by Alex MacLean
Cathy felt the truth of that. Since her release from the hospital, it had been a difficult battle to regain her strength.
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
Trixy gave her a sideways glance. “You owe me, sis. You put me through hell. I thought I’d lost you.”
Torn, Cathy’s gaze fell to the floor. Trixy moved forward and touched her arm.
“Hey,” she whispered. “I just want you to get better.”
Cathy felt her stomach tighten. She could see the worry in Trixy’s eyes. By reflex she mustered a tentative smile. 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. “Baby steps for now.”
Trixy tilted her head, and a faint smile formed on her lips.
“I know you will,” she said.
Trixy brushed past, retreating to her bedroom to get dressed. For a moment, Cathy remained where she was, alone with her thoughts. After a few minutes, she drifted to her own bedroom, where she lay on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. She could hear Trixy in the other room, rummaging through dresser drawers.
Cathy brooded about how she had reached this point in her life. She was twenty-three years old. Just two years ago she’d been a clear-eyed university student who looked forward to getting her degree. Now her future seemed to be empty of hope.
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 miniskirt. 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. “Always am, sis.”
Outside came the toot of a horn.
“Taxi’s here.” Trixy gave Cathy a peck on the cheek. “See you in the morning.”
Then she was gone.
Cathy locked the door behind her. She shut off all the lights and then went to the window in the living room, watching 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, where she took out a pen and diary from the nightstand. The cover of the diary had a sunflower painting by Vincent Van Gogh. It had been a gift from her parents last Christmas. Every day she would scribble in entries ranging from the mundane, to the most intimate depths of her thoughts and desires.
Somewhere during her move to Trixy’s, Cathy lost the keys to the locking clasp. She had to keep reminding herself not to lock the diary.
She read over her final entry and decided to add a few lines:
Another sleepless night. I’m doing my best to get through this. So many things on my mind right now. The Devil seems to be still knocking on my door, and he’s relentless. I know that’s my problem. So many times I just sit and stare at the phone. So many times I fight with myself not to pick it up and make that call. Trixy, I must remind myself, it’s all for her. One day I may look back at this period in my life and be proud of myself.
When she finished writing, Cathy closed the diary and put it back in the drawer. She shut out the light and slipped under the covers again. She tossed and turned until daybreak.
At 7:45, she got up, padded to the window, and opened the blinds. The morning sun spilled into the room with such intensity, it made her squint. Quietly, so as not to awaken Trixy, she pulled a bathrobe from a hanger in the closet. Then she went out to the hallway, where she stopped cold. Something was out of place. Trixy’s bedroom door hung open.
Odd. Her sister usually slept until after lunch with her door closed.
As Cathy looked inside the room, she saw the bed was still made. No one had been in it. Around her, the apartment felt still, silent.
Worried, Cathy went to the living room and called Trixy’s cell phone. After several rings, a recorded voice told her the person she was calling was not answering or was out of the service area.
That was strange. If Trixy had her phone shut off, it would go directly to her voice mail.
All at once, Cathy lost her appetite for breakfast. She refused to imagine her older sister in trouble. Not the strong woman she’d always admired. Impossible.
By ten thirty, Cathy had called eight times. She began pacing through the apartment, trying to keep tragic thoughts at bay. She had never felt so alone, so afraid.
She walked to the window in the living room and watched the street.
Maybe a man had paid Trixy to spend some extra hours with him. It happened before. But in those instances, Trixy had always called. Maybe she had simply forgotten this time.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the door. They were light, a woman’s. Cathy hurried to the peephole. Through it, she saw the convex image of the elderly neighbor across the hallway, coming home in her Sunday dress. Cathy felt herself sag with disappointment. She leaned her back against the door. The plain clock on the kitchen wall read ten past eleven.
There had to be something she could do. She refused to call the police. Trixy would be so mad if she did.
Once noon arrived, Cathy had no choice.
18
Halifax, May 9
8:30 p.m.
Fading light filtered through the window as Cathy finished her story.
Allan watched her in silence while he constructed a framework of questions.
“Is Trixy your sister’s real name?”
Cathy stared at her hands. “Her real name is Cynthia. She legally changed it to Trixy to piss off Mom and Dad.”
“When was this?”
“Three years ago, maybe. Just after she got into prostitution.”
“When you say ‘to piss off Mom and Dad,’ I gather there are problems between them?”
Cathy emitted a long breath. “Where would I begin?”
She rose and turned on an overhead light. For a long time, she stood with her back to him, arms folded. She seemed very far away. Allan sensed other issues at play.
“Should I talk to them?” he asked.
When Cathy turned around, he saw the anguish in her face. She took a step toward him and then abruptly stopped.
