Cut to the Bone (22 page)

The tactical squad members, old hands at arriving stealthily, drifted into the lobby. Rhona assured them that the perp remained in his apartment. Although Hollis had given her the master key, she wouldn't be the one to open the door. Once they'd secured the scene, she'd make the arrest and take him downtown for questioning while detectives searched the apartment. If they found what Rhona suspected they would, the case would be all but over.

When the squad knocked, announced its presence, and demanded entry, no one answered. The leader barked a second command to open, and when nothing happened, the squad, guns drawn, entered the apartment. A careful search confirmed it was empty.

Tim O'Toole, the prime suspect in a terrible murder, was gone.

How could that have happened? Rhona had checked the tapes from shortly after Larry Baptiste had been removed, and the man had neither entered nor left. He must have disappeared some time during the chaos, but what had alerted him? In her mind she ran the shots of Agnes Johnson standing with him in the elevator. Agnes had spoken to him and waggled her finger at him. Whatever she'd said it must have been enough to alert him that he needed to move on. Without hearing from the hospital, they'd assumed Agnes had had a heart attack or a stroke, but it now seemed more likely that O'Toole had assaulted her. She phoned St. Mike's, spoke to the nurse in charge of Agnes Johnson's floor, and relayed her suspicions.

“That could be true. She hasn't responded like a stroke patient. We attributed it to the drug that was administered when she came in, but your explanation makes more sense.”

“Is she well enough to talk to me”

“She certainly is.”

First, the apartment. To help find Tim O'Toole, they'd uncover the secrets hidden in his apartment. The tactical squad left and Rhona, along with Ian and several of the forensic investigating team, began her work.

They each took a room. Rhona went to the bedroom. In the closet she checked hanger by hanger but found no blood-stained clothing. There was no sign of a laundry basket, no hamper for dirty clothes. She bent to look under the bed and saw two long plastic storage boxes, so she pulled them out.

When she snapped the first one open, she sat back and stared. Women's underwear of every conceivable kind filled the box. Teddies, bikini briefs, thongs, black lace bras, utilitarian white cotton jockey underwear. A peeping tom, an underwear thief. Obsessions that could lead to more serious crimes. Her stomach flipped and her mouth was dry as she contemplated what she might find in the next box.

Opening the lid released the stale, metallic smell of blood. Three Winners plastic bags filled the long container. Two bulging ones had large exclamation marks painted in red over the S in the logo.

Winner!

The third empty one lacked the punctuation. What did it mean?

In the first bag Rhona found blue jeans, a black hoodie, and black gloves, all stained and stiffened with dried blood. A red leather wallet lay beside the clothes. Before she examined the second bag, she flipped the wallet open. Nothing. No identification.

She opened the second bag and found a black T-shirt, black denim jacket, and black jeans similarly saturated with blood. Neatly tucked beside the black clothes, a discoloured pink handbag told her Sabrina's blood had stained the clothes. The third bag was waiting for its exclamation mark and the blood-stained clothes from a third stabbing.

Two questions — why was Tim O'Toole killing women, and who was next on his list? Thank God for Agnes Johnson and her nosiness but not for her intervention.

She called the team to the bedroom and pointed to the box and three bags.

“Two of these contain the perp's blood-stained clothing. There is an unsolved murder that relates to the wallet and the contents of the first bag. Unfortunately, the wallet is empty. The pink purse in the second bag belonged to Sabrina Trepanier. I'm sure we'll find that the blood is hers.” She held up the third bag. “As you see, this is empty. He intends to kill again. We have to find him before he does.” She snapped the lid back on the box. “Go through everything and create a picture of the man. If you can find a photo, that would be great, otherwise we'll use the one on the security tape for the police and for the media. We must find him before he attacks his third victim.”

“When do you think he left?” Ian asked.

“We saw a shot of him in the elevator with Agnes Johnson. She was talking and appeared to admonish him. I suspect he left then or when the building filled with interested tenants and the response team last night. I'm on my way to talk to Agnes Johnson. I think I'll find out that she didn't have a stroke but was attacked by Tim O'Toole. Keep me informed about what you find.”

