Cut to the Chase (15 page)

“True. Small-time users and no mutilation. Doesn't seem likely there was a link. We need to know why the guy's face was smashed and his fingers clipped. It's odd that our man left without his stuff. Maybe he didn't intend to be gone long. We should be able to get confirming DNA from something in there.” Rhona tapped the shaving kit.

“Nothing with his name on it,” Ian said.

“No. Let's try the computer.”

But as Hollis had, they found they needed a password.

“It won't be a problem downtown,” Ian said as he shut it down.

“His computer will provide information, but whether it's relevant, only time will tell,” Rhona said. “While we're here, let's see what info we can root out about Danson and this other man. I'll do the bedroom, you take the living room.”

In Danson's bedroom, she zeroed in on the cell phone plugged into its charger. She punched the keys, read the screen and called to Ian. “Candace phoned a number of times. We'll follow up on the phone book entries—see who he contacted frequently. I'd like to pull his cell phone and his regular phone bills—and take them along, but to be on the safe side and make you happy, we'll get a warrant.” She left the phone and strode to the living room, where she tried Danson's computer but found once again that she needed a password. They'd take this machine as well as Gregory's to the techies.

Ian, bent over an open drawer in the filing cabinet, raised his head. “What about telling Candace her brother might not be the victim—it's cruel to leave her believing he's the dead man.”

Rhona's phone rang. She snapped it open. “You're sure?” she said before she thanked the caller and snapped the phone shut.

Ian raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“The lab. The dental records don't match Danson Lafleur's.”

“More good news for Candace,” Ian said.

“If he was involved with the murdered man, it isn't good, but we'll allow her to enjoy the relief of knowing the body in the morgue isn't her brother. She won't be home from work. First, we'll case the Salvation Army dining hall. After dinner we'll drop in on Candace and share the good news.”

“We'll also see what she knows about the roommate we didn't know existed.”

“Without confessing that we should have asked if he had one,” Rhona said with a grin.

Back in the car, they headed downtown to the mission. This time Rhona drove, even though her hip continued to hurt. She was glad police cars had automatic transmissions —cops had enough to think about without having to change gears. In city traffic, that wasn't much fun.

Her own car had manual—she'd chosen it because she loved shifting up and down, accelerating from zero to who knew what in minimum time. In her weaker moments, she pretended she was a race car driver and, when she was alone, made appropriate noises and commentary as she drove. She shook her head—sometimes when she thought about the things she enjoyed and those that amused her, she wondered if she wasn't suffering a severe case of continuing adolescence. “An overgrown kid—that's what I am.”

“What did you say?” Ian asked.

Rhona realized she'd spoken aloud. “Just thinking that in many ways I haven't grown up. I enjoy the same things I did when I was seventeen.”

“Like what?”

“Driving fast. Pretending I'm on a race track.”

“I'll never admit I said this, but I still get excited when we turn on the siren and drive like crazy. It isn't cool, but I enjoy the adrenalin rush, knowing something serious is going down,” Ian confessed.

Conspiratorial grins flashed between them.

Rhona could have double-parked outside the mission but chose to slot into a small space on Queen Street. They walked back to the Queen and Sherbourne intersection and waited for the light to change. She'd been right. A kaleidoscope of men formed and reformed outside the hostel.

Pausing gave them time to examine the crowd. What stories these homeless men could tell, from simple bad luck, lack of education to mental illness and drug and alcohol addiction. With a helping hand, a tiny minority climbed back to the working or middle class. These few were men with a sense of self-worth, who believed they had something to give, that they'd had a bad break. Others had no illusions. This would be their life until they died.

Rhona hated the laws that forced the mentally ill onto the streets, where they didn't take the meds that offered them hope for a more mainstream life. She knew the stinking, noisy tenements where they lived. The exploitation they endured. Vocal liberals screamed that no one should be forced to take medication or be kept in institutions. These poor souls had freedom of choice.

