Grave Situation (17 page)

123 – No answer on second
visit.

130 –
“Heard it was over drugs.”

“From whom?”

“No one. Just heard it.

“Did you know the
victim?”

“No.”

“Were you on the crime scene on
the morning in question?”

“No. Why all the questions? I have
nothing to hide.”

137 – No answer on second
visit.

145 –
“Never even knew there was a murder down
there.”

“It’s all over the
news.”

“Don’t watch or listen to the
news. Too depressing.”

154 –
“Heard about it on the radio. That would explain
all the roadblocks. I was nearly late for
church.”

Through his years on the force,
Allan learned that many people were reluctant giving information to
the police. Either they were afraid for their own safety if they
ratted on someone, they didn’t want to make a court appearance, or
they simply didn’t want to get involved.

Nobody out at the bars was talking
either.

Allan had spent the remainder of
his day talking to friends and relatives of Brad Hawkins. Listening
to their stories, Allan felt the loss of a young man he had never
known. But soon he would know every intrinsic part of his
life.

His parents couldn’t be reached.
Allan decided to leave them with their grief.

Now, as he drove home, he felt
exhausted and frustrated.

The night sky was swathed with
black clouds. The air was damp, but fresh and fragrant with the
smell of spring flowers in bloom.

When he got home, he went right
upstairs, locked his handgun in its case, and crawled into
bed.

He didn’t know how long he had
slept when the telephone woke him up. Groggy, he looked over at the
clock on the night table. Red numbers glowed in the dark: 12:18. He
reached out and snapped on the bedside lamp. Then he picked up the
phone.

“Lieutenant Stanton?” The female
voice sounded swollen with emotion.

It took Allan a moment before he
realized who the person was on the other end.

“Miss Ambré?” He propped himself
up on one elbow, suddenly piqued with curiosity.

“You told me to call you anytime.”
There was a brief pause. “I know it’s late. I hope I didn’t wake up
your family.”

Somehow, her last phrase struck a
deep chord within Allan. Once more, the quiet of the house, the
emptiness in the bed brought back that familiar ache of
loneliness.

Closing his eyes,
he said softly, “Don’t worry about it. How are
you
holding up?”

He heard the soft intake of breath.
For another moment, Cathy didn’t respond.

“Not well at all,” she choked.
“I’m having trouble sleeping, trouble eating. I know something bad
happened to Trixy. It’s not like her to go off somewhere and not
contact me.”

Allan paused as he imagined Cathy
teetering on the edge of emotional collapse. To him, one of the
worst tragedies was losing a loved one without ever knowing that
person’s fate. The seesaw of hope and grief brought on by such
events do terrible things to a person. One moment, mourning the
loss. The next, hoping the person will come home safe. Sleep can be
haunted by nightmares of the loved one being killed or tortured or
held captive in some inhumane way. Endless nights can be spent
staring out a window, waiting for that person to finally come home.
The ring of a telephone or a knock at the door can start the heart
racing. After a time, any news, good or bad, becomes
welcome.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said
finally. “We’re doing everything we can on our end.”

“Have you checked to see if her
cell phone’s been used?”

“Your sister’s phone hasn’t been
used since her disappearance. They also couldn’t ping
it.”

“So they can’t locate it. How is
that possible?”

“The battery could’ve died. It
could be something as simple as that.” Allan expelled a short
breath. “Grief is a natural reaction to a case like this, Miss
Ambré. I know this is a traumatic time for you. But you need to
hang in there. Have some faith.”

It was strange, he reflected, to
tell this woman to keep her hopes alive when his own had already
faded.

Voice piping, Cathy said, “I don’t
think I can make it through this.”

“Yes, you can.” Allan sat up now,
back against the headboard. “Maybe you should surround yourself
with a support group. Friends or even your family. It’s hard facing
this alone.”

Another pause. “It seems I’ve
always been alone. Sorry to have bothered you.”

Allan heard the dispirited
undertone in Cathy’s voice, followed by muffled crying. Before he
could reply, the connection suddenly broke with a click. The dead
air became a dial tone in his ear.

It was a moment before he replaced
the handset.

He shut out the light and rolled
over on his side, gazing around the dark room. A breeze drifted
through the open window, stirring the curtains. From his bed, Allan
felt the coolness reach his face. The streetlights outside brought
life to the branches of the elm tree on the front lawn and the
shadows they cast on the floor were long and finger-like. Except
for the soft patter of rain on the window, the bedroom was
quiet.

Allan drew a deep breath and
released it slowly, closed his eyes and opened them again. He
turned over to his back, his mind echoing Cathy Ambré’s desperate
words.

“I don’t think I can make it
through this.”

Allan shut his eyes
again.

You can’t get
involved,
he told
himself.

Despite this, he rose off the bed.
Head down, hands on his hips, he paused at the closet
door.

“It seems I’ve always been
alone.”

Allan opened the door and pulled
out a shirt along with a pair of pants. After he dressed, he went
downstairs. Then, deserting all of his better judgment, he grabbed
his keys from the kitchen counter and walked out the
door.

The rain had diminished to a fine
mist. Walking to his car, the squeak of his footsteps on the wet
pavement seemed unusually loud.

The drive to Cathy Ambré’s
apartment filled Allan with indecision. He just didn’t feel right
about going there. What would he say? How could he justify showing
up at a stranger’s home at such a late hour? Why was he really
going in the first place? Genuinely concerned about Cathy’s well
being? Or perhaps the ruse of a lonely man wanting to fill a void
in his own life?

