Cut to the Chase (23 page)

“Anything?” Tiny said.

“Anything you fancy.” Rhona beckoned the waitress.

With her gaze fixed on Rhona, the young girl spoke fast in her clear high voice. “A large cherry coke and...” She paused to see how Rhona had reacted.

“Go ahead,” Rhona said.

“Coconut cream pie,” she said and smiled.

She had braces on her teeth. Someone had cared enough to pay for expensive dental work.

“Coffee,” Alicia said.

The two detectives ordered coffee as well.

“We want to stop the killer before he strikes again. We need users' names and where we can find them,” said Ian.

“Why do you think we'd know?” Alicia said.

“We don't. We hope you will, because the faster we reach these guys and talk to them, the better our chances. We think he may have targeted other men that he didn't manage to kill. Probably something interrupted him or they ran. Anything you can tell us could be helpful. We intend to stop him before he strikes again.”

“Spider Jones maybe could help you,” Alicia said. “He's a crackhead, and he's really spooked about the killings. In the daytime he hangs out in the park near the Sally Ann. I've seen him there.” She shrugged. “Good luck with him.”

* * *

The crowded restaurant buzzed with conversations as Hollis told the hostess whom she was meeting and was shown to a small white linen-covered table in a far corner. Willem rose as she approached. He pulled her chair back and waited for her to seat herself before he too sat. A bottle of white wine ensconced in an ice bucket waited beside the table. The wine steward hurried over, poured a smidgen for Willem who sipped, savoured and said, “Very nice.”

Their glasses filled, Willem said, “Today the specialty is roast beef.”

“I'm a vegetarian.”

“If you eat fish, they do a superb seafood bouillabaisse If not, their spaghetti primavera is also good,” Willem said.

After they'd ordered, they exchanged polite remarks about the weather.

This was getting them nowhere, thought Hollis. Time for the preemptive strike. “We're here to discuss the paper you translated. You said you have information?” she said.

Willem steepled his fingers and regarded her in silence for a long time. “I think you're over your head and involved in something that could be very dangerous,” he said.

Hollis didn't like his tone. “Why?”

“I did a little sleuthing.”

Alarm. Whom had he spoken to? What had he been? “You shouldn't have done that. I asked you for a translation. I didn't ask you to investigate the contents.” Hollis tried to control the tremor in her voice but didn't quite succeed. She didn't know if anger or fear or a little of both caused the quaver, anger that Willem had taken matters into his own hands. Dread that Danson had left to protect his family, and her meddling might have brought danger to their doors. If she had, she'd never forgive herself.

“Take it easy.” Willem reached across and patted her hand.

She withdrew it immediately.

“I told you I had contacts in the Russian criminal community. I've represented good people, but I know about the others, the not-so-goodniks. I flew trial balloons. Said I'd heard something about the Super Bug and wondered what it was and if it was still around. I can't tell you who I talked to, but I can say he's in the mob and owes me a favour or two.”

Oh, God. This was worse. The mob. What had he said? Had he given her name?

“Where did you say you'd heard the name?” Hollis said. Her stomach muscles clenched, and she held her breath.

Willem straightened and positively smirked. “You won't believe how canny I was,” he paused, obviously wanting to prolong his moment in the sun.

“How canny were you?” she said, wanting to reach across and smack him.

“On the subway. I said I'd overheard two men speaking Russian on the subway, and they mentioned the Super Bug. The man talking to me became very upset, demanded I describe the men, asked if I'd recognize them if I saw them again. Wanted to know where they got on, where they got off.”

“What did you say about these imaginary men?” Hollis said. She hoped she didn't sound as outraged as she felt.

“Told him I hadn't paid much attention because I'd been eavesdropping and didn't want them to notice me. Said they got off at Union Station, and they both had suitcases.” He grinned. “Wasn't it a good idea to get them out of the city?”

“The Super Bug. Did this ‘friend' tell you what it was about?”

Their lunches arrived. The bouillabaisse lived up to it's billing, but it could have been warm tap-water as far as Hollis was concerned. She kept thinking of Candace and Elizabeth and praying she hadn't endangered them.

