Cut to the Chase (32 page)

Back in her apartment, she found Willem sitting on the bed cautiously spooning peach yogurt into his mouth. MacTee had parked himself close to Willem and fixed his gaze on the spoon.

“I think I'm going to be on a semi-liquid diet for quite a while,” Willem said, giving her a lopsided grin.

“You're better, aren't you?” Hollis said.

“I am. I got up to answer the phone, but I took so long, I didn't make it. What did you find out?”

Hollis pulled a chair close to the bed and told him about the safe, the stamps and the connection to Danson before she asked, “Now tell me what you overheard the thugs say.”

“That the Super Bug was back and had a really big project. Their bosses and the Bug were worried someone would recognize him before he did what he'd come for. One of them grumbled that he thought the Bug must have switched sides or be working as a double agent, or he wouldn't have been able to get back in the country easily.”

“Unfortunately, it's easy for criminals to return. Finding those who've done that is Candace's brother's obsession.” Sadness swept through her when she thought of Danson and his one-man crusade to rid the country of overseas criminals. “I think the Super Bug is dead.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I think he was Gregory, the man who rented a room in Danson's apartment. I suspect he wanted to see how much info Danson had about him and other Russians like him who had been deported and returned.”

“Pretty ballsy. If Danson and the authorities knew what he looked like before he was deported, wouldn't he be taking a risk, even if he'd had plastic surgery or dramatically altered himself?”

“Danson wouldn't have seen him the first time. He's only been in the tracking business since his girlfriend, Angie, was killed three years ago,” Hollis said.

“I still don't understand why you think Super Bug is dead.”

“It's a long story, but the essence of it is that when Candace reported her brother's disappearance, the police asked her for something with his DNA.”

“Surely that isn't routine procedure,” Willem said.

“No, it isn't. They had an unidentified body in the morgue they thought might be Danson.”

“I don't get it. Why didn't they ask her to come and see if it was Danson?”

“Because the face was smashed beyond recognition, and it had no fingers.”

Willem shifted and winced. “A mob execution. Maybe my source was right when he suggested his loyalty was in question.”

“Because the DNA matched the dead man's, they thought he was Danson.” She shook her head. “He wasn't. It belonged to a man who called himself Gregory. Now we think he was Super Bug, but we haven't found out what happened to Danson.”

“Do you think he was killed too?”

“Not until a body turns up,” Hollis said. “Danson could have been tracking Gregory, or he could have been following another trail altogether. An item relating to his mother, Poppy, was published in the personal column in the paper. Right now, I think that's the more likely path.”

Before she went address searching, Willem required her attention. “Would you like more to eat—soup, a milkshake, ice cream, a smoothie?”

Willem attempted another lopsided grin. “Sounds great, but,” he ran his hand over his chin, “I'm a man who likes to shave. I feel dirty if I don't. If you have a razor, I'll do that and maybe have a shower.”

After the talk of mutilated bodies, thinking of Willem's body in the shower with rivulets of water coursing over it was a welcome relief.

“Sure. I have hot water, soft towels and a new razor.” She grinned. “I could do candles and soft music too.”

Their eyes met and held. “Another time,” Willem said.

He meant it. Hollis's heart did a flip flop.

“Would you like help getting your clothes off?” she said and felt a telltale flush warm her face.

“What red-blooded man would refuse an offer like that? Seriously though, I can't manage my socks and if you unbutton my shirt, I can do the rest.”

She did as she was asked and carefully refrained from stroking his bruised body although, to herself, she acknowledged the strength of the urge. Instead, she did the job quickly and held out a hand to help him up. He leaned heavily on her and took small cautious steps to the bathroom. He hung on to the door frame and staggered to the sink, where he anchored himself to the vanity with one hand and set about his task with the other.

“You're sure you can manage? Why don't I turn the shower on and get what you need?” Hollis said.

Willem, shaking slightly, looked as if he wished he hadn't embarked on this program. “I'll shave first. Then, if I'm okay, you can come in and start the water.”

Message received. He didn't want her watching him shave. She closed the bathroom door and waited outside for a few minutes.

“I don't think I'll have the shower,” Willem said from behind the closed door. “Could you help me back to bed?”

When he'd lowered himself carefully to the bed, she did up his shirt buttons before she lifted his feet and helped him lie down.

“That was frightening. I'm really weak,” Willem said.

“To be expected. I'm going to make you an easy-to-swallow power drink to start you back on the road to health.”

“I'm in your hands,” Willem said and attempted a roguish grin. “I wish.”

“Me too. All in good time,” Hollis said and hurried to whip up a comforting mixture of banana, yogurt, apple and carrot juice. Once he'd drunk it and taken his pain pills, she encouraged him to sleep again. Five minutes later, he was.

She checked to see who had phoned and picked up a message to call Rhona.

What to do? If Rhona had news about Danson she would have called Candace and Candace would have told Hollis. More likely Rhona had called her because she wanted to know what Hollis was doing. If she contacted Rhona, the detective would ask questions that would be hard to answer truthfully. Hollis shook her head. She had Rhona's card in her wallet. Maybe later she'd return the call, but right this minute it was phone book time.

* * *

Hollis opened the Smith pages. Why couldn't the man have had a unique name? Smith—that was a joke. She couldn't face the idea of calling all the Charles and C Smiths in the book. There had to be an easier path. Who would know where he lived? Of course? The stamp dealer. Should she phone and ask? His reluctance to give her information flashed through her mind. It would be too easy for him to say no and hang up. Face to face, she would do her best to explain why it was important and why he wouldn't be violating ethical reservations if he did.

She grabbed her bag, left another note for Willem and raced to her truck. As she headed back up Yonge Street, she formulated her speech.

