Cut to the Chase. Joan Boswell

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      If Candace had seen her at Danson’s apartment, she would have realized just how frightened Hollis could be. This was not the time to reveal that. Hollis was tired. She’d anticipated taking MacTee out for a last walk before she pulled on comfy pyjamas along with sheepskin-lined slippers and flopped in front of the TV. She rationalized that a few moments delay until she indulged herself would make the pleasure sweeter.

      Wearily, she trudged upstairs, followed by Candace, unpacked the computer and plugged it in. Candace jittered around the room, and even before the screen lit up, dropped down on the chair, tapping her fingers impatiently, waiting for the machine to boot up. Once it had, she clicked, located the banking site and entered the important information.

      “I’m in,” she said. “First I’ll look at his chequing account.”

      Hollis waited.

      “Bad news. No activity at ATMs since the Friday before.”

      “It could mean someone stole his card and didn’t have the number combo to open it,” Hollis said.

      “And no activity in his Visa account,” Candace said in a low voice.

      “Again, if someone stole it or he lost it, that could be the explanation,” Hollis countered.

      Candace spun around to face her. “Don’t be such a bloody Pollyanna,” she said. “Admit it. You know this isn’t good news.”

      “Okay, it isn’t, but we have to be hopeful.”

      “You be hopeful. I’m going to bed, and I’m anything but hopeful,” Candace said. She rose, scooped up the baby monitor, patted MacTee and left.

      Was this investigation a pointless waste of time? Should she stop playing amateur sleuth and simply wait for the DNA results? If the DNA wasn’t Danson’s, they’d be no further ahead. No, they had to assume he was alive and keep going.

      In the morning she’d plod through the computer files. Tedious work, but it would distract her from her painting problem. She stepped back to examine the large work on the easel. It stared back at her—a huge canvas shining with gold paint but lacking any character or message.

      Maybe she could make a Rothko out of it? Fat chance. When you saw his colour field paintings in books or on slides, they underwhelmed. When you parked yourself in front of the real thing, they vibrated, the colours pulsed, moved and left a retinal afterimage. Her painting looked as if you’d stick it in Holt Renfrew’s store window behind mannikins dressed in clothes accessorized with gold.

      She removed the work and turned it to the wall. Tomorrow, after she finished with the computer files, she’d work on her chickens. Maybe she’d make a papier-mâché needs an accent dog for Elizabeth. Not too big. A bulldog would be perfect, with its short legs and squashed face. Whenever she took MacTee to the off-leash park, they met Winston, a French bulldog crossed with a Pekinese—a Bullnese, one of the new breeds beginning to gain acceptance by the Kennel Club. He was the friendliest and most charming dog she’d ever seen, and MacTee loved her. She’d wheel Elizabeth in her stroller. After the toddler fell in love with Winston, she’d present her with the papier mâché replica. Elizabeth would love it. She’d be able to carry it with her wherever she went.

      * * *

      Hollis awoke to hear the sparrows in the cedar hedge at the side of the property greeting each other and celebrating dawn’s arrival. She lay in bed mulling over what she knew about Danson and his life. MacTee stood beside the bed, sighing and staring at her.

      “I hear you. You know perfectly well you could wait another hour—it’s your breakfast you want.”

      MacTee continued to fix her with an unblinking stare.

      “Okay, I’m up,” she grumbled and slid out of bed.

      Outside, the clear sky and gentle wind promised another glorious Indian summer day. It would be lovely on Centre Island. If she finished reading Danson’s files and found nothing that required more work, she’d return the computer, postpone her chicken work and take MacTee to the Island on the subway and the ferry. They’d spend the afternoon walking and enjoying the glory of Lake Ontario. Today, those sailboats not stashed in dry dock for the winter would be skimming across the lake. She envisioned the white sails interspersed with multi-striped or vividly coloured spinnakers crisscrossing the waves.

      MacTee padded after her as she headed for the bathroom.

      “There’s only one door. I’m coming out. I do not. I repeat, do not, need your help,” Hollis said and shut the door in his face.

      Outside, moving along the sidewalk, she picked up her pace. MacTee and she both needed a fast walk to pump up their heart rates and keep them healthy. Almost an hour later, she let herself into the apartment and portioned out MacTee’s kibble, which he inhaled almost as soon as his dish touched the floor.

      She should eat, but cereal and fruit had lost their appeal, and she lacked the energy to prepare anything else. Maybe a banana and a granola bar would do. The phone rang.

      “I saw you come in. Checking out the computer will take up your morning, but Elizabeth and I want you to come down for an eleven thirty waffle lunch. Elizabeth loves waffles and insists she needs them this morning. I’m not up to waffle-making for breakfast and put her off until noon. It occurred to me you might enjoy them too. Since I’m making batter and hauling the waffle iron down from the cupboard, we should have a bang-up lunch—waffles, blueberries, raspberries—the works.”

      “Sounds great.” What could she contribute from her nearly empty refrigerator? “I do have cottage cheese and vanilla yogurt. I’ll bring both?”

      Cheered by the prospect of a tasty lunch, she plunked down in front of the computer.

      Now to Danson’s files? She tapped his password and watched the screen as his e-mail messages downloaded. A deluge flooded in. Two hundred and forty-seven to be exact. Some from friends, mostly concerning lacrosse. She shuddered seeing the number of messages with attachments. A quick glance told her the majority involved the upcoming lacrosse season—practice and game schedules. She printed seven cryptic ones that might relate to criminal tracking.

      Next she surveyed the sidebar of folders. Family, friends, criminals. Well, that was certainly straightforward.

      She opened “criminals”. He’d begun his crusade three years earlier, shortly after Angie’s death. The first three cases involved Haitians. Not surprising, since immigrants to Montreal came from French-speaking parts of the world. She’d read that the largest Haitian population outside of Haiti lived in Quebec. Newspapers had published the information when the Queen had appointed a Canadian woman, born in Haiti, to be Governor-General.

      The next correspondence involved two Jamaicans in Toronto. Then an Eastern European case and most recently an American. Interesting. Given the U.S. hysteria about border security, they’d allowed a deported criminal to return. She thought about airport security. Actually the U.S. agents’ gimlet eyes assessed incoming and had nothing to do with outgoing. Presumably these criminals had passed Canadian immigration without any trouble. A worrisome thought.

      Time for a plan. She plucked a sheet of newsprint from the pile beside her worktable. At the top she printed “Danson” then drew downward radiating lines to Gregory, recent phone calls, lacrosse, criminals, Poppy, bouncer and e-mail contacts. She left room on СКАЧАТЬ