Willem, who'd ordered the roast beef, spooned horse-radish and hot mustard on his plate before he replied. “That's what I'm here to tell you. He said it was dangerous stuff, nothing to meddle with. To forget I'd ever heard the name and mind my own business.” He forked a large portion into his mouth.

Worse and worse. She was no further ahead. Willem didn't know, and his acquaintance hadn't been prepared to tell him.

“I should have ordered red wine to go with my beef,” Willem said.

“Never mind the bloody wine. Why wouldn't he tell you what the Super Bug was about?”

Willem tapped his finger on the table. “No need to be testy. Because it would be dangerous for me to know. Given the contents of the paper I translated, I think you should back off whatever it is you're doing. If it's in the same league as the Super Bug, it's dangerous to you and to anyone else involved.” He took another mouthful.

Hollis had no appetite. She should leave, should go directly to police headquarters and pass on the translation, along with Willem's warnings. “I'm upset that you took it upon yourself to do this,” she said coldly as she watched him chewing vigorously, apparently unaware of her fury. “Since you have, I think you'd better stick your neck out and try other sources. I need this information.”

Willem, impaling a chunk of beef, stopped. “Now wait a minute. You won't tell me where this came from. You say it's, what's your word, complicated, yet you expect me to continue poking my nose into this business. Are you crazy? Why would I do that?”

Why indeed. Did the person who poked the stick in the hornet's nest hang around to see how many stings he'd receive? “Because you notified the mob that the Super Bug was attracting attention. Now they're on alert. Where does that leave me? Even though I don't know anything, you've probably endangered me.”

Willem carefully placed his fork on his plate and angled his body toward her. “You have no idea, absolutely no idea, how dangerous the mob can be.” He'd lowered his voice.

She mimicked his attitude and spoke quietly. “Oh—yes—I—do. Don't ask me how, but I do.”

“Hollis, why can't you go to the police? They have special task forces to deal with gang stuff. If what you told me about your background is true, you have no experience. You're a nice middle-class woman. Go to the police.”

“Eventually, I will. Meanwhile, it's critical that I learn what the Super Bug was or is.”

Both pulled back simultaneously. Stalemate. Neither spoke.

“Okay.” Willem tapped his finger on the table. “I don't agree with you, but I do have one other source. I'll see him and stick to my subway story.” He brushed bread crumbs off the table and mumbled, “I just hope you don't read in the Globe and Mail that they've fished my body out of Lake Ontario.”

“Surely no one gets killed for asking. However, if you think it's that dangerous, maybe it would be better if you didn't do it.”

Willem worked away at the crumbs and shook his head as he said, “It is dangerous. Whatever Super Bug is, they're threatened when the subject comes up. I'll try to ask without attracting attention.”

The waiter arrived and left after he examined Willem's half-eaten and Hollis's almost untouched meals.

Willem gestured at his plate and at Hollis's. “Since this may be our last supper or my last supper, let's eat and make pleasant conversation. I'll have something nice to remember when they chop off my fingers or my hands, likely while I'm still alive, before they shoot or stab me and toss me in the lake to improve Lake Ontario fishing.”

He wanted her to lighten up, to smile. As much as she wanted to be lighthearted and pleasant, it didn't happen. He'd hit close to the mark—she remembered Candace's description of Gregory's body. Looking at Willem's warm brown eyes, she wavered. Even though he'd initiated the investigation, she didn't want him to end up like that. Maybe she should go immediately to the police. Tempting, but her first responsibility was to Candace and to Danson. If she gave up the chase, Danson might never be found.

“That isn't very funny. Okay, I acknowledge that it may be dangerous. Let's put a time limit on your search. Twenty-four hours. Call me on my cell tomorrow afternoon. If you haven't learned anything, we'll forget we ever had these conversations.”

“Then will you go to the police?”

Hollis shook her head. “Depends what information you get, but either way, your involvement will be over.”

