Cut to the Bone (14 page)

Rhona saw Fatima's action as unconsciously lascivious. Had she intended to titillate, she could have made it even more provocative. Rhona wondered if the woman's blatant sex appeal had any effect on Rhona's metrosexual partner. She sneaked a peak but he was making a note in his book and seemed unaffected.

“Yes, we have a complete set of tapes. Fortunately, when this building was updated they installed the best of security systems and all cameras were working, so we have a good record,” Ian said, looking up from his note-making.

Fatima hadn't finished. “If the attacker came in through the window, he had to be relatively young and agile as well as very determined. Those characteristics would rule out ninety percent of the clientele. Many of our customers are regulars, businessmen in mid-life and often from out of town. They want the sex and the company without any attachments. Not many could or would scale four floors of scaffolding to climb through a window and slash a woman's throat. I'm happy to help you with Sabrina's book, but I don't think it will tell you anything useful.”

Ginny entered the room and said hello.

“Get yourself a cup from the kitchen and have some coffee,” Fatima instructed.

“No thanks, my mouth is frozen,” Ginny said and produced a lopsided grin. “The coffee would dribble out and make a mess.”

Fatima nodded. “Quite right. I told them I knew nothing about the john, that only you could describe him as I never saw or spoke to him.”

“Scary. Big man but in good shape, lots of body hair, really, really ugly and not clean. Bad breath. I was stupid and let him use handcuffs, even though Fatima and Sabrina warned me not to do that. He punched me in the stomach. He hit me so hard I doubled up and collapsed on the floor. But I screamed really loud and I think that scared him off. He called me a fucking bitch and left. He had a look in his eye that frightened me.” Ginny shivered. “I think he would have killed me right then if he thought he'd get away with it.”

“Thanks,” Rhona said, thinking that the man sounded as if he could navigate the scaffolding. If they saw him on the security tapes they'd see if they could find out more about him. Wouldn't he be pleased if they ran his picture on TV as a “person of interest” in the case? He might have a wife who would punch
him
in the stomach. She wondered how Ginny would react if she shared her idea? Instead she returned to more mundane matters. “Fatima's about to tell us the meaning of the notations in Sabrina's book.”

“I need Tylenol,” Ginny said and excused herself.

Rhona handed Fatima the list of clients' initials and the notations after them. Just as she'd thought they related to individual's sexual preferences or in the case of “t” and “0” meant talk and no sex. Fatima explained the initials and gave thumbnail sketches of Sabrina's regular clients. She expressed no suspicion of any except for the man who'd called himself John.

“Did she ever talk about men she refused to have as clients?” Rhona asked.

“Everyone has those. Residents approach you in the lobby. Somehow they believe that living here makes them eligible.” Fatima smiled. “I've had a few too.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“I refused Barney Cartwright after the others didn't and regretted it. He's a mean man. Threatened to sic the Black Hawks on me, but that isn't the way motorcycle gangs operate, so he didn't scare me. Sabrina said some creep approached her and she told him she'd have to be starving to death before she'd consider him. She laughed and said he was really pissed off. That he'd taken for granted that he could use her services. She said that after what she said to him, she didn't think anyone else would have to worry about him.”

“You don't know who it was?”

“I don't. I'm sorry. For the sake of the others I should have asked, but Sabrina convinced me he wouldn't go near any of us.”

“Later today we'll ask you and the other women on this floor to come downstairs to the party room. We're running the security tapes and want you to identify as many men and women as you can.” Rhona checked her watch. “Please have everyone there at eight.”

“I'll arrange it.”

Step by slow step, the elimination process ground on. Rhona only hoped the killer wouldn't strike again and send the city into a frenzy.

Eight o'clock — time for the detectives to meet the fifth-floor residents in the party room. With a screen set up, the techies prepared to show the security video, hoping those present would identify everyone they knew, particularly their clients.

