Turning Secrets

by Brenda Chapman

  CHAPTER TEN

  Woodhouse knocked on the door across the hall from Nadia Armstrong’s apartment. He was positive that he’d heard noises coming from inside, but nobody was answering. He knocked again, harder this time, with the side of his fist. “C’mon. Open up.”

  The dead girl’s apartment was getting the full forensics treatment, every fingerprint, electronic device, and scrap of paper being bagged and accounted for. Woodhouse hadn’t gone inside yet, but he would once Forensics left. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled around to face some overgrown boy-man staring at him with his mouth half-open. “How the hell did you get on this floor?” Woodhouse asked.

  “I work here. I’m the super.”

  “Name?”

  “Jeff Simmons. My brother Murray owns the building.”

  “Has anyone interviewed you, Jeff?”

  “No. I got here late today. I had a dentist appointment.”

  “So, you don’t live on the premises?”

  “You mean here?”

  “That’s what ‘the premises’ means, doesn’t it?”

  “I have a room I sleep in sometimes, in the basement. Usually I stay with my mother. I slept at her place last night.”

  Woodhouse saw Gundersund talking to another cop inside the Armstrong apartment. He wasn’t going to be scooped this time. He grabbed Jeff Simmons by the arm. “Let’s go check out your basement pad, shall we? Then you can tell me everything you know about Nadia Armstrong, the woman who lived in that apartment.” If he saw anything suspicious in the basement, he’d get a warrant for a thorough search.

  “My brother Murray is coming. I phoned him.”

  “Perfect. We’ll wait for him near the entrance after I see the basement.”

  Woodhouse let Jeff lead the way through the exit door and down the concrete stairs. The garage was through another exit door. Jeff used a key from his ring to open a metal door to the left of it. They entered a furnace room lit by an overhead bulb. Tucked behind the large furnace against the back wall was a cot with a ratty-looking wool blanket draped over the end. An iPad, a flashlight, a package of Smarties, a selection of chocolate bars, and a bottle of water all sat on an upended crate next to the cot. Woodhouse did a quick search, making sure nothing was hidden in any cobwebby nooks or crannies. Jeff stood stock-still behind him the entire time. The place smelled like a boys’ locker room marinating in machine oil: hot, greasy, and suffocating. Woodhouse would have liked to have found something he could tie to the girl’s murder, but unless Jeff had put her into a diabetic coma with all the candy he had lying around, Woodhouse had nothing.

  “We’ll wait for your brother in the lobby,” he said, motioning toward the door while loosening his collar. Jeff speared him with an accusing stare but said nothing. In the stairwell, Woodhouse sucked in dry, stale air that was a hell of a ways better than what he’d had to breathe in the furnace room.

  They took the two visitor chairs in the small space, positioned across from the elevator so that everybody entering the building would have to walk past them. Woodhouse tried to figure out what the story was with Jeff Simmons.

  “How long you worked in this building?”

  Jeff didn’t react to the question until Woodhouse repeated it more loudly. He kept his face turned toward the elevator as he answered. “Three months and twenty-four days.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  “I lived in Nebraska with my other brother, Lenny.”

  “What did you do in Nebraska?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I can’t believe you did nothing. How long were you living there?”

  “One year, eight months, and four days.”

  Woodhouse stared at Jeff’s profile. The guy was a mouth-breather and apparently not very bright. He pulled out his notebook. “Where does your mother live?”

  “1365 McDonald Avenue.”

  “Her name?”

  “Edna Simmons.”

  “What can you tell me about Nadia Armstrong?”

  “She lived in 302. She moved in six months and three days ago. She has a baby. Eight months, six days old.”

  “You got a thing for numbers, bud?”

  Jeff turned his odd grey eyes Woodhouse’s way. “Numbers don’t lie.”

  “Did you ever talk to her? Nadia?”

  “She wanted me to fix her tap in the kitchen. I did, last week at 3:23 p.m. It took forty-two minutes. I have it in my log.”

