Читать книгу Cut to the Chase - Joan Boswell - Страница 11

With her detecting supplies stashed in her bag, Hollis set off for Danson’s. Lights shone from the apartments above and below his black windows. She hated entering unfamiliar unoccupied space at night. She’d once been trapped in a dark, deserted church with a murderer and knew this experience partially accounted for the phobia.

That was then, and this was now. She locked her truck, squared her shoulders and marched into the building. Inside, she unlocked Danson’s downstairs door and climbed the broad, once-grand mahogany stairs as if she carried heavy iron bars that increased in weight with each step she took. When she faced his apartment door and slid the key into the lock, her stomach contracted, and her throat dried. She swallowed convulsively but without releasing any saliva. The taste of hard, metallic fear filled her throat.

How could she overcome this paralyzing dread? If she propped the door open, the other tenants would hear her scream. What if they didn’t come? What if they thought it was on a neighbour’s TV and cranked up the sound on their own set?

Scream—what was wrong with her? She’d searched the apartment hours earlier and seen nothing to frighten her and no evidence that anyone else had been there. Silly, silly, silly, she scolded and ordered herself to get a grip.

One deep, calming breath and she opened the door.

Then she retreated to the hall, removed a hefty pad of printing paper from her bag and wedged the door open.

Briefly she contemplated ringing the other tenants’ bells, asking if they knew where Danson was and telling them she would be in his apartment but decided against it. Later, if it became necessary, she’d interview them but not tonight.

Finally, after another steadying breath, she crept into the apartment and flicked on the three light switches just inside the door before she froze and listened. Silence. The bedroom and bathroom doors were closed. Had she shut them when she’d left?

If only she’d brought MacTee.

She really was being silly. Who had ever heard of a golden retriever protecting anyone?

She inched along the hall, flung the bathroom door open and hit the light switch. Earlier in the day she’d bunched the shower curtain back, and it remained just as she’d left it, an empty white room. No one lurked here.

The closed bedroom door came next. She tiptoed to the door, carefully rotated the knob and banged the door open. Nothing moved. The only sound was her breathing and her thudding heart. No one there. She flipped lights on as she progressed from room to room. Nothing. She was alone, totally alone.

Once her heart had resumed its normal rhythm, she started her search in Gregory’s room, confident some item would have his surname, his employer’s name and a contact number to confirm that he was who he said he was.

An old-fashioned maple bed, matching dresser and straight chair, inexpensive white particleboard desk and bedside table furnished the room. Yet another lacrosse poster adorned the walls. A laptop, boom-box and a stack of CDs sat on the desk, a shaving kit rested atop the bureau and several paperbacks, one splayed open, spine up, lay on the bedside table.

What did this tell her?

She’d been through this with Danson’s belongings. Guys didn’t leave without their shaving kits. Furthermore, businessmen seldom parked their laptops at home, certainly not in a temporary pad like this. They might have a desktop at home, but laptops were for travel, for bringing work home from the office. Wherever he’d gone, Gregory hadn’t intended to stay. No, not quite true. He could have a razor, shaving cream and toothbrush at a lover’s or relative’s place. It was peculiar that both he and Danson had left at approximately the same time.

She unzipped the cheap black pseudo-leather case. Not much inside the main compartment besides the essentials for keeping oneself clean and healthy: toothbrush, Colgate toothpaste, Noxzema shaving cream, nail clippers, comb, Advil and an unopened package of condoms. No medical prescription with his name on the label.

The side pocket’s contents told a different story. She’d been building a picture of an innocuous young man, but the tin foil, spoon, matches, hypodermic needle and a baggie of white powder erased that image. Gregory used cocaine, maybe crack, maybe heroin—this equipment belonged to a heavy, not a recreational, drug user. An even more unsettling question—why hadn’t he taken his paraphernalia with him?

Had Danson known? Was he too a drug user? How would Candace react if she found out that he was an addict? Like most family members confronted with unpleasant realities, Candace wouldn’t want to believe it. Fortunately, no evidence supported this idea this far. Back to Gregory.

She dragged the wooden chair to the desk, sat down and found she needed a password to open the computer. Her disappointment was mixed with suspicion. Computers revealed so much about their owners, particularly e-mails and saved files. Few people employed passwords for personal computers. If you had something to hide or weren’t who you claimed to be, of course you’d guard your information. Was this why Gregory’s required a password?