Inside the store, she did a rapid reassessment. The man behind the counter was not the one to whom she'd spoken earlier. No welcoming smile and his, “how can I help you,” did not promise easy access to the information she needed.

“I came earlier today and spoke to another gentleman. Would he be available?”

“I'm here alone this afternoon.”

She repeated her story. He gave her little encouragement, but finally she screwed up her nerve and said, “Could you give me Charles Smith's address?”

The man, whose long face had remained expressionless during their exchange, paused and examined her. His eyebrows rose and his lips reformed into what could be described as a sardonic smile. “So that you or your accomplices can break in and see if the collection is in the empty house? I wasn't born yesterday. The answer is no. My brother shouldn't have told you as much as he did, and I'm certainly not going to share any more information.”

“Thanks anyway,” Hollis said and slunk from the store. Damn. She'd have to make those calls after all.

Back at the apartment, Willem sat on the sofa contem-plating the gold painting.

“That has potential,” he said.

She'd almost forgotten her trouble with the painting. Other issues had taken precedence in the last week.

“I'm having problems with it,” she said.

“Is it one of a series? I'd guess it's autobiographical, maybe about exploring.”

Hollis thought about it. She hadn't cottoned on to the fact that it might relate to her own life, although almost all art was self-referential. She'd thought about it as a painting where things were half-hidden, half-revealed. Her life was like that. Almost at the halfway mark, and she hadn't found the answers she was looking for. Very perceptive of Willem to home in on the ambivalence and ambiguity in her life.

“It is. I thought I was exploring colour as well as burying and retrieving information, but you're right. Thank you.”

“Any time. I may have a new career as an art critic. So where have you been? Did you find out anything?”

“The identity of the stamp collection's owner.”

Willem raised an eye brow. “That's enigmatic.”

“You're the one who intends to be a lawyer. I'll share the contents of a will that I read and you can tell me what you think it means. First I have to see where Charles Garfield Smith lived.” She examined Willem. “You had a shower?”

“I did. Now I wish I had clean clothes. I hated putting these back on.” He brushed a hand over his filthy pants.

Would her clothes fit? She stood six feet tall in her stocking feet and owned a number of men's shirts she used when she painted or made her papier mâché animals.

“Maybe I can do something about that,” she said, heading towards her closet. She pulled out a clean but paint-stained blue shirt.

“You can wear this on top and wrap a towel around your waist. I'll throw your stuff in the washer in the basement.”

“I accept,” Willem said and slowly levered himself to his feet, took the proffered shirt and shuffled to the bathroom. When he emerged, it almost covered his chest, and he'd draped a white towel like a sarong around his waist. He clutched his bundled clothing.

“Very fetching,” Hollis said, taking the clothes and heading for the door.

When she returned, Willem had returned to bed.

“Anything I can get you?” she asked.

“Every time I do anything, I'm exhausted. My body tells me to take it easy, to take another nap, and I'm listening,” he said.

“If you do want something to eat or drink give a shout,” Hollis said. “I'm going through the phone book searching for Charles Garfield Smith's address.”

She left the bedroom door ajar and crossed the room to collect a highlighter. MacTee, who'd been lying by the front door, rose when she walked through the room. He stared at her and went back to the door. A glance at the clock and she realized he hadn't been out since just after she'd spoken to Poppy that morning. The search for Charles Smith would have to wait. She reached for her hoodie and, with MacTee at her heels, set off for a walk.

Indian summer, if that's what they'd been having, was over. Grey clouds stacked in horizontal layers, a chill wind and a dark afternoon that had become a sombre evening reminded her that November's dark days had arrived. Time to haul out the winter clothes and prepare for the cold.

Deep in thought, she didn't notice Jack pull up to the curb beside her as she neared the house. The slam of his van's door didn't break into her reverie, but his inquiry did.

“How's the patient?” Jack asked and touched her arm.

She jumped then felt embarrassed at her skittishness.

“Sorry, I was thinking about something. Wasn't expecting to talk to anyone.”

“How's your friend doing?”

“Much better. Thanks for your help. Were you coming from practice or work?”

“What?”

“I thought you might be returning from work or a lacrosse practice.”

“Work,” Jack said and peered at the house. “Did the dancer get back?”

His voice betrayed his conviction that a woman Poppy's age really couldn't be a legitimate dancer. Since Hollis too had been startled when she'd learned Poppy's occupation, Jack's attitude didn't surprise her.

“She did. Came in on the red-eye from Vancouver this morning.”

By this time they'd reached the door and separated.

“MacTee, sometimes walking you helps me clear my mind. Same thing for meditation. Walking didn't help, and I haven't got time for meditation. I'm going to have to wing it with a muddled mind,” Hollis said to the dog when they were back upstairs.

In the apartment, Willem slept with his mouth open, snoring gently.

She pushed the chickens to one side and plunked the massive phone book on her work table.

Smith, Charles.

Should she phone each one and ask for Charles? The Charles she wanted was dead. If a family member answered the phone, her call would be a hurtful reminder of their loss. Other Charles Smiths might also be dead, and that reasoning would apply. For her particular Charles Smith, the only family member who might answer the phone would be Jacob. She was guessing, but she didn't think he'd been overcome with sorrow when his father died. Anyway, it had to be done because he was the one she wanted.

Trying to locate Charles Smith would be even more tedious than sending the e-mails.

An hour later, she'd made no headway and developed an admiration for telemarketers. There had to be another way. One more thing to try. She moved to her computer, typed in the phone number that had been in the Globe advertisement and went on a reverse search. She hadn't known how to do this when she'd called the number before.

It worked. She had the address. Now it was time to see if anyone was home.

S
ix
o'clock on a Friday night in November. She'd wait until seven, when anyone living in the house would have had time to return from work and then she'd scout the place. Meanwhile, she and MacTee would update Candace on her activities.