Ian and Rhona arrived a few minutes late. When they entered the room the buzz of conversation stopped. Women perched like birds waiting to fly. Fatima, leader of her flock, stood up and stepped forward. “We don't need to introduce ourselves, since you've spoken to each of us. We're to identify people, particularly men, but how should we let you know when we recognize someone?”

Ian flashed the boyish, off-kilter smile that melted Rhona's heart and brought answering smiles to the women's faces.

“Shout ‘bingo' when you recognize a face. The technician will freeze frame the person and I'll record the name. If you'd like to say something else about the person, we'll note that and Rhona will talk to you after we've seen the tapes. How does that sound?”

Rhona watched the group. Their appearances varied but not one resembled the women who stood waiting for pick-up on Jarvis, Church, or Sherbourne Streets. Even dressed casually, they would fit in almost anywhere in the city.

Fatima, in flowing black silk pants and a long-sleeved leopard-print top, scored top marks for the most exotic. Glancing at the woman's feet, Rhona wondered how she managed to walk in the platform-soled shoes. She'd wondered where to find shoes like these until she'd walked downtown from Bloor Street to Dundas and seen two shoe stores that specialized in what had to be called “hooker” shoes. Always keen to increase her height, she'd considered trying on three pairs that appealed to her. She would not have worn them in the office. She imagined the reaction of her fellow officers if she'd teetered in on red leather faux jewel-encrusted platform shoes. Even in her off hours she suspected she'd be unable to walk well, and explaining a sprained or broken ankle resulting from falling off her shoes forced her to give up the idea. Despite her decision, she still coveted the dark green crocodile sandals with cork platforms.

Ginny, with her inky hair, olive skin, and enormous brown eyes, would win runner-up in the ethnic category. Dressed in blue jeans and a sweat shirt, she wore little or no makeup.

A third exotic-looking woman stood no more than five feet and had long, dark hair, fair skin and a childlike body guaranteed to appeal to men who travelled in Asia looking for lithe young Asian women. She too wore blue jeans, probably bought in the children's department, and a white T-shirt that revealed minuscule breasts.

Unlike this androgynous woman, two others epitomized the football cheerleader with their long blonde hair, blue eyes, large breasts, and long legs. They sat together and appeared to have consulted on wardrobes, since they both wore navy mini-skirts, clinging red jersey tops, and armloads of silver cuffs. As Rhona surveyed the group, one of the cheerleaders, like a schoolgirl, raised her hand.

Ian gave her the nod.

“What will you do if we tell you someone's name?” she asked in a breathy, little girl voice.

Given their business, this was a legitimate question. Nothing would scare their clients faster than knowing that the police knew who they were. Rhona suspected that many men, reading their morning papers and noting the murder location, would thank the powers they believed in that they hadn't been caught in any traps and would vow not to visit their favourite women until the police solved the murder and the building returned to normal.

“We want to find the killer quickly. We will investigate, but if a man or men had nothing to do with the killing, they will be eliminated from our list.”

The young woman cocked her head to one side. “So they will know that we named them?” she said in her whispery voice.

“They will,” Ian acknowledged.

Rhona sensed one or two women might at that instant think of their incomes and resolve not to identify clients. Time to step in and speak to them, woman to woman, to persuade them to be honest.

“You may be tempted to hide a client's identity, but we must eliminate all possibilities in our search. We also need each of you to provide the names of clients who made you uneasy. We value your frank opinions.” She gave them her “girl talking to girl” smile and lowered her voice. “We all remember the times someone or something made us uneasy and we crossed the street or didn't enter the elevator or took some other evasive action. It sometimes makes you feel you're overreacting, but we need to listen to the warnings our bodies give us when they read almost invisible signals given by men intending to harm us.” She saw small nods as they recognized the truth of her remarks. “We don't want to interfere with your lives but we need your help.”

A tall brunette in form-fitting black slacks and an expensive black silk cowl-necked sweater rose, turned to face the others, pulled the sleeve of her sweater up and revealed a jagged scar running from her shoulder to her elbow. “This is what happens when you don't listen,” she said in a deep voice.