The almost-empty top desk drawer held three Bic ballpoint pens, a yellow legal pad, envelopes, a few paper clips and a calculator. The other drawers were empty except for traces of ancient dust. No bills, no receipts, no address book—nothing to identify Gregory. Granted, he’d moved in recently, but putting herself in the same situation, she would have had address stickers in with the envelopes, extra chequebooks—personalized items you used frequently.

Perhaps his clothes would reveal more. Brand name dress shirts, golf shirts, a tweed sports jacket, grey flannels, chinos and jeans hung in the cupboard. On the floor, black oxfords, brown loafers and worn Nikes. Everything was standard issue, brand-name clothing. She rummaged through the pockets and came up with crumpled tissues, a half-empty package of Lifesavers, a match folder with a gas company logo.

Again—nothing useful. Gregory, the mystery man.

What methods would the police use to identify him? They wouldn’t learn anything from his clothes, but they’d have the expertise to bypass his computer’s password and log in. No doubt this was the motherlode, and they’d come up with a wealth of information. Gregory would remain a mystery to her unless she found information about him in Danson’s computer files.

The big question—would Danson’s computer require a password? She’d been about to open it the other day when Elizabeth and Candace had arrived. She should have followed up immediately—locating Danson was her priority.

In the living room she sat down in front of Danson’s open computer. Disappointment engulfed her. Again she needed a password. Futility marked her evening’s work. She snapped down the lid, unplugged the computer’s cable and packed it in the case she found under the desk. Her last hope was that Candace, who knew many details of Danson’s life, would have the password. She probably shouldn’t remove it from the apartment, but since they only suspected Danson was in trouble, it wasn’t a crime.

If Candace provided the magic word, Hollis would zip through the information in Danson’s computer. If his electronic life was as well-organized as his paper files, she calculated that she could race through the data. She’d transfer whatever struck her as relevant to her own computer. She didn’t allow herself to hope she’d uncover the reason for his disappearance, but it was a possibility. Either way, it would be a matter of hours before she returned it to his apartment.

Computer bag in hand, she felt the knot in her shoulders relax as the heavy front door clicked shut behind her. If she returned, she’d visit during the day. Back at her own building, Hollis parked and glanced upward. Lights glimmered in the second floor windows. Not too late to talk to Candace.

Before she had time to knock, Candace’s door flew open. “Did you find anything?” Candace said. She was holding her breath and stiffening her body as if she expected a blow.

“Nothing earth-shattering,” Hollis lied, but the hallway wasn’t the place to deliver bad news.

Candace breathed again. She peered at Hollis and braced her hands on either side of the door frame. “I can tell by your expression that you did. What was it?”

“Let me in and I’ll tell you,” Hollis said.

They moved to the kitchen, where Candace, operating on automatic, plugged in the kettle ready to prepare the ever-soothing cuppa. “What was on Danson’s computer? Did you get any leads? What about Gregory? What’s his last name? Who does he work for?”

Hollis raised both hands, palms toward Candace, to fend off the barrage.

“Whoa. One question at a time. First, I brought Danson’s computer with me. It needs a password, and I figured you might know it. If you do, I’ll go through his files and e-mails tomorrow.”

“I do, but should you have done that? What if he comes home and thinks there’s been a break-in? What if...” Candace stopped as Hollis again extended her arm, palm raised.

“Relax. I’ll skim quickly and forward anything important to my computer. If all goes well, I’ll have it back in twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it, but as far as we know, Danson’s absence is innocent. We’ll work from that premise until we learn otherwise.”

Candace stepped back. “I suppose you’re right.” As she poured the pale, pleasant smelling camomile tea into flowered blue china mugs, she spoke over her shoulder. “Did you discover any more about Gregory?”

Hollis waited until Candace swung around and handed her a cup. “Gregory is more and more of a mystery man. There was nothing, absolutely nothing with his surname on it, nothing to say where he worked or where to get a hold of him. Surprisingly, his laptop was there, but I couldn’t open it without a password.” How to phrase what she was going to say next? A statement, nonjudgmental and factual, would be best. “I did find out something important about him. Gregory’s a drug user, the heavy stuff. He stored what I guess was cocaine, although it could have been heroin in his shaving kit. Given that drug-users generally keep their supply with them, the fact that it was in the apartment is bad news.”

“My god.” Candace clapped her hand over her mouth.

Hollis watched her friend absorb the information. First, she lowered her hand then she stared into space as if marshalling information.

