Hollis Grant Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Joan Boswell

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      Following the interview with Staynor, Rhona drove faster than she should have and hurried through the police building to her office where, before she even sat down, she punched in Mary Beth Cardwell’s phone number.

      “Ms Cardwell?”

      “Hang on. She just left. I’ll try to catch her.”

      Rhona crossed her fingers even as she laughed at herself for performing this childish guarantee of good luck.

      “Mary Beth Cardwell here.”

      “It’s Detective Simpson. I won’t keep you a minute—I’m aware you’re not allowed to tell me the name of the person in the file we discussed, and I am obtaining a warrant to have the info released, but the situation here has become critical—the killer may strike again. If I mention a name, could you tell me whether or not to keep searching?”

      “My God—another murder. I want to help. I feel guilty. But, actually I’d have to run it past my boss and she’s left for the day.”

      “It’s very important.”

      Silence. “I’m sorry.” Ms Cardwell’s voice was faint and apologetic. “Unless you send a warrant compelling me to tell you, I have to clear it with my boss. Could you call first thing in the morning, or would you rather I phoned you?”

      “I’ll have the warrant. Call me.” Rhona heard the anger in her voice and told herself to chill out—the poor woman was obeying orders.

      Rhona debated whether she should obtain the okay right away, but, if it was Staynor, she didn’t think he’d act tonight. She’d leave it until tomorrow. She was glad she’d ordered overnight surveillance on Hollis Grant’s house. She opened another file.

      At seven-fifteen, well down in the mound of paper, she unearthed Featherstone’s memo with a breakdown of statistics on the runners: names, addresses, times, and probable positions at the starting line. Featherstone had attached a memo: “We confirmed the last address and name today. Number 1457 was listed as Merrick Rideau, and the address was 922 Roxborough Avenue. That’s a vacant apartment owned by Linda Porter, who said no person by that name lived there, but suggested it might have been one of the university students who rented the place during the school year. It’s a fishy name—Merrick is the name of a town on the Rideau river.”

      The name “Porter” jolted Rhona. Linda Porter was the wife of Knox Porter, the organizer of the St Mark’s memorial refugee fund and a man who, according to Hollis Grant, had disliked Paul Robertson. Her alarm level rose. It must be the same apartment where Hollis had gone to meet Knox Porter.

      Seven fifteen—Hollis was there now.

      Last night, someone had murdered Sally Staynor. If Knox Porter had killed Sally, did he intend to silence Hollis as well?

      Rhona reached into her drawer for her service revolver and buckled her holster on her hip. She called the duty officer and requested backup. “No sirens, It may be a false alarm. If it isn’t, I don’t want him to realize we’re on to him. Have two police cars wait down the street.”

      She regretted it had taken her so long to unearth Featherstone’s report. She berated himself for assuming that because Porter had attended church the Sunday morning of the murder, he hadn’t been at the marathon. God, she hoped she was wrong—hoped this was a false lead, hoped her failure to investigate Porter hadn’t placed Hollis in mortal danger.

      Twenty

      Knox, grunting and swearing, dragged Hollis across the room. He stopped at the top of the stairs. Teetering on the brink with the prospect of a fall, she tensed. The thought of the pummelling her body would endure made her feel like a helpless terrified boater swept along in the Niagara River, aware that the increasing roar of Niagara Falls heralded the awesome plunge of water and a cataclysmic death.

      Knox dropped her winding sheet, walked to her head, placed both hands on her shoulders and shoved.

      She plunged over the edge. Her body, which she tried to keep limp, and her head, which she attempted to protect from the worst of the skull crushing thuds, registered everything.

      Stair followed stair. The arm twisted behind her wrenched farther back with each jarring crash.

      Hollis tasted bile, blood and the dryness of fear. She lost count of the number of steps she thudded down before the flight ended.

      Knox, the model Christian, swore steadily as he hauled her along the second floor hall to the next set of stairs. After a brief respite, he pushed and she crashed step by pain wracked step until she stopped halfway down, wedged crosswise in the stairwell. Knox pushed from above and, when that didn’t work, climbed over her and tugged from below.

      The doorbell rang.

      Hollis’s spirits soared and immediately plummeted. What if Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons waited at the door? They’d ring and go away when no one answered. But it might be Simpson. She clutched at the possibility like a drowning swimmer.

      Knox swore.

      Hollis didn’t breathe. Hapless boaters swept away in the Niagara River must feel like this when a rock outcrop on the brink of the hereafter miraculously saved their lives. She prayed Knox would answer the door.

      Knox walked downstairs. Hollis remained wedged across the stairs with her head on a lower step, her body sprawled over two upper stairs. The sound of his footsteps clumping downward receded. Distantly, she heard him open the door.

      Blood pounded in her ears. She feared it would drown out the voices at the door. If Simpson had arrived, she had to attract her attention. She felt like a “Wheel of Fortune” player with one last roll and Bankrupt coming up.

      “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Porter. I have a couple of questions for you. May I come in?”

      Simpson.

      “I’m busy. Could it wait until tomorrow?”

      “It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

      “Very well. It’s chilly—we’ll go in my house. I was itemizing the stuff up in the apartment we’re using for the refugees, but I’ve finished.” His voice was amazingly calm considering what he’d been doing seconds before.

      “Ms Grant told me. I understood she was coming here tonight?”

      “Quite right, quite right. She came but didn’t stay long.”

      Knox would manoeuvre Simpson out of earshot. Time to act.

      Gagged, it was impossible to scream, but she made as much noise as she could. Simultaneously she thrust her body forward into the void, catapulted through СКАЧАТЬ