Cut to the Chase (10 page)

Hollis and MacTee crunched through fallen leaves, and she allowed her mind to wander. How could a man vanish so completely? Was it unusual? What leads could she follow if none of the e-mails or phone calls brought in any information? Her thoughts spun and bounced like an Indian rubber ball run amok.

Maybe meditation would focus her mind. As an aspiring Buddhist, she'd created a calm oasis in her bedroom. A silvery drapery hung on the wall behind a low shelf, where she'd set a small statue of the Buddha and on the floor in front of it a square lavender silk floor cushion completed the setup. Initially, when she'd sat cross-legged on the pillow and worked to clear her mind, MacTee had taken her new proximity as an invitation to romp. He'd crept close, licked her face and generally made a nuisance of himself. Repeatedly discouraged, he now flopped on his own foam-filled mat when she lowered herself to her cushion.

Once she arrived home she tried, but meditation didn't help. The enlightenment she'd hoped for didn't arrive—she was unable to rid herself of Danson's image calling for help and urging her to hurry—that his situation was desperate.

On Monday morning, she flicked on her computer and read her e-mails before she dressed and attended to MacTee. Disappointingly, many of Danson's friends expressed concern, but no one provided new leads.

Chores done, it was chicken time. She wiped Danson from her mind and focused on the flock. First she rebuilt the listing chicken's armature then she prepared paste.

Pulling the paper strips through the paste, and smoothing them over the chickens soothed her. She loved watching the creatures emerge. Once she'd applied strips to the bodies, she built up the wings. She possessed a collection of found materials collected on her walks particularly on garbage nights when people threw out amazing things. Adorned with miscellaneous bits and pieces of metal, feathers and fabric, her animals became wondrous beings.

The doorbell rang as she mixed more paste. She peeled off her plastic gloves and sped down the three flights of stairs to open the door.

Jack Michaels, the new basement tenant, smiled.

“Would Candace mind if I parked behind her garage when I'm home during the day?” he asked without wasting time on pleasantries. “On the street, I get tickets.”

“Go ahead, but be sure to okay it with her tonight,” Hollis said to his departing back. Poppy's door flew open after he clomped down the stairs. She'd been lurking and listening. “Who was that?” she demanded.

Her interest surprised Hollis. She'd pigeonholed Poppy as a woman who only paid attention when people or things related to her life.

“The lacrosse player, Jack Michaels, who's staying in the studio apartment until he gets his own place.” This was the perfect moment to ask Poppy more questions. “Did Danson mention him?”

Poppy twisted a strand of red hair around her finger and released the sausage curl as she shook her head. “I don't think he did.”

“Candace said you couldn't remember what you and Danson talked about during those last three phone calls. Has anything jogged your memory?”

Poppy stared at Hollis for a moment before she dropped her gaze to her feet, where she rubbed the toe of her rhinestone-encrusted, turquoise satin mule on the carpet. “Do you really think something bad has happened to him?”

Hollis didn't think Poppy wanted an affirmative answer but felt it was her duty to ask.

“You know that I've been helping Candace search for him. Now that I know more about him, I have to say I think it's very out-of-character for him not to phone her. No one I've contacted has any idea where he might be. Yes, I think he's in trouble.”

Poppy continued to slide her foot back and forth. Hollis guessed she was weighing the pros and cons of revealing information.

Finally, her foot slowed and stopped. “I suppose I should have told you this earlier, but I really didn't believe there was a connection. The lost article was in the personal column of the Saturday Globe and Mail. I don't remember the exact wording, but it had something to do with an anonymous person wanting other anonymous people to contact him or her about a particular Canadian stamp.” She shifted. “I have some interest in stamps. Danson thought this article was important.”

“You collect stamps?”

“I have a few,” Poppy said.

“Do you own the particular one mentioned in the article?”

Poppy shrugged.

“I take it that means you do. Danson knew that and wanted you to call the number in the paper. What did you say?”

