Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  “You mean to herself?” she asked.

  Frankie didn’t answer, but her silence seemed answer enough. Amanda skirted around the thought she was dreading. “Do you think … she’s referring to her part in Benson’s death?”

  “Jesus, I hope not. But yeah.”

  Matthew was jolted awake by the thunder of a motorcycle that seemed to be right below his window, sputtering and roaring. He groped for his phone by the bedside. Three-fucking-forty a.m. Goddamn morons, revving through the deadened streets at this hour of the night.

  He had barely finished that private curse when boots thumped up the stairs and a fist hammered at his door. For an instant, he was back in Africa with officials banging on his door. The next instant, “Matthew!”

  It was a hoarse, urgent whisper, as if she hadn’t already woken the dead with her motorcycle and her boots. He staggered up to let her in. Kaylee burst through the door, her whole body wagging, and immediately snatched up a sock lying on the floor. Amanda followed and stepped into his arms with relief. He held her close, inhaling the dusty, oily, windblown scent of her.

  “I’m dead,” she said. “I figured I’d never get a hotel room at this hour of the night, looking like this and with a motorcycle and a dog. Then I remembered you had a sofa.” She was already peeling off clothes as she headed toward the bathroom. “Pretty please, can you give her some water?”

  Ten minutes later, still damp from the shower, she was crammed into the little chair by his desk, sipping a hot cup of tea. Kaylee was lying with the sock between her paws, hoping for a playmate.

  “You could have waited to drive down in the morning, you know.” He had thrown some jeans and a T-shirt over his boxers, but he still felt like a grubby old man.

  She shook her head. “I’m worried about Kaitlyn. Chris called. He found Fernando. He told me about the lethal opioids and the murder charges against Danielle and Julio.” She glowered at him over the rim of the cup. “You guys should have told me that yesterday, you know. Chris is worried Danielle may be after her, because Kaitlyn knew about the little house, and I’m worried about her state of mind. She’s apparently carrying a whole load of guilt about something. Any luck finding her?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got feelers out. I figure she’ll contact Julio, so I’m leaning on him. We may learn more soon. How is George?”

  The change of topic seemed to dissipate her tension. She glanced up at him and smiled. “Sorry to wake you. Thanks for the tea. It really hits the spot. George is in intensive care. Hairline fracture of his skull where some buckshot grazed him, and some swelling of the brain, but the doctors say he was incredibly lucky. They won’t commit, of course — the next forty-eight hours are critical, blah, blah, blah — but the nurse told me he’ll be okay. They all love him up there because of his charity work, and half the women want to marry him, so he’s in good hands. Larry’s staying with him, and he promised to keep me posted. What a sweetheart Larry is. Beneath that gnarled exterior, he’s a marshmallow.” She stopped for breath. “So first thing in the morning …”

  He took her hand in his and caressed its soft warmth. “Never mind the morning. Now, we’ll sleep. You take my bed, and I’ll take the sofa.”

  “Matthew …”

  “No arguments. You’ve been roughing it for days. At least the bed has no springs poking through it.”

  The same could not be said for the sofa. Long after she stumbled into bed, he lay awake on it, trying to arrange his body to avoid the worst of the sags and lumps. Just when he thought he’d found a manageable position, Kaylee leaped up and claimed the bottom half of the sofa, pinning his legs up to his chest. She was a dead weight, not budging as he tried to squeeze his legs beside her.

  God, they’re a pair, he thought before he drifted into unconsciousness.

  His phone ripped him from sleep at eight o’clock, although to his befuddled brain it still felt like the middle of the night. Instead, daylight seeped in through his sooty window, barely lighting the interior, and the morning rush hour belched fumes below. He groped for the phone.

  Julio’s voice came through, furtive and hushed. “Mr. M?”

  He snapped awake. Amanda appeared in his bedroom doorway, wrapping one of his shirts around herself.

  “Yes, Julio.”

  “Kaitlyn called me. She wants to meet.”

  “What did you arrange?”

