Within two minutes, they pulled up next to a green two-storey house with lightning rods on the roof. They got out to walk the paved trail leading to a cluster of evergreens. Within the shelter of the trees, there was a bench. A black-haired woman sat there and studied them as they approached. She wore a blue-nylon winter jacket. It was open at the front, revealing a white blouse to go with her grey skirt. Lane guessed her age between thirty-five and forty.
“Mrs. Whyte?” Harper asked.
“Mary,” she said.
“This is Lane and I’m Harper.”
“Sit down gentlemen,” she said. They sat on either side of her. “So, you’ve tracked down the anonymous Jamaica tip.”
“It was a reasonable conclusion.” Lane turned slightly to watch her eyes. They were green and looked directly back at him.
“You must be wondering, then, why I didn’t meet you at the church or at my home.” Mary tucked her black hair behind her ears and looked at each of them. She shivered, tucked her hands between her knees, and took a deep breath.
“Yes,” Lane said.
“There’s a phone blitz going on. People have gathered at the church to phone the police stations in a show of support for Bobbie,” she said.
“So, that’s what the sign was all about,” Harper said.
“That’s right.” Mary looked south toward the downtown core. Her hands shook as she tried to do up the zipper on her coat.
“We have some other questions,” Lane said.
“I thought you might,” Mary said.
“Your call directed us to investigate Bobbie, and her trip to Jamaica,” Lane said.
“That’s right. One of the parishioners came to me after the trip. She was one of winners who went along. Apparently, some of the women got involved with the men at the resort. Bobbie was one of them,” Mary said.
“What was the parishioner’s name?” Harper asked.
Mary said, “I’d rather not say. She was trying to figure out the contradiction of Bobbie’s actions at the resort with her radio-personality image. My source would face reprisals if her name got out.”
“You know this for a fact?” Lane asked.
“Bobbie has many followers in our church. A year ago, a woman came to me. She showed me a scar on her arm. It was from an old burn. She’d been in junior high school with Bobbie. Apparently, the burn was punishment. Bobbie had ordered her to ostracize another student. The woman said no. She reported that Bobbie burned her. No one would believe it. After the woman told me the story, she left the church.” Mary pulled the zipper to her chin and tucked hands into pockets.
“The stories are what we call hearsay,” Harper said.
“Since Bobbie joined the church five years ago, the congregation has grown. Every now and then, one of the families will leave. Sometimes, when I call to ask why, I’m told about vague threats made by Bobbie. Very difficult to prove, but threats nonetheless. Again, it’s easier to leave the parish than to call the police,”
Mary said.
“Have you discussed this with your husband?”
Harper asked.
“He thinks it’s all gossip and innuendo,” Mary said.
“So, why are you talking with us?” Harper asked.
“Cole,” Mary said.
“Cole Reddie?” Lane asked.
“Yes. He used to play with my son. He told me once that his mother would torture their dog. Bobbie overheard us, and that was the last time the boys played together. Cole is a very bright child. If the stories about Jamaica are true, if Kaylie was not killed by her father, then Cole is in danger.” Mary looked directly at Lane. “If something happens to that child, then his blood is on my hands.”
Harper said, “One more thing. This phone blitz that’s going on. Can you tell us more?”
“One of Bobbie’s friends stood up in church yesterday to tell us that Bobbie had been through enough. It was time for the congregation to do what it could to stop Bobbie’s nightmare. We were encouraged to phone the police and say it was time to let Bobbie heal,” Mary said.
“Oh.” Harper looked at Lane.
Lane stood.
“There’s one other question you should ask at this point,” Mary stood up between them. She looked from side to side and waited.
Harper shrugged.
Lane said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Bobbie’s friends only act after they first check with Bobbie. I’ve watched them for a year. Bobbie orchestrated the phone-in. Be certain of that.”
Mary walked away from them.
Lane and Harper walked back to the car. Harper drove the Chevy toward the city centre. They crested a hill. The golds and oranges of autumn had almost disappeared, leaving behind a soft haze of brown. The city’s colours were leaving for the winter.
Harper said, “See what I mean. We’ve got lots of something but a whole lot of nothing. About all we got from that is some corroboration for the vet.”
“And we’ve got up to seven deaths attributed to Bobbie,” Lane said.
“Or none,” Harper said.
“Exactly.”
“So, where does that leave us?” Harper asked.
“Looking for more evidence,” Lane said.
The phone rang ten minutes later, as they crossed the river.
“Hello?” Lane said. “Yes, Chief.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Harper.
The chief said, “We’ve logged a little over four-hundred calls this morning. Each one encouraging us to close the Reddie case. All of the calls appear to originate from the same general location.”
“At and near Bobbie’s church,” Lane said.
“Sounds about right,” the chief said. “This volume of support and reaction is unprecedented. It appears that our suspect may not be as clever as first indicated. Orchestrating this much pressure aimed at closing a case may be more of an indication of guilt than innocence. You and Harper are the investigators. What you’re doing is making someone uncomfortable. Keep it up.”
“All right,” Lane said.
Twenty minutes later, Harper parked behind a Vietnamese restaurant on Centre Street. “All this fresh air sure works up an appetite.” Harper got out of the car.
Lane’s phone rang. They stood in the parking lot. Lane listened and pointed at the car with his left hand.
Harper climbed back inside.
Lane opened his door and said, “Remember the school down the road from Bobbie’s house? Cole Reddie has just been reported missing.”
Harper used the lights and siren, while manoeuvring along narrow inner-city streets. When they made it to the boulevard, he opened it up. Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of Saint Fatima Elementary. It was a brick and red-roofed, single-storey elementary school. They’d seen four police cruisers within a couple of blocks of the school. Now two were parked in front and a police van blocked the entrance to the parking lot. An officer spotted Lane and Harper. He eased the van forward. They pulled into the parking lot between the school and the community’s outdoor hockey rink. Sergeant Stephens greeted them. “Hello you two.”
“What have you got?” Lane stepped out of the Chevy.
“Not much.” Stephens stood almost as tall as Lane. Her auburn hair was braided and tucked up under her cap. “Officers are searching the hills and trees.” She indicated a pair of hills rising about seventy-five metres behind the school. Two officers were visible on a trail running between the hills. “The principal is waiting inside to talk with you. Apparently, Cole was playing there.” She pointed at the playground at the base of the hill to the west. “He left when a man appeared up there.” Stephens pointed up along a path leading to the top of the hill.
“Where’s the office?” Lane asked.
“Through the doors, past the gym, and on the right,” Stephens said.
Harper opened the side door. They heard the sound of children playing in the gym as they passed. The principal was waiting when they entered the office. He had a round face to match a round body. His hair was thick and black, like the plastic rims of his glasses. “Jack O’Malley.” The principal held out his hand.