Cut to the Bone

by Joan Boswell

  Willem recognized her dilemma. “Probably better for you girls to stick with me when I unlock the front door for the police. I’ll keep you company back here until Hollis returns and we find out what frightened Ginny.”

  Hollis hugged him and the girls before she headed out the door, dreading what she might find on the fifth floor.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The search for Cartwright had been fruitless. Rhona and Ian had both called it quits and gone home. A vodka martini and a snuggle with Obie helped Rhona relax, as did a warm bath. She lay in the water and reviewed what they now knew. They had used credit card slips to identify the murder victim as Veronica Horn. She appeared to have been the women they’d seen being hustled out of the building, and Barney Cartwright appeared to have been the man with her. His car could provide forensic evidence to link him to Veronica.

  As for Sabrina’s murder, they were no closer to a solution, unless they could connect Cartwright to that murder. David Jones, the newly released con who’d spent years in jail for raping Sabrina, remained on their radar. His alibi had checked out, but possibly he’d managed to slip out of the halfway house and travel to Toronto. A video of him walking might correspond to that of one of the many men who had taken care not to expose their faces to the security cameras. On the other hand, if Ginny, not Sabrina, had been the intended victim, a former wronged boyfriend stood first in the line of suspects. Not much to go on, but all they had for now.

  Rhona climbed out of the tub. Just before she went to bed, she’d discovered that her cell phone had run out of juice. It had done this several times lately. It was time for a new one and she would put in a requisition in the morning. No way to know what she’d missed.

  Before she bedded down, she left it recharging on the bedside table beside her land line. She stretched, relaxed into the soft bamboo-fabric sheets, and wondered whether to watch TV or read. She fell asleep before making a decision.

  The clamorous “William Tell Overture” brought her from a deep sleep, fumbling for the phone.

  “Simpson here,” she muttered in a sleep-choked voice.

  “Another event at 68 Delisle,” the dispatcher said. “Thought you’d want to know. We’ve responded to a 911.”

  All vestiges of sleep disappeared.

  “What happened?”

  “Report of an attempted break-in through a window on the fifth floor.”

  “I’m on my way. Have you called my partner?” Rhona asked. Assured that they would, she snapped the phone off and struggled out of bed. Grabbing the outfit she’d worn the day before, she dashed into the bathroom, cleaned her teeth, washed her face, slashed on lipstick, and headed for the door.

  Unless they had a copycat killer, Ginny had been the original target. Two suspects in the frame. Her boyfriend and the john who had punched and frightened her.

  At the apartment building, emergency vehicles littered the street. Rhona couldn’t abandon her car, so she backed up until she reached the driveway of the next apartment building and snaked into their visitors’ lot, where she double parked. She trotted along the sidewalk, identified herself, and marched into the building.

  The officer standing at the door motioned to her.

  “The action’s out back. Somebody’s hung up on the scaffolding.”

  Rhona didn’t wait to learn whether the body was young or old, male or female, dead or alive. She raced for the back of the building.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When Hollis emerged from the elevator, Ginny rushed forward and threw her arms around her. “He must have come back to kill me,” she sobbed.

  It seemed likely but not the time to say so. Patting Ginny on the back, Hollis made reassuring noises before disentangling herself.

  “Do you want to come down to my apartment, or do you want me to go and have a look in your apartment?”

  Ginny stared as if Hollis had suddenly morphed into a madwoman. “Are you crazy? Of course I don’t want you in there. He probably climbed back up and he’ll kill you.” She pushed the elevator button. “Downstairs. Not in your apartment. In the lobby, where I can give my key to the police.” When the elevator door opened, the wail of approaching sirens heralded help’s arrival.

  They emerged in the lobby as emergency workers poured through the door. Hollis watched Willem, who’d been waiting, step forward and hand over the key. Jay and Crystal clung to his arms.

  “I wanted to do that,” Ginny said, fingering her key.

  “One key is as good as another. Ginny, come into my apartment. You’ll only be in the way here.”

