“They’re there,” Sullivan said.
“Not necessarily. This is a military man. Creating a diversion would be second nature to him.”
Sullivan snorted. The tenant was listening with unabashed fascination. “Do you want to station a policeman to watch from here?” she asked. “Just in case?”
Green had to fight a smile. The woman has been watching too many cop dramas, he thought. But to his surprise, Sullivan nodded. “That would be very helpful, ma’am. I’ll send someone up shortly, and I’d like to thank you for your cooperation.”
She batted her eyelashes. Sullivan, at six foot four with broad shoulders, merry blue eyes and a full head of bristly blond hair, cut a commanding figure that still attracted women, even when he didn’t turn on the Irish charm. Unlike Green, however, his own gaze had never strayed from the farm girl he had loved since he was sixteen.
Back out on the street, they settled into their car to wait for word that the warrant had been signed. Green chafed at the forced inaction, his thoughts racing over the case. What had he missed? What else should he be doing in the meantime?
He phoned in to Gibbs, who had drawn the unfortunate task of remaining at the station to coordinate the flow of information. “Any word from Wallington and Connors about Weiss?”
“Nothing, sir. No one is home at the ex-wife’s house, and they’ve batted zero with all his known associates. He doesn’t have many friends, it seems.”
Or those he does have aren’t talking to us, Green thought grimly. “Anything else new?”
“We’re still waiting for Weiss’s phone records, but Charbonneau and Leblanc have the search warrant for his house. They want to know if they should go ahead.”
Green stared out the car window at the front door of the condominium. No one remotely interesting had passed in or out in the last fifteen minutes. God, he’d forgotten how tedious stake-outs were! He would give anything to join the search of Weiss’s house, to poke around in the man’s private closets and get a glimpse of the man’s secrets. But the warrant for Blakeley’s arrest could come any second, and this was where his skill and authority were needed.
Besides, he wouldn’t miss Blakeley’s arrest for the world. Reluctantly, he said “Tell them to go ahead and keep me posted every step of the way.”
When he hung up, Sullivan cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. “Anything important?”
“The search of Weiss’s house.”
Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Control freak.”
Green opened his mouth to defend himself, but the ringing of his cellphone interrupted him. Jones’s voice came through. Two simple words. “Got it.”
“Meet us at the station,” Green said, and before Jones could mention Kate McGrath, he hung up and nodded to Sullivan. “Time to rock and roll.”
“Are we going to notify Devine?”
Green was already out of the car and activating his radio to alert the others on the stake-out. “Once we have him in custody.” They were just heading across the street towards the front door when a cab pulled up, partially blocking their view. At the same time, the front door opened and a man emerged wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses despite the sunset shadows, and a bulky raincoat that hid much of his shape. But there was no mistaking his squat, powerful frame and the white hair sticking out beneath the cap.
“Shit, it’s Blakeley!” Sullivan sprinted back to the car, revved it up and hurtled it forward across the lawn to block the cab’s exit. Simultaneously, Green dashed towards the back of the cab, yelling into his radio for the officers to converge. Blakeley stopped with his hand on the rear door handle and looked up, surprise changing to horror at the sight of Green.
The media leaped out of their vans and raced across the lawn, scrambling to get their cameras and microphones in position. Green cursed. What a goddamn circus, all to play out on the six o’clock news. Devine’s worst nightmare.
He grabbed Blakeley’s arm and leaned in close to his ear. “John, for your own sake, please come with me to the car up ahead. The less we give the media to talk about, the better.”
He felt Blakeley stiffen and pull away as if to resist. Then the man sized up the descending hordes, glanced at Sullivan’s unmarked car, and all colour fled from his face. Wordlessly, he acquiesced. Heads down, the two of them hurried down the drive, dodged the microphones and ducked into the back seat of the car. Once they were inside, Green slammed the door and heard it lock into place. Sullivan hit the accelerator, and the car slewed out into the street, leaving the media behind. Blakeley whipped off his sunglasses and stared out the back window. “Animals!” he snarled. “I haven’t had a moment’s peace since the press conference, and just when I’m trying to give them the slip, you show up! That’s going to look just great.”
“Where were you headed?” Green asked. Surreptitiously, he was studying Blakeley’s clothing, trying to determine if he had a weapon hidden. This operation was going fabulously. The abduction of Blakeley by the local police was going to lead on the national news, and here he was stuck in the back with a known killer who had been neither searched nor handcuffed, and who possessed more than enough skill and nerve to shoot him and take Sullivan hostage to make good his escape. Sullivan’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror, telegraphing the same thought.
“Back to Petawawa,” Blakeley replied, oblivious to the interchange. “Leanne has already gone.”
“They’ll find you there.”
“Yes, but at least there I feel as if my prison has more space.” He swung on Green as if the word prison had triggered an association. “What were you doing at my place?”
“Actually...” Green leaned forward, thinking fast. They were just nearing the turn-off onto Elgin Street. Traffic was light, and there were few people around. “Brian, could you pull over when you get a chance? There’s something I should do.”
Sullivan’s gaze caught his again in the mirror, and he nodded slightly. Just before Elgin, he turned into the drive behind Friday’s Roast Beef House and stopped the car in the alley, effectively hemming Blakeley in between the stone wall of a Church and the brick building next door. Both detectives climbed out, and Green saw Sullivan’s hand move towards his gun. Blakeley remained in the back seat, suddenly wary.
“Could you step out too please, John?” He didn’t move, and for one brief moment Green feared they were going to have a gun battle in the middle of downtown Ottawa on a Sunday afternoon. Another great lead for the news. Then Blakeley climbed out and backed away uncertainly, his fists clenched in an instinctive fighter’s stance.
“What’s going on, fellas?”
“Turn around and place your hands on the vehicle,” Green said.
Blakeley stared at him, first with incomprehension, then horror and finally resignation, His hands fell limply to his sides. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “You’re arresting me.”
“Hands on the vehicle, John.”
Blakeley turned to lean against the car and stood impassively as Sullivan searched and handcuffed him, then began his recital. “John Blakeley, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Daniel Oliver on April 9—”
To Green’s surprise, Blakeley shut his eyes and bowed his head. “Daniel Oliver. Yes.”
“I am required to warn you that—”
“I always knew that would come back to haunt me.”
“John,” Green interrupted, “it would be better if you didn’t speak until you’ve been formally processed and had a chance to consult an attorney.”