Mist Walker. Barbara Fradkin
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screen lit up with icons. Pulling up a chair, he hunched forward and began to search. It was a short search. Other than his internet browser, Fraser had no software beyond an oldfashioned word processing program and a database. The application files were in place, but there was not a single data file in either program.
Curious to see who the man communicated with, Green connected to the internet and pulled up his email screen. Not a single email in his inbox. Same story with his “sent” box and his “trash”. Green was astounded. What mere mortal had a completely empty email account? Certainly no one in his acquaintance. Either this man stored all his files in a secret place, or someone who knew computers had wiped his entire system clean.
Green clicked through subdirectories in search of hidden files, uncovering mostly folders with recognizable program names. Under “web”, however, one folder name stood out from the rest. Mistwalker. Eagerly he clicked on it. Wiped clean. Green sat back in puzzlement. Mistwalker was a peculiar word. Even mysterious, and certainly whimsical for a man as obsessive and analytical as Fraser. But tantalizing as the puzzle was, Green was stymied, for he’d exhausted all his admittedly primitive computer skills. This was a job for the younger guys on the force.
Yet his snooping had paid off some dividends. He now had the little black address book and, with it, access to the people in Fraser’s life. On his way out, Green paused at the door to examine the locks. Crystal had exaggerated; there were only five. Plus a peephole. Each was sufficient to keep out an unwelcome caller, and two of them could only be locked and unlocked from the inside. There were no scratches or chips to suggest that any of them had been forced. If Matt Fraser had had a caller that night, after he’d arrived home and barricaded himself in, then he had checked through the peephole and opened the door of his own free will.
Pretty reckless stuff for a paranoid agoraphobic who rarely left his apartment except to walk his dog.
Three
“Yessir!” Sergeant Lonsdale sat ramrod straight and spread his hand to encompass both the paltry stack of paper on his desk and the computer humming in the corner. “Any case you want to take a look at, you’re more than welcome, sir.”
He was a squeaky clean man with slick hair and a glossy smile, but beneath the joviality, his tone was tinged with anxiety. Although he might be happy to have his docket lightened by one file, Green knew he was nervous about such close scrutiny of his turf. Justifiably. Green suspected the rookie sergeant was just passing through Missing Persons on his way towards a comfortable desk in the upper echelons, so keeping his image buffed and his butt covered ranked at least equal to the cause of justice. Green’s unsolicited involvement in a case often presented a risk to both image and butt.
Ignoring the man’s discomfiture, Green scanned the woefully short file containing nothing but Janice Tanner’s report and the results of Lonsdale’s interview with the building super, which he’d probably conducted by phone without even looking up from the business section of the Globe.
“Did you contact any relatives?” Green asked.
“Not yet, sir. No one else has reported him missing, and the man was of age with no suggestion of ill health. He probably just wanted to drop out of sight. Besides, the complainant was a little...” Lonsdale started to twirl his finger but Green’s frown stopped him short.
“Do you know who he is?” Green asked.
Lonsdale’s hand strayed to his tie, perhaps hoping that a perfectly centred knot would make up for the slight indiscretion Green had caught. “Yessir, I ran his name. It seemed all the more reason to drop out of sight, in my opinion. People like that don’t change their ways, if you know what I mean. Maybe he was afraid he was about to get caught again.”
Green considered the idea. It was certainly one explanation for Fraser’s hurried arrival home that afternoon, and for the rapid locking of his door; he’d been one step ahead of some irate father’s boot. It did not, however, explain Modo’s being left to die.
“Or maybe,” Green countered, “he has been caught again, by someone interested in a more direct form of justice.” He jotted down the case number and turned toward the door. “I’ll just make a couple of calls.”
Lonsdale made a grasping gesture, as if to retrieve the file for a second look, but Green was already out the door, pondering his next step. Which was to track down an actual next of kin, so that he had more tangible grounds on which to pursue the case. Lonsdale’s file listed the next of kin as unknown, and when Green thumbed through Fraser’s old address book back in his own office, he found no listing for a Fraser or a Mom or Dad. There were, however, some possibilities. Almost all entries were carefully recorded by first and last name, telephone number and address, including postal code. But one was simply a name. Rose. Plus an address in the far eastern suburb of Orleans.
Several minutes of searching through computer databases yielded a last name to go with Rose—Artlee, not Fraser as he had hoped—and an age. Forty-four. An older sister perhaps, whose name had changed through marriage? On a chance, he dialled the number, and when the cheerful woman who answered the phone confirmed she was Mrs. Rose Artlee, he introduced himself and blithely asked if she were Matt Fraser’s next of kin.
Complete silence.
“Hello?” he prompted.
“What’s happened?” she asked in a voice so low it was barely audible. All trace of cheer was gone.
“Are you a relation?”
“Why do you want to know?”
It was a strange game of cat and mouse, but he supposed she’d earned the right to be suspicious. No doubt the press had been merciless during the trial.
“He’s been reported missing by a friend, Mrs. Artlee. I’m following up to see whether his family knows of his whereabouts.”
“Oh, no!” she breathed, not a denial of his question but an exclamation of dismay, as if something she’d long feared had come to pass.
“Do you know something?”
“No,” she replied as if hastily collecting her wits. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Mrs. Artlee,” he said, “perhaps I should drop around for a quick chat.”
“I told you I don’t know anything!”
“But you sound worried.”
“Because you said he’s disappeared. Of course I’m worried. If you find him, tell me—” She hesitated. “No, I’ll call back in a few days.”
He sensed she was about to hang up. “Just a quick chat. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“No! I—I mean I’m on my way out. I’ll meet you…” He could feel her haste through the wires. “At the Tim Hortons on Montreal Road, just off the Queensway.”
She’d hung up before he could get in a word, and he glanced at his watch in dismay. This was not a high priority case. In fact, it was hardly a case at all, and meanwhile, several active cases were bubbling in the major crimes squad, demanding his attention. Not the least of which was Brian Sullivan, who’d been trying to contact him since before noon about his rooming house death in Vanier.
I’ll drop by the Vanier scene on my way back from Tim Hortons, Green promised himself as he buckled on his radio and headed out his door. Tim Hortons doughnut shops were proliferating across the city like mushrooms, and Green wasn’t sure which one Rose referred to, but luckily it was easy to spot amid the strip mall scenery just north of the Queensway. Inside, a handful of workers lingered over lunch, but Green was able to pick out Rose without difficulty. Only one woman was sitting alone in a booth, with her back against the wall and her eyes glued to the door, a heavy-set woman with a doughy face and short, spiked hair which seemed to be her only attempt at fashion. Round glasses accentuated her moon face, and behind them her eyes were pale and wary. As a peace offering, he picked up two ice cappuccinos before approaching the table. She launched into