Cut to the Chase (14 page)

“Molly, I'm sure you did everything you could. Don't be hard on yourself. We don't know for sure that something bad has happened to him.” As she spoke, she had a picture of Candace's face when she'd returned from the morgue. DNA didn't lie. But no point in upsetting Molly until they knew for sure what had happened.

A maverick thought floated into her mind. What if the body in the morgue belonged to the elusive Gregory? It could have been his hair brush? Had they ever told the detectives about Gregory? She searched her mind but didn't come up with an answer. What if Gregory was the person who'd jerked him around, and Danson had dealt with the problem? She didn't know him well enough to say if he could be violent. Who knew what circumstances would drive a person over the edge?

This was not a happy thought.

If he'd murdered Gregory, Danson would have had a very good reason to vanish. It would also explain why he hadn't contacted Candace.

“You will call and tell me when you find out, won't you?” Molly said. She scrabbled in her white frilled apron pocket and pulled out an order form and pen. After she'd written her name and number, she tore off the sheet and handed it to Hollis. “Don't forget. Good or bad, I want to know.”

Hollis promised.

As she left the club, she noticed that the panhandler remained but was no longer alone. Costumed patrons lined up halfway down the block. They ignored the man as if he was an inanimate object, a garbage bag set on the sidewalk. Spike, busy vetting and letting in the crowd, waved and winked at Hollis as she passed.

T
he
next day, a dog walker stumbled upon another body.

Reportedly the victim had been yet another marginal drug user, and he'd been stabbed. Again the corpse was in a back alley near Sherbourne and Carlton. Like the other victims, the man showed no signs that he'd struggled with his assailant. Whoever the killer was, the victims had not considered him a threat until it was too late.

Rhona and Ian, along with others on the task force assigned to the case, were told to recanvass neighbourhood residents for information.

“We're missing something,” Rhona said. “I know we've run a canvass through here before. This time let's make sure we talk to all the neighbourhood regulars—the moms with their strollers, the people who feed the pigeons, those who walk their dogs, the winos drinking rotgut out of paper bags and anyone else who spends time in Allan Gardens. “

“Then we'll cross the park to the Salvation Army Mission,” Ian said.

Rhona glanced up at the wall clock. “It closes after breakfast—everyone has to leave—and doesn't reopen until dinner time, but you're right, it should be a good spot to talk to people. Regulars hang around outside and across the street at Moss Park Arena.” She gathered her belongings. “I like walking through the gardens. Have you ever been in the—what do they call that glassed roof building? The conservatory?”

“No. I'm not into plants,” Ian replied without giving her any indication of what he was “into.” Rhona liked to know details about a partner's private life, of their likes and dislikes. Ian was not “into” revealing and sharing.

After they parked, they walked along Carlton Street and chose one of the diagonal paths that cut through the park's green space. A woman sitting on a bench ignored them as they passed. She pushed a sleeping baby in a stroller back and forth with one hand as she read a book. When addressed, she frowned and pointed to her lips. “He sleeps very lightly,” she whispered.

Rhona whispered her questions. “No idea,” the woman murmured and returned to her book.

They next encountered two middle-aged women zipped into nylon anoraks and lugging shopping bags who smiled at them.

“Could we have a word?” Ian said as he showed his badge.

The two looked at one another before they nodded their agreement and indicated a nearby bench, empty except for an old man perched on the end clutching a paper-wrapped parcel with an open, green glass bottle protruding from the bag. The women set their carryalls down.

“Police,” the shorter of the two said, and her eyes were bright.

Whatever these women's backgrounds, unpleasant run-ins with officialdom had not played a part. “Do you live in the area?' Rhona asked.

The second shopper waved an arm toward Sherbourne Street. “The Rackley Arms apartments,” she said.

“We're investigating the deaths of several murdered men,” Rhona said. “We're questioning people who live in this neighbourhood.”

After an unspoken communication passed between them, the short one spoke. “Druggies. There are druggies everywhere. Too many.” Her brow furrowed, and she lowered her voice. “They'd kill you for a quarter just to buy drugs.” She leaned toward Rhona, “We don't go out at night. Never.”

