by Joan Boswell
Hollis hadn’t noticed if the cop was still sitting in the hall. She hurried back. He wasn’t there. When a nurse trotted toward her, Hollis stopped her.
“Do you know where Larry Baptiste, the man in the coma, has gone?” she asked, praying that the nurse wouldn’t say he’d died and been taken to the morgue.
“He’s gone for more X-rays. He came around and they want to assess the damage.”
“They’ll send him back here?”
“Depending on what they find, we may admit him to the neurological ward.”
“Where can we find out?”
The nurse, who’d been edging around Hollis, shook her head. “Wait. They’ll bring him here before he goes anywhere.”
Hollis went back and reported her conversation to Ginny.
“We shouldn’t have left. If he’s conscious, I could have told him how sorry I am.”
“Ginny, you can do that, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t take in what you’re saying. If he’s conscious he’ll be confused. He took a terrible blow. We all heard his head hit the board. He’ll be lucky if he regains his senses and is his old self.”
Ginny stood rubbing the sheet between her fingers and shaking her head. “I should have waited, should have been here.” She collapsed on the bed and gathered the pillow to her face. “It smells like him,” she said, her voice muffled by the fabric.
Hollis didn’t want to leave Ginny, but she had other issues to deal with. She’d turned her cell phone off in the hospital. What if Brownelly had returned her call?
“Ginny, I have to check my phone. I’m going outside but I’ll be back.”
The figure on the bed didn’t move, didn’t indicate she’d heard, but Hollis felt pretty sure she had.
Outside she shivered. A cold May day with a nippy wind and she’d left her jacket inside.
She had a message. “Ms. Grant. I phoned but you didn’t answer. I will meet you at Druxy’s in the Eaton Centre food court at twelve thirty.”
Hollis flipped her wrist. Nearly eleven. Two blocks from St. Mike’s to the Eaton Centre. Should she meet him, now that she knew what he did? Surely nothing would happen in the shopping centre with the hordes of people. She wasn’t sure that was true, but she’d have to risk it because she wanted more answers.
She’d keep Ginny company for fifteen minutes and then find Agnes Johnson. I’ll be there, she texted.
When she entered the corridor, an orderly pushing Larry on a stretcher preceded her. A nurse accompanied them and the police officer trailed behind. Hollis joined the procession but along with the officer stayed in the hall out of the way, knowing how little space there was for the orderly and nurse to skillfully transfer Larry from the stretcher back to the bed.
“Larry! Larry, you’re awake.”
Ginny’s joy-filled voice carried to the hall. The officer and Hollis looked at one another and moved into the room.
Ginny was inches away from Larry’s face, holding his hand.
“Hey, get back,” the officer ordered. He reached to pull Ginny away.
“No, let her stay,” Larry said in a voice so low that Hollis strained to hear. “She’s my girl,” he added.
“How can you forgive me? I took your money and your truck,” Ginny whispered.
“I know why you did it. I rushed you. I scared you. I’m sorry.”
“But ...”
His voice grew stronger. “No buts. It was a beater, not worth anything, and the guy you left it with found ID in the glove compartment and called me. I got it back. You only took the money I’d been paid for repairs I did on the reserve. It wasn’t much. The rest is in a bank in Battleford. Ginny, I love you. It’s okay.” He shut his eyes. “I’m tired.”
Hollis leaned over. “Ginny, I’m going now. Take care of him.”
TWENTY-NINE
The tactical squad members, old hands at arriving stealthily, drifted into the lobby. Rhona assured them that the perp remained in his apartment. Although Hollis had given her the master key, she wouldn’t be the one to open the door. Once they’d secured the scene, she’d make the arrest and take him downtown for questioning while detectives searched the apartment. If they found what Rhona suspected they would, the case would be all but over.
When the squad knocked, announced its presence, and demanded entry, no one answered. The leader barked a second command to open, and when nothing happened, the squad, guns drawn, entered the apartment. A careful search confirmed it was empty.
Tim O’Toole, the prime suspect in a terrible murder, was gone.
