Cut to the Chase (24 page)

Bucketing along in her beat-up old truck, she tried to map out a scenario for the encounter ahead. Nothing came to her. It would have to be improv.

In the park, MacTee sniffed the trees and attempted to lift his leg higher at each successive one. Very large dogs must use this park, and MacTee was working to establish his place in the hierarchy.

She spotted Spike's mother. Knitting furiously, hair covered with a bandana and her possessions spread on the bench, she commanded a strategic spot at the junction of several paths, where she could monitor approaches from several directions.

Hollis released MacTee, who moseyed along, nose to the ground, collecting olfactory information. As he neared Spike's mother's bench, his head lifted. He stopped, raised his nose even higher, and sniffed.

“Sausage. I got Polish sausage,” Spike's mother said to Hollis.

“He's great at smelling good things,” Hollis said.

MacTee sidled close to the bench and fixed the women with a pleading gaze.

“Is he hungry?” the woman asked

“No. It's an act. He's a ham…”

A puzzled look.

“I mean he's an actor. He pretends he's hungry hoping you'll share your Polish sausage with a starving dog who isn't starving.” Hollis smiled. “May we join you? Is that going to be a scarf?”

The women peered at Hollis through narrowed eyes. Hollis continued to smile.

“Okay. You sit,” the woman said and moved her flowered carpet bag to make room on the bench.

“I'm Hollis, and my dog's name is MacTee,” Hollis said and held out her hand, which she regretted as the woman held knitting needles in both hands.

The woman laid the knitting in her lap and offered a chapped red hand. “Katerina.”

“Lovely name. Is it German?” Hollis said and wished she could haul the words back into her mouth. She'd known Katerina was Russian but thought it would make the woman suspicious if she zeroed in too soon. German? Was she out of her mind? This woman had survived the more than nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad.

“German.” Katerina spat on the ground. “If Katerina German—I change it. I hate Germans. Buy nothing German. Name is Russian.”

MacTee nudged Katerina's flowered carpet bag and stared beseechingly at her.

“Can I?” Katerina asked, pointing her needle at the bag.

Wagner's “Ride of the Valkyries” blasted from Hollis's handbag. Wagner, the quintessential German composer and inspiration for Hitler—bad choice. She grabbed for the phone, pressed talk and said hello.

“It's Willem. I found some info for you,” he said. Hollis heard suppressed excitement in his voice.

“That's terrific.”

“I don't want to…” he stopped abruptly.

“What the hell. Who are you? What are you doing? Get out of my office,” Willem said.

Hollis heard fear in his voice.

A rumbling, menacing voice speaking in a foreign language.

Willem replied in what must be the same language.

A crash. What was happening?

More talk. This time it sounded like an order. Short staccato speech.

“Call 911,” Willem shouted.

Another voice speaking heavily accented English. “Get the fucking phone. Under desk.”

Silence.

H
ollis
snapped to attention and punched in 911. “Willem Andronovich was talking to me when men broke into his office in the Slavic Studies department at the University of Toronto. They're attacking him. Send the police. It's an emergency.” She identified herself, gave the address at the university and, instructed to stay on the line, did not hang up but held the phone in her hand.

“Willem Andronovich,” Katerina gazed at her with raised eyebrows and head cocked to one side.

Hollis focussed on the woman. “Yes. Do you know him?”

Katerina's eyes brimmed with tears. “He good man,” she said. Hollis wanted to pursue this, to learn how Katerina knew Willem, but not now. Although she knew she shouldn't hang up, she had a call to make. Rhona's number was in her cell's phone book. She pressed in the number. Why, oh why hadn't she believed Willem when he'd said how dangerous it was to ask questions? This was her fault. She should have shared the information with Rhona as soon as Willem had translated the message.

“You have reached the extension of Detective Rhona Simpson. I am on the other line or away from my desk. If your call is urgent, call 911. If not, please leave a message.”

Damn, the woman was never there. What message should she leave? Over the phone, she wasn't about to admit she'd withheld evidence. They charged you for that—it was a serious crime. “I hope you're in the office. I'm bringing in evidence that links Danson to Gregory to the Russian mob.”

