Cut to the Chase

by Joan Boswell

  When MacTee moved, Elizabeth lurched forward and fell. She began to howl.

  “Not the best time to talk,” Candace said bundling Elizabeth into her arms.

  Elizabeth snuffled. “Bad Tee,” she said.

  “No. He didn’t mean to do that,” Hollis reassured her. Better give Candace a chance to pull herself together? “Elizabeth, I’ve made a flock of chickens. They need names. Would you come up and tell me what you think I should call them?”

  “Tikens?”

  “Paper birds Hollis made,” Candace explained. “Like the dog outside her door.”

  Elizabeth’s brow wrinkled.

  “Remember the birds, the parrots, that we saw up there a week ago?”

  “Tikens.” Elizabeth wriggled free and headed for the stairs.

  “Call Poppy. Demand that she tell us what she knows about the stamp and who might have placed the notice in the paper,” Hollis instructed.

  Upstairs, Elizabeth admired the chickens.

  “What will we call them?”

  “One, two, three, seven?” Elizabeth offered.

  “Maybe, but those are numbers. We don’t usually call things by number,” Hollis said, although she could think of exceptions. Her great-grandfather, the eighth child in his family, had been Octavius.

  “Can’t know,” Elizabeth said.

  Hollis had planned to name them after particularly delicious chicken dishes—marsala, korma, cacciatore, Creole, tandoori, tetrazini. Elizabeth no doubt didn’t know that the meat and poultry she ate came from formerly living animals. This wasn’t the time to enlighten her. “We’ll think about it and come up with good names,” Hollis said.

  Elizabeth had joined MacTee, who stared fixedly alternately at his dinner dish then at Hollis.

  “Elizabeth, do you know what MacTee wants?”

  The little girl bent down and picked up the bowl. “Dinner, Tee wants dinner,” she said.

  “You are such a smart girl. Would you like to scoop the kibble into his dish?”

  Elizabeth did, and as Hollis set it on the counter, Wagner thundered through the room.

  Although she used her phone frequently for outgoing calls, she had only given the number to her mother, Candace and Willem. Where was the damn phone? Her coat and shoulder bag hung beside the door. She scrabbled in her coat pocket and realized the sound was coming from her bag. “Don’t hang up, don’t hang up,” she mumbled groping in the bag then dumping the contents on the floor and lunging for the phone.

  “Hello,” she said and waited anxiously to hear who was calling.

  “It’s Willem.”

  “Where are you? Are you okay?” Suspicion gripped her. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  What if he was lying? What if the thugs who’d frog-marched him away were standing over him? What if they’d made him tell who had given him the information about the Super Bug? He’d called her on her cell. That was good. At least no one would be able to trace the number.

  “Are you there?” Willem said.

  “Yes. I’m afraid you aren’t alone. Let me ask you questions that you can answer yes or no to.”

  “I am alone, but do it if it will make you feel better.”

  What if he was calling from a phone that had a speaker, and anyone else in the room could listen to what she was saying?

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m not great, but I’ll live.”

  “What did they do to you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Why are you calling me?” Oh dear, that sounded ungrateful and suspicious. She’d been worrying about him and feeling guilty, but that wasn’t what her words conveyed. “I’m sorry that didn’t come out right. I’m glad you phoned, because I was terrified that something awful had happened to you.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Was this a trap, a way for his abductors to identify her and where she lived? She couldn’t ask why they needed to talk in case someone was listening.

  Elizabeth was hunkered down, examining the eclectic collection of things that had spilled from Hollis’s bag. She reached forward, extricated a hand mirror, peered into it, smiled at herself and replaced it before she grabbed a ball point pen.

  No way she was going to let Willem come here. Maybe they could meet somewhere very public. Somewhere she could reach by subway to prevent anyone from following her home. Where? She traversed an imaginary map. Not a coffee shop, not a store. In her mind she left the subway at Bloor Street. No place in the concourse under the stores. She climbed the stairs to Yonge Street and inspiration struck.