“No!” she blurted. “You mustn’t tell them about this.”
At once, she put a hand to her mouth. Surprise registered in her green eyes. Perhaps, Allan thought, at her sudden outburst. She seemed to stare through him for a brief time. Then she turned sideways, looking at the floor. In the silence her body was stiff and still.
Allan scrutinized her. To him, Cathy Ambré had the troubled look of someone who internalized a lot of personal conflicts. Reflexively, his eyes were drawn back to the needle tracks in her arms.
He said, “Your parents deserve to know about their daughter.”
“Why? They don’t know her, or even me, for that matter. We have our lives, they have theirs.”
“Both you and your sister don’t get along with your parents?”
Cathy shook her head. “It’s mostly my father.” She faced Allan. “Do you have kids?”
“I have a son.”
“I bet you have high expectations for him?”
Allan nodded. “Of course.”
“Neither one of us exactly lived up to Dad’s.” Her eyes grew distant, sad. “When he found out Trixy was into prostitution, he tried to give her money to stop. When she wouldn’t, he disowned her.
“My turn came a few months ago when he found out about my problems.” She winced, as if wounded. “Dad put me out. I made a bad choice, and he put me out for it.”
As Allan list
ened, he heard something other than her words—a trace of embarrassment buried in her tone. He wondered if drugs were the bad choice Cathy had made.
He said, “I’m sure your father loves you very much. I bet it was hard for him to do what he did. Sometimes allowing your child to hit rock bottom is the only way they’ll seek help for themselves. If, in fact, they truly want help.”
A flush colored Cathy’s face. She opened her mouth slightly, giving him a long, contemplative look.
Allan waited out her silence. He sensed her absorbing what he had just said. For a strange instant, he expected her to tell him something. But then she quickly looked away, and the moment passed. She sat down again and leaned back in the sofa.
“I don’t need any help,” she muttered, shaking her head.
All too familiar, Allan thought. The inability of an addict to admit they have a problem or to see the impact their illness has on the lives around them. Part of him wanted to grab her by the shoulders, make her listen to his own experiences about the women and kids he’d seen throwing their lives away.
“Do you see your parents at all?” he asked.
“Mom calls. Once she stopped over. Dad never does.” She gazed at the coffee table. “I know he’s ashamed.”
“Why would a father be ashamed of his child?”
She looked up, a fresh look of hurt in her eyes. “I messed up things in my life. Big time.”
“How?”
He knew the question was perfunctory, the answer already obvious to him.
Cathy was silent for a moment.
“I’ll keep the story short,” she said. “I got mixed up with a guy I shouldn’t have. We were both in university. He seemed like a good person. But like Trixy used to say, ‘most men seem nice on the surface. It’s once you get to know them that tells the real story.’
“He was deep into drugs. Marijuana. Hash. Heroin. Being young and naïve, I soon began experimenting. Then I couldn’t stop. The drugs left me in a state of mind I had never experienced before. Nothing else mattered. My grades began to slip. Then my attendance.
“I went to my boyfriend’s room one night and found him in bed with someone else.” Her nose wrinkled. “The look on their faces was priceless. Shock. Guilt. Embarrassment. Caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
“I was speechless and sick to my stomach. He was stuttering through an explanation when I threw his room key on the bed and walked out.
“I lost him and won a drug habit I couldn’t kick. Everything seemed to spiral out of control after that. I never finished my final year. It’s surprising how fast things can happen.”
The simple words expressed the grief of a life scarred by mistakes not yet resolved. Allan felt sorry for her.
“I noticed the track marks,” he said.
Cathy seemed to flinch. As if by reflex, she touched the scars in the crooks of her arms.
She said, “I finally kicked the habit. I don’t take anything now.”
“You just up and quit? Cold turkey?”
Cathy’s stare was as level as her voice. “Yes.”
It came to Allan that something was being withheld, something she didn’t want him to know. She was speaking with a cop, after all.
“Still have the cravings?”
She looked down, fidgeting again. “It was hard at first, but they’re not as bad as they were. Some days are better than others.
“I have to do this for myself and for Trixy. I know what a burden I’ve been on her. She’s been my savior through this ordeal.”
“It’s still hard to do without professional help,” Allan said. “Even a doctor never treats his own illness.”
Cathy squared her shoulders and looked him in the face. “I can do it. I will do it.”
Allan detected conviction in her tone. “I hope you will.”
“This isn’t really about me,” she said. “This is about my missing sister.”
Allan tried to detach himself, become an investigator again.
He said, “You’re right.” He paused. “Did you ever have any problems with a dealer?”
“No.”
“Do you owe any of them money?”
Cathy shook her head, and then a look of wonder crossed her face.
