by Joan Boswell
“Of course, but you always have to be prepared for the worst, for something to happen to the guide or for him to lose his equipment. In the wilderness there are no second chances.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and Rhona felt he hoped something dramatic would challenge him.
He pushed the GPS to one side and tapped it lightly. “Never mind this. We’re here to discuss the case. You know that this afternoon the paper will have the victim’s name. Are we closing in on anyone?”
“We interviewed several possible suspects. One, a man she accused of rape, has just come out of jail, a second has a peeping tom conviction and lives in the building. A profiler would say he’s operating in the neighbourhood where he’s comfortable, but we think his own building is probably a little too close. A third man interests us because he too lives in the building, used the services of the fifth-floor women, and frightened them. We’re also considering the idea that Sabrina Trepanier wasn’t the intended victim, and we’re doing a background work-up on the apartment’s tenant, Ginny Wuttenee.”
“Any johns who might have done it?” Frank asked, his hand reaching again for the GPS.
“We have a list of Sabrina’s clients and we’re talking to Ms. Nesrallah, who owns all the apartments and sometimes screens possible clients for the women. That’s what we have so far,” Rhona said, resisting the urge to tell him to stop fiddling with his newest toy.
“Okay. I’ll give a noncommittal press release. Working through a number of possibilities, etc. etc. By the way, there’s no chance that this is a serial crime, is there?”
“I checked unsolved crimes looking for similarities, and it doesn’t look like it,” Ian said.
“Good. I don’t want any surprises,” Frank said.
Back in the homicide office, Ian shook his head. “He should retire and concentrate on his trips. Except for the necessity of avoiding unfavourable publicity, he really doesn’t seem to care.”
“Never mind, as long as the press doesn’t make it a major issue, it keeps him off our back. Time to go and talk to Ms. Nesrallah.”
Rhona loved the variety in her job. It had its bad moments, but she enjoyed never knowing what was coming next, getting out and interviewing, investigating odd possibilities.
“We’ll stop and talk to Hollis Grant on our way to the interview. She may be a wingnut, but in the past she’s given us useful leads.”
“I’ve made Turkish coffee,” Ms. Nesrallah said as she let the detectives into her apartment, her multi-coloured silk caftan swirling about her legs. Dangling silver earrings composed of discs that gently tinkled as she moved added to her exotic appeal.
Rhona and Ian seated themselves in the living room. Again Rhona felt she’d been transported to North Africa. She’d never travelled there but knew she’d find it intriguing. She already loved the food — humus, tabouli, black olives, falafel — all delicious. Maybe on her next holiday she’d join a tour and see Marrakesh, Casablanca. The names conjured up mystery and intrigue.
Fatima returned and lowered a brass tray with a tall, ornate china coffee pot, small cups, and a plate of pastry to the table.
When they each had coffee and a sinfully rich pine nut baklava, Fatima led off. “You asked me to think about Sabrina, about her clients and about her murder.” She sipped her coffee. “First, can you tell me if she was raped?”
“Why?”
“There are clients who come here to visit us and, despite Viagra and the skillful ministrations of our women, they can’t perform. I suspect these men are very angry and might direct their fury at the woman who was supposed to help and only made them feel more inadequate.”
“Interesting. You think like a psychologist,” Ian said.
Fatima smiled. “You’d be surprised, or maybe you wouldn’t, to know how much psychology we employ. The women on the street don’t have to do that, but we accompany our clients to social functions, we provide the comfort and support they often don’t receive at home. We need skill.” She leaned forward and refilled their cups.
“If she wasn’t raped, can you think of a client who might have hated her enough to kill her?” Rhona asked.
“I’ll think about it and consult the other women. I do know both she and Ginny saw a man who called himself John. He frightened them and they refused to entertain him again. Unfortunately, he contacted them directly and they didn’t check him out as well as I would have.”
“How do you do that?”
“There are websites that rate escorts and others that rate johns. I go online frequently and keep up to date with what’s happening out there. Word gets around about undesirables. In our business there is an underground network where those who’ve had bad experiences share names. If his had turned up, I would have warned the women here not to deal with him.”
Interesting. Like a better business bureau. It was a business, and like any business it was wise to know your customers, to know who had liens against them and complaints about their work. “How did he get their names and contact information?” Rhona asked.
“We never did figure that out. I’m thinking about it because it doesn’t happen often.”
“If you think he was a possible killer, can you describe him?”
Fatima shook her head. “You’d have to talk to Ginny.”
“She’s not here, is she?” Ian asked.
“No, she has a toothache and I sent her to my dentist. She left more than an hour ago and should be back in the next few minutes.”
“Any other thoughts you’d like to share before we show you the information we found in Sabrina’s diary?” Ian asked.
“I’m sure you’ve already figured out that if he was a client who used the door, there will be a photo of him on the security camera.” She smiled. “Most clients never mention the cameras but others, mostly prominent men, fear that having their photos on record could be compromising. We assure them the photos are used to keep the building safe and to record any problems that occur, but I don’t think we make them feel better.” She licked the crumbs of her baklava from her fingers.