Willem again covered her hand with his. This time Hollis didn't withdraw. The heat of his fingers sent pleasant messages to various nerve centres in her body.

“I'd like to see you again,” he said, tightening his grasp. “When whatever this is ends, maybe we could have coffee or run in High Park and treat ourselves to lattes afterwards?”

“When I talked about running in the ravines with my dog, you didn't say you were a runner.”

“I'm a triathlete.”

Triathlete. She'd never aspire to do that. Even thinking about what was involved—running a marathon, pulling on a wet suit to swim a huge distance then biking for endless kilometres—exhausted her. He must be in great shape and have drive and persistence if he did this. He wasn't suggesting she join him. Running she could handle. “I'd love to. I'm new to Toronto. I'd like to explore more ravine trails. I'm leery about doing that by myself unless it's midday on Saturday or Sunday.”

“It's a deal. We'll talk tomorrow.'

They finished lunch, vetoed dessert or coffee and left together. On the sidewalk, Willem grasped her sleeve. “I will do my best,” he assured her before they parted.

His warnings had frightened her. She'd promised that he wouldn't be involved when the twenty-four hours ended, but it was time to rethink her own commitment. She'd give it until noon tomorrow. If Willem hadn't come up with useful information, she'd pass the paper on to Rhona. Somehow knowing there was a time limit comforted her.

Nothing else to be done until she heard from Willem. She'd fill the hours with work. Not the gold painting. Its uninspiring surface dominated the apartment, but she refused to work on it until she had a better idea of where it was going. Instead she'd finish the chickens. After she flipped open the paste container and donned gloves, she couldn't bring herself to work. She needed downtime. Caught up in the investigation, she hadn't taken enough time to meditate, to centre herself.

Twenty minutes later, refreshed and calmed, she set to work. Blue eyes or green eyes for the leader? Maybe red to sympathize with the difficulty any leader faced, particularly a chicken when there was no rooster to strut his stuff.

She rummaged through her eye collection and picked two glowing crimson eyes.

The phone rang. “Hollis Grant?”

Whose voice? She'd heard it recently but couldn't quite place it. She acknowledged her identity.

“I got idea for you.”

Spike, the bouncer. This could be good news.

“I'm glad you called. Tell me what it is.”

“You know I say mother cuckoo. She hate Russian mob 'cause my brother die?”

“I remember.”

“When I tell Danson, he say he know Russian mob. He going to get them.”

Verification of their suspicions. After her conversation with Willem, she didn't know whether to rejoice or weep.

“That's helpful. Anything else?”

“Yes. Mother do need help. Will you talk to her?”

She hadn't expected this. What could she do? She didn't have connections to the mental health facilities in Toronto. “Does she speak English?”

“Yes.”

“Where does she live?”

“She not want anyone to know.” He paused, as though realizing it would be hard to help without meeting her. “She go to park every day. She knit and knit.”

“Which park?”

“On Carlton. Greenhouse in middle. East, past Jarvis Street, before Sherbourne.”

“She goes there every day?”

“Every day. She leave apartment, take umbrella or she wear coat. She knit and knit.”

“Why do you think she'll listen to me?”

“Because you not social worker. You woman like her.”

“How is she with dogs? I'd like to take my golden retriever, MacTee, with me. If she likes dogs, she'll love him.” Dogs often broke through barriers. Alzheimer's patients, depressed withdrawn elderly patients—a long list of damaged people responded to dogs. A friendly golden ranked high on the appealing dog totem pole.

“Dogs good. She little girl in Leningrad in siege. Still feel bad they eat dogs.”

Great, a deranged woman with a knitting fixation who felt guilty because she'd had to eat her dog. Not too many women got an opportunity like this. “Spike, if you think it'll help, I'll go this afternoon.”

“Thank you. Call, tell me what she say?” he said and gave her his cell phone number.

She dropped the phone in its cradle and whistled to MacTee. “We're on a mission. You'll be a therapy dog this afternoon.”

Before she left, she pocketed dog biscuits and her cell. You never knew when you'd need either one.