It was unlikely that the men had been murdered in broad day light. Possible, but not probable.

“We don't know nuthin' about murder. Just two old women trying to stay alive,” her companion stated, hooking her hand through her bag's handle and pulling it toward her.

“Sorry.” The short one adjusted her head scarf and shrugged. “She's right—we mind our own business.”

The detectives next encountered a dogwalker attached to five canine charges and armed with a large plastic bag filled with more plastic bags. Obviously the pack's alpha dog, she led the way and the assorted dogs trotted along side by side, intent on their outing. When Rhona approached her, the woman waved her away, “No time to talk. Can't stop. Have to get these dogs home and pick up the next crew.”

Further inside the park, a man of indeterminate age, wrapped in a filthy, once-beige greatcoat, lay sleeping on a ragged tarp laid under a tree. When Rhona and Ian approached, the combined smell of alcoholic fumes, unwashed clothing and neglected personal hygiene forced them to catch their breath.

“He's out of it,” Ian said. “Doubt if he can tell us his own name, let alone who killed the men. Maybe we can talk to him later.”

Rhona agreed, and they marched on. Not far from the man, they saw a woman with a red bandana covering her hair occupying a bench. She had spread her long, voluminous red skirt and positioned herself and a large flowered carpet bag featuring vivid pink peonies to make it impossible for anyone else to sit without asking her to move the bag. A tall, thin man of indeterminate age who had been talking to her slunk away before the two detectives reached the bench.

Knitting needles clicked and a purple scarf grew longer as they watched.

Rhona flashed her badge. “We're police officers, and we'd like to speak to both of you,” she said to the man's departing back. If he heard, he didn't acknowledge Rhona's request but kept walking. Rhona thought about following but decided against it. Instead, she focused on the woman.

“We'd like to speak to you,” she repeated.

“What about?” the woman answered in a heavily accented voice.

Might as well get to the point. “About the men who've been murdered in the neighbourhood,” Rhona said.

“I know nothing,” the woman said, swinging away from them and rummaging in the carpet bag.

“We aren't finished.” Rhona moved to stand directly in front of her.

The woman continued to dig in the bag's depths.

“How often are you in the park?” Rhona persisted.

The woman mumbled something.

“I didn't hear you. What is your name?”

“Katerina,” the woman shouted. “Police persecution. All the same. Czars, Communists, KGB—stinking rotten rats.” At this, she raised her eyes. “Arrest me. Beat me. They did.”

Rhona stepped back. “Madam, this is a murder investigation. We expect citizens to cooperate. We are not the KGB, we are ordinary Toronto citizens like you.”

“They say that. Not true. Not true. I know what you do.” Her eyes narrowed. She pressed herself back against the bench. “I know. You go after woman like me. Not criminals, not drug dealers, not Mafia. I know nothing.” She sank back.

“Madam, if you are here in the park every day, you may have seen more than you think you have. We want to know who else is here regularly. Are there nurses or social workers who come to the park and help people?”

Katerina grabbed the half-finished scarf and pointed both needles at them. “Social workers—they try put me in home. To give me pills. I tell them—go to hell.”

Clearly this woman wouldn't give them information, although she likely could identify the park's regulars. Given the references to pills and social workers, Rhona categorized her as one of the many mentally ill people who drifted through the neighbourhood caught up in their delusions. Her references to the KGB told Rhona that the woman's experiences had given her a grudge against the world in general and police officers in particular. Maybe asking her what she did with the knitting would calm her down.

“That's a lovely scarf. Do you make many of them?” Rhona asked.

“Why tell you?” Katerina shrugged. “Yes. I make and give away. People need, and I give.”

“They must be very happy to have them. Thanks for talking to us. If we come back, you'll remember that we are citizens just like you, won't you?” she said.

Katerina, whose needles flew again, said nothing.

Their approach to the pigeon feeders sent clacking crowds of birds heavenward and annoyed those scattering bread and seed on the ground. Neither the bird lovers nor anyone else frequenting the park offered anything like a lead.

