Dream Chasers (17 page)

“Does she have visitors? Perhaps a boyfriend?”

“I'm not the nanny, just the super. Her tap drips, her toilet leaks, I see her. Else I...” He lifted his massive shoulders again.

“Her car is here. Is it usual for her to go out on foot? Or take the bus?”

This time just a marginal lift of the shoulders. Then “Listen, can I go now? I got work to do.”

Green gestured them both back towards the hall and nodded to Berens. “Find someone to take the cat. I'm going to seal this room until I get a warrant to search it. You can go back downstairs, but I'd like the two of you to keep yourselves available.”

After some protests about their busy lives and multiple duties, they complied, leaving Green alone in the apartment. He phoned for another uniform back-up, then briefed Sullivan and asked him to start the paperwork for a search warrant. As he waited for the back-up, he began a preliminary, unofficial search for her work files, computer and appointment book, hoping one of them would give him a hint about what she'd been up to and whose paths she might have crossed.

A quick search turned up no briefcase or computer, so he began to look in earnest. It was nearly impossible. Newspapers, junk mail and work files cluttered almost every surface without apparent logic or method. He sifted through the piles carefully so as not to dislodge anything, and worked his way systematically through the kitchen and hall.

In the living room, under Thursday's paper, he found a laptop. He hesitated. He ought to wait for the warrant and for proper technical back-up before delving into her private world. Yet he was convinced something had happened to her, and time might be running out. He opened the lid and stared at the cluttered desktop. Computer whizzes like Gibbs could find out what files she'd been working on most recently, but to Green the array of icons was a mystery, except for recognizable programs like Word, Internet Explorer and Outlook Express. He clicked on the latter and was relieved to encounter no password or other barrier between him and her inbox. Thirty-six new messages began pouring in. The usual stock tips, penis enhancers and pleas from Nigerian banks, some digests from message groups and an online social work discussion forum. Surprisingly, no personal emails at all, leading him to think Jenna must not have an extensive social life. He checked the date of the first message to arrive. It was sent Thursday at 10:02 p.m. Which meant Jenna Zukowski had not been near her email since Thursday evening, the day she had been nosing around at the school.

He checked her Sent box, but she had sent nothing at all on Thursday night. A more thorough search of the laptop could wait for the Hi Tech crew, but for now he just needed to know what she'd been investigating. He clicked on Internet Explorer and then on History, proud that he'd managed to retain something from watching Gibbs at work.

The History button unfolded a long list of sites. The girl had been very busy indeed, prowling all over the web in the last two days. Green's heart began to race as he read the names of the sites. Justin Wakefield, National Theatre School, the
NHL
Entry Draft, and at least half a dozen pages pertaining to one particular player—Riley O'Shaughnessy. He'd been the last thing she'd researched the night before she disappeared.

M
entally
, Brian Sullivan could feel his feet dragging as he followed Green across the lawn to the school. The man who greeted them at the door wore a scowl on his thin, weaselly face which didn't improve when Green thanked him for his help. The drizzle had stopped, leaving the air fresh and cool, but his bald dome still glistened with sweat. Sullivan suspected he knew the cause—harsh words from the top of the school board food chain, whom Green had called personally to obtain cooperation from the school.

“This is most improper, you know,” the guy said. Prusec, Green had called him, and Sullivan thought the name suited him. The priss relocked the doors behind them and led the way down the darkened hall. “That information is confidential, and his parents could have my head.”

“A student of yours has died under questionable circumstances, Mr. Prusec. I doubt very much any parent would want to object. Riley O'Shaughnessy has an image to maintain, don't forget.”

Sullivan remained quiet, wrestling with mixed feelings. He was curious to meet the young star both his sons aspired to emulate, but unhappy at the prospect of grilling him about his role in Lea Kovacev's death. But with Jenna Zukowski's disappearance and Riley O'Shaughnessy's name on her computer's search history, he knew there was no longer a choice. Green was on a roll, and all Sullivan could do now was limit the media frenzy. Green's idea of doing that was to do the field interview himself rather then involve more officers. That was his excuse anyway.

