of asphalt and dust. Probably Dr. Rosenthal himself, accustomed to the stunning perennial gardens that surround the houses overlooking the Rideau River.
According to Tolner, Dr. Rosenthal occupied the ground floor flat, but there was no name on his buzzer or mailbox. Anonymous to the end, Green thought, and wondered whether it was professional paranoia that had lingered into retirement, or simply a sense that this place would never be home. Ringing the buzzer brought no response. His fingers itched to ring one of the neighbours. This was not his investigation, he castigated himself, and the follow-up really belonged to Sergeant Levesque.
He was rescued from his dilemma when one of the interior doors opened, and a young woman came out into the hall. Small, blonde and impossibly skinny, she was dressed in jeans and a frilly purple jacket, with the trademark book bag slung over one shoulder and a bike helmet under her arm. Her weary eyes widened with alarm at the sight of him. He hastened to introduce himself, which reassured her only marginally. She edged towards the door as he recorded her name—Lindsay Corsin—and asked her about the occupant on the ground floor.
“The landlord? He’s quiet and nice, but he keeps to himself.” Lindsay had a breathy, singsong voice that phrased everything as a question. “I’ve talked to him like maybe three times? Since I moved here. Why?”
“Can you describe him? Height, weight, hair colour?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Medium, you know? About the same as you, only way older.”
Green suppressed a smile. In the past, his fine brown hair, freckled nose and medium build had made him look deceptively youthful, but recently strands of grey had appeared at his temples. It was reassuring to know that seventy-five still looked a long way off.
“What can you tell me about his clothes?”
“He’s a funny dresser. Always has a suit, even a tie. He’s old-fashioned that way.”
Mentally Green was ticking off the points of confirmation. “Have you seen him today?”
“No, but I’ve been upstairs. I don’t think he’s in.”
“Does he have visitors? Go out much?”
She wrinkled her brow as if puzzled by the question. Her gaze darted to his closed door, and she seemed to vacillate. “Sometimes he has visitors. I hear them talking, like? You can hear everything through these walls.”
“Talking about what?”
“I couldn’t hear. Just, like, conversation? But mostly he’s alone.” She shifted uneasily. Took the helmet in both hands and twirled it. “Umm, I gotta go. I’m late for my study group.”
“I won’t keep you much longer. One last question. Does he go out at night?”
She frowned as though trying to figure out why he was asking. “Sometimes, I guess. I think he has trouble sleeping, because he gets on my case when I have friends over. Keeps pounding the ceiling with his cane.” Her face cleared with sudden understanding. “Oh, this is about last week, eh?”
“What happened last week?”
“Well, someone trashed his place. Broke a window in the back? Boy, was he mad. But you guys know all that. He wanted you to fingerprint his whole place.”
Having now run roughshod over Levesque’s first homicide investigation long enough, Green realized the sergeant needed to be brought into the picture. The obvious next move—checking out the apartment and the Break and Enter investigation—was hers to make. So he thanked Lindsay and handed her his card with the usual request to contact him if she remembered anything important. She snatched it and scurried out the door without a backward glance. She and her bicycle were already out of sight by the time he got back into his car.
He found Levesque crammed into the small utility closet that passed for the security and housekeeping office at the back of the Rideau Street pawn shop. She looked up with excitement, and if she was unnerved or annoyed by his appearance, she betrayed no sign. All business, she gestured towards the grainy monitor in front of her.
“Lucky for us, the shop has the tape on a two-day loop over the weekend so the shop owner can check for intrusions or missing merchandise when he arrives Monday morning. So we have coverage for the critical time period between ten p.m. Saturday and five a.m. Sunday.”
Green peered at the monitor. The date and time, down to the second, were stamped in the bottom right corner of the image. The camera seemed to be mounted in the upper corner of the main door frame, and its wide-angled lens showed a blurry, fisheye view of the barred entranceway to the store along with the edge of the shop window and the sidewalk beyond. As it rolled, Green squinted, trying to make out details. “Any sign of the victim?”
She shook her head. “He must have been on the other side of the street at this point.”
That makes sense, Green thought, since his home was on the other side of the street. However, in his experience, elderly people with canes were careful to cross at a traffic light. “I wonder what made him cross in the middle of the block,” he mused. “Any sign of trouble?”
“Just the usual Saturday night. Half a dozen drug deals, a girl having a shoving match with her boyfriend, I don’t know how many drunks pissing in the gutter, sex trade workers strolling by...” Levesque tapped the screen as a figure limped by, trundling a pull cart behind him. “There’s Screech, on his way to his sleeping quarters. Time is 1:33 a.m. He still has his sleeping bag.”
“Have we talked to him? He may be able to ID some of these people.”
“We took his statement, but his memory is unreliable.”
An understatement, Green thought. Screech was a proud Cree from Labrador who’d once worked the mines in Northern Quebec until his lungs gave out, but ten years on the street had not improved his health. Nor his mind. But even so, sometimes Screech knew things about the street that no one else did. The trick was in persuading him to share them. Money usually improved his mood, a fact Green mentioned to Levesque.
She reached over and rifled a stack of papers at her side. “I’ve printed off stills, and once the pathologist gives us a better idea on time of death, I’ll show them to him. I’ve also put a call out on the street. But we did find one promising lead.” She leaned over and began to fast-forward the tape. Green watched the jerky flashes of people scurrying past the shop.
In the silence, he plunged ahead. “I have a probable ID, address, and next of kin on the victim.”
Her finger jerked off the button, freezing the frame, and she swung around to gape at him. In terse, professional clips, he summarized his discoveries of the day. She had the discipline to listen without interruption, but her jaw grew tighter with each revelation. Beneath her dispassionate gaze, he knew she was fuming. Her blue eyes smoked.
“So I leave it in your very capable hands.” He flourished a grin he hoped would take the sting out. “Public records should turn up the son easily, and the B & E follow-up may give you some very useful information about motive.”
“I appreciate all of this, Inspector,” she said, not bothering to fake sincerity. “We’ll get a warrant for that address as soon as possible, and I’ll have one of my detectives pull the B & E file. But I have a much more promising lead right here on the tape.” She tapped the play button, and within a few seconds a group of young
