Cut to the Chase

by Joan Boswell

  She withdrew it immediately.

  “I told you I had contacts in the Russian criminal community. I’ve represented good people, but I know about the others, the not-so-goodniks. I flew trial balloons. Said I’d heard something about the Super Bug and wondered what it was and if it was still around. I can’t tell you who I talked to, but I can say he’s in the mob and owes me a favour or two.”

  Oh, God. This was worse. The mob. What had he said? Had he given her name?

  “Where did you say you’d heard the name?” Hollis said. Her stomach muscles clenched, and she held her breath.

  Willem straightened and positively smirked. “You won’t believe how canny I was,” he paused, obviously wanting to prolong his moment in the sun.

  “How canny were you?” she said, wanting to reach across and smack him.

  “On the subway. I said I’d overheard two men speaking Russian on the subway, and they mentioned the Super Bug. The man talking to me became very upset, demanded I describe the men, asked if I’d recognize them if I saw them again. Wanted to know where they got on, where they got off.”

  “What did you say about these imaginary men?” Hollis said. She hoped she didn’t sound as outraged as she felt.

  “Told him I hadn’t paid much attention because I’d been eavesdropping and didn’t want them to notice me. Said they got off at Union Station, and they both had suitcases.” He grinned. “Wasn’t it a good idea to get them out of the city?”

  “The Super Bug. Did this ‘friend’ tell you what it was about?”

  Their lunches arrived. The bouillabaisse lived up to it’s billing, but it could have been warm tap-water as far as Hollis was concerned. She kept thinking of Candace and Elizabeth and praying she hadn’t endangered them.

  Willem, who’d ordered the roast beef, spooned horse-radish and hot mustard on his plate before he replied. “That’s what I’m here to tell you. He said it was dangerous stuff, nothing to meddle with. To forget I’d ever heard the name and mind my own business.” He forked a large portion into his mouth.

  Worse and worse. She was no further ahead. Willem didn’t know, and his acquaintance hadn’t been prepared to tell him.

  “I should have ordered red wine to go with my beef,” Willem said.

  “Never mind the bloody wine. Why wouldn’t he tell you what the Super Bug was about?”

  Willem tapped his finger on the table. “No need to be testy. Because it would be dangerous for me to know. Given the contents of the paper I translated, I think you should back off whatever it is you’re doing. If it’s in the same league as the Super Bug, it’s dangerous to you and to anyone else involved.” He took another mouthful.

  Hollis had no appetite. She should leave, should go directly to police headquarters and pass on the translation, along with Willem’s warnings. “I’m upset that you took it upon yourself to do this,” she said coldly as she watched him chewing vigorously, apparently unaware of her fury. “Since you have, I think you’d better stick your neck out and try other sources. I need this information.”

  Willem, impaling a chunk of beef, stopped. “Now wait a minute. You won’t tell me where this came from. You say it’s, what’s your word, complicated, yet you expect me to continue poking my nose into this business. Are you crazy? Why would I do that?”

  Why indeed. Did the person who poked the stick in the hornet’s nest hang around to see how many stings he’d receive? “Because you notified the mob that the Super Bug was attracting attention. Now they’re on alert. Where does that leave me? Even though I don’t know anything, you’ve probably endangered me.”

  Willem carefully placed his fork on his plate and angled his body toward her. “You have no idea, absolutely no idea, how dangerous the mob can be.” He’d lowered his voice.

  She mimicked his attitude and spoke quietly. “Oh—yes—I—do. Don’t ask me how, but I do.”

  “Hollis, why can’t you go to the police? They have special task forces to deal with gang stuff. If what you told me about your background is true, you have no experience. You’re a nice middle-class woman. Go to the police.”

  “Eventually, I will. Meanwhile, it’s critical that I learn what the Super Bug was or is.”

  Both pulled back simultaneously. Stalemate. Neither spoke.

  “Okay.” Willem tapped his finger on the table. “I don’t agree with you, but I do have one other source. I’ll see him and stick to my subway story.” He brushed bread crumbs off the table and mumbled, “I just hope you don’t read in the Globe and Mail that they’ve fished my body out of Lake Ontario.”

