Cut to the Chase (19 page)

Once there, they pulled on gloves and slid Danson's wallet and keys from the evidence bag. Ian opened the wallet and sorted through the contents. “Driver's license, Visa, health insurance card—everything you'd expect,” he said.

Rhona nodded. She'd picked up the keys. “Do these seem too new and shiny to you?” she said to Ian.

Ian examined the proffered keys. “The car key's metal is dull.”

“Agreed, but the others should be somewhat worn, and they aren't.” Rhona addressed the constable. “We'd like to sign this stuff out.”

The young man didn't argue but opened drawers until he found the right form.

While he did this, Rhona jingled the keys. Once they had the evidence, she thanked the officer and they headed toward the car. Ian drove.

After she'd arranged herself to minimize pressure on her hip, Rhona spoke. “I want the sister to examine these keys.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled our her cell phone. “I'll call and tell her we're coming to see her tonight.” She shifted, searching for an even more comfortable position. “Although if she reacts to our news the way she did the last time we told her something, we may not be able to get much useful information.”

Ian, flashing his lights at a car hogging the passing lane and driving well below the speed limit, took a moment to respond. “Don't you think she reacted that way because of the joy she felt that it wasn't her brother's DNA?”

“True, and also because we implied he might have been involved in the tenant's death. But this situation will upset her too. When we break the bad news, she'll be as shocked as she was before and maybe just as unable to…”

Ian, passing the plodder, who'd finally moved aside, interrupted, “Can we really say it's bad news?”

“True. I'm jumping the gun. All we know for sure is that we've found his car and his possessions. Telling her that will raise unpleasant questions, which she may or may not want to face. Once that's over, we'll ask her if she can identify the keys.”

“Who's Gregory? That's the big question. Since we found the brush with DNA in Danson's apartment, it must be Gregory's corpse. As his sister says—it could be totally innocuous—Danson could simply have rented a room to a friend of a friend. We'll have to keep an open mind until we know more about Gregory X.”

“On the other hand, maybe Danson has disappeared because of the connection,” Rhona said. It seemed like the more likely of the two scenarios. “Gregory's computer should tell us something.”

Back in Toronto, Rhona hotfooted it to the lab. The computer specialist, whose down-turned lips and hostile eyes reflected his long-term dissatisfaction with life, mumbled an acknowledgment of her arrival.

“Any ID from the computer?” Rhona asked.

“Really busy here. Haven't had time to really try,” the man said.

“This is a priority case,” Rhona snapped. “I don't want to pull rank, but it's exceedingly important we get into that computer. Make time. Get back to me when you've found the answers,” she said, pivoting on the heels of her cowboy boots without giving him a chance to reply. Had he been slow because she was a woman and he had issues with female police officers, or did he respond to everyone the same way?

“He hasn't done it yet,” she reported to Ian.

“What's his problem?”

“He's good at what he does, but he's a slacker with a bad attitude. If we don't have the info by tomorrow, we'll haul in the heavy guns.” Rhona glanced up. “Five o'clock. Time we had something to eat. Candace expects us at eight.”

H
ollis
located the Slavic Studies department and introduced herself to the receptionist.

“Professor Andronovich expects you,” the woman said, gave directions and sent her on her way.

Invited to enter, Hollis stepped inside Professor Andrin-ovich's office.

A tall young man stood up at she entered. His sandy hair, beard and dark eyes reminded her of a cuddly Teddy Bear, and his warm smile added to the impression. It made her want to know him, to find out what made him tick, why he'd chosen linguistics. One step inside the room, and he'd enchanted her. This was ridiculous, she told herself.

“I understand you have a mysterious missive for me to translate,” he said. His deep, warm voice matched his appearance. Legions of female students must have fancied themselves in love with this man. He'd captivated her in a few seconds. She couldn't imagine how you could sit in a classroom without fantasizing about him. But she was being silly. No doubt he was happily married to another professional—a physician or teacher—and had a mob of curly-haired offspring.

“Thank you for doing this,” Hollis said and proffered the paper.

Professor Andronovich waved her to a grey, molded-plastic chair facing his desk and settled himself in a state-of-the art ergonomic model. He anchored the paper with large, competent-looking hands and read.

She'd always loved men with generous, workmanlike hands. Hollis dragged her eyes away from him and glanced around the room.

Bookshelves crammed to overflowing filled the walls. Framed diplomas hung one above the other on the one space not occupied by shelving. Piles of books and papers threatened to collapse a flimsy table set in front of the window. It curved in the centre, as if the weight was too much to bear. It was such a typical academic's office, it was a cliché.

“Where did this come from?” Professor Andronovich demanded. A frown had replaced his smile.

“Why?”

“It's a serious, even a frightening, letter. Tell me about it.”

“Serious? What does it say?”

“First, I need to know who you are and how you obtained this paper.”

No help for it. “I'm a painter, recently moved from Ottawa. I found this in a book.”

“In a book.” He sat back. “That is an enigmatic remark meant to mislead me. What book? What does this letter have to do with you?”

Anxiety and alarm jolted through her. She didn't want to confess that Gregory, the owner, might be dead or that the police suspected that her friend's brother, who had disappeared, had murdered Gregory.

“It was in a book belonging to a friend of a friend, and we're worried about…” she paused. Maybe better not to say they were afraid for him. “…about what it may mean.”

Professor Andronovich pulled a pad of legal-length, yellow-lined paper from his desk drawer. “Although I will write you a translation, your explanation is fuzzy to say the least. I'd like to know exactly where this came from.”

Should she tell him? No, she shouldn't. Candace would not want the professor or anyone else to hear that there was a possibility that her beloved brother might be a killer. While Candace desperately wanted to know Danson's fate, she wouldn't want the message shared with anyone but the police.

