Beautiful Lie the Dead. Barbara Fradkin
Brandon. Fear and grief are acceptable; they arouse sympathy and understanding. The police expect you to be panic-stricken and distraught.”
“Mom, I don’t give a fuck what the police think!”
“But you must,” she’d countered. “They are studying every inch of your life and your demeanour, looking for cracks, inconsistencies, and yes, emotions that don’t ring true.”
He’d fought his outrage. He was not some damn client of hers being prepped for the witness stand, undoubtedly guilty but trying every legal manoeuvre to stay out of jail. She might mean well and she certainly knew far more about the police than he did, but what the hell was she saying? That he had something to hide?
“You talk as if I’m guilty!”
She barely batted an eyelash. The queen of the courtroom stage, trained to make every muscle obey her purpose. “Of course not, honey. But to take liberties with the old legal adage, one must not only be innocent but appear to be innocent as well.”
He’d hoped the Valium would give his battered mind the strength to protect itself, but as he lay on his bed with the duvet pulled up to his chin and the curtains drawn against the pallid winter sun, he felt his mind teeter instead on the brink of disintegration. Despite the prescriptions he routinely wrote for others, he almost never put drugs into his own system. Even during the exhausting years of med school, he’d avoided the uppers and downers that others used to cope. He’d hoped a small dose of Valium would do no harm, but obviously even that was too strong for his unaccustomed brain.
Now he gripped his head in his hands, hoping the sheer physical force would stifle the scream welling inside him and still the urge to run blindly from the house.
How could he control how he acted, let alone what he said, in this disintegrating world?
“He mustn’t know!” His mother’s voice shafted through the fog of his mind. “I don’t care what you do, he mustn’t find out.”
He bolted up in bed, his ears straining. Her voice dropped to an indecipherable murmur. The room spun as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. Scraps floated up from downstairs. Was she on the phone in the kitchen?
“Hundred thousand dollars,” she said. Then “Never...that woman...not that way...search warrants... I’ll meet you.” Silence, followed by a muffled voice he didn’t recognize. Not a phone call then, but a visitor. His mother moved towards the front hall and opened the front door. She sounded calmer as she said goodbye, as if she had resolved something, but before he could mobilize himself to demand an explanation, he heard the distant rumble of her car as she accelerated down the drive.
He could hardly breathe. Who was she talking to and what the hell did all that mean? Who mustn’t find out? Who was “that woman’”? What was his mother trying to hide, and the most dreaded question of all, what did it have to do with Meredith’s disappearance?
His head pounded with the effort needed to focus. His mother was a highly respected lawyer with a string of high profile wins and an unassailable reputation. She held herself and all around her to a high ethical standard. She had always taught him that right must prevail and that the moral high ground would be rewarded in the end. It seemed impossible that he was harbouring the fears he was, impossible that she could have strayed so far off course.
* * *
Green had called a briefing for noon that Thursday, anxious to follow up on leads and put the pieces together as quickly as possible. In the crowded incident room, the smell of stale coffee and the sound of murmuring voices and rustling papers filled the air. As police officers filtered in from the field, they draped their bulky parkas over their chair backs and rubbed their chilled hands to restore circulation. Once Gibbs had activated the smart board and pulled up the list of assignments, the search coordinator summarized the progress of the ground search.
It was a brief report. Zero. The neighbourhood around her house had been gridded and searched, as had the blocks on either side of the bus routes she typically used. Meredith was nowhere around her usual haunts.
Green turned to the computer specialist, who had just started on Meredith’s laptop and was working on accessing Facebook. He launched into an explanation of passwords and security settings, and Green’s mind was just beginning to glaze when Whelan came limping into the room. He was red-faced and breathless. Frost still clung to the scarf around his neck.
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” he began, looking more triumphant than sorry as he slapped a file down on the conference table. “We’re on the wrong track.”
All heads turned, and Green abandoned the password conundrum in a flash. “Something to report, Whelan?”
“I’ve been checking bank records. On Monday, our subject bought a return bus ticket to Montreal, leaving on the 10 a.m. bus and returning at 8:00 p.m.”
All murmuring stopped. “She’s been confirmed on the bus?” Green asked.
“Not yet. The bus company has to check the ticket stubs with the drivers of those buses. One is due in from Montreal at noon and the other at two.”
Green riffled through his memory of the case but could turn up no connection to Montreal. “Anyone know any reason why our subject would make a day trip to Montreal?”
“Fashion centre of Canada?” the computer tech said with a grin. “The girl was getting married.”
Green poked the idea for holes. “Possibly, but why wouldn’t the family or friends mention it to us?”
“It could be a surprise. A special wedding dress or a gift for her bridesmaids.”
“Good point.” He signalled to Gibbs. “Follow up with the family, see if she hinted at anything like that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of checkered fuchsia as Sue Peters leaned forward in her chair. He felt a surge of delight at the garish outfit. Bit by bit, the old Sue was coming back to them. In her eyes too was a glint of the old excitement.
“I don’t know if this is important, sir,” she said, “but there is a bit of a mystery about the death of Brandon Longstreet’s father.
He was a prominent lawyer and he was found hanging in his Montreal apartment, supposedly a suicide—”
Green perked up. “When was this?”
“Thirty years ago, but the whole thing was hushed up. It looks like the investigation was just stopped.”
“Thirty years is a long time ago,” Green said doubtfully. “Suicide was much more of a stigma in those days.”
“I know,” Peters said, undeterred. “But maybe Meredith wanted to know more about him and the family secret before she got more involved with them. A day trip suggests she wasn’t going to visit family or go out for an evening on the town with a friend. She just zipped in and out for a few hours, long enough to check something out.”
“Or to pick up a wedding dress,” the computer tech said.
Green saw a scowl gathering on Peters’ face. “First things first. Whelan, confirm that she took the trip and came back. It may in fact be irrelevant, but if she went to Montreal, that’s the last thing she did before she disappeared. People do not disappear over a wedding dress, even the worst tailoring job in the world. But a discovery about the family might make her drop out of sight, at least for a day or two, to think things through.” This trip to Montreal was a ray of hope in an investigation that turned gloomier with the passing of each frigid day. The longer they could all hang on to hope, the better.
Whelan leaned on the table, propping his head in his hands, but at Green’s last words, he lifted his head and blinked in surprise. “There’s more, sir. It looks like she may have been alive on Tuesday morning.” As he explained about the ATM withdrawal, everyone held their breath and even Bob Gibbs stopped typing.
“Someone could have been using her card,” Peters said.
Whelan