She swung around to face Rhona and Ian. Her green eyes bright and her gaze intent, she said, “I nearly died because I failed to pay attention.” She again addressed her peers. “For all we know, one client has decided to pick us off one by one. I for one intend to name every man or woman I recognize.” She leaned forward. “We never,” she paused, “let me repeat, never, lack clients. If we lose a few because of this, there will always be others. Don't pretend not to know someone when you do, because that someone may come back and kill you or me or …” Here she lifted a long, elegant hand and pointed at various women, “… or you, or you or you. I'm not a big fan of the police, but I sure want Sabrina's killer caught and every one of you must help.”

Sometimes people surprised you. Rhona hadn't been expecting a real cheerleader in the crowd.

“Thank you. You put the case very well,” Rhona said.

The technician, who'd watched with admiration and lust written on his face, turned to the task at hand.

“We're starting the tape from last Saturday and running it through Tuesday. We've patched tapes together and eliminated repetition and moments when they photographed no one,” Rhona explained. “We've tried for a good face shot of everyone, but sometimes we only got the back view. In that case, we included a stretch of the person moving, because people have distinctive gaits and mannerisms.” She waved to the back of the room where she'd arranged with Hollis to have the party room's coffee urn bubbling and bottles of water set out, along with a box of Tim Hortons doughnuts. She didn't expect these slim beings, whose bodies represented their capital, to pig out on sweet stuff, but coffee or a cold drink never went amiss.

After they collected what they wanted, the women settled back to watch. Five seconds later someone shouted “Bingo.”

“That's me,” one of the cheerleaders said.

The group laughed, as did Rhona. “No need to identify yourselves,” she said and decided that either this woman wasn't one of the brighter lights in the room or had taken on the tension reliever role.

As the tapes rolled the detectives garnered a list of names for Saturday and Sunday. Sunday night the numbers dwindled. At ten on Monday morning, a tall man and a short woman entered the elevator. Dark wraparound glasses covered the man's eyes and a baseball cap jammed on his head obscured his hair, and the stand-up collar of his jacket masked his face. He had his right arm wrapped around his companion's shoulder and his gloved left hand held a bag close to her body.

No one shouted “bingo.”

As the pair left the elevator the woman looked directly at the camera.

“Bingo,” Ginny said. “Did you see that? I think she was saying, ‘help.' I don't know her.”

Ian directed the technician to rerun the sequence. The women in the room verbalized the silent “help” as the woman said it.

“Are you sure you don't recognize either of them?” Rhona asked.

No one did.

“With that baseball cap, dark glasses, and the collar of his jacket turned up, he could be anyone,” Ginny said. “I bet he knew about the cameras and didn't want anyone to see his face.”

“He can't hide his height,” Fatima remarked. “Easy to figure out how tall he is if you project his image against the elevator wall and measure it. Either he's exceptionally tall or the women is as short as I am.” She looked directly at Rhona. “Or the good detective.”

Rhona ignored the remark but it registered that Fatima had read her body language and sensed her sensitivity about her height. No doubt figuring out people was a finely honed skill that she used every day.

“I wish we'd invited Hollis to sit in on this,” Rhona said quietly to Ian.

“I'll go and get her,” Ian volunteered.

The technician held the tape while Ian left the room. When he returned, Ian said, “She's gone out. Her boyfriend's watching the kids and said she'd be back very soon. I asked him to send her in when she returns.”

Why was the unknown woman begging for help? Did the man's tight grip indicate love or hate?

Back in the apartment Hollis again thanked Agnes for taking care of the girls. Willem was due in half an hour. She just had time to change into grey cargo pants and a grey-striped fisherman's shirt and refresh her makeup.

She'd given herself twenty-four hours to find Mary, and her mission to see Norman had failed. Should she ask Willem to babysit and make another attempt to visit Norman, who not only could answer her questions but also might make an informed guess about Mary's disappearance? Much though she would have preferred to spend the entire evening with Willem, this was not the time to choose romance. She would ask him to do it. When she returned she'd try to make it up to him.

