Cut to the Chase

by Joan Boswell

“Concordia University,” the respondent said, switching into English when she heard Hollis’s poor attempt at French.

  The call from the university could have been anyone. No help from Montreal. Where did that leave her? For the moment she’d give up on Gregory. She moved to the next heading on her list—recent phone calls.

  The land line wasn’t going to help—she only had September’s bill. Too far back. She needed October’s. The most recent calls made from his cell phone would tell her something.

  At Danson’s apartment she’d copied the numbers along with his address book—it had taken forever, and she’d wondered if she was wasting her time. Now she’d get the answer.

  Danson’s phone, a Motorola, had saved the ten most recent messages.

  On the Sunday before he disappeared, he’d called Poppy three times during the afternoon. Interesting that she hadn’t mentioned it. Later that day there had been a call to a Toronto number. She dialed and allowed the phone to ring on, hoping there would be an answering machine. No such luck.

  He hadn’t called Candace that Sunday evening. It had been his regular time to call, but he hadn’t done so. He’d been home Sunday afternoon, gone out and not returned.

  She booted up her computer, typed Canada 411 and found that the number he had called was “unlisted”. Another dead end.

  On the Friday there had been a call to the nightclub where he worked and a second one that she dialed. A lilting woman’s voice told her she’d reached the correct number, asked her to leave a message then wished her a happy day.

  “My name is Hollis Grant. I’m trying to locate Danson Lafleur. Please call me.”

  The other three calls connected to answering machines. She left the same message on each one.

  Discouraged didn’t begin to describe how she felt.

  Seven

  "Hi Howis, waffles,” Elizabeth said and launched herself at MacTee.

  “Anything on his computer?” Candace asked.

  “I went through his recent phone messages first and didn’t get any leads. As for his computer, he saved many messages, which is a good thing, but none have provided clues about his whereabouts.”

  In the kitchen Candace placed the ingredients to build combinations to order on the counter. Elizabeth, given the opportunity to choose, surveyed the plates and bowls.

  “Strawberries, bananas, finger puppets, yoghurt,” she said.

  “Finger puppets?” Hollis asked.

  “That’s her name for raspberries, because she can put them on her fingers,” Candace explained. She spoke to Elizabeth. “You forgot the magic word.”

  “Please,” Elizabeth said, and they smiled at one another.

  Plates loaded, they ate in silence for a few minutes.

  Hollis rose, plucked the coffee pot from the machine and refilled their coffee mugs. “I’m curious about Gregory, the invisible tenant without a surname. You haven’t remembered what it is, have you?”

  “No. Danson told me a Montreal friend gave his name to Gregory. That’s not much help, is it?”

  “I figured out that much from the e-mails. The friend’s name was George Rostov. Does that mean anything?”

  “I met George once or twice. He and Danson lived in the same student housing their first year at Concordia.”

  “I’ve downloaded his address book, and I’m contacting every name to see if anyone knows where he is. I’ll also ask George about Gregory.”

  “Should I be doing this?”

  “You could, but since I have the names and addresses, it’s easier if I do.”

  Hollis, acknowledging the size of the task, had reluctantly relinquished her plan for a Centre Island visit. “When I return the computer late this afternoon, I plan to talk to the other tenants. Since it’s Sunday, they may be home. I’ll see if either one has any idea where he might have gone or can report anything unusual.”

  “There must be something I can do,” Candace said as she collected the dishes and opened the dishwasher.

  “Talk to Poppy again. I learned from his phone records that Danson spoke to her three times the Sunday before he disappeared. Going through the phone records for previous months, I saw that this was the one and only time this happened. See if you can jog her memory and get her to tell you what they talked about.”

  “I’ll do that. Come down tonight, and we’ll talk again.”

  Hollis finished lunch, walked MacTee, collected Danson’s computer and set off to his apartment.