“That changes things, doesn’t it?” Candace said slowly. “Changes it a lot. Gregory’s in the equation now. It’s alarming that he didn’t take his drugs or computer with him.” She tapped her index finger against her lips.

No wonder she was hesitating. There was a basic and frightening question waiting to be asked.

Finally, Candace’s gaze met Hollis’s. “Did Danson have drug stuff?” Her voice betrayed her anxiety and her need to hear the right answer.

“No.”

Candace sighed. “Thank god. Because Danson was so obsessed about physical fitness, I can’t imagine him using drugs. Steroids maybe, if he thought they might improve his lacrosse stamina, but not street drugs.”

“I saw nothing to indicate that he takes anything.” Hollis unsuccessfully stifled a yawn. “Sorry. I’ve just realized how tired I am. That’s what happens to early risers who try to stay up late. I still have to walk MacTee. Tell me Danson’s password, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow after I’ve searched his files.”

“Before you go, there’s one more thing to think about,” Candace said.

“Related to his computer?”

“Yes, Danson’s wallet is gone. That means his credit card and bank card are also missing. Let’s see if he’s used either one since the Saturday he disappeared.”

“How could I have missed that?” Hollis said and answered her own question. “It may have crossed my mind, but I dismissed it because you need a password for internet banking.”

Candace smiled. “You can’t think of everything, and of course you assumed we couldn’t get in. But I do know his password plus the answers to the questions they ask to ascertain if it’s you.”

“I’m impressed. How come?”

“Because Danson’s girlfriend was murdered, he knows how fast and unexpectedly death can strike. In addition, he tracks ‘bad guys’, very bad guys, and that’s risky.”

“Too true.”

“After Angie died, he put his bank accounts, his condo and his car into joint ownership with me. He also made a will. If anything happens to him, everything is transferred to me.”

Hollis knew her face must show her surprise. “Did he expect something terrible to happen to him?” Given this information, it was no wonder Candace was worried.

“No, but he felt that since I’d been the mother-figure in his life, he wanted Elizabeth and me to inherit.”

“That’s why you have his information—to make life easier if he dies?”

“Right. I was going to give you the information and suggest that you go back to the apartment tomorrow. Now that you have his computer here, I won’t be able to sleep until I’ve seen his accounts. I’ll come up with you.”

She shifted from one foot to the other and gestured towards Elizabeth’s bedroom. “I don’t know whether to bring the baby monitor and plug it in upstairs or to ask you to stay here with her.”

“You can see her crib on the monitor. Why would I stay?”

“Because another call came tonight. It scared me.”

“Why?”

“The person, I think it was a man’s voice, whispered, ‘Where’s Danson’, gave a sick sort of laugh and added, ‘gone, gone, gone’, and hung up.”

“A sicko. It has to be someone who knows he’s missing.”

“Hardly anyone knows.”

“Not true. You’ve contacted his friends and his lacrosse cronies. They’ve probably told their friends, which means it could be anyone. You should call the police.”

“He didn’t say anything threatening. They wouldn’t take it seriously.”

“Maybe not, but you should do it.”

Candace shook her head.

“It explains why you’re afraid to leave Elizabeth, but the outside door is locked, the door into your apartment from the vestibule is locked. How could anything happen to her while you’re upstairs?”

Candace’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I guess you’re right. I’m paranoid. I admire your lack of fear.”

If Candace had seen her at Danson’s apartment, she would have realized just how frightened Hollis could be. This was not the time to reveal that. Hollis was tired. She’d anticipated taking MacTee out for a last walk before she pulled on comfy pyjamas along with sheepskin-lined slippers and flopped in front of the TV. She rationalized that a few moments delay until she indulged herself would make the pleasure sweeter.

Wearily, she trudged upstairs, followed by Candace, unpacked the computer and plugged it in. Candace jittered around the room, and even before the screen lit up, dropped down on the chair, tapping her fingers impatiently, waiting for the machine to boot up. Once it had, she clicked, located the banking site and entered the important information.

“I’m in,” she said. “First I’ll look at his chequing account.”

Hollis waited.

“Bad news. No activity at ATMs since the Friday before.”

“It could mean someone stole his card and didn’t have the number combo to open it,” Hollis said.

“And no activity in his Visa account,” Candace said in a low voice.

“Again, if someone stole it or he lost it, that could be the explanation,” Hollis countered.

Candace spun around to face her. “Don’t be such a bloody Pollyanna,” she said. “Admit it. You know this isn’t good news.”

“Okay, it isn’t, but we have to be hopeful.”

