by Joan Boswell
“Tall or short?”
Spike didn’t say anything. He must be running a memory video. “Maybe six foot, but he have little feet.”
Size eight shoes. That had been the clue for Candace—the man’s shoes had been too small to have belonged to her brother. Gregory’s feet were small—they had a pair of his shoes.
They continued to ask questions about the mob, and Spike shared what information he had but added nothing that the departmental specialists weren’t aware of. His primary concern was his mother and what would happen to her.
“You do know that when the press gets hold of the story, they’ll find you and your family?” Ian asked.
“My family.” Spike’s voice reflected the anxiety on his face.
“Yes. You should go home and warn them. They may try to ask your sons about their grandmother. How old are they?”
“Two and four.”
“They’ll be okay, but the press will try to talk to whoever takes care of them, to your friends and neighbours. It won’t be nice,” Ian warned.
Spike stood up.
Ian and Rhona also rose, and Rhona extended her hand. “Thank you for your help. Good luck.”
After he’d left the two detectives exchanged sympathetic glances.
“Not his fault. He tried to help, but there will be those righteous ones who’ll say he should have tried harder, should have realized how deranged she was,” Rhona said.
“Could anything have been done?” Ian responded. He answered his own question. “We couldn’t arrest her for obsessive knitting, could we? She had to commit a crime before we could intervene. Damn mental health act. You can’t protect people from themselves, can you?”
Rhona nodded. There was no satisfactory answer.
“Gregory is the key. He rented a room in Danson’s apartment. Now, he’s dead, and it was a mob killing. It’s possible he was Super Bug. Now we still need to know who killed Gregory and why. We also have to find out what happened to Danson,” Ian said.
* * *
As always, a Google search would provide information. Hollis typed in “rare stamp dealers Toronto,” and read the listings. The firm she chose to start with provided a Google link and map which she printed. Straight up Yonge Street to North York should be a breeze. Poppy had confirmed the rare stamp’s identity and that it had been mentioned in the Globe article.
Before she left, she propped a kitchen chair under the fire escape door. Unlikely that the burglar would return or that Willem’s assailants would discover his whereabouts, but at least the crash when the chair hit the floor would awaken him. It might even stimulate MacTee to bark.
“You take good care of Willem. Bark if anyone tries to come in,” she told MacTee as she closed the door behind her.
* * *
“Two down, one to go,” Rhona said at two o’clock on Friday afternoon.
“Does it strike you as odd that we haven’t heard from Hollis recently?” Ian said, raising his eyes from his paperwork.
“Hollis is a devious woman.”
“Why do you think she doesn’t share information?”
“I don’t know, but she’s nearly got herself killed because of her insistence on following up on her ideas instead of turning information over to us.”
“Do you think she’s still tracking Danson?” Ian said placing ticks in appropriate boxes on the form in front of him.
“Are you kidding? She’s as tenacious as one of those gila monsters in Arizona.”
“Gila monsters?” Ian laid his pen down.
“They’re lizards. Big ugly things. Sometimes, if a golfer searches for a lost ball and disturbs one, it clamps on to his hand.”
“His?”
“Women don’t reach under bushes when they’ve been told snakes, lizards or poisonous insects may be hiding there. Anyway, it’s impossible to dislodge the lizards. The victim is taken to the hospital with the thing hanging from his hand. I’m not sure how they remove it once he arrives.”
“Wouldn’t you think golfers would be more cautious if they knew gila monsters were there?” Ian laughed.
“You would, but some aren’t. Anyway, Hollis reminds me of a gila monster.”
“I don’t think she’d like the comparison,” Ian said with a smile.
Rhona picked up the phone. “I’m going to be proactive,” she said. The phone rang until the call answer came on. “Hollis, it’s Rhona Simpson. Call me when you get in,” she said, leaving both her office and her cell numbers.
* * *
In her battered truck, Hollis again vowed to clean up the accumulated dreck and smiled, knowing her tendency to procrastinate would determine that it would remain a mess. As she drove north, she watched the numbers. The one she wanted was well into Richmond Hill in the area referred to as 905. In the amalgamated GTA, the greater Toronto area, central Toronto phone numbers began with 416 and suburban ones, with 905. The rivalry between the needs of the two communities continued to be a source of irritation for city dwellers and suburbanites.
Once she’d located the number, she saw that it was a suite, which meant it was upstairs in a low-rise building. She hated entering businesses like this. Her latent claustrophobia kicked in, and anxiety about escape tightened the muscles in her stomach and dried the saliva in her mouth. The same panic engulfed her in big box stores when she couldn’t see the exit and feared mountains of cartons would topple and crush her.
This claustrophobia had plagued her for years. She’d worked hard to deal with it, to learn various coping mechanisms to divert or suppress the panic. Now she forced herself to enter, climb to the third floor and push open the appropriate door. Inside, she surveyed the glass cases housing displays of stamps. A poster advertising Ottawa’s postal museum caught her attention. She hadn’t realized such an institution existed.