  Inside the apartment she realized she hadn’t finished with Gregory’s room. Once she’d found the drugs and the locked computer, she’d raced to Danson’s computer, become distracted and not returned to Gregory’s room. It was a long shot, but his books might provide some insight into his personality. Or, if she was lucky, he might have written his name in his books. She initialed hardcovers but only those she lent and wanted back. Not that it helped. Particular friends were on her “do not lend to” list as they seldom returned books. If they did reappear, it would be years after they’d been borrowed.

  Five books, all espionage novels. Interesting! Did he like vicarious excitement or use them as primers? Now she was being fanciful. The first two, James Pattersons, told her nothing. When she opened the third, a John LeCarré novel, a tightly-folded sheet of paper tumbled out. She unfolded and smoothed it out. Cyrillic writing almost filled the eight by ten sheet. Was it Russian, or did every Slavic eastern European nation employ this script? She tried to visualize a map and name the countries. Bulgaria, Romania, the Ukraine, other former republics of the USSR. She didn’t know the answer, but it didn’t really matter.

  Someone had communicated with Gregory in Cyrillic characters, meaning he had understood. Or not. Maybe he’d known who the letter came from and was waiting for the opportunity to have it translated. She mustn’t jump to conclusions. It was possible Gregory was a Russian. Maybe he’d been reading the espionage novels because he was a mole? Too far-fetched to be believed, but maybe he was with Danson because the Russian Mafia hadn’t liked Danson identifying returning criminals and had wanted to know who he was after and how much he knew.

  Should she take it with her, or was it “evidence” that should remain at the site?

  She’d asked herself this question before—the answer remained the same. This was not a criminal investigation. As far as the police were concerned, they only knew that Danson was missing. Missing was not a crime.

  This piece of paper might help her locate Danson. She’d stash it in her bag, make a copy and search for someone to translate what could be a grocery list, a letter from Gregory’s mother—something entirely innocuous.

  Where to have it deciphered? Back in the living room, she removed the phone book from the bookcase, flipped to the yellow pages and confronted many choices. Given the thousands of Russian immigrants in the Toronto area, having the paper translated should be easy.

  Time to talk to the other tenants.

  Downstairs she knocked on the door of the first floor’s resident whose mailbox was labelled Bryson. She listened and heard someone moving around inside.

  The door didn’t open, but a voice she couldn’t identify as male or female said, “Yes?”

  “I’m a friend of Danson Lafleur’s sister—the man who lives upstairs. His sister hasn’t spoken to him since two weeks ago Saturday. We wondered if you know where he is or have heard anything out of the ordinary from upstairs?” It felt very stupid to talk to the tightly closed door.

  “I said hello if I saw him in the foyer. I didn’t know him, and I haven’t heard anything, but I can tell you one thing,” the voice said.

  “What would that be?”

  “Two weeks ago Monday, he was here. I know, because I nap in the afternoons, and he stomped around up there like he was auditioning for the infantry. This is an old building, and the floors squeak. It drove me crazy.”

  “Thanks,” Hollis said. Had it been Gregory or Danson? If it had been Danson, why hadn’t he called Candace? “I’ll slip
my card under the door. Please call me if anything else comes to mind.”

  She traipsed to the third floor and thumped hard to attract the attention of a resident who obviously loved opera played at full volume. After a barrage of forceful banging, she cradled her aching knuckles before continuing the attack.

  The door cracked open. A diminutive, elfin-faced man did not undo the chain. He peered at her. A chorus from Verdi’s Masked Ball threatened to drown out any exchange of words.

  Hollis held out her card, introduced herself and explained her reason for being there.

  “What?’ the man shouted.

  Hollis cranked her voice even louder and gave her spiel.

  The man scrutinized her over narrow, gold-framed reading glasses. “I’ll turn it down. Wait a minute,” he shouted and shut the door in her face. Back again, he didn’t release the chain but asked her to repeat what she’d said.

  “Never talked to him. Don’t know anything about him. He worked evenings and made a racket when he came home. Jazz—loud jazz. Meant to speak to him about that.”

  Opera played at full volume surely must have annoyed Danson as much as Danson’s jazz had irritated this man.