  Ginny, her white terrycloth robe pulled tight around her, shook her head. “I want to be here when they bring him down, want to see the man who wants me dead.”

  Hollis understood how Ginny felt. She should stay with her, but she wanted to make sure all was well in her own apartment.

  “I agree, but come with me while I check that the girls aren’t too shook up.”

  Ginny looked across the lobby. “They look fine. Who’s with them? Is that your boyfriend? “

  Hollis patted Ginny’s shoulder. “It is. Come and meet him.”

  Reluctantly, Ginny agreed.

  When they reached the apartment, Hollis introduced Ginny. When Hollis opened the door, Barlow, seeing the crowd in the lobby, streaked between Willem’s legs, and before anyone could stop him rushed up the emergency crew, tail wagging, tongue lolling, hoping someone would play with him.

  “Get that dog out of here,” a firefighter shouted.

  Hollis ran, grabbed the dog, collared him, and looked up to see Rhona striding into the lobby.

  “Out back, the dispatcher said out back,” a man shouted and the group circled as one and headed for the door, Rhona in the lead.

  Out back. What did that mean? The three adults stared at one another. “We’re all awake. We might as well follow the crowd, but we need jackets,” Willem said. He turned to the girls standing behind him. “Kids, grab something warm for yourselves and for Ginny, it’ll be chilly outside.”

  With coats and jackets over their pyjamas, they trooped out into the hall. Hollis pocketed her keys before joining the others.

  They rounded the building and found organized mayhem. The firefighters had trained powerful lights on the side of the building.

  A thin man dressed in dark clothes held onto a horizontal steel bar and rested the toe of one shoe on a lower horizontal bar as he dangled from the fourth-floor scaffolding, alive but in grave danger of plunging to the ground.

  “We think it’s the killer, that he came back,” someone whispered.

  “Did he get another one?” a voice responded.

  As they murmured to each other, the rumoured identity of the hanging man circulated through the crowd. It amazed Hollis that at this hour of the morning so many people had found their way to the scene.

  Firefighters charged past carrying long extension ladders.

  “Careful, careful. Don’t jar the scaffolding or he’ll lose his grip,” the leader shouted as the crew jockeyed the ladder into position.

  Other firefighters positioned themselves to hold a net to catch the man if he did release his hold on the bar.

  Hollis glanced around. At least forty people crammed the edges of the scene. After the whispered identification had circulated, an eerie quiet, broken by the wind sighing through the nearby evergreens, settled over the scene. Only the firefighters’ grunts as they manoeuvred their equipment sounded in the silence.

  “Hang on, buddy, we’re just about there,” one said as the men mounted the ladders.

  “I can’t hold on any longer,” the man yelled and let go.

  The crowd gasped.

  He flipped downward and his head smacked against the board platform on the third floor. It sounded like a watermelon being dropped on concrete. The impact flipped him further away from the scaffolding. The men holding the rescue net moved back quickly and braced themselves. The man landed on his arms and somersaulted over onto his back with an audible sl
ap. He lay still. The crowd sidled forward to watch the next act of the drama.

  After they carefully lowered the net, a paramedic jumped forward and bent over the inert form. Hollis couldn’t see what he did and neither could the onlookers who moved forward again.

  “He’s unconscious, weak vital signs,” the woman reported as she motioned for a stretcher.

  Rhona Simpson spoke to the detective beside her, who waved two police officers over. “Go with him and make sure he’s secure. My partner will go too in case he regains consciousness,” Rhona ordered.

  They loaded him on the stretcher and wheeled him away, but not before Hollis and her pack saw his still-white face.

  “Oh my God,” Ginny breathed.

  At that moment the young man opened his eyes. “Ginny,” he sighed as he was moved toward the waiting ambulance.

  Rhona, standing close to the stretcher, stepped over to them. “You know him,” she said to Ginny.

  Ginny buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  When the excitement ended, the crowd recovered its voice and noisily swarmed toward the street. Rhona grasped Ginny’s elbow.