  “The Toronto Reference Library on Yonge Street.”

  “What?”

  “I’d feel safe meeting you there.”

  “Okay. We’ll meet in the lobby outside the coffee shop by the water feature in an hour,” Willem said in a shaky voice and hung up.

  MacTee gave a low growl. A pool of drool marked the spot where he’d sat patiently staring up at the bowl while she talked on the phone.

  “Sorry,” she said and moved his food to the floor, where he inhaled it in seconds.

  Elizabeth watched but didn’t go near him. Hollis and Candace’s warnings not to approach any dog that was eating had sunk in.

  “Time to go back to your place. Would you like to bring MacTee?” Hollis said.

  “Candace, Willem phoned and asked me to meet him. He said it was urgent. I have to go and find out what happened to him.”

  “Do you think it’s about Danson?” Candace said hopefully.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t give me any clues.”

  “I called Poppy. She and Alberto compete again tonight. They’re doing well, and many dancers ordered costumes. Do you know she didn’t even ask about Danson, she said to call her tomorrow when I get home from work. I know you want to find out if she knows any more, but I could tell by her tone that we wouldn’t get any useful information from her today.”

  His mother’s lack of interest in her son’s welfare continued to amaze Hollis, but she mustn’t be judgmental. Poppy didn’t know the nasty details and was currently immersed in the preparations for the dance competition. No doubt that explained her indifference. They’d have to wait until she was available, physically and mentally.

  “Would you like MacTee, our very own Nana, to entertain Elizabeth? He’s eaten and walked.”

  “Would we? He’s better than Tree House as a diversion,” Candace said.

  MacTee duly ensconced, Hollis had zipped up her green down jacket, pocketed her phone and slung her bag over her shoulder when a black thought raised its ugly head. Could Willem’s call have been designed to lure her out in the open so his kidnappers could abduct or kill her? But she could outsmart them. If she left by the back of the house, she could slide through an opening in the fence and emerge on the street behind. It might be over the top, paranoid, but she didn’t care. Life was becoming more and more surreal.

  She trundled back upstairs, opened the fire escape door and cursed. Why hadn’t she called a locksmith to fix it? This was not the time to have such a flimsy lock, but she couldn’t do anything about it at the moment. She shut it as firmly as she could and made her way down and away from the house, her mind in a whirl.

  Why had Willem wanted to meet her? Hollis couldn’t really think of any reason, of anything he couldn’t have said to her on the phone. She shrugged—she’d find out soon enough.

  * * *

  At Homicide headquarters, Rhona and Ian waited for the warrant.

  “We should wear our Kevlar vests,” Ian said.

  Rhona knew her face expressed her unwillingness. Despite the many policewomen on the force, her department had not provided a model for women. The vests constricted all but the most flat-chested and were widely disliked.

  “To interview an elderly woman with psychiatric problems?” she said.

  “Yes. She’s a loose cannon. We don’t know who she’s connected to or if she’s part of something larger. This is u
nknown territory. Better to be safe.”

  This was usually her line. She hauled her vest from her locker and shrugged it on. “At least it isn’t a sweltering hot day. They’ll keep us warm in that chilly wind. “

  Warrant secured, the two detectives parked close to the apartment. Inside the vestibule they examined the panel of buzzers and rang the superintendent’s bell. No response.

  “Great?” Ian said. “We can’t even get in the building. Now what?”

  Rhona waved at the heavy glass door. “Wait for Spike. I expect he knows the code to open this one, and he likely possesses a key to his mother’s apartment.”

  “Yes. She’d want him to come in if she fell or had a stroke.”

  “Maybe, but she strikes me as paranoid, and she might not have given him one.”

  “True. Even if he doesn’t have a key, he may persuade his mother to let us in.”

  “Who knows—she may open the door when she realizes we have a warrant. If not, when the super arrives, he’ll use his key. Some way we will get into that apartment,” Rhona said.

  In the vestibule they waited until a heavily muscled, bald young man pushed the door open, stepped in and stopped abruptly when he saw them.

