by Joan Boswell
Cartwright frowned, and his black furry eyebrows edged toward each other like caterpillars in a mating dance. He moved across the room in exaggerated slow motion and plucked a navy blue sports bag from the desk chair.
“I must have chucked the receipts in the garbage. I don’t have them,” he said.
“Chucked them in the garbage,” Rhona repeated. “How convenient. Where were you? The airline will have a record.”
Cartwright frowned. “Maybe it was the week before,” he said. “Nothing much here,” he muttered, swinging the bag.
“So you were here on Monday night,” Rhona said.
“Guess so,” he said and thrust the bag at her.
Rhona took it, walked to the dining room table, then pushed aside and stacked empty pizza boxes to make a space. She took a notebook and pen from her bag before removing a sheaf of papers from the briefcase.
“I’ll go through these. See if you can find other papers or anything else of interest,” she said to Ian.
Ian looked unhappy, but he pulled on gloves and headed for the apartment’s depths.
Rhona cleared a chair of debris, sat down, and began her inspection.
Cartwright walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a beer. He didn’t offer any refreshments to the detectives, which did not surprise Rhona. She would not have wanted to eat or drink anything in this apartment.
She read documents but made few notes. Cartwright had told the truth when he claimed to have nothing incriminating. She learned that he dealt with the bank of Nova Scotia, where he had three accounts. Although they’d search these, she suspected they would find no evidence of money laundering. Time in prison would have honed his concealment skills.
Ian walked out of the bedroom. “You belong to the Black Hawks,” he said to Cartwright.
“What about it?”
“A senior member. I know from the patches.”
“So. Not a crime, is it?” Cartwright said as he grabbed another beer from the fridge.
“Depends what you do with them.”
“Ride around. Meet at the clubhouse. Nothing much.”
Did he classify the murders, gun battles, kidnappings, and the heightened violence resulting from the two rival gangs’ war to control the drug trade, prostitution, human trafficking, as nothing much? They’d freeze his bank accounts and analyze the transactions. Rhona hoped they’d collect enough evidence to put him away again.
“We’ll be back. Don’t leave town,” Rhona cautioned as they left. Outside the apartment building she took a deep breath. “That man thinks personal hygiene doesn’t apply to him,” she said.
She stopped walking and clapped a hand to the side of her head. “We’ve taken the wrong track. He may launder money but I think we just interviewed Veronica’s murderer. We should have caught on when you talked about the Black Hawks. Her killer lived in the building, that’s why he didn’t have a problem getting in. I could be wrong but I don’t think so.” She pulled out her cell phone but before she put in her call she said to Ian, “We need the team here to check his vehicle inside and out. We need him down at the shop to measure him and see if his height matches the man in the elevator.”
“He won’t wait around for us to make the connection,” Ian said and sprinted back into the building. “I’ll head him off in the garage,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Rhona, assured that backup was on the way, shot into the elevator. At Cartwright’s door she pressed the buzzer.
“Police. Open the door,” she said.
Nothing. She called Hollis.
“Bring up the master keys. I have a warrant to enter Mr. Cartwright’s apartment.”
Had Ian stopped him?
TWENTY-THREE
After Cartwright and the detectives left, Hollis composed herself. Time to text Norman.
If I’m in danger tell me about your connection to motorcycle gangs.
She knew Norman never left the building and expected an immediate reply.
Nothing came.
Should she worry? Despite her care, had she led someone to him? She hoped he wasn’t responding because he was working.
If he was like her and most artists she knew, his work came first. Involved in a painting going well, she turned off her cell phone and allowed the answering machine to record calls on the land line. Could Norman have taken this approach? She sighed as she realized that she couldn’t hide away anymore, in case the school or the CAS phoned about Jay. Perhaps her recent inability to shut herself off from the world had diminished her creativity.
A change in media provided another technique to surmount a creative roadblock. Fibre artwork, along with her money-making creation of papier-mâché animals, kept her working and allowed her subconscious to deal with a painting problem. Right now she’d assume Norman’s creative process had taken over and led him to ignore his cell phone and computer.
With only an hour until she locked the door and collected the girls, she needed to be there not only to work but also to reassure worried tenants. An unsolved murder created anxiety. Again she left her apartment door open so the dogs could see her and the office door ajar to indicate her readiness to talk to tenants.
Fatima showed up first. Hollis heard her before she saw her, since the woman’s pointed slippers sported bells on the toes.
“Good thing you don’t want to sneak up on anyone,” Hollis said as Fatima wafted into the room on a cloud of spicy perfume reminiscent of Biblical frankincense and myrrh.
“Ginny moved to Sabrina’s apartment. The police allowed her to collect her clothes, toiletries, and anything else she thought she needed. She’s happy she’s moved but ...” She settled herself on the visitor’s chair. “I think she wants to go home, to leave Toronto.”
“She suffered a terrible shock. Maybe it convinced her that she should reconsider her life.”
Fatima nodded. “Not everyone is cut out for this business. You have to consider it just that, a business. If you can’t think of it that way, and many can’t, you turn to drugs or drinking to make yourself feel better, less guilty.” She smiled. “On the other hand, many are already on drugs and need money to pay for the habit.”