  “Surely no one gets killed for asking. However, if you think it’s that dangerous, maybe it would be better if you didn’t do it.”

  Willem worked away at the crumbs and shook his head as he said, “It is dangerous. Whatever Super Bug is, they’re threatened when the subject comes up. I’ll try to ask without attracting attention.”

  The waiter arrived and left after he examined Willem’s half-eaten and Hollis’s almost untouched meals.

  Willem gestured at his plate and at Hollis’s. “Since this may be our last supper or my last supper, let’s eat and make pleasant conversation. I’ll have something nice to remember when they chop off my fingers or my hands, likely while I’m still alive, before they shoot or stab me and toss me in the lake to improve Lake Ontario fishing.”

  He wanted her to lighten up, to smile. As much as she wanted to be lighthearted and pleasant, it didn’t happen. He’d hit close to the mark—she remembered Candace’s description of Gregory’s body. Looking at Willem’s warm brown eyes, she wavered. Even though he’d initiated the investigation, she didn’t want him to end up like that. Maybe she should go immediately to the police. Tempting, but her first responsibility was to Candace and to Danson. If she gave up the chase, Danson might never be found.

  “That isn’t very funny. Okay, I acknowledge that it may be dangerous. Let’s put a time limit on your search. Twenty-four hours. Call me on my cell tomorrow afternoon. If you haven’t learned anything, we’ll forget we ever had these conversations.”

  “Then will you go to the police?”

  Hollis shook her head. “Depends what information you get, but either way, your involvement will be over.”

  Willem again covered her hand with his. This time Hollis didn’t withdraw. The heat of his fingers sent pleasant messages to various nerve centres in her body.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said, tightening his grasp. “When whatever this is ends, maybe we could have coffee or run in High Park and treat ourselves to lattes afterwards?”

  “When I talked about running in the ravines with my dog, you didn’t say you were a runner.”

  “I’m a triathlete.”

  Triathlete. She’d never aspire to do that. Even thinking about what was involved—running a marathon, pulling on a wet suit to swim a huge distance then biking for endless kilometres—exhausted her. He must be in great shape and have drive and persistence if he did this. He wasn’t suggesting she join him. Running she could handle. “I’d love to. I’m new to Toronto. I’d like to explore more ravine trails. I’m leery about doing that by myself unless it’s midday on Saturday or Sunday.”

  “It’s a deal. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  They finished lunch, vetoed dessert or coffee and left together. On the sidewalk, Willem grasped her sleeve. “I will do my best,” he assured her before they parted.

  His warnings had frightened her. She’d promised that he wouldn’t be involved when the twenty-four hours ended, but it was time to rethink her own commitment. She’d give it until noon tomorrow. If Willem hadn’t come up with useful information, she’d pass the paper on to Rhona. Somehow knowing there was a time limit comforted her.

  Nothing else to be done until she heard from Willem. She’d fill the hours with work. Not the gold painting. Its uninspiring surface dominated the apartment, but she refused to work on it until she had a better idea of where it was going. Instead she’d fi
nish the chickens. After she flipped open the paste container and donned gloves, she couldn’t bring herself to work. She needed downtime. Caught up in the investigation, she hadn’t taken enough time to meditate, to centre herself.

  Twenty minutes later, refreshed and calmed, she set to work. Blue eyes or green eyes for the leader? Maybe red to sympathize with the difficulty any leader faced, particularly a chicken when there was no rooster to strut his stuff.

  She rummaged through her eye collection and picked two glowing crimson eyes.

  The phone rang. “Hollis Grant?”

  Whose voice? She’d heard it recently but couldn’t quite place it. She acknowledged her identity.

  “I got idea for you.”

  Spike, the bouncer. This could be good news.

  “I’m glad you called. Tell me what it is.”

  “You know I say mother cuckoo. She hate Russian mob ’cause my brother die?”

  “I remember.”