  “Spike?” Ian said, and the three shook hands.

  “Mother have problems,” Spike said apologetically.

  This probably wasn’t the first time he’d had to intervene in his mother’s life.

  “We know. We met her in the park and realized she did. Nevertheless, we must talk to her,” Rhona said and fished the warrant from her bag. “We do have authorization to enter the apartment.”

  Spike’s lips twisted. “I not go in for months. She meet me in park. Not know why.” He smiled ruefully. “I know entry code.” He pressed a combination of numbers on the key pad. When the door buzzed, he led the way upstairs to the dimly-lit third floor corridor, where he stopped at a plain heavily varnished door. He pushed the buzzer.

  “Mama, it’s me, Venedikt. Open door.” He shrugged and spoke rapid Russian.

  No answer from inside. He buzzed again then knocked.

  “I come down. Go down.” They heard Katerina’s voice from behind the door.

  “No, Mama. I come in,” Spike responded.

  “No one come in.”

  “Mama, I’m son. Let me in,” Spike implored.

  No answer.

  He turned away from the door, met Rhona’s eyes and shrugged. “See. I know she not let us in.”

  Rhona knocked on the door. “Katerina. It’s Detective Rhona Simpson. I’m the woman who spoke to you in the park. Let us in. We need to talk.”

  A shout from inside followed by what had to be fists pounding on the door. “Never.” A torrent of speech, accusatory and high-pitched, and a second thundering volley.

  Spike stepped back. “No, Mama. No.” He too launched a barrage of words, but the tone was soft and conciliatory.

  The response was not. Katerina’s voice rose to a scream, and her thudding fists beat an even stronger tattoo.

  “I’ll see if the super is back,” Ian whispered and headed for the stairs.

  Katerina and Spike continued their exchange but reached an impasse. Both stopped talking, but the door did not open.

  Ian returned, trailed by a short, rotund man dressed in navy coveralls with “Bud” embroidered on the pocket.

  “Sorry. I was out back doing something about the garbage. Damn raccoons. Wish we could shoot them.” He flourished a bunch of keys. “Did you tell her I was doing this? Katerina can be scary,” he said.

  Ian nodded to Spike. “Tell her,” he said.

  Spike spoke at length, his tone reasonable, although a slight tremor betrayed his nervousness.

  No response from the apartment’s interior.

  Bud shrugged, inserted the key, rotated the knob and pushed the door open.

  Katerina was not at the door.

  Bud craned his neck to see inside, but Ian moved to block his view, thanked him and sent him on his way before they entered.

  “Mama,” Spike called.

  No response.

  They trekked along a dark hall to the living room.

  Katerina, knitting on her lap, rocked back and forth in an old armchair. She didn’t acknowledge their arrival.

  Spike dropped to his knees beside his mother. “Mama,” he repeated.

  Katerina gave no indication that she had heard him.

  Rhona remembered Katerina’s frenzy in the park. While she examined the living room, she kept an eye on the rocking woman. Nothing untoward in this room. Large, heavy, overstuffed furniture upholstered in maroon plush filled the space. Russian icons and badly painted landscapes hung in no apparent order on faded, flowered wallpaper.

  “Mama,” Spike said and slipped into slow, carefully enunciated Russian.

  Rhona moved to stand in front of Katerina. She showed her the warrant. “We are here to inspect your apartment.”

  “No.” Katerina spat the words. Her body twitched as if electric currents pulsed through her. “My house.” She slammed her fist on the arm of the chair. “Mine. Not for you. Mine.” Katerina glared around the room without her gaze fixing on anyone.

  “Will you answer questions?” Ian said.

  Katerina stopped moving as suddenly as she’d started. Her eyes widened as if she was seeing an alien being, an intruder from outer space.

  “Did you know the murdered drug addicts?” Ian said.

  Katerina subsided into her chair and smiled.

  A chill settled over the apartment.

  “Did you?” he persisted.

