The Taken (28 page)

“Yeah,” she said, keeping her tone even, “I gather he had his favourites.”

“You do a lot of repeat business working a patch like that. A lot of sad, hard cases you just want to send home to their mothers, but they keep coming back. You learn to keep an eye out for the really hopeless ones.”

“So it’s not unusual to, like, adopt one or two of them?”

“You’re lucky if your heart bleeds for only two. Goodman made something of an art of it. I still see kids down there wearing his necklaces.” She was careful not to react. “Yeah,” said Toles, laughing lightly, “he gave them keepsakes, thought if he marked them in some way, it would send a message to the bad-asses to leave them alone.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, we weren’t
bad-asses
in Nineteen, but if we picked one of his stray lambs up we’d know to call him. But you learn no matter what you do, most of them end up where they end up, right?”

“Right,” said Hazel.

She went out the door and walked right to the Tim’s on the corner, trying to keep her pace slow and even, just in case someone was watching, but inside, she was bursting. She got herself a coffee with two creams and two sugars, then went to the corner of Richmond and John and flagged a cab. “Number thirty-two, Washington Avenue,” she said.

She changed her mind on the way and had the driver drop her on Huron Street and she walked in, the nearly empty coffee cup catching the wind in her hand. It was lunchtime and the street was quiet, the great chestnut trees making a cool, dark canopy to walk under. She kept to the even-numbered side of the street and drifted down to where she could stand across from number thirty-two. It stood on its patch of earth, looking very much like the houses on either side of it, pretty and unremarkable little Victorians, typical downtown Toronto houses, once grand, now rundown, chopped into “units” and inhabited by a rotating cast of characters of every description. But was number thirty-two different? Had it seen a murder? Did it have a truth to impart if the right person asked the right question? And was she the right person?

She crossed the street and walked up the path to the steps that led to number thirty-two’s door. There was no hint that anyone knew she was there. Caro’s window remained closed; there was no sound from inside the house. She checked the name list beside the door and confirmed that a J. Cameron did, in fact, live in that main-floor apartment to her right. She pressed her face to the window, as Hutchins had on Saturday morning. Yellowing venetians with no more than two millimetres of opening between them covered the windows. She pushed her right eye against the glass and tried to see into the space beyond, but all she could make out was an opening in the far wall, a passage into the room beyond. This could mean the front room of the apartment was empty or that she simply couldn’t see what was in that room. It seemed important right now to determine whether someone lived in that space beyond the venetians or not. If Cameron lived there, in a kind of ongoing
memorial to her daughter, or if it was a staging point of some kind. The former made her feel safer, but she felt certain it was the latter. The place had been reserved for a form of theatre and she’d been invited to see the show.

She returned to the front door and tried it gently, somewhat relieved to find it locked. Then stepped back onto the path and took the whole house in again. There was no one at the windows, no sense of movement from within. In fact, the house seemed as still as a dead heart. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but as she crossed the street and began to walk in the opposite direction out toward Spadina Avenue, she felt disappointed.

She wasn’t surprised to feel the radiophone in her pocket begin to vibrate. She took it out and put it to her ear without saying anything.

“I didn’t think you gave up that easily.”

“You want me to commit a B & E, Joanne?”

“Ah,” she said. “It’s nice to hear you say that name.”

She’d stopped before reaching the avenue. Red and black streetcars swam past on their rails. “You can see me,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Someone
can see you,” she said. Hazel turned around and looked behind her, but the street was empty.

“Have you rented a room in every house on Washington?”

“If you didn’t want us to find each other, then why did you come back here?”

“I came back because I have questions.” Cameron said nothing. “We found her,” Hazel said. “Your girl. She drowned in Lake Ontario on August 4, 2002. She was not, at the time, someone who should have been operating a boat.”

“Tell me how long we’re going to stick to the official story.”

“Marijuana, alcohol, and Ativan. That’s what she had in her. That’s what I know.” She’d decided to play her cards close to her chest for the time being. “There was water in her lungs, so she was alive when she went in. It’s going to be hard to convince any examiner that she did anything but end her own life.”

