by Rick Blechta
Pratt drew them into a conversation about their son and the family. He asked the mother if the three names rang a bell.
“My son had a girlfriend named Sarah—or something like it—the summer after he was a senior in high school. We summered in Muskoka, you know, before we sold the cottage. He met her up there.”
“And where was that?”
“Near Port Carling. Her name wasn’t Penrose though.”
Pratt turned to Ellis, who said, “Penrose wasn’t married.”
“We need to check that,” Pratt told him before turning back to the older woman. “You wouldn’t remember this girl’s last name, would you?”
“It was uncommon. Eastern European, I think—at least, it sounded like that.”
“Well, if you recall it, can you please let us know? It could be very important.”
Less than ten minutes later, the two detectives were on their way back to Toronto.
“The old woman may have given us our first connection,” Pratt said, then added, “However tenuous.”
“There are a lot of girls named Sara.”
“I meant Muskoka. We need to do a complete workup on our four people’s pasts. Where they went to school, where they grew up, went to university—the works. Hopefully, the Ottawa police have already done some digging of their own.”
“It’s going to take time.”
“Then we’d better get busy.”
TEN
The two detectives spent the rest of the afternoon doing a workup on the three victims and Dewalt. Pratt focused most on Dewalt.
A good three hours into their research, Ellis pushed his chair back and looked at Pratt, whose desk faced his.
“The Penrose woman grew up in Montreal. The detective in Ottawa leading the investigation into her murder is booked off for a week. I spoke to someone who’s going to send us everything they have on her. There doesn’t seem to be a connection with Muskoka though—but why would they ask about something like that? So it’s no wonder they don’t have anything. Where do you stand with Dewalt?”
“I spoke to Darren Smith again. Curt grew up in Calgary. I got the feeling it didn’t surprise him to hear Dewalt had disappeared. A few other things came out. Rebecca Smith had a relationship with Dewalt during their time at university. She told her husband she couldn’t even explain why it had happened, that she’d never really liked Dewalt. It lasted only a month and then she switched schools. That’s sort of interesting. When he showed up in Toronto, she hadn’t been happy but got her husband to help out an old friend.”
“Are you going to dig deeper on Dewalt?”
“I’m already doing that. I called a previous employer. Maybe that will shake something loose. By the way, he still hasn’t shown up at his condo as far as the front desk knows.” Pratt’s chair creaked loudly as he leaned back. “One positive thing though—Rebecca Smith grew up in Port Carling, maiden name Collins. Dad was a big wheel in the area.”
“We should talk to her parents.”
“They winter in Florida. They’ll be in town in the next day or so—for their daughter’s funeral.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
Pratt shook his head.
They spotted Mac walking toward them, a newspaper in his hand.
“You seen this?” he asked, throwing it across Pratt’s desk.
Toronto’s only tabloid, the source of much grief to the homicide squad over the years, had done it again. The headline screamed, A Crazy on the Loose?
Pratt skimmed the article, then handed it to Ellis before looking up at Mac.
“This is really going to help,” he said sarcastically. “How do you want to handle it?”
“Besides wringing the columnist’s scrawny neck? I guess we’ll have to hold a news conference. Everybody else is going to pick this story up in one way or another. We can’t have panic break out.”
“It might mean showing some cards I’d rather keep hidden.”
Mac sighed loudly. “I know. But it can’t be helped. The chief is not happy.”
“Are you going to handle it?”
“The chief wants to. That means a briefing from you two.”
Ellis looked up from the paper. “We should think about that. How much time do we have?”
“I can give you a half hour before we go upstairs to the chief. His media guy will get the word out to the press—although a lot of the news hawks are already downstairs. We have to be fair to the ones who aren’t.”
In unison Pratt and Ellis said, “Why?” and then laughed.
Ellis suggested there could be someone out there besides Dewalt who knew something. “Doing this press conference might get us some new information,”
Mac and Pratt glanced at each other. The kid could think.
In the end, a bit of a white lie was told to the media. They asked the chief to make it sound as if they were closing in on a suspect.
After his statement the chief asked Pratt to field questions, since he was the senior member of the team. No mention was made of the Ottawa victim or Dewalt.
“Really, we want to stress that this isn’t a random crazy. We strongly believe these two tragic deaths were simply cold-blooded murder. Why? We don’t know, but we’re working the case from that angle.”
The chief concluded the press conference by again asking for help from the public.
“Our tip line is always open, always confidential. Thank you all for your time.”
As he left the room, the chief said to Pratt, Ellis and Mac, “Let’s hope that’s the end of this stupid speculation. Pratt, I’m counting on you to bring this one home for us. Make it snappy.”
“We’re trying our hardest, sir.”
“Well, don’t let me down.”
And with that he left the room. Raising his eyebrows, Pratt looked at Ellis and Mac.
Ellis finished his flowchart. He hoped jotting down bits of the information they’d gathered and putting them on a timeline might help. It was about four feet long and covered with writing.
Pratt came around his desk to study it. “Does this get us any closer to linking the murders?”
Ellis shook his head.