“When I see what it says, I'll know if I should tell you or anyone else,” Hollis said. A stalemate.

The professor considered her thoughtfully before he bent his head over the paper, scribbling away and pausing occasionally to reread what he'd written. Finally, saying nothing, he passed the pad to Hollis.

She read the message.

I cannot overstate how vital your job is. It is a critically important assignment.

Memorize the contents and destroy this letter.

1. The plan's success rests on anonymity. I cannot emphasize this enough.

2. Not only must you find out ‘who' and ‘what' he has, you also must make sure all information is destroyed, along with the investigator.

3. It must appear to be an accident. There must be no police investigation.

4 Five and Seven must be protected at any cost. The others are expendable, but Five and Seven are not.

5. Do whatever you judge to be necessary.

You have done this before and always very well, but we feel you may have lost your edge after the unfortunate Super Bug incident. Put that behind you. Focus on the task at hand.

Do not fail us.

She sorted through the words. The investigator must be Danson. Why else would Gregory be in his house? And Danson had disappeared. Had Gregory accomplished his mission? Why hadn't he destroyed the note? Had something happened to him before he was able to memorize it? She still didn't know his surname.

Super Bug—that might provide a lead. She realized the professor was speaking to her.

“I'm sorry. I didn't hear what you said.”

“I asked if you planned to tell me what this is about and where you found this paper?” Professor Andronovich said.

“No,” Hollis sighed. “I can't. It's complicated. Thank you for translating it for me.” She stood up and reached for the original.

“You're meddling in dangerous matters. If it didn't sound wildly improbable, I'd say that this,” he flapped the paper, “is a directive from unknown person A to unknown person B to do two things: to kill someone and to protect the identity of at least two or more other people.” He too rose. “If that's the case, I hope you'll contact the police immediately.” He examined her face and must have concluded he needed to say more. “I'm assuming, and it may be a false assumption, that you aren't one of the bad guys. If that's true, I have to advise you that whatever mess you're in, get out now. This could be very dangerous.”

It touched her that he would be so concerned about an unknown woman who'd wandered into his office with a mysterious paper.

“Thank you for the warning and for caring. I'm sure it's nothing as serious as that. I promise to go to the police if I think there's any danger.”

Professor Andronovich reached into his desk drawer, extracted a business card and extended it. Before Hollis could take the card, he said, “You look anxious. I have an hour and a half before my next tutorial. Would you like a coffee?”

Now that was a surprise, a pleasant one. “I'd love a coffee,” Hollis said, accepting the card.

In the cafeteria, they collected thick white china mugs filled to the brim with steaming coffee before they found an unoccupied and relatively clean table. After small talk about the university and its growth, the professor leaned toward her.

“Why don't you call me Willem and tell me about yourself,” Profess Andronovich said. He placed his elbows on the table and waited.

Willem. It had a lovely sound and matched his expressive, concerned face. “That's an open-ended invitation. I will if you agree to reciprocate.”

“Agreed,” he said and sat back. One hand toyed with his cup, the other rested on the table.

“First, tell me why your name is Willem—isn't that Dutch?”

“Good diversionary move. Long story, but one of my ancestors fleeing the Russian revolution ended up in Holland and married a Dutch girl. Ever since, we've had Willems in every generation.”

This was an opportunity for a segue to uncover more personal data. “Do you have a Willem?”

A faint grin on his face told her he realized what she really wanted to know.

“Not a Willem, and not a wife, so, for the moment, there's no prospect for this generation unless my sister chooses to be a single parent and have a male child.”

Caught out, she knew she should feel embarrassed. Instead she felt a surge of pleasure. He was single. Inside, she laughed at herself. Half-an-hour after meeting him, and she wanted more. Time to keep her end of the bargain and provide a synopsis of her life. Carefully, she omitted saying where she lived or mentioning Candace or her family. She did share the leap she'd taken when she decided to try to make it as an artist.

“Brave move.” He paused. “We may be birds of a feather.”

Now that was a happy thought. Didn't birds of a feather flock together?

“I'm restless too. I may go to law school.”

Hollis felt her eyebrows rise.

“You're surprised. You should have heard my parents.” He grinned. “To quote them, ‘After the years you spent in school, why would your give it up when you have tenure and a secure future?'” His smile faded. “I understand. They've worked hard for everything. Typical immigrant story. They pinned their hopes for the future on me. My sister too, but for them a successful son was the be-all and end-all. To witness me tossing aside my professorship will be incredibly difficult for them.”

“How did you explain yourself?”

“I gave them the ‘greater good' speech.”

Willem intrigued her more with each word he uttered. She watched expressions flit across his face. The love he felt for his parents was evident.

“What is the greater good speech?”

“That when I died, I wanted to believe I'd contributed to making the world a better place. I'd have a much better chance to do that as a lawyer than I ever could as a linguistics professor.”

“I don't see the connection.”

“Nor did they.”

“Most lawyers that I know want to do something quite different. I have to say, the general opinion is that many lawyers are scuzz bags. What kind of law would you practice?”

“There's a huge need in the immigrant community. Most lawyers who defend Russian immigrants don't speak Russian, and they're forced to use translators. Those they hire don't always get it right.”

“How do you know?'

He pointed out the window. “We're not far from the courts in old city hall. I work there part-time as a translator. Many Russians have court-appointed lawyers, and they aren't well defended.”

A chill spiralled up her spine. Had she chosen the wrong person? Would she have been better off to have gone to the Balalaika? She'd entrusted the paper to a man who frequented the courts and believed accused Russians deserved better lawyers. Could the Russian mob be supporting his bid to return to law school? Thank goodness she hadn't told him the paper's background. She wished she hadn't revealed so much about herself. This wasn't the moment to let him know his confession had alerted her to the possibility that he might be on the other side, whatever that was.