  Katerina resumed rocking, but the smile remained fixed on her lips. A secretive, complacent smile. Whatever information she possessed, she wasn’t about to share it.

  “Why you think she did?” Spike said. He bit his lower lip and repeated the question.

  He deserved an answer. If this had been her mother, she’d want to know why the police were here.

  “She’s in the park every day. Most of the murdered men lived nearby and may have spent time there. The first time we walked through the park, we saw your mother talking to a young man. It seems likely she was acquainted with the dead men.”

  “Other people come to park. Why you talk to Mama?” Spike frowned and squinched his eyes almost closed. “Pigeon feeders there every day. Did you talk to them?”

  “We’ve spoken to most regulars. See if you can persuade your mother to answer our questions. She may not have understood us. Convince her that we’re interested in everyone who uses the park on a regular basis.”

  A spatter of Russian from Spike.

  Katerina ignored him and continued to rock and smile.

  “With or without her cooperation, we have a warrant and will search.” She raised her voice and enunciated each word. “We are going to check your apartment,” she said to Katerina.

  Katerina erupted from her chair, and shot forward, knitting needles together, their tips a sharpened arrow aimed directly at Rhona’s chest.

  Spike and Ian collided in their rush to restrain her.

  Rhona fell backwards. Katerina landed on top of her, raising her arms to stab repeatedly.

  It took the combined strength of Spike, the bouncer, and, Ian, the fitness fanatic, to pry Katerina away from Rhona, pin Katerina’s arms behind her back, snap handcuffs around her wrists and shove her back into the chair.

  Rhona scrambled to her feet. “Thank goodness for Kevlar. They’re uncomfortable, but when you need them, you don’t care.”

  Katerina mumbled and repeated a singsong phrase.

  “What’s she saying?” Ian asked Spike.

  Spike, eyes wide, contemplated his mother as if he’d never seen her before.

  The singsong drone increased in volume.

  “What’s she saying?” repeated Ian.

  “Not enough, not enough, not enough,” Spike said. “What does she mean?”

  “We may know in a minute,” Rhona said.

  Poor man. If
they were right, he was about to receive a terrible shock.

  “It’s time to see what she’s hiding,” Ian said.

  Sixteen

  Hollis walked north on Yonge Street toward the Toronto Reference library. She approached cautiously. Several times she stopped and peered behind her before she continued. After she’d covered half a block, she stepped into a Tim Hortons coffee shop doorway and allowed the crowd to swirl past her. Then she reversed and returned to the corner of Yonge and Bloor Streets, crossed to the west side of Yonge Street and made her way northward again. This time she swivelled to look behind her and made a mental note of who she saw before she moseyed into the cookbook store and pretended to examine the books displayed at the front. Instead she watched the passersby and paid particular attention to those loitering in front of the library across the street. As far as she could tell, no one behaved suspiciously, and no one had followed her. She crossed Yonge Street at the light in front of the library and entered the red brick building. People swirled in and out. Students, vagrants searching for a warm place to spend time, older men and women researching a variety of subjects—a crowd always filled the lobby. She’d chosen well.

  She allowed her gaze to circle the room, searching for Willem.

  Half-turned away from her, he stood beside the pool. Bandaids, taped one underneath another, covered most his cheek. The eye that she saw was swollen shut. He stood hunched over like a man protecting his vitals from assault. Unbidden, a memory jumped into her mind. She’d cracked two ribs in a biking accident and for weeks had walked protectively, guarding them against unintentional contact with anything. She’d slept propped up surrounded by insulating pillows but, every time she moved, pain had jarred her awake.

  She felt incredibly guilty. Willem, her Cossack defender, was suffering like this because of her, because she hadn’t been sensible and gone to the police. How could she ever make amends?

  “Willem,” she said, approaching him from behind.

  He started and involuntarily gasped as he turned to her.

  Face to face, she saw that the damage was worse than she’d thought when she’d seen him from a distance. Both eyes were swollen and bruised, and his lower lip was split.