Cut to the Bone (13 page)

There she lined up behind three women with bicycles, their panniers filled with groceries, an elderly man puffing on a pipe, a rare sight in today's smokeless world, and a mass of high school students going home to the Island. At the wicket she dug into her purse and bought a ticket which included a return. A trip to bucolic Centre Island had definitely not been on her agenda, but she wasn't about to lead anyone to Norman.

When the gate creaked open and the crowd poured onto the ferry, she made for the back of the upper deck and perched on a slatted wooden bench where she could watch the other travellers. And there they were, Tweedles Dee and Dum.

The ferry hooted and set out for island. Normally she loved this trip, but not today. Should she disembark and see where they went? Not a chance, she'd ride back, go to the Eaton Centre and lose them. She yanked out her BlackBerry and phoned Norman.

“I'm on the ferry. I may be weird but I think two middle-aged guys are following me. I don't know how they knew where I was going, but I'm not coming to see you. I'm going home and I'll shake them on the way.”

“It must be the computer — they've hacked into it or my cell phone. I'll call you later. Don't email me, but I hardly ever go out, so come when you can. Thanks for leading them away. You may have saved my life.”

My god, he can't be serious. Saved his life.
What was he hiding from?

The ferry slowed and the deckhands grabbed the thick hausers and made ready to tie up the boat. The disembarking passengers bunched and crowded in the lower gangway. Hollis didn't move.

She remained anchored to her seat and wasn't surprised to see that her two thugs didn't get off either. A crowd of returning passengers flooded on as soon as the gangway emptied. Hollis sat where she was on the return trip and watched the men, who ignored her.

Once ashore she decided to give them some exercise, so instead of taking the streetcar she walked briskly past the hotel adjacent to the docks, under the train underpass, and back to the cavernous vastness of Union Station. Time for some fun.

She headed down to the bowels of the building and over to the subway entrance, where she dropped in her token and made for the north platform. A glance behind told her they were still with her. She pivoted on her heel and marched up to them.

“Why have you been following me?” she demanded.

The taller man, who had a silly-looking Fu Manchu moustache, shrugged. “We weren't following you.”

“No. You took the streetcar, went to the island, and didn't get off. We were the only people who didn't get off. Well, let me tell you I'm going to Sears to buy a new pair of sandals, a bra, and maybe a dress. Now you know and you can follow me there too.”

The short one, who needed to lose twenty pounds and do something about his very yellow teeth, bared them. “Don't threaten us, sister. We can go wherever we fucking want to go.”

“Fine,” Hollis said and jumped onto the subway car that had screeched into the station.

When she got off at Dundas, the two men did not come after her. But she had no doubt that they had followed her. Given Norman's reaction, she worried about what kind of trouble he might be in. If he was in a mess, did the fact that she'd contacted him place her in danger? If they'd hacked into his computer, they knew she was searching for Mary. Was that significant?

She worried that the thugs might know where she lived. Could they have been in the black car that had spooked her? Had that happened before or after she emailed Norman? She hadn't given that information in the email, or had she? Had she said she lived on Delisle? Was it possible to use sophisticated techniques to ferret out locations? She didn't know but didn't think so. Facebook was a different thing. Often individuals who carelessly or inadvertently gave away names and addresses placed themselves in danger.

In case the men still lurked about, she rode up the escalator to the lingerie section. Then she found the elevator and zipped to the basement, where she scurried to the food court, back up the escalator, out the doors to the church yard and over to Bay Street, where she popped through one entrance to the bus depot, out another and caught a cab to the apartment.

Six thirty and she hadn't been missed. Agnes and the girls, hunkered down in front of the Monopoly board, looked up when she said hello. She left them to continue the game and went to the office. One message on her machine. Her breath quickened. Maybe Mary had called, maybe she was returning and all would be well.

“It's Miss Tilly Green in 401. You're supposed to be there when things break. My toilet is plugged,” a voice snapped.