The young man behind the counter clearly was not one of the owners pictured in the website advertisement. She asked to speak to one of the brothers who ran the business. Earlier, she’d decided she wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t say she was a private sleuth, but would try to give that impression. It was almost noon, and she had her fingers crossed that the man she wanted to talk to had not gone out for lunch.
The dark-haired, swarthy man who emerged from the back of the store matched the photo on the web, although he’d aged since the picture was taken. She introduced herself and launched into her speech.
“I’m investigating the whereabouts of a collection that features a Canadian 1851 Queen Victoria 12-penny black. Several weeks ago on Saturday, October 14, there was a request in the personals column of the Globe that anyone knowing where they could find this stamp should phone. A young man who answered that advertisement disappeared almost immediately afterward.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. Clearly unexplained disappear-ances were not what he usually heard about.
“Do you know and can you share the names of those who possess this stamp?”
“We normally protect collector’s privacy,” the man said smoothly and firmly, but his eyes betrayed interest in her unusual story.
She’d known this would be difficult but hoped the dealer might give her a lead.
“Thieves who specialize in this area are aware of the stamps’ value,” the man continued.
A small spark of hope. Perhaps she had come to the right place.
The man rested his arms on the counter top and peered at her. “It’s odd that you ask,” he said. “One of our regular buyers noticed the item in the paper and drew it to our attention. We decided it wasn’t coincidental that the previous week a young man had come in and asked us the same question.”
Could Danson have been the young man? “Did he tell you his name? Can you describe him? Was he tall and athletic-looking? Were you the one who spoke to him?”
The man held up his hand like a police officer stopping traffic. “One question at a time. Yes, I was the person who spoke to him. He didn’t identify himself. Even when I asked, he refused to say who he was. T
his made me think he was up to no good. Of course, I told him nothing. As for his description. He was about my height. I’m five-foot-six. Maybe thirty and very ordinary-looking.”
A new player. Was this the man responsible for Danson dropping out of sight?
“You didn’t answer his question.”
“That’s what I told you,” the man said, a note of annoyance creeping into his voice. “To tell you the truth, he made me nervous. He had that hyped-up, jittery body language that I associate with drug addicts. I did wonder if he might be going to rob us, and I stood very close to the bell on the floor.”
“Bell on the floor?”
“I can step on it without alerting anyone standing in front of me, but it rings in the back and in the security company’s office, and they notify the police. That’s one reason we like being on the third floor at the back. A thief has to get out of the building. If we’re lucky, there’s time for the police to arrive.”
He paused. Hollis could see that he was wondering why he’d given her this information.
“Anyway, I didn’t tell him anything. I sent him packing.”
Hollis fished in her bag and handed him her out-of-date business card.
“I don’t live in Ottawa or teach at the community college any more, but the cell phone number is the same. The young man we’re searching for, Danson Lafleur, is the brother of my friend and landlady, Candace Lafleur. We’re pretty sure there’s a connection to the stamp and a collector who possesses or did possess it. We need that information to find out what happened to her brother.” She offered this information and waited for his answer.
“Have you reported his disappearance to the police?”
“Of course, but, as you can imagine, young men leave for many reasons. Although they have the report, they’re not yet pursuing it with interest.”
This definitely wasn’t true, and she felt bad about breaking her resolution not to lie. If she went one step further and suggested that Danson had been murdered, she didn’t think he’d tell her anything.
“We haven’t had one of these stamps come up for auction for several years. We can locate most of them. I don’t see that it would help you if I gave you the names.”
“Probably not. Have you heard that one of the owners died recently, and did you expect the collection would come in for appraisal or be put up for auction?”
Hollis held her breath while she waited for his response.
He studied her with the intensity he must use to authenticate stamps. She almost expected him to take out a magnifying glass. As he peered at her, she realized how red her face must be, and exhaled slowly.
“Actually, you’ll probably locate this information sooner or later. Three years ago a passionate collector stopped coming in. We called him a couple of times, but he said he had given up his hobby. There was nothing more to do—it was his decision.”
“Would you give me his name?”
“Normally, I wouldn’t, I’d respect the collector’s privacy. However, I read his obituary in the paper more than a month ago. Ever since, we’ve been expecting whoever inherited his stamps to come in or, if he didn’t choose us, we thought we’d see that the collection was up for auction. It hasn’t happened.”
Three years before, Poppy had purchased a safe. That must have been when she’d received the stamp collection. It explained her extreme distress when it had been stolen.
“I would appreciate knowing his name,” she said.
“Charles Smith, Charles Garfield Smith,” the man said.
“Thank you.” Hollis extended her hand. “You’ve helped me enormously.”
“Let me know if you find your missing man. A stamp collection is a wonderful thing, but not a reason for foul play if that’s what happened to the young man.”
