Cut to the Bone (7 page)

“I'll think hard. I want you to catch the guy. He took away the most important person in my life, and I'll do anything I can to help you,” Ginny said with her chin thrust forward.

This was a different woman than the one who'd begun the interview a few minutes earlier. The change had come about not because they'd discussed Ginny's background but because talking about Sabrina had motivated Ginny to do everything she could to help find the killer.

Ginny returned to the security of Fatima's apartment. Once she'd gone Rhona looked at Ian with raised eyebrows. “Could Ginny's pimp have killed Sabrina thinking it was Ginny?”

“Not too likely. Sabrina slept on her back. In even the dimmest light he would have realized the difference,” Ian said. “One of the women on the stroll will identify Jigs. We'll talk to them about him. He's sure to have a sheet and that'll help.”

“The pimp lost a meal ticket, which must have pissed him off and could have stirred up his other women. We both know a pimp will beat up a girl to keep the rest of his crew in line, but I can't see what he'd get out of killing her except a jail sentence. And how did he get in? He had to come through the window. I can't imagine the pimps we see on the street doing that,” Rhona said.

“Not in those white suits and flashy clothes they fancy. Until we know more about Sabrina's life, we won't know if the perp targeted Ginny and got the wrong woman. I'd put my money on a client, and Sabrina's book should help us identify him,” Ian said.

“On the other hand, Ginny may be hiding something. I felt she was. If the perp was after her she may have an idea of who it is, but for some reason she isn't telling. We need to consider whether to provide protection,” Rhona asked.

“Not yet. The killer won't attack again with the police and security here.”

Rhona reached for the bagged diary they'd removed from Sabrina's apartment. “Let's have a look at this and see what we can figure out.” She chose a couch that wasn't too deep. Ian joined her.

The diary began in January and Rhona paged through to the day of the murder. Sabrina had noted an afternoon appointment with ST, and beside it she'd added an S in brackets. Opera was listed for the evening and in brackets a circle.

“The security footage will show the time she departed and returned and if her escort came in,” Rhona said. “Those security cameras will help, but in this case Agnes Johnson, the woman I interviewed earlier, said she recognized the pink coat and saw them come back.”

“Suppose the circle is a zero and it means the guy didn't want anything but an escort?”

“Could be. We'll ask Fatima to match initials to names but not tonight.”

“Should be simple to figure out the meaning of her notations. We can check anything that puzzles us with Fatima,” Ian said.

Once they'd decided to call it quits, exhaustion wrapped itself around Rhona like a heavy woollen blanket. She couldn't wait to get home for a vodka martini and a tête-à-tête with Opie, the world's largest and most demanding cat.

“I'll be in early,” she said to Ian as they parted in the underground parking lot. “Finding and informing Ms. Trepanier's next of kin will be first on the list. Then an analysis of her diary, a review of the security tapes, and more interviews. I still wonder if we should have offered Ms. Wuttenee protection?”

Ian nodded. “The department's resources are stretched. If the killer plans to try again, he won't return until the ‘scene' is a little quieter. She should be okay.”

As they stood in the dark echoing garage, Rhona couldn't resist one more question. “You off for a drink or home to your petless, plantless condo?”

“Twenty questions again. Here's another item to add to your file folder. Something I thought you would have noticed by now. I seldom drink.”

Rhona clapped her hands over her mouth. “Not a drinker! I'm surprised they allowed you on the force. I suppose if I say, ‘how come,' you'll regard that as nosiness.”

Ian, swinging his keys, shook his head. “You never stop. I'll leave it to you to imagine the worst,” he said, turning on his heel to walk away.

No alcohol. Maybe he was an alcoholic. She shouted, “Maybe you'd like to go for herbal tea and talk about the case.”

As her words boomed through the cavernous garage, two homicide detectives who had given her a hard time when she joined the Toronto force emerged from the elevator.

“Harassment is illegal. You could be charged,” one of them said, only half joking.

Rhona felt colour flood her cheeks. “Right,” she said and stepped smartly towards her own vehicle.

At home, work clothes dropped in a pile on her bedroom floor, martini in hand, she flopped on the sofa and flicked on the TV to see what kind of coverage the murder was receiving. On the way to work in the morning she'd pick up
The Sun
, Toronto's best source of information on crime and criminals.

