Free The K Handshape by Maureen Jennings Page A

investigation. When we catch the bastard who killed your daughter, we have to have a clean case. You cannot be directly involved.”
    This time he did look at me. His eyes were cold and hard.
    “All I’m proposing doing is giving my daughter’s friends the courtesy of telling them myself what has happened. Any parent would do the same.”
    “Cut it out, Leo! You can’t pretend this is an ordinary situation. It’s not. I repeat. You could compromise the case.” I let that sit for a minute, then I turned on the wipers. “I’m going to take you to your apartment. I will go myself and talk to Deidre’s friends and I promise I will come back and report to you.”
    He reached for the door handle. “I can get a taxi. You can’t stop me from doing that.”
    “I can call Ed Chaffey and have you prevented from entering the premises. Please don’t make me do that, Leo. It will be embarrassing for everybody, and I repeat, the absolute last thing we want is to contaminate the investigation.”
    He slumped back in the seat and sat like that with his eyes closed. The windows were completely fogged over. I waited him out.
    “Very well. Do you know who the friends are?”
    “Yes. Nora gave me two names.”
    “Who are they?”
    “Why do you want to know?”
    He blinked. “They were part of Deedee’s life. It comforts me to have their names.”
    I could see how hard it was for him to reveal this much vulnerability.
    “One of them is Jessica Manolo; the other is Hannah Silverstein.”
    He nodded. “I recognize the names. They graduated from university together … I saw the class list — she didn’t invite me.”
    I started the engine and headed for his condominium. As I was about to make a turn onto Barrie Road, he sat forward.
    “I need to walk, Chris. Let me out here. I promise I won’t interfere.”
    I had no alternative but to trust him and I thought he’d be all right. I let him out and proceeded on to Lachlie Street. I could see him in my rear-view mirror, a small man hunched up against the rain, moving slowly and stiffly as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him and wasn’t sure he had regained use of his limbs.
    Like a lot of smaller associations dotted around the city, the OHHA had taken over a Victorian-era mansion which had once housed an affluent family with numerous offspring and several servants. It was a large, well-proportioned, red-brick house with gables, chimneys, and gracious windows. There was a striped canopy from the front door to the street and two workmen, muffled up against the cold, were digging up the path with jackhammers. They didn’t seem to notice my approach and I walked around them carefully to get to the door, only to read a sign that told me, somewhat redundantly, that work was in progress and to watch my step. I pushed open the heavy wooden door and went inside to what had once been the gracious foyer of the old house. An enormous crystal chandelier, which looked original, blazed down warm, welcome light on this grey day. The floor was marble and the walls were panelled in oak. There had to be some concession to the house’s present-day function, however, and one chunk of the space had been sectioned off by glass panelling, and behind that was a desk where a young woman was sitting. She saw me and smiled. I could tell she said, “Can I help you?” but the noise of the jackhammer outside drowned out her words. I took my ID out of my purse and held it up to her and shouted.
    “Detective Sergeant Morris, I’d like to speak to the supervisor, please.”
    She glanced at the card, looked a little alarmed, and held up one finger, indicating I should wait a moment while she punched in a code on the telephone. I noticed she was wearing a hearing aid, tucked behind her ear. She looked to be in her early twenties, pretty, with long fair hair and blue eyes. I wondered with some dread if she was one of the good friends that I would soon be delivering such bad news to.
    The jackhammer