  “People like me who work nine to five don’t appreciate noise after eleven. Nice car, though. I’ve always liked Camaros. No idea where he might be,” he said with finality and closed the door.

  Hollis sighed. She’d hoped one of the other tenants would be a garrulous retired person who tracked the other tenants’ activities. No such luck, but she now knew Danson or Gregory had been home on the Monday.

  If he’d been in his apartment on Monday, why hadn’t he called Candace on Sunday or worked on Monday? Conceivably after he spoke to Poppy he’d travelled somewhere, stayed overnight, rushed back on Monday and left again.

  Back in Danson’s apartment, she contemplated the computer and hoped she’d downloaded everything she might need. If the worst came to the worst, she could come back, but it should stay in the apartment. It would provide evidence for the police if something terrible had happened to him. Given the leads she’d followed and the conversations she’d had with Candace, Danson remained an enigma. She glanced at her watch.

  Still time to dispatch her e-mail query to the two hundred and seventy-five people in his e-mail contact list. She’d transmit it in small batches lest the ever-vigilant spam filters consign her message to junk mail limbo. Task done, she’d drop in on Candace and learn if she’d extricated any information from Poppy.

  She sat at her table in her own apartment. Boring didn’t begin to describe the e-mailing process. Once they were flying through the ether or wherever e-mail flew, her conscience would be clear—no one could say she wasn’t trying everything in her search for the missing man.

  MacTee paced restlessly. He’d rise, come and stand beside her, sigh deeply and walk around before plunking down, only to rise again a minute or so later.

  “Okay, okay, I know it’s your dinner time, but you can wait a few minutes. Starvation isn’t imminent,” she said. A pang of remorse. Eating, even though he inhaled his kibble, was one of MacTee’s great pleasures.

  Leaving her computer, she scooped a cup and a half of Skin Support food into his red bowl. MacTee sprayed his surroundings with drool as he performed acrobatic jumps on all four feet while she carried his bowl to the plastic mat where she fed him. When given permission to eat, he homed in on his dinner and chowed down in record time. Each meal she asked herself if she should divide his daily portion into three or four rather than two meals? It would be wonderful to make him ecstatically happy several times a day. Fanciful thinking—trying to organize food at the same time twice a day was difficult enough.

  Back at the computer, she moved through the list. Once the e-mails were gone, she felt a sense of satisfaction, along with a faint hope that they might bring in useful information.

  After MacTee’s walk, she knocked on Candace’s door.

  Elizabeth greeted the dog with squeals of delight and immediately initiated their catch-me-if-you-can game. Candace and Hollis chose chairs in the living room, where they could watch the child chase the retriever from living room to kitchen to hall and back to the living room. MacTee frequently allowed himself to be caught before he shrugged Elizabeth off, and the game resumed.

  “Poppy claimed she only remembered that it had been about a fishing expedition. She joked about short-term memory loss and said she recalled that Danson wanted to phone someone and she’d vetoed the idea.” Candace shook her head and pursed her lips in the universal expression of displeasure. “I didn’t believe her. The mere fact that he called her three times in one afternoon just before he disappeared has to be significant. When I pointed this out, she said I could think what I liked, but she considered it a coincidence.”

  “What did she say when you told her again that he hadn’t called you, and that he never missed his Sunday call?” Hollis said.

  “Nothing, but she did say that although she couldn’t remember exactly, she thought one of the calls might have been about Danson buying her new plants, because there was a late fall sale at Canadian Tire, and he thought their tropicals were good quality.”

  “That’s an inventive evasion,” Hollis said.

  “It is. I’m sure it didn’t take two calls to establish that information. But since I can’t tie her on the rack and torture her, we’ll have to wait until she accepts that this is serious, if it is, and share everything she knows.”

  “Obviously she doesn’t believe something is wrong, or she’d tell us.”

  “Unless it’s something so horrible or damaging that she can’t bear to reveal it. Even with my vivid imagination, I can’t think what that might be,” Candace said.