Prusec sat down at the computer in the main office and began to type. “This information is on every computer down at the Board, including the director of education's.”

Sullivan smiled to himself. Green had said the officious prick was in major cover-your-ass mode, and he was certainly playing true to form.

“Possibly, but this way, if we need anything else like access to his student locker,” Green said blandly, “you'll already be here.”

Prusec pursed his thin lips as he clicked through screens until he finally arrived at Riley's file. “He lives with his uncle, has for the past two years that he's been playing for the 67's. Even so, he misses a great deal of school, but many elite athletes do.” Prusec arched his eye brows. “He manages to maintain a decent average despite that. Of course, he has a reduced timetable, and one of his classes is Outdoor Education, which he should excel at.”

Green remembered the cousin mentioned in the McIntyre noise complaint. “Does his uncle have any children at this school?”

Prusec pouted and scrawled something on a message slip. “This address is what I was told to give you, this is what you get. And should you need any further assistance from me, I'd appreciate it if you called me directly.”

He let them out the front door with a very audible click of the lock behind them. Green chuckled as he handed the paper to Sullivan. “Saunderson Avenue. You know where that is?”

Sullivan stared at the paper in dismay. Not only did he know the street, he knew the uncle. Darren O'Shaughnessy was a fellow hockey dad like himself, with a teenage son in the sport and a temper that had nearly had him barred from the games. Darren owned Waterworks Plumbing, and he drove a large muscle van with a logo of a smiling toilet on its sides and banners for the Ottawa Senators on every inch of bumper space. Some hockey parents didn't even go in to watch the game when they saw that van in the parking lot, and a couple of young referees refused to officiate the games his son was in.

Sullivan had had only one run-in with the man, when then ten-year-old Sean was on a house team with Darren's boy. Sean had been playing defence and Benny O'Shaughnessy right wing. Benny had been on a rush from behind his own net, but had been tripped into the boards by the other team's forward. He'd been down on the ice only a couple of seconds before Darren had leaped over the boards and charged toward the players, screaming at Sean for not protecting his teammate by intercepting the other team's forward. It had taken Sullivan and two other fathers to keep Darren from flattening Sean into the ice. There had been a lot of games in the years since then, and the boys had gone their separate ways, but Sullivan had never forgotten that raw rage. Why had he never made the connection between that prick and Riley O'Shaughnessy?

Darren's van was visible in the driveway from a block away, and as Green drew his Subaru to a stop at the curb, Darren himself pulled his lumpy, shaven head out from under the hood. He squinted at them a moment then lumbered down the drive, wiping his grease-coated hands on his jeans. The years had not been good to Darren. He'd put on at least forty pounds, all of it in a beer gut, and his face was the colour of raw steak. He grinned when he recognized Sullivan and stuck out his hand.

“Sully! How's it going, man?” Sullivan sensed Green's surprise as he introduced the two, but Darren pumped his hand cheerfully. “Good to see you, Sully. I see your boys are doing great. Your older one might be a future
NHL
er yet.”

“How is your boy doing?”

Darren shrugged. “Ben's coming along. He could be really good if he put his mind to it, but you know how it is with teenagers. Girls, parties... Now what can I do you for, fellas?”

Sullivan studied him closely. Darren had always been the friendliest, most outgoing guy as long as his son wasn't on the ice. The kind of guy to drive six kids all over hell's half acre to tournaments or lend a hand fixing your deck. Sullivan could see no sign of guardedness or concern on his face, just genuine delight, which in itself was strange. Most people show a bit of both when two cops show up at their door.

“We'd like a word with Riley, Darren,” Sullivan said. “Is he here?”

Darren's eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Riley? No, he went back to Gananoque for the weekend. He and his dad drove down this morning with some of his stuff.” Now wariness hooded his eyes. “Why? Something wrong?”

“We just need to talk to him.”