Rhona saw Fatima’s action as unconsciously lascivious. Had she intended to titillate, she could have made it even more provocative. Rhona wondered if the woman’s blatant sex appeal had any effect on Rhona’s metrosexual partner. She sneaked a peak but he was making a note in his book and seemed unaffected.
“Yes, we have a complete set of tapes. Fortunately, when this building was updated they installed the best of security systems and all cameras were working, so we have a good record,” Ian said, looking up from his note-making.
Fatima hadn’t finished. “If the attacker came in through the window, he had to be relatively young and agile as well as very determined. Those characteristics would rule out ninety percent of the clientele. Many of our customers are regulars, businessmen in mid-life and often from out of town. They want the sex and the company without any attachments. Not many could or would scale four floors of scaffolding to climb through a window and slash a woman’s throat. I’m happy to help you with Sabrina’s book, but I don’t think it will tell you anything useful.”
Ginny entered the room and said hello.
“Get yourself a cup from the kitchen and have some coffee,” Fatima instructed.
“No thanks, my mouth is frozen,” Ginny said and produced a lopsided grin. “The coffee would dribble out and make a mess.”
Fatima nodded. “Quite right. I told them I knew nothing about the john, that only you could describe him as I never saw or spoke to him.”
“Scary. Big man but in good shape, lots of body hair, really, really ugly and not clean. Bad breath. I was stupid and let him use handcuffs, even though Fatima and Sabrina warned me not to do that. He punched me in the stomach. He hit me so hard I doubled up and collapsed on the floor. But I screamed really loud and I think that scared him off. He called me a fucking bitch and left. He had a look in his eye that frightened me.” Ginny shivered. “I think he would have killed me right then if he thought h
e’d get away with it.”
“Thanks,” Rhona said, thinking that the man sounded as if he could navigate the scaffolding. If they saw him on the security tapes they’d see if they could find out more about him. Wouldn’t he be pleased if they ran his picture on TV as a “person of interest” in the case? He might have a wife who would punch him in the stomach. She wondered how Ginny would react if she shared her idea? Instead she returned to more mundane matters. “Fatima’s about to tell us the meaning of the notations in Sabrina’s book.”
“I need Tylenol,” Ginny said and excused herself.
Rhona handed Fatima the list of clients’ initials and the notations after them. Just as she’d thought they related to individual’s sexual preferences or in the case of “t” and “0” meant talk and no sex. Fatima explained the initials and gave thumbnail sketches of Sabrina’s regular clients. She expressed no suspicion of any except for the man who’d called himself John.
“Did she ever talk about men she refused to have as clients?” Rhona asked.
“Everyone has those. Residents approach you in the lobby. Somehow they believe that living here makes them eligible.” Fatima smiled. “I’ve had a few too.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“I refused Barney Cartwright after the others didn’t and regretted it. He’s a mean man. Threatened to sic the Black Hawks on me, but that isn’t the way motorcycle gangs operate, so he didn’t scare me. Sabrina said some creep approached her and she told him she’d have to be starving to death before she’d consider him. She laughed and said he was really pissed off. That he’d taken for granted that he could use her services. She said that after what she said to him, she didn’t think anyone else would have to worry about him.”
“You don’t know who it was?”
“I don’t. I’m sorry. For the sake of the others I should have asked, but Sabrina convinced me he wouldn’t go near any of us.”
“Later today we’ll ask you and the other women on this floor to come downstairs to the party room. We’re running the security tapes and want you to identify as many men and women as you can.” Rhona checked her watch. “Please have everyone there at eight.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
Step by slow step, the elimination process ground on. Rhona only hoped the killer wouldn’t strike again and send the city into a frenzy.
Eight o’clock — time for the detectives to meet the fifth-floor residents in the party room. With a screen set up, the techies prepared to show the security video, hoping those present would identify everyone they knew, particularly their clients.
Ian and Rhona arrived a few minutes late. When they entered the room the buzz of conversation stopped. Women perched like birds waiting to fly. Fatima, leader of her flock, stood up and stepped forward. “We don’t need to introduce ourselves, since you’ve spoken to each of us. We’re to identify people, particularly men, but how should we let you know when we recognize someone?”
Ian flashed the boyish, off-kilter smile that melted Rhona’s heart and brought answering smiles to the women’s faces.
“Shout ‘bingo’ when you recognize a face. The technician will freeze frame the person and I’ll record the name. If you’d like to say something else about the person, we’ll note that and Rhona will talk to you after we’ve seen the tapes. How does that sound?”
Rhona watched the group. Their appearances varied but not one resembled the women who stood waiting for pick-up on Jarvis, Church, or Sherbourne Streets. Even dressed casually, they would fit in almost anywhere in the city.
Fatima, in flowing black silk pants and a long-sleeved leopard-print top, scored top marks for the most exotic. Glancing at the woman’s feet, Rhona wondered how she managed to walk in the platform-soled shoes. She’d wondered where to find shoes like these until she’d walked downtown from Bloor Street to Dundas and seen two shoe stores that specialized in what had to be called “hooker” shoes. Always keen to increase her height, she’d considered trying on three pairs that appealed to her. She would not have worn them in the office. She imagined the reaction of her fellow officers if she’d teetered in on red leather faux jewel-encrusted platform shoes. Even in her off hours she suspected she’d be unable to walk well, and explaining a sprained or broken ankle resulting from falling off her shoes forced her to give up the idea. Despite her decision, she still coveted the dark green crocodile sandals with cork platforms.