Willem arrived and enveloped her in what he called his “famous bear hug.” “You look great,” he said.

When they heard his voice, both girls emerged from Jay's bedroom. Willem produced two more gigantic hugs accompanied by a bear imitation, complete with growling and gnashing teeth, that sent the girls into fits of giggles.

“I have a favour to ask,” Hollis said after he'd disengaged himself. “I have to leave for an hour or so and hoped you'd keep the girls company.”

Willem stopped horsing around, walked over to her, cupped his large hand under her chin, and lifted it. He stared unblinkingly into her eyes. “You're involved. You're going to do something dangerous.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

“No, I'm not. I'm meeting with a long-time Aboriginal friend of mine from the Brantford Six Nations Reserve who keeps up with what's going on there and on other southern Ontario reserves.”

“Does he know Aunt Mary?” Crystal asked.

“He does, but he didn't want to talk on the phone, so I'm going to see him,” Hollis said.

She removed Willem's hand from her chin but held it tight as she gazed into his eyes. “Willem, I
must
know where Mary is and when she plans to come back, or I can't keep Crystal. I don't want Crystal to suffer through a bureaucratic nightmare, but she can't stay with me unless I know
exactly
what's happening.”

Willem tightened his grip on her hand. “I understand and,” he looked at Crystal, “I'm sure Crystal appreciates what you're doing. But I've seen you involved before, and somehow bad things happen to you.” He drew her into his arms. “I won't ask you where you're going, but stay safe,” he said and kissed her.

“Yucky,” Jay said.

Hollis gathered her denim bag and headed for the door.

“You driving or taking the subway?”

“Subway, and I've got my BlackBerry,” Hollis reassured him. She'd wondered if it would be safer to drive, but she didn't know where to park.

The walk along Delisle and down Yonge Street to the subway was uneventful. She got off at Dundas with the crowd heading into the Eaton Centre, lollygagged through Sears, detoured into the food court, slid out of the building, and back into the subway, where she leaped on a southbound train. Again she pushed through Union Station and took the light rail to Queen's Quay. Most of those who entered the waiting space after she did appeared to be legitimate businessmen and women returning home, but she wasn't taking chances. Instead of making her way directly to Harbour Square, she strolled to the main shopping concourse, drifted through it, and then sauntered to the apartment building.

“I'm here to see Norman Smith,” she said, offering her driver's license. The security man on the desk took a careful look at her and the document before he buzzed Norman and allowed her through the doors to the elevators.

Norman stood in the hall waiting for her. They hugged and said all the usual things about it being too long and how good it was to see each other before he drew her into his apartment.

He lived on the north side of the building, which faced the city skyline and didn't have the endless views of Lake Ontario that filled the south-facing windows. He'd converted what must have been the living room/dining room into a large studio. Three easels with paintings in various stages, along with two long tables loaded with paints and other supplies, filled the space. He'd removed the wall between the kitchen and the living room and installed a large industrial sink. Hollis took all this in.

“Norman, why didn't you buy a loft? You'd have higher ceilings.”

Norman, who watched her survey the room, nodded. “True, but lofts don't usually have good security, and their fire escapes can make them too accessible.”

“What are you hiding from?” Hollis said. They still stood in the middle of the studio.

“You don't waste any time, do you?” He ignored her question and continued. “I live in what was the master bedroom. I'll pour you a glass of wine and we'll sit down before we get into the serious stuff. Red or white?”

“White. Sorry, it's none of my business and I was too abrupt, but I'm under the gun as far as time goes. I have to learn everything I can about Mary Montour and where she is.”

As Norman moved to the kitchen, Hollis noticed that his gait was uneven, as if he wasn't sure of his footing. When he turned from the fridge carrying a bottle, she observed his grey hair and stooped shoulders. Norman seemed like an old man, but she knew he was forty, far too young to look like that. Was he ill? Had he suffered a serious accident? What had done this to him?

