Cut to the Chase (3 page)

“Grilled cheese sandwiches, carrot sticks, applesauce and tea okay?” Candace asked. She cut bread into strips and handed them to the child, who abandoned her spoon to scoop them up with pudgy fingers. “I've pretty much given up gourmet delights for the duration. I did try her with smoked salmon and capers, both of which she adored, and sushi, which she didn't. Probably just as well. If the experts suggest pregnant women give up sushi, I'm sure children should avoid it too.” She was babbling.

“Anything I don't prepare for myself is wonderful.” Hollis munched a carrot stick and watched Elizabeth mash the bread on the tray before she dropped it to MacTee, who snatched it in midair.

“That should keep her entertained if not well-nourished,” Candace said. Candace's cell phone shrilled as she motioned for Hollis to sit at the table.

After she flipped it open and said hello, a range of emotions that Hollis identified as relief, anticipation and anger sped across Candace's face. “No, this is not a good time to call. I don't give to charities that phone.” She clicked the phone shut. “Damn. I hoped it would be Danson.”

“I thought about Danson. I remember his intensity when he talked about lacrosse. You said he had other passions—what's he doing that worries you so much?”

Candace gave Elizabeth a bowl with raisins and chopped apricots along with more cutup bread before she spoke. “You're right. Danson reacts with passion when he loves or hates something. Even as a little boy, he fixated on issues, particularly injustices, and always wanted to take corrective actions.” She grimaced. “You may think it's weird that he's an adult, and we're so close. But there's a reason—I feel responsible for him.”

Responsible—an odd word to use to describe a relationship with a functioning adult man. “Why is that?”

“I'm more like his mother than his sister. Poppy isn't maternal. I'm glad she had us, but given her personality, it surprises me that she did. I'd say she's never visualized herself in a traditional mother role. One small example—from the get-go, she insisted we call her Poppy. She's never married, never lived with a man.”

Speaking of men, there were no signs of one in Candace's apartment, nor had Hollis ever heard Candace mention Elizabeth's father. Maybe single parenting was genetic, or maybe, if that's what your mother did, it was what you did. Interesting idea. Not that she could ask. That sort of information had to be volunteered.

“Poppy always provided for us, by hook or by crook.” Candace frowned. “I'm not sure she always draws the line between the two and, however politely I inquire, she won't discuss her financial affairs. Anyway, that's beside the point. The day she and Danson came home from the hospital, she passed him to me.” She paused, widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows. “I was seven.”

“You cared for him by yourself?” Where had the social service agencies been?

“Not exactly. To give you the background, Poppy was fifteen when I was born. My grandparents opposed her decision to keep me. When she insisted, they decided they didn't want her living with them or even staying in the same community. Unwed mothers weren't part of their world.” Her lips drew down. “I never got to meet them. They died when I was five, and unfortunately Poppy hadn't reconciled with them. To give them their due, they weren't prepared to allow Poppy and me to suffer real hardship. They paid Adele, a housekeeper who'd worked for the family, to step into the breach and care for me while Poppy finished school.”

“Times were different then,” Hollis said. How would her mother have dealt with a similar situation? She felt sure her mother would have chosen abortion. It said something for Poppy that she'd made a decision that was long-term, life altering and took strength, particularly if you weren't a maternal sort of person.

“To continue my story, seven years later, when Poppy became pregnant again, she persuaded Adele to return. By then, the woman was over eighty and couldn't lift or bend. I did those jobs.”

“You must have been a responsible kid.”

Candace pursed her lips. “I would have preferred to have been just a kid, but I didn't have a choice. Anyway, now you know why I think of Danson as my baby. As for his personality—from day one he was a crusader. Always on the side of the underdog. In the Middle Ages, he would have galloped off to battle the Infidels.”

“We need those passionate people, or society would never change.”

“I wish Danson wasn't one of them.” Candace's lips tightened. “Oh, God, if only Danson was an ordinary guy.”