“You be hopeful. I’m going to bed, and I’m anything but hopeful,” Candace said. She rose, scooped up the baby monitor, patted MacTee and left.

Was this investigation a pointless waste of time? Should she stop playing amateur sleuth and simply wait for the DNA results? If the DNA wasn’t Danson’s, they’d be no further ahead. No, they had to assume he was alive and keep going.

In the morning she’d plod through the computer files. Tedious work, but it would distract her from her painting problem. She stepped back to examine the large work on the easel. It stared back at her—a huge canvas shining with gold paint but lacking any character or message.

Maybe she could make a Rothko out of it? Fat chance. When you saw his colour field paintings in books or on slides, they underwhelmed. When you parked yourself in front of the real thing, they vibrated, the colours pulsed, moved and left a retinal afterimage. Her painting looked as if you’d stick it in Holt Renfrew’s store window behind mannikins dressed in clothes accessorized with gold.

She removed the work and turned it to the wall. Tomorrow, after she finished with the computer files, she’d work on her chickens. Maybe she’d make a papier-mâché needs an accent dog for Elizabeth. Not too big. A bulldog would be perfect, with its short legs and squashed face. Whenever she took MacTee to the off-leash park, they met Winston, a French bulldog crossed with a Pekinese—a Bullnese, one of the new breeds beginning to gain acceptance by the Kennel Club. He was the friendliest and most charming dog she’d ever seen, and MacTee loved her. She’d wheel Elizabeth in her stroller. After the toddler fell in love with Winston, she’d present her with the papier mâché replica. Elizabeth would love it. She’d be able to carry it with her wherever she went.

* * *

Hollis awoke to hear the sparrows in the cedar hedge at the side of the property greeting each other and celebrating dawn’s arrival. She lay in bed mulling over what she knew about Danson and his life. MacTee stood beside the bed, sighing and staring at her.

“I hear you. You know perfectly well you could wait another hour—it’s your breakfast you want.”

MacTee continued to fix her with an unblinking stare.

“Okay, I’m up,” she grumbled and slid out of bed.

Outside, the clear sky and gentle wind promised another glorious Indian summer day. It would be lovely on Centre Island. If she finished reading Danson’s files and found nothing that required more work, she’d return the computer, postpone her chicken work and take MacTee to the Island on the subway and the ferry. They’d spend the afternoon walking and enjoying the glory of Lake Ontario. Today, those sailboats not stashed in dry dock for the winter would be skimming across the lake. She envisioned the white sails interspersed with multi-striped or vividly coloured spinnakers crisscrossing the waves.

MacTee padded after her as she headed for the bathroom.

“There’s only one door. I’m coming out. I do not. I repeat, do not, need your help,” Hollis said and shut the door in his face.

Outside, moving along the sidewalk, she picked up her pace. MacTee and she both needed a fast walk to pump up their heart rates and keep them healthy. Almost an hour later, she let herself into the apartment and portioned out MacTee’s kibble, which he inhaled almost as soon as his dish touched the floor.

She should eat, but cereal and fruit had lost their appeal, and she lacked the energy to prepare anything else. Maybe a banana and a granola bar would do. The phone rang.

“I saw you come in. Checking out the computer will take up your morning, but Elizabeth and I want you to come down for an eleven thirty waffle lunch. Elizabeth loves waffles and insists she needs them this morning. I’m not up to waffle-making for breakfast and put her off until noon. It occurred to me you might enjoy them too. Since I’m making batter and hauling the waffle iron down from the cupboard, we should have a bang-up lunch—waffles, blueberries, raspberries—the works.”

“Sounds great.” What could she contribute from her nearly empty refrigerator? “I do have cottage cheese and vanilla yogurt. I’ll bring both?”

Cheered by the prospect of a tasty lunch, she plunked down in front of the computer.

Now to Danson’s files? She tapped his password and watched the screen as his e-mail messages downloaded. A deluge flooded in. Two hundred and forty-seven to be exact. Some from friends, mostly concerning lacrosse. She shuddered seeing the number of messages with attachments. A quick glance told her the majority involved the upcoming lacrosse season—practice and game schedules. She printed seven cryptic ones that might relate to criminal tracking.

Next she surveyed the sidebar of folders. Family, friends, criminals. Well, that was certainly straightforward.

She opened “criminals”. He’d begun his crusade three years earlier, shortly after Angie’s death. The first three cases involved Haitians. Not surprising, since immigrants to Montreal came from French-speaking parts of the world. She’d read that the largest Haitian population outside of Haiti lived in Quebec. Newspapers had published the information when the Queen had appointed a Canadian woman, born in Haiti, to be Governor-General.