Ginny, with her inky hair, olive skin, and enormous brown eyes, would win runner-up in the ethnic category. Dressed in blue jeans and a sweat shirt, she wore little or no makeup.
A third exotic-looking woman stood no more than five feet and had long, dark hair, fair skin and a childlike body guaranteed to appeal to men who travelled in Asia looking for lithe young Asian women. She too wore blue jeans, probably bought in the children’s department, and a white T-shirt that revealed minuscule breasts.
Unlike this androgynous woman, two others epitomized the football cheerleader with their long blonde hair, blue eyes, large breasts, and long legs. They sat together and appeared to have consulted on wardrobes, since they both wore navy mini-skirts, clinging red jersey tops, and armloads of silver cuffs. As Rhona surveyed the group, one of the cheerleaders, like a schoolgirl, raised her hand.
Ian gave her the nod.
“What will you do if we tell you someone’s name?” she asked in a breathy, little girl voice.
Given their business, this was a legitimate question. Nothing would scare their clients faster than knowing that the police knew who they were. Rhona suspected that many men, reading their morning papers and noting the murder location, would thank the powers they believed in that they hadn’t been caught in any traps and would vow not to visit their favourite women until the police solved the murder and the building returned to normal.
“We want to find the killer quickly. We will investigate, but if a man or men had nothing to do with the killing, they will be eliminated from our list.”
The young woman cocked her head to one side. “So they will know that we named them?” she said in her whispery voice.
“They will,” Ian acknowledged.
Rhona sensed one or two women might at that instant think of their incomes and resolve not to identify clients. Time to step in and speak to them, woman to woman, to persuade them to be honest.
“You may be tempted to hide a client’s identity, but we must eliminate all possibilities in our search. We also need each of you to provide the names of clients who made you uneasy. We value your frank opinions.” She gave them her “girl talking to girl” smile and lowered her voice. “We all remember the times someone or something made us uneasy and we crossed the street or didn’t enter the elevator or took some other evasive action. It sometimes makes you feel you’re overreacting, but we need to listen to the warnings our bodies give us when they read almost invisible signals given by men intending to harm us.” She saw small nods as they recognized the truth of her remarks. “We don’t want to interfere with your lives but we need your help.”
A tall brunette in form-fitting black slacks and an expensive black silk cowl-necked sweater rose, turned to face the others, pulled the sleeve of her sweater up and revealed a jagged scar running from her shoulder to her elbow. “This is what happens when you don’t listen,” she said in a deep voice.
She swung around to face Rhona and Ian. Her green eyes bright and her gaze intent, she said, “I nearly died because I failed to pay attention.” She again addressed her peers. “For all we know, one client has decided to pick us off one by one. I for one intend to name every man or woman I recognize.” She leaned forward. “We never,” she paused, “let me repeat, never, lack clients. If we lose a few because of this, there will always be others. Don’t pretend not to know someone when you do, because that someone may come back and kill you or me or …” Here she lifted a long, elegant hand and pointed at various women, “… or you, or you or you. I’m not a big fan of the police, but I sure want Sabri
na’s killer caught and every one of you must help.”
Sometimes people surprised you. Rhona hadn’t been expecting a real cheerleader in the crowd.
“Thank you. You put the case very well,” Rhona said.
The technician, who’d watched with admiration and lust written on his face, turned to the task at hand.
“We’re starting the tape from last Saturday and running it through Tuesday. We’ve patched tapes together and eliminated repetition and moments when they photographed no one,” Rhona explained. “We’ve tried for a good face shot of everyone, but sometimes we only got the back view. In that case, we included a stretch of the person moving, because people have distinctive gaits and mannerisms.” She waved to the back of the room where she’d arranged with Hollis to have the party room’s coffee urn bubbling and bottles of water set out, along with a box of Tim Hortons doughnuts. She didn’t expect these slim beings, whose bodies represented their capital, to pig out on sweet stuff, but coffee or a cold drink never went amiss.
After they collected what they wanted, the women settled back to watch. Five seconds later someone shouted “Bingo.”
“That’s me,” one of the cheerleaders said.
The group laughed, as did Rhona. “No need to identify yourselves,” she said and decided that either this woman wasn’t one of the brighter lights in the room or had taken on the tension reliever role.
As the tapes rolled the detectives garnered a list of names for Saturday and Sunday. Sunday night the numbers dwindled. At ten on Monday morning, a tall man and a short woman entered the elevator. Dark wraparound glasses covered the man’s eyes and a baseball cap jammed on his head obscured his hair, and the stand-up collar of his jacket masked his face. He had his right arm wrapped around his companion’s shoulder and his gloved left hand held a bag close to her body.
No one shouted “bingo.”
As the pair left the elevator the woman looked directly at the camera.
“Bingo,” Ginny said. “Did you see that? I think she was saying, ‘help.’ I don’t know her.”
