Do or Die. Barbara Fradkin

      “Nothing wrong with that, Brian. Rigid, maybe, but by the book. No one can fault you for that.”

      “Oh, yeah? Well, the Deputy Chief did. Showed up twenty minutes later with this Weiss guy in tow, ripping a strip off me for caring more about procedure than about the decent citizens of Ottawa. I saw my whole career flashing before my eyes. My mortgage, my three kids, tuition for college—all bye-bye.”

      “Ach! Political grandstanding to impress the Chief, that’s all. You’ve done the right things, Brian. You were the first person to act like a professional in this whole mess.”

      “Yeah. We’ll know soon, won’t we? When I’ve been assigned to permanent traffic detail.”

      Green grinned. “You’ve been assigned to me. So let’s get on it. Did you have time to find witnesses or interview anyone?”

      Sullivan rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Besides the young woman who found him? Are you kidding? I was so busy chasing the body and mopping up everyone else’s mess, I had no time to investigate! We don’t have one lead, we don’t have shit, but every ‘t’ has been crossed.”

      Green felt the caffeine from his second cup beginning to spread through his system, bringing with it a return of optimism. He glanced at his watch. Nine oh-five. “Right now I’m heading over to interview the mother. That’s going to be a tough one, so I’ll be turning off my radio, but you can reach me by cell if you have to. Arrange a briefing for ten-thirty with all the men Jules gave me.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “We’ll find a trail, Brian, once we start talking to Jonathan Blair’s friends and family. A nice kid who studies Shakespeare and lives with Mummy can’t have too many enemies.”

       Two

      The Village of Rockcliffe Park was not a village in any normal sense of the word, except perhaps in exclusivity. It was a tree-lined enclave perched on a bluff above the Ottawa river, surrounded by the bustling city and boasting the highest per capita income of any municipality in Canada. Mercedes and Volvos sat discreetly on shaded drives, and massive beds of peonies and irises framed the old stone mansions. Even the heat was tempered.

      The living room of Marianne Blair’s Rockcliffe mansion was painted Wedgwood blue, perfectly offsetting the rose floral love seats which framed the Persian rug. A discreet, oldmonied room, perfect for a rich benefactress, Green thought, except that the designer had neglected to take a good look at the owner. Marianne Blair contrasted harshly with her surroundings, at least in her current raw state. She hunched on the edge of a love seat, dressed in a shapeless brown sweat suit, her gray hair askew and large jowls quivering.

      Her personal assistant stationed himself at her side, glaring at Green. Weiss had met the detective at the front door, wrinkling his nose visibly at Green’s suit and inspecting his ID for a conspicuously long time. Green knew that at five feet, ten inches, with mousey brown hair and hazel eyes, he was remarkable only for his nose. It was the only visible trace of his Semitic heritage, which was generally honoured more in the breach than in the observance.

      His parents were both Holocaust survivors who had lost their first families to the ovens, and they had an almost paranoid fear of public exposure. They had met in a displaced persons camp in Cyprus after the war, but it had taken them nearly fifteen years to risk having a child, and even then the Jewish festivals had been muted, secretive affairs. Green had grown up with Hasidic folktales and Klezmer clarinets ringing in his ears, but outside the family walls, his parents cautioned their sandy-haired, hazel-eyed boy to keep his Jewishness to himself.

      In the modern, urban world into which he moved, that proved seductively easy. He belonged to no synagogue or Jewish groups, worked in an entirely non-Jewish environment, had almost no Jewish friends and none of the previous women in his life, including his first wife, had been Jewish. His recent marriage to Sharon Levy had been as much of a surprise to him as it had been to his father. Although Sharon had been trying to introduce some Jewish traditions into their family life since the birth of their son, Green’s identity still found its main outlet in his commitment to smoked meat, bagels and Nate’s Delicatessen.

      But for some, the nose was enough to fire up old myths and prejudices, and whether Weiss had reacted to the nose or the odour of his suit, Green couldn’t be sure. Weiss had swivelled on his heel without a word and led the way across the vast marble foyer into the mercifully air-conditioned interior. He moved with impeccable grace, but his blue linen suit was buttoned wrong, and his toupee dipped over one ear. Not quite recovered from this morning’s excursion after all, Green thought with some satisfaction.

      On the drive over, he had tried to plan his interview strategy. Marianne Blair, he had learned from Jules’ briefing file, was the only child of a wealthy British Columbia shipping magnate who had made his fortune as a young man shipping timber from the virgin forests of the young province. He had diversified into oil and real estate later in life and had established the Lindmar Foundation as a means of purchasing immortality, as well as tax relief. To groom his daughter for her role as elegant patroness, he had sent her first to Eastern private schools and later to universities in British Columbia and Europe. But rumour had it that beneath the civilized veneer, Marianne Blair was her father’s clone: willful, self-indulgent and stubborn as a mule.

      Green had expected to find her raging mad and demanding vengeance. Judging from the way the law enforcement top brass had jumped to attention earlier, he had thought he would be bullied and threatened. But seated opposite her now, looking into her eyes, he saw no fire in them. Only bewilderment. She was a mother like any other at this moment, he thought, and felt himself relax. With her permission, he set his tape recorder on the table so that he could give her his full attention.

      “Mrs. Blair, I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I need to know about your son. Are you up to answering a few questions?”

      She nodded, and he began. She had last seen Jonathan at breakfast yesterday, she said. They lived alone with a housekeeper; Jonathan was an only child, his parents divorced. It had been just like any other morning. Jonathan was an early riser, and she had a busy schedule ahead of her so they had eaten about seven. They had spoken little, but that too was usual. They liked each other’s company but did not feel compelled to talk. She had reports to read, and he was absorbed in a journal article. He had always been a voracious reader and never sat at the table without a book in hand. He had commented that he would be at the university all day and wasn’t sure when he would be home. This too was usual. He spent much of his time in his lab or the library.

      “Did he tell you what he planned to do yesterday? Anyone he planned to meet?”

      She shook her head. “We didn’t really talk.”

      “To your knowledge, did your son use drugs?” He saw her stiffen. Weiss started to protest, but Green cut him off. “It’s confidential, Mrs. Blair, but I have to know.”

      “Not to my knowledge.”

      “I need the names of all known friends and associates.”

      “Peter said you’d need that information, so we’ve prepared a list. We haven’t got all the phone numbers, I’m afraid, but we’ll keep working on it.” She glanced across at Weiss expectantly, and he slipped out of the room.

      “Thank you.” Green watched until he had disappeared, then leaned forward. Without Weiss, he had a much better chance of reaching her. “Do you know of anyone who might have had reason to kill your son?”

      She sighed, and some of the stiffness seemed to dissipate. “I have racked my brains over and over, and I can’t for the life of me think who might have done this. Or why. It makes no sense.”

      “Did he have any enemies?” She was shaking her head. “Any conflicts, any fights with anyone?”

      “No! Jonathan avoided conflict. He was too nice; people walked all over him. He never seemed to get angry— something he certainly didn’t get from me.” Unexpectedly, she faltered. “But he was a wonderful boy. I’m not criticizing him. He was generous, sensitive,