Читать книгу Cut to the Chase - Joan Boswell - Страница 10

Late that October Saturday afternoon, Rhona Simpson hunkered down at her desk. She, along with an ever-growing pool of detectives, had been assigned to unearth the killer or killers preying on men in the downtown area. The killings had begun six weeks earlier. The police weren’t any closer to solving the crimes than they had been on day one.

Six murdered men, five identified thus far, all stabbed with a long, thin blade. One unidentified—his face pulverized and his fingertips chopped off. No one had reporting a missing loved one, at least not a man with physical characteristics that corresponded to the mystery man’s. A gangland execution—but which gang and why?

Rhona repositioned the elastic scrunchy anchoring her dark hair away from her face and covertly studied the partner assigned to her.

Ian Galbraith, the newest detective in homicide, zealously applied a yellow highlighter to the document in front of him. There wouldn’t be much unmarked when he finished. Single-mindedness characterized his attitude. Like most new boys, he was determined to prove himself.

Physically, blazingly blue eyes, fair skin and black hair falling in his eyes marked him as a man with a Gaelic heritage matching his name. Tall, thin and intense, he’d launched himself into the investigation as if his position depended on it, and maybe it did.

“What are you staring at?” Ian said.

“Sorry, I do that when I’m thinking,” Rhona said.

“I’m relieved. I thought I must have left half my lunch on my face,” Ian said with a small smile that revealed perfect teeth and a dimple. He returned to scrutinizing the document.

They’d spent the morning on the street, interviewing women and men on the stroll and searching for fresh clues to identify the killer. Hours later, they were cross-indexing information from the murdered men’s files, seeking a revealing, overlooked detail. For the last few minutes, they’d been reviewing information, searching for similarities in lifestyle, hangouts, diet, habits, medical conditions—factoids that linked the victims to each other and to their killer or killers.

Rhona leaned back in her swivel chair and shifted her weight to keep from resting on her left hip. She’d enrolled in a Pilates class several weeks before, and the previous day her ego had prompted her to do a leg-lifting exercise that the instructor had cautioned was for the “more advanced” in the group. Rhona had figured that as she was only in her late thirties, she was as fit as anyone, but watching the lithe twenty-year-olds, she should have known better.

She stretched her legs and contemplated the black tooled-leather cowboy boots chosen to coordinate with her washable black pantsuit. Aware of her foibles, she knew she wore boots almost daily not only because they were comfortable but because they gave her the added inches she craved. In the man’s world of policing, being a short First Nation woman left her triply disadvantaged, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it except wear higher heels. Enough self-examination. They had work to do.

“Six weeks since the first murder—it’s too long,” Rhona said.

“It is.” Ian evened the edges of the paper piled on his desk and frowned. “Do you get a sense the killer doesn’t care about his victims?”

Rhona felt her eyebrows rise.

“No, that didn’t come out right. What if the killer hates what his victims do but isn’t attacking them as individuals. That’s what I mean?”

“Like the anti-abortionists who have nothing against particular doctors but kill them because of what they do?”

“An analogous comparison. A fervent crusader maybe?”

Analogous? Fervent? Not words commonly heard from her fellow detectives. She’d have to learn more about this new guy. “Maybe. They were all addicts.” Rhona riffled through her papers. “No victim was sexually assaulted or fought back. No skin under fingernails, no semen, nobody who’s come forward to say he saw anything—we’ll have to catch the perp in the act.” She rocked forward on her chair and winced.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asked.

“Pulled a muscle doing Pilates,” Rhona said. She cautiously leaned her body forward again. “These men were expendable. That doesn’t explain why they were killed.”

“It’s the general opinion that they were involved in the drug trade?”

Rhona shook her head. “Too obvious. These guys were peripheral—small fry.” She moved herself a fraction of an inch to the right. “They weren’t operators—maybe mules, but I doubt it. I think the killer hates drugs and those who use them. Finding the person who hates drugs enough to kill men because they were addicted—that’s who we’re searching for. Whoever that someone is, he doesn’t frighten those he kills. That’s our perp.”

“That might explain those crimes, but I don’t see how it ties into the killing of the other man.” Ian steepled his fingers, tilted his head to one side and waited for her response.