Agnes Johnson was parked in the hospital corridor, slumped in a chair designed to keep geriatric patients from wandering. A tray fastened like a child's high chair prevented the person in the chair from escaping. Hollis was horrified. If ever she'd known an elderly person with all her wits about her, it was Agnes Johnson. But maybe the stroke had changed all that. Her elderly tenant slumped to one side, snoring loudly. Hollis tiptoed past. She waited at the nursing station where nurses in cheerful coloured uniforms did paperwork, spoke on the phone, and sorted files. Finally, a young woman looked up.

“Yes,” she said and her voice conveyed the impression that this had better be good, because she was a busy nurse with no time to waste.

“I'm here to see Agnes Johnson. Is she ready to go home?”

“Well,
she
certainly thinks she is. Tried to do it and fell, so we popped her in the Geri chair. We're waiting for the doctor.”

“Did she have a stroke?”

The woman neatened the pile of paper she held in her hand. “Are you a relative?”

“No. I'm her landlady.”

“Sorry,” the nurse said without a hint of sorrow in her voice.

“Hollis, is that you?” Agnes yelled.

Hollis hurried back to a very agitated Agnes. “Look what they've put me in. There's nothing wrong with me.” She reached her veined, gnarled hand to pat her head. “A lump and that's it. The bugger hit me with something heavy. Smart guy — no blood, but I guess I was fortunate, 'cause when I answered the door, he pushed his way in and said I was lucky he didn't have time to cut me up, 'cause that's what he liked doing. Then he smashed me. When I came to in the ambulance I was confused and didn't remember what had happened.” She shrugged. “I might have had another TIA.”

“A what?'”

“Transient ischemic attack, a mini-stroke, because everything was blurry and I couldn't talk very well. I've had them before. Anyway, the paramedics must have figured I'd had a stroke and that's how I ended up in this bloody thing.”

“Who hit you?” Hollis said, squatting to face Agnes.

“Who do you think? Tim O'Toole. Did you tell the police?”

Hollis patted Agnes's hand. “I did and they're dealing with him.” Since she'd left before anything happened, she wasn't absolutely sure this was true.

Agnes frowned. “I've always barged in and said things I shouldn't have. When I rode down in the elevator with him, I told him I'd seen him hiding on Monday night and sneaking in with whatever he was carrying. I told him he should smarten up and get a life and not be out at night doing god knows what.”

“What did he say?”

“Called me a nosy old bitch and told me I should mind my own business. Then I said that I was sure the police would like to hear what he'd been doing.”

Hollis shook her head. A vulnerable woman on a walker, and she'd said that.

“Last night when I heard the sirens and watched the emergency team roar into the building, I was at the door, ready to come down to see what was happening, when he knocked and barrelled in. Next thing I knew I came to on the floor and crawled to the phone, grabbed it, and passed out again.” She touched the back of her head. “Except for this bump and a headache, I'm fine. I want to go home.”

Hollis stayed hunched down on her heels. It was painful, but she didn't want to tower over Agnes. “Agnes, I have to go.” Hollis stood up, fished her card from her shoulder bag, squatted, and held it out to Agnes. “If it will help, say I'm your next of kin and ask the doctor to call me. As soon as you have permission to leave, I'll bring your walker. Detective Rhona Simpson will come to talk to you once she knows what happened.”

“Since I don't have any family, I'll claim you as my niece.” She smiled and Hollis noted that she had her own teeth. “It would be nice to have you, your daughter, and your dogs as family.”

“From now on that's who we are,” Hollis said and patted Agnes's shoulder.

As Hollis headed to the elevator, she met Rhona.

“I have news for you,” Hollis said.

“Hearing those words from you is enough to frighten me,” Rhona said, widening her eyes and raising her eyebrows. “Tell me.”

