Mist Walker. Barbara Fradkin
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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 probably will. But Sharon will hate it.”
“Well,” Mary sounded undeterred, “the address is 62 Londonderry. In case.”
“What are they asking?"
When Mary told him, he had to suppress a surge of excitement. The price was manageable, even allowing for the astronomical cost of renovating. It was the first manageable price he’d encountered in his search for a house that wasn’t made out of plastic twenty-five kilometres out of the city. Did he really want to get himself all excited, get his hopes up that he had finally found a way out of the tangle of treeless suburban crescents he was condemned to? A quick drive by, that’s all he had to do, to see the crumbling heap of bricks that would dash his hopes as quickly as they’d been raised.
The quick drive by would add less than ten minutes to his schedule, and he’d be home before Sharon even missed him. That resolved, Green turned back to the computer, which had generated a list of Matthew Frasers with police contacts in the city of Ottawa. One was clearly too old and two were too young, but three names remained. Green selected the first and frowned as the man’s lengthy record of police contacts scrolled up onto the screen. Mostly D and Ds and occasional contacts as witness or victim of assault. Likely a regular joe with a weakness for alcohol and some nasty drinking buddies. The second Matt Fraser had been an abusive and threatening husband whose circle of intimidation had extended not just to his wife but to her friends and family as well.
That one was possible, although Green had never known a bully to turn phobic.
The third Matthew Fraser was born in 1967, which made him thirty-six. Furthermore, his list of police contacts was very brief, hardly the stuff of a career criminal. A handful of charges but only one victim. One trial. One acquittal.
For sexual assault, ten years earlier.
Two
Even before Green set foot in his hot, airless kitchen, he extended a silver gift bag through the archway and slipped it onto the kitchen table. Sharon was on her hands and knees beneath the high chair, rescuing Tony’s hamburger, and she peered up at him through damp locks of black hair. Her gaze was frosty. Propped in his high chair, the toddler wiggled with delight at the sight of his father and shouted to be picked up. Sharon’s frown dissolved into a smile as she pulled the gift bag towards her.
“Offerings to the gods, Green?” She peeked inside, then extracted a tub of Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream. Her smile widened. She rose, slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “The gods are pleased.”
He lingered over the kiss, savouring the pressure of her soft, petite body against his. “Sorry I’m late.”
She extricated herself to put the ice cream away while he scooped his son into his arms. “So what was Mary Sullivan’s latest catastrophe like, anyway?” she asked.
He hesitated. How to describe the house he’d just seen, with its broad veranda, steeply pitched roof and trademark Ottawa