Free Old City Hall by Robert Rotenberg Page A

than filling the meager doorframe. Greene had an envelope in his hand.
    “Come in,” Fernandez said. “Sorry there’s only one chair.”
    Both men looked at each other. Neither wanted to sit. “We’ll stand,” Greene said after they all shook hands.
    There was another knock on the door, and Jennifer Raglan, the head Crown, walked in.
    “Hi, everyone,” she said, crossing her hands in front of her. She stood beside Greene. Clearly, she wasn’t sitting down either.
    Fernandez went back behind his desk. As he sat, the old chair squeaked.
    “Before we listen to the CD,” Greene said, lifting the package, “I’llwant to go through my TTBD list.” Everyone else nodded. Fernandez stared at Greene, trying not to look confused.
    Greene caught Fernandez’s eye and smiled. “Things-to-be-done list,” he said, opening his leather-bound maroon notebook.
    “Start with Katherine Torn. Age forty-seven. Lived with Brace common-law for fifteen years. No criminal record, no previous police contacts. Only child. Seems to have spent most of her free time horseback riding. Grew up in King City, where her family still lives. Father’s a World War II vet and retired doctor. Mother’s a housewife who was a big-time rider in her day. Kevin Brace, as you know, is the famous radio broadcaster. He’s sixty-three. No record. No police contacts.”
    Fernandez was writing swiftly on his clean notepad.
    “Officer Kennicott informed the family this morning, and they seemed to take it quite well. You never know. I’ve put the Torns in touch with Victim Services and will try to get them down to see you, maybe even tomorrow.” Even though he had his notebook open, Greene didn’t bother to look at it. “Tonight Kennicott will go through all the tapes from the lobby of the condo, Torn’s and Brace’s diaries, et cetera. He’ll chart their movements for the last week. I’ve got a team going door-to-door through the apartment building and the surrounding stores and restaurants. Kennicott’s partner, Nora Bering, will interview Torn’s riding instructor. Tomorrow we’re talking to the employees at the radio station.”
    Fernandez nodded. So this is what it’s like when you work a homicide, he thought. A detective who’s a real pro. “Talk to anyone else on the twelfth floor?” he asked.
    Greene flipped back a few pages. “The only other unit on the floor is suite 12B. Resident Edna Wingate, British war bride. Eighty-three years old. Widowed three times. Came to Canada back in 1946. Parents were killed in the Blitz. I caught her in the lobby on her way out to an early-morning yoga class. She didn’t notice anything unusual last night. I’m going to see her tomorrow morning.”
    Fernandez nodded. He looked at Greene and Kennicott. They were just twelve hours into this, and sleep was nowhere on theiragenda. Both were calm. Around the eyes they looked tired but refusing to show it. “Let’s hear the disc from the jail,” he said.
    The CD was marked DON JAIL, KEVIN BRACE, PRISONER PHONE CALLS DEC. 17, 13:00–17:00 HOURS . Fernandez was always amazed at how even the most experienced criminals talked when they were first incarcerated. They would quickly shut up, so you had to get them while they were in the shock-and-anger stage.
    Brace’s lawyer, Nancy Parish, had gotten there quickly and completely shut him up. Fernandez was hoping he would say something on the phone that would help at the trial and maybe even at the bail hearing.
    Fernandez slipped the disc into his computer. The tinny voice of a Bell operator came on: “You have a collect call from . . . Kevin Brace. Press one if you accept, two to . . .”
    There was a hard beep sound.
    “Hello,”
a male voice said.
    “Daddy? Is that you?”
a woman’s voice asked. She sounded fairly young. Her voice deep, throaty. Near panicked.
    Fernandez turned to a new page and wrote the date in the top right-hand corner.
    “Is this Amanda?”
The voice was deep, accented, probably