“I assume you know Ginny Wuttenee's background?” She didn't wait for Rhona to answer but plowed on. “She and Larry Baptiste have reconciled. He's not pressing charges because he got his truck back and would have loaned her the money. As soon as he's better and you say it's okay, they're heading back to Red Pheasant and …”

“There's more?”

“Tim O'Toole attacked Ms. Johnson. She's parked out in the hall in a Geri chair, but there's nothing wrong with her other than she hates being in it and is driving the nurses crazy. She'll tell you all about it.”

“That's it?”

Hollis nodded. “I have a question for you?”

Rhona shuffled as if preparing to launch. “Try me.”

“Was Veronica the murdered woman that you found?”

“She was.”

“Do you know who killed her?”

Rhona eyed Hollis.

“I know that look. You're going to tell me you're not at liberty to say.”

“Right.”

Hollis stuck out her hand and Rhona took it. “Don't you think we make a great team?” Hollis said, giving her best wicked grin and shaking the detective's hand.

“You're too much. Go home and walk those beasts,” Rhona said, withdrawing her hand and moving past Hollis.

Instead of following Rhona's instructions, Hollis headed for the Eaton Centre, wondering about Brownelly and why he'd agreed to meet her. She pushed through the midday throng clogging Queen Street and entered the Eaton Centre, stopping briefly to covet the spring collection in the Town Shoes window before she propelled through the revolving doors to the first floor. She curved right toward the escalators. On her way down she admired the wonderful mix of people, letting her eyes absorb the variety. As she surveyed the crowd below in the food court, her gaze locked with Cartwright's.

Cartwright.

Why was he here? Was it because of Brownelly? The fury in Cartwright's eyes frightened her and she averted her gaze. When she looked again he was gone. Maybe she'd imagined him?

Brownelly sat with his back to the wall deep inside the eating area. He didn't rise as she approached. Instead he moved the tray, which held a hamburger, fries, and drink closer to him and popped a French fry in his mouth. When she sat down, he didn't offer to get her anything. Boor.

“You keep bugging me. What is it you want to know?” he said while chewing a giant mouthful of hamburger with his mouth open. A piece of shredded lettuce clung to his chin. Hollis felt no compulsion to tell him and even less to reach across and remove it.

“More background. Why did you give Jay up? How old was she? Why haven't you made a home for her? What do you do that you're gone for long periods? Why does the CAS want you to see your daughter at their offices?” She sat back and waited.

He took another gigantic bite and talked around it. “Jay was three when her mother died.” He swallowed. “Her mother was murdered.”

Hollis hadn't expected anything like this. She didn't know what to say.

“Surprised! It was a gang shootout and she was in the wrong place.”

If he'd been in a gang then he could have been the target. In effect, he would have been responsible. What could she say? It only made it worse if they'd been after him.

“That's terrible.”

“You have no idea.”

Hollis nodded. “No. I don't.” She wanted more answers but it would be better to allow him to proceed at his own speed.

“Neither my wife nor I had relatives in Canada, and I wasn't sending a three-year-old to the U.K. to a distant cousin. I asked the Children's Aid to find a good foster home for her, and they did.”

“You didn't consider a housekeeper, a nanny?”

Brownelly tipped his head to one side. “No. To understand why, you'd have to know a lot more about my life than I'm prepared to tell you. Let's just say it wasn't an option. One of these days I hope to provide a home for Jay, but not right now.”

She did know a lot more about his life. She knew why it wasn't an option. “I'm going to speak out of turn. She's eleven. You've missed more than half her childhood. You need to make a home for her. It's not my business, but someday you'll be sorry if you don't act now.”

The man stood up. “It is none of your business. I love Jay. Look after my baby and keep her safe.”

When Rhona learned what Agnes Johnson had said to Tim O'Toole, she surmised that the man had escaped during the chaos the previous night. Now her task was twofold, preferably to find and arrest him, but if that didn't happen to figure out who his next victim might be. She hated to admit it even to herself, but Hollis Grant might help. Hollis had told Rhona that she'd interviewed street prostitutes when she was looking for Mary Montour. It was a long shot, but Hollis might have discovered a woman who had had a run-in with Tim O'Toole. Back to 68 Delisle.

