by Joan Boswell
She flicked off the outside light and headed upstairs. What to wear to the Starshine? It shouldn’t matter but it did—she wanted to look serious but not conspicuous. Since clubbing didn’t play any part in her social life, she visualized the front page of the tabloids she studied at the supermarket checkouts. Immediately she pictured thin young women with long, shiny hair, usually blonde, short skirts set off by very high heels and low-cut shimmery tops. None of these items languished in her wardrobe.
Black silk pants, white silk shirt and short black velvet jacket—that should do it. She dressed, regarded herself in the mirror and decided she resembled a waiter. Too bad. At eight o’clock, no swinger worth his or her reputation would be there and anyway, why did she care?
Shouts from downstairs. What was going on? She stepped out on her landing and listened.
“I repeat. Someone has been in my apartment. You must have left the front door open. How could you be so careless?”
Poppy’s shouts could have been heard on the street. Nothing wrong with her pipes.
“Of course I didn’t,” Candace replied in a lower tone.
“Someone has been in.”
“Maybe it was Alberto. He has a key, doesn’t he?”
“He was with me.”
“Danson. Could it have been Danson? Maybe he’s come back from wherever he is.”
Hollis recognized the excitement in Candace’s voice.
“Not too likely. He would have come and seen you. If it wasn’t Danson or Alberto or you, who was it?”
“How do you know someone came in? Was something taken?”
“No. I always leave the phone pad exactly aligned with the phone. Now it’s on the other side of the desk.”
“Poppy. You could have done that yourself. Alberto could have done it. Relax. No one was in your place.”
Hollis, listening intently, thought of the moments she’d spent upstairs talking to Carol and refilling the pumpkin. Surely there hadn’t been time for anyone to enter the house, search and leave. Should she go down and confess the security breach? What good would a “mea culpa” scene do? Instead, she collected purse, coat and car keys and set off.
The Starshine nightclub’s glittering marquee and brightly-lit entrance promised patrons an exciting evening. Located on Richmond Street in the heart of the entertainment district, it was well-positioned to draw in the crowds, but when Hollis arrived, no lines snaked away from the entrance. In fact, the only other person in the vicinity was a panhandler plunked on the pavement with a worn-out cap containing a few coins set on the sidewalk in front of him. Hollis didn’t give to beggars—she preferred to make her donations to homeless shelters and food banks—nevertheless the pathetic wrecks appealing to her goodwill made her feel guilty that she didn’t provide loonies and toonies. She met his gaze and smiled at him.
“Have a nice night,” he said.
She felt even worse. Why couldn’t she deal with her problem and accept her decision? She shook her head and entered the foyer. In the ticket booth, a woman with jet black hair, white makeup and a witch’s hat watched her.
“We don’t open for half an hour,” she said.
“I’m not here as a…” Hollis paused, groping for the right word, “…patron. I want to talk to the manager.”
The young woman ran her eyes over Hollis. “You’re not here about the waitress job, are you?”
That would be the day. She could only imagine how much she’d hate working here. She’d waitressed during her college summers and ranked high on the inefficient, ineffective scale. Time would not have improved her coordination. She shook her head.
“Sam should be in his office. Go in, turn right and up the stairs. First door.”
Hollis followed directions and tapped gently. Told to enter, she obeyed.
The office could not have been more businesslike if it had been located in a downtown office tower. No glitz here. The swarthy man behind the desk wore a dark suit with a dark shirt and tie. If he was supposed to resemble the mobsters in movies about Vegas, he carried it off well. Maybe this was a Halloween outfit?
“What can I do for you?” he asked but didn’t rise or invite her to sit down.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Danson Lafleur,” she said.
He said nothing for a moment as his gaze ran up and down her body like a stockyard buyer estimating a steer’s value. “You don’t look like a cop or smell like a cop, and you would have showed me your badge if you were a cop. Ditto if you were a PI. So who are you and why should I talk to you?”
Nice guy.