How could that have happened? Rhona had checked the tapes from shortly after Larry Baptiste had been removed, and the man had neither entered nor left. He must have disappeared some time during the chaos, but what had alerted him? In her mind she ran the shots of Agnes Johnson standing with him in the elevator. Agnes had spoken to him and waggled her finger at him. Whatever she’d said it must have been enough to alert him that he needed to move on. Without hearing from the hospital, they’d assumed Agnes had had a heart attack or a stroke, but it now seemed more likely that O’Toole had assaulted her. She phoned St. Mike’s, spoke to the nurse in charge of Agnes Johnson’s floor, and relayed her suspicions.
“That could be true. She hasn’t responded like a stroke patient. We attributed it to the drug that was administered when she came in, but your explanation makes more sense.”
“Is she well enough to talk to me”
“She certainly is.”
First, the apartment. To help find Tim O’Toole, they’d uncover the secrets hidden in his apartment. The tactical squad left and Rhona, along with Ian and several of the forensic investigating team, began her work.
They each took a room. Rhona went to the bedroom. In the closet she checked hanger by hanger but found no blood-stained clothing. There was no sign of a laundry basket, no hamper for dirty clothes. She bent to look under the bed and saw two long plastic storage boxes, so she pulled them out.
When she snapped the first one open, she sat back and stared. Women’s underwear of every conceivable kind filled the box. Teddies, bikini briefs, thongs, black lace bras, utilitarian white cotton jockey underwear. A peeping tom, an underwear thief. Obsessions that could lead to more serious crimes. Her stomach flipped and her mouth was dry as she contemplated what she might find in the next box.
Opening the lid released the stale, metallic smell of blood. Three Winners plastic bags filled the long container. Two bulging ones had large exclamation marks painted in red over the S in the logo.
Winner!
The third empty one lacked the punctuation. What did it mean?
In the first bag Rhona found blue jeans, a black hoodie, and black gloves, all stained and stiffened with dried blood. A red leather wallet lay beside the clothes. Before she examined the second bag, she flipped the wallet open. Nothing. No identification.
She opened the second bag and found a black T-shirt, black denim jacket, and black jeans similarly saturated with blood. Neatly tucked beside the black clothes, a discoloured pink handbag told her Sabrina’s blood had stained the clothes. The third bag was waiting for its exclamation mark and the blood-stained clothes from a third stabbing.
Two questions — why was Tim O’Toole killing women, and who was next on his list? Thank God for Agnes Johnson and her nosiness but not for her intervention.
She called the team to the bedroom and pointed to the box and three bags.
“Two of these contain the perp’s blood-stained clothing. There is an unsolved murder that relates to the wallet and the contents of the first bag. Unfortunately, the wallet is empty. The pink purse in the second bag belonged to Sabrina Trepanier. I’m sure we’ll find that the blood is hers.” She held up the third bag. “As you see, this is empty. He intends to kill again. We have to find him before he does.” She snapped the lid back on the box. “Go through everything and create a picture of the man. If you can find a photo, that would be great, otherwise we’ll use the one on the security
tape for the police and for the media. We must find him before he attacks his third victim.”
“When do you think he left?” Ian asked.
“We saw a shot of him in the elevator with Agnes Johnson. She was talking and appeared to admonish him. I suspect he left then or when the building filled with interested tenants and the response team last night. I’m on my way to talk to Agnes Johnson. I think I’ll find out that she didn’t have a stroke but was attacked by Tim O’Toole. Keep me informed about what you find.”
THIRTY
Agnes Johnson was parked in the hospital corridor, slumped in a chair designed to keep geriatric patients from wandering. A tray fastened like a child’s high chair prevented the person in the chair from escaping. Hollis was horrified. If ever she’d known an elderly person with all her wits about her, it was Agnes Johnson. But maybe the stroke had changed all that. Her elderly tenant slumped to one side, snoring loudly. Hollis tiptoed past. She waited at the nursing station where nurses in cheerful coloured uniforms did paperwork, spoke on the phone, and sorted files. Finally, a young woman looked up.