Amazingly, the news reader only reported that a woman had been stabbed. The police spokesperson said the investigation was underway, that they wouldn't be releasing the victim's name until her next of kin had been notified, and that they didn't believe this was a serial killer.

Serial killer indeed. The public and novelists thrilled to the idea. Certainly such killers existed but not in great numbers. Thank god for that. One Robert Pickton was enough. That thought led to second one. The police and the Crown had blown an early charge against Pickton when he'd been accused of attempted murder. The case had been dismissed because the chief witness, a prostitute who'd barely escaped with her life, had been considered unreliable, although all the evidence supported her allegations. Now most police forces realized that prejudice against such testimony must not happen again.

On the off chance that this had been one of a series of killings, in the morning she would feed the details into the computer, searching for similar unsolved cases and watch for new ones that could be related. What thread would tie them together? Prostitution? Robert Pickton killed sex trade workers, as did several other noted serial killers. Sometimes victims physically resembled one another. Brunettes or redheads or blondes of a certain age. Sometimes the killer apparently chose his victims randomly, but closer investigation usually revealed he had known each of the women and none would have been alarmed by his initial contact.

Opie, who'd received a special fishy treat to make up for Rhona's late arrival, finished his snack. Reeking of fish, he jumped on her lap, kneaded her legs, and settled down to watch TV with her.

Hollis needed information. “Crystal, I understand how upset you are, but to find Mary I need you to level with me, to tell me more about your aunt and the women who live here.”

Crystal stood up, still clutching her aunt's robe. She shook her head from side to side but said nothing. Her mouth set in a straight line, she continued to shake her head.

Loyalty or fear? Each would require Hollis to take a different approach. Maybe a little of both. Careful wording required.

“Crystal, please help.”

She paused. If she promised not to go to the police, Crystal might talk, but that wasn't something she could do. What if Crystal's aunt was involved in drug dealing, murder, human trafficking — Hollis couldn't be part of that. How about a specific question.

“Crystal, can you think of a reason your aunt might leave suddenly?”

Crystal again buried her face in the robe's folds. When she looked up her face had a bleak, grey midwinter look of despair. “Not really,” she said.

“What does ‘not really' mean?” Hollis asked. Time was important. “Can you
guess
why she might have gone?”

Another head shake and a shrug. No co-operation from Crystal.

Hollis sighed. “Okay, girls. Time to go downstairs and get ready for bed. When I've settled you down I'll plug in the baby monitor and take the receiver with me so I can hear what's happening in our apartment when I come back here to see if I can figure anything out.”

Neither Crystal nor Jay objected. Pale and wide-eyed, they needed to sleep to ready themselves for school and the questions they would get from their peers.

When the CAS had okayed Hollis's application to foster, she'd searched Toronto until she found a white trundle bed for her foster child's bedroom. She'd remembered fun-filled sleepovers from her childhood and intended to give her foster child the same pleasure. Crystal had spent several overnights with them, so their routine was familiar.

“Crystal, grab your pjs and toothbrush. Bring clean underwear and whatever you want to wear to school tomorrow.”

Crystal followed instructions and scooped up her bedraggled stuffed monkey, Caspar, originally designed as a pyjama holder. She couldn't sleep without it and always brought it with her.

In the elevator it occurred to Hollis that the one thing she probably should do immediately was phone the police and tell them she had Crystal. She shook her head. She wouldn't do that, at least not right away. She knew the drill. A female officer would come and they'd remove Crystal and place her in foster care. Well,
she
was foster care, and she would keep the child, at least for now.

Downstairs the two dogs rushed to greet them as if they'd been absent for months. MacTee presented one of his toys and Barlow dropped one of Hollis's favourite Nine West shoes at her feet. Apprehensive, she picked it up and discovered the black foam platforms sported dozens of tooth marks.

She eyeballed the puppy, whose tail slowly stopped wagging. “Barlow,” she said, extending the shoe toward him. His tail dropped and he avoided her eyes. “Barlow,” she repeated. He turned and slunk away.

The girls giggled, despite their tension and fatigue.

Maybe it was worth a mutilated shoe to provide a lighter moment.

“We have our work to do training him,” she said. “Off you go. Call me when you're ready for bed and I'll come in to say goodnight.”

In the kitchen the phone's message light blinked. Willem Andronovich, her, what was the current phrase? Her significant other, much better than boyfriend, had promised to drop in after his University of Toronto evening lecture ended at nine. She hoped he hadn't changed his mind: all day she'd looked forward to his visit. With everything that had happened, it would be good to get his take on events.

