Cut to the Chase (30 page)

“Poppy, I think you should go to the police.”

The woman shook her head.

Hollis hadn't expected her to agree. Poppy had led an interesting life, which no doubt had included a brush or two with the law. Whatever her past, she clearly did not want to involve the police.

“If you won't call them, we have to figure out what happened to the safe. I'm collecting a badly banged-up friend from the hospital.” She let Poppy absorb this information before she added. “He was beaten up because of a good deed he did for Danson.” She spaced her words to add to their impact.

“For Danson? Who is this person? Why would your friend be involved with Danson? You didn't even know Danson. Well, maybe you met him, but you certainly didn't know him.” Poppy resembled an enraged dog, hackles raised, teeth bared.

“After going through his papers and reading what was on his computer, I know him better than almost anyone else,” Hollis said, keeping her voice level. “I found something written in Russian in his apartment that,” she considered what noun she should use, “a friend translated for me. My friend took it upon himself, as a favour to me, to ask others in the Russian community what it might have meant. This curiosity led to his attack.”

“Attack? What was in the letter? What was Danson doing?” Poppy continued on the offensive.

“That's exactly what we have to figure out. I'm picking up my friend. When I return, you and I will talk, and you have to tell me the whole truth. Nothing else will do.”

If Poppy took that as a threat, it was okay with Hollis. Even thinking about Willem and the damage he'd survived made her angry. Poppy, self-centred and impervious to others, could have helped and she hadn't. Hollis intended to wring the truth from her.

“I'll be down to see you when I get back,” Hollis promised.

At the hospital a tired, battered Willem tried to smile, but his split lip refused to let him. The expression in his eyes told her how happy he was to see her. She knew her own eyes mirrored the feeling.

“Hello, wifey,” Willem said.

Hollis crooked her arm through his and led him to her truck. He refused help and boosted himself in but not without a groan escaping his lips.

“Give me directions to your house,” Hollis said.

What if the mobsters who had beaten him up had staked out his place?

“I live…” Willem began but didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.

“That could be dangerous, couldn't it? Come home with me. Let me provide TLC. It will be an act of charity, because if I can help you I'll feel less guilty. When you're ready, you can fill me in on what you discovered.”

“I accept. Not because I think you have any reason to feel guilty, but because I'd like some TLC,” Willem said as he sank back against the seat.

Back at her place, Hollis helped him up the three flights of stairs. MacTee welcomed him with a tennis ball and was rewarded with a pat. Willem insisted he was well enough to remove his shoes at the door, although he gasped when he bent over and had to anchor himself against the doorframe. Hollis scooted to his side.

“Let me do that.”

Willem agreed she could do the job and worked his way upward in the doorway almost as if climbing the rigging of a sailing ship.

He leaned on Hollis, and she escorted him to bed. Once he'd painfully folded himself down, she took off his shoes and pulled the quilt over him.

“What would you like? Food, talk or sleep?”

“They gave me toast and juice at the hospital. Sleep would be great. Then we can discuss strategy.”

Strategy—what was he thinking? They were out of the chase game, at least he was. Never mind, she'd deal with this later.

“I was talking, maybe interrogating would be a better word, Poppy, Danson's mother, when you called. I'm going down to finish the ‘interview',” Hollis said. “I'll fill you in later. Will you be okay?”

“More than okay. A good sleep will be wonderful.” Willem replied.

Downstairs, Hollis banged on Poppy's door, which flipped open almost immediately. Inside, Hollis expected vivid colours, dramatic flourishes. The simple, elegantly understated décor surprised her. She'd applied a stereotype—exotic dancer equalled garish colours and cheap furnishings.

Hollis followed Poppy to the living room and, invited to sit down, waited for the dancer to gracefully fold herself into a chair upholstered in a deep green velvet that complemented her hair. Hollis chose a matching chair which faced Poppy's. Two cats lying on the thickly cushioned window seat soaking up the thin early winter sun raised their heads to inspect her but didn't rise. Perhaps they recognized her as a dog person.