  “And aside from that?”

  “I said hello when I saw her in the lobby.” He seemed to think of something that scared him. “I never went into her apartment when she wasn’t home, except with Teagan McPherson in 201 to get diapers.”

  “When was that?”

  “Thursday afternoon at 2:15 p.m. We made sure she wasn’t there and Teagan got what she needed for the baby. That’s all we took.”

  The front door opened and Jeff jumped up, looking as if he’d just been let out of school. “There’s my brother Murray. You can talk to him.”

  The man walking toward them crackled with energy. He was wiry and bald, with the same grey eyes as his brother, except his had the sharpness that Jeff’s lacked. He sized up Woodhouse and Jeff quickly, then he moved between the two of them.

  “What’s going on, Jeff?” he asked, keeping his stare fixed on Woodhouse.

  “I’m Officer Woodhouse. We’re here investigating the death of Nadia Armstrong, who lived on the third floor. You own this building?”

  Murray’s stare shifted sideways to his brother. “Why didn’t you tell me about the police when you called?”

  “They weren’t here yet.”

  “Was she killed in her apartment?” Murray asked Woodhouse.

  “No.”

  “Thank Christ for that.”

  “Did you know her, Murray?”

  “Yeah, I knew her. I rented the apartment to Nadia and collected the rent.”

  “She paid on time?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you know anything about her friends?”

  “No. She was only a tenant, Officer. It was a business arrangement.”

  “So you have no idea who could have killed her?”

  “Nope.”

  “You said that very quickly. Do you need a minute to think about your answer?”

  “I don’t need to think about it.”

  “They’re searching her apartment,” said Jeff.

  “Do you have a warrant?” asked Murray, looking hard at Woodhouse.

  “We do.”

  “Well then, I’m going to take Jeff for lunch around the corner. Here’s my cell number if you need any follow-up.” Murray handed him a business card.

  Woodhouse couldn’t think of a good reason not to let them go. “Stay in the vicinity,” he said.

  Murray waved a dismissive hand over his head as he strode away.

  Woodhouse watched them walk toward the main door. Murray put a hand on his brother’s shoulder before he shoved the door open. Murray came off as heartless when it came to Nadia, but protective of the dummy brother — well, dummy except for the savant bit with the numbers. Woodhouse could understand Murray’s reaction when it came to the death of a tenant; he might have had the same reaction himself if he were her landlord. But shouldn’t Murray have been more surprised by the news than he was, since apparently Jeff hadn’t told him anything? The elevator opened as the brothers were stepping outside. Bennett exited the elevator and pointed at their retreating backs. “Who’s that?”

  “The owner of the building and his brother, the super. I just interviewed the two of them. They don’t know anything.”

  “You should have called me to help with the interviews.”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Where you been, anyway?”

  “Door to door. Nobody knew much about her, but then, she only lived in the building six months. Rouleau said to start combing the neighbourhood after we finish here. Bedouin and a couple of uniforms are meeting us o
utside to divvy up the streets. You’re to do the divvying.”

  “Just another day in paradise. Get ready to take some notes.” Woodhouse pulled out his cellphone and clicked on a map of the neighbourhood. He’d start with the closest streets and spread out the search after the first results came in. At least Rouleau had had the sense to put him in charge. He much preferred coordinating over knocking on doors and talking to idiots.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fisher looked at his parole officer, Dennis Wilburn, and smiled. Wilburn was grizzled around the edges and close to retirement. He’d been in the business too long to be fooled by the average con, and he said things straight up with a cynical understanding that his job wasn’t going to save the world. Fisher respected that about him.

  Wilburn had Fisher’s file spread out in front of him and was reading when Fisher entered and plunked down in the chair across the desk from him. Wilburn looked up and said, “You got a good report from your employer. Staying off the drugs and alcohol?”

  “I am.” Well, drugs, anyhow.