Darren's face hardened, giving a glimpse of the old hockey dad. An instant later, the anger was gone and he was all cooperation again. “He'll be back tomorrow night, in time for school Monday. Is that soon enough?”

“That'll be fine,” Green interjected before Sullivan could open his mouth. “Brian's been telling me all about your nephew. He has a big day coming up, eh?”

Darren grinned, but not before Sullivan caught the wary flicker in his eyes. He wants to know where the hell we're going with this, he thought.

“The kid's a phenom,” he said. “Maybe even the next Great One.”

Green leaned casually against the side of the car. “Are you all going down to Ohio for the draft?”

“I wish,” said Darren, shaking his head. “But I've got a business to run. Too bad it's this year. Next year the draft's in Ottawa. My brother Ted—that's Riley's dad—will be driving him. It's about a twelve hour drive to Columbus. I was thinking of sending Ben. He's playing for the Nepean Raiders now, not in Riley's league, but he's got good potential. I was thinking I'd send him along for the ride, just for inspiration, you know?”

“Don Cherry says it's better for the draft hopefuls not to go,” Green said. “Too hard on the nerves.”

Sullivan nearly choked on his own laughter. Green might not know the hockey commentator from Wayne Gretzky, but he'd obviously done his homework and was pulling off a pretty good imitation of a guy who knew what he was talking about.

Darren snorted. “Cherry's full of shit. Greatest day in the kids' lives! And Riley will get picked, don't you worry. My brother says both the Flyers and the Oilers are fighting over him.”

“I bet it's been pretty exciting for your son to have him around for the past couple of years.”

“Yeah, well, you know...” Darren shifted and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “The kid's been really busy. Practices and games and conditioning and all this personal development stuff. His agent keeps him pretty tied up. This is the first weekend Riley's had off all year. Not that I'm complaining. The man's done wonders with him.”

Sullivan stepped in to rescue Green, who was sure to be at the end of his hockey expertise by now. “Vic McIntyre? I've heard stuff about that guy. Wild parties, bully tactics...”

“That's bullshit, man. The hockey establishment hates him because he drives a hard bargain. But the guy gets results. Sure, he rides the kids hard, so he lets them cut loose sometimes too. Whatever he does, it worked for Riley. He always had talent, but this year he's really bulked up, and mentally he's tougher too.”

“Is that in an agent's job description?” Green asked casually. “I don't know much about the business, but it seems to me that's a coach's job.”

“Just protecting his investment. Vic's been in all aspects of the business, and he knows what's needed.” Darren's eyes narrowed as he glanced from one detective to the other. “Look, is this about Riley or Vic McIntyre? Because I know Vic's had a little trouble with you guys before, and I don't want shit rubbing off on Riley. The kid's put his heart and soul into the game.”

Sullivan shrugged noncommitally. Let the man think what he wanted. “At this stage, Darren, we're just checking into things.” Sullivan flicked his card out of his pocket and handed it to Darren. “Have Riley or his dad give me a call some time when they're back, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Monday good?”

“Monday's fine.” Sullivan climbed into the car with a casual wave.

Darren was still standing at the curb watching them as they pulled away. “Do you think it worked?” Green asked.

Sullivan shook his head. “With everything this family has at stake, I doubt it. I think Darren will be on the phone to his brother before we even round the corner.”

Green nodded. He had that faraway look in his eyes that Sullivan recognized all too well. The rest of his Saturday was going to be shot; they were going to Gananoque. He made a last ditch effort to salvage it.

“I don't think he knew Lea Kovacev was Riley's girlfriend, though. He seemed to have no idea what we were there for. And trust me, he's not that good an actor. This guy wears everything on his face.”

“Perhaps,” Green said. “But the minute he tells Riley the cops were asking after him, Riley's going to know why.”

“If
he was Lea's boyfriend.”

Green inclined his head. “True. If.”

Before the two detectives were even halfway back to the station, Sullivan's phone rang. Wallington was on the line. The roar and hiss in the background made it hard to hear him.