“Not that I’m disbelieving by nature,” said Morrison, hanging up the phone, “but the latest caller asked if he’d get a reward for telling me where the dead girl spent her last hours.”
“No — you think he’s only in it for the money?” asked Bedouin, pretending to be shocked.
“Well, he couldn’t describe her and he was calling from a bar.”
Kala straightened from typing on her keyboard. “He might not be lying. Nadia could have spent time in a bar that day.”
“That crossed my mind too,” said Morrison. She sighed and stood up. “So I’m going to meet him now. I’d drag one of you along but this is likely nothing. The gentleman caller lost interest when I told him there was no reward. However, he agreed to wait for me to arrive. Likely, he’ll be there until closing anyhow. You’re on tap for the next call-ins while I’m off on this goose chase, Bedouin.”
“Then hurry back.”
Kala glanced across at Rouleau’s closed office door. He’d seemed distracted during the morning update and had shut his door as soon as the meeting broke up. Gundersund had been in and out a few times but hadn’t shared any information. She would have gone in herself to see if she could help with whatever was troubling Rouleau if not for the closed door. It felt like a warning to leave him alone with his thoughts.
She was waiting for a document but at 1:30 decided to get some lunch. She put on her leather jacket and hesitated, staring at Rouleau’s door. Damn it all, the man has to eat. She started purposefully across the space when Gundersund got there ahead of her with coffee and sandwiches on a tray. He had his back to her and rapped on the door, disappeared inside and shut the door behind him. Kala waited a moment to see if he’d come out, but when he didn’t, she returned to her desk to get her handbag. Turning to leave, she glanced over at Woodhouse. He was on his cellphone with his back to the room. She took a few silent steps toward him and strained her ears to hear what he was saying, managing to catch the last of his conversation even though he was speaking quietly.
“Today won’t work. Tomorrow. End of day. Usual place.”
He clicked off and she slid back to her desk as he turned around. His eyes swept the room and landed on her. “I thought you’d gone for lunch.”
“I’m about to. Can I bring you back anything?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll grab something later.” He waited a beat. “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
After a quick bowl of soup in the cafeteria, Kala returned to her desk. The document she’d been waiting for was in her inbox. She scanned it quickly at first, then more carefully and experienced a surge of satisfaction that her hunch had borne out. Neither Morrison nor Gundersund was at their desk, and Bennett was discussing something with Woodhouse. She could wait for Bennett to be free but that would mean explaining to Woodhouse why she wanted Bennett to accompany her and she was loath to do that. Knowing Woodhouse, he’d either give her a hard time or insist on following up her idea himself. She chided herself. This wasn’t about her — so what if Woodhouse took the credit?
She printed out the pages and walked over to his desk. Woodhouse and Bennett broke off their conversation and stared at her.
Hey Kala,” said Bennett. “What have you got?”
“Have a look at this.” She handed the pages to Woodhouse.
He read them much as she had: quickly at first and then more closely. He looked up at her and handed the pages to Bennett. “This could nail him. Didn’t you need a court permit to get the bank to release this information?”
“I asked Rouleau to add the bank request in the search warrant and the judge signed off.”
“Forward-thinking of you, but you should have cleared it with me, since I’m heading up the search.”
“I know. I only thought of it last minute and meant to tell you. I’m digging to see if he had this arrangement with any other tenants.”
“Well, no harm done as it turns out.” Woodhouse grinned and tapped the desk in front of Bennett. “Looks like we’ll be taking a ride to pick up Murray Simmons. He has some more ’splaining to do.”
“Are you sure? I’m waiting for more paperwork on his other rental building,” said Kala doubtfully. “There could be more victims.”
“This ought to be enough to shake the truth out of him.”
“I’ll let Rouleau know that you’re bringing him in,” said Kala. “He’ll probably want to listen in on the interview.”
She waited until Woodhouse and Bennett were gone before knocking on Rouleau’s door. Gundersund smiled when he saw her and Rouleau invited her in. The remains of their lunch was on the table and each man held a cup of coffee. They were sitting back, relaxed in their chairs by the window. She took a step into the room but no farther, regretting that she had to interrupt.
“Woodhouse and Bennett are picking up Murray Simmons and bringing him in for more questioning,” she said. “You might want to watch through the two-way.”
“Did something come to light?” asked Rouleau.
“He was charging Nadia Armstrong three hundred dollars a month in rent. The other tenants in the building averaged eleven hundred. Nobody else’s rent comes close to the small amount he was charging her.” She didn’t add that she was still waiting for the paperwork from Simmons’s other apartment building. There’d be no point now.
Gundersund whistled. “Seems like the smoking gun.”
“When you combine this with his twice-weekly visits, I’d say so,” said Rouleau. “Let us know when he arrives.” He looked over at Kala. “You’re right. I’d like to watch him being interviewed. This should have him squirming.”
She bit her lip and nodded. Gundersund was watching her with a quizzical expression, but he remained silent.