“Yes,” she said and her voice conveyed the impression that this had better be good, because she was a busy nurse with no time to waste.
“I’m here to see Agnes Johnson. Is she ready to go home?”
“Well, she certainly thinks she is. Tried to do it and fell, so we popped her in the Geri chair. We’re waiting for the doctor.”
“Did she have a stroke?”
The woman neatened the pile of paper she held in her hand. “Are you a relative?”
“No. I’m her landlady.”
“Sorry,” the nurse said without a hint of sorrow in her voice.
“Hollis, is that you?” Agnes yelled.
Hollis hurried back to a very agitated Agnes. “Look what they’ve put me in. There’s nothing wrong with me.” She reached her veined, gnarled hand to pat her head. “A lump and that’s it. The bugger hit me with something heavy. Smart guy — no blood, but I guess I was fortunate, ’cause when I answered the door, he pushed his way in and said I was lucky he didn’t have time to cut me up, ’cause that’s what he liked doing. Then he smashed me. When I came to in the ambulance I was confused and didn’t remember what had happened.” She shrugged. “I might have had another TIA.”
“A what?’”
“Transient ischemic attack, a mini-stroke, because everything was blurry and I couldn’t talk very well. I’ve had them before. Anyway, the paramedics must have figured I’d had a stroke and that’s how I ended up in this bloody thing.”
“Who hit you?” Hollis said, squatting to face Agnes.
“Who do you think? Tim O’Toole. Did you tell the police?”
Hollis patted Agnes’s hand. “I did and they’re dealing with him.” Since she’d left before anything happened, she wasn’t absolutely sure this was true.
Agnes frowned. “I’ve always barged in and said things I shouldn’t have. When I rode down in the elevator with him, I told him I’d seen him hiding on Monday night and sneaking in with whatever he was carrying. I told him he should smarten up and get a life and not be out at night doing god knows what.”
“What did he say?”
“Called me a nosy old bitch and told me I should mind my own business. Then I said that I was sure the police would like to hear what he’d been doing.”
Hollis shook her head. A vulnerable woman on a walker, and she’d said that.
“Last night when I heard the sirens and watched the emergency team roar into the building, I was at the door, ready to come down to see what was happening, when he knocked and barrelled in. Next thing I knew I came to on the floor and crawled to the phone, grabbed it, and passed out again.” She touched the back of her head. “Except for this bump and a headache, I’m fine. I want to go home.”
Hollis stayed hunched down on her heels. It was painful, but she didn’t want to tower over Agnes. “Agnes, I have to go.” Hollis stood up, fished her card from her shoulder bag, squatted, and held it out to Agnes. “If it will help, say I’m your next of kin and ask the doctor to call me. As soon as you have permission to leave, I’ll bring your walker. Detective Rhona Simpson will come to talk to you once she knows what happened.”
“Since I don’t have any family, I’ll claim you as my niece.” She smiled and Hollis noted that she had her own teeth. “It would be nice to have you, your daughter, and your dogs as family.”
“From now on that’s who we are,” Hollis said and patted Agnes’s shoulder.
As Hollis headed to the elevator, she met Rhona.
“I have news for you,” Hollis said.
“Hearing those words from you is enough to frighten me,” Rhona said, widening her eyes and raising her eyebrows. “Tell me.”
“I assume you know Ginny Wuttenee’s background?” She didn’t wait for Rhona to answer but plowed on. “She and Larry Baptiste have reconciled. He’s not pressing charges because he got his truck back and would have loaned her the money. As soon as he’s better and you say it’s okay, they’re heading back to Red Pheasant and …”
“There’s more?”
“Tim O’Toole attacked Ms. Johnson. She’s parked out in the hall in a Geri chair, but there’s nothing wrong with her other than she hates being in it and is driving the nurses crazy. She’ll tell you all about it.”
“That’s it?”
Hollis nodded. “I have a question for you?”
Rhona shuffled as if preparing to launch. “Try me.”
“Was Veronica the murdered woman that you found?”
