by Joan Boswell
“Maybe. It might also mean he’s implicated and is on the run. Either way, it may be dangerous for us to continue the search.”
Candace’s smile faded. “You mean we should sit back and wait for him to contact us or for the police to locate him?”
Hollis nodded.
“You know what the police do to suspects, don’t you?” Candace said.
“Bring them in for questioning and release them if they had nothing to do with the crime,” Hollis said steadily and with conviction.
Candace glared at Hollis. “In a pig’s eye. They twist the evidence to convict. Think about Steven Truscott, Guy Paul Morin and plenty of others. For all we know, hundreds of innocent people are rotting in jail. What happens if the person they’re trying to apprehend runs or appears to reach for a weapon? They grab a taser gun or shoot him with a real gun. Afterwards, they claim they thought he was armed. No sir, I don’t want that to happen to my brother.” She reached forward, eyes locked with Hollis’s and pointed at herself then at Hollis. “We are going to succeed.”
Hollis admired Candace’s determination, but being adamant wasn’t giving them any leads. “Okay, okay, I get the message. The question is how, how are we going to do this?” she said.
Candace’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe our brains will hit on a solution while we sleep,” Hollis said.
* * *
“What did we learn?” Rhona asked as they pulled away from Candace’s house.
“We know what he looks like, what colour of car he drives and that the vehicle is missing. His car lease details should be in his apartment.” Ian flipped his wrist to allow the streetlights to illuminate his watch.
“Flip on the car light,” Rhona said.
“I can see. It’s too late tonight to contact the companies. We’ll get on it first thing,” Ian said.
“I’d guess he’s long gone to who knows where. We’ll issue an APB. His sister wasn’t exactly frank. She knew a lot more than she was saying,” Rhona said.
“Right on. She answered our questions but didn’t volunteer any information. Tomorrow we should also know what the techies uncover in the two computers. We’ll have a lead to Gregory’s identity and maybe know what links him to Danson.”
“Now we locate Preacher Peter.”
They parked on Carlton Street. Ian pointed to the brightly coloured Akenasis van positioned under a street light. A motley collections of souls waited beside it.
“They do a great job for the First Nations people, don’t they?” Ian said.
Rhona assumed someone had told him she was part Cree. If not, this was the time for her to leap in and do so in case he harboured racist sentiments. It would be truly awkward if he made remarks he later had to apologize for.
“They do,” Rhona agreed. “Because of my Cree heritage, I’ve considered volunteering at their drop-in street space. If I did, it might help the police image. Up to now I haven’t done anything about it. The trouble with volunteering is you have to turn up regularly and with our schedules that’s impossible.”
Was she telling the truth? Was it possible she didn’t want to associate with the down-and-out First Nations people who depended on the service. She hoped that wasn’t the reason, but the worm of doubt twisting in her mind made her believe it might be. When this case ended, she’d face herself and her hesitation.
“You’d be a role model,” Ian agreed.
Problem averted. Furtive movements deep in the park. Drug-dealing probably. Not their business tonight. Ahead, a swarm of people jostled and pushed.
“Something going down?” Ian asked as they strode forward and before they saw the truck dispensing free food.
Rhona’s shoulders, which had been hunched around her ears, dropped to their regular position. Regular massages alleviated the knotted tension that accumulated in her shoulders, and she constantly ordered herself to relax, to deal with stress some other way. Not that it did much good, but she tried. Rhona tapped the arm of a man who’d snagged a snack and stepped away from the truck. “Have you seen Preacher Peter?” she asked.
Oversize jeans and a tattered T-shirt draped the tall body. Unshaven, with long hair that badly needed washing, the man sized her up. “Cops,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. How did officers go undercover? Hollis didn’t think she and Ian looked particularly different from others in the neighbourhood, but maybe they gave off a warning scent or stood a certain way. She’d like to ask this man, who didn’t look unfriendly, how he’d known. She would.
“How can you tell?”