“In my opinion it doesn’t. The perp beat the shit out of this guy before he died. His face smashed with something heavy—a crowbar, baseball bat—who knows. His fingers chopped off. No fingerprints. Whoever killed him didn’t want him identified. We have to wonder why.”

“No blood in the dumpster where we found him. Moved from somewhere—who knows—it’s a big city,” Ian said.

“The killer made sure the victim would be hard, if not impossible to identify. Why hasn’t someone missed him?”

“Obvious answers. Either he isn’t from Toronto, or those close to him don’t dare call us.” Ian swept up the pile of paper, held it aloft and shook it. “The answer is here. It would be good for our careers if we could identify the missing link.”

Rhona’s phone rang. She listened for a moment, pushed the button to activate the speaker phone and motioned for Ian to listen. “Repeat that, please,” she said.

“My friend’s brother is missing. She’s afraid something terrible has happened to him,” Hollis said.

Men disappeared every day; it was the nature of the beast. However, at this particular moment, Homicide had an unidentified male murder victim.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Give me his particulars,” Rhona said.

“I’ll put his sister, Candace Lafleur, on the line. She’ll provide the details.”

“Detective Rhona Simpson speaking. Sorry to hear about your brother. Give me his vital statistics—name, age, height, weight, eye and hair colour, marital status, occupation, address, everything relevant. After that, tell me why you’re worried.”

“Danson Lafleur. He’s twenty-four, single, six-foot-two, about one hundred and sixty-five pounds, blue eyes and brown hair. Danson’s a bouncer at the Starshine club, and he plays semi-professional lacrosse. He lives in an apartment on Bernard Street in the Annex.”

“Tattoos or scars?”

“No. He hated…” Candace paused.

Rhona knew, as surely as if she’d been in the room with her, that Candace’s eyes had widened; she’d spoken as if her brother was dead. “My god, that was past tense. That shows how frightened I am. Anyway, he’s hated needles since he was a baby. I can’t remember any scars. He suffered the usual number of childhood falls and accidents, but none left scars.”

Too bad. A snake twining on his bicep or a heart on his shoulder would help identify him. Today being tattooed seemed to be a rite of passage. Rhona had contemplated getting one relating to her Cree background but had rejected the idea of voluntarily suffering pain.

Rhona said nothing about the man’s body lying unidentified in the morgue. He didn’t have identifying marks either, but comparing DNA or dental records would tell if Danson Lafleur and the man in the morgue were one and the same.

“Why are you afraid?”

“We always talk on Sunday nights. Always. It’s never mattered where he was or what he was doing, he always, always phoned me on Sundays. I had lunch with him two Saturdays ago, and he hasn’t contacted me since.” She paused. She probably thought that this sounded a bit odd and required an explanation. It did. Most grown men did not phone their sisters once a week.

“I’m older than Danson and more or less brought him up. Kind of a surrogate mother. He’s never missed a Sunday night. Never. He would have phoned or e-mailed me if he could.”

Definitely didn’t sound good, although a man might change his habits without it meaning anything more serious than a desire to alter routines.

“Have you checked his home to see if he took clothes, suitcases, cancelled the paper or anything else to tell you he left intentionally?”

“We’re in his apartment right now. His car, wallet and keys are gone, but his cell phone isn’t, and he didn’t take shaving stuff or toiletries.”

“Sounds as if it’s time to report him to missing persons. Go to your nearest station and file a report. Take a recent photo. Let me speak to Hollis again.”

“Hollis speaking.”

“I don’t want to alarm your friend, but if Ms Lafleur has access to his apartment, ask her to pick up and bag his hairbrush or something else that will have DNA and drop it off at the desk downstairs. Also get the name of the young man’s dentist.”

“May I ask why?”

“Pursuant to another inquiry,” Rhona said. “We’ll get back to you.”

“How soon?”

“When the lab work is done.”

Ian raised an eyebrow after Rhona had placed the phone in its cradle.

“Hollis Grant. I’ve dealt with her twice before,” Rhona explained.

“In what capacity?”

“When I worked in Ottawa, her husband was murdered and here, in Toronto, the stepson of one of her friends was murdered.”

Ian exhaled a puff of breath and shook his head. “I’d say you need hazard pay to associate with her.”