Hollis pulled out her list of service providers, contacted the plumber, and insisted that since they advertised twenty-four hour service, they come immediately. Then she called Miss Green, a retired teacher who must have run a no-nonsense classroom if her current insistence that everything be exactly right in her apartment was any indication. After her initial huffiness, Miss Green thanked Hollis for acting quickly and persuading the plumber to make the call a priority.

Too bad, Hollis really had hoped it would be Mary or even Rachel, her fellow waitress, who called. She hadn't exactly lied to the detectives, but she hadn't exactly told the truth. If only Mary would contact her.

Mrs. Trepanier didn't speak on the ride into Toronto. Rhona, intent on the detours and the heavy traffic, didn't say anything, nor did Ian. Chit-chat or small talk had no place in the car. Rhona took Mrs. Trepanier's arm as they emerged from the underground garage. She did it not only with the intention of leading her through the maze of corridors to the morgue, but also to provide physical and emotional support. She felt tiny tremors pass through Mrs. Trepanier's body. Rhona couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in Mrs. Trepanier's situation, to take a journey knowing that at the end you would face the worst nightmare a parent could imagine.

They entered the identification area. Mrs. Trepanier breathed quickly and almost imperceptibly held back as if her body was resisting, putting off the terrible finality of death.

Rhona still held her arm, and she gave a tiny squeeze before the moment arrived when Mrs. Trepanier would have to face the reality that the body could be her daughter's.

One quick look sufficed. Mrs. Trepanier lurched back and swung away.

Her head dropped and she took deep, steadying breaths. For some moments she said nothing. Finally she raised her head and turned to Rhona. “It's Claire,” she said.

Rhona never got used to the moment when hope was extinguished. No matter the circumstances, family always hung onto the flimsiest of reasons to explain a loved one's disappearance. Even when travelling to view a body, they persuaded themselves it wouldn't be the person.

Mrs. Trepanier stood, dry-eyed, and stared into space. The desolation in her eyes was painful to see.

Was there anything they could do to help?

“Would you like to come with us and sit quietly while we make you a cup of tea?” Rhona offered.

Mrs. Trepanier flinched as if she'd forgotten they were there. She focused on them and considered Rhona's words. “No. Take me home. Duchess's bladder isn't as reliable as it used to be and it will be an hour before I get there.”

Once they'd seen her into a car and on her way, they returned to the homicide office.

“David Jones, the teacher she testified against, the man who spent time in jail because of her, would have reason to kill her if he was set on revenge. Let's find out if he's done his time, and if he's out on parole, what address he left with the Parole Board,” Ian said. He tapped a few words into his computer, waited for the information to download, and reported, “Out for three months and living in Oshawa.”

“It might have taken him that long to find her, although she didn't change her surname. Time for another trip. Does he live in a halfway house?”

Ian tapped again. “Yes, and there's a phone number.” He picked up the phone, asked for David Jones, and arranged to meet him at the house in an hour and a half.

“Too easy,” Rhona said.

“Perps aren't brilliant, or they wouldn't spend so much time in jail,” Ian replied.

“What would he gain by killing her?” Rhona asked.

“Revenge.”

“Not enough. He'd know we'd learn about his rape conviction.”

“He had good reason to hate her.”

Rhona offered to drive the sixty kilometres to Oshawa, a small city close to Toronto noted for its car plant — a working class community. On Highway 401 out of Toronto, Rhona kept her attention fixed on the road. With a multitude of lanes and an overload of tractor trailers, the traffic challenged even the best of drivers. There wasn't a GPS in the car, but before they left, Ian had downloaded a map from the Internet and directed Rhona through a maze of downtown streets to a roomy, turn-of-the-century brick house.

Five men occupied the shaded front porch. Bundled in jackets despite the May weather, two sat on wooden kitchen chairs tipped back against the wall, and two slouched on an old bench car seat. A third man lounged on the concrete steps.

All conversation stopped and five pairs of eyes checked out the two detectives as they made their way up the cracked cement walk.

Rhona greeted them pleasantly and said, “Where can we find David Jones?”

The man sprawled on the steps muttered, “Living room, inside the front door.”