Poppy sighed. “I told him I didn't want to get involved. That whoever had put the article in was on a fishing expedition to locate those stamps. Although it said it would be to a person's advantage to phone, I wasn't born yesterday. I know a come-on when I read one.”

“Why do you think Danson wanted you to phone?”

Poppy smiled. “When it comes to me, Danson worries that I'll be poor in my old age, and he thought this might be a way for me to make money. He gets carried away.”

“How did you respond?”

“I said whatever it was, I doubted very much that it was good news. That's what crooks say to get you to respond. Think of those sweet Nigerian people who have your interest at heart, and if you send them a small amount to pay the costs, you'll end up with millions. I'm not stupid. There was no way I'd contact an anonymous person.”

“What did Danson say?”

“He asked if I had any secrets he should know about.” She wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. “He's changed since Angie died. He's become a vigilante bloodhound always on the scent of returned bad guys. He's suspicious and nosy about absolutely everything. The darling boy loves us and wants to take care of us, but sometimes he goes too far.”

“What did you say about your secrets?”

Poppy allowed herself to smile. “Every mother, particularly one who has led the kind of life I've led, has secrets. I told him that. He said, ‘Poppy, you're right to question the reason the anonymous person put the ad in the paper. Checking it out may not be a good idea, but I could judge that better if you tell me what you think it's about'.” Her shoulders lifted, her head tossed, and she threw her hands up, palms flying. “Since I had absolutely no idea, I couldn't say. I didn't want to guess. I told him that.” Her head, hands and shoulders dropped. “I still don't.”

A dramatic performance, but Hollis felt like shaking the woman. Danson was gone. This was the last conversation she'd had with him, and she refused to make the connection, to worry that he might be in trouble because he had chosen to follow up on the newspaper item. Candace had said Poppy lacked the “maternal gene”. She'd got that right, but there was no point in antagonizing Poppy by telling her what she thought of her total disregard for Danson's welfare.

“I believe that this mysterious stamp is connected to Danson. Now that I know precisely what I'm looking for, I'll root through my recycling box, and if I don't have that paper, I'll find it at the library. Then I'll contact whoever ran the notice in the paper.”

Poppy shook her head and sighed. “Good luck. I probably should have told you sooner.” She glanced at her elegant diamond-studded watch. “I'm off to the studio. Let me know what you discover.”

Upstairs, Hollis riffled through the paper recycling bin without success and moved on to the rattan box where she stored the paper she used for her papier mâché. Newsprint topped the pile, but underneath she found Globe and Mails. She flipped through them until she located the Saturday Life section she wanted. There it was—the notice that might have sent Danson on a dangerous mission.

She phoned. And listened to endless ringing.

She hung up and dialed Canada 411, searching for a name to match the number, and learned it was unlisted. Hurling the phone across the room would serve no useful purpose. She faced that fact that she'd smacked into yet another dead end. That wasn't quite true. If the DNA matched Danson's, she'd pass the article on to the police who would identify the caller and the phone's location. She hoped the DNA wasn't Danson's, but either way, there was nothing to be done until the results came back.

She pushed the phone to one side and pulled her computer in front of her. George, Danson's Montreal friend, had answered her e-mail.

“Danson did phone me about a guy named Gregory. I was confused, because I couldn't remember giving anyone Danson's address, and I don't know any Gregorys. I didn't think much about it at the time. I remember how Danson always called his sister on Sunday, so if he missed phoning, it's a reason to worry. Without knowing Gregory's surname it'll be hard to track him down. I'll be downtown today, and I'll go to Concordia and see if they have a class list for the Sociology course. It's a long shot but the only thing I can think of to do.”

Good news—bad news. Good that George was on the case, but it looked more and more that Gregory was bad news indeed.

While she thought about her next move, Hollis returned to her flock. She donned her gloves and began the soothing practice of repeatedly dipping, applying and smoothing paper strips.