Rhona nodded. “You could be right. She seems to be murder-prone. You heard what her friend said. Her brother is the right height, weight and has the same colour hair as the man in the morgue. For his family’s sake, I hope it isn’t him. But it would speed up our investigation and give us leads if we knew the victim’s identity.”

* * *

As Danson’s TV blared and Elizabeth sat entranced, Hollis and Candace stared at one another.

“What did the detective say?”

Hollis gave herself a minute to think while she readjusted and resettled her red-framed glasses. She hated passing on the message, but Candace had every right to be told. “She wants something with Danson’s DNA and asked for his dentist’s name.”

“Oh my god! Do you suppose his statistics match those of the unidentified man? Is that why they want…” Candace’s voice petered out, as if she couldn’t bear to say the words aloud.

“I’m sure she would have asked anyone reporting a missing man the approximate age of the victim to supply those things.” Hollis made her voice sound offhand. “I expect it’s totally routine—an elimination process. Probably doesn’t mean anything.”

Candace looked doubtful.

“Do you know his dentist’s name?”

“Sure, I go to him too.”

“You have his address and number?”

“At home.”

“Why don’t you go back to the house and write everything down. I’ll pick up a couple of items here. Then you or I or both of us can take everything to the police station.”

“Dental records. My god, this is awful. Waiting will be unbearable. Doing lab tests and matching dental records—it will seem like forever before they have the answer.” Candace’s voice rose. “I don’t know if I can make it,” she said.

Elizabeth, not completely absorbed in Curious George’s antics, raised her head. “You cross?” she said conversationally.

Candace made a visible effort to pull herself together. She inhaled and exhaled slowly before she answered, “No, sweetie. But it’s time to turn off the TV and go home.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Curious George?” she said.

“Maybe later,” Hollis said. “Right now, Hollis will follow us soon. Then we’ll go for a ride.” She pointed to the new shoes. “Let’s see how well you and your new shoes go down the stairs?”

After they’d left, Hollis pulled a plastic baggie from her purse. Maybe it was a good thing Danson hadn’t taken his toiletries. She collected the hair brush from the bathroom drawer and sealed it in the bag.

Back in the living room, she turned her attention to Danson’s computer. She hated leaving before she saw his files. She temporized—maybe half an hour. No, she wouldn’t do that. This wasn’t the time to keep Candace waiting. Candace would feel better after they delivered Danson’s things to Rhona. Before she left the apartment, she verified that she’d replaced every item where it had been originally.

At Candace’s house, her Volvo station wagon idled in front of the building. Hollis parked and walked over.

Candace cracked the window open and waved a post-it note. “Here’s the name and address. Stick it in with whatever you have. I’ll drive you downtown. I don’t want to slow down the DNA testing for a single solitary moment.”

Hollis piled into the front passenger seat. Before she could slam the door, Candace squealed away from the curb. Hands gripping the steering wheel, she took her eyes off the road long enough to glance at Hollis. “Are you a praying woman?”

“I used to be married to a minister, so I should be. I’m not though.”

“I’m not either, but I’m praying there will be DNA on the brush…” She took one hand off the wheel and tapped the baggie on Hollis’s knee, “…and it won’t belong to a murdered man.”

Candace’s driving frightened Hollis. She erratically sped up and slowed to a crawl, causing following drivers to honk and wave fingers at her as they passed. Twenty long minutes later, she deposited Hollis at the police building on College Street. At the front desk, Hollis dropped off the bag with directions to send it up to Rhona.

Returning to the car, she glanced at Candace, whose face was not as white and strained as it had been.

“Hi, Howis,” Elizabeth said in a tone that suggested they’d been parted for at least a year.

Hollis swivelled cautiously and grinned at the girl strapped into her car seat in the centre of the back seat. “Hi, Elizabeth. Nice shoes.”

Elizabeth held up her foot. “Nice,” she said approvingly.

“Given what we’ve found, perhaps I should go back to Danson’s apartment and keep working. I can come to dinner another time,” Hollis said.

“Go back after dinner. Since we think Danson didn’t intend to be away, you have to talk to Poppy and see if she can provide some insights into where he might have gone. They’re close—Danson tries to take care of Poppy.” A small smile crept across Candace’s face. “Once you’ve met her, you’ll know what a challenge that is.”