  Julio dropped his voice further. Began to whine. “I don’t …”

  “Did you arrange to meet her?” Standing there with his gut hanging over his boxers and his comb-over on end, Matthew was all business. The old reporter quizzing a source.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “What’s not a good idea?”

  “That you come.”

  “Julio! Cut the crap!”

  Beside him, Amanda began to wave her arms around in protest. “I need to see her!” she whispered.

  Matthew waved her to silence. Something had spooked Julio, and he didn’t want him to get any more nervous. “Where is she meeting you?”

  “You will bring police.”

  “No, I will not bring police. Julio, trust me! I want to help her.”

  Julio moaned and muttered a few words in Spanish, possibly prayers, possibly curses, before spitting out the name of a coffee shop on Danforth Avenue. “Her idea,” he said, and then he hung up before Matthew could get in another word. When he and Amanda Googled it, it turned out to be an obscure little spot with a two-star rating on the east Danforth, tucked between a kick-boxing studio and an auto-body repair shop, far from the trendy, gentrified shops of Greektown.

  Certainly far from a Rosedale girl’s normal stomping ground.

  Amanda scooped up the clothes she’d tossed on the floor, gave them a quick sniff, and shrugged. There was no time to waste on niceties; they had to get there ahead of Kaitlyn or at least before she left again. Amanda was still tugging on her sweatshirt as she bolted out the door with Kaylee for her quick morning pee. Back upstairs, she threw some dog food in a bowl.

  “Sorry, princess, but this time you stay here. Guard the fort.”

  Kaylee was too startled to protest as they slammed the door in her face and thundered down the stairs. Outside, Amanda stopped beside her motorcycle with dismay. On the street, the morning traffic inched from red light to red light.

  “We could hail a cab,” she said.

  “Forget it,” he said. “We’ll be much faster on your bike.”

  “There’s not much room.”

  “Since when has that stopped us? In most of the world, a family of six would fit on this thing. With all their belongings.”

  She grinned as memories flooded in of mothers balancing babies on handlebars while kids and garbage bags of clothes hung from every spare inch. “Okay, but hang on tight. I’m going to go really fast!”

  After digging out her extra helmet, she locked the trailer to a post and broke every rule in the book trying to get across downtown Toronto in morning rush hour. She wove in and out of traffic, grazing bumpers, running orange lights, and even jumping onto the sidewalk at one particularly clogged intersection. On the Danforth, driving east against the traffic, she gunned the engine as fast as she dared, praying there were no cops along the way. Matthew, bless him, leaned with her and didn’t say a word.

  They reached the dingy little coffee shop in less than half an hour and spotted Julio sitting at a corner table on the patio with his back to the wall and a view of the street in both directions. To her astonishment, a dark-haired little boy sat with him, perched on a chair with his feet swinging and a large ice cream sundae on the rickety table before him.

  The patio was otherwise deserted, although a steady stream of men in work boots and grimy jackets went in and emerged with take-out coffees. Julio half rose from his seat at the sight of Matthew but froze as Amanda joined him.

  “What’s this?” Matthew demanded. “You brought a kid into the middle of
this? Drug dealers, potential killers?”

  “Who is this?” Julio countered, pulling the child close to him. Fortunately, the boy didn’t seem to understand a word of the talk of drugs and death.

  Amanda stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Amanda Doucette, and I’m guessing this is Raoul, Danielle’s little boy?”

  At the mention of his name, the boy looked up and gave her a broad smile. He had mischievous eyes and a shy grin that made him the spitting image of his father. Amanda leaned down to shake his hand solemnly.

  Matthew was less charming. “What the hell, Julio!”

  “Danielle leave him with me!” Julio exclaimed. “She bang on my door this morning. No clothes, no food —”

  “Was this before or after Kaitlyn called?”

  “Just now. She say she come from the bus from Collingwood. She is very, very angry at me. She say my drugs kill Dr. B and almost kill Kaitlyn. She ask where I buy them, did I know they were bad? I tell her my drugs are always safe, always clean. I only buy from one man.”