“I’m a friend of Danson’s sister. She hasn’t heard from him for two weeks, and she’s worried. I thought you might have an idea where he’d gone.”
“If I did, I don’t know why I’d tell you. As it happens, I don’t. Friggin’ asshole left me in the lurch. Didn’t show up for work. Didn’t call. Nada. No, I don’t know. Since he’s no longer on my payroll, I don’t care.” He pulled a file toward him, opened it and lowered his gaze. Clearly this was dismissal time.
“One more question.” Hollis addressed the top of his slicked back hair, thinking he should use dandruff shampoo. “Did he ever talk to you or anyone here about his private life?”
The man snorted, making the sheet of paper in front of him flutter. He stared at her. “Lady, he was the bouncer. I’m not on intimate terms with my bouncers. Talk to Spike. He’s the other one. Maybe he knows something.”
Hollis wended her way back to the foyer to talk to the ticket seller.
“When does Spike get here?” she asked.
“He’s out back in the kitchen,” the woman replied. “Go through the club then the door to the left of the stage.”
Would the bouncer be more helpful than the manager? She had to hope. She was running out of leads.
Hollis moved to the kitchen of the Starshine Club to talk to the bouncer. She felt sure she’d found her man when she spied a massive, heavily muscled, bald man leaning in the kitchen door frame, drinking a can of Red Bull and chatting with a scantily clad waitress. When he smiled at Hollis, she noted his gold-capped teeth. “You want the boss?” he said.
“Actually, if you’re Spike, I came to talk to you,” Hollis replied.
Spike’s smile evaporated. “What about?” His heavily accented voice had turned unfriendly.
“About Danson Lafleur, my friend’s brother,” Hollis said.
Spike sighed and his lips twisted into a rueful grimace. “Sorry, I’m suspicious of people.” He shook his head. “This sometimes bad scene.”
“I’m sure. That’s why I’m here. You know Danson has disappeared?”
Spike shook his head and waved the Red Bull can. “Surprised boss fire him. Never know he had problem.”
“When he didn’t show up for work, the boss left a phone message that he was fired. Did he talk to you or did you hear that he was in any kind of trouble?” She clutched her handbag to her chest as she waited for his reply.
Spike’s furrowed brow and pursed lips gave Hollis the impression he was thinking, and it wasn’t an easy process.
“We talked. Sometimes ended up in kitchen before or after work. Friendly guy. Never told nothing private or anything.” He continued to frown. This conversation appeared to be taking a toll on his mental abilities. “Except once, long time back. I remember, ’cause he was interested.”
“What did you talk about?” Hollis tightened her grip on her bag. She needed something significant, something to give her a lead.
“After shift, sometimes three or four, I get hungry. There’s all-night souvlaki place down King Street.” He grinned, “Three o’clock in morning—interesting people. Anyway, maybe can’t tell from name or accent, but I’m Russian.”
English clearly wasn’t his first language, but Hollis hadn’t picked up on what his first might have been.
“Anyway, I kinda like to know what bad guy Russians do.” He hesitated. “Some into bad things. I try keep nose clean.” He
grinned again. “To do, you have to know what they do and who they are.”
This sounded interesting, Hollis thought.
“Anyway, like I say, was eating souvlaki, minding own business, when I seen guy come in alone.”
Hollis felt her eyebrows lift. Why would he be surprised to see someone come in by himself? What significance would it have?
“I see I said wrong,” Spike said. “Guy’s connected to,” again he paused before he breathed the word, “mob.”
She nodded, as if talking about the Russian mob was something she did every day.
“Anyway, mob go in packs.” He frowned. “Suppose that’s why they call them mob?”
“Must be,” Hollis agreed.
“Anyway, guy comes in. I recognize him except I don’t. He got same triangle face of mob guy that got caught, sent to pen and deported. Rest of him different.”
“How so?”
“Hair brown—was black, eyes dark—were blue, big glasses—never had before, and is thin—used be fat and was never alone. Never knew him to talk to. Don’t stare, ’cause, if same guy, is dangerous. Take second look when I think it okay. Either deported guy is cousin or is same guy but changed. Strange.”