“If you're hungry, I can dig out crackers and humus to go with the wine,” Norman said.

“I've eaten dinner, but if you're hungry go ahead,”

“I'm never hungry,” Norman said, leading the way to the bedless master bedroom where a slip-covered sofa, book-laden coffee table, wall-mounted TV, and a small pine table with two chairs worked with a wall of bookcases, a brilliant Oriental rug, pillows, and throws to create a cocooning nest.

Probably a mixed metaphor, as cocoons didn't have nests, but the lovely warm room enveloped her and made her feel cozy.

Hollis sank into the sofa and Norman chose an ottoman.

After she sipped Hollis, swallowed and said, “Lovely wine. Now tell me why you're hiding and who you're hiding from.”

“You don't want to know,” Norman said. “It sounds melodramatic, but it's true that keeping myself hidden is a matter of life and death, so I don't mess around. If I wasn't an artist with a reputation, I would have changed my name, but I couldn't do that. Instead, I'm a prisoner in my own home.” He picked at a spot of yellow paint on his fingernail. “Bet that wasn't what you were expecting.”

“No, but I knew when those men followed me that it must be serious.” She put down the wine glass and reached across the table to clasp his hands. “Keep safe. If you want company I'll opt for the most circuitous route, maybe drive to Buffalo and back, to make sure I don't lead anyone to you.”

Norman squeezed her hands. “Thanks. I may take you up on that. Back to the reason for your visit. You want to know about Mary, don't you?”

“I do. She lives in my building, and yesterday she disappeared, leaving behind her eleven-year-old niece, Crystal, who is my foster daughter's friend. I've taken Crystal in because Mary left a cryptic message asking me to care for her until she returned.”

Norman nodded. “That sounds straightforward.”

“It isn't. There also has been a murder in our building. I'm harbouring a child whose aunt disappeared and for all I know may be involved. If I keep her without telling the authorities, I risk losing Jay Brownelly, my eleven-year-old foster daughter, and that's not an option. Now you know why I have to find Mary or know what she's up to.”

“Did you say Jay Brownelly?” Norman asked. His brows drew together and he narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, do you know her?”

“I'm not sure. What's her father's name?”

Not her parents' or her mother's but her father's. What did he know?

“Calum Brownelly.”

“Describe him.” Norman's frown had deepened.

“I can't imagine why you want to know, but medium height, thick-set, big hands, very curly hair.”

“Raspy voice?”

“Yes. Why.”

“Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable.” Norman shook his head. “He doesn't know you know me, does he?”

Hollis felt uncomfortable. This wasn't the way the conversation was supposed to go. “No. I met him and we talked about Jay and my fitness to foster her. I can't understand why he isn't looking after her himself, although his work takes him away for long periods. It's not as if she's a baby. He could find after school programs, sitters, a housekeeper.”

Norman continued to frown.

“Actually, he asked to meet Jay tomorrow evening in the food court of the Eaton Centre. I've insisted that Crystal and I be there too. By the terms of the CAS agreement, he's supposed to see her at their offices.”

“Did the men who followed you discover where you lived?” Norman said, leaning forward with wide eyes.

The urgency in his voice alarmed Hollis. “No. I lost them in Sears. I confronted them and said I was buying a bra and asked if they wanted to come.”

A grin spread across Norman's face. For a moment his youthful exuberance peeked out from behind the grey facade he now presented to the world. “Very funny. But this is serious.” He thought for a moment. “You sent me an email. They have hacked into my computer. Do you have a webpage, a Facebook profile?”

Hollis nodded. “Both, and I sometimes tweet.”

“They can find you. Even if they knew you were coming to see me, I didn't think you were in danger, but fostering Calum Brownelly's daughter is something else again. Do not take her to the Eaton Centre. Phone Brownelly and give him any excuse, but do not go.”