“Danson coming?” Elizabeth said. She smiled at Hollis and repeated, “Danson coming,” hopefully.

“No sweetie, not now.” Candace teared and gulped. “Maybe soon. Eat your raisins.”

Elizabeth's smile disappeared, but she obediently bent to her time-consuming task, picking up raisins one by one.

“Tell me about his passions, the ones you think are dangerous.”

“Give me a minute,” Candace said, struggling to maintain her composure. Once she'd taken several deep breaths, she continued. “Let me set the scene. One Saturday evening three years ago when Danson and Angie Napier, the love of his life, were sitting in an outdoor café on the Danforth planning their wedding, Angie was killed when she was caught in the crossfire between two gangs. Later, Danson discovered Angie's killer had been convicted of another crime, deported, returned and, within months, killed Angie.”

“How could that happen?”

“We deport criminals to their home countries after they serve minimum time in our prisons. They reenter Canada with phony passports. They're mostly men, and frequently they commit more crimes. Our immigration officers don't do a great job.”

“How does that connect to Danson?”

“Since that terrible Saturday, he's waged his own crusade. He track downs the men or women who've been convicted, deported and slithered back into Canada.”

“Are there many?”

“The numbers would horrify you.”

“How does he locate them?”

Candace toyed with the knife with which she'd cut up the bread. “I haven't asked many questions. The more I know, the more I worry, and I do enough of that. I gather it's mostly through the street grapevine. That's why he works as a bouncer; he gets to know people and hears things.”

“You said passions. That's plural. What else?”

“I think it's because of Angie that he worries about us and does his best to keep us safe. He goes to great lengths to make sure we aren't connected to his tracking activities.”

“All done, all done,” Elizabeth squawked. “Down, get down.”

Candace sighed. “Conversations with kids around are fragmentary at best. Sometimes I think it's a recipe for early Alzheimer's.” She tapped the toes of Elizabeth's sneakers. “I have to buy shoes for her today. Her daycare sent a note home last week saying she needed bigger ones, but I haven't had time.” She attempted a smile. “I don't want them to set the shoe police on me.” She unlatched the high chair's tray with one hand, clutched Elizabeth and eased her to the floor.

“I understand. When you have a full-time job, you do your shopping when you can.”

The stress lines around Candace's mouth relaxed slightly, and she smiled fondly at Elizabeth. “Elizabeth has extra-wide feet. Finding the right ones will be difficult.”

Elizabeth studied her feet and lifted one for Hollis to inspect. “New shoes. Lizabet get new shoes.”

Despite the tension in the room, it enchanted Hollis to hear the toddler refer to herself in the third person.

Candace brushed the crumbs from Elizabeth's jeans before raising her gaze. “With every passing moment, I'm more fearful. You can't imagine the physical effect it's having on me.”

“I don't understand what it is that you fear,” Hollis said.

“I'm afraid something terrible has happened to him. I'm scared to death.” While Candace talked, she repeatedly snapped the cell phone open and shut.

“I don't get it. Exactly what do you think might have happened to him?”

Candace closed her eyes for a moment as though trying to block out something she didn't want to face. “I don't even want to admit I'm thinking this,” she said, then stopped and took a deep breath. Finally her gaze met Hollis's. “It's the unidentified murdered man they're talking about in the news. I keep thinking, ‘what if it's Danson?'”

H
ollis
recalled the article she'd been reading when Candace had come outside. It had speculated that a mutilated and unidentified man's murder might have been connected to the five male drug addicts who'd been killed in the last months. She shivered. It was a terrible idea, but she understood why Candace thought Danson's obsession with tracking could have drawn him to the attention of the wrong people. He could be the unidentified man.

Time to deal with practicalities. “Exactly when did you last talk to him?”

“Sunday night, October 15. Almost two weeks ago. The day after the four of us had lunch in the garden. He doesn't work Sundays, and he always calls, even if he's talked to me the day before.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Said he was onto something—that he was closing in. Lot of excitement in his voice.” Candace shook her head. “That's what's frightening me.”