Early afternoon and the building was quiet. She buzzed Hollis.

“It's Rhona Simpson. I have questions for you.”

Hollis invited her into the apartment, where the two dogs greeted her. The Golden Retriever presented her with a stuffed bear that needed to go in the washing machine, while the other dog nosed her hand looking for patting. Rhona wasn't a big fan of dogs, a fact that Hollis must have remembered.

“Dogs. Go and lie down.”

Amazingly, they did. Rhona couldn't imagine a cat doing that or even acknowledging that it had been given an order.

“I need to bring you up to speed on what's been happening and then you'll know if you can help.”

* * *

Hollis felt her eyebrows lift and her eyes open wider. Since when had Rhona requested her help? Always a first time. She folded her feet under her on the couch and settled back.

“First, Barney Cartwright escaped before we could charge him with Veronica's murder.”

Hollis swung her feet to the floor and straightened up. “I saw him less than an hour ago in the food court in the Eaton Centre. He gave me the evil eye, and the next time I looked he was gone.”

Rhona flipped open her phone and relayed the information with a caution to be careful, since they had to assume he was armed and dangerous.”

“That was a bonus I wasn't expecting. What were you doing in the food court?” Rhona grimaced. “Stupid question. What does anyone do in a food court?”

“I met my foster daughter's father. I wanted to talk about her and about him, but he didn't give me much satisfaction. He's a mysterious man who appears and disappears, and I wanted to know more about him. He wasn't into sharing.”

Rhona showed no interest in Jay's father. “I talked to Agnes Johnson. Tim O'Toole attacked her. I don't know if he intended to kill her or warn her off, but he did it because he thought she knew more than she did and he wanted to shut her up. Women of that generation are tough and he didn't succeed.”

“What did he think she knew?”

“That he murdered Sabrina Trepanier.”

“What!” Hollis leaned forward. “You're kidding. He's such a nothing kind of guy.”

“We have evidence he's killed before and may kill again. That's where you come in.”

“Me. I hardly knew him.”

Rhona shook her head. “Wrong track. We think he's killed women, prostitutes, who have refused and rejected him. Fatima told us that Sabrina had been quite nasty when he propositioned her. I know that you did your research on Mary and what she was up to. Did you talk to her fellow workers or any of the women on the street about who might have frightened or threatened them?”

“Before I tell you, I want to know if the police knew what she was doing before I told you?”

“No.”

“It seems like such a thankless, never-ending challenge. I can't imagine how she continued year after year with so many failures.”

“Half full, half empty. She must have seen it as half full. Never mind what she was doing. Did you talk to anyone who might give us some clues about Tim O'Toole.”

Hollis reviewed the conversations that she'd had. “I think so. A young Aboriginal prostitute I talked to one morning while she was having breakfast gave me some information. Initially, hostile didn't begin to describe her attitude. She ranted at me but calmed down and while we were talking, she did say that she chose who she wanted to go with. I must have looked as if I doubted her, since she gave me chapter and verse about the most recent man she'd refused. Thinking about her description, which wasn't much, it could have been Tim.”

“Would you recognize her again?”

Hollis nodded.

Rhona checked her watch. “We should go see. She's probably home at this time of day but maybe we can find out where she lives.”

Hollis fidgeted and didn't respond.

“You don't seem enthusiastic?”

“I'm not. I'll volunteer to go, but I don't think we should go together.”

Rhona smiled. “Tactful, aren't you? Okay, you go. Don't do anything rash. If you see Tim O'Toole, report to us immediately but
do not
, I repeat,
do not
approach him.”