Big deal. She'd bet the majority of righteous liberals had never seen what their determination to defend individual liberties did to these helpless, unmoored souls. Enough. They were here to see what they could learn. These men, many of whom were addicted to drugs and alcohol, had to be unnerved by their peers' deaths.

They surveyed the crowd, now shuffling into a ragged line. Time to ask a few questions.

Rhona approached a clean-shaven young man. She'd bet he'd once been a carpenter or skilled tradesman. “Excuse me, we're looking for information.”

The young man met her gaze. “Sure.”

“What talk have you heard about the men who were murdered in the area? We're eager to know if there are rumours circulating about the killer?”

He shook his head. “Only been in Toronto a couple of days. Been up in Kirkland Lake looking for work. Can't help you.” He edged forward then stopped. “A guy named Preacher Peter might tell you something—he knows everyone.”

The next man in line was swathed in a dirty khaki military overcoat that was far too hot for the autumn evening. Matted grey hair straggled over the collar. He pushed a tattered hockey bag ahead of him with a worn-out boot. Rhona tapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Fuck off,” he muttered without knowing who was behind him. Ian cut off a tiny man shambling toward the line and put his hand on the man's sleeve. “Excuse me, can you help us?”

He froze. “Cops,” he said.

Ian didn't deny it. “Where can we locate Preacher Peter?”

“Don't know nuthin',” he said, shrugging off Ian's hand.

“This isn't productive,” Ian said to Rhona. “Let's talk to someone on the staff.”

“Okay. They hear about what's going on. Unfortunately, even though they have information, they don't always pass it on when they should. Protective instinct or something.”

At the head of the line, the crowd surged forward, pressing those at the front against the door. Rhona refused to be squashed in the crush.

“Might as well let this mob go in before we try,” she said over her shoulder.

The two stepped away from the steps to the sidewalk's edge.

“What a mess,” Rhona said, surveying crumpled paper bags, cigarette butts, orange peels, candy wrappers—the flotsam and jetsam washed up by the tide of men who lived on the street.

“The smell of unwashed and malnourished bodies jammed together reminds me of my previous life. It's strange how smell triggers memories,” Ian said.

Another clue and an interesting one. He'd given her an opening. “Where were you before? What were you doing?” Rhona said.

Ian's expression told her he wished he hadn't made the remark. “Vancouver's lower east side,” he said.

She'd try one more question. “Working?”

“Doing this and that.”

His tone said “keep out”, and Rhona respected this. Everyone harboured secrets they didn't care to share. Nevertheless she was curious.

The doors opened, and the human tsunami swept into the building. Once they were gone, Rhona and Ian followed.

A harried worker sitting behind the reception desk surveyed them. “Who do you want now?” he said in a tired voice. His thin brown hair pulled across his forehead, faded eyebrows and soft brown eyes belied his tart remark. One of the world's meek, he no doubt suffered frequent verbal abuse without complaint. In Rhona's opinion, workers and volunteers in hostels and soup kitchens deserved medals of honour.

“Bad time to come, but we need information about a guy named Preacher Peter who works in this neighbourhood. Can you describe him, tell us where we can find him and anything about him?”

“Preacher Peter.” The man's lips tightened, and he drummed a finger on the scarred desk. “I can tell you lots. He doesn't have a last name, at least not that anyone knows.” He sniffed. “I expect he's wanted for a dozen crimes. Probably extortion is the least of them.”

Rhona cast a quick glance at Ian, who had the alert look of a bird dog ready to work.

“What does he do?”

“Preys on the weak, the gullible, the mentally deranged. Takes what money they have.” He paused and almost hissed, “To pave their way to salvation.” He stopped drumming, opened pudgy hands, spread them wide and leaned forward. “I myself heard him say that. More likely pave his own way to hell.”

“Does he have an actual church?” Ian asked.

“A storefront just around the corner on Queen. However, he's out on the street most nights.”

“How would we recognize him?” Rhona asked.

“Tall, thin, long nose, frightening eyes.”