Hollis promised. Outside the building on the way to reclaim her truck, she mulled over what she’d learned. Why would Charles Smith have given Poppy the stamps years before his death? Why wouldn’t he have kept buying and selling until he died? Why hadn’t he merely designated her as the recipient in his will? Why had she been sure of the identify of the person who’d stolen the safe and been frightened by the knowledge? Questions, questions—time to hound Poppy until she revealed the answers.
It was early Friday afternoon. Wills were probated, and the public could read them. His will would answer some of her questions.
Government offices often closed at four and never opened on the weekend. If she wanted to know the terms of Charles Smith’s will, she had to get downtown fast. Because of an earlier involvement with wills, she knew exactly where to go and what to say.
November afternoon traffic sputtered and jerked. The urge to speed, to pass the dawdlers who ambled through lights leaving her to await the next green enraged her. Calm down, she ordered herself. Take it easy. You’re closing in on important information.
The will had been probated and was available for a fee, which she paid. She took it to the area set aside for research and collapsed on the seat with the bulky official document.
A quick skim.
Charles Smith had left his house and the cash in his bank accounts to his son Jacob. No surprise here.
He’d left one million in trust for a child, whom he hadn’t named but whose identity was known to the sole executor, a lawyer with the firm of Ritter, Johnston and Thompson. He stipulated that if the child died, the money would be divided between his son and the Sick Children’s Hospital Foundation.
This was decidedly weird. Hollis hadn’t thought it was possible to leave money to someone without identifying them. Why would he do this?
One possible answer frightened her. He could have believed the child would be in danger if he or she was identified.
As she zipped through the legalese, she realized that no mention was made of a stamp collection.
The will was relatively short. Its implications frightened her.
Jacob Smith must have known his father collected stamps. The dealer had valued the collection at well over a million dollars. How enraged the young man must have been when he learned not only that he wouldn’t inherit it but that the bulk of his father’s estate had been left to a child probably unknown to him.
Time to find Jacob Smith. He had to be the key to the puzzle.
Twenty
Hollis’s first step was to find out where Charles Smith had lived. Since his son had inherited his house, he might always have lived with his father, or he might have moved in after his father had died. If she went unannounced, she’d have a better chance of surprising him into sharing whatever information he had. Perhaps he could tell her where Danson had gone or at least reveal if Danson had called or come to see him.
Back in her apartment, she found Willem sitting on the bed cautiously spooning peach yogurt into his mouth. MacTee had parked himself close to Willem and fixed his gaze on the spoon.
“I think I’m going to be on a semi-liquid diet for quite a while,” Willem said, giving her a lopsided grin.
“You’re better, aren’t you?” Hollis said.
“I am. I got up to answer the phone, but I took so long, I didn’t make it. What did you find out?”
Hollis pulled a chair close to the bed and told him about the safe, the stamps and the connection to Danson before she asked, “Now tell me what you overheard the thugs say.”
“That the Super Bug was back and had a really big project. Their bosses and the Bug were worried someone would recognize him before he did what he’d come for. One of them grumbled that he thought the Bug must have switched sides or be working as a double agent, or he wouldn’t have been able to get back in the country easily.”
“Unfortunately, it’s easy for criminals to return. Finding those who’ve done that is Candace’s brother’s obsession.” Sadness swept through her when she thought of Danson and his one-man crusade to rid the country of overseas criminals. “I think the Super Bug is dead.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I
think he was Gregory, the man who rented a room in Danson’s apartment. I suspect he wanted to see how much info Danson had about him and other Russians like him who had been deported and returned.”
“Pretty ballsy. If Danson and the authorities knew what he looked like before he was deported, wouldn’t he be taking a risk, even if he’d had plastic surgery or dramatically altered himself?”
“Danson wouldn’t have seen him the first time. He’s only been in the tracking business since his girlfriend, Angie, was killed three years ago,” Hollis said.
“I still don’t understand why you think Super Bug is dead.”
“It’s a long story, but the essence of it is that when Candace reported her brother’s disappearance, the police asked her for something with his DNA.”
“Surely that isn’t routine procedure,” Willem said.
“No, it isn’t. They had an unidentified body in the morgue they thought might be Danson.”
“I don’t get it. Why didn’t they ask her to come and see if it was Danson?”
“Because the face was smashed beyond recognition, and it had no fingers.”
Willem shifted and winced. “A mob execution. Maybe my source was right when he suggested his loyalty was in question.”
“Because the DNA matched the dead man’s, they thought he was Danson.” She shook her head. “He wasn’t. It belonged to a man who called himself Gregory. Now we think he was Super Bug, but we haven’t found out what happened to Danson.”
“Do you think he was killed too?”
“Not until a body turns up,” Hollis said. “Danson could have been tracking Gregory, or he could have been following another trail altogether. An item relating to his mother, Poppy, was published in the personal column in the paper. Right now, I think that’s the more likely path.”
Before she went address searching, Willem required her attention. “Would you like more to eat—soup, a milkshake, ice cream, a smoothie?”