  “When I tell Danson, he say he know Russian mob. He going to get them.”

  Verification of their suspicions. After her conversation with Willem, she didn’t know whether to rejoice or weep.

  “That’s helpful. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Mother do need help. Will you talk to her?”

  She hadn’t expected this. What could she do? She didn’t have connections to the mental health facilities in Toronto. “Does she speak English?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “She not want anyone to know.” He paused, as though realizing it would be hard to help without meeting her. “She go to park every day. She knit and knit.”

  “Which park?”

  “On Carlton. Greenhouse in middle. East, past Jarvis Street, before Sherbourne.”

  “She goes there every day?”

  “Every day. She leave apartment, take umbrella or she wear coat. She knit and knit.”

  “Why do you think she’ll listen to me?”

  “Because you not social worker. You woman like her.”

  “How is she with dogs? I’d like to take my golden retriever, MacTee, with me. If she likes dogs, she’ll love him.” Dogs often broke through barriers. Alzheimer’s patients, depressed withdrawn elderly patients—a long list of damaged people responded to dogs. A friendly golden ranked high on the appealing dog totem pole.

  “Dogs good. She little girl in Leningrad in siege. Still feel bad they eat dogs.”

  Great, a deranged woman with a knitting fixation who felt guilty because she’d had to eat her dog. Not too many women got an opportunity like this. “Spike, if you think it’ll help, I’ll go this afternoon.”

  “Thank you. Call, tell me what she say?” he said and gave her his cell phone number.

  She dropped the phone in its cradle and whistled to MacTee. “We’re on a mission. You’ll be a therapy dog this afternoon.”

  Before she left, she pocketed dog biscuits and her cell. You never knew when you’d need either one.

  Bucketing along in her beat-up old truck, she tried to map out a scenario for the encounter ahead. Nothing came to her. It would have to be improv.

  In the park, MacTee sniffed the trees and attempted to lift his leg higher at each successive one. Very large dogs must use this park, and MacTee was working to establish his place in the hierarchy.

  She spotted Spike’s mother. Knitting furiously, hair covered with a bandana and her possessions spread on the bench, she commanded a strategic spot at the junction of several paths, where she could monitor approaches from several directions.

  Hollis released MacTee, who moseyed along, nose to the ground, collecting olfactory information. As he neared Spike’s mother’s bench, his head lifted. He stopped, raised his nose even higher, and sniffed.

  “Sausage. I got Polish sausage,” Spike’s mother said to Hollis.

  “He’s great at smelling good things,” Hollis said.

  MacTee sidled close to the bench and fixed the women with a pleading gaze.

  “Is he hungry?” the woman asked

  “No. It’s an act. He’s a ham…”

  A puzzled look.

  “I mean he’s an actor. He pretends he’s hungry hoping you’ll share your Polish sausage with a starving dog who isn’t starving.” Hollis smiled. “May we join you? Is that going to be a scarf?”

  The women peered at Hollis through narrowed eyes. Hollis continued to smile.

  “Okay. You sit,” the woman said and moved her flowered carpet bag to make room on the bench.

  “I’m Hollis, and my dog’s name is MacTee,” Hollis said and held out her hand, which she regretted as the woman held knitting needles in both hands.

  The woman laid the knitting in her lap and offered a chapped red hand. “Katerina.”

  “Lovely name. Is it German?” Hollis said and wished she could haul the words back into her mouth. She’d known Katerina was Russian but thought it would make the woman suspicious if she zeroed in too soon. German? Was she out of her mind? This woman had survived the more than nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad.

  “German.” Katerina spat on the ground. “If Katerina German—I change it. I hate Germans. Buy nothing German. Name is Russian.”

  MacTee nudged Katerina’s flowered carpet bag and stared beseechingly at her.

  “Can I?” Katerina asked, pointing her needle at the bag.

  Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” blasted from Hollis’s handbag. Wagner, the quintessential German composer and inspiration for Hitler—bad choice. She grabbed for the phone, pressed talk and said hello.

