Grave Situation (13 page)

When Allan went back to his office
with the file, he spread out the contents of it on his desk. The
report revealed Trixy Ambré was last seen leaving her apartment on
Brewer Street at approximately 10:30 p.m. The probable cause of her
disappearance was unknown. She had no previous history of missing
before. A dental chart was unavailable. She had no acknowledged
disability or dependency. She was known to Vice as a prostitute who
had been arrested twice in the past year. At any rate, Trixy Ambré
did not seem to have a reason to disappear.

Vice had already made visits to the
local hospitals, the train station and the airport. No one had seen
her.

The supplementary report listed
blood types. All were circled unknown.

Allan picked up the accompanying
photo. It showed a young woman with a pale, unblemished complexion,
not covered by makeup. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail. Her
level blue eyes conveyed a somewhat serious look.

Pretty,
Allan concluded.

He turned back to the main page of
the report. The person who had reported Trixy missing was Cathy
Ambré. It was then he noticed the two women lived at the same
address.

After gathering up the file, he
left the office for his car.

16

Halifax, May 9

8:05 p.m.

Allan drove through a low-rent
neighborhood in the north end of the city. Coasting slowly down the
street, he passed a rundown convenience store with lottery signs
covering the windows. Three kids on bikes loitered on the sidewalk
outside the entrance. Further on, he came upon a row of old brick
apartment buildings. The first one was a condemned shell, gutted by
a fire late last fall. Sheets of plywood still covered the windows
and main door. Black soot marred the brick. A heavy load of
winter’s snow had left a sag in the roof.

Like much of the neighborhood, city
officials seemed to have forgotten about the building. No order had
been issued for its demolition.

Two buildings up the street Allan
found the one he was looking for. The dwelling bore its age, with
no attempt at upkeep over the years. Its brick facade was blackened
by weather and time. Below the overhanging branch of an elm tree
ran a patch of moss down one side. Wrought-iron bars covered the
windows of the basement and first floor.

Allan pulled his car to the curb,
shut off the engine, and got out.

Five cement steps lead him to a
glass door. He opened the door and entered the building. From all
appearances the inside reflected as much neglect as the outside.
Graffiti defaced the walls. There were holes in the plaster the
size of fists. The carpet was stained and smelled musky. The
floorboards creaked underneath his step.

Doors ran down both sides of the
hallway. In front of him a stairwell rose to the second floor.
Grabbing hold of a flimsy banister, he climbed two steps and then
stopped. He had seen much poverty in his life, conditions in which
no one should have to live. In recent years, the disparity between
the rich and poor seemed to be escalating. Yet despite the
privation here, there was one small sign of a fight for human
dignity in the face of such hardship—a child’s red tricycle sitting
above him on the landing.

Cathy Ambré’s apartment was the
last door on the right. Allan knocked softly. There was silence.
Then came the sound of movement inside. The door cracked open to
the length of a safety chain. The woman who peeked out had black
curly hair and green eyes. She was wearing a red blouse and black
slacks.

“Miss Cathy Ambré?”

The woman’s lips parted.
“Yes?”

“I’m Lieutenant Allan Stanton with
the Halifax Regional Police Major Crimes Unit.” He flashed his
badge and ID card. “Earlier this afternoon you came down and filed
a missing persons report about your sister, Trixy
Ambré?”

Cathy swallowed.
Her wary eyes moved to his badge, to the folder in his other hand
and then back to his face. For a moment, she was silent. When she
spoke again, her voice was cautious. “Yes, I did. It’s not
bad
news, is
it?”

“No. I’d like to ask you a few
questions, if I may.”

Cathy hesitated for a moment, as if
reluctant to let him in.

“Okay,” she said
finally.

Gently, she shut the door. There
was the sound of a chain sliding across a latch. When the door
opened again, Cathy drew aside.

“Come in.”

The apartment was small. The
furnishings were spare, undistinguished. To his left, Allan saw a
small, square living room. Inside sat a gray sofa with worn arms. A
glass-top coffee table and a twenty-inch television were perched on
a wooden stand in the corner. The single window faced Brewer
Street. There still remained enough of the setting sun to brighten
the room inside.

Opposite the living room was the
kitchen. An old electric stove. A table with two place settings.
Here and there, pieces of linoleum had peeled off the floor. The
sink was empty, the counter-top wiped cleaned. Despite the
condition of the building, the apartment was well kept.

In front of Allan was a hallway
that led into three other rooms. Two bedrooms and a
bath.

When he turned to Cathy he saw that
she still held the door open.

There was something unhealthy about
her, he observed. Skin too pale. Dark smudges under her eyes. Body
wire-thin, almost anorexic. Posture slightly stooped, as if she
were suffering from osteoporosis. The most striking feature about
her was the staring look of her eyes.

Allan paused as he noticed the
raised scars in the crooks of her arms. Inwardly, he
winced.

Needle tracks. Such a
waste.

He studied her some more and
couldn’t see any signs that she was under the influence of drugs at
that moment. Her pupils were not constricted. Her speech, though
soft, was clear, not slurred.

“This will take a few minutes,
Miss Ambré,” Allan told her. “You can shut the door.”

She did so. Slowly, she shuffled
toward him with eyes downcast. The frequent kneading of her blouse
revealed her uneasiness. There was a frailty to her steps, Allan
noticed.

Concerned, he asked, “Are you
feeling well?”

She looked up. “I’ve been sick. But
I’m getting better.”