  “Too bad. We’ll have to leave it for now. To bring you up-to-date, I’ve e-mailed everyone listed in his e-mail address book. I’ll let you know if there are useful replies. I’m going for a walk. I need to clear my head.”

  Hollis and MacTee crunched through fallen leaves, and she allowed her mind to wander. How could a man vanish so completely? Was it unusual? What leads could she follow if none of the e-mails or phone calls brought in any information? Her thoughts spun and bounced like an Indian rubber ball run amok.

  Maybe meditation would focus her mind. As an aspiring Buddhist, she’d created a calm oasis in her bedroom. A silvery drapery hung on the wall behind a low shelf, where she’d set a small statue of the Buddha and on the floor in front of it a square lavender silk floor cushion completed the setup. Initially, when she’d sat cross-legged on the pillow and worked to clear her mind, MacTee had taken her new proximity as an invitation to romp. He’d crept close, licked her face and generally made a nuisance of himself. Repeatedly discouraged, he now flopped on his own foam-filled mat when she lowered herself to her cushion.

  Once she arrived home she tried, but meditation didn’t help. The enlightenment she’d hoped for didn’t arrive—she was unable to rid herself of Danson’s image calling for help and urging her to hurry—that his situation was desperate.

  On Monday morning, she flicked on her computer and read her e-mails before she dressed and attended to MacTee. Disappointingly, many of Danson’s friends expressed concern, but no one provided new leads.

  Chores done, it was chicken time. She wiped Danson from her mind and focused on the flock. First she rebuilt the listing chicken’s armature then she prepared paste.

  Pulling the paper strips through the paste, and smoothing them over the chickens soothed her. She loved watching the creatures emerge. Once she’d applied strips to the bodies, she built up the wings. She possessed a collection of found materials collected on her walks particularly on garbage nights when people threw out amazing things. Adorned with miscellaneous bits and pieces of metal, feathers and fabric, her animals became wondrous beings.

  The doorbell rang as she mixed more paste. She peeled off her plastic gloves and sped down the three flights of stairs to open the door.

  Jack Michaels, the new ba
sement tenant, smiled.

  “Would Candace mind if I parked behind her garage when I’m home during the day?” he asked without wasting time on pleasantries. “On the street, I get tickets.”

  “Go ahead, but be sure to okay it with her tonight,” Hollis said to his departing back. Poppy’s door flew open after he clomped down the stairs. She’d been lurking and listening. “Who was that?” she demanded.

  Her interest surprised Hollis. She’d pigeonholed Poppy as a woman who only paid attention when people or things related to her life.

  “The lacrosse player, Jack Michaels, who’s staying in the studio apartment until he gets his own place.” This was the perfect moment to ask Poppy more questions. “Did Danson mention him?”

  Poppy twisted a strand of red hair around her finger and released the sausage curl as she shook her head. “I don’t think he did.”

  “Candace said you couldn’t remember what you and Danson talked about during those last three phone calls. Has anything jogged your memory?”

  Poppy stared at Hollis for a moment before she dropped her gaze to her feet, where she rubbed the toe of her rhinestone-encrusted, turquoise satin mule on the carpet. “Do you really think something bad has happened to him?”

  Hollis didn’t think Poppy wanted an affirmative answer but felt it was her duty to ask.

  “You know that I’ve been helping Candace search for him. Now that I know more about him, I have to say I think it’s very out-of-character for him not to phone her. No one I’ve contacted has any idea where he might be. Yes, I think he’s in trouble.”

  Poppy continued to slide her foot back and forth. Hollis guessed she was weighing the pros and cons of revealing information.

  Finally, her foot slowed and stopped. “I suppose I should have told you this earlier, but I really didn’t believe there was a connection. The lost article was in the personal column of the Saturday Globe and Mail. I don’t remember the exact wording, but it had something to do with an anonymous person wanting other anonymous people to contact him or her about a particular Canadian stamp.” She shifted. “I have some interest in stamps. Danson thought this article was important.”