Old City Hall Read Online Free PDF Page A

Bering said.
    “Not surprised,” Greene said.
    He turned back to Rasheed, the concierge. “How many elevators are there to the twelfth floor?”
    “The two you see in front of you and a service elevator around back.”
    Greene leaned over the lobby desk and scanned a row of live television monitors.
    “Do these cover all the exits?”
    “Yes. Yes. Certainly, the main doors.”
    Something about the man’s answer bothered him. “Are there other doors?”
    Rasheed looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Just one in the basement parking lot. There’s no camera on that. But it is rarely used, and it closes from the inside.”
    Greene looked back at Bering.
    “I had all three elevators disabled, including the service,” she said. “I covered the stairs until backup arrived. There was no way to cover the basement.”
    “Right move,” Greene said. The calculation was easy. Bering was alone down here and had to watch for someone coming into or trying to leave the lobby. And, Greene knew, Bering was smart enough not to lose sight of Rasheed.
    “How do you know if the basement door is opened?” he asked the concierge.
    “I check it when I do my rounds.”
    “Did you check it this morning?”
    “Not yet. The door’s rarely used. This is a quiet building.”
    It won’t be quiet for much longer, Greene thought, with Kevin Brace’s wife lying dead in their bathtub. “What if someone puts a brick in the door?”
    Rasheed blushed. “It happens once in a while.”
    Greene nodded. That was the second time Rasheed had been less than forthcoming in his answers.
    He walked to the elevator bank and went through a mental checklist: Bering had covered the lobby. The suspect and the witness were already taken away, and the forensic officer was now on scene. As much as he wanted to get upstairs, first he had to check the basement. There was a stairway beside the elevator, and as he reached for the door, it swung open.
    A rather short older woman, her gray hair combed elegantly back up over her head, marched straight out. She wore a long black coat, and a blazing blue scarf was tied neatly around her neck. She strode toward the front door, her posture erect.
    “Morning, Rasheed,” she said to the concierge, moving quickly.
    Greene rushed up beside her just before she got to the outer door. A rolled-up mat was slung over her shoulder. She had two white towels under her arm and a big water bottle in her hand.
    “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, flashing his badge. “Detective Ari Greene, Toronto Police. We’ve closed the building down for a few minutes.” He didn’t want to identify himself as a homicide detective.
    “Closed? What do you mean, closed?” The woman had a mild British accent, the kind that sounded as if it had been modified by many years in Canada. Up close she had high cheekbones that were accentuated by her age. She wore no makeup. Her skin was still remarkably smooth. Something about the dignified way in which she carried herself made Greene smile.
    “We’re investigating an incident in the building,” Greene said.
    “What does that have to do with me?” the woman asked. “My class starts in eleven minutes.”
    Greene moved all the way in front of her, blocking her exit. “This is a serious matter, I’m afraid.”
    She nodded toward the front desk. “Rasheed can give you any information you need, I’m sure.”
    Greene opened a leather-bound maroon notebook and pulled out his initialed Cross pen, the one that Chief Hap Charlton had given him when he made Homicide. The woman moved slightly closer to him. Greene could smell a hint of perfume. That made him smile again.
    “Could I have your name, please?” he asked.
    “Edna Wingate. Will this take long? I hate to be tardy. My yoga instructor does not tolerate late arrivals.”
    “You live in this building, Ms. Wingate?”
    “Suite 12B. It’s hot yoga, Detective,” she said, giving him a coquettish grin. “I always bring two towels.”
    “And how long