They skirted him and entered the living room, where a slim, athletic-looking man sitting on one of three overstuffed dark blue faux leather sofas was reading the paper. He stood when they entered and proffered his hand.

“David Jones. What's this about?”

Ian launched the conversation. “We're here to talk to you about Claire Trepanier.”

“God, not again. I've done my time, at least I've done two-thirds of it. I want to get on with what's left of my life,” Jones said and exhaled a huge sigh. “She ruined me. No one wants to believe me, but although she may have been fifteen, it wasn't rape. I didn't even know she was pregnant until she charged me.”

Ian waited to see if Jones had anything more to say. When it appeared that he didn't, Ian said, “She wasn't the only one.”

Jones sighed again. “I know, I know, I abused a position of trust. I deserved to lose my job. God knows I'll never get another one unless it's teaching adult males. It was wrong, but I didn't figure I was doing anyone any harm. The girls led me on, let me know they wanted sex.”

Rhona took her turn. For a long moment she simply stared at him. “Of course you realize that all rapists use that line. There is no justification for forcing yourself on a fifteen-year-old girl.”

“You won't believe me, no one does, but I didn't force myself on her,” Jones said, his voice reflecting his resignation. He stood up. “I don't know why you're here other than wanting to know about Claire, but I've put the whole sorry mess behind me. I don't know where she is or what she does and don't intend to find out. I've lost years of my life, as well as my vocation, my wife, and my self-respect. I applied for parole because I needed time in a halfway house to get help putting my life back together.”

“Very commendable.” Rhona, who had been standing throughout the interview, leaned toward him. “But hard to believe. Difficult to think you wouldn't want to punish the person who caused this,” she waved at the room, “to happen to you.”

Jones considered the two detectives. “I may have been a fool, but I'm not an idiot. Why this sudden interest?”

“First, tell us what you did Monday night?”

“Monday night? You know all about parole. We have a curfew. Early Monday evening I went to the library, borrowed two books and a DVD, came back, signed in, went to my room, and watched the DVD on my computer.”

Ian's eyebrows must have expressed his disbelief.

“My brother gave me his old one and bought me a new printer. He said I couldn't job hunt without them. He doesn't love the idea that he has a jailbird for a brother, but he hasn't deserted me, nor has my mother.”

“Do they do a bed check here?” Rhona asked.

“They do and there's no way to leave without setting off an alarm. Now will you tell me what this is about?”

“Claire Trepanier was murdered Monday night,” Rhona said.

Jones looked from one to the other. “Poor Claire. Such a pretty, bright girl with so much promise. She wrecked my life, but I'm sorry she's dead.”

Rhona recognized the sincerity in his voice, but the best liars could be very convincing. She didn't intend to drop him off the suspect list.

In the early afternoon Rhona and Ian arrived back from Oshawa. The boss, Frank Braithwaite, wanted to see them.

He sat behind his gleaming desk admiring a new GPS. “In case we get lost. Have to check that it works in remote locations, but since it bounces off a satellite I assume it does,” he said.

Rhona had forgotten about the adventure camping trip Frank planned to take with his dog. Time to make an intelligent remark. “Won't your human guide know where you are?”

“Of course, but you always have to be prepared for the worst, for something to happen to the guide or for him to lose his equipment. In the wilderness there are no second chances.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and Rhona felt he hoped something dramatic would challenge him.

He pushed the GPS to one side and tapped it lightly. “Never mind this. We're here to discuss the case. You know that this afternoon the paper will have the victim's name. Are we closing in on anyone?”

“We interviewed several possible suspects. One, a man she accused of rape, has just come out of jail, a second has a peeping tom conviction and lives in the building. A profiler would say he's operating in the neighbourhood where he's comfortable, but we think his own building is probably a little too close. A third man interests us because he too lives in the building, used the services of the fifth-floor women, and frightened them. We're also considering the idea that Sabrina Trepanier wasn't the intended victim, and we're doing a background work-up on the apartment's tenant, Ginny Wuttenee.”

“Any johns who might have done it?” Frank asked, his hand reaching again for the GPS.