He shrugged. “Just can.”
“We’re looking for Preacher Pete.”
“Saw him down outside Moss Park Arena half an hour ago. Collecting a flock. Creepy bastard.” Conversation over, he swung away and unwrapped his sandwich.
Outside Moss Park Arena, young men lugging hockey bags and trailed by girls or family traipsed into the arena. The lively, healthy young crowd pouring into the building contrasted with the sad, sorry men loitering outside the mission across Sherbourne Street.
“He won’t be at the hockey game. We’ll walk west on Queen and see what we come across,” Rhona said.
Minutes later they came upon a crowd forming in the open area behind the arena where the local dogwalkers let their animals run.
“Drugs or salvation?” Ian said.
“God offers you salvation. It’s a brave man who turns him down,” a hoarse voice exhorted.
A man elevated above the crowd was planted atop a white metal step-stool. His almost skeleton thinness and crown of curly white hair increased the impact of his height, as did his outspread arms. A silvery cloak over a gleaming white suit heightened the drama. His audience’s nondescript dark clothing acted as a foil, and the overhead streetlight highlighted him as effectively as a spot light.
“Isn’t that a presentation? He’s like an archangel, isn’t he?” Ian whispered.
Men and women pressed closer. Unlike the chatting, murmuring crowd at the food truck, these people’s silence underlined their intensity. These were the believers.
Rhona and Ian, careful not to invade anyone’s personal space, lingered on the fringe listening to Preacher Peter.
Ian folded down, placed his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “He does have crazy eyes.”
Rhona, keeping her voice low, replied, “Scary, very scary. Let’s move back.”
They shifted away from the rapt audience, none of whom marked their passing.
“I don’t think we can justify breaking this up to ask him questions when all we have is a cranky observation from the official at the shelter,” Rhona said.
“He thinks the guy is a messianic charlatan, which is no doubt true. Let’s wait a few minutes to see if Preacher Peter takes a break. Be ready to move in and tell him we’ll talk to him at his office at ten tomorrow.”
They edged into the rapt audience until they were close enough. When Preacher Peter grabbed a water bottle from one of his supporters, they delivered their message then backed quickly away.
“Enough for tonight,” Rhona said as they headed back to the car.
“He’s charismatic. Probably a charlatan but he may have insights about the murderer. He clearly moves with the masses. Maybe he’s on a crusade to eliminate the slackers himself, the men who refuse to hear his message?” Ian said as he slid into the driver’s seat.
Ten
On Wednesday morning, wind-whipped maple and oak trees showered the still-green grass with red, orange, yellow and brown leaves. The brilliant blue sky added contrast to the dazzling coloured shower. Exhilarated, Hollis burst from the house and drew in great breaths of air that sparkled and effervesced like nature’s champagne. She and MacTee ran their usual route and returned for breakfast. Hollis prepared her usual blueberry and oatmeal breakfast. A creature of culinary habit, she loved the anticipation of a predictable meal. As she enjoyed her berry-laced cereal, the phone rang.
“I
saw you come back. We’re on our way out, but I thought you should know that I had another call at two this morning,” Candace said.
“Tell me.”
“‘Are you looking for Danson or his body?’ the guy whispered, then he gave this insane giggle. It was horrible. Whoever he is, he knows something,” Candace said.
“Maybe, maybe not. As I said before, it may be some sadistic bastard who knows Danson’s missing and gets his kicks out of tormenting you,” Hollis said. “Did you call the police this time?”
“No.”
“They could put a trace on your line. Candace, I really think it’s time to turn everything over to the police.”
“You promised,” Candace said.
“I did, and I’ll keep my promise, but the minute the time is up, we go to them,” Hollis said. She hung up.
Minutes later, she heard Elizabeth in the downstairs hall.
“No day care. Stay with Tee,” Elizabeth shrieked. “Stay home. Lizabet stay home.”
A murmur. Candace had to be persuading Elizabeth that remaining at home was not an option. Elizabeth didn’t protest again.
