by Alex MacLean
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.
You don’t care about anyone, she wanted to say. A peddler of human misery.
Instead, she turned away and drew a breath. She stared down at the bag of powder in her hand. Old friend. Old enemy.
Pain crossed her face. With a sh
udder she stuffed the bag into her pocket. The door closed behind her. Then the outside light went dark.
As she walked back to the cab, the drizzle became a shower.
“Take me home, please,” she told the driver as she climbed into the back.
Slumping in the seat, she shut her eyes. The crushing weight of what she had just done bore down on her. She felt pathetic, a disgrace, sick at how she had betrayed herself and others. The lost woman she had once been had returned to claim her.
The cab jerked with sudden acceleration. Gripping the armrest on the door, Cathy gritted her teeth. There came a tightening in her chest, nausea in her stomach.
After a few moments, she opened her eyes. Beyond the rain-streaked window, she watched the flavor of the neighborhood turn seedy, dilapidated, an eyesore on the city. At the next corner, the cab stopped.
Over the hiss of windshield wipers came the driver’s voice. “That’ll be fifteen, ma’am.”
Counting her money, she realized she would have less than ten dollars left to her name after she paid the fare. But for some reason, none of it mattered.
After receiving her change, she got out of the cab. Hunched forward, hands trust into her pockets, she walked slowly toward the front steps of her apartment building. Climbing them, her legs felt shaky. Before she went inside, she paused briefly on the stoop to look at her reflection in the door. Maybe it was only an illusion, but through the small beads of rainwater running down the glass, Cathy couldn’t see the tears running down her own face.
23
Halifax, May 12
10:01 p.m.
The bleakest of nights.
Allan knew it was going to be a bad one when he read the address on his pager. Returning here felt like déjà vu, though the circumstances were different this time. Sitting in his car, he didn’t want to go inside.
Around him, the night was deep and still. Rain had fallen all day, ending only a short time ago, and beneath the wash of streetlights everything had a glassy sheen. There was a hiss of tires as a truck rolled by. In the rear-view mirror, Allan watched the taillights recede into the urban maze. He looked through the passenger’s side window at the apartment building with foreboding, uncomfortable of what he might find inside.
He sighed.
He left his car and crossed the street, flashing his badge at two officers standing guard outside the building.
Time.
Why was it important? He looked at his wristwatch. 10:06 p.m. As he climbed the front steps of the apartment building, he felt a coat pocket for the shape of his spiral. He realized he hadn’t recorded his arrival. How could he have forgotten?
The glass of the entrance door caught his reflection in the red and blue strobe of nearby police cars. It stopped him for a moment.
Funny, he thought, how tired he looked. Nearly as exhausted as he felt.
Slowly, he gripped the metal handle. Before going inside, he steeled himself.
He went up to the second floor and maneuvered his way through a crowd of curious tenants. Many were in nightclothes. Their eyes seemed transfixed on an open doorway down the hall. Outside it, an officer was standing guard. He was young, leanly muscled. His body was erect, his eyes keen. Beside him stood another man, squat and pear-shaped. A fringe of gray hair circled his bald crown.
Haltingly, Allan approached the two men and took the officer out of the earshot of others.
“Give me the details,” he said softly.
“The subject is a young woman,” the officer said. “Early to mid-twenties. We haven’t established identification yet. Looks like your classic overdose, Lieutenant. There is drug paraphernalia on site.”
“Drugs?” Allan reached for his spiral and pen. “Who called it in?”
The officer gestured toward the pear-shaped man. “Mister Carlson. The landlord. He got a call earlier from the elderly neighbor across the hall. She became worried about the tenant living here after she noticed the apartment lights on for the past couple of nights. She came over several times and knocked, but there was no answer.
“She called Mister Carlson and he arrived at nine-twenty. And after receiving no answer, he let himself in.
“The call came over my radio at nine thirty-five. I arrived at nine-forty. EHS came on the scene three minutes after me.”
“Who called EHS?”
“Mister Carlson.”
“Did you check for vitals before their arrival?”
The officer gave a grim expression. “I never touched the body. There was no need. It was obvious the subject was deceased.”
For a moment, Allan hesitated. He felt himself wishing the officer would stop talking.
I need to get away from all this.
