by Joan Boswell
“Might as well let this mob go in before we try,” she said over her shoulder.
The two stepped away from the steps to the sidewalk’s edge.
“What a mess,” Rhona said, surveying crumpled paper bags, cigarette butts, orange peels, candy wrappers—the flotsam and jetsam washed up by the tide of men who lived on the street.
“The smell of unwashed and malnourished bodies jammed together reminds me of my previous life. It’s strange how smell triggers memories,” Ian said.
Another clue and an interesting one. He’d given her an opening. “Where were you before? What were you doing?” Rhona said.
Ian’s expression told her he wished he hadn’t made the remark. “Vancouver’s lower east side,” he said.
She’d try one more question. “Working?”
“Doing this and that.”
His tone said “keep out”, and Rhona respected this. Everyone harboured secrets they didn’t care to share. Nevertheless she was curious.
The doors opened, and the human tsunami swept into the building. Once they were gone, Rhona and Ian followed.
A harried worker sitting behind the reception desk surveyed them. “Who do you want now?” he said in a tired voice. His thin brown hair pulled across his forehead, faded eyebrows and soft brown eyes belied his tart remark. One of the world’s meek, he no doubt suffered frequent verbal abuse without complaint. In Rhona’s opinion, workers and volunteers in hostels and soup kitchens deserved medals of honour.
“Bad time to come, but we need information about a guy named Preacher Peter who works in this neighbourhood. Can you describe him, tell us where we can find him and anything about him?”
“Preacher Peter.” The man’s lips tightened, and he drummed a finger on the scarred desk. “I can tell you lots. He doesn’t have a last name, at least not that anyone knows.” He sniffed. “I expect he’s wanted for a dozen crimes. Probably extortion is the least of them.”
Rhona cast a quick glance at Ian, who had the alert look of a bird dog ready to work.
“What does he do?”
“Preys on the weak, the gullible, the mentally deranged. Takes what money they have.” He paused and almost hissed, “To pave their way to salvation.” He stopped drumming, opened pudgy hands, spread them wide and leaned forward. “I myself heard him say that. More likely pave his own way to hell.”
“Does he have an actual church?” Ian asked.
“A storefront just around the corner on Queen. However, he’s out on the street most nights.”
“How would we recognize him?” Rhona asked.
“Tall, thin, long nose, frightening eyes.”
“Frightening?” Rhona felt her eyebrows rise.
The man nodded. “Some guys here have the same look. As if they see something you don’t, and it’s right there behind you. Mostly the mentally ill. I’d guess they see disembodied spectres that go with the voices they hear. Peter,” he snorted, “I’m not going to dignify him with preacher, looks messianic. That appeals to some poor lost souls.”
A rumble of agitated voices came from the dining hall. The man half-rose. “Sorry, got to go. They may need help.” A malevolent smile, at odds with his meek demeanour, curved his lips. “I hope he’s done something that you can charge him with.”
Outside again, Ian took a deep breath, although downtown Toronto air didn’t have much to recommend it.
Rhona didn’t comment on his obvious relief to be outside and away from the crowd. “Let’s walk west on Queen and search for Preacher Peter.”
When they found the storefront, it was locked. A badly painted and spelled sign, “Salavation is for Everyone”, graced one window and “Repent before the End” the other. Spelling wasn’t one of Peter’s strengths. Rhona wondered if anyone had pointed out to him that he was saying “drooling is for everyone.”
A hand-printed sign on the door informed them that Preacher Peter would be present every afternoon from three to five and on the streets with “His People” every evening. Peering through the dirty glass, they saw folding metal chairs set in two rows, a chalkboard at the front beside a table covered with a white cloth and topped with a wooden cross. Bare bones for sure.
“What next?” asked Ian.
“We’ll see the sister first. Then we’ll come back and cruise around.”
* * *
When Hollis piloted her battered truck into a small parking space half a block from Candace’s house, she glanced up and saw two people marching toward the house. They reminded her of Mutt and Jeff, old fashioned comic strip characters, one very short and one very tall. She could have jockeyed the truck closer to the curb, but the need to learn what news the detective brought outweighed her urge to park more neatly. She left the vehicle stranded a foot from the curb.
She rushed to arrive at the front door of the building before Candace opened it for the two detectives. The four of them crowded into the front hall. Hollis moved to stand beside Candace.
“Well?” Candace said examining the officers’ faces. She didn’t invite them to move upstairs to her apartment.
“Good news,” Rhona said without warmth.
Hollis noted that both officers eyed Candace spec-ulatively. Something had altered dramatically since they’d last spoken to her.
Candace didn’t notice the change. Her eyes widened as she processed the two important words. “It isn’t Danson?” she whispered.
“It isn’t. Why didn’t you tell us he didn’t live alone?” Rhona said.
A puzzled frown and a shrug. “I guess I never thought about it. Gregory only moved in a few weeks ago. I never met him and know nothing about him. I was so worried about Danson that Gregory dropped right off my radar. I should have put two and two together, but I didn’t. I guess that’s why it never occurred to me to tell you.”
This had to be the explanation for the changed atmosphere, she thought. “It’s Gregory’s DNA? He’s the murdered man?” Hollis said.
“Seems likely,” Rhona said. “What can you tell us about him?”
“Why don’t we go upstairs and sit down in the living room?” Hollis said. It wasn’t her house, but Candace, nurturing a small smile, wasn’t listening.
Upstairs they chose seats. Rhona, her face reflecting physical discomfort, cautiously lowered herself into a chair.
Hollis, aware of Candace’s continuing inattention, answered the question the detective had posed downstairs. “I read Danson’s e-mails. Gregory contacted Danson, saying they’d been in a sociology class at Concordia and Danson’s friend, George, had suggested that he speak to Danson about renting him a room in his apartment. But when I e-mailed George, he had no idea who Gregory was.” She paused. “George promised to go to Concordia today and see if he could locate a class list for the Sociology course. I can run upstairs and see if he had any luck?”
Rhona waved Hollis on her way. Hollis took the steps two at a time. Inside her own apartment, she briefly patted MacTee, who’d rushed to the door with a battered tennis ball. She sat down and clicked on her e-mail. As she waited for the download, she wondered if Danson had murdered Gregory. If the detectives thought so, this explained their changed attitude.
George’s response popped up. “Sorry. No info. Is there anything else I can do?”
She e-mailed a quick thank-you, saying she’d contact him if she thought he could help.
Three heads swivelled when she entered the room. “George couldn’t find any info on Gregory.” She slipped into the chair nearest the door. From here she could watch everyone.
The detectives perched on the sofa. Candace, back straight and hands folded in her lap, had picked one of two slingback IKEA chairs facing the two detectives.
Rhona, favouring her hip, winced as she leaned forward and addressed Candace. “We need to talk about your brother,” she said.
Candace appeared to be paying attention although Hollis wouldn’t have bet on it. The news that the DNA did not belong to Danson seemed to have unhinged her.<
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“Did Danson have a history of violence?” Ian asked.
“Violence?” Candace’s eyebrows rose, and she looked from one detective to the other. “Violence?” she repeated as if she couldn’t process the question’s implications. “You think Danson had something to do with Gregory’s death?” Her rising voice along with her widened eyes expressed her incredulity.
“It is a possibility, isn’t it?” Ian asked.
“No, it isn’t,” Candace snapped. “It definitely isn’t. Danson is a passionate man. He cares deeply about people. You have no idea how he protects our family. He’s always worrying about us. He can be tough, single-minded even. He plays a rough game of lacrosse, but he would never, absolutely never, do what that man’s killer did. Absolutely never.” She crossed her arms and scowled. “Never!”
“Has he ever been in trouble with the police?” Rhona asked.