  Julio’s voice was rising as he got into his tale, and he waved his arms for emphasis. Sensing his distress, little Raoul tugged at his arm and said something in Tagalog. Julio replied, patted the boy’s head, and rose to take the boy inside. Amanda was so focussed on the drama of the tale that she almost missed the crucial detail. Julio had spoken Tagalog. He and Raoul returned a moment later with a muffin and orange juice for the boy.

  “Julio, you speak Tagalog?” Amanda said quietly.

  He blinked then glanced from Amanda to the boy. “It is a lot like Spanish. Many words are the same.”

  Amanda let it slide. “So where is Danielle now?”

  He shrugged. “I told her it wasn’t my drugs. I say remember when Kaitlyn come to the house? I promise you I will never hurt her? Danielle stops yelling. She goes all funny and she says, ‘Diyos ko po!’ and she takes off.”

  “Where?”

  “Down the street. I don’t know where. She just tell me to take care of Raoul.”

  Amanda’s mind was racing. Had Danielle suddenly remembered a crucial clue? Or seen a connection she’d previously missed? Something about bad drugs? Or Kaitlyn?

  At that moment she glimpsed a figure slouching up the Danforth from the direction of the subway. Pale, haggard, and so thin she barely cast a shadow. Kaitlyn.

  Amanda caught her breath. The drugs, grief, and guilt of the past week had almost killed the girl. Kaitlyn looked up and her bruised, hollowed eyes registered Amanda’s presence. She froze. Her mouth formed a silent “oh,” and she turned to flee, stumbling at the abrupt movement.

  The girl was in no shape to outrun Amanda, who closed the gap in a dozen strides. She took her thin arm and kept her touch gentle as she steered her to the nearest chair. “I’m Amanda, the one who helped save your life. I’m not here to hurt you or to give you grief. I want to help.”

  As if in slow motion, Kaitlyn turned accusing eyes on Julio. “You called them?”

  Julio lifted his shoulders in weak defeat.

  “You’re all bastards! The whole fucking world is nothing but bastards! You made me kill Benson. He’s dead because he took the drugs you sold me!”

  “No, I didn’t! I swear on … on my mother’s grave. I only sell E and weed. That’s what I bring to the island!”

  Kaitlyn was glaring at him, her steely rage fading as doubt crept in. Amanda sucked in her breath as some pieces of the puzzle tumbled into place, forming a diabolical alternative. Who else might have brought drugs to the island? She gripped Kaitlyn’s hands and wouldn’t let her pull away. Willed her to listen.

  “They were not your drugs, Kaitlyn. It wasn’t your fault. Someone put a powerful drug in his drink. Way more powerful than fentanyl. And you found the rest of it in Julio’s cottage. I think it was planted there on purpose to implicate him, or with luck to kill him. Either way, to close the circle.”

  Beside her, Julio recoiled, but Kaitlyn didn’t move.

  Amanda kept her gaze locked on the girl. “I have one very important question for you. Did you tell your mother about the little Mahoney Avenue house?”

  Kaitlyn stared at her through her hollow, haunted eyes. “No,” she whimpered.

  “Kaitlyn, I need the truth.”

  The girl seemed to have no voice. No words. As if a huge well of grief and disbelief and horror were rising up inside. But she managed a faint nod.

  With an effort, Amanda kept her grip tender and her voice soft as she fought the alarm that shot through her. This was what Danielle had realized. This was what had sent her racing out into the street earlier. Racing, very likely, to confront a killer.

  “Thank you, Kaitlyn. I know that was hard.” She took a deep breath and stepped away from the patio. “Matthew, may I have a word with you?”

  In a few rapid words, she sketched out her fear. “Call 911,” she said, already strapping on her helmet. “Send them to Janine Saint Clair’s house. Tell them Danielle, the woman they are looking for, is there.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re needed here to deal with the police and help Kaitlyn.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up her hand. “I won’t do anything stupid. If you call now, the cops should get there ahead of me.” She shoved him back toward the patio. “Go! Text me her address and then take care of Kaitlyn.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Matthew’s further protests were lost in the roar of her motorcycle as she took off. Hunched over the handlebars, she barrelled west along the Danforth, her mind racing to plan the route ahead. For a brief moment she wondered whether, in a bid to keep her safe, Matthew would neglect to send Janine’s address, but as she was crossing the Bloor Street Viaduct, her phone chirped in her pocket. Waiting at a red light, she fished it out. The text from Matthew provided the address and also a note. I think cops on way but dispatcher skeptical.