“Closing in on what?”

“I don't know.” Candace took a deep breath. “What I'm about to ask is really off the wall. It's a huge imposition. I apologize, but I don't know where else to turn.” Hollis suspected she knew what was coming. “Would you help me track him down?”

Candace hurried on before Hollis could respond. “You can say no, and I'll understand, and we'll still be friends. But you do have experience. You have helped solve two murders.” She placed her hands palm to palm in the classic prayer pose. “I'm praying that you won't refuse.”

Hollis, who was holding her sandwich halfway to her mouth, lowered it to the plate. Finding missing persons—that's what private investigators did. Not amateurs. On the other hand, Candace was right. If she wrote a comprehensive resume, it would say, “amateur sleuth who assisted in solving two murders”. Most women didn't possess that skill set.

Candace needed her. Thinking selfishly, focusing on Danson's disappearance would allow her subconscious to work out her painting block. Moreover, concentrating on someone else's problem might stave off the black dogs.

“Where do we start?” Hollis said.

Candace clapped her hands. “Thank you, thank you.” Relief filled her eyes.

Hollis had felt like that when a plane she'd been on had managed to land safely after its landing gear failed to lock into place. Feelings of absolute relief and profound gratitude along with a determination never to take life for granted.

“What does Danson do when he fingers these criminals?” Hollis said.

“Thank god he's smart enough not to play superhero. He reports them to the appropriate authorities. Twice, when nothing happened, he contacted the Star, and it did an exposé.”

“Are many people aware that he does this?”

“I hope there isn't a single person, but I suspect many people know. That's one reason I'm worried.” Candace hesitated and, glanced at Elizabeth as if seeking confirmation that what she was about to say was important. “Since he left, I've had calls asking for him. When I say he doesn't live here, the callers—there are different ones—hang up without identifying themselves. It's frightening me.”

“Do you ask who they are?”

“Yes, they won't say.” She shuddered. “Then there are the calls where someone breathes heavily—I've had those too. I'm convinced they aren't random, that someone wants to scare me, to stop me from searching for my brother.” Again her gaze focused on the toddler. “I'm afraid for Elizabeth. Her daycare is secure, but I've warned them to be extra careful, not to allow her to leave with anyone but me.”

If there had been more calls, and they did relate to Danson's disappearance, it was another reason to worry and to take the problem seriously. “Is it happening more often than usual?”

“Maybe I'm exaggerating the number, but it has been happening. The breathers upset me the most.”

“Creepy. Have you reported them to the police or thought about getting an unlisted number?”

“I have, but what about Danson? What if he needs help, and when he calls the number, is no longer in service? No, I couldn't do that.”

“Would your mother know where he is or what he's doing?”

“Poppy!” Candace's eyebrows rose. “As I said, Poppy lacks the maternal gene and the ‘worry' gene. She figures things will work out, and for her they usually do. Right now it's even more unlikely that she knows anything or has talked to Danson about anything serious.”

“Why is that?”

“Something's preoccupying her or maybe them. Alberto, an Argentinean, is Poppy's business partner. I'm sure he'd like to be more than that, but Poppy has had a long-term relationship with someone. We've never met him, and she's been careful not to mention his name. Recently I've had the sense that something has happened to him or to their relationship, because she's seemed sad. From a lifetime of experience, I can tell you Poppy doesn't spill the beans until she's good and ready. Worrying about Danson isn't on her agenda at the moment. When I tried to talk to her about him, she fluttered her hands dismissively and said, ‘Danson will be fine.'” She paused. “Families. Always something.”

“I only have my mother, who's an accountant determined to save the environment. She's in Halifax. Although we talk once a week, if she isn't off on an ecological tour, it's a tenuous connection. She's obsessive about her causes and isn't interested in my life. I'd give anything to have a close family. I envy you.”