“But it shows us where the questions are. Answer those, and we should get our link. If you look here, we have an age link. They were all thirty-six except for Dewalt, who’s a year older. I’ve also asked Darren Smith if his wife kept any scrapbooks, yearbooks or boxes of old photos. Same with the Moore family. Maybe they all knew each other as kids.”
“We need to search Dewalt’s condo.” Pratt looked at his watch. “It’s nearly seven. You should head home. I’ll get the warrant in motion.”
As he watched his partner hurry out, Pratt was certain Ellis would be back at it as soon as his wife went to sleep.
ELEVEN
Pratt was jolted out of a deep sleep by his phone. Rolling over, he looked at his bedside clock and groaned. One forty-three. This couldn’t be good news.
But it was.
“Sorry to call so late, but I have another connection, and it links all three victims. I don’t know if it’s exactly what we’re looking for, but it’s something.”
Pratt was instantly awake. “Tell me.”
“When I got home, I asked the Ottawa police a question. A detective there emailed an answer around ten. That sent me back to the computer. What’s up is this. Sara Penrose’s name was originally Saara, spelled S-a-a-r-a. That’s Finnish. Her father’s name is Alex Lahti. He lives in Victoria now. I just got off the phone with him. The long and short of it is, his daughter spent her teenage summers in Muskoka at her maternal grandparents’ cottage. When she began university, she anglicized her given name and took her mother’s maiden name. He doesn’t know why, since they had an otherwise good relationship. She wouldn’t talk about it with her dad.”
“So our Ottawa victim spent summers in Muskoka. Our first Toronto victim’s parents had a cottage in that area, and our second T.O. victim was brought up there. I’d say you’ve gotten us a
solid link. Now the question is, does this connect to their deaths? And if so, how?”
“I want to drive up there tomorrow.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“Can you clear it with Mac? I want to make an early start. The weather’s supposed to be dodgy later in the day.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Pratt smiled to himself. “Now get some sleep! You’ve done good work, David.”
“Thanks.”
Pratt knew how things worked after twenty-nine years on the homicide squad.
So he got there early the next morning and dropped into Mac’s office as soon as the boss arrived.
“Got some news,” he said, taking one of the two hot seats—as the squad referred to them.
Mac put his briefcase down next to the desk and also sat.
“What is it? Good news, I hope.”
“Ellis has firmly connected the three victims. I have no idea where it’s going to take us though. Victim one, the one in Ottawa, grew up in Montreal. Victim two, the first one here, grew up in Burlington. And victim three grew up in Port Carling. All went to different universities. No relatives in common. They never worked together.”
“What’s so great about that?”
Pratt carefully explained everything Ellis had uncovered in his digging around and how it connected all three victims.
When he finished, Mac had pursed lips and a look of concentration on his face.
“So if I’ve got this right,” Mac began after a moment, “victim one summered in Muskoka and went out with victim two for a summer. The woman killed the other night—”
“Victim three.”
“Right. I suppose we gotta keep all this straight somehow. Victim three was born and raised in Port Carling. That all sounds pretty solid. One of you should head up there to nose around.”
“It should be Ellis. I hate winter driving.”
“Okay. Tell Ellis to get his butt up to Port Carling. He knows the drill about traveling out of town?”
“I’ll remind him.”
“Good, because if he doesn’t keep receipts and hand everything in right, I’m not going to okay any payback for his out-of-pocket stuff.”
“Oh, you know Ellis. I think he reads the regulation books every night before going to bed.”
When he got back to his desk, Pratt phoned his partner. “Where are you now?”
“Getting close to Bracebridge to check in with the local OPP detachment before heading over to Port Carling. Snow’s sort of bad. Did you talk to Mac?”
“Naturally. He suggested you go to Port Carling and nose around.”
Ellis laughed.
Pratt added, “Just don’t report in until you’ve had enough time to drive up there, okay? Call me first if you come up with anything.”
“What are you going to be doing?”
“Searching Dewalt’s condo. He’s one loose end I am not happy about. I’m also thinking of telling the media that he’s a person of interest in this case. Maybe someone will spot him. We’ve got to find him and learn what he knows. Anyway, good hunting, David.”
“You too.”
TWELVE
When Ellis had to drive long distances, he just wanted to drive. Keeping one eye on the sky and one eye on the road was not much fun. Parts of Highway II had black ice. He had to watch carefully all the time.
Winter still had a firm grip on Cottage Country around Muskoka. There was lots of snow, and the lakes were still completely frozen. Bracebridge hardly looked welcoming, and Port Carling would be less so.
Ellis pulled into the Ontario Provincial Police’s parking lot on the edge of town. Inside at the desk, he showed his ID and explained why he was two hundred kilometers north of Toronto. After a brief wait he was shown into an office.
His ID had preceded him. The name on the desk was Inspector Jack LaGrazie, and the man himself was wiry, fit-looking and pushing retirement age.
“So what brings a Toronto homicide detective to the north woods?”
“Homicide,” Ellis answered with a smile as LaGrazie tossed back his ID.