“Frightening?” Rhona felt her eyebrows rise.

The man nodded. “Some guys here have the same look. As if they see something you don't, and it's right there behind you. Mostly the mentally ill. I'd guess they see disembodied spectres that go with the voices they hear. Peter,” he snorted, “I'm not going to dignify him with preacher, looks messianic. That appeals to some poor lost souls.”

A rumble of agitated voices came from the dining hall. The man half-rose. “Sorry, got to go. They may need help.” A malevolent smile, at odds with his meek demeanour, curved his lips. “I hope he's done something that you can charge him with.”

Outside again, Ian took a deep breath, although downtown Toronto air didn't have much to recommend it.

Rhona didn't comment on his obvious relief to be outside and away from the crowd. “Let's walk west on Queen and search for Preacher Peter.”

When they found the storefront, it was locked. A badly painted and spelled sign, “Salavation is for Everyone”, graced one window and “Repent before the End” the other. Spelling wasn't one of Peter's strengths. Rhona wondered if anyone had pointed out to him that he was saying “drooling is for everyone.”

A hand-printed sign on the door informed them that Preacher Peter would be present every afternoon from three to five and on the streets with “His People” every evening. Peering through the dirty glass, they saw folding metal chairs set in two rows, a chalkboard at the front beside a table covered with a white cloth and topped with a wooden cross. Bare bones for sure.

“What next?” asked Ian.

“We'll see the sister first. Then we'll come back and cruise around.”

* * *

When Hollis piloted her battered truck into a small parking space half a block from Candace's house, she glanced up and saw two people marching toward the house. They reminded her of Mutt and Jeff, old fashioned comic strip characters, one very short and one very tall. She could have jockeyed the truck closer to the curb, but the need to learn what news the detective brought outweighed her urge to park more neatly. She left the vehicle stranded a foot from the curb.

She rushed to arrive at the front door of the building before Candace opened it for the two detectives. The four of them crowded into the front hall. Hollis moved to stand beside Candace.

“Well?” Candace said examining the officers' faces. She didn't invite them to move upstairs to her apartment.

“Good news,” Rhona said without warmth.

Hollis noted that both officers eyed Candace spec-ulatively. Something had altered dramatically since they'd last spoken to her.

Candace didn't notice the change. Her eyes widened as she processed the two important words. “It isn't Danson?” she whispered.

“It isn't. Why didn't you tell us he didn't live alone?” Rhona said.

A puzzled frown and a shrug. “I guess I never thought about it. Gregory only moved in a few weeks ago. I never met him and know nothing about him. I was so worried about Danson that Gregory dropped right off my radar. I should have put two and two together, but I didn't. I guess that's why it never occurred to me to tell you.”

This had to be the explanation for the changed atmosphere, she thought. “It's Gregory's DNA? He's the murdered man?” Hollis said.

“Seems likely,” Rhona said. “What can you tell us about him?”

“Why don't we go upstairs and sit down in the living room?” Hollis said. It wasn't her house, but Candace, nurturing a small smile, wasn't listening.

Upstairs they chose seats. Rhona, her face reflecting physical discomfort, cautiously lowered herself into a chair.

Hollis, aware of Candace's continuing inattention, answered the question the detective had posed downstairs. “I read Danson's e-mails. Gregory contacted Danson, saying they'd been in a sociology class at Concordia and Danson's friend, George, had suggested that he speak to Danson about renting him a room in his apartment. But when I e-mailed George, he had no idea who Gregory was.” She paused. “George promised to go to Concordia today and see if he could locate a class list for the Sociology course. I can run upstairs and see if he had any luck?”

Rhona waved Hollis on her way. Hollis took the steps two at a time. Inside her own apartment, she briefly patted MacTee, who'd rushed to the door with a battered tennis ball. She sat down and clicked on her e-mail. As she waited for the download, she wondered if Danson had murdered Gregory. If the detectives thought so, this explained their changed attitude.

George's response popped up. “Sorry. No info. Is there anything else I can do?”