  “Come with me to the office,” she ordered, ignoring Hollis, Willem, and the girls.

  Hollis hated to relinquish Ginny. Whatever his identity, seeing the man on the stretcher had deeply affected but not terrified the young woman. Not the reaction Ginny would have had if she thought she’d seen a killer. Odd. Who was he?

  Hollis shrugged and was heading back into the building when she remembered Agnes Johnson and their conversation. She surveyed the rapidly departing throng knowing that if Agnes had come outside, she would be moving slowly on her walker. She didn’t see the woman. That too was odd. She couldn’t imagine the curious woman sleeping through the sirens and noise. Maybe she should check on Agnes. But first she needed to catch up with Ginny and the detective.

  “Ms. Simpson,” she said, touching Rhona’s shoulder.

  “What is it?” Rhona said, half turning and not stopping.

  “Did you get the message I left on your voicemail?”

  Rhona thought about the hours that her cell phone had not been receiving messages. “No. What was it?”

  “I have more information that might help identify Sabrina’s killer.”

  Rhona stopped. She kept her hand on Ginny’s elbow and pivoted to face Hollis. “I expect you’re too late. The probable killer is in the ambulance.”

  “Maybe not. I think you should hear what Agnes Johnson has to say,” Hollis insisted.

  Rhona’s eyebrow rose. “Agnes Johnson, the woman on the walker, the insomniac who sat looking out the window half the night.”

  “Right.”

  Rhona surveyed the dispersing mob. “Surprising not to see her here. What did she remember?”

  “I really think she should tell you herself,” Hollis said

  “If you think I should, then I will, but first Ginny and I need to chat,” Rhona said and hurried the girl toward the door.

  Willem stepped forward. “Let’s get these kids back to bed,” he said.

  Inside the girls wanted to talk.

  “Why was the man on the scaffolding?” Jay asked, hugging MacTee, who leaned against her.

  “If Ginny knew him, why did he try to get in her window?” Crystal said, flopping on the sofa. “She screamed. Do you think she saw who it was that scared her?” She fiddled with the piping on the sofa. “I don’t think so. I saw her face when she looked at him and she wasn’t scared.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” Willem said, settling on another chair.

  Hollis checked her watch. “It’s the middle of the night. Maybe we should forget about sleeping and cook up a big breakfast.” She thought the girls would leap at the chance to do something different, something they could tell their friends about when they went to school later in the morning. “Well? Want to do that?”

  Jay sat on the floor with MacTee collapsed next to her. “Crystal can but not me. I’m tired. Hollis, why don’t you wait for Ginny and tell us what she says when we get up in the morning.”

  “Good suggestion,” Willem said. He looked at Hollis. “You want to see to Ginny when Rhona is finished. Why don’t I bed down here so the girls won’t be alone.”

  “Great idea. I want to check on Agnes as well,” Hollis said, grateful that Willem had anticipated her needs.

  Willem yawned. “You kids head for bed so I can go too.”

  Surprisingly, the girls did as he asked. Hollis hugged Willem. “Maybe the CAS will be glad you’re here. Nothing like a strong man in a young girl’s life.”

  When Hollis found the door to the office closed, she settled down to wait. By the time the door opened, she’d slid to the floor and leaned against the door frame, nodding and wishing she could go to bed.

  “Ginny, would you like to sleep on my couch?” she offered.

  Rhona stared at her. “Have you been waiting all this time?”

  “I didn’t want Ginny to have to go back to her apartment alone.”

  “Ms. Wuttenee is suffering from shock,” Rhona said. “Make her a cup of tea with lots of sugar. I have to get downtown and see what’s happening at the hospital.”

  Ginny roused herself. “I hate tea. I want to come with you.” She clutched her hands together so tightly the knuckles shone white. “I need to be there when he wakes up, need to apologize, need to tell him how sorry I am,” she said.

  Sorry! What was going on?

  Rhona assessed the woman. “It’s against my better judgment, but you may come. Maybe if he regains consciousness he’ll tell you why he climbed the scaffolding in the middle of the night.”