Candace shook her head. “Never. You’re on the wrong track. I can see why you might think that he’d be involved, but he wouldn’t ever kill anyone.” She shivered. “I saw the body. He would never, ever do that to another human being.”
Rhona pulled a notebook from her large black leather handbag. “We need to know everything about your brother. We need a recent photo—even better would be two different up-to-date ones. Before you go, tell us what he drove?”
Candace stared at Rhona. “Drove?”
“What make and model of car,” Rhona said in the tone of voice she might have used to address a small and not-too-bright child.
“I don’t know. I’m not into cars. It was a silver sports car, not expensive, and he leased it.”
“Do you know the company he leased it from?”
Candace shook her head.
Rhona worked through a list of questions. Candace scrunched smaller and smaller, as if to protect herself from the barrage. She did not volunteer one iota of information. She did not tell them about Danson’s passion for tracking returning criminals, about his murdered girl friend, about the newspaper article. She responded to each question Rhona asked but offered nothing else. Surely the detectives could see that she was deliberately not helping? Perhaps they attributed her reticence to shock, to her inability to picture her brother as a killer.
While Rhona posed the questions, Ian watched Candace. He reminded Hollis of a predator waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey.
Finally, Rhona levered herself to her feet. “Please get the photos.”
Hollis stood, bent over and offered Candace her hand. Candace’s mouth opened. Her hands rose as if to defend herself. She clenched her fists.
Time to intervene. Hollis grasped Candace’s hands in her own. “Photos. They need the photos,” she said firmly.
While Candace went to search for photos, Hollis showed the detectives to the front door. They hovered.
“I didn’t know which ones to bring, but here are two copies of three from this summer,” Candace said extending the photos.
“We won’t need the duplicates,” Rhona said.
Candace handed three pictures to Ian, who held them up to catch the light from the wall sconce. He didn’t comment but passed them to Rhona, who also examined them.
“I see the family resemblance,” Rhona said.
Candace shook her head. “We aren’t alike. He’s tall and graceful like Poppy.”
“Poppy?” Rhona said.
“My mother.”
“We’ll need to talk to her too. Does she live in Toronto?” Rhona said
Candace flipped a finger toward the stairs. “Right below me.”
“How much does she know about the situation?” Rhona said.
Candace jammed her hands in the pockets of her dark grey slacks and rocked back on her heels. “Of course she knows he’s missing, but I didn’t tell her about the body in the morgue.”
Rhona’s eyebrows rose.
“Would you?” Candace demanded, her jaw jutting forward. “Would you tell your mother her only son had been murdered and mutilated unless you were absolutely sure it was true?” She paused as if waiting for an answer. When none came she said, “I think not. If you’re a decent human being, you spare those you love.”
Ian nodded.
“Poppy is involved in her own world, and she’s great at denying unpleasant things,” Candace continued. “Anyway, she’s away. I’m sure by the time she’s back, Danson will have returned and explained why he was gone.”
This was a barefaced lie. Poppy and Alberto would leave tomorrow.
“I hope you’re right,” Rhona said. “Thanks for your help. Tomorrow we will have obtained an official search warrant for Danson’s apartment. I know you gave us permission, but the situation has changed.” She addressed Hollis. “It’s a crime scene,” she paused, “and it’s absolutely out of bounds.”
Once they’d left, the women returned to the living room. Before she sat down, Candace stopped and stared at the photos in her hand as if she could bring Danson back as he had been in the summer.
Hollis thought her friend might stand forever in the same position, locked in disbelief or wishful thinking.
“Sit down,” she said as, hand under Candace’s elbow, she shepherded her to her chair. Time to reclaim Candace from never-never land. No better way to do that than to talk of specifics, of work needing to be done. “We were serious before, now we have to redouble our efforts,” Hollis said.
“I thought we were,” Candace murmured, shuffling the photos and staring at each one.
“Not as a wanted man. The longer he’s gone, the more likely it is the police will believe he killed Gregory.”
Candace shook her head. “He never would have done that.”