The interview took place in the late afternoon. Simmons insisted on having his lawyer present this time and she was in court until four o’clock. Bennett accompanied Woodhouse, making a quartet in the small meeting room. The lawyer was Carol Jennings, well known for taking on construction cases. She was in her late fifties, experienced, and tough. She’d gotten more than one client off fraud and bribery charges, price-fixing, and broken contracts.
Woodhouse opened by going step by step through Simmons’s previous statement for half an hour. He waited until Simmons had settled back in the chair with a bored look on his face before slapping down the bank statements with printouts of the tenants’ cheques going back a year. Simmons’s face went from relaxed to pale and uneasy as he grasped where the questions were headed.
“Do you have a warrant for those?”
“We do.”
“I want to talk to my lawyer.”
“Turn off the tape,” said Carol. “We’ll have a private moment.”
From her vantage point behind the two-way mirror, Kala thought the request was to buy time. Woodhouse had no choice but to shut off the recorder and leave the room with Bennett.
“Not what Simmons was expecting,” said Gundersund.
He was standing next to Kala, and she felt his arm press against hers when he shifted positions. Rouleau was sitting in a chair on the other side of Gundersund, his focus still on the two in the room even though he couldn’t hear them. The urge to turn and wrap herself in Gundersund’s arms was strong. She forced herself to take a sideways step away from him. If he minded, he didn’t give anything away.
Carol got up after a few minutes and tapped on the door. She was back in place when Woodhouse and Bennett entered. As they took their seats, she grimaced at Woodhouse and rested her arms on the table. “Murray will make a statement, and you’ll see that you’re barking up the wrong tree. She kept her eyes on Woodhouse and said, “Go ahead, Murray.”
“Yeah, I gave Nadia a cut in rent but only because she was trying to get on her feet. I felt sorry for her.” He raised his hands, pretending to give in to their accusations. “My crime was being a good Samaritan. So cuff me.”
Carol put a restraining hand on his arm. “Murray should be lauded for
his philanthropy, not accused of something heinous.”
“Was this the only woman you ever gave a discount to so that she could” — Woodhouse read theatrically from his notepad — “get on her feet?”
“Yeah.”
“Just this one woman, whom you visited twice a week for half an hour to an hour each time for six months running, after giving her a huge break on her rent?”
Carol stopped Simmons from answering. “You already know that Murray was fixing appliances on his way home. Is there anything else, Detective?”
Woodhouse’s snort could be heard by everyone behind the glass. “You can’t honestly think we believe Murray here had nothing going on with the victim? Nobody has that many appliances. What he was doing with his tenant was, in effect, prostitution.”
Carol began packing up her papers, putting them into a briefcase at her feet. She glanced up at him. “Oh, but I do expect you to believe it, Officer Woodhouse, because Murray has explained to you exactly what happened. So unless you have proof to the contrary and can back up your slanderous statement, I’d say this interview is over.”
Woodhouse looked toward the two-way and held the palms of his hands skyward. She had called his bluff.
“Might have been premature getting Simmons in this early,” said Gundersund.
Rouleau stood. “I agree, although we have got his statements on tape. That could be helpful later. Tell Woodhouse to keep digging.”
“I’ll let him know,” said Kala.
She left ahead of them and returned to her desk, checking her emails while still standing. Scanning the list, she stopped at a second message with an attachment from the financial contact. She opened the document and slowly lowered herself into her chair while reading the list of names and rent payments. One name stood out — and that was all she needed. Simmons had lied. She printed the document and waited by the printer to ensure nobody else saw the information. She collected the pages and shoved them into her handbag before putting on her jacket and shutting down her computer.
This time, she’d complete the research herself before bringing Woodhouse into the loop. He’d be pissed off at her when he found out but the way she saw it, she didn’t owe him a thing. Not after he’d ignored her warning to wait for all the tenant information to come in and made a mess of the last interview.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Murray Simmons’s second apartment building was farther north, tucked into the neighbourhood off Princess on Portsmouth. Dull brown brick, six storeys, with four units on each floor. The building looked to be the same vintage as Bellevue Towers but better maintained. Kala parked in the only available space in visitor parking and walked through the main door into the compact entryway. She found Abby Green’s name on the directory and typed in her number. A woman’s voice came over the intercom and Kala identified herself. A moment later, the door buzzed open and Kala jumped to grab the handle before it locked.
Abby lived on the second floor. Kala took the stairs and rapped on her door, all the while considering how to approach the interview. She was unsure how she’d be received once Abby knew the reason she was here. How can I bring up the subject of prostitution without appearing threatening and judgmental?
The woman who opened the door was in her early twenties like Nadia Armstrong: fresh-faced with long blond hair and protruding collarbones visible under a baggy grey sweater. She wore black leggings cut above her ankles and her bright-red running shoes drew the eye downward. She peered out from behind the chain lock, holding the door open a foot. “I’d like to see your ID,” she said.
Kala fished out her badge and held it at eye level. “I have a few questions about Murray Simmons.”
