Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Thank you,” he said simply.

  “I haven’t done anything yet. Not till I know what I’m dealing with. And who.”

  “Julio. Julio Rodriguez.”

  Matthew hid his excitement behind an intense inspection of the renovation work. He walked from room to room, listening to Julio rattle on about the walls he’d torn out, the supporting beams he’d installed, the new kitchen cabinets, and the electrical and plumbing subcontractors he’d already had to pay out of his own pocket. Now and then Matthew sneaked a surreptitious glance at the man. He was looking for signs of nerves or guilt, of which there were plenty. He talked too fast and flitted from room to room and topic to topic. Benson had paid some of the earlier bills, but by Julio’s own accounting, he was still out ten grand on subcontractors and supplies, and now the man who had promised to pay him on nothing more than a handshake was dead.

  Matthew doubted the grieving widow would be willing to pay up on a house her husband had kept secret from her. A house that clearly wasn’t intended for her. It was a tiny bungalow in a working-class area tucked up against the railroad tracks, where neighbours lived cheek by jowl, shared gossip across their adjoining front porches, grew vegetables in their minuscule backyards, and parked their second-hand Hondas and Chevies in the street. What had Benson been up to? And Julio. Surely this was the same Julio Benson had hired to work on the Georgian Bay mansion, the same Julio who might have supplied Kaitlyn with the drugs that almost killed her.

  Was he also a killer? Amanda thought he might have been involved with Danielle. Just how involved was he in her escape, in the theft of her documents, and in the deaths of Ronny and Benson?

  Matthew was standing in the bathroom of the newly finished basement apartment, pretending to admire the tile work around the tub, when he became aware of silence. Julio had run out of words and stood in the hallway, looking at him apprehensively. Matthew could see no guile in his expression, no hint of deception or threat. For the moment he decided to play along.

  “It’s nice work,” he said. “You’ve put a lot of effort into this.”

  Julio nodded. “I have no more money. I borrow from suppliers, I put up my truck … if I don’t get money, I lose everything.”

  On the face of it, Julio appeared to have a lot more to lose with Benson dead than alive, and thus no motive at all for killing him. Unless his commitment to Danielle and his desire to help her were stronger. Or Benson’s death was an accident.

  “But there is no contract,” he said.

  “I …” Julio shrugged sheepishly. “No. Dr. Benson’s word was always good.”

  “Have you got any records at all? Phone messages, emails, bank records of the money he’s already paid? Anything that proves you had an agreement?”

  “It was always cash. Maybe I have texts, but not from Dr. Benson’s phone.”

  Matthew frowned. “Whose phone?”

  “I don’t know.” Julio’s gaze flickered, and for the first time Matthew sensed he was lying. “Can you help me?”

  “What you need, Julio, is a lawyer who specializes in contracts. I have a friend who does this kind of law. I can put you in touch with him —”

  “But I have no money!”

  “I’ll tell him to charge you a fair price.”

  Julio stared at him, hope dying in his eyes.

  “It’s your best chance,” Matthew said.

  “You tell Danielle’s friends you can fix things.”

  “Not this. Not with no proof. Not when you’re hiding things from me.”

  Julio stiffened. “What things?”

  “The phone number. Is it a prepaid phone? Illegal?”

  “No! Why do you think that?”

  Matthew turned to go back up the stairs, giving a message of dismissal. “Because this makes no sense. Why would Benson Humphries leave no record of your agreement? Why would he buy this house in this neighbourhood?”

  “It’s a nice house! And a nice neighbourhood.”

  “But not for the Benson Humphries of this world. He’s a wealthy man. If this was all legal and above board —”

  “It is legal! It’s not for him, this house.”

  Matthew stopped. “Ah.”

  Julio breathed deeply and shook his head as if to chase away his anger. “You help me or not?”

  “Who’s the house for?”

  “He’s a good man. He’s only trying to help.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “It’s for Danielle.”

  Chris peered through the open glass doors into the airport terminal. He and Amanda were huddled outside near the departure entrance, as close as Amanda could go with Kaylee in tow.

  “I should go,” Chris said. “The security line might be pretty long.”

  Amanda tightened her grip on his hand. Around them, cabs and private cars pulled in and out in a dizzying swirl, and the constant thunder of jet engines ricocheted off the concrete. People poured in through the doors, some bewildered and others striding with purpose, and the clack of footsteps and luggage wheels mingled with the constant drone of the PA.

  “There’s still lots of time,” she countered. “Two hours.”

  “But this is Pearson at rush hour.”

  She tilted her head to look at him, and he must have read the hurt in her eyes, for he smiled ruefully. “Sergeant Knotts will kill me if I miss this flight. You know …” He hesitated. “I’m on pretty thin ice as it is. If he ever got word — if Neville Standish ever decided to complain to the RCMP about me snooping around —”

  “But you didn’t! Well, not really. Trouble just kept falling into our laps.”

  He didn’t laugh. “Because we were snooping around. My career can’t take any more trouble right now. Not after Mont-Tremblant.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “I guess I’m a bad influence on you.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Very bad. I love it.”

