Dream Chasers (23 page)

A distant movement in the field caught Green's eye, and he glanced through the trees to see a cameraman crouching in the long grass just beyond the yellow tape, with his telephoto lens centred on the scene. Parked in the field behind him were half a dozen media vans. Reporters milled around, setting up field shots. Green cursed. Devine had told him to babysit the media, and here they were again, shoving their cameras and microphones into the case before an potential next-of-kin had been warned.

He ploughed towards them, formulating his statement on the fly. Just as he ducked under the yellow tape, three microphones converged on him. The city's on edge, he reminded himself as he tried for patience.

“Is it the missing social worker?” Green spun around to stare at Frank Corelli, wrestling his surprise under control. How the hell had Corelli found out about that?

“What missing social worker?” the others demanded, but Corelli didn't reply. His eyes remained locked on Green's.

Green turned deliberately away to address the group. “At approximately nine o'clock this morning, police were called to the scene of some remains discovered off one of the trails in Bruce Pit. At this early stage of the investigation, I can confirm that the remains are human and that officials from the coroner's office and our forensic unit are examining the scene. We have no information as to the cause of death nor the identity of the deceased.”

“We heard it was a young woman,” one of the
TV
reporters said. Her cameraman was firmly focussed on Green.

“As we learn more, we will be releasing further details, but speculation and rumour are ill-advised. There is no point in creating undue alarm.”

“Undue alarm!” the reporter cried. “Two young women found dead in less than a week in our public parks, and the police don't think it's cause for alarm?”

“At this stage, we're treating them as two unrelated incidents.” He began to push through them. “I'll have a further statement in two hours down at the station. For now, guys, let us get on with it.”

Corelli dogged his footsteps and leaned on the door jamb as Green climbed into his car. “It's the social worker, isn't it? She uncovered the drug connection in the Kovacev case and—”

“Corelli, I don't know where the hell you invent this stuff.”

“You told me about the drugs yourself! And I nosed around the school. The social worker was asking questions—”

“Who told you that?”

“Confidential source. Come on.”

“Well, don't print it. We don't know anything, there's her family to consider, and—”

“And this is one hell of a juicy story!”

Green locked Corelli's gaze. “Frank, sit on it till I've got something to give you. Don't be a bull in a china shop.”

“I get paid to be a bull in a china shop.”

“At least wait till the press release in two hours. Then maybe you'll have some facts to write about.”

Green drove back downtown with the accelerator almost to the floor, swearing all the way. The reporters were right. Two dead women within a week was cause for alarm, although not for the reasons they believed. He knew in his bones this was no random killing spree, but with the press crawling all over the story, he could barely find the time and concentration needed to put the pieces together.

By the time he reached the station, the discovery of the body was headline news on the radio. In the absence of facts, the airwaves were filled with hastily corralled experts commenting on sexual predators and tips to keep women safe. Back at his office, Green phoned Rita Berens to see whether she had any news on Jenna. The search for the missing social worker had spread, and the dragon lady found herself at the hub of a massive ground search. Jenna was from the close-knit rural community of Barry's Bay that had been Polish for over a hundred and fifty years. Three quarters of them seemed to have descended on Ottawa in vans and pick-up trucks to find their lost kin. They plastered “Missing” posters of her in corner stores and on lampposts all over Alta Vista, and street by street canvasses were being conducted. But so far, all their efforts had failed to turn up a single trace of her.

“The school custodian said he spotted her outside Pleasant Park High School early Friday morning,” Rita said, “even though the school wasn't on her itinerary for the day.”

“How early?”

“Seven thirty. Before school started. But no one else saw her, and certainly she never reported in to Guidance, which she should have done. I've asked Anton Prusec to continue asking—”

“You've been very helpful, Ms Berens,” Green said quickly. “This is an important lead, but we'll take over from here. Sergeant Leclair of Missing Persons is coordinating the case, so if anyone else uncovers further information, please have them pass it on to him. Or me.”

There was silence over the phone, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “The body in Bruce Pit. It's Jenna, isn't it?”

“We don't yet know who it is.”

“But you can look at it!”

If it had a head, he thought grimly. “It's not that simple. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We'll be looking into all possibilities, so don't mention anything to her family at this stage.”

The platitudes sounded fatuous to his ears, and he doubted he had fooled her for a moment, but the news seemed to deflate her, for she signed off without protest. Next he called Ron Leclair to check his progress in tracking down Jenna. To his relief, the MisPers sergeant seemed really on the ball. He had already requested dental and medical records from her family and had brought a few objects from her apartment that he hoped would yield fingerprints and hair samples.

“I was just beginning to look into banking activity,” he said. “Although with the mess this woman makes of her paperwork, it may take us a week in her apartment just to find her bank records. I've put everyone I can spare on it.”

Maybe I misjudged the guy, Green thought as he thanked him and told him to stay in touch with Sullivan. After signing off, Green glanced at his watch. Barbara Devine needed to be brought up to date on the headless corpse before she learned it all on the radio, but every moment that ticked by, the trail out at Pleasant Park grew colder. A five-minute executive summary was all he could spare her. He was just reaching for the phone when it rang. He snatched it up, fearing Devine had beaten him to it. Expecting a shriek to shatter glass, he was taken aback by Bob Gibbs's soft, diffident voice. “S-sorry to disturb you, sir. But I'm not sure who to call. Staff Sergeant Sullivan is still out on a call, and I—I thought it was important.”

“What is?”

“I've been trying to track down Crystal Adams, sir. You remember, the one who—”

“Probably sold Lea the drugs.” Green cast his mind back to the beginning of their day. It seemed so far away. “What do you mean, trying?”

“Well, that's the thing, sir. There's a problem.”