Then Hollis heard the front door slam. Had Elizabeth won? Was Candace about to enlist her and MacTee as babysitters? She stood up and walked to the window, expecting to see the Volvo parked at the curb. Instead she saw Alberto lugging Poppy’s large, brightly-patterned suitcases to the curb where what must be his small black bag already sat. They were leaving for Vancouver. Alberto dropped the bags, stepped into the street and craned his neck, staring toward Yonge Street. Poppy said something to Alberto, who patted her shoulder. At that moment an airport limousine pulled up, and they climbed inside as the driver hoisted the luggage into the trunk.
How could Poppy leave Toronto knowing her son might be in terrible trouble? How could participation in a dance competition override maternal worry? A puzzling question. Given that Candace had not told Poppy that a body in the morgue might be Danson’s, perhaps her lack of concern was understandable? Poppy knew he was missing but had avoided the terrifying emotional roller coast ride Candace had survived.
After the couple left, Hollis finished her cereal and settled down to work on her flock, to think about Danson and to decide what their next move should be.
No more than twenty minutes later, her buzzer rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone and felt slightly uneasy as she raced downstairs.
“Yes,” she said without opening the door to the front vestibule.
“Hi. Sorry to bother you. It’s Jack Michaels.”
Hollis opened the door.
“The toaster oven won’t toast,” he said abruptly.
“You’d like me to see if I can figure out why?” Hollis said.
Jack nodded.
In the basement apartment, Hollis checked the oven.
“You have to set this dial to toast and use the timers,” she said as she demonstrated. The machine’s light lit up, and it hummed into action.
“I should have figured that out,” Jack said.
Privately, Hollis agreed. Had this been a ploy to get her downstairs to his depressing subterranean lair? Why would he do that unless he simply wanted company? She’d do the neighbourly thing.
“I haven’t finished my breakfast coffee. Would you like a cup?” Hollis offered.
“I would, thanks,” Jack said.
Upstairs, after Jack had survived MacTee’s rush to greet and present him with a well-chewed toy, she invited him to sit down, poured two mugs, offered cream and sugar and sat down.
“How’s your job search going?” she asked.
Jack stared at her as if she’d asked him a question in ancient Urdu. “My job search,” he repeated. “Sorry, I was thinking about something else. I start at the Tim Hortons coffee shop near here on Yonge Street next week. They know about my lacrosse and will work out the shifts.” He lifted his mug. “I’ll smell fresh coffee and baking bread every shift—probably gain ten pounds from inhaling.”
“Glad you found an accommodating employer. Any luck on the housing front?”
“No. I haven’t done any more than go online. Really depressing how much everything costs. Since I got a job near here, I’d like to live in this area. Lots of apartment buildings but all pretty expensive.”
“Starting over in a new city is difficult.”
Jack nodded and leaned forward. “I saw the police car here last night. What happened? Have they found Danson?”
So, the toaster oven had been a ploy to extract information. No doubt the whole lacrosse community wanted to know what had happened to Danson, but Hollis wasn’t about to share the man in the morgue story. “No.”
“Really weird the way he just went. Not like him, was it?” Jack said. He added more milk to his coffee. “You’re friends with his sister, aren’t you?”
Hollis nodded.
“She must have an idea what happened to him. Does she know much about his life? “
“Candace sees him often.”
“It’s the beginning of lacrosse season, and it’s totally weird that Danson would go away when it’s starting.”
Maybe she could turn the tables and pick Jack’s brains about Danson’s life. “It does. What do his teammates think about the situation?”
Jack swallowed a swig of coffee and shrugged. “I’m new. Most of them have played together before.”
What did being new have to do with anything? “They must talk in the locker room,” she persisted.
“Everyone has a different theory. Some think he’s in serious trouble and has run away. Others think it’s a woman and he’ll be back. Most have no idea. They say they don’t care why he’s gone, but they wish he’d get back,” Jack said. “I don’t know any more. To change the subject, did I see the lady on the first floor leave this morning?”