  She watched a family of six struggling to balance a huge pile of luggage on a trolley while saying goodbye to two other carloads of relatives. The women and girls were wearing bright red and yellow saris with trailing scarves, while the husbands wore standard suits and the small boys sported CN Tower T-shirts. There was a flurry of chatter and hugs before one by one they headed through the doors. Families, struggling with parting.

  “So what’s next, Officer?” Amanda said gaily.

  “When your kayaking trip is over, come to Newfoundland for a visit.”

  She hesitated. Memories of her ordeal in Newfoundland rose unbidden. Of being lost and terrified in the wilderness. Battling the ferocious surf, pursued by killers, dogged by loss.

  Once again he seemed to read her mind. “We’ll go to the east coast. Trinity Bay or the Burin Peninsula. They’re full of quaint, colourful fishing villages and sparkling coves. It’s completely different from the northern peninsula. There’s art and theatre and comfy B&Bs.”

  “How much time can you get away from Sergeant Tight-Ass?”

  He laughed. “Come for Labour Day weekend, and I’ll take the rest of the week off. Early September is the perfect time to visit Newfoundland.”

  She gave him a sharp look. How quickly he’d forgotten! To his credit, he flushed. “This time will be different, I promise you.”

  She sighed. She knew he was right. The island was not to blame for her experience, nor was avoiding it going to erase the fear. Facing it, and laying down good memories, was the best way. Not that she ever intended to go back to northern Nigeria. Some memories were just too horrifying to be written over.

  She was about to acquiesce when her phone rang. She glanced at it. “It’s Matthew.”

  He extricated himself and stood up. “I should go.”

  Kaylee leaped to her feet, anticipating action. Amanda answered. “Matthew —”

  “I have news!” Matthew burst out.

  “Wait a sec,” she said. “I want to say goodbye to Chris.” She shoved her phone in her pocket and stood on her tiptoes so she
could wrap both arms around his neck. “Despite the craziness …”

  His lips brushed hers. “This week was great.”

  “You do give a girl a good time. Even if I am a bad influence.”

  “You’re worth it.” He enveloped her in a hug and murmured into her ear. “Promise me you won’t do anything … rash.”

  Instinctively, she stiffened before burying herself deeper into his arms. Now was not the time to take issue.

  “This has to last a long time,” she whispered instead.

  “Matthew’s waiting.”

  “Who?”

  They laughed and gave each other one last hug. “Newfoundland, then,” she murmured before letting him slip slowly from her grasp. She watched him stride through the doors toward security, all elbows and knees like an inexpertly controlled marionette. When he was out of sight, after one last wave, sadness rolled over her. She took a moment before she fished her phone out of her pocket.

  “Where are you?” Matthew asked.

  “Just leaving the airport.”

  “Okay. I’ve got huge news. Meet me for dinner?”

  She glanced at her watch. It was not even six o’clock, but she hadn’t eaten since a hasty sandwich in Parry Sound. “Can you give me a hint?”

  “Benson’s been a bad boy.” He chuckled. “The rest can wait until I see you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Amanda could barely contain herself as she listened to Matthew describe his day. Like a good storyteller, he spun the story out, building suspense, setting the scene, and drawing her through the drama until the final big reveal. They were sitting on the shaded side patio of an Italian restaurant on Queen Street West with Kaylee tied to the other side of the railing beside them. They had ordered, and while they waited for their antipasto, they shared a bottle of wine. A soft, warm breeze filtered through the trees, and the evening sun cast long shadows over the tiled floor.

  “Benson was bankrolling Danielle’s escape,” Matthew concluded triumphantly. “Behind his wife’s back! And setting her up in her own place. He paid cash, over six hundred grand, through a private sale. And then there’s the renovation costs on top of that, also in cash. We know his family didn’t come from money, so it makes you wonder how he paid for the house.”

  Trying not to jump to conclusions, Amanda ran through possible explanations. The most innocuous; maybe Benson had saved up the required amount of money on his own. He was a successful doctor who’d been in practice for several years. If Janine’s money covered most of the family’s general living expenses, it was just conceivable that, with personal frugality and a good financial advisor, he could save up that much.

  Or maybe Janine had either lent him the money or given him access to her own money. But Janine didn’t seem like the type to part with more than half a million without asking questions, unless Benson had lied and invented another reason for wanting it. Maybe he told her he wanted to purchase an investment property. Janine might have seen the little house as a good investment in Toronto’s soaring housing market but certainly not as a place for her nanny to escape to. Janine would be furious if she found out.

  The third possibility was even more alarming. What if Benson had been syphoning money out of his wife’s account without her noticing? Janine didn’t strike Amanda as the type who would be easy to fool or the type who would shrug it off if she found out about it.

  “Either way,” Matthew replied after she’d run her theories by him, “it doesn’t matter. It’s all degrees of deception. He was going behind her back, actively opposing her wishes by supporting the nanny. We know she didn’t want the nanny to leave them and went as far as to lock up her papers. And —” He held up his finger in triumph “— equally important, why did he do it?”