Ellis couldn’t decide if this was LaGrazie’s usual manner or if he was being unfriendly. It probably hadn’t been smart to bait him.
“So tell me what you want out of us hicks.”
It took Ellis not more than five minutes to lay it out. The inspector listened silently. Then, without a word, he turned to his computer and spent the next five minutes browsing various websites.
Just as he finished, the man Ellis had first spoken to stuck his head in the door and simply nodded. LaGrazie turned back to Ellis.
“Found a nice photo of you at the crime scene the other night. Noticed Toronto had a dusting of snow. Must have created havoc with the traffic.” Then he smiled. “You seem legit. How can we help you?”
Ellis relaxed. “We don’t know exactly what we’re looking for, but our three victims all have connections with this area. I’m up here to test our theory. I need help from someone who’s been around for a lot of years. Whatever drew these people together didn’t happen recently.” Ellis then stopped and smiled too. “At least, that’s Pratt’s and my theory.”
“You work with Merv Pratt? Why didn’t you say so? Christ, I haven’t thought about him in years. How is the old dog?”
“You know him?”
“I worked in our Toronto detachment for quite a while. Let’s just say our paths crossed a few times. He’s a good man.”
Ellis nodded. Everyone seemed to know his partner.
LaGrazie got back on topic.
“And this all centers on Muskoka? That’s a lot of ground to cover, son.”
“Port Carling is the place to start. One of the victims was brought up there.”
“Name?”
“Rebecca Smith, but her maiden name was Collins.”
“The daughter of Bob Collins?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“I know of him. Owned a big marina. He still has a cottage near Port Sandfield, I believe. Collins was a big deal around here at one time. Damn! I heard about this on the news the other night. I had no idea it involved someone from the area.”
Ellis had his notebook out, taking it all down. “Any other relatives around?”
“Don’t know. I only came here five years ago. Management’s way of easing me out the door, I think. The fella you need to talk to is old Ray Featherstone. He was a constable up here his entire career. I don’t think there’s much he wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
“Where can I find him?”
LaGrazie gave Ellis a phone number and an address in a hamlet named MacTier, then sent him on his way.
The curving road that took Ellis from Bracebridge to MacTier would have been pleasant to drive in good weather. With snow falling, he had to keep his speed down and watch for hidden ice.
He struck out at Featherstone’s house, so Ellis left a note on the door and a message on the answering machine. Then he went in search of lunch in nearby Port Carling.
With still no word from Featherstone, Ellis decided to head out to the marina Rebecca’s father used to own.
There was only a skeleton staff on, since it was early April. The only person marginally helpful was the secretary, Amy Winter. She was woman in her early thirties, sort of cute—and she liked to talk.
“Sure, I remember Mr. Collins. He gave me my job, but he sold out, oh, must be fourteen years ago now. He’s up here in the summer, but right now he’ll be in Florida.”
“Do you remember Rebecca at all?”
“She was a few years older than me and far more popular. I mean, her family had money, and some of us up here don’t. But she wasn’t stuck-up. And pretty? She could get any boy she wanted.”
“Do you remember a Sara Penrose? Or she may have been using her dad’s name of Lahti at the time.”
“Oh, you must mean Saaaaaara,” Amy said, then added, “Miss La-di-da. That’s what some of us used to call her. She’s the kind who give
s summer people a bad name. Majorly stuck-up. She and Becky were always together in the summers until the end of high school, and then we never saw her again. When she was around, Becky acted like a completely different person.”
Ellis could barely keep a smile off his face.
“Would it surprise you to find out they’ve both been murdered?”
THIRTEEN
Pratt sat at his desk for a long time after leaving Mac’s office. His eyes were half-closed as he leaned back in his chair.
Right then he was trying to slot in what he and Ellis had uncovered and organize the questions that had been answered against the far greater number of questions that hadn’t. What Ellis might find in Cottage Country was top of mind at the moment. In some ways, Pratt was sorry he hadn’t gone along.
He liked Ellis a lot. The kid had the makings of a first-class detective. He was imaginative but careful. He was also fearless and not beyond making rash decisions. That might well get him into trouble someday. But it was a good trait to have—if kept under control. Pratt knew because he had the same problem.
Pratt needed to make progress of his own that day. That meant finding Dewalt and shaking him down until he spilled what he knew. There was still an outside chance he was their murderer. Pratt didn’t think so, but Dewalt certainly knew more than he’d let on. And since he was the only one with information who was still alive, it was critical he be found and interviewed.
Funeral homes had to be the most depressing places in the world, Pratt mused.
He was standing in the middle of the room where Rebecca Smith lay in her coffin.
The room was jam-packed. The number of children with their parents showed what a popular teacher she’d been. The sound of crying was appalling. A small shrine of photos had been set up opposite the body. Each one showed Rebecca with a huge smile.
Her husband, Darren, seemed to be holding up. Pratt guessed he had to be strong because an older couple next to him were beside themselves with grief. It wasn’t hard to guess they were Rebecca’s parents. The daughter had looked much like her mother.