Hollis had always wanted to know how call girls felt about what they did. “How did you come to think of it as a business?” she asked.
Fatima spent ten minutes revealing part of her history. Hollis held her BlackBerry while Fatima talked. She willed the red light to flash but nothing happened. After Fatima left Hollis fiddled with files and absentmindedly watched the security cameras.
Finally, when the phone rang she grabbed it. Maybe Norman had found a safe phone or Brownelly had decided to return her call.
“This is Ms. Young. I spoke to my supervisor.”
Hollis perked up. Would she discover Brownelly’s secret?
“She asked me to inform you that the information remains confidential. Only Mr. Brownelly can provide the information you want.”
Prissy bitch. “I have a good mind to talk to one of the investigative reporters I know. I can’t believe that you would knowingly withhold information that might endanger a child’s life, let alone mine,” Hollis said.
“There’s no need to be huffy. I certainly don’t think you should go to the press. Speak to Mr. Brownelly. Share your concerns. As a good father he wants his daughter safe and would not take any action that might hurt her.”
No point continuing this conversation. Bound by bureaucratic rules, this woman would drive Hollis crazy if she continued to hammer away. She hung up and immediately felt ashamed of unleashing her anger against a woman who only acted as the messenger.
Okay. She’d do it. She punched Brownelly’s number into the phone and listened to him tell her to leave a message. “Please call me” was the only message she felt comfortable leaving.
Hollis found it hard to concentrate and ended up tidying her desk drawers and half watching the security cameras.
A figure running in the garage drew her a
ttention. She peered at the screen. It looked like Cartwright. She verified this when the camera caught his face as he leaped into his car, backed, turned, and sped away. At that moment Detective Gilchrist burst into the garage, stared after the vehicle disappearing through the door, pulled out his cell phone and spoke rapidly.
This action movie mesmerized Hollis. In the next shot the detective raced from the garage and another camera picked him up as he emerged from the elevator on the ground floor. At that moment a flying wedge of police entered the lobby.
Before she took it all in, her cell phone rang. She jumped, hoping again to hear from Norman or Brownelly. Instead Rhona instructed her to bring the master keys upstairs to Cartwright’s apartment. Following instructions, she locked the office and zipped to the elevator, where she joined several police officers.
At the apartment she stood back while Rhona, now backed by other officers, demanded entry and then, gun drawn, proceeded cautiously into the apartment. Her actions surprised Hollis but she guessed the police didn’t want to find someone else there.
Rhona emerged and holstered her gun. “Treat the apartment as a crime scene. Look for anything to link the resident to the murder victim in the harbour or to money laundering,” she said to the officers. Her phone buzzed. She raised her hand to detain the group while she listened. “Detective Gilchrist got his license number. We have an all points bulletin out for the car. I have business at the shop. Let me know if you find anything.”
Hollis returned to the office and kept an eye on the cameras, half-expecting more dramatic activity. Creak, bang, creak, bang. Hollis recognized the sounds made by one of several possible tenants navigating a walker down the hall.
Agnes Johnson, her accommodating child minder, thumped into view.
“I saw the police arriving. Do they know who killed Ms. Trepanier?” she asked.
Hollis shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Why are they here? Has something else happened?” Agnes leaned on her walker. “Certainly keeps us on our toes, doesn’t it?”
Hollis recognized the glint of excitement in the woman’s eyes. No doubt the need for vicarious experience along with insomnia motivated her to keep tabs on the building’s late night comings and goings.
“It does, but I’d much prefer a quiet life.”
Ms. Johnson’s eyes sparkled. “Time enough for a quiet life when they put you in a box. Myself, I like activity.”
Agnes edged into the room and settled on the seat of her walker. She leaned toward Hollis as if she intended to stay and talk.
“Have you remembered anything else that you saw when you looked out the window on Monday?” Hollis asked.
Agnes flipped her purse into the basket, straightened her wire-rimmed glasses, and repositioned herself
“I thought I told the police everything, but I forgot that I went to bed about two and woke up at four with a migraine. I took a pill, made myself a cup of hot milk, and parked at the window while I waited for the medicine to work. No one was about at first, but then I noticed a man in the shadows to the right of the portico. He simply stood there. I thought he might have a dog that had needed to go out, because I saw something beside him on the ground.” She checked to see that Hollis was listening. “Then the little Asian man who delivers the Globe and Mail arrived. The man I was watching stepped back and, if I hadn’t noticed him before, I wouldn’t have known he was there.” She paused and Hollis waited rather than interrupting the flow. The woman didn’t look at Hollis. Rather she seemed to be focusing on an invisible screen.
“I waited. The paper man takes a while because, as you know, he delivers the paper at each subscriber’s door. Finally, he emerged and left. The man bent down and grabbed what I had initially thought was a dog but seemed to be a bundle. He rearranged it, hunched over and hid whatever it was with his body before he rushed inside. Of course I didn’t see where he went, but he must live here. It struck me as odd.”
A shiver of excitement ran through Hollis. “Did you recognize him?”
