Read Online Do or Die by Barbara Fradkin - Free Book Online Page A

been smoking by the time he pulled into the parking lot of the University of Ottawa administration building. He parked the Corolla in a spot marked “Dean of Arts”, slapped a police sticker in his windowand headed for the records department. The mention of murder and Professor Myles Halton sent the chief records clerk scurrying for the confidential file on Raquel Haddad.
    Raquel was twenty-two, born in Beirut to a Lebanese physician, but she was listed as living with her uncle Pierre Haddad, a Canadian citizen with a local Loretta Street Address. Green jotted it down, then scanned the rest of her file. She appeared to be in the fourth year of an Honours Biology program with a heavy emphasis on physiology, anatomy and biochemistry. Something Vanessa Weeks had said came to mind. Jonathan had told her Raquel was only a research assistant. Did senior Honours students help Masters students with their research?
    A visit to the eminent Dr. Myles Halton was certainly in order, but first he had to check out Pierre Haddad. The Loretta Street address proved to be a corner convenience store on the fringe of Little Italy. The front door sagged and the “L” and “Y” on the sign “Loretta Confectionery” had peeled off. Another victim of big box stores, Green thought as he pushed the door open with a screech of rusty hinges and entered a room full of dark, half-empty shelves. No wonder business was bad. Mr. Haddad needed some pointers in presentation.
    In response to the screech, a curtain parted at the back of the store and a man emerged. Early forties, swarthy and prematurely gone to fat. He rolled down the aisle to the cash.
    â€œPierre Haddad?”
    The man scowled, drawing his heavy black brows over his eyes. Green produced his badge and kept his voice soothing. Experience had taught him that people from violence-plagued countries were easily alarmed. “I’m Inspector Green of the Ottawa Police. As you probably know, a student at the University of Ottawa named Jonathan Blair was murdered lastnight. I’m told that Raquel Haddad was one of his research assistants. We are asking everyone who knew him if they know anything that might help us. Raquel listed you as next of kin, and this as her address. I wonder if I could speak to her.”
    Haddad had betrayed nothing during the entire speech, no doubt a habit learned on the streets of Beirut. But once Green had finished, he arranged an expression of dismay on his face.
    â€œMurdered! No, I did not know that. How terrible.”
    A foolish error, Green thought; he had passed the newspapers stacked for sale by the door. The news was blazoned across the front in large bold print.
    Green let the lie pass. “Yes, it’s terrible, and we need all the help we can get. She’s your niece, I understand? Living here with you?”
    â€œShe is the daughter of my brother in Beirut. But we don’t live here. This is my business.”
    â€œDid she ever talk about someone named Jonathan Blair?”
    He shook his head, then smiled and became effusive. “My brother sent her over here to be safer with me, but Canadian girls, they have much more freedom than Lebanese girls. She doesn’t like to talk to me about her school. I try to take care of her—keep an eye, you know, but not too much. I know she studies science, but I don’t know who are her friends.”
    Green knew it was ludicrous to think Haddad knew little of his niece’s university life. Mediterranean families brought their traditional values and their protectiveness with them, and it took several generations to wash out. Raquel might have refused to tell him anything, but he would have found out anyway.
    But it was not yet time to get tough. “Can you give me the address where I can find her?”
    Haddad sighed. “This is too bad, because I just put Raquel on the plane back to Beirut yesterday. Her school was finished,and she had been looking