Cut to the Chase. Joan Boswell

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      “Because I live on the second floor?”

      Hollis nodded.

      “It’s mine,” Candace paused. “Well, to be precise, the mortgage company and I own it. I live upstairs because no one wants to have a dancer over her head and certainly not a night hawk who may have a tango inspiration at three a.m. As it is, I sleep with ear plugs. Poppy claims volume allows the music to penetrate ‘the essence of her being’.”

      Elizabeth climbed onto Candace’s knee and snuggled against her. Candace pulled her close. “Hollis, tell me quickly what else you need to know about Danson?” She buried her nose in the toddler’s hair. “You will never know how wonderful it is to have an ally, a friend who knows the ropes.”

      “I’m flattered, but don’t get your hopes up. I’ll do my best, but I’ve never searched for a missing person.”

      Hollis had been making mental lists, an embryonic attack plan. Their first priority was to decide if Danson had left of his own free will.

      “If it’s not an invasion of Danson’s privacy, we should examine his apartment and possessions. You said the man who rents the room isn’t there. What’s his schedule for coming to Toronto?”

      “Haven’t a clue. Gregory was here briefly a couple of weeks ago. Danson said he’d like me to meet him the next time he came to Toronto.” She paused. “I can be more precise. He was there two weeks ago when you were here for lunch. If you remember, Danson said Gregory would leave in the morning, and he didn’t know when he’d be back, but we’d meet him when he did make another appearance.”

      Sometimes roommates were not as they presented themselves. It was a theme Hollywood had explored in a number of movies where a seemingly innocuous roommate emerged as a psychopathic killer.

      “Where did Danson connect with Gregory?”

      “It was the other way around. Gregory found Danson. Apparently he hung out with Danson’s crowd at Concordia University in Montreal. Anyway, it’s a perfect setup. Danson needs the money to carry the apartment’s costs, and Gregory won’t often be there.”

      “A visit to the apartment is first on our list.”

      The tension around Candace’s mouth and eyes had lessened marginally. She ventured a smile. “It will be such a relief to do something. I’m wearing out my phone flipping it open, hoping there’s a message. You may think I’m extremely paranoid, but I’m wondering if I should file a missing persons report with the police?”

      “Good question. Why don’t you wait until we’ve seen his apartment?”

      “I guess a few more hours won’t hurt,” Candace said slowly and reluctantly. She shook her head. “For him not to have phoned...he knows how I feel. It’s not like him. My sixth sense tells me he’s in terrible trouble.”

      Four

      Hollis itched to get going, to visit Danson’s apartment and search for signs that he hadn’t intended to be away for an extended period. Despite Candace’s anxiety, Elizabeth’s shoes came first.

      “You and Elizabeth are going shopping, aren’t you?” Hollis asked.

      Elizabeth, sitting on Candace’s knee, straightened her legs and shook her feet. “New shoes, new shoes,” she chanted as she kicked.

      “She has her afternoon nap first. Then we go.” Candace placed a restraining hand on Elizabeth’s legs. “Now that you’ve agreed to help, I hate to waste a minute, but Elizabeth will be a bear if she doesn’t sleep. After that, I don’t have a choice—we must buy shoes.” She lowered Elizabeth to the floor and steered her toward the door. “No matter how often I repeat it, you’ll never realize the extent of my gratitude. You can’t know how relieved I am that we’re doing something.” She stopped halfway to the hall. “I have a set of Danson’s keys, including those for the front door, mail box, apartment door and garage. To speed things up, why don’t I hand them over and let you begin?”

      Action at last. “Terrific. The garage. What does Danson drive?”

      “He leases a sporty car. I don’t know the make. It’s silver and not expensive. I’m an idiot when it comes to cars, but it’s pretty spiffy.” She corralled Elizabeth. “We’ll shop quickly and join you. Since you’ll have Danson’s keys, buzz us in when we arrive.”

      “Before I go, I’ll grab some things—printer paper, notebook, camera, and maybe the thin plastic gloves I use when I construct papier mâché sculptures.”

      Candace held the toddler’s shoulder as if she wanted to steady herself, as if Elizabeth’s warm body provided stability and anchored her to reality. She shivered. “They say you do that when someone walks over your grave. It scares me to realize you’re taking gloves so that we won’t contaminate anything in case this becomes serious.”

      “Probably silly, but I’ve watched too many episodes of Law and Order and CSI not to think it’s important.” Hollis changed the subject. No point in upsetting Candace any more than necessary. “Write down the instructions for driving to Danson’s. I’m hopeless with verbal directions, and I’m not that familiar with Toronto.”

      A few minutes later, after she’d walked MacTee, Hollis parked her truck across from a rambling three-storey brick house on Bernard Street. A relatively new three-car garage filled most of what had been a large garden beside the house. She sorted the keys, clutched what she thought might be the right one for the garage and, not wanting to alert or alarm anyone peering out of the window, walked confidently to the small door and inserted the key. It worked, and she entered the gloomy, musty space, where she flicked the light switch next to the door. A sedate dark-green Nissan sedan occupied one parking spot.

      One question answered. Danson’s car was gone.

      In the building’s vestibule, she confronted a closed door, three mailboxes and buzzers. Danson did not have his name anywhere. This surprised her. Advice columns warned single women not to advertise their state; to use an initial or simply a surname to indicate where they lived. She wouldn’t have thought the advice applied to men. But given Danson’s tracking obsession, maybe this was a wise precaution. Fortunately, the other tenants’ bells were marked. She’d chat with them if the situation was serious.

      She felt silly when she slipped on clear plastic gloves but ignored the feeling. She had a job to do.

      No newspaper on the shelf under the mailboxes. That proved nothing. Danson probably picked up the Sun, Metro or Star on his travels.

      After she inserted the key, the door flipped open, and mail tumbled out. She scooped it from the floor and bundled it into her large purse before she unlocked the door to the stairs leading up to apartment two. Inside the stairwell, it smelled stale, as if nothing had disturbed the air for days.

      Upstairs, she unlocked Danson’s front door, stepped inside a miniscule hall and took in what she saw. It fit the category—student transitting to young adult. Because of Danson’s age and occupation, she’d expected college dorm or family castoffs. Clearly he’d shopped at Zellers or IKEA—she recognized the white assemble-it-yourself furniture. The black leather sofa and club chairs in the living room shrieked newness. Probably bought to replace a worn-out couch or a futon.

      She СКАЧАТЬ