Poppy didn't ask how Willem was: Hollis hadn't expected her too.

“Where did you keep the safe?” Hollis asked.

“In my workroom. I have baskets and baskets of fabrics. I slid it under a pile of batting in one of the baskets. When I came back, the apartment didn't look as if it had been searched. Whoever was here put everything back where he found it.”

“Did Danson and Candace know where it was?”

“Danson did. Candace wouldn't have been interested. “

“That means we can eliminate Candace, doesn't it?”

“I suppose. Who else could have entered the apartment? I have a Medico key. They can only be duplicated through Medico. My idea is that Candace or Danson accidentally left my door unlocked when they came in to water the plants or feed the cats.” She recrossed her legs and leaned forward with a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “The vestibule door is always locked too. I can't imagine how someone got in.” She raised her chin and her voice. “The main thing is to locate the safe. It's important.”

Hollis thought again about the keys that had been in Danson's car, keys that were duplicates. A vision of her own door to the fire escape flashed through her mind. It would be easy for a thief to enter the house that way. No point in telling Poppy about either possibility. The theft had happened. Now they had to deal with the aftermath

“Why was the stamp important?” Hollis said.

“It's worth thousands and thousands of dollars and part of an extensive valuable collection I kept in the box. I should have stashed it in the bank, but I don't trust banks.”

There hadn't been a bank failure in Canada in a very long time, but if that was how Poppy felt, that was how she felt. “What else was in there?”

“Nothing important. The usual documents people keep in safety deposit boxes—wills, birth certificates—that sort of thing,” Poppy said in an offhand way without meeting Hollis's gaze.

Again it sounded like a lie.

“I'd like to know exactly what was in there. Make a list for me. Concentrate on the stamp collection. Since it was hidden, I'm assuming it wasn't yours, that you yourself don't collect stamps and are interested in the collection only because of its value. Is that right?”

Poppy nodded.

“Where did you get it—how long have you had it?”

“A few years.”

“Where did you get it?”

Poppy's cell phone shrilled from her purse set on the floor beside her chair. She grabbed for it, said hello, listened and inspected her jewel-encrusted watch. “I'll be there in a few minutes. Keep talking to them. Tell them how well we did in Vancouver. Give them hope that they can do the same.”

She clicked it off. “Sorry, I have the keys to the studio. Alberto and the eleven o'clock class are waiting.” Her eyes expressed her relief. “I'll be home this evening. Come and talk to me then.” As she spoke, she rose, collected her bag and stepped towards the door.

Getting tiny dribs and drabs of information was driving Hollis crazy. Unless she was prepared to throw herself on Poppy and wrestle her to the ground she'd have to wait until she had another opportunity to talk to her. Poppy's refusal to acknowledge her role in Danson's disappearance puzzled and infuriated Hollis, but she couldn't do anything about it.

Knowing the stamp's identity, she'd hit the philatelists and see what they could tell her. She guessed that the collection's owner had given it to Poppy or had died and willed it to her. That explained the purchase of a safe three years earlier. The information and the time frame should help to identify the previous owner. She had a lead, and it might take her to Danson or at least explain what had happened to him. This was wonderful news.

Upstairs, she peeked at Willem who lay on his back, a peaceful smile on his battered face. She wrote a note telling him where she'd gone and directing him to help himself to anything he fancied. She could have added, “including me,” but she didn't.

R
hona
had asked Spike to come downtown and talk to them. When he arrived, they entered one of the homicide department's interview rooms.

“How is mother?” Spike demanded. He looked every inch the bouncer ready to deal with recalcitrant patrons. Rhona imagined he'd intimidated more than a few unruly men or women.

“I need to see her. She will be scared.” He punched his meaty right fist into his left palm.

His fear and worry impressed Rhona. She tried to think how she'd feel if this had happened to someone in her family, but it was impossible. Who thinks of her mother as a serial murderer? She didn't know whether to tell him that when she'd phoned to see how Katerina was doing, the news had not been good. Would it make him more or less anxious? The truth was always better. Katerina was his mother—he deserved to know.