B
ob
Gibbs had started off his search buoyed by optimism, but his mood was fragile. He'd slept fitfully after falling asleep in front of the television at one o'clock in the morning and had wakened with a crick in his neck and the taste of gin in his mouth. Gibbs was not a drinker, but in recent weeks he'd found that it worked wonders to take the edge off the worry that seemed to plague him constantly. His weakness angered him. It was not him, after all, who had been ambushed by a killer and beaten within an inch of his life. It wasn't him who had struggled first to lift a spoon to his lips and later to move one foot in front of the other at will.

It wasn't him who raged and screamed and wept in frustration when the spoon missed its mark or the foot folded in. It was the woman he loved. Loved. As extraordinary and unbelievable as that idea was. Anyone who knew Detective Sue Peters before her injury would never have imagined the attraction. She had been brash, confident and terrifyingly blunt. He had found her lack of finesse endearing, even alluring, but it was the vulnerability she'd been forced to admit since the attack that had sealed his fate.

He knew he had to be strong for her, but inside he quaked every time he stepped out into the street. Frightening images invaded his mind. Images of hidden assailants lying in wait for him around every corner, in each dark shadow, in the recesses of his dreams. He felt safe at his computer, searching through cyberspace from the safety of his office, but when it came to field work, he started each day much like Sue, forcing one foot in front of another to get himself out of bed and onto the streets.

When the other detectives were called away to the new crime scene, he knew the pursuit of Crystal Adams now fell solely to him. He would crack this part of the case. He would track down Crystal Adams and confront her with the evidence he'd compiled. Sitting at his desk, forcing his reluctant stomach to accept a third cup of coffee, he contemplated adding a splash of Bailey's Irish Cream. In the end, he tossed it down black in a single, angry gulp. He would get through this. He would be strong. And he stomped out the door.

His first setback occurred at the very first step of his plan. He had gone to Pleasant Park High School determined to haul Crystal out of class and demand to know where she bought the drugs she'd supplied to Lea. But she wasn't there. Most of the school was empty as final exams got into full swing. He headed instead to the address the school had on file. It was a dilapidated townhouse in the middle of a low-rent housing project off Russell Road. Not the toughest neighbourhood in the south end, but filled with an uneasy mix of immigrants, hard luck victims and families who'd been at the bottom of the social ladder for generations. He suspected Crystal's family was one of the latter the moment the front door cracked open and two baggy, bloodshot eyes glared out at him.

He tensed, wondering what was lurking behind the half closed door. “Mrs. Adams?” he ventured.

The woman snorted. “Who the fuck are you?” He showed his badge, and the scowl deepened. “I didn't call youse guys.”

“I'd like to speak to Crystal Adams,” he said, almost holding his breath. So far, no stutter.

“What for?”

“Is she here, ma'am?”

The woman, whom he took to be Crystal's mother, did not budge. “No one gets in to talk to her unless they tell me what they want with her.”

“I'd like to ask her a few questions about the girl who died at her school. They were classmates.”

“Well, you're out of luck. She's not here.” The door started to close.

Gibbs slipped his foot in the crack. Through the throbbing in his head, he tried to listen for sound from within, but all he could hear was the tinny laughter of a
TV
sitcom. “Where can I find her?”

“She could be anywhere. She never tells me nothing.”

He pulled out his notebook. “Do you know the names of any of her friends?”

The woman heaved an impatient sigh and started to shake her head. Gibbs held up his hand. “This is very important, Mrs. Adams. I wouldn't trouble you for your time if it wasn't.”

She yanked the door open and stepped back into a dark hallway cluttered with shoes and boxes. She tugged at her cotton housecoat, trying to pull it across her pregnant belly as she slouched towards the room at the end of the hall. “You better come in. I can't stand on my feet too long.”

The house stank of smoke, urine and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Clothes, magazines and dirty dishes littered every surface.
Married
with Children
blared from the 52-inch plasma
TV
that dominated one wall, and Gibbs noticed a brand-new PlayStation 3 still sitting in its box in the corner. The sofa, however, was frayed at the edges and covered with fading stains. Crystal's mother plopped into the middle of it and picked up the cigarette that smouldered in the ashtray on the side table, glaring at Gibbs like she was daring him to comment. He pushed an old
Ottawa Sun
off the chair and perched cautiously on the edge, concentrating on his notebook. Mrs. Adams bent her head and stubbed out the cigarette. “I don't have much energy these days, so the place gets away from me. Crystal's no help, in case you're wondering. Never has been. Don't like my boyfriend, don't want this baby. So she goes away pretty regular. Staying with friends, she says. She'll be back in a week or two. She always is, once all her friends' moms get sick of feeding her.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Yesterday morning?” Mrs. Adams squinted into space, her bleached hair falling in a big hank over her eye. Yesterday's make-up smudged her eyes. “Yeah. She woke me up early, yelling on the phone.”

“Who was she talking to?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. All I know is she pays more attention to those friends of hers than she does to me. They say jump, she asks how high. I ask her to pick up a single dish, she says she's busy. Busy! On the phone all day, partying all night. It's not like she's passing school or anything, she's only there half the time.”

“Do you remember what the argument was about?”

She looked up through her hair, frowning. “Who said we argued?”

“I meant the argument on the phone.” The suspicion was replaced by indifference. “Youse guys. She was saying you were going to find out.” She broke off, her eyes narrowing. “That's what you're here about, isn't it? Not this crap about the dead girl, but you found out she's up to something.”

Gibbs sensed the barriers going up, and he tried to think how to stop them. He'd never get this woman's cooperation with threats or confrontation. “Mrs. Adams, your daughter may be in trouble,” he said, hoping he sounded more authoritative than he felt. “One girl is already dead, and I don't think your daughter knows who she's dealing with.”

“What the fuck are you saying?”