he’s just a slob. A single man, living alone—”
“He left his dog shut up in his bedroom to die, without food or water. Matt would never do that.”
“He could have forgotten, had an emergency out of town—”
“Oh, you’re as thick-headed a twit as the first man!” She clutched her head in her hands in exasperation, then her eye caught the photo on Green’s desk. She stopped in midexclamation and stared at it. “That’s Sharon Levy.”
Before he could stop her, she had picked up the photo, which depicted Sharon cradling their baby son in the park. “Sharon Levy’s your wife?”
Green removed the photo firmly and laid it face down on his desk. “Ms. Tanner—”
“I knew her slightly, from the hospital. And that’s your little boy? Oh, I feel better. Sharon is such a sensible, understanding woman that you must have something going for you.”
In spite of himself, Green almost laughed. Thanks for the compliment, he thought, although at times he wondered how true it was. Twenty-two years on the force, fifteen of them in criminal investigations, had left him with a pretty battered soul, and sometimes, in the face of suffering, he had to dig very deep to find compassion and hope.
Belatedly, Janice Tanner seemed to hear herself, for she blushed. “Matt’s a good man, Inspector. Yes, you’re right, he does keep people at arms’ length, but the one creature he loves without reservation is his dog. Matt’s very meticulous and orderly. He would never have left the apartment unlocked, the food half-eaten and the dog shut up.” She leaned forward, her bony elbows on the edge of his desk. “I’m not a detective, but I think someone came into his apartment, locked the dog in the bedroom to get her out of the way and took Matt away. Either kidnapped or killed him.”
Green tried to keep a straight face. In the years shut up in her apartment, this woman had obviously watched too many soap operas. “Why?”
“I don’t know, but in the last while, Matt seemed to think there was someone out to get him.”
Green’s eyes narrowed. “Who? And why?”
“He never said. But I had the impression it was from a long time ago.”
* * *
After Janice Tanner left, Green remained at his desk, torn between the phone messages on his desk and the computer sitting idly in the corner. The story of Matt Fraser piqued his curiosity, not so much because the man had disappeared while leaving his dog behind, but because he had chosen a secret, reclusive life and there were hints of darkness in his past. Furthermore, the name had a familiar ring to it; Green was sure he’d encountered it before. Perhaps somewhere in the police records, there was information that might shed light on that past.
Green knew he shouldn’t even be contemplating the search. He should be beating a hasty path home. It was nearly sixthirty; Sharon would have been home for two hours, fending off Tony’s demands and, in the stifling heat, trying to whip together something passable to feed them all. She was probably already sharpening her nails for the fight. Or more likely erecting the barricades for a week of the famous Levy silent treatment.
The last time she’d left him, exactly a year ago, she’d almost not come back. He’d earned another chance with abject apologies and solemn promises to reform. Plus the purchase of a house in the suburbs, which had proved too sterile for his inner city soul. It was now up for sale while they renewed their search for their dream house. The quest was off to a rocky start, as evidenced by the phone messages accumulating on his desk from Mary Sullivan, their real estate agent. Mary would have given up on them long ago had she not been the wife of Green’s oldest friend on the force. Mary’s latest message, logged in at four o’clock that afternoon, promised she had finally found them the perfect house.
Green debated his options. They had been searching for six months, but so far either he or Sharon had vetoed everything Mary had found. For him they had all been too far from town, too plastic, or too expensive. For Sharon they had all been too cramped, the street too busy, or the neighbourhood dubious. Sharon had flatly refused to look at another house until he became more reasonable, and hence Mary, herself a lover of antique dwellings, had taken to tipping him off at work so that he could check out possibilities without raising Sharon’s ire. In the mood Sharon was likely to be in tonight, it might not be wise to even mention the subject of houses. But on the other hand, if he checked out the house on his way home and it was as wonderful as Mary claimed, perhaps the news would be enough to distract Sharon from the late hour of his arrival, and make her forget the silent treatment.
It was worth a try. And it would also give him a few spare moments to run Fraser through the system.
He activated the computer and phoned home while he waited for the internal police database to load up. Sharon answered on the first ring, sounding harried and out of breath. A bad sign. He tried for his cheeriest tone.
“Hi, honey, I got a note from Mary, and I want to swing by an address she gave me, just in case. It’s probably nothing, but—”
“Green, it’s six-thirty. I’m starving.”
“I could pick up something from Nate’s Deli on my way home.” Nate’s was nowhere near his way home, but their succulent smoked meat might be enough to distract her.
No such luck, he thought, as he heard her irritated sigh. “I’ve got supper. Hamburgers. On their way to being charred.”
“Okay, well—” He stalled for time. The program had loaded, and he clicked buttons to access the search. “Just put mine in the fridge. I’ll check with Mary and be home in less than an hour.” Not that the commute home to the Dreaded Vinyl Cube ever took much less than an hour, except with the siren on.
“Whatever.” She hung up.
He entered Matt Fraser’s name, hit search and then returned to the phone. Judging from the background clatter, Mary was in the kitchen preparing dinner when he called, but like a good business woman, she dropped everything when a potential client was on the hook. Highland Park, she said as if to set the hook well. Highland Park was an old residential neighbourhood in Ottawa’s west end, a lattice of quiet streets lined with tall trees and houses with broad verandas and ivy covered brick. Highland Park was suburban quiet within walking distance of urban life. It was grace and character, and usually totally out of their price range.
“What’s wrong with it?” Green wanted to know.
Mary laughed. “Well, it’s had the same owners for over sixty years.”
“Meaning it hasn’t been updated since before the war.”
“But you can do so much with it. Brian’s all excited. He’s dying to help you fix it up.”
Green didn’t doubt it. In all the years he’d known Brian Sullivan, the man had always been working on some home improvement scheme or another. He claimed it was his way of keeping sane in the mad world of Major Crimes in which he spent his days. By now there was probably nothing left to improve on his own home, so he was itching to start on Green’s.
“Sharon’s going to hate it,” Green said. “Prehistoric plumbing. Tiny kitchen, fuses that blow all the time, closet space for a midget.”
“Mike, just drive by for a look. You’ll love it.”
“I
