Her eyes narrowed. “He’s black. He’s big. Taller than you. A gentler soul can’t be found.”
“So over six feet, and two hundred and fifty pounds?” he asked.
“About that.”
Gilbert felt as if he was getting a break in the case.
“And is he... Lorna’s age?” asked Gilbert. “Or closer to yours?”
“He’s thirty-five.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know what kind of car he drives, would you?” he asked.
“No.”
That covered specifics. Gilbert now went for background.
“So Trelawny got on well with Jason?” he asked.
“Not all the time,” she said, “but generally, yes.”
“Did you ever see any open animosity between them?”
“Once or twice. Trelawny thought Jason should come home and look after his two sons. They argued about that.”
“And Jason left here at what time last night?” asked Gilbert.
“At five in the morning. He likes to get back to Scarborough in time for a shower and breakfast before he heads off to school.”
For now, he had at least one suspect, Trelawny Holmes.
He thanked Gabby for her time, told her he might have to question her again, then went back to headquarters to make a stab at identifying Trelawny Holmes through any prior arrests the man might have had.
As it turned out, Trelawny Holmes was a thirty-five-year-old janitor who worked at the Scarborough Town Center shopping mall. His record included three counts of aggravated assault and a number of smaller violations. Gilbert thought this might be their man. Height and weight matched Gabby’s description, which in turn matched their witness’s description. The photograph on his computer screen showed a black man with copper-toned skin, broad cheekbones, a pronounced brow, a thick neck, and a high forehead. Holmes lived on Old Finch Road, around the corner from Lorna Morrell. Significantly, the photograph showed a goat’s head amulet around the man’s neck.
He downloaded the record into his case file and was just about to check the Ministry of Transportation search program to find out what kind of car Holmes drove when Joe Lombardo entered the squad room carrying a big brown envelope.
“Guess what I’ve got,” said Lombardo.
“What?” said Gilbert.
“I’ve done some digging on the Morrell case,” he said. Lombardo withdrew the contents of the envelope — five sheets stapled together — and put them on Gilbert’s desk. “This is a copy of Morrell’s life-insurance policy. He increased his coverage by three hundred thousand dollars just two weeks ago. The sole beneficiary is Lorna Morrell. It’s not a smoking gun, but it’s definitely something worth looking into.”
Gilbert glanced over the policy, then pointed to his computer screen.
“And look at this,” he said. “Here’s a picture of Lorna’s boyfriend, Trelawny Holmes. Gabby told me about him. His height and weight match our witness description. See what he’s wearing around his neck?”
Lombardo had a closer look. “You’re kidding,” he said.
“I was just going to find out what kind of car he drove,” said Gilbert.
“Let’s do it,” said Lombardo.
Gilbert minimized his current windows and accessed the MTO database through the headquarters’ intranet. Using the search parameters of Trelawny’s name and address, he easily pinpointed the vehicle the man drove: a beige, 2001, four-door Chevrolet Impala.
“Bingo,” said Gilbert.
While Lombardo drove to the big man’s home on Old Finch Road to see if he could surprise Holmes there, Gilbert tried Scarborough Town Center, a suburban mall off Highway 401, where, as the file indicated, Holmes worked as a janitor.
Gilbert parked his car, went into the mall, and looked around.
He found Holmes in front of the Rainforest Cafe. A huge aquarium formed a thousand-gallon archway over the entrance to the cafe, and big tropical fish swam placidly around inside, as bright as the colors of an impressionist painting. The sound effects of a tropical thunderstorm emanated from within the Amazon-themed restaurant, and Gilbert glimpsed a white-shirted waiter walking by with a tray of fruity drinks.
“Trelawny Holmes?” said Gilbert.
The big man looked up. “I’m Trelawny,” he said.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Barry Gilbert of Metro Homicide,” he said, and showed Holmes his badge and ID. “Could we talk?”
Holmes, dressed in working blues, a nametag stitched to his shirt, took off his gloves and wiped his brow with the back of his arm.
“What’s this about?” he asked, his voice deep, full, West Indian.
Gilbert told him what he had.
“And when you put it all together, not only do you have motive — the extra coverage Jason put on his life-insurance policy two weeks ago — but you also had opportunity. You know he’s down there Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights.”