A wave of panic swept through Hollis. What had she done? Too late to undo her past actions. Time to figure out a new course.

“I hear your warning but not the reason behind it. I promised him and I promised Jay. Her heart will break if we don't go.”

Norman lurched to his feet, bent over Hollis, and grabbed her shoulders. “She could be dead if you do go. And you may also be a target. Don't do it. Look at me.”

Hollis pushed his hands away but met his gaze. “This sounds like a police matter.”

“It isn't, at least I don't think so. It's more like going into the woods in hunting season. You take the chance of being mistaken for a deer.” He frowned. “Yes, it's more like that. Nothing much the police can do except warn you to be careful. Don't go out alone if you can help it. Do the girls walk to school by themselves?

“No. The dogs and I accompany them, and then I take the dogs to the reservoir to run.”

Norman appeared to visualize the site. “Big dogs?”

“Retrievers.”

“Too bad. Anybody who knows anything about dogs knows retrievers of all varieties never cut it as watch-dogs. Luckily the world's villains don't know much about dogs. They usually only take an interest in large, aggressive ones like pit bulls, Rottweilers, Dobermans, or some other breed that complements a thug's image. Do you park in a secure garage?”

My god, what was this all about? “Yes, monitored by state-of-the-art video cameras.”

Norman nodded. “Drive the girls to school and drive to the reservoir. Drive wherever you go. Zoom into a parking garage, get a ticket, and drive out again if you think someone is following you.” He stopped. “What else? Make vigilance your watchword.”

He scared Hollis. “Tell me what this is about. I came here to talk to you about Mary, not about Jay or her father.”

“I know how to contact Mary, and I'll do it. Sometimes she involves herself in dangerous stuff. I'll find out exactly what's happening and get back to you. I'll send you text messages, They're harder to intercept than emails. BlackBerry security beats all the competition.” He collapsed on the sofa beside Hollis and covered his face with his hands, mumbling. “Never, it's never going to end.”

“What,
what
are you mixed up in?” Hollis almost screamed.

Norman shook his head. “Go home. Don't go to the Eaton Centre,” he whispered.

His agitation and insistence that Hollis take great care frightened her more than she cared to admit, as did his comments that her safety was up to her, that there was nothing the police could do. Creeping out of Norman's building, she scanned the driveway and the nearby promenade along Lake Ontario. No one struck her as suspicious. She'd forgotten to ask Norman if the men to fear all looked like Tweedles Dee and Dum. Unlikely, but she should have pinned him down to describe the kind of men to watch out for. Although she'd not done that, she remained hyper-aware of her surroundings. She'd always thought tailing a victim into the subway during rush hour and giving the person a good push as the train roared into the station would be the best way to kill someone. In the confusion and horror, the killer could fade away or brazen it out and claim not to have done it. She thought of this scenario each time she stood on the platform and imagined others considered it too. From now on she planned to glue herself to the wall or maybe, given Norman's advice, avoid the subway altogether.

She shook her head as if listening to an internal conversation. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours, Norman's text about Mary would arrive and, depending on what he told her, she might be able to turn the whole puzzling problem over to the police.

Meanwhile she loitered outside the entrance to the underground streetcar until a group of chattering teenagers flooded down the steps. Sticking close to them, she descended and hopped on the train. In Union Station, she shot to the platform that served north and south lines and pressed herself against a pillar as far from the tracks as possible. Again, she surveyed the crowd but no one appeared either threatening or interested in her. When she disembarked at St. Clair Avenue, she emerged on Yonge Street and walked north with a stop to look in the Roots window, then another to read the menu outside the Thai restaurant, before she crossed at the light and made her way south. She wished Gowans, the high-end home products store on the corner, was open because she loved walking through it and it would provide one more chance to assure herself no one was interested in her. Since it was closed, she employed no more diversionary tactics and trotted up Delisle. All this subterfuge had taken time, but it reassured her knowing she wasn't leading home the men Norman feared, men connected to Brownelly.