She pressed play.

After telling her she had one message that had come while they were in Crystal's apartment, it began.

First there was background noise. “Keep Crystal until I come back. Keep her safe.” The message was over.

If she hadn't believed it when she saw the despair on Crystal's face, she believed it now. Something serious was happening to Crystal's aunt. Hollis turned away from the phone to see Crystal standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and her small hand covering her mouth.

“She's okay,” she breathed.

“She is and I'm sure she'll return soon,” Hollis said, although the abruptness of the message created deep unease. “Now off you go to bed.”

Hollis retrieved the notebook she'd found in Mary's backpack. Mentally she crossed her fingers as she picked up the small black book and flipped it open to the first page.

She thumbed through it.
Everything
was in code. A string of letters and numbers with no separations to provide clues. Unlocking the code would require work. Later, she'd google alphabetical codes and try various options. This coded notebook showed that Mary intended this book for her eyes alone. Hollis thought of several reasons why this might be so, but until she broke the code, they'd remain guesses.

Hollis took the baby monitor's receiver across to her office. She plugged it in before she opened her office files searching for more information. Mary had signed her lease two years ago, long before Hollis took over the building's management. Because of Crystal, Hollis knew Mary worked as a waitress. Now she learned the name and location of the restaurant — the Golden Goose on Jarvis Street.

Hollis considered the Aboriginal clan system where custom obliged you to welcome any relative to your home. For upwardly mobile Aboriginals who chose to live off the reserve, this presented problems. If they allowed multitudes to stay with them, it not only depleted their resources, it enraged other tenants in the building, particularly if late-night parties were part of the package. This explanation didn't explain Mary's tenants. Crystal would have known and named aunts, uncles, or cousins.

Perhaps Mary was involved in some other situation that necessitated a code and had nothing to do with the women who passed through her home? Maybe another search upstairs would provide answers.

With the girls tucked in, the dogs on guard, and the monitor plugged in, Hollis pocketed Crystal's keys. If anyone needed her, they had the after-hours emergency number.

Upstairs, she rapped, and after a suitable wait inserted the key and opened the door. Nothing had changed. No one had returned.

What should she be looking for? She examined the door. Three top-notch expensive locks, registered and impossible to duplicate. Mary intended to protect herself and whoever lived with her. Was she expecting trouble, or had her life experience trained her to be extra careful?

Hollis went to the kitchen. The phone on the counter showed four missed messages. She clicked on the first one.

Message one was a hang-up, as was message two.

Message three came four minutes later. “I know what you're doing and I'll stop you.” It was a deep, menacing male voice.

Message four. “It's Bridget again. The scary dude who asked about you came in again and threatened the boss. I think the asshole gave him your address. If you haven't left, leave now. Be careful. Call me.”

Mary hadn't been at home or hadn't picked up these messages, but she must have got the earlier one from Bridget. Time to find out more about Mary and her tenants.

A quick survey of the cupboards and refrigerator revealed that Mary fed everyone well. A closer look and she discovered several bottles of medication in the meat keeper.

Methadone.

Someone in the apartment used drugs or had used them. Methadone presented an escape. She ran through what she knew about the drug.

In the dark ages of her past, a druggie rock band boyfriend had kicked the habit taking the methadone route. Addicts depended on it to get them off illegal drugs and prevent them from falling back, but methadone required a prescription and monitoring. She remembered that for the first months a user was required to turn up daily at a clinic or doctor's office for a mandatory urine test before his methadone dose. Only after the addict proved his commitment and reliability was he allowed a weekly supply. Whoever lived in this apartment had reached stage two. Could this interesting discovery have something to do with Mary's flight? On the other hand, whoever took the methadone had left without it, and this would pose a problem, because the drug was taken daily.

She poked half-heartedly through the garbage, but nothing ratcheted her up to high alert.

Bathrooms often revealed more than kitchens. If she found anything in the apartment's only one, she would have no way of knowing to whom it belonged. There was no need for concern, as the cabinet revealed the usual collection of painkillers, nail polish remover, tampons, dental floss — nothing out of the ordinary in a house full of women.

In Mary and Crystal's shared bedroom she paid little attention to Crystal's belongings. Like Jay, Crystal owned the same brand name T-shirts, CDs, DVDs. Both girls loved the Jonas Brothers and found vampires fascinating. None of this would tell her where Mary had gone. She looked at Crystal's computer but didn't start it up.