The next correspondence involved two Jamaicans in Toronto. Then an Eastern European case and most recently an American. Interesting. Given the U.S. hysteria about border security, they’d allowed a deported criminal to return. She thought about airport security. Actually the U.S. agents’ gimlet eyes assessed incoming and had nothing to do with outgoing. Presumably these criminals had passed Canadian immigration without any trouble. A worrisome thought.

Time for a plan. She plucked a sheet of newsprint from the pile beside her worktable. At the top she printed “Danson” then drew downward radiating lines to Gregory, recent phone calls, lacrosse, criminals, Poppy, bouncer and e-mail contacts. She left room on the right for more entries.

Gregory. Who was he? Where would Danson have recorded correspondence with Gregory? She ran her eye down the sidebar files. Concordia might provide an answer. When opened it revealed a vast correspondence with friends, including Gregory.

Don’t know if you remember me? We took Soc 300 together. I was in George’s section, and he tells me you might have a room to rent. I’m going to be on the road in the Toronto area next week. Would you be interested in giving me a Toronto base? Let me know soon. Cheers, Gregory.

She recalled her own university days. The classes always held dozens of people you nodded to but didn’t know. Almost anyone could say they’d been a friend, and you wouldn’t have a clue. If you were a nice person, you wouldn’t want to write back and say that you didn’t have the vaguest idea who the person was. What a great ploy to infiltrate someone’s life. She double-clicked on Gregory’s message to see if his surname came up. It didn’t.

Gregory4000@xyzabc.com was the e-mail address. She connected to e-mail and dispatched a message to Gregory asking where he was and if he knew where to locate Danson.

She opened the “sent” folder to read Danson’s corres-pondence with Gregory.

“Not sure I remember you but come and see me when you’re in Toronto. I’m interested in renting the room.” Then she searched for exchanges with George and found nothing. Maybe Danson had phoned to verify Gregory’s bona fides.

Back to the Gregory and Danson’s e-mails. They’d decided Gregory would drop in on September 10 to see the room and, if it suited him, arrange to move in. When had this been? Mid-September, almost a month ago. His most recent phone bill might have numbers.

When she’d returned from Danson’s, she’d bundled the photocopies of Danson’s documents and left the pile on her work table. Now she trundled over, sorted through the stack and extricated September’s phone records. Area codes—what was Montreal’s? Back to her desk, where she logged on to Canada 411. 514 was the code.

An examination of the phone records. Bingo. Four numbers in the 514 area. No time like the present—she’d call.

First one. “This number is no longer in service.” There had been two other calls from that number. Presumably this one had belonged to Gregory, who’d cancelled the service.

The fourth call rang and rang. Finally someone answered. “Âllo. C’est un téléphone publique. Personne est ici.”

French. How did she ask? High school French to the rescue. “Où est le téléphone situé?”

“Concordia University,” the respondent said, switching into English when she heard Hollis’s poor attempt at French.

The call from the university could have been anyone. No help from Montreal. Where did that leave her? For the moment she’d give up on Gregory. She moved to the next heading on her list—recent phone calls.

The land line wasn’t going to help—she only had September’s bill. Too far back. She needed October’s. The most recent calls made from his cell phone would tell her something.

At Danson’s apartment she’d copied the numbers along with his address book—it had taken forever, and she’d wondered if she was wasting her time. Now she’d get the answer.

Danson’s phone, a Motorola, had saved the ten most recent messages.

On the Sunday before he disappeared, he’d called Poppy three times during the afternoon. Interesting that she hadn’t mentioned it. Later that day there had been a call to a Toronto number. She dialed and allowed the phone to ring on, hoping there would be an answering machine. No such luck.

He hadn’t called Candace that Sunday evening. It had been his regular time to call, but he hadn’t done so. He’d been home Sunday afternoon, gone out and not returned.

She booted up her computer, typed Canada 411 and found that the number he had called was “unlisted”. Another dead end.

On the Friday there had been a call to the nightclub where he worked and a second one that she dialed. A lilting woman’s voice told her she’d reached the correct number, asked her to leave a message then wished her a happy day.

“My name is Hollis Grant. I’m trying to locate Danson Lafleur. Please call me.”

The other three calls connected to answering machines. She left the same message on each one.

Discouraged didn’t begin to describe how she felt.