  She punched the address into her map and had a quick look before revving away from the light. One-handed, she shouted at Siri to phone Chris. Voicemail. Goddamn!

  “Chris,” she yelled over the Bloor Street torrent of trucks, cars, and buses, everyone impatient. “Call Toronto 911. Tell them Danielle is heading to Janine’s house for a confrontation. Not sure they believe me. Use your cop influence.” She hesitated. No time to fill him in or explain reasons. “Remind them Danielle is a murder suspect.”

  She thrust the phone back into her jacket pocket and grabbed her handlebars just in time to slew around the corner north onto Glen Road. Rosedale was a secretive maze of streets that was easy to get lost in, so she was forced to slow down. As she drove deeper into the wealthy enclave, the streets grew hushed. No sirens, no screaming or sounds of attack. Only her motorcycle blasted through the genteel silence.

  She made two wrong turns but finally rounded a corner to see two cruisers parked outside a red-brick mansion at the curve of the crescent. Their engines were idling but their roof lights were off. The house looked quiet and the driveway was empty, with no white Lincoln Navigator in sight.

  One officer was sitting in his cruiser, writing on his computer, while two others were conversing on their radios as they checked out the exterior. All of them looked up in surprise as she rumbled up to the curb and switched off her bike. The closest officer approached her sternly as she was clambering off.

  “Is this your residence, ma’am?”

  “No, I’m Amanda Doucette. I’m the one who requested you.”

  The officer asked for ID and gave her driver’s license a thorough inspection before handing it to the officer in the cruiser, presumably to check whether there were any alerts out on her. Amanda’s reflexive flash of annoyance died as she realized that might save her the trouble of long explanations.

  It did not.

  “Why did you request assistance, ma’am?”

  Amanda launched into an abbreviated version. “I recently learned that Danielle Torres returned to Toronto this morning. There is a warrant out for her arrest i
n connection with the death of Janine Saint Clair’s husband. I believe Danielle may have been coming here to confront Janine.”

  The officer’s face was as impassive as a stone. She had no idea whether he believed her or thought she was an utter nutbar. “There is no one here, ma’am.”

  “Have you checked inside?”

  “We rang the doorbell and looked in the windows. The house appears empty.”

  “Appears? But —”

  One of the officers who had been patrolling the perimeter approached. “Neighbours report no unusual activity,” he said to Officer Stoneface. “The owner of the property left in her vehicle about an hour ago.”

  “Who?” Amanda jumped in. “Janine Saint —”

  Stoneface headed her off. “Thank you for your concern, Ms. Doucette. We’ll take it from here.”

  Stoneface faced her down, blocking her view of the house. She tried to peer around him for signs of movement inside. A twitching curtain or fleeting shadow. Danielle might still have a key to the house, or at least the access code, and she could be hiding in the house, waiting for Janine’s return.

  “Will you be sticking around for a while to make sure there’s no one inside?”

  “We have no grounds for suspicion, Ms. Doucette. As you can see, Mrs. Torres is not here.” Belatedly, Stoneface reached into his pocket and handed her his card. “If you have any further information pertaining to this case, please give this number a call.”

  It was done with diplomatic flourish, but it was a “buzz off” order nonetheless. Amanda returned to her bike and felt three pairs of silent, skeptical eyes on her back as she climbed on. She was frustrated and on edge. She was sure Danielle had been on a mission to confront someone, and who else other than Janine? Only minutes earlier Danielle had learned that Janine knew all along, even before her husband’s death, that Benson had bought Danielle a house.

  Now Janine had gone out. There were two women loose in the city on a collision course that could be deadly.

  As she wove back through the genteel, leafy streets, her mind wrestled with the puzzle, but it wasn’t until she hit the noise and hustle of Bloor Street again that the answer came to her.