The door closed and Kala heard the chain scraping out of its lock. Abby led her into a small living room sparsely decorated with furnishings that looked to be second-hand. The room smelled of sandalwood incense. Psychology textbooks and crime paperbacks were stacked on an Ikea bookshelf. Kala sat on a green-metal fold-up chair that would have been better suited to a back deck. Abby tucked her legs under herself on the brown-and-beige striped couch. “What’s this about?”
“I’m looking into the death of a woman who lived in another apartment building owned by Murray Simmons. Her name is Nadia Armstrong. Have you ever met her?”
“No, should I have?”
“She moved in about six months ago, close to your age.”
“I really don’t —”
“What are you studying, Abby?”
“Psychology. I took the last exam for my bachelor’s degree a few days ago.”
“Did you grow up in this area?”
“No. I’m from a small town in northwestern Ontario, Geraldton. Do you know it?”
“I do. I worked in Nipigon for a while. A bit farther south than Geraldton, closer to Lake Superior.”
“Are you as happy as I am to be away from the small towns?”
Kala felt a toehold. “It was difficult for you, growing up?”
A spectrum of emotions from bitter to wistful crossed Abby’s face. “My mother died in a car accident when I was eight. My father was driving and he’d been drinking. My brother, Tony, and I were in the back seat. We survived, although Tony suffered a head injury. I came out of it unscathed.”
“And your father?”
“He broke his arm and had internal damage but he lived. He had to quit his job and he collected disability and welfare. Being unemployed gave him more time to drink. The accident gave him a reason. We didn’t have much, as you can imagine. Tony needed care.” She changed positions on the couch. Ran a hand through her hair and smiled an apology. “I’m not sure why I told you all that. I’ve tried to put it behind me.”
“You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, to take however long you need to work through it.”
“I thought my shrink was just telling me that to keep my business. Luckily, my visits were covered by provincial health care. Otherwise, who knows what kind of crazy I’d be now?”
“Are you still seeing him?”
“No. I stopped.” She turned her face away from Kala and stared out the window.
Kala gave Abby some time to collect herself while she thought about her next question. Abby felt fragile, and Kala knew she couldn’t push too hard or too fast. “We’ve discovered that Nadia Armstrong, the girl who died, was paying only three hundred a month in rent. Everyone else, in both buildings, pays over a thousand a month … except you.”
Abby slowly turned her face to meet Kala’s gaze. Her own eyes were defensive and guarded. “So?”
“Did you have an arrangement with Murray Simmons?”
“I didn’t have the money this year. My brother needed help and until Murray made his offer, I was planning to drop out of university.”
“What was the offer?”
“It was between us.”
“He had the same arrangement with Nadia Armstrong and now she’s dead. I need to make certain Murray’s offer had nothing to do with what happened to her. I need to make sure you’re not in danger too.”
Alarm filled Abby’s eyes before she blinked it away. She sank against the back of the couch. “Why would I be in danger?”
“I’m sure Nadia thought she had everything under control too.”
A longer silence this time. Kala let the room breathe its afternoon stillness, focusing on the pale lemony light streaming through the window, pooling on the faded hardwood. A clock ticked behind her on the Ikea bookcase. A car crunched gravel in the parking lot beneath the window and two car doors slammed, one after the other, like gunshots. Abby let her feet swing to the floor and crossed one leg over the other. She sighed deeply. “I had to promise him sex.”
Kala knew if she said one wrong word, Abby would shut down. She kept her voice neutral. “Murray Simmons only charged you three hundred dollars a month rent but in return you had to agree to have sex with him. Is this correct?”
“It sounds so ugly when you put it into words. Yes, Murray came he
re once a week. Twice at the beginning. I figured he’d gotten another girl on the string a few months ago.”
“Why?”
“He missed a week, which he’d never done since I took this place in August, and he seemed less interested when he was here. Quicker, if that was possible.”
“How did you feel about him?”
“I could tolerate him. I thought of the sex as a business transaction.”
“You knew he was married with three kids?”
“Yeah. That makes him a snake, but he never talked about them with me. It was easy to forget they existed.” The defensive look was back. “Look, I would never do anything like this except I want that degree. I won a scholarship for next year and I’m in line for a teaching assistant job that’ll pay me enough to move out of here. If sleeping with the landlord once or twice a week for a semester allowed me to step up in the world, I can swallow my morals. I made the choice with my eyes wide open.”
“You’re a strong young woman but I wish Murray Simmons hadn’t taken advantage of your situation. He’s the only one who acted dishonourably.”
“Thank you for that,” Abby said, casting her eyes down. “I talk tough but … sleeping with Murray for rent money hasn’t been my proudest moment either. I’ve lived in fear that somebody would find out. It’s kept me from dating.”
“I understand … but I need to ask: have you ever done anything sexual with anybody else for money?”
“God no, and I don’t intend to ever again.”
“Did Murray ever pressure you or make you feel unsafe?”
“No. Our … arrangement … was very matter of fact.”
“He didn’t ask you to sleep with anybody else?”
Turning Secrets Page 17