“Maybe we should sit down.” He
gestured to the living room.

They walked to the sofa and sat.
Allan placed the folder on the coffee table and opened it. He read
over the missing person’s report again. Beside him, Cathy was
quiet, watchful.

Attached to the report was the
color picture of Trixy Ambré. Allan held it up.

“How recent is this?” he
asked.

Cathy made no attempt to touch the
picture. “I took that at the first of the year.”

“We have your sister on file. She
was brought in a couple of times for prostitution.”

A new tone entered Cathy’s voice,
one bordering on accusatory. “So you’ll treat Trixy’s disappearance
in some cavalier fashion because to you she’s just a
hooker?”

Allan paused a moment, taken aback.
“We don’t discriminate, Miss Ambré. Your sister’s profession can
put her into precarious situations. I’ve come to you to see what
her demeanor was before she disappeared. Perhaps she is missing on
her own accord.”

Cathy gave him a look of
incredulity. “I can’t see Trixy doing something like
that.”

“What was her frame of mind when
you last saw her? Was she acting differently?”

“Differently?”

“Secretive or preoccupied about
something?”

“No.”

“Was she complaining of anything
the last while?”

“No.”

“What did the two of you talk
about?”

Cathy hesitated. “Nothing much. We
were supposed to go out for dinner Monday afternoon.”

“Tell me about the last moments
you saw Trixy…”

17

Halifax, May 8

10:05 p.m.

The hallway was dark. There was a
crack of light under the bathroom door. On the other side of it,
Cathy knew her sister was getting ready for work.

Cathy knocked once and then opened
the door. Trixy stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully
applying mascara to enhance the blueness of her eyes. Fresh out of
the shower, she wore a pink terrycloth robe. Her hair hung in wet
strands.

From the doorway, Cathy watched
her.

“When will you be home tonight?”
she asked.

“The usual.” Trixy didn’t turn.
“Probably daybreak. Depends on how much business I pick up.” She
capped the mascara and set it on the sink. “You need to get your
rest. Remember what the doctor told you.”

Cathy was quiet for a time, feeling
the truth of this. Since her release from the hospital, it had been
a difficult battle to regain her strength.

“I’ll be all right,” she said at
last.

Trixy gave her a sideways glance
with a questioning look in her eyes. “Will you? You owe me lil’
sis. You put me through hell. I thought I’d lost you.”

Torn, Cathy’s gaze fell to the
floor. She became quiet again. Trixy moved forward and touched her
arm.

“I just want you to get better,”
she whispered.

Cathy felt her stomach tighten. She
could see the worry in Trixy’s eyes. By reflex she mustered a
tentative smile.

So many
things,
she thought,
I can’t tell you.

Her own sense of betrayal made her
sick inside. Trixy remained the only person in the world who seemed
to have any faith in her.

“I’ll get better,” Cathy said
softly. “It’s going to take some time. I realize that.”

Trixy tilted her head, studying
her. A faint smile formed on her lips.

“I know you will,” she
said.

After brushing past, Trixy
retreated to her bedroom to get dressed. For a moment, Cathy stood
where she was, alone with her thoughts.

Was Trixy losing
confidence in her?
Her sister’s tone and
expression certainly suggested it.

Cathy drifted to her own bedroom
where she laid on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling in
the dark. In the other room, she could hear Trixy rummaging through
dresser drawers.

How did I reach
this point in my life?
Cathy
mused.

Twenty-three years old. Less than
two years earlier she had been a clear-eyed student in university
looking forward to her degree and the prospect of better things.
Now her future seemed to be a void, empty of hope. Before the
mishap, she made beds and cleaned bathrooms in a dingy motel for
minimum wage. Not even enough to keep herself. Then one
incalculable mistake changed everything.

Cathy shut her eyes. She could
rebuild her life. Somehow go after her degree again. Somehow regain
her life.

There were footsteps in the hall.
As Cathy started to get up, Trixy appeared in the doorway. She wore
a red leather jacket and black mini-skirt. She held a red
purse.

The time was 10:26.

“I’m leaving now,” she
said.

Cathy followed her to the door,
waited there as Trixy slipped on red stilettos.

“Be careful.”

Trixy flashed a white smile, a
gesture of assurance. “I always am.”

Outside came the toot of a
horn.

The two women turned their heads
toward the sound.

“My ride’s here.” Trixy gave her
sister a fleeting peck on the cheek. “See you in the
morning.”

With that, she was gone.

Cathy locked the door behind her.
She shut out all the lights, and went to the window in the living
room and watched her sister climb into a yellow cab. As Trixy
closed the door, her face appeared in the side window. Her hand
lifted in a wave just before the cab pulled away from the
curb.

Cathy couldn’t have known that
would be the last image she would have of her sister.

She retired to her bedroom, and for
what seemed like hours, lay awake in the darkness. Lately, many of
her nights were spent like this, protracted by broken
sleep.

She sat up and turned on a bedside
lamp. It was now 12:47 am. Cathy slid open the top drawer of the
nightstand. Inside were a pen and a diary with a locking clasp. On
the diary’s front cover was a sunflower painting by Vincent Van
Gogh. It had been a gift from her parents last Christmas. Everyday
afterwards, she had scribbled in entries ranging from the periods
of mundane doldrums in her life, to the most intimate depths of her
thoughts and desires.

Somewhere during her move to
Trixy’s, Cathy had lost the keys. She had to constantly remind
herself not to lock the diary.