“You’re thinking I had something to do with Trixy’s disappearance. That a dealer did something to her because of me.”
“It’s nothing personal. I have to explore all avenues.”
Cathy’s lips became a tight line. “No. I don’t owe any money.”
“Vice has already found out that Trixy was dropped off by Call A Cab at ten forty-seven at the corner of South and Barrington. Do you know if that’s the location she usually takes up shop?”
“Yes, it is.”
Cathy’s eyes suddenly became moist. She rose from her seat, walked to the kitchen, and pulled a Kleenex from a box on the table.
When she returned, she said, “I know something happened to her. When I call her cell, it says the person I am calling is not answering or is out of the service area. If she had her phone shut off, it would go directly to her voice mail.”
“Vice will be checking to see if any calls were made on her phone since her disappearance. Is it possible that your sister went to a friend’s house? Have you done a telephone search?”
“I called all the friends that I know she had. No one saw or heard from her.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against her?”
Cathy shook her head.
“Does Trixy have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“How about a john? Has she ever talked about having problems with any of them?”
“No.”
“Do you know if she works under a pimp, or does she buddy up with other women?”
“She works on her own.” Cathy leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her fingers tore the ends of the tissue. “Trixy’s a free spirit. She’s not easily manipulated.”
“She’s never had a pimp?”
“She would never allow herself to become trapped in that lifestyle or become dependent on one.”
“Has a pimp ever approached her?”
Cathy narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips. “There was one. But she never called him by name.”
“To work for him?”
A nod. “She turned him down.”
“Was she threatened for it?”
“Not threatened. He tried to induce her with expensive jewelry. He told her he could protect her.”
“No name at all? Not even a nickname?”
“I don’t think Trixy knew who he was. She never mentioned him again.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Six months, maybe.”
“On the missing persons report, you state that Trixy has no medical or psychological problems?”
Cathy lifted her chin. “That’s right. She’s very levelheaded.”
“Vice has all your sister’s financial information,” Allan said. “They’ll track any transactions or withdrawals from her account.”
“I have a bad feeling about this.” Cathy’s words took on a hopeless inflection. “I know something bad happened to her. I don’t think she’s coming home.”
All at once, she crumpled forward in one convulsive sob. Allan pulled her close. In his arms, she felt light, fragile. Her body shook. She clung to him in quiet despair.
“It’s going to be all right,” Allan whispered in her ear. He pulled back, holding her arms. “You hang in there. Over ninety percent of missing people eventually show up on their own.”
He watched Cathy attempt to recapture her composure. He saw a woman who was frightened and alone. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out his card and gave it to her.
He said, “You can call me anytime. My phone’s always on.”
As he stood, Cathy looked up into his face.
“Will you let me know when you find out anything?” she asked.
“Of course. You’ll be the first to know.
”
Allan walked to the door. He turned and looked at Cathy one last time. From across the room she stared at him through puffy eyes.
“Hang in there,” he repeated softly.
When he stepped into the hall and closed the door, he could hear Cathy’s muffled keening.
Leaden, Allan walked away.
19
Halifax, May 9
9:30 p.m.
Allan steeped a pot of tea and made a tuna sandwich. As he sat at the kitchen table with his meal, he wondered how many times he’d eaten alone since his transfer to Major Crimes.
When he finished, he retired to the living room. He turned on the television, flipped to CNN, and lowered the volume before dropping heavily onto the chesterfield. From the television screen, a dark-haired anchorman talked about how the Gulf of Mexico oil spill was threatening a bird sanctuary.
Allan shut his eyes, half listening to the broadcast. He felt Buddy leap up, heard the deep rumble of his purr. He reached out and petted the cat.
Ending his broadcast, the anchorman wished all the mothers out there a Happy Mother’s Day.
Allan’s eyes snapped open.
Mother’s Day?
He sat up, wincing.
I’m sorry, Mom. I completely forgot.
Then it occurred to him with a deep sadness what a special tragedy this day had been for the mother of Brad Hawkins.
Allan got up and went to the kitchen to retrieve his notebook and pen from his coat pocket. When he returned to sit down again, Buddy had retreated to his favorite chair by the fireplace.
Allan wrote down a to-do list for the next day—visit the addresses that had no answer during the initial canvass. Check out the waterfront bars in case there were rumors going around about the murder. Interview the friends and relatives of Brad Hawkins.
The telephone rang. Allan looked at his watch. 9:45 p.m. He reached across the coffee table and picked up the handset.
“Detective Stanton.”
On the other end, a young boy’s voice beamed. “Dad!”
Hearing his son again seemed to ignite a spark of renewed energy inside Allan. For the first time in weeks he managed a smile. He picked up the TV remote and muted the volume.
He asked, “How are you doing, little man?”