As she spoke, Katerina stood up and moved close. She planted herself inside Hollis's space and loomed over her.

“You!” Katerina thrust a knitting needle into Hollis's arm.

It hurt. Hollis yanked her arm back and slid along the bench out of reach of the grey metal skewer.

“You connected to mob? To drug dealers? You came to get me? Trap me?” Spit foamed on her lips. She breathed in short, oxygen-deprived gasps.

MacTee, hovering close to the sausage bag, backed away in alarm and skulked back to Hollis.

This woman was crazy. How had she got herself in such a mess?

“No. No. I have nothing to do with drug dealers or the Russian mob. Nothing. Believe me—nothing.”

“Why you talk about evidence and mob?” Katerina panted.

“Because I know someone who is involved, and I'm trying to help,” Hollis said.

“Help. You help mob?”

“The police. I'm helping the police,” Hollis shouted. She had to force this dense woman to understand.

“Why you come talk to me?” Katerina moved threat-eningly near. Her quiet intensity frightened Hollis.

The truth. “Your son suggested it.”

“My son,” Katerina stopped and stepped back, mouth open. Clearly she hadn't expected this response. She calmed down a bit. “How you know my son?”

“Long story, but I do. He's worried about you and asked me to make sure you were okay,” Hollis said.

Katerina clutched her knitting and rocked back on her heels. “Something happen to him.” Her voice high and thin, she dropped her knitting and grabbed for Hollis. “What is wrong?” Her hands clawed at Hollis's jacket. “Why he not come himself?”

Hollis detached the grasping hands and stepped back. “Because he's a friend of mine, and he…” She paused. What line would work best with this woman? Inspiration struck. “He thought you and I might be friends because he worries that you don't have enough friends.”

“You lie,” Katerina said flatly. “You not know my son. He never sent you.”

“He did.”

“How I know that?” Her eyes narrowed. “What is his name?”

“Spike.”

“Hah, I have no son name Spike. Venedikt is my son. You lie.”

“It's...” how to explain nicknames? “That's what he told me his name was.”

Katerina's chin jutted. “What does this Spike do?” There was a note of triumph, of “now I've got you” smugness in her voice.

Hollis sighed. She didn't want to be having this bizarre conversation, she wanted to be in her truck driving to the university searching for Willem.

“He works at the Starshine Lounge,” she said.

Katerina's face revealed her displeasure at being wrong, that Hollis did know her son and did know where he worked. She deflated as fast as a punctured balloon. Hollis lightly touched the woman's shoulder. “I do know Spike, and he did ask me to come and talk to you. I have to go, but I'll be back.”

Katerina didn't try to stop her. She subsided on the bench without even picking up the knitting lying on the path. “Okay,” she mumbled. “Okay.”

Hollis hated to leave, but she'd come back.

In the truck, she drove as fast as she dared and left her vehicle in an outrageously expensive parking garage close to Willem's office. Out of the truck, she and MacTee ran to the building and up the stairs. When she reached the office, the door stood open. The office was empty. Willem's overturned chair provided mute evidence that something had happened. She knelt down and examined the floor. No blood stains—that was good.

“What are you doing?” a voice behind her demanded.

She stumbled to her feet. A petite, dark-haired, neatly attired woman stared at her.

“I was looking for Willem,” she said.

“Under the desk?”

“No. He was talking to me on the phone when men broke into his office and attacked him.”

Hands on her hips and head tilted, the woman sniffed. “That's hard to believe. I work here, and I saw him walk out with two men. He wasn't making any fuss or anything. Minutes later the police stormed in, and I told them I'd seen him leave. They checked a bit and left. Said someone must have phoned in a crank call.” She peered at Hollis. “Were you that someone?”

If only she hadn't hung up, she could have confirmed that Willem had been abducted.

“I was. You'll be glad to know that you may have endangered Willem's life by telling the police he left voluntarily,” Hollis said.