Agnes frowned. “Not right then. Being up high distorts my view. I saw the top of his head covered by a dark flat hat.”
Hollis’s initial excitement disappeared.
“An hour ago I came down on the elevator with a man wearing a black cap. I felt sure it was the same man. I told him that if he was the man I’d seen, I didn’t think much of people sneaking around at night.”
“His name?”
“That’s the trouble. I don’t know. I decided to talk to you and see if you thought it important enough to tell the police.”
“It is. I’ll contact Detective Simpson. If that man had anything to do with the murder, you must be careful. He knows that you saw him outside.”
Agnes’s lips twitched into a smile. “I will, but it’s exciting, isn’t it?”
Hollis shook her head. “No. This isn’t a TV show. It’s serious. Promise me that you’ll be careful.”
“I will,” Agnes said dutifully, but from the look in her eye Hollis knew she was relishing the moment. She called Rhona and once again got her voicemail. Bloody voicemail. If the detective carried her cell phone, why didn’t she answer?
“I have new important info for you. Call me.”
Later that evening Willem returned. After the girls went to sleep, Hollis and Willem snuggled in bed, Hollis traced the outline of his face with her finger. Willem turned his head, kissed the finger, and reached to pull her close again. His arms tightened around her.
“Why don’t we move in together?” he murmured.
Had he really suggested that they live together? Could it work? Would it be like her marriage? Exciting at first and then a disaster.
“You’re not throwing your arms around me and shouting, yes, yes, yes,” Willem said.
“I’m in shock,” Hollis said before she kissed him. For some time the question remained unanswered.
Relaxed and happy, she sighed, “It would be wonderful,” she breathed.
“I hear a but,” Willem said.
“I have so many questions I have to answer first.”
“Such as?”
“What about Jay? Would the CAS allow her to stay if you moved in? I’m committed to her and can’t and don’t want to chuck her out. She needs the stability, needs to know that no matter what she does or says, she’s here for the long run.”
“Could you ask about their policy? I can’t believe that a good number of their foster parents don’t live together in common law relationships.”
Hollis had hoped he’d respond with a proposal. She’d always believed that the man got all the perks in a common law relationship.
“You’re going to study law. Why don’t you find out?”
Willem leaned over and kissed her. “I sense a decided lack of enthusiasm. Forget I ever mentioned it.”
Now he was put out, the last thing she wanted. She loved him, loved everything about him. The thought of lazy Sunday mornings, of long walks or runs with the dogs, filled her with joy. But what would Jay do when they did couple things? How would the child feel about sharing her home with Willem?
Hollis returned the kiss and then pulled away. “I love the idea, but you surprised me. I worry because in the past I’ve rushed into situations and later regretted my impetuousness. You mean the world to me and I don’t want to blow this.” Should she admit how much she loved him? What the heck. “More than the world. I love you and can’t bear to think of life without you.”
Willem rolled over and sat up. “That’s what I wanted to hear. I love you too. We can make this work.” He bounded out of bed. “My God, it’s two a.m. I have to go.”
Hollis slid out of bed and pulled on her terrycloth robe. “Do you want anything to eat?”
A scream ripped through the air followed by a metallic crash and a second scream. Not Crystal — the noise had been outside.
Hollis grabbed the flashlight she kept in the bedside table, ran to the window, and threw it open. She stuck her head out. The
flashlight’s weak beam flickered over the scaffolding but showed nothing amiss.
“Shout and see if anyone answers you,” Willem suggested, already pulling on his shirt.
“I hope that whoever yelled can answer.” Hollis hallooed out the window. “Who screamed? Where are you?”
At that moment Hollis’s cell phone rang and she grabbed for it.
“Ginny. Did you scream?” Hollis listened. “That’s terrible. I’ll call the police and then come up.”
“What did she say? What happened?” Willem said, sitting on the chair to pull on his socks.
“She woke up and saw someone’s hand pushing her window up. She slammed the window on the fingers.”
“Whoever it was fell and then gave the second scream,” Willem said.
Hollis tapped in 911 and delivered the information. “I can’t stay on the line. It isn’t happening in my apartment. I’ll unlock the downstairs doors for the police.” She hung up. Her shoulders slumped.
They heard a second metallic crash.
“What the hell is happening out there?” Willem said.
“Whoever planned to attack Ginny must have dropped something. He’s still out there.”
“If Ginny smashed the window on his fingers, she likely broke them. Whoever it is has one or maybe two hands severely damaged. It’s unlikely he can climb down or back up with mangled fingers. The police will get him.” Willem thrust his feet into his loafers.
Hollis grabbed jeans and a sweatshirt and stepped into her slippers. She headed for the door but before she reached it Jay appeared.
“What are you doing? Who screamed? What happened?”
Crystal stood behind her saying nothing, but shivering.
Hollis saw the panic in the girls’ eyes. She couldn’t leave them and couldn’t bring them in case Sabrina’s murderer had returned. What to do?
“Ginny phoned. She screamed because something scared her. She asked me to come up. I phoned the police. I have to open the door for them and then go upstairs,” Hollis said.
“We can’t stay here. We’ll come with you,” Jay volunteered.