The bedroom and the rest of the apartment led her to speculate about Mary's life and personality. The large poster in the living room might reveal a sympathy for the downtrodden, an appreciation of the artistic merit of the photo, or both. On the other hand a former tenant could have left it behind. But if Mary belonged to a First Nation, her awareness of the long-term plight of her people might have motivated her to hang it as a constant reminder. The same reasoning could be applied to the chief's poster and the collection of scholarly and popular books dealing with Aboriginal life and issues. If this was the case, what was she doing that she needed these reminders?

The lack of a personal stamp could have no significance. Perhaps Mary wasn't into decorating or refused to spend or didn't have the money for anything but the essentials. If she'd always worked as a waitress, money would be tight. Did the treadmill mean she was a fitness fanatic or had she bought it after making a January resolution? Hollis had not considered Mary to be fat, thin, tall, or short. Rather, she'd seemed ordinary.

The computer required a password. Given the coded notebook, Hollis had expected this but it disappointed her. She opened the single desk drawer. A neat array of stamps, name stickers, paper clips, and elastic-bound used chequebooks met her eye. At this point she felt like a voyeur and didn't remove the elastic to see who and what Mary had paid.

Instead she moved to the file cabinet. Locked. Again, no surprise. Mary didn't want anyone trolling through her computer or her files. Was she hiding something or simply acting like a person who treasured privacy? If she harboured an ever-changing series of women, these precautions might be designed to prevent them from snooping in her private business.

The cupboard, like the rest of the room, revealed little. Mary owned few clothes. An assortment of jeans, none of them high-end, four pairs of black slacks, a number of white cotton shirts, one black skirt, three jackets, two black hoodies, several pairs of shoes, and four purses — not a large wardrobe.

Without much hope of finding anything, Hollis combed through each handbag checking all the compartments but, as she'd expected, found nothing. Conclusion: Mary Montour, a private person with low-key clothing, kept all personal information stored safely away.

This expedition marked the fourth time she'd riffled through an apartment looking for clues to lead her to a missing person or to provide insight into a life. The worst had been her search in her murdered husband's files, where shocking surprises had awaited her. Investigating a home always made her feel sneaky and somehow guilty. As she had in the past, she reassured herself that she'd taken a useful first step.

Time to move to the second bedroom with its bunks and scattering of brilliant, tawdry clothing. Only a paperback book, splayed open and spine up, lying beside the bed, spoiled the military neatness of half the room. When she picked it up, she realized it was one of thousands of self-help books offering to guide readers along the path to self-actualization.

This woman was working on her self-image. In absentia Hollis wished her well.

The other side gave the impression that an out-of-control, over-the-top person lived there. Copies of
People
and
US
along with a pile of comic books lay on and under the bed, along with chocolate bar and gum wrappers, empty diet soda cans and chip bags. Amid a tangle of bedding, vivid nylon, spandex, and microfibre clothes added intense colour. The occupant had tossed a black lace bra atop the brilliant mountain. Hollis edged over to the bed and gingerly plucked it from the debris. It was 38DD — this buxom woman with her peacock clothes always would have been noticed. Spike-heeled shoes with run-over heels or platform soles were everywhere. If she had to guess she'd say this was a hooker's wardrobe. Unlikely that she had worked as a civil servant or a receptionist in a staid law firm. The idea made Hollis smile.

Chests of drawers next.

Nothing cluttered the surface of the tidy bureau, and all its drawers were tightly closed. Hollis opened the top drawer. Beside neatly folded serviceable white underwear she saw an arresting, well-thumbed purple pamphlet with red lettering:
Methadone Maintenance Treatment — client handbook
. Either it was second-hand or its condition revealed how frequently its owner had referred to it. The methadone in the fridge belonged to Miss Tidy.

Lowering herself to a bunk, Hollis thumbed through the Canadian Mental Health Association booklet. Well-written, frank, easily understood. If only all manuals were like this. As she read through it she stopped on various pages and learned that like her long ago boyfriend, individuals testified that they'd used the drug for decades and lived productive, normal lives. Apparently methadone users carried cards that allowed them to receive treatment if they could not get to the regular clinics. Hollis stopped worrying about the missing woman, because this information, along with the absence of a purse, reassured her that wherever the unknown woman had gone, she most likely had the card she needed to continue her treatment.