“Did the ambulance crew touch or move the body?” he continued.
“No, sir. I told them they weren’t needed, so they left.”
“Where’s the subject?”
“The first bedroom on the left.”
“Has the medical examiner been notified?”
“Yes. Should be en route.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
After turning to a blank page in his spiral, Allan walked over to the landlord and introduced himself. The man accepted his extended hand with a lifeless grip.
“Gerald Carlson,” he replied.
“You found the subject?”
“Yes.”
“Can you show me some identification?”
The landlord gave a slight nod toward the first officer. “I already went through this with him.”
“Sorry, but now you need to go through it again with me.”
A red flush appeared on Gerald’s face. He reached into a back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet. From that he produced his driver’s license and handed it to Allan.
He wrote down the details in his spiral.
“Tell me everything.”
Gerald cleared his throat. “Well, earlier this evening, I got a call from Missus Layton from across the hall…”
“What time did Missus Layton call you?” Allan interjected.
“About ten to nine.”
“And what did she tell you?”
Gerald folded his arms. “She told me she became nervous after realizing the lights had been on for the last two nights.”
“You have a key to the premises?”
“Yes.”
“At what time did you arrive here?”
“About nine-twenty.”
“Was the door chained when you unlocked it?” he asked.
“Yes.” Gerald pointed to the carpeted floor just inside the open doorway where pieces of a broken chain and a splinter of wood laid. “I called in three times. Waited probably a couple of minutes. Then I shouldered the door in. It was obvious something was wrong.”
Allan’s gaze wandered into the apartment. Down the hallway he saw Sergeant Malone standing in front of an open doorway. From the room came flashes of a photographer’s camera.
Allan swallowed and said, “You should’ve called us first.”
Fleetingly, the man touched his forehead. “I wasn’t thinking at the time.”
“You placed the call to nine-one-one?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use the phone on the premises to place that call?”
A brusque nod. “I did.”
Allan winced.
Great. More possible evidence contamination.
“What time was this?” he asked.
“Nine-thirty, nine thirty-five.”
“What lights were on upon your arrival?”
Gerald watched Allan’s pen moving across the page. “The living room, the kitchen and the one bedroom.”
“The bedroom where the subject was located?”
“Yes.”
“Did you touch the body?”
“I checked for a pulse. But she was stone cold.”
Allan handed back the license. “Okay, Mister Carlson. Thank you. That will be all for now.”
“Do you want to talk to
Missus Layton?”
Briefly, Allan paused to take in the elderly woman standing outside her open doorway across the hallway. She was perhaps in her late sixties, he guessed, with a nimbus of white hair and so thin that he found it painful to look at her.
“No need,” he said, and walked into the apartment.
With faltering steps, he approached Malone, who passed him a clipboard. Allan timed into the scene.
“After these past four days,” Malone remarked, “I’m looking forward to the next four off.”
“In need of a little R and R?” Allan gave back the clipboard. “A few beers and barbeques on the back deck will help.”
A faint smile started at the corners of the sergeant’s mouth. “Damn straight.”
“So what do we have?”
“Straight-up suicide, Lieutenant.”
The words, Allan found, jolted him. Although it was something he had feared when the call had come across his pager, it still took him by surprise.
In a tight voice, he asked, “How’d we come to that conclusion so soon?”
Malone moved out of the doorway, looking to his right. “She left a note.”
Allan followed the sergeant’s gaze. There, on top of the dresser was a neatly folded sheaf of paper. Jim Lucas stood near it, shooting photos. When he noticed Allan, he lowered his camera and picked up an unsealed envelope beside the note.
“This is addressed to you, Lieutenant.” Jim held it up, pausing.
Before taking it, Allan checked his pockets for latex gloves and realized he had forgotten them in the trunk of his car.
Goddamnit man, he thought, wincing at his own carelessness.
Jim got him a pair and Allan put them on.
The face of the envelope had Allan’s name scribbled across it. He stared at it, swallowing.
Eyes narrow, Malone asked. “You knew the subject?”
Allan didn’t look up.
“Only briefly,” he answered quietly.
He turned up the flap on the envelope and saw inside the note he had left Cathy Ambré only two nights before. For a moment, he didn’t take it out. When at last he did his fingers felt clumsy. Beneath his own words, the young woman had written:
