LITMIR.BIZ

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wearing sunglasses, he had blond hair.

      “Height and weight?”

      “Taller than you. Maybe six feet. Well built but not heavy. One-eighty?”

      “Age?” The man scrunched up his face and blew air into his cheeks.

      “Thirties? Maybe more. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.”

      Green probed with a few more questions, but the description did not improve. As it stood, it was too generic to be of much help and could apply to several of the men in the case. He suppressed his frustration with an effort.

      “What questions did this man ask you?”

      “Did I know her, where she usually stayed, when was she coming to my place again.”

      “And what name did he call her?”

      “None. He just called her the fat woman.” Hassim’s eyes had been growing larger with each question. “Is she all right? Has something happened to her?”

      “At this point I just want to locate her.” Green held out his card. “If she shows up, or you remember anything else, call me at that number. And I’d like you to come down to the station tomorrow to work with our police artist. We’ll see if we can work up a sketch.”

      “Oh!” Hassim’s eyes darted anxiously. “Well, the store...”

      “Don’t worry, Mr. Mohammed. It won’t take long, and it might help us find Twiggy.”

      He sighed with resignation as he took the card. “She was my teacher,you know. Grade Seven. But I don’t think she remembers me.”

      Oh, I’m sure she does, Green thought grimly. A profound wave of sadness and anxiety swept through him. But for Twiggy, that teacher doesn’t exist any more.

      NINETEEN

      Green hadn’t had the dream in years. It was a flashback more than a dream, so vivid that he often woke from it bathed in sweat. It began as it always did, with a call from dispatch about a reported domestic disturbance in Alta Vista, a quiet neighbourhood of winding crescents, leafy trees and sprawling bungalows. Professors, accountants and civil servants lived there, enjoying their perennial gardens and stone patios.

      It was a peaceful, starlit night in May when the call came in, and the streets were deserted. Green was wrapping up a routine canvass in a nearby apartment building on Bank Street, and he was only a few minutes away. As he listened to the agitated radio chatter back and forth between the responding officers and dispatch, he could hear a woman screaming in the background. Dispatch sent more squad cars and contacted the Tactical Unit, so soon the howl of sirens filled the quiet night.

      Green radioed in as he headed towards the scene. “I’m on my way in case they need CID.”

      When he arrived, the street was a mob scene. Cruisers blocked off the street, neighbours were hovering on front porches, shivering in their night clothes, and a dozen uniforms were deployed around the perimeter of a yard in the middle of it all. Radios barked and emergency roof lights splashed the scene with surreal red and blue.

      The house at the centre of the drama was eerily still. Light shone in the upstairs windows, but the screaming had stopped. An officer was training his binoculars on each window in turn. Green edged his way into earshot.

      “No signs of activity, sir,” the officer said to his patrol sergeant, who had just arrived.

      The sergeant swore softly. “Try phoning.”

      The phone rang endlessly through the house without response. The Tactical Unit arrived and used a bullhorn to order everyone inside to come out. Still nothing. The unit huddled together, planning their entry as the sergeant tried to establish how many lived in the house and who slept where. He conferred in an inaudible whisper with a man Green took to be a neighbour.

      Green wandered over to a group of neighbours clustered behind the barricades, who watched his approach with a mixture of excitement and shock.

      “Who called 911?” he asked.

      “Several of us did.” A tall, spindly man detached himself from the crowd. He was wearing striped pyjama bottoms and a terrycloth robe, which he hugged around himself. Despite it, he was trembling, and in the darkness his eyes were bright with fear. “I’ve already told the police what I know. Are you a reporter?”

      Green shook his head. “I’m Sergeant Green with Major Crimes.”

      “They’re a nice couple. He’s a professor, she’s a teacher. Never a loud word. Their boys are a handful, but they are so patient with them. Sweet Jesus, I hope nothing bad happened.”

      “What made you call 911?”

      “Her screaming. It woke me up. Screaming ‘Stop! Stop!’ Sweet Jesus, such an ungodly animal howl. And the chain saw was so loud.”

      Green’s mouth went dry. “Chain saw?”

      “He has one for the brush and trees. He always keeps such a beautiful garden. And he’s been helping all of us this spring, to clear out the deadwood, you know? Oh...God.”

      As much to keep his own wild imagination at bay as to keep the man focussed, Green stuck to the facts. “Did you see anything tonight?”

      “No, just shadows rushing in front of the blinds. As if a fight was going on.”

      “Do you know if there are firearms in the house?”

      There was a chorus of denials from the neighbours who had clustered around. “They’d never have guns.”

      “Don’t believe in them?”

      “And with the boys being ADHD and all...”

      Green held up his hand. “How many boys are there?”

      “Twins. Nice boys, just really busy, you know?” said the tall neighbour.

      “And slow,” interjected a woman at his elbow, whom Green took to be his wife.

      “Well, they were preemies,” he countered, “so they started off behind. They’ve needed a lot of help, poor little guys. They could be real trouble—used to be real trouble—before they got into the right school.”

      “Jean had to fight like hell for that,” added the wife darkly, apparently much less forgiving of the boys than her husband. “Costs a fortune for the two of them. Everything she and Sam make goes towards it.”

      Green jumped in again. “How old are the twins?” vHusband and wife exchanged uncertain glances. “Ten?”

      “Big enough to handle a chainsaw?”

      The wife nodded, but the husband looked shocked. “Oh, no. They’re skinny little tykes. Behind, like I said.”

      “Anyone else in the house?”

      “Just Jean and Sam and the twins.” The man’s eyes were big as he strained to see what the police were doing at the house.

      “Sweet Jesus, I hope they’re all right.”

      Green thanked them and walked over to introduce himself to the patrol sergeant in charge. As they filled each other in, the tactical officers broke in the front door and disappeared inside. Green heard muffled shouts and thudding boots as the unit dispersed through the house. A few seconds later one of them shattered the glass in an upstairs window and screamed out, “Get the paramedics in here!”

      More boots thumping, more shouts, and one of the tactical officers staggered out to vomit in the rose bushes by the front door. “Mother of God, it’s bad,” muttered the patrol sergeant, echoing Green’s thoughts. The tactical guys were a tough bunch.

      The sergeant headed towards the front door, and Green scrambled to catch up. “We have to protect the scene,” he said, absurdly under the circumstances.

      The

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