“She's had a psychotic breakdown. She's receiving medical help,” Rhona said.

“What that mean?”

“She has retreated, gone back to her own world.”

Spike's brow furrowed. “Own world. Russia?”

“No.” Rhona thought for a minute. “She's not talking, not responding to anyone, not eating. She's been transferred to the mental hospital and apparently she lies on her bed with her eyes closed, singing to herself in Russian.”

Tears filled Spike's eyes. “Poor Mama,” he said.

He sat down. Rhona opened a notebook, turned on the tape recorder and noted the time and the subject of their interview.

“I come to help. Why you doing that?” Spike said, pointing to the machine.

“It's a formality,” Ian said. “We like to have a record of our conversations.”

Spike eyed the machine suspiciously.

“We'd like to know about your mother's friends and associates.”

“Short story—none,” Spike said. “I try to get her to go to church, to meet others.” He shrugged. “She say church stupid. Priests stupid. Not like incense. Not like standing up. Say it hurt her legs. Sometimes I take her to Russian restaurant. In restaurant, she glare at everyone. Then in loud voice she say, ‘Who kill my Boris, who in mob do it.' I give up.”

“What did happen to Boris?” Ian asked.

“He work for mob. Got killed in drug deal. That why she hate drugs, hate addicts, hate everything.” He sighed, “Too bad I not favourite son—I never do drugs, I work, have family.” His eyes filled. “Two grandsons, good boys, and she not care. Not want to come visit. All she do is knit. Sad for boys, for her, for me. Sad, sad story.”

Rhona felt her own eyes fill with tears. The story of rejected children. She'd never liked the tale of the prodigal son, it had always struck her as unfair. Poor Spike. His family would suffer the publicity, the photos and probably learn to beware of journalists who would hang around harassing them with endless questions.

“I'm sorry. This must be hard for you,” she said.

Spike brushed a large beefy hand across his eyes.

“Did your mother have any connection with the Russian mob?”

“You kidding? After what I say, you ask that?” He snorted. “No. She hate the mob.”

“What about you?”

“After what happen to Boris? No. I know who they are. Not a secret.”

“Did Danson Lafleur have anything to do with them?”

Spike straightened. His brows drew together and he peered at her. “Danson. Why we talk about Danson?”

“Because he's missing, and we think it might be because of the mob,” Ian said.

Rhona wondered if Ian should have revealed this much. They only had Spike's word that he had nothing to do with the mob.”

“I dunno.”

“Did you ever talk to him about Russian gangsters?” Rhona asked.

Rhona watched Spike and saw what people meant when they said a light went on. Spike's eyes sparked, and he grinned.

“I did. Other lady ask me, and I tell her about conversation we had.”

“Tell us,” Rhona encouraged.

“Late night I eat souvlaki and see guy I think big wheel, but sent back to Russia. Same guy but different. I tell Danson how he is different. Danson very interested.”

Given Danson's obsession with returning criminals that information would set him off on a hunt. If the description came close to the man in the morgue, the mysterious Gregory, they'd know who he was. If it was Gregory, and Gregory was in the Russian mob, why had Danson rented a room to him?

“What did he look like?”

“Now hair brown, was black, eyes brown were blue, wore glasses, was thin and before was fat. But have same face.” Spike made a triangle with his hands. “Can't change that.”

“Tall or short?”

Spike didn't say anything. He must be running a memory video. “Maybe six foot, but he have little feet.”

Size eight shoes. That had been the clue for Candace—the man's shoes had been too small to have belonged to her brother. Gregory's feet were small—they had a pair of his shoes.

They continued to ask questions about the mob, and Spike shared what information he had but added nothing that the departmental specialists weren't aware of. His primary concern was his mother and what would happen to her.

“You do know that when the press gets hold of the story, they'll find you and your family?” Ian asked.