Thinking of where Willem might be, and what might be happening to him, filled Hollis first with horror and then with rage.

“I don't suppose you noticed that the men walked very close to Willem? You couldn't see but I'll bet they had a gun or a knife poked into his side, and that's why he walked quietly.”

The woman glared at Hollis. “You're making that up so I'll feel bad,” she said, her tone petulant.

“I'm not. I wish it had been a message so I could play it back, but you'll have to believe me.,” Hollis said.

The young woman studied Hollis for a moment. “If it's true, I'm sorry, but how was I to know. This is a university, not a place where professors are abducted at gunpoint.”

“I agree, but it did happen.”

“Oh my god, poor Willem. Is there anything I can do?”

“If the police come back, tell them you were wrong,” Hollis said as she redialed Rhona's number.

Rhona still wasn't there. She left a message relaying what had happened to Willem.

While she talked, the young woman leaned on the door frame. “I'm so sorry,” she repeated.

Hollis felt contrite. There had been no need to lash out the way she had. “I'm sorry I said what I did. There was no way you could have known,” Hollis said.

MacTee trailing after her, she retraced her steps. In the truck she sat and thought about what she should do next. Katerina's distraught image flashed into her mind. Perhaps she could undo the damage she'd done there and uncover the woman's connection to Willem. Maybe Katerina would have an idea where the men had taken him. She didn't want to think about what they might have done to him and shivered at the thought of Gregory's smashed face and fingerless body.

* * *

“Let's go find Spider Jones in Allan Gardens,” Ian said.

Inside the park, they carefully examined the pigeon feeders, the strollers, the brown bag drinkers.

“Katerina's here again,” Ian said, looking ahead to the spot where three paths converged.

“Something's wrong with her,” Rhona said.

Katerina paced around and around the bench, talking to herself and gesturing with her knitting. A purple trail measured her circles and isolated her like an agitated spider in its web.

“Katerina,” Rhona said softly as they slowly approached the bench.

The woman stopped as if the sound of her name had been a brake. Her head, which had been lowered as she paced, came up, and her neck stretched long and flexed back like a cobra about to strike. She flicked her gaze from side to side, finally fixing on Rhona's face.

“You,” she hissed. “They sent you.” She raised her eyes and bobbed her head. “They will never get me. No, no, no, never, no.” The litany went on and on as she resumed her measured tread around the bench. She shot glances their way but didn't slow her pace or stop the monotonous drone.

“Who do you think sent us? What are you saying no to?” Ian said.

Katerina ignored him.

“No one sent us. Can we help you?” Ian said.

Katerina acted as if she hadn't heard.

“I don't like to leave her like this,” Rhona said.

“I don't suppose she's dangerous, is she?”

“No. We're here to talk to drug addicts but…”

Hollis, who'd entered the park shortly after the two detectives but had hung back waiting to see what was happening, recognized their impasse. She wanted to corral Rhona and pour out her story, tell her about Willem and what had happened. It was time to cooperate.

“Maybe I can help,” Hollis said, tapping Rhona on the shoulder.

Rhona jumped and whirled around. “What are you doing here?”

Her voice penetrated Katerina's preoccupation with denial. She stopped and lifted her head. A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “You with them,” she said in a flat voice.

What was Spike's real name? She needed it, like a blessing. That was it—Venedikt.

“Your son, Venedikt, sent me.”

“Why he not come?” Katerina said.

“Because he had to work,” Hollis said.

“Now I remember. You say Willem. Then you run away. How you know Willem?” Katerina's frown deepened, and her eyes narrowed. She didn't resume her walking. Instead she stared at the sky as if looking for inspiration. Then she lowered her head and glowered at Hollis.

“You with them.” It was a flat statement. “I know you.” She waved the knitting needles at the two detectives. “You. All come from them. Come to get me. To put me away.” She shuffled backwards, clutching the knitting to her chest and trampling the strands lying on the ground.

“No, we haven't,” Hollis said wondering if it was true, if a woman as obviously agitated as Katerina should be taken somewhere where she'd be safe from her demons.