As he reached the apartment
building, he considered turning his car around. Few tenants, he
saw, were still up. Only two windows flickered with light. Neither
belonged to Cathy.

Slowly, he stepped from his car and
went inside the building. Beyond the door by the stairwell came the
hollow voices from a television. Allan imagined a couple cuddled on
the sofa watching a late-night movie.

He went upstairs and knocked softly
on Cathy’s door. Waited. No answer. He leaned his ear to the door,
heard nothing stir inside. Perhaps she had taken his advice and
went to a friend’s house. It seemed too soon after their
conversation for her to be in bed asleep.

He knocked again. Still no
answer.

In a hushed voice, he called out,
“Miss Ambré, it’s Lieutenant Stanton. If you’re in there, will you
open up please?”

He waited a moment longer before he
turned away and left. Back in his car, he looked up at Cathy’s dark
window. Through its slick glass he could see drawn
blinds.

Allan opened the glove box and took
out a pen and notebook. Then he wrote:

Hi Cathy,

I know the hour is late, but after
your call, I got worried about you. I stopped by in case you were
in need of a friend. Call me anytime. Hope you’re OK.

Lieutenant Allan Stanton

He tore out the page, took it
inside the building and slid it under Cathy’s door. Back in his
car, Allan switched on the ignition. The digital numbers that lit
up in the dash read 1:17 a.m.

He let out a long sigh.

Will I get back to sleep
tonight?

22

Halifax, May 11

1:20 a.m.

The taxicab pulled up to the curb
in front of a red brick Colonial. From the back seat Cathy Ambré
looked out the window. The neighborhood was an affluent suburb. Its
street was awash with fancy homes, square hedges and freshly
manicured lawns. Some of the homes bloomed with light. Others, dark
and quiet, bespoke the late-night hour.

“Wait here,” she told the driver.
“I’ll be right back.”

She opened the door and stepped
outside. Torn by uncertainty, she paused, looking over the roof of
the car at the house. Her instructions were firm and
uncompromising. Her home phone must never be used when calling. No
one must know of this visit or this location. She must go to the
back door. She must be alone.

With faltering steps, she walked
through the cool mist. She didn’t feel right coming
here.

An outside light was already on.
She rang the bell and became aware that she was trembling. In the
kitchen window someone drew aside the curtain. When it closed there
came the rattle of a safety chain and then the door
opened.

The man who answered looked younger
than his age. He was gimlet-eyed with swept-back blond hair. In the
glow of the overhead light, his face seemed bloodless. He wore a
blue tracksuit with no socks.

His tone was unwelcoming. “You know
I don’t like people showing up at my house.” He looked past her,
checking the back yard. “It can rouse suspicion.”

Through her nervousness Cathy
swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft, brittle. “I’m
desperate. And I didn’t know where else I could turn.”

The man gave her a droll look. Hand
on the door, he regarded her with something like disgust. There was
an air of haughtiness about him. Whenever she was in his presence,
she always felt worthless, uncomfortable.

“I haven’t seen you in a few
weeks,” he continued. “Thought you found someone else.”

Almost inaudibly, she answered,
“No.”

The man gave her a querying glance,
but didn’t press the issue. He turned and walked to the kitchen
cabinets. Watching him, Cathy braced herself. When he came back,
she saw a small, clear reclosable bag in his hand. Inside was a
clump of dirty powder.

“Is that from the same batch your
boy sold me a few weeks ago?” she asked.

“The very same.”

As she stared at the bag, she felt
herself turn to lead. Like a flash point, the sudden image of a
doctor dressed in a white lab coat sparked in her mind. He looked
to be perhaps sixty with gray hair, translucent blue eyes and an
amiable face. Standing at her bedside, he folded his arms. The thin
stretch of his lips lent a suggestion of fatherly patience
bordering on disappointment.

“Toxicology results came back
positive for a mix of morphine and cocaine in your blood,” he
explained. “I suspect the discovery of the morphine might be
misleading. Were you speedballing with cocaine and
heroin?”

“Heroin, yes,”
she said. “But not
cocaine.
”

The doctor came closer, resting a
hand on the sheet next to her. “The toxic level of the cocaine was
dangerously high. We attribute the cause of your heart attack to
that.”

This confused Cathy. Weary, she
tried to pull her thoughts together. She turned her head on the
pillow, replaying the last moments in her memory. The street dealer
had given no indication the heroin was cut with another drug. He
told her the purity of the grade was high, to be careful with
it.

Ashamed to face the doctor, she
whispered, “I didn’t know.”

“I suggest you
not try it again,” he said. “You’re
lucky
to be alive. That might not be
the case next time. Your heart simply won’t take
it.”

“Do you want this or
not?”

Startled from thought, Cathy
blinked. The man in the doorway was holding out the bag, eyes
narrowing. She swallowed and reached into the pocket of her jeans,
withdrawing a small wad of bills. After counting them, she gave the
man some money. With awkward fingers, she took the bag from
him.

“I have some premium grade coming
in from South America next week,” he said. “Even of higher purity
than this. You’ll have to take small doses. Call one of my boys
from a pay phone. They can set up a meet.”

Cathy could only nod. With some
reluctance, she looked into the man’s face one last
time.