“She was.”
“Do you know who killed her?”
Rhona eyed Hollis.
“I know that look. You’re going to tell me you’re not at liberty to say.”
“Right.”
Hollis stuck out her hand and Rhona took it. “Don’t you think we make a great team?” Hollis said, giving her best wicked grin and shaking the detective’s hand.
“You’re too much. Go home and walk those beasts,” Rhona said, withdrawing her hand and moving past Hollis.
Instead of following Rhona’s instructions, Hollis headed for the Eaton Centre, wondering about Brownelly and why he’d agreed to meet her. She pushed through the midday throng clogging Queen Street and entered the Eaton Centre, stopping briefly to covet the spring collection in the Town Shoes window before she propelled through the revolving doors to the first floor. She curved right toward the escalators. On her way down she admired the wonderful mix of people, letting her eyes absorb the variety. As she surveyed the crowd below in the food court, her gaze locked with Cartwright’s.
Cartwright.
Why was he here? Was it because of Brownelly? The fury in Cartwright’s eyes frightened her and she averted her gaze. When she looked again he was gone. Maybe she’d imagined him?
Brownelly sat with his back to the wall deep inside the eating area. He didn’t rise as she approached. Instead he moved the tray, which held a hamburger, fries, and drink closer to him and popped a French fry in his mouth. When she sat down, he didn’t offer to get her anything. Boor.
“You keep bugging me. What is it you want to know?” he said while chewing a giant mouthful of hamburger with his mouth open. A piece of shredded lettuce clung to his chin. Hollis felt no compulsion to tell him and even less to reach across and remove it.
“More background. Why did you give Jay up? How old was she? Why haven’t you made a home for her? What do you do that you’re gone for long periods? Why does the CAS want you to see your daughter at their offices?” She sat back and waited.
He took another gigantic bite and talked around it. “Jay was three when her mother died.” He swallowed. “Her mother was murdered.”
Hollis hadn’t expected anything like this. She didn’t know what to say.
“Surprised! It was a gang shootout and she was in the wrong place.”
If he’d been in a gang then he could have been the target. In effect, he would have been respo
nsible. What could she say? It only made it worse if they’d been after him.
“That’s terrible.”
“You have no idea.”
Hollis nodded. “No. I don’t.” She wanted more answers but it would be better to allow him to proceed at his own speed.
“Neither my wife nor I had relatives in Canada, and I wasn’t sending a three-year-old to the U.K. to a distant cousin. I asked the Children’s Aid to find a good foster home for her, and they did.”
“You didn’t consider a housekeeper, a nanny?”
Brownelly tipped his head to one side. “No. To understand why, you’d have to know a lot more about my life than I’m prepared to tell you. Let’s just say it wasn’t an option. One of these days I hope to provide a home for Jay, but not right now.”
She did know a lot more about his life. She knew why it wasn’t an option. “I’m going to speak out of turn. She’s eleven. You’ve missed more than half her childhood. You need to make a home for her. It’s not my business, but someday you’ll be sorry if you don’t act now.”
The man stood up. “It is none of your business. I love Jay. Look after my baby and keep her safe.”
THIRTY-ONE
When Rhona learned what Agnes Johnson had said to Tim O’Toole, she surmised that the man had escaped during the chaos the previous night. Now her task was twofold, preferably to find and arrest him, but if that didn’t happen to figure out who his next victim might be. She hated to admit it even to herself, but Hollis Grant might help. Hollis had told Rhona that she’d interviewed street prostitutes when she was looking for Mary Montour. It was a long shot, but Hollis might have discovered a woman who had had a run-in with Tim O’Toole. Back to 68 Delisle.
Early afternoon and the building was quiet. She buzzed Hollis.
“It’s Rhona Simpson. I have questions for you.”
Hollis invited her into the apartment, where the two dogs greeted her. The Golden Retriever presented her with a stuffed bear that needed to go in the washing machine, while the other dog nosed her hand looking for patting. Rhona wasn’t a big fan of dogs, a fact that Hollis must have remembered.