Immediately, Hollis thought about Danson’s tracking activities. “Did you tell Danson about him?”
“Yah, I did.”
“What had the Russian done to be sent to prison and deported?”
“Something I know nothing about. Think they call it company, no, not right. What they call those places where there are many companies? Whole bunch off Highway 400 and Highway 403?”
“Industrial parks.”
“Right. Russian guy charged with industrial something.”
“Espionage?”
“Right. Also suspected of murder, but not able to prove. Anyway, told Danson ’cause that kind of thing important to him.” His brow furrowed. “Didn’t some guy that came back whack girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Guess that’s why he interested.”
Hollis suspected Danson had not told Spike that he searched these men out and did his best to get them thrown out of the country again.
“When did you have this conversation?”
“While ago. September?”
“That was the last time you really talked to him?”
“Couple weeks ago he asked if I do double shifts if he’s away. Something he had to do. Wanted to keep job. Would be okay if we fixed it between us.” He smiled, obviously pleased he’d dug out this information. “That what you want to know?”
“Exactly,” Hollis said, wanting to praise this big, slow guy and make him feel useful. She wondered when he’d come to Canada—he didn’t talk as if he was a product of the Canadian school system. She’d ask.
“How did you end up here?” she said, loosening her grip on her purse and hooking it over her shoulder.
“Here?’ he gestured at the kitchen, at the waitress filling salt shakers and listening to their conversation.
“No. In Canada.”
“Long story.” He scrutinized his watch, a massive affair with a black, stud-crusted band. “Got time.” He resettled himself against the door frame. “Father die in Russia. Mother bring me and brother.”
“Brave move to come to a new country,” Hollis said. Anticipating a lengthy tale and seeing nowhere to sit, she’d moved into the kitchen and leaned against a counter.
“Not good. Nurse in old country. No job here. She clean offices to feed us. Very mad,” he frowned.
“You went to school?”
“No, too old. Went to work. Younger brother, Boris, go to high school. Mother wanted more, but he quit,” he sighed. “Sad story.”
“What happened to him?”
“Dead.” He crossed his arms on his chest. “That how I know about mob—Boris work for them. Deal drugs. Guy kill him.”
“Your poor mother. To bring you here and have that happen.”
“Very bad.” Spike tapped his forehead. “She go cuckoo.” He shrugged, but it was a gesture of helplessness, not indifference. “I try to help, but she cuckoo.”
Hollis wished she hadn’t pursued the topic since the subject made Spike unhappy. Maybe she could help? If his mother hadn’t plugged into the mental health system, it wasn’t too late. She still could. There was help available.
“Does your mom live in Toronto? Is she seeing a doctor?” she asked.
Spike shook his head like a bull shaking off a cloud of unwelcome flies. “No help. Doesn’t want.”
Time to change the subject. “I am sorry. To get back to Danson, if you could tell me where he was going, that would be perfect, but I don’t suppose he told anyone.” She smiled again as Spike crunched his drink can and tossed it in the garbage. “Spike, that was great, thanks.” She proffered an up-to-date card she’d printed on her computer. “Take this, and if you think of anything else please call me.”
The waitress, who’d been following their exchange as if it were a ping-pong game, approached timidly. “I talked to Danson a lot,” she said.
Hollis stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Hollis, a friend of Danson’s sister, Candace.”
“Molly,” the girl replied, shaking the proffered hand then plunging her hands deep in the pockets of her apron. “He liked to talk to me because he said I reminded him of his girlfriend, the one who was shot. Danson always wanted to make sure I was okay. I think he worried that guys in there,” she withdrew her right hand and pointed through the swinging doors, “would come on to me, but it isn’t like this is a strip club. They come in couples or bunches and stick together like glue.” She leaned forward, pulled her hands from her pockets, clutched them together and lowered her voice. “I did call his place when he didn’t show up, but I got the answering machine. I’ve been worrying about him—it wasn’t like him not to show up for work.”