“How much do you plan to share with your mother?”

“Nothing more than what she already knows—he’s missing. But Danson calls her often and pops in to see her at least once a week, and he may have told her something. As I said, he’s family oriented and always wants to look after us.”

“Poppy, Poppy, Poppy,” Elizabeth chanted.

“You’ll see her soon. She’s coming for dinner,” Candace said.

“Getti?”

“No, lasagna, but you like that.”

Hollis smiled. Candace had been right when she claimed that having a sustained conversation when a toddler was around presented challenges.

“Candace, you arrived at the apartment before I had examined Gregory’s room or gone through Danson’s files or opened his computer. We need to discover Gregory’s surname and contact him. I hate to waste a moment.”

Candace banged her fist on the steering wheel. “If you talk to Poppy, you’ll find out more than I will.”

“Why is that?”

“Because when she chooses, she manages to say nothing charmingly, and I’m not good at persuading her to talk about subjects she doesn’t want to discuss.”

Clearly dinner would be a command performance.

In the hour before dinner, Hollis walked MacTee and settled him in her apartment before she went downstairs. Candace, with Elizabeth behind her, answered her knock.

“Tee?” Elizabeth said and peered behind Hollis.

“I left him upstairs.”

“Would you get him?” Candace said. “He’s like Nana the St. Bernard in Peter Pan—he acts like a babysitter. If we’re to have a good conversation, we need him.”

When Hollis returned with MacTee, Elizabeth threw up her hands and shouted, “Tee, Tee, Tee.” The buzzer signalled the arrival of Poppy and Alberto. The door to the front hall opened, and Poppy Lafleur, in a cloud of musky scent, made her entrance, trailed by the slim, elegant Alberto.

What presence Poppy had. Tall, auburn-haired, and beautifully made-up, her clingy black jersey dress revealed a spectacular figure. Patent-leather stilettos, a chunky jade-and-silver necklace and two armloads of silver bracelets that jingled when she moved completed the elegant presentation. A subtle cloud of aromatic scent floated in with her.

Her figure was evidence that dancing burned masses of calories—probably as many as running. Hollis asked herself if she should replace running with dancing, but even as she posed the question, she knew nothing would ever make her figure like Poppy’s. Hollis’s big-boned frame would remain her inheritance from peasant ancestors.

“We’ve met in passing,” Poppy said and extended beautifully-manicured hands loaded with large, eye-catching rings. “But you haven’t met my partner. This is Alberto.”

Alberto grasped then kissed Hollis’s hand.

Latin men did that in movies, but it seemed a little over the top in a Toronto living room.

“Charmed,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent and a smile that revealed teeth so white, they had to be capped.

He made Hollis think of matadors or gigolos—handsome and fully aware of their effect on women.

“Darling,” Poppy said in a low, throaty voice, bending down and opening her arms to Elizabeth.

“Poppy,” Elizabeth trilled. No Grandma or Nana for this exotic creature.

After a big exchange of hugs and kisses, the two moved to the slip-covered cream cotton sofas. The couches sat at right angles to one another with a long, rectangular black leather bench in front of them. Elizabeth hoisted herself onto Poppy’s knee and snuggled ever closer as she moved the bracelets up and down on Poppy’s arm.

Conversation swirled from the unseasonable weather to the possibility of an election before Candace pulled an ottoman over to face her mother.

“Poppy,” she said, “I’m worried about Danson. Do you have any idea where he is?”

“Darling, you worry too much. Danson is a grown man. If he goes off for a few days, it isn’t anything to fuss about. There is something I want to ask you.”

Candace shifted on the ottoman and waited.

“Were you in my apartment recently?”

“No. Why?”

“I saved a section of Saturday’s Globe from two weeks ago, and I’ve misplaced it.”

Hollis would have pegged Poppy as a Sun or a Star reader. The Saturday entertainment section must be the attraction.

Poppy toyed with a dangling earring. “I’m sometimes forgetful, but I’m sure I didn’t throw it out. I thought you might have picked it up.”