“There’s a key between two empty flowerpots at the back of the house.”

Cameron hung up. Hazel was facing the direction she’d come in. She took a deep breath and began walking back to the house. It seemed to her that all the windows in the houses on either side of the street had sprouted eyes and every move she made now was being marked. The skin over her spine was tingling. She slid her hand down to her belt and flicked the snap on her holster open.

She walked up from the sidewalk at number thirty-two again and followed the path to the right gate, tripping the latch. Her heart was beating fast in her chest as she stepped into the garden, keeping to the wall as she moved slowly to the pots. There was a keychain lying in the second one down, as Joanne Cameron had told her, with two keys on it.

The fact that she would need a key to get in meant she would be alone in the apartment. But how would she know what to look for? Cameron would tell her. She knew this now. Cameron was leading her, completely. She realized she had accepted this, no matter the danger it posed her, or the rules it broke. Her hunger to know the rest of the story was greater than her sense of self-preservation.

She walked back down the pathway to the front of the house and went up the steps. With the key in the front door (she’d
had to try both keys) she was joining herself to Cameron now, she was complicit.

She held the phone, waiting for a sign that Cameron was with her. She gripped the silent device in her hand. It felt hot.

The door opened silently on the dark hallway. The door to the main apartment was to her right. She stood in the hallway and listened to the house. Apart from the sound her entering had made and her weight on the floorboards, there was silence. The other key opened the apartment door.

It was empty. From the window outside, she’d viewed a denuded space. Inside, it was a generous, open set of rooms with blond wood floors burnished to a warm glow. The apartment was an empty shrine. A fireplace was bricked up in the wall across from her. She crossed into the room carefully, her hand on her hip holster. She took small, shallow breaths. Behind this living room, through the opening she’d seen, was the dining room, perhaps the main dining room in the house of old, from the time when it contained a single family and servants as well. The most gracious room in the house. A window in the back wall looked out on the half of the garden she hadn’t walked through. She passed into the room, taking small steps. And then she was alone there as well. Her watchfulness intensified as the space she’d moved through diminished.

To the side of the dining room was the kitchen, and behind the kitchen, a small hallway leading to a bathroom and a bedroom. Her footsteps followed her through the apartment. From a vantage in the doorway leading into the kitchen hallway, she could see all four rooms of the apartment. It seemed a good place to establish as her blind, and she stopped there and listened again.

She thought she saw movement through the open bedroom door and pressed her back against the end of the hallway, beside the kitchen, and then smartly transferred herself to the other wall and slid down it, giving herself a vantage on the bedroom. It was empty. She felt comically grateful the closet had two doors on it, both of which swung open outwards. The closet was empty as well.

A shock went through the palm of her hand and she dropped the phone. It buzzed against the floor like a mad insect. She snatched it up and marched back to her post with the handset against her ear.

“Detective Inspector.”

“I’m here,” she said.

“Thank you.”

She stayed completely still to listen for the voice under the voice, but if Cameron was anywhere near her, she wasn’t within earshot. “There’s nothing in this place,” Hazel said. “Am I supposed to tear up the floorboards?”

“You could, but I can do it for you. Look around at the space you’re standing in. I can fill it with tables and chairs and hang paintings on the walls. I can put my daughter here on the night of August 4, 2002, with Colin Eldwin.”

“What’s putting me in an empty room going to show me, Ms. Cameron?”

“It might look empty, but there’s a heart under these floors.”

Hazel couldn’t help looking down at her shoes and, as she thought of the box buried in Nick Wise’s garden, the back of her neck went cold. “I’m listening,” she said quietly. She slid down the doorframe until she was sitting half in the hallway, half in the dining room. The action had pulled at her lower
back, but the pain was bearable. From this vantage, she’d be able to see anyone coming from any direction.