  “Very good.” Wilburn tossed the page that he was holding onto the pile and put his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. He kept his gaze focused on Fisher while his tongue worked a toothpick back and forth between his teeth. “Have you given any thought to getting your high school levels, as we discussed?”

  Fisher had strung Wilburn along on this score. He’d hated school and would never seriously consider going back. “I’m still looking at options,” he said, not ready yet to kill Wilburn’s dream.

  “You’re too smart to be a dishwasher in some dive restaurant.”

  Wilburn’s eyes were hard to hide from. Fisher knew a response was expected. “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. What would you do if you had your choice?”

  “That’s an odd question.” Fisher wondered where all this navel-gazing was coming from. Usually Wilburn checked off boxes and sent him on his way. But Fisher decided to play along. “Like, anything in the world?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “I dunno. Get a piece of land in the bush, build a lodge, and run fishing tours. Never going to happen though.”

  “Why not?”

  “No money. No land. That’s just for starters.”

  Wilburn grunted, rolled his chair forward, and picked up the pen lying next to Fisher’s file. “Never say never, Mr. Dumont.” He pulled out the form page and began checking off boxes. “Sign here and that’s it for another week. I’m away next Friday so I’ve moved your appointment to the following Tuesday. I’m trusting you to stay out of trouble.”

  Four extra days. Almost as if the Creator was handing him a gift.

  “Don’t worry about me.” Fisher reached for the pen and smiled. “I gave up on trouble a long time ago.”

  Five minutes later, he stepped outside the office tower onto Yonge Street. He’d brought his knapsack with a change of clothes, and his month’s pay, such as it was, was zipped inside the front pouch. The thought of running into Loot made him cautious so he stopped, took out the money, and divided it between his shoes before turning south on Yonge. The bills felt uncomfortable under the soles of his feet, but he felt reassured knowing they were relatively safe.

  He hadn’t made it a block when his stomach took a nosedive. Loot and Ronnie were beelining toward him, Loot’s face as angry and determined as a mastiff chasing down a rabbit. Fisher figured he had two choices: try to outrun them or try to out-talk them. Since they were less than a block away and gaining fast, he plastered a smile on his face and stood his ground. Hopefully, all the people walking past would keep him safe.

  “Guys,” he said as they positioned themselves on either side of him. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

  They each took one of his arms without saying a word and frogmarched him back the way he’d come. They crossed the street at the lights and he didn’t struggle until he saw the alleyway leading to a parking garage. They’d obviously scoped out the neighbourhood, probably when Loot checked in with his own parole officer. Somehow Loot had weaseled out the date and time that Fisher would be meeting his counsellor.

  They waited until they were in the shadows before shoving him against the brick wall.

  “You got my money?” Loot asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.” Fisher buckled when Loot’s fist connected with his stomach. He would have fallen over if Ronnie didn’t have a firm hand pinning him to the wall.

  “I gave you your final warning.” Loot hit him again.

  Fisher gagged and only just managed to keep down his lunch. “I told you, man, I’m working on it,” he gasped. He didn’t like hearing himself beg but couldn’t help the whine in his voice. “Please stop.”

  “What do you think, Ronnie?” Loot was toying with him now. “Should we give this bag of shit one more week?”

  “I dunno,” said Ronnie. “You’ve been more than generous as far as I can see, Loot.” Ronnie got a hand under the strap of Fisher’s knapsack and ripped it from his shoulders. “Let’s make sure he isn’t holding out on us.”

  Fisher watched in growing rage as Ronnie pulled every piece of clothing from the bag one by one and tossed it onto the pavement. He pocketed Fisher’s smokes. “Nothing, boss,” he said once he’d dumped out the last of Fisher’s possessions. He kicked the bag several feet away.

  “I’m not sure you deserve it, but I’ll give you one more week to put the ten thousand in my hand or you’re going to be dinner for the fish in Lake Ontario. Got it, Dumont? And you better not duck out on us again when we show up at your place of work.”