“We have a list of Sabrina's clients and we're talking to Ms. Nesrallah, who owns all the apartments and sometimes screens possible clients for the women. That's what we have so far,” Rhona said, resisting the urge to tell him to stop fiddling with his newest toy.

“Okay. I'll give a noncommittal press release. Working through a number of possibilities, etc. etc. By the way, there's no chance that this is a serial crime, is there?”

“I checked unsolved crimes looking for similarities, and it doesn't look like it,” Ian said.

“Good. I don't want any surprises,” Frank said.

Back in the homicide office, Ian shook his head. “He should retire and concentrate on his trips. Except for the necessity of avoiding unfavourable publicity, he really doesn't seem to care.”

“Never mind, as long as the press doesn't make it a major issue, it keeps him off our back. Time to go and talk to Ms. Nesrallah.”

Rhona loved the variety in her job. It had its bad moments, but she enjoyed never knowing what was coming next, getting out and interviewing, investigating odd possibilities.

“We'll stop and talk to Hollis Grant on our way to the interview. She may be a wingnut, but in the past she's given us useful leads.”

“I've made Turkish coffee,” Ms. Nesrallah said as she let the detectives into her apartment, her multi-coloured silk caftan swirling about her legs. Dangling silver earrings composed of discs that gently tinkled as she moved added to her exotic appeal.

Rhona and Ian seated themselves in the living room. Again Rhona felt she'd been transported to North Africa. She'd never travelled there but knew she'd find it intriguing. She already loved the food — humus, tabouli, black olives, falafel — all delicious. Maybe on her next holiday she'd join a tour and see Marrakesh, Casablanca. The names conjured up mystery and intrigue.

Fatima returned and lowered a brass tray with a tall, ornate china coffee pot, small cups, and a plate of pastry to the table.

When they each had coffee and a sinfully rich pine nut baklava, Fatima led off. “You asked me to think about Sabrina, about her clients and about her murder.” She sipped her coffee. “First, can you tell me if she was raped?”

“Why?”

“There are clients who come here to visit us and, despite Viagra and the skillful ministrations of our women, they can't perform. I suspect these men are very angry and might direct their fury at the woman who was supposed to help and only made them feel more inadequate.”

“Interesting. You think like a psychologist,” Ian said.

Fatima smiled. “You'd be surprised, or maybe you wouldn't, to know how much psychology we employ. The women on the street don't have to do that, but we accompany our clients to social functions, we provide the comfort and support they often don't receive at home. We need skill.” She leaned forward and refilled their cups.

“If she wasn't raped, can you think of a client who might have hated her enough to kill her?” Rhona asked.

“I'll think about it and consult the other women. I do know both she and Ginny saw a man who called himself John. He frightened them and they refused to entertain him again. Unfortunately, he contacted them directly and they didn't check him out as well as I would have.”

“How do you do that?”

“There are websites that rate escorts and others that rate johns. I go online frequently and keep up to date with what's happening out there. Word gets around about undesirables. In our business there is an underground network where those who've had bad experiences share names. If his had turned up, I would have warned the women here not to deal with him.”

Interesting. Like a better business bureau. It was a business, and like any business it was wise to know your customers, to know who had liens against them and complaints about their work. “How did he get their names and contact information?” Rhona asked.

“We never did figure that out. I'm thinking about it because it doesn't happen often.”

“If you think he was a possible killer, can you describe him?”

Fatima shook her head. “You'd have to talk to Ginny.”

“She's not here, is she?” Ian asked.

“No, she has a toothache and I sent her to my dentist. She left more than an hour ago and should be back in the next few minutes.”

“Any other thoughts you'd like to share before we show you the information we found in Sabrina's diary?” Ian asked.

“I'm sure you've already figured out that if he was a client who used the door, there will be a photo of him on the security camera.” She smiled. “Most clients never mention the cameras but others, mostly prominent men, fear that having their photos on record could be compromising. We assure them the photos are used to keep the building safe and to record any problems that occur, but I don't think we make them feel better.” She licked the crumbs of her baklava from her fingers.