According to Candace, Danson responded to those in need, and Molly looked as if her life had been hard and probably still was. Thin to the point of emaciation, she needed dental work to correct an obvious overbite. Heavy makeup failed to cover a poor complexion, and her brittle blonde hair needed conditioning and loving kindness. She radiated concern when she spoke of Danson.
“His family is worried too,” Hollis said. “Can you think of anything he said that might give us an idea where he might have gone?”
“I talked to him the last day he worked, the Saturday, and he said he’d just figured out that someone was jerking him around, and he wasn’t going to stand for it.”
“Did you ask him what he meant?”
Molly nodded and twisted one of the many silver rings on her fingers. “He said the less I knew the better. That he was playing in the big leagues where they didn’t mess around.”
Exactly what she’d feared. The hunter had become the hunted. Somehow the pursued had fingered Danson, who was now in big trouble.
“I wish I’d asked more questions, tried to make him tell me what had happened,” Molly said as she increased the speed of the twirling ring. “I knew our talk was upsetting him. He was always nice to me, and I didn’t want to do that.” A tear glistened and slid down her cheek. “He was the greatest guy. I always envied his girlfriend. Imagine having someone like Danson love you.” She shook her head. Her smile was rueful. “Actually, I can’t imagine it. I attract the creeps. It’s like I have a sign floating over my head that says I’m an easy mark, a pushover, a sucker.”
“Molly, I’m sure you did everything you could. Don’t be hard on yourself. We don’t know for sure that something bad has happened to him.” As she spoke, she had a picture of Candace’s face when she’d returned from the morgue. DNA didn’t lie. But no point in upsetting Molly until they knew for sure what had happened.
A maverick thought floated into her mind. What if the body in the morgue belonged to the elusive Gregory? It could have been his hair brush? Had they ever told the detectives about Gregory? She searched her mind but didn’t come up with an answer. What if Gregory
was the person who’d jerked him around, and Danson had dealt with the problem? She didn’t know him well enough to say if he could be violent. Who knew what circumstances would drive a person over the edge?
This was not a happy thought.
If he’d murdered Gregory, Danson would have had a very good reason to vanish. It would also explain why he hadn’t contacted Candace.
“You will call and tell me when you find out, won’t you?” Molly said. She scrabbled in her white frilled apron pocket and pulled out an order form and pen. After she’d written her name and number, she tore off the sheet and handed it to Hollis. “Don’t forget. Good or bad, I want to know.”
Hollis promised.
As she left the club, she noticed that the panhandler remained but was no longer alone. Costumed patrons lined up halfway down the block. They ignored the man as if he was an inanimate object, a garbage bag set on the sidewalk. Spike, busy vetting and letting in the crowd, waved and winked at Hollis as she passed.
Nine
The next day, a dog walker stumbled upon another body.
Reportedly the victim had been yet another marginal drug user, and he’d been stabbed. Again the corpse was in a back alley near Sherbourne and Carlton. Like the other victims, the man showed no signs that he’d struggled with his assailant. Whoever the killer was, the victims had not considered him a threat until it was too late.
Rhona and Ian, along with others on the task force assigned to the case, were told to recanvass neighbourhood residents for information.
“We’re missing something,” Rhona said. “I know we’ve run a canvass through here before. This time let’s make sure we talk to all the neighbourhood regulars—the moms with their strollers, the people who feed the pigeons, those who walk their dogs, the winos drinking rotgut out of paper bags and anyone else who spends time in Allan Gardens. “
“Then we’ll cross the park to the Salvation Army Mission,” Ian said.
Rhona glanced up at the wall clock. “It closes after breakfast—everyone has to leave—and doesn’t reopen until dinner time, but you’re right, it should be a good spot to talk to people. Regulars hang around outside and across the street at Moss Park Arena.” She gathered her belongings. “I like walking through the gardens. Have you ever been in the—what do they call that glassed roof building? The conservatory?”