“I didn’t. Danson’s in your apartment all the time. He cares for your plants. Perhaps he took it or tidied up before he went wherever he’s gone,” Candace said coldly.

Poppy, ignoring Candace’s comment, directed her next remark to Hollis. “Darling Danson. I owned masses of gorgeous, expensive artificial flowers and plants and my darling son objected. He said silk plants were totally déclassé.” She tossed her head, and the swinging red hair caught the light. It’s glory reminded Hollis of the shampoo commercials in which hair was impossibly shiny and beautiful.

“As if I cared,” Poppy continued. “Anyway, I refused to replace them with real ones, because I knew, absolutely knew, that they’d die. Darling Danson said he’d help me buy real ones and look after them. He’s been as good as his word.” She frowned. “My poor plants—without Danson around to attend to them.”

She focused on Candace. “But why would you suggest that Danson would take it? Do you have a copy of the Globe?”

Candace shook her head. “The recycling pickup was Wednesday. Sorry. “

“Darling, it isn’t that important, but I am worried about my plants.”

Looking at Candace’s fists and white knuckles, Hollis feared her friend would launch an attack on her mother. Instead, Candace slumped back and sighed. “Poppy, the plants are in self-watering containers. They’ll be fine, but if it will make you happy, I’ll come and tend them.”

Poppy clearly expected those close to her to bail her out of difficulties. Candace had performed the role since she was seven and continued to do so.

“Thank you, darling.”

Given the exchange and Danson’s disappearance shortly after his visit to Poppy’s apartment chances were good the paper was significant, Hollis thought. Did she have Saturday’s paper? Not likely. She’d dragged out a clear green plastic bag for recycling and was sure the paper was gone. Even if they found a copy, how would they know what they were searching for unless Poppy ’fessed up, and that seemed unlikely.

Poppy shrugged, slanted forward and peered down. “Elizabeth, darling, are those new shoes?”

Elizabeth stuck a foot out to allow Poppy to admire her shoe.

“It’s time to eat before Elizabeth has a major meltdown,” Candace said.

In the dining room, Candace fastened a large plastic bib around Elizabeth’s neck and anchored her in her high chair. MacTee settled underneath, ready to catch any morsels dropped or thrown his way.

The adults helped themselves. After Candace assured herself that everyone had what he or she needed, she said, “Poppy, what section of the paper did you save?”

Hollis smiled. Exactly what they needed to know.

Poppy waved a finger in front of her lips to indicate her mouth was full. Finally, she said, “The financial pages. Something triggered an idea for a contact for costumes. I can’t remember what it was.” Poppy spoke rapidly without meeting her daughter’s eyes.

Hollis glanced at Candace and assumed her friend’s lifted eyebrows expressed doubt.

“Poppy, if it was important enough to ask us if we had copies, you must be able to be more specific. It has to be related to Danson.”

With another forkful halfway to her mouth, Poppy paused. “You can be so dramatic. Did I tell you we’ll be away at the Vancouver dance competition next week? Candace, darling, if you could see to the cats, I’d appreciate it.”

Candace laid her fork on her plate. She stared at her mother as if confronting a rare and unfamiliar species. “I’ll do it,” she said frostily.

Alberto pleaded the onset of a migraine and left soon after dinner. Elizabeth insisted Poppy supervise her bath and read her bedtime stories.

Candace and Hollis listened to gales of laughter while they cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher.

“She’s terrific with Elizabeth—never worries about getting messy. Elizabeth loves her,” Candace said.

“Fascinating woman.”

How did you say to a friend that you thought her mother was a liar? Hollis ventured what she hoped was a diplomatic question. “Did you think she told us everything about the newspaper article?”

Candace blew a noisy raspberry. “No. She only tells you what she chooses. She didn’t want to enlighten us, and she didn’t.”

When Poppy rejoined them, she gathered her handbag and said, “Darling, I can’t stay. Alberto and I have to rehearse for the competition. Tomorrow morning we’ve reserved our studio for ourselves, and we hired a cameraman to record our routine so we can study it.” She smiled at Hollis. “Delighted to finally talk to you. As an artist you must come down and see my art collection.”

“Love to,” Hollis said. The opportunity to pump Poppy had evaporated. How could they uncover the information she seemed to be withholding?