  Hollis had her hand on the doorknob when she remembered she’d received a message from Norman.

  “I have something else to tell you,” she said to Rhona.

  “True confession time. Shoot,” Rhona said.

  “You may already know this, but my friend says Mary told him Veronica’s last name is Horn and she’s a Mohawk.”

  “Thanks. We do have that information. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  Trailed by Ginny, Rhona walked down the street feeling as if a weight tied to each foot was slowing her steps.

  As always, in a scene of organized chaos, Emerg operated in high gear in the middle of the night. Ambulances stood under the archway and response workers waited with the stretcher cases they’d rushed to the hospital. She’d read somewhere that whoever took charge of emergency response services planned to change the procedure so the responders would not have wait until hospital medical personnel saw the patients but would transfer them to hospital stretchers and get back on the road. She couldn’t remember if legislation had passed, but since the attendants waited patiently, she assumed it hadn’t.

  “Detective Gilchrist?” she asked the harried triage nurse sitting in the glass-enclosed booth at the entrance to Emerg.

  “Inside in the hall,” the woman said.

  Rhona pushed through the swinging door and walked past a string of gurneys lining the hall until she found Ian, who’d commandeered a chair he’d placed beside the intruder’s stretcher. The other officer leaned against the wall.

  “He came around once, but only for a second,” Ian reported. “They took him to X-ray. He has a severe concussion, three broken fingers, and a broken right arm.” As if answering Rhona’s unspoken question, he said, “No guesses about when he’ll regain consciousness. No ID either.” He looked at Ginny, who stood behind Rhona with her eyes fixed on the young man.

  Rhona put a hand on Ginny’s arm. “He’s Larry Baptiste, Ginny Wuttenee’s ex-boyfriend.”

  Ian glanced from one to the other. “Are we charging him with Ms. Trepanier’s murder?”

  “Not yet. He remains a person of interest. Ms. Wuttenee has permission to sit with him.” She turned to the police officer. “Call us if Baptiste regains consciousness.”

  Ian rose and Ginny took his place. She stared at Larry’s face as if she intended to
memorize it.

  “Ms. Wuttennee,” Rhona said.

  Ginny raised her gaze to meet Rhona’s. “Thank you for letting me do this,” she whispered.

  Rhona produced a facsimile smile. “We’ll talk to you later,” she said.

  Wending their way back through the noisy hospital corridor, Rhona felt the depth of her fatigue. Ian’s drawn grey countenance revealed his exhaustion.

  “We’ll call it a night,” Rhona said. “Hollis Grant told me Agnes Johnson, the woman on the walker, has information for us, but it’s too late to talk to her tonight. We’ll speak to her in the morning.” She glanced at the wall clock. “It’s three. Time for a few hours’ sleep. When Baptiste regains consciousness, we’ll interview him, but I don’t think he killed Sabrina. By morning I hope Cartwright is in custody. We’re a long way from being finished but we have made progress.”

  “Anything on Veronica Horn?” Ian asked.

  “Nothing else.”

  “More to work on tomorrow,” Ian said, yawned, and showed perfect white teeth.

  “I’m heading for a chilled vodka martini and bed,” she said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Once Rhona left, Hollis wanted to tiptoe off to bed, but knowing that Agnes Johnson had not rattled out to watch the events behind the building, she felt uneasy. It wasn’t her job, but that didn’t prevent her from feeling responsible. In the office she flipped open Agnes’s file and phoned.

  Almost four in the morning. Why would there be a busy signal? She grabbed the master key, trundled through the empty lobby and up to Agnes’s apartment. When she pushed the buzzer nothing happened. Reluctantly, she unlocked the door, but when she pushed the door refused to budge. Was someone on the other side holding it closed, or had Agnes fallen against it?

  “Agnes, can you hear me?” she said.

  No response. She used both hands and, inch by inch, moving something heavy on the other side, managed to open the door wide enough to peer inside. She saw thin sticklike legs and worn blue slippers.