Before she set out on her mission, Hollis made sure the dogs were okay and that there were no priority calls from tenants. She slipped on her denim jacket, shouldered her bag, and left checking that no one who seemed threatening hovered near the building. She waited until three high school girls giggled their way toward Yonge Street before she left the portico, fell in behind them, and turned into the subway entrance. On the platform she followed her routine and stood with her back against the wall, well away from everyone. On Jarvis Street she sauntered along, keeping an eye out for her quarry.

Inside the Golden Goose restaurant, she greeted Bridget, remembering that both Bridget and her coworker had asked her to let them know if she heard from Mary. She felt a pang of guilt. Why hadn't she remembered to do that? Sometimes you got so involved in what you wanted that you forgot your common decency responsibilities to others.

“Did you find Mary?” Bridget asked, positioning herself so that her ever-present boss couldn't see her talking.

“I did. I apologize for not telling you that she's okay. Now I need the name and where I can find a pretty Aboriginal girl I spoke to when I was here. You'd left with your husband, but I thought you might know her.”

“More than one come in here. Can you describe her?”

“Long, dark hair with neon red streaks, small scar on her forehead over her eyebrow. I can't remember which one, but I noticed what good skin she had other than the scar. She was hostile.”

“That makes it easier. Her first name's Darlene — don't know her last name.”

Bridget bent forward and wiped the table.

Hollis didn't have much hope that Bridget could answer her next question, but it was worth a try. “Where can I find her?”

“I'll get you coffee,” Bridget said.

“No thanks. It's urgent that I find her.”

“Urgent. That doesn't sound good. She was in earlier and she's sick. Something viral, probably. She was wheezing and coughing. One of the other girls told her to go home to bed and she'd pick up some medication and bring it to her place.” The coffee in the pot in Bridget's hand sloshed from side to side. “I don't know where she lives, but I know where her friend lives, because she was complaining about it the other day. It's infested with bedbugs and she was looking for a new place and wondering how to make sure she didn't take the bugs with her. It's a building on Shuter. I'll write down her name and the address.” She pulled out her order pad and scribbled the information.

Hollis thanked her and walked over to Shuter Street, where she found the building, buzzed the apartment, and explained why she was there.

Standing inside the door, she noticed how tidy the place was and acknowledged that when she'd been told about the bedbugs, she'd expected a dump. She hoped she wouldn't be invited in and told herself that when she got home she should strip off her clothes and stuff them into a garbage bag ready for the laundry.

“Tell me again who you are and exactly why you want to find Darlene?” the young woman with bleached, tightly curled hair asked. Without makeup, she appeared alarmingly young, too thin, and exhausted. Hollis wondered if she was supporting an addiction. The girl didn't invite Hollis to sit down, so Hollis didn't have to invent a reason for remaining at the door.

“She may be in danger. A call girl was murdered in the apartment building where I work. The police officer in charge of the case knew I'd talked to women in the Golden Goose when I searched for Mary Montour. Darlene told me something the detective thought might make her a target and asked me to find her, because she may be in danger.”

The girl held up a hand as if to stop the torrent of words. “Whoa. Start at the beginning — what you're saying doesn't make sense. Who's Mary Montour?”

“Mary, the Aboriginal waitress at the Golden Goose. She disappeared a few days ago and left her eleven-year-old niece behind. I'm looking after the child and I started tracking Mary to see where she might be. I talked to Bridget, Sandy, and Darlene. Mary is okay. But this doesn't have anything to do with Mary. The murdered woman had turned down a possible client and we think he killed her because of that. Darlene told me she didn't go with men she didn't want to go with and gave me a vague description of a man she'd refused. I think it might have been the man the police think killed the woman in my building, and I want to find Darlene and warn her.”

“Why aren't the cops doing this?”

“Because the detective knew I'd been asking about Mary and had spoken to Darlene and believed I might have a better chance of finding her in time.”

“
In time
. That's scary. She lives near here. I'll write down the address. There isn't any security, so go up and knock on the door. Darlene may not answer, because I bought her a ton of heavy duty stuff for whatever she's got.”

Hollis grabbed the paper and headed for the stairs. She hoped she'd be in time.