“You know that, but they don’t. It’s time to put our brains in gear and see what ideas we come up with. To use a tired cliché—think outside the box.”
Candace pried herself away from her morose fascination with the photos. She ventured a half-smile. “Okay, I’m thinking.”
“Where else could Danson have gone? Maybe a friend’s cottage up north? Back to Montreal?” Hollis said.
“You e-mailed his friends. No one had heard that he was planning to go anywhere. He’s a city person. It’s late fall. Cottages are closed for the winter.” She stopped. “You’re saying he might hide where we are unlikely to look?”
“Right. We’ve explored the obvious answers. Now we have to take other paths.”
Candace pursed her lips. “Cottage. Who do we know with a cottage?” She tapped the photos on her knee. “It would have to be an old-fashioned, seasonal one that didn’t have an alarm system. Let me think.”
Hollis allowed the silence to lengthen, glad that she’d drawn Candace into the search.
“He’s been up to Emory Crabtree’s family cottage on Lake of Bays. He told me it was an old-timer that they’d chosen to keep that way. I think it has a hand pump in the kitchen, and that’s their source of water. A privy outside. Really primitive. Danson said it reminded him of the cottages in Hansel and Gretel.”
“Sounds like a perfect place to hide out. What about this Emory Crabtree? Could we tell him we’re wondering if Danson could be hiding out there?”
“Absolutely—he’s a great guy. I’ll do it this minute,” Candace said leaping to her feet.
While she was on the phone, Hollis formulated more questions.
Candace returned, shoulders sagging.“Emory says they have workers repairing the dock—Danson wouldn’t be there. Any more ideas?”
“What about Montreal? Might he go to ground there?”
“Who knows. E-mail George and see if he has any ideas?” Candace’s voice reflected her discouragement.
Time to discuss the interview and discover why Candace had behaved as she had. “You didn’t volunteer any information to the police,” Hollis said.
Candace straightened, crossed her arms over her chest and leaned forward. “Let them do their own work,” she said.
“You didn’t even tell them about the link to Poppy an
d the newspaper item.”
Candace’s lower lip jutted forward. “No.”
“I don’t agree with keeping things that secret.” How could she convince Candace that amateurs didn’t have the resources, that not cooperating was a crime? “We should at least give the police the phone number in the article. When I tried it, I didn’t get an answer, then I found that it was unlisted. They have the wherewithal to trace the number. That could give them a lead.”
“I don’t want them to have a lead. I want us to do it,” Candace said. Eyes narrowed and lower lip thrust out, she resembled a sulky, obstinate ten-year-old.
Hollis squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “Be realistic. We don’t have the resources. We should tell them everything we know.”
“No. I agree that we should, but not yet. Let’s set a time limit.” Candace paused. “Let’s give ourselves till the end of the week. We’ll succeed. I know we will.” Her eyes widened. “It’s really important to get to him before the police do.”
Hollis could see that Candace believed Danson might have been involved in Gregory’s disappearance. No matter what argument she used, Candace wouldn’t buy it. She wanted them to search. But it was wrong to withhold information, particularly if Danson had been involved.
“I don’t know if I can continue the search unless we pass on the information,” Hollis said.
“Not even until the end of the week?” Candace asked.
It wasn’t very long. It went against Hollis’s principles, but Candace looked so woebegone that she didn’t have the heart to refuse.
“At the end of the week, we turn over everything to the police. Agreed?”
Candace nodded.
Hollis wondered whether to make the next remark but, if they were going to go on, she had to do it. “Have you considered that Danson has run away? That something, maybe Gregory’s murder, scared him, made him think he would be the next victim?”
Candace straightened, lifted her gaze and ventured a tiny smile. “Victim—that’s it. I was trying to think why he wouldn’t have contacted me. That could be the reason. He’s afraid whoever killed Gregory is after him. He wants to make sure there is no connection to Poppy, Elizabeth and me.” Her tiny smile grew into a grin. “You’ve found the answer. He’s protecting us.”