“The daytime people aren't too helpful,” Ian said. “We should come back at night.”

“Definitely a park with a bipolar personality.”

“Benign by day, dangerous at night,” Ian added.

Few men hung around outside the Salvation Army hostel, and fewer still had anything to offer.

“Let's come back when there's a big crowd, just before they open the dining hall for dinner,” Ian said.

“Good idea,” Rhona agreed.

“Right now we've got time to visit Danson's apartment,” Ian said as they drove toward the station.

“Yes, we need to figure out how his DNA got on the brush if the body isn't his. His apartment may tell us.”

“Do we have time to eat?” Ian said. He added, “I'm always hungry. Always have been. My mother used to say I had a tapeworm.” He patted his stomach. “Doesn't matter how much I eat, I never gain.”

Rhona envied his ability to chow down like a stevedore and remain rail-thin. She agonized over every morsel she put in her mouth and fought a constant battle to maintain a reasonable weight.

“The cafeteria's open. You can eat a revoltingly calorie-laden meal, and I'll have a salad.”

Ian laughed. “Don't hold me responsible for my genetic makeup.”

After a quick lunch, they set out for Danson's apartment. Inside his front hall, they absorbed the ambiance.

“Wasn't he tidy?” Ian said.

“Candace was right—the perp wasn't a mugger, or he would have been in here cleaning out the place before Danson hit the ground. I'd say we can remove robbery as a motive,” Rhona responded.

They did a walk-through.

Ian opened the door of the second bedroom. “Fuck,” he said.

Rhona peered into the room. “Jesus, I'm not admitting to anyone that we never asked if Danson lived alone. What the hell were we thinking? No wonder the DNA doesn't match.”

“Well, his sister never mentioned anyone, and initially we didn't seriously think her brother might be the murdered man, did we?” Ian responded.

They looked at one another. Without a word being said, Rhona knew neither one would admit they'd missed asking the right questions.

“His sister was right, wasn't she? She'll be a happy camper, even if she doesn't know where he is,” Ian said.

“Maybe, maybe not. Since the DNA originated here, maybe we can assume it belonged to this other guy, whoever he is. If he's dead and Danson's disappeared, where does that lead us?”

“With Danson in the frame as the killer?”

“Certainly a possibility. Let's find out who the other guy is.”

“One second.” Ian flipped up his hand, palm towards Rhona. “This is my first case in homicide. We have Candace's permission to search for info about Danson, but not about this guy. Is that okay?”

“A technicality. She gave us the keys.”

“As long as we aren't compromising evidence,” Ian said. “I've had enough experience, and so have you to know how important it is to go by the book when collecting evidence.”

“Right now we're not after evidence, we're trying to identify the second man and see what connection he has to Danson. All straightforward and above board.” Rhona raised her shoulders and spread her hands. “We don't even know if whoever lives in this room is a guy.”

Ian opened the cupboard door and waved an arm at the contents. “Unless it's a cross-dressing woman, I think we can assume it's a male?” He left the door ajar and swung back to face Rhona. “I don't want to be a pain in the ass about this but hasn't the situation changed? Now that we know about Mr. X and can presume the DNA is his, shouldn't we get a warrant to search? His sister did provide the keys hoping we'd locate her brother. Now he's a ‘person of interest'.”

“Exactly right. We're even more anxious about finding him. In order to do that, we need to know all about his life,” Rhona said. Was Ian going to be a nit-picker, a do-it-by-the-book kind of guy? It would be understandable—he didn't want to blot his copy book on his first case, but it would be tiresome.

Ian shifted from one foot to the other. “I'm not sure you're right. But if we do turn up something incriminating, we are out of here and back with a warrant.” Ian's tone of voice told her there would be no question about this.

Moving away from the cupboard, Ian plucked the shaving kit from the bureau. He rifled through the contents. “Take a gander.” He held up drug paraphernalia. “Maybe it's the lead we're looking for. The identified dead men had a connection to the drug trade, didn't they?”