“He’d placed an ad in one of the university papers,” Cameron began. “That was where he threw his nets. ‘Creative writing tutor,’ it said. He auditioned them in a student pub up on Bloor Street, looked them up and down to see if they had any
talent
, and if he liked them, he told them he could help them improve. Get them published. Brenda was in a good place then – she’d signed up as a ‘mature’ student in the night-class programs at U of T. She wrote poetry. Did you know she wrote poetry?”

“They tend not to include that kind of detail in a police report.”

“Just the bodies, not who lived in them. She wasn’t a good writer, yet, but she was trying to grow. That was my daughter, always looking around for another chance at life. She’d had a lot of them. Almost as many lives as a cat, I always told her. She’d been messed up with drugs, in trouble with the police; she hooked up with the wrong men, took stupid jobs in rotten parts of town, but she always got up and dusted herself off. She made me proud of her.”

Hazel shivered, thinking of Martha, and felt herself shift a spiritual inch closer to Cameron, a fellow watcher in a world where people like them suffered for others. “Anyway,” she continued, “she answered his ad and went and had a beer with him. Brenda was a beautiful girl. And for all her familiarity with the street, she was unworldly. That kind of thing can help you in life if it keeps you open to the right kinds of things. They had a couple of meetings and he went over some of her poems. Then he suggested they meet here. In this apartment.” Cameron
lowered her voice and continued. “Maybe the first time, he served her coffee, there in the front room. Then he suggested she come for dinner. What do you call that, Detective Inspector? The
modus operandus?
That’s how it worked. Like there was a conveyor belt from the front door to the bedroom and it took a few weeks to get there. Where are you right now?”

It took Hazel a moment to realize Cameron was talking to her. “I’m in the hallway beside the kitchen.”

“Go into the living room.”

Her heart jolted and she pushed herself up the doorframe. “Why?”

“I want you to see it as it was. I want you to be there with her.”

She walked cautiously into the living room, but it was still empty. She strode to the apartment door and locked it, then stood with her forehead against it.

“There was a couch with its back to the window,” Cameron said, “and a round, low coffee table in front of it. In the corner, beside the opening to the dining room, a comfortable chair with a lamp beside it.”

“How do you know this?”

“She described it to me.”

She turned around to look at the room. “There’s nothing here, Joanne.”

“All of this happened here, in this place. You don’t see it yet, but you will if you let yourself.” Hazel wondered if Cameron was repeating lines Dana Goodman had once said to her, when he’d turned her grief to his own purposes. “Put me on speaker-phone.” There was a button on the side of the device and Hazel pushed it, then leaned down and stood the phone upright in the middle of the floor. Joanne Cameron’s voice radiated out of
it. “All Brenda wanted was someone to show her some kindness. I knew what Colin Eldwin was the moment she told me about him. A carnivore. I warned her. But the heart is a puzzle, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t mean he killed her, Joanne.”

“No, of course it doesn’t.” Hazel heard a car drive past outside the house and for a moment her attention wandered, but she brought it back. “Brenda fell in love,” the voice from the floor said. “And that was an inconvenience to him, you know, but he dealt with it. He used it, when he wanted her; he shot Cupid’s arrows at her, full of promises. But he tired of her. He was too busy to see her this time or that time, but he still told her he loved her. She couldn’t read between the lines.”

“She told you all this?” she asked.

“She never hid anything from me,” said Joanne Cameron. “Whether she was in love or despair, troubled or happy. I was always there for her.”

“It must be hard feeling it wasn’t enough,” said Hazel.

“People like Brenda … they’re beautiful in so many ways. They believe in others, but they can be taken in. Their love goes out into the world and finds its kind, even if it’s really only a shadow or a show. They’re blind to things like that. I told her all the stuff you tell someone when they’re on a bad drug. That it’s going to let you down. That the world doesn’t look that way when you get the juice out of your system. But she was an addictive personality. She started turning up at his place, unannounced. And she saw how many students he had. She found out he had a lot of Brendas. She wasn’t special.”