  Fisher nodded, then Loot’s fist smashed into his kidneys. This time Ronnie’s hand wasn’t holding him up. He dropped onto his knees, vomiting bile and half-digested taco onto the asphalt.

  “You’re disgusting, Injun,” said Ronnie, kicking him in the ribs. “If it was me, you’d already be fish food for making us chase you halfway around Toronto.”

  “I know. I’m a soft touch,” said Loot. “But even a nice guy like me has limits.” He laughed and Ronnie joined in.

  Ronnie aimed one final kick at the side of Fisher’s face. Fisher heard Loot say that was enough. He watched their legs retreat up the alley from where he lay on his side. After what seemed like a lifetime, he inched his way backward until he was lying in the deepest shadows against the brick wall. When he was certain they weren’t coming back, he closed his eyes and let the pain and darkness carry him away.

  Dawn watched Vanessa discreetly in English class, trying to figure out if something was bothering her. Not that they’d ever been friends, but Emily’s description of Vanessa’s home life had piqued Dawn’s interest. To discover that not everyone blond and privileged was leading the perfect life shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She knew that Emily’s parents had given her brother a hard time when they found out he was gay, and that Emily used to cut herself and had been seeing a shrink. She seemed better now but Dawn still watched for signs that she might be back to cutting. Dawn had once believed that if she’d been born white, all the awful things in her family would never have happened and she’d be happy. Knowing that this might not be the case was disconcerting.

  Dawn had only ever known Vanessa as part of the blond brigade tagging behind Emily. Snobby with a bitchy edge and no ideas of her own. Today, she looked haunted, as if she’d been crying and was trying to hold it together. Dawn waited until class ended to catch up with her on the way to their lockers.

  “You seem upset about something,” she said. “Can I help at all?”

  Vanessa gave her a strange stare before shaking her head. “What makes you think something is wrong?”

  “I don’t know. You don’t seem like your normal self.”

  “I’m getting a cold.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dawn could have taken the hint and let it go, but she knew something was off with Vanessa and felt obliged to try one more time. They’d reached Daw
n’s locker but she kept walking with Vanessa. “The thing is,” she said, “you seem to have something on your mind and I thought you might like to talk about it — if not with me, then maybe with Emily or Chelsea. I’ve found that it helps to talk.”

  Vanessa stopped in front of her locker and turned her back on Dawn. She reached up a hand to open the lock with her head lowered. “I’m okay,” she said after a pause. She looked at Dawn and opened her mouth to say something else, but instead squeezed her lips together and shook her head. Finally, she said, “I’ll see you around.”

  “See you around.” Dawn didn’t know what else to say but figured she’d provided an opening and Vanessa could choose to take her up on it later if she wanted to talk.

  She returned to her own locker and put the books she’d need into her knapsack. By the time she’d put on her jacket, Vanessa was gone. Everyone she knew had plans for Friday night but Dawn didn’t mind going home alone. Kala would be working late tonight and all weekend but Taiku was all the company she needed. She would have offered to walk Gundersund’s dog, Minnie, if his wife wasn’t living there again.

  She left the school by the front entrance and was glad to find that it wasn’t raining. She was tired of getting soaked every time she walked to the bus stop. Soaked and chilled. Vanessa wasn’t the only one who felt a cold coming on. As Dawn started down the steps, she saw a black car with tinted windows pulling up to the curb and watched as Vanessa hurried across the sidewalk. Her jacket was open and she was wearing a tight blue top and ripped jeans. Had she been wearing that in English class? Dawn tried to picture her but couldn’t remember. The side window of the car opened slowly and Vanessa leaned in to talk to somebody before she pulled on the door handle and climbed inside. The door slammed and the car pulled away, picking up speed as it went. Dawn raised her arm to wave as she ran down the stairs. The red tail lights were disappearing around the corner when she reached the sidewalk.