  She could tell by the gleam in his eye that he was imagining the worst, but she was reluctant to go down that path. “Maybe he was just a decent guy. He knew Danielle was being mistreated, that in fact her rights were being violated, but she was too scared to cross Janine. Janine would make sure she never got a reference, never got another job, and she’d be on a plane back to the Philippines in disgrace. He knew she was trapped.”

  He snorted. “Oh, Amanda.”

  She suppressed her irritation and took a long sip of the cool, crisp Pinot Grigio to marshal her arguments. “I’ve been giving Benson a lot of thought. I think he felt trapped too, between a selfish, unfeeling wife and three small children who loved and needed him. Kaitlyn, too, for that matter.”

  “And the money wasn’t bad either. The island mansion, the antique boat …”

  She conceded the point. His photos of the bay and his sheer joy at driving that beautiful boat showed how much he loved the place as an escape from the relentless pressures of city life, from the life-and-death challenges of his job, from the foundations, charities, and public engagements that filled many of his free hours.

  “But he probably knew that Janine would make life miser­able for him and the children if he left her,” she said. “She’d use the children against him. It was lose-lose for him.”

  “But it didn’t have to be! My God, he wasn’t some penniless housewife. I’m sure he earned well in the six figures. He might have had to come down a peg or two, but he could have walked away and supported his kids quite comfortably.”

  “For all we know, that might be what he was saving up money for, and then the chance to help Danielle came along, so he …”

  The waiter brought the platter of antipasto and set it down with a flourish. They both fell silent while he topped up their wine. Once he left, Matthew reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “That’s what I love about you, Amanda. After all you’ve seen and all you’ve been through, you still believe the best of people.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.” She flushed. “You think I’m being naive?”

  He shrugged. “I just think it’s complicated. By your own argument, Benson was a lonely man and starved for genuine affection. Danielle is a pretty young woman, alone in a foreign land, vulnerable, abused by her employer — that same emotionally cold woman. She was caring for his children, very likely providing the love they should have been getting from their mother. Even if we buy the premise that he was a decent man, it’s easy to see how feelings could get stirred up. Relationships blurred. He may have genuinely thought he was helping her to get away from an intolerable situation and in the process giving them both a little shot at much-needed love.”

  “But there’s the husband.”

  He nodded. “And there’s the rub. Benson might have been willing to have her as a part-time lover — he had a wife himself, after all — but I doubt Danielle could manage that. Certainly her husband wouldn’t.”

  “Danielle was only twenty-two when they married, and she spent most of the last five years thousands of miles away from her husband. He might be little more than a stranger to her, whereas Benson was there in her life every day.”

  As she spoke, however, she remembered Danielle had even consulted a lawyer up in Pointe au Baril about sponsoring her husband to come to Canada. Not the actions of a woman who was planning to ditch him and team up with someone else. Doubt crept in, and with it a flare of anger. Benson might be a decent guy; he might even have developed genuine feelings for Danielle over the two years she’d been with them. But was he, deep down, no different from all the other privileged white men who took what they wanted because they could? Danielle would have had little say in the matter without risking her job and her status in this country. Like so many women in her position, keeping him happy with sexual favours might have seemed like a small price to pay for her future freedom and citizenship. Perhaps she’d assumed that when her husband arrived, the arrangement with Benson would be over.

  His purchase of a house for her suggested it would not.

  Amanda turned the unsavoury idea over in her mind with dismay, for this new twist gave them not one, not two, but three people who might have wanted Benson dead. Janine, the
husband Fernando, and Danielle herself.

  The waiter had swept away the antipasto platter without her even noticing, and he arrived now with two steaming bowls of penne with scallops in rosé sauce. The fragrance of wine, garlic, basil, and seafood filled the air, and Matthew grinned like a small boy. Amanda banished her dark thoughts with an effort. She didn’t know Benson. She didn’t know Danielle. Nor did she know the complicated dance between them. She couldn’t know how desperate they were or what they were capable of.

  Time to put it all behind her and focus on her own life for once. She was halfway through her pasta and was just beginning to accomplish that when Matthew’s phone rang. Matthew frowned at the number. When he answered, a high-pitched, agitated female voice blasted through the speaker.

  “Mr. Goderich? Mr. Matthew Goderich!”

  Matthew jerked the phone away from his ear. “Speaking.”

  “Who are you? What are you doing?”

  The words were muffled by a slight accent. Matthew drew the phone back to his ear. “Danielle?” he ventured.

  Amanda bolted upright, gesticulating. Speaker phone!

  Matthew made the switch, and the woman’s familiar voice flooded in. She sounded as frantic and frightened as she had that first time on the lake. “What do you want? I didn’t call you. You are not my lawyer.”

  He sidestepped adroitly. “Danielle, you sound in trouble. Maybe I can help?”

  “Who are you? Police? Reporter?”

  “No, I work with Amanda Doucette, the woman who helped to rescue you on the lake. She’s trying to help you.”

  “Why?”

  Amanda opened her mouth to interject, but Matthew held up his hand. He lowered his voice. “We know you’re in a lot of trouble. Maybe for things that aren’t your fault.”

  “Not my fault. No! I didn’t do anything! But how can I explain?”

  “Where are you, Danielle?”

  “I don’t know. We are lost!”