Holmes studied Gilbert quietly for a few seconds. “I was nowhere near Regent Park last night,” he said. “I was at home watching the basketball game.”
“Was anybody watching it with you?” asked Gilbert.
“No.”
“Did anybody telephone you while you were watching the game?”
“No. I always take my phone off the hook when I watch the game.”
“So no one can verify that you were at home watching the game?”
A crease came to Holmes’s brow.
“I’m Jason’s friend,” he said. “I’ve been his friend for nineteen years.”
“Gabby says you fight.”
Holmes sighed. “I don’t deny it,” he said. “We have our differences. But that’s only because I’m trying to knock some sense into him. How’s Lorna supposed to raise those boys on only half a paycheck?” Gilbert guessed half of Morrell’s paycheck went to Gabby, but Holmes set him straight the next moment. “Jason... he cares more about that school back home than he does about his own two sons.”
Gilbert paused. Here was another mention of that school. He had to check this out. He played dumb. “What school?” he asked, scratching around for more information.
“This school he used to work at back home, a little private one up in the mountains, Sanderson School. It’s the only school around for miles and miles. It was going to close. Jason was always sending half his paycheck down there to keep it open. He doesn’t care how Lorna has to make ends meet. She’s always scrambling to make the mortgage payments. I don’t make much at this job, but I give her what I can. I’m always at Jason to give her more, and sometimes we fight about it. I told him he should try to raise money at our church. I’m smart. I think things through. I try to come up with solutions. I had to fight him a bit — he doesn’t like taking money from anybody — but he finally took my advice. He raised some money at the church for the school.”
Gilbert thought about this. Certainly keeping a school open was a noble enough goal. But the money from the church might yet be a new factor. He pecked a bit more.
“So the church was receptive?” he asked.
“Our church has good people,” said Holmes. “They give what they can.”
“Did Jason say how much money was raised?” asked Gilbert.
Holmes shrugged. “Around twenty thousand,” he said.
“And does anybody have any idea where that money is now?” asked Gilbert.
Holmes shrugged, looking as if he were just now considering the money’s whereabouts. Either that, or he was bluffing. “Ask the church,” he said. “They might know.”
Gilbert phoned Minister Milroy Johnston at Keeper of the Faith Seventh Day Adventist Church the next day.
“I believe the figure was twenty-two thousand dollars,” said Johnston. “The congregation opened their hearts, Detective. And their wallets.”
Gilbert jotted the figure down.
“And do you have any idea where the money is now?” he asked.
Johnston paused. “I assume he sent it to Sanderson School already.”
When Gilbert got off the phone, he pondered the money. Twenty-two thousand dollars — money over and above the extra life-insurance money — cash both Lorna Morrell and Trelawny Holmes might find tempting. If he could trace the church money back to the pair, he would be that much closer to an arrest.
He phoned the headmaster at Sanderson School in Brown’s Town, Jamaica.
Much to his surprise, he learned the school had received not twenty-two thousand dollars, but sixty-six thousand dollars. This just made matters more perplexing.
“Any idea who the donor is?” he asked the headmaster.
“The donor wishes to remain anonymous,” said the headmaster. “Not even I know who the donor is.”
“But the money originated in Canada?” asked Gilbert.
“I believe so,” said the headmaster. “A Toronto bank administered the funds.”
Once he got off the phone, Gilbert tried to figure it out.
Who in Toronto but Morrell would send money to Sanderson School? But why was the figure now sixty-six thousand instead of twenty-two? He thought of the gang jewelry in Morrell’s hand. Was that the connection? Gang involvement? Gangs meant drugs. Had Morrell tripled the amount by selling drugs? And did this mean the murder was indeed gang-related?
When Gilbert explained things to Lombardo, Joe’s eyes lit up.
“I broadened my canvass in Regent Park,” said the young detective. “I found a small-time punk who told me Gabby has an older brother back in Jamaica, a guy named Trevor Sheridan. He’s a player, Barry. A big one. He has connections to the Ramaya cartel in Colombia. He runs an airstrip outside Ochos Rios on the north coast of Jamaica. I phoned the authorities at the Jamaican Constabulary in Kingston. They tell me they’ve had their eye on Trevor for a long time. Morrell could easily turn twenty-two thousand dollars into sixty-six if the product was sourced directly from Colombia.”