Did this young man do nothing but stare out the window? “You did. She and her partner went to Vancouver for a big dance show.”
“I didn’t know people as old as them did that,” Jack said.
Tactful lad, but at Jack’s age anyone over twenty-five was ancient. Well-preserved though she might be, Poppy would seem decrepit to Jack.
“Well, they do.”
“I guess that’s a specialized world, like lacrosse. Not many people know about lacrosse.”
“You’re right. The whole world must be filled with people with passions that consume them but are little-known to their fellow citizens. There’s a shop on Mt. Pleasant. . .” How would he know where that was when he came from Montreal? “That’s a shopping street that runs parallel to Yonge Street. George’s Trains, a store devoted to model railroaders, has been there for decades. I went in once. There’s an amazing board there. I don’t know if you know, but I certainly didn’t that they have conventions everywhere in North America. The devotees are totally passionate about their trains,” Hollis said.
“There are collectors of almost anything you can name. Old hockey cards—you wouldn’t believe what they’re worth,” Jack said.
“On a smaller scale, things like stamps fetch millions at auction,” Hollis said thinking of her mysterious conversation with Poppy and the strange notice in the paper. “What it is that makes people want to collect? It’s not a gene I possess. It’s difficult for me to imagine the time and money collectors devote to acquiring their treasures.” Hollis smiled at Jack. “What about you?”
Jack shook his head. “Not me.” His gaze rested on the half-made chicken flock. “I bet people buy one of those and then want to collect them. They’re neat.”
“You’re right, they do. After I finish the chickens, I’m making a bulldog for Elizabeth, the little girl downstairs.”
“She’s cute, I bet she’ll like it,” Jack said. “I’d better go. Thanks for the coffee.”
What had Jack really wanted to know? Hollis puzzled over his comments and questions and dismissed him as a nosy young man who lived in the house of a missing person and wanted to know where he’d gone.
But now it was time t
o finish the chickens.
Even throwing herself into a task she enjoyed didn’t take her mind off of Danson. What else could they do?
If she’d been in a silent movie film, she would have clapped her hand to her forehead when the eureka moment occurred. How could she have forgotten the sheet of paper she’d found in Gregory’s book?
Where to go to for a translation? Someone at Balalaika, the long-established Russian restaurant on College Street, would have a person who could do it. Even as she thought about it, she remembered the movie Eastern Promises. It had been about the Russian mob in the UK. The chief villain had been the charming proprietor of a well-established Russian restaurant. In that movie, the heroine needed to have a dead girl’s diary translated and took it to the restaurant owner. Because of her eastern European background, she knew the Russian Mafia operated in London, but it never occurred to her that the genial restaurateur would be part of the mob.
This was Toronto, not London, but maybe she wouldn’t go to the Balalaika. Where else could she go? The University of Toronto, Ryerson or York must have linguistics departments. Surely their professors would be above board.
She booted up her computer. Online she discovered Slavic Studies departments in all three universities. Not that familiar with the city, she located a city map in her backpack, unfolded and spread it on the kitchen counter. York was north and west of the city centre, far from the last subway stop. She could drive there, but why do that when both the University of Toronto and Ryerson were subway rides away? To park anywhere downtown was not only difficult but hideously expensive. Before she could change her mind, she called U of T.
“We often get requests like that,” a sympathetic receptionist responded when she’d explained the situation. “Come in this afternoon. Professor Andrnovich has a class at one and a tutorial at four. He should be in his office by two thirty. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
What would the paper say? Would it give her another lead?
* * *
Wednesday morning. Rhona wandered into her kitchen and appeased her sullen cat, Opie, with treats before she prepared for the day. She chose a charcoal pantsuit and black cowboy boots with red trim, slapped on a modicum of makeup, grabbed a black car coat as the weather woman promised a chilly wind, and this was the day they interviewed Preacher Peter.