* * *

On Monday morning when Rhona's alarm blasted the night's silence, she reluctantly rolled out of bed. She showered, tamed her unruly hair and applied makeup before she slipped into a red print blouse, a pressed, unspotted grey pantsuit and black cowboy boots with a red leather inset design. Ready for the day, she trundled to the kitchen, had a quick breakfast and fed her cat, Opie. He eyed her suspiciously and repeatedly stopped crunching through his kibble to cast sly sideways glances at her. Normally she pampered him on weekends, but this past one she'd rushed out first thing in the morning and fallen into bed exhausted when she returned late at night. Opie had noticed.

She felt guilty. “Maybe I won't be too late,” she said.

What was she doing? Why should she feel guilty about leaving a cat? That's why people had cats—they were independent beings who needed to have their physical wants attended to but were quite happy to look after themselves. That was the theory. It might apply to some cats, but not to Opie. He always hung around when she was home. He did get lonely, and she did feel guilty.

“Treats. I'll give you treats when I get home,” she promised and avoided his accusing gaze as she made for the door.

Homicide hummed with activity when she arrived at seven thirty. Ian, mug in hand, contemplated a pile of paper. The detectives spent much of the day fighting their way through piles of paperwork. Multiple copies of reports inundated their desks. They'd spent the weekend following new leads from anonymous callers, many of whom had claimed they suspected a neighbour or a coworker of being the killer, the wild man, the crazy person who wanted to kill every drug user. All their calls had been recorded, and detectives would have to follow up on the off chance they might identify the killer.

They'd made headway on the first stack of paper when a second mound arrived. Rhona flipped through the new reports. “You aren't going to believe this. I don't believe it. The DNA report is here,” she said to Ian, whose desk faced hers.

“What magic button did we push?”

“Probably happened because the boss is frantic to make headway. The press is really on our case. I expect he pressured the lab to make this the absolute first priority,” Rhona said.

“What does it say?”

Rhona sighed. “That I have a phone call to make.”

“The DNA belongs to the Lafleur man?”

“It does.”

They stared at one another. DNA didn't lie. Danson Lafleur lay in the morgue with his face smashed and his fingers removed.

“Time to talk to Candace. I don't have her office number.” She grimaced. “And, even if I did, I don't like giving bad news in the workplace or over the phone. I'll leave a message that we'll drop over this evening. That will give her a clue that the news is not good. She'll guess that if it was, we'd phone her.” She thought briefly of her promise to Opie, but cats definitely came second.

“Not a part of the job I enjoy,” Ian said.

“I agree, but it's good we can identify the victim. It will be a terrible shock for the family, and it'll be even worse when Candace comes to the morgue. Even though the face is destroyed, we should ask her if she can confirm that the body is his. Maybe she'll recognize his body, his clothes or his personal effects. We can cover up the worst bit. I don't want to show it to her, because the image will imprint itself on her mind and be there forever.”

A shadow of sadness crept over Ian's face. Should she ask or not? She didn't want to come across as hard-bitten or insensitive but also didn't want to be nosy. Ask—all he could do was say it was nothing.

“Something like this happened to you?” she said.

He nodded. “My younger brother was killed in an accident. I went with my mother when she identified the body. I see him in nightmares. I've seen a lot worse in police work, but when it's family, it's different.”

“I'm sorry. How do you deal with it?” Rhona asked. Everyone dealt differently with trauma.

“I used to try to go back to sleep, but that didn't work because the dreams returned. Now I get up, make a hot drink and turn on TV. Sometimes Mom, who's a light sleeper and has her own nightmares, wakes up and joins me. We talk about Fergus, remember the good times and blot out his death. It helps.”

He lived at home. Interesting. He had to be forty, but he still lived at home. Maybe he'd been married and divorced? Or never married? Or his mother was handicapped and needed him? If the appropriate moment came along, she'd inquire. Her attractive partner intrigued her, but he wasn't forthcoming, and she'd have to be skillful if she wanted to learn more.

“Maybe you can share your solutions with Candace Lafleur.”