes later, loaded up with sandwiches, doughnuts and coffee, they were back on the road. “Now we check out Terry Lawlor,” Sullivan said. “Find the military police headquarters on that map.”

Leblanc guided them onto the base and through a series of streets commemorating famous battles. The military police platoon commander was a big man with a walrus mustache and a shaved head above a bull neck. He waved them right through to his office, only too happy to help. The assault on a member of the tribe swept away miles of suspicion and red tape. He didn't even have to consult his records.

“I remember Terry Lawlor. Eight, maybe ten years ago? He was stationed up here in the quartermaster's unit. Used to get into scrapes in the Sergeant's mess pretty regular. Harmless enough but a stupid drunk with a mouth on him to swallow a tank.”

Eight to ten years ago, Sullivan thought. That fit the time period. “Where is he now?”

“Mustered out, enjoyed his retirement all of two months before he ploughed his car into a tree.”

“Accident?”

The captain nodded. “Drunk as a sailor on a two-day pass. 0200 hours on a rainy night, going about a hundred klics an hour around that bend just west of town.”

“You said he had a mouth on him. Was he ever in trouble for anything else? Leaking information or . . . ?”

The captain roared with laughter. “Well, he didn't have much worth leaking. He was a bean counter in supplies. What's he going to say? The army's ordering a thousand new dress shirts next year?”

That information might be useful to some, thought
Sullivan. Overtly he acted the picture of ease, with his long legs stretched out and his chair tilted back. He chatted a few minutes longer, probing the captain's opinion of Blakeley—“real stand-up guy”—and Sue Peters' assault—“a real shame, but we get our share of guys who take it out on women”. Finally, Sullivan thanked him and hauled himself to his feet with a show of reluctance. On the way out, Leblanc glanced at him curiously, but said nothing.

“So what do you think about Terry Lawlor,” Sullivan asked when they reached the car.

“It's not much, but it seems to back up Atkinson's story, sir.”

“Maybe. Although it's hard to see how this Lawlor guy would have the pull to land Atkinson a worthwhile job. He's a pretty small fish.” Sullivan climbed into the car and revved the engine. “And that accident is damn convenient.”

“You think it wasn't an accident?”

“No. Just that Lawlor makes a handy fall guy now that there's no way to check the story with him.”

Sullivan sat in the car, pondering his next move. He still had to touch base with the
OPP
, hoping to turn up Sue Peters' missing notebook and probe their take on the local election candidates. But the picture in Atkinson's office nagged at him. On impulse he pulled up the case file on his laptop and began flipping through photos. He sifted carefully through Oliver's section members without finding anyone who remotely fit the bill. But when he went further up the chain of command, he hit a match on his very first try.

Platoon commander Dick Hamm.

Well, well, well, he thought, now there was a bigger fish. Big enough to pull a lot of strings and give a guy quite a boost up the ladder. And if there was a connection to Blakeley, who was an even bigger fish . . . Sullivan tried to dispute the suspicion that
sprang to his mind, that Hamm and Blakeley were working together. Blakeley was a very popular candidate among the military. Maybe Hamm was just there as a supporter.

And maybe pigs fly.

“Where are we going next, sir?” Leblanc ventured once they had been sitting some time.

“Well, I was going to pay a visit to the
OPP
, but Colonel Dick Hamm is beginning to look a whole lot more interesting.”

It was well past lunch time and Green's head felt like a pinball machine. Reports were flying in from various fronts so fast that he could barely keep track. Sue Peters had been the official file coordinator for the case, and although the task had been reassigned, Green suspected in reality he was the only person besides Gibbs who knew the whole picture.

Captain Ulrich from National Defence had emailed the photos of the remaining members of Oliver's and MacDonald's section in Yugoslavia, along with the names and photos of Major Kennebec, their company commander, and Colonel Thomas, the battalion's
CO
. He had even faxed over a chart describing the name, rank and function of everyone in MacDonald's chain of command. With one of their ranks implicated in an attempted cop killing, the military had apparently changed its tactics in favour of full cooperation with civilian authorities. Green muttered a silent prayer of thanks to the Police Chief, whose deft handling had undoubtedly been behind the change. He hoped the Chief could use the same silver tongue with the politicians if the time came.

Green immediately forwarded all the photos to Kate McGrath in Halifax, in the hope that the witnesses and
bartender at the Lighthouse would recognize Daniel Oliver's killer among them. He was about to head out to his much delayed lunch meeting with Staff Sergeant Vaillancourt when Gibbs arrived at his office door, looking wan and defeated. He handed Green two short reports.

“This is all I could get on Blakeley and Atkinson for Sergeant Sullivan, sir. It-It's not much, I know.”

Green scanned the meagre reports. His interest was piqued by the reference to John Blakeley's peacekeeping missions. Eight tours in six different countries. What were the odds of Yugoslavia being one of them?

“Have you sent this to Sullivan already?”

“Yessir. He needed it by two o'clock.”

“Okay, but I want you to keep digging. Find out exactly where and when Blakeley did his peacekeeping tours, especially if he was ever in Yugoslavia. And I also want some background on Lieutenant Colonel Richard Hamm.”