  “It’s Willem. I found some info for you,” he said. Hollis heard suppressed excitement in his voice.

  “That’s terrific.”

  “I don’t want to…” he stopped abruptly.

  “What the hell. Who are you? What are you doing? Get out of my office,” Willem said.

  Hollis heard fear in his voice.

  A rumbling, menacing voice speaking in a foreign language.

  Willem replied in what must be the same language.

  A crash. What was happening?

  More talk. This time it sounded like an order. Short staccato speech.

  “Call 911,” Willem shouted.

  Another voice speaking heavily accented English. “Get the fucking phone. Under desk.”

  Silence.

  Fourteen

  Hollis snapped to attention and punched in 911. “Willem Andronovich was talking to me when men broke into his office in the Slavic Studies department at the University of Toronto. They’re attacking him. Send the police. It’s an emergency.” She identified herself, gave the address at the university and, instructed to stay on the line, did not hang up but held the phone in her hand.

  “Willem Andronovich,” Katerina gazed at her with raised eyebrows and head cocked to one side.

  Hollis focussed on the woman. “Yes. Do you know him?”

  Katerina’s eyes brimmed with tears. “He good man,” she said. Hollis wanted to pursue this, to learn how Katerina knew Willem, but not now. Although she knew she shouldn’t hang up, she had a call to make. Rhona’s number was in her cell’s phone book. She pressed in the number. Why, oh why hadn’t she believed Willem when he’d said how dangerous it was to ask questions? This was her fault. She should have shared the information with Rhona as soon as Willem had translated the message.

  “You have reached the extension of Detective Rhona Simpson. I am on the other line or away from my desk. If your call is urgent, call 911. If not, please leave a message.”

  Damn, the woman was never there. What message should she leave? Over the phone, she wasn’t about to admit she’d withheld evidence. They charged you for that—it was a serious crime. “I hope you’re in the office. I’m bringing in evidence that links Danson to Gregory to the Russian mob.”

  As she spoke, Katerina stood up and moved close. She planted herself inside Hollis’s space and loomed over her.

  “You!” Katerina thrust a knittin
g needle into Hollis’s arm.

  It hurt. Hollis yanked her arm back and slid along the bench out of reach of the grey metal skewer.

  “You connected to mob? To drug dealers? You came to get me? Trap me?” Spit foamed on her lips. She breathed in short, oxygen-deprived gasps.

  MacTee, hovering close to the sausage bag, backed away in alarm and skulked back to Hollis.

  This woman was crazy. How had she got herself in such a mess?

  “No. No. I have nothing to do with drug dealers or the Russian mob. Nothing. Believe me—nothing.”

  “Why you talk about evidence and mob?” Katerina panted.

  “Because I know someone who is involved, and I’m trying to help,” Hollis said.

  “Help. You help mob?”

  “The police. I’m helping the police,” Hollis shouted. She had to force this dense woman to understand.

  “Why you come talk to me?” Katerina moved threat-eningly near. Her quiet intensity frightened Hollis.

  The truth. “Your son suggested it.”

  “My son,” Katerina stopped and stepped back, mouth open. Clearly she hadn’t expected this response. She calmed down a bit. “How you know my son?”

  “Long story, but I do. He’s worried about you and asked me to make sure you were okay,” Hollis said.

  Katerina clutched her knitting and rocked back on her heels. “Something happen to him.” Her voice high and thin, she dropped her knitting and grabbed for Hollis. “What is wrong?” Her hands clawed at Hollis’s jacket. “Why he not come himself?”

  Hollis detached the grasping hands and stepped back. “Because he’s a friend of mine, and he…” She paused. What line would work best with this woman? Inspiration struck. “He thought you and I might be friends because he worries that you don’t have enough friends.”

  “You lie,” Katerina said flatly. “You not know my son. He never sent you.”

  “He did.”

  “How I know that?” Her eyes narrowed. “What is his name?”

  “Spike.”

  “Hah, I have no son name Spike. Venedikt is my son. You lie.”

  “It’s...” how to explain nicknames? “That’s what he told me his name was.”