Cut to the Chase. Joan Boswell
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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 flipped through the bills, flyers and letters she’d carried upstairs. No mail for Gregory—he remained the mystery man without a surname. Nothing useful, nothing she thought might relate to Danson’s disappearance. She dropped the mail on the narrow white hall table. It too was a particleboard DIY creation, no doubt emitting toxic formaldehyde fumes.
Her first priority was to determine if Danson had intended to be away for an extended period. The bathroom would give her a clue. Inside the white room, she opened the vanity’s door. A brown leather shaving kit, stacks of toilet paper and clean white towels occupied the space.
An electric toothbrush and toothpaste sat beside the sink in a mug commemorating a lacrosse tournament.
The medicine cabinet held two bottles of painkillers, a tiny bottle of wart remover, nonprescription allergy medication and a canister of Noxzema shaving cream. She opened a drawer in the vanity and found an extra tube of toothpaste, a package of unused razors and a hairbrush.
A clean-shaven young man did not leave without his shaving kit and toiletries. He had not intended to be away overnight. Now the question was—where had he gone and why?
She left the bathroom and moved methodically through the apartment. First, on her right, the kitchen. Four items graced the scarred Formica countertop—toaster, coffee maker, bean grinder half-full of beans and a telephone. She lifted the receiver and heard the buzz of a line. No beeps to indicate messages. Since she knew Candace had left messages, this meant Danson owned an answering machine. Because she would have required a PIN combination to access messages recorded by the phone company, she welcomed this knowledge.
Now for a gander in the refrigerator. She found the usual array of condiments, soft drinks and beer along with some small containers of yogurt, two light caesar salad bags and greenish uncooked chicken encased in plastic wrap on a styrofoam tray. Time-dated food long past the best-before date. More confirmation that Danson had not planned to be away for long.
In the master bedroom, two framed posters—lacrosse players in action—provided colour. The utilitarian navy-blue duvet and pillow cases, white chest of drawers, white bedside table, gooseneck lamp and clock radio were minimalist. The bed was made and the closet doors shut. Although she wasn’t familiar with Danson’s wardrobe, she peered in the cupboard and found nothing but clothes and shoes.
On top of the bureau, Danson’s cell phone was plugged into a charger. More evidence to support her growing conviction that he had not planned a trip.
Perhaps that explained why he hadn’t called?
There were many locations without cell phone accessibility but few without telephone service. The high Arctic, the northern tundra—not places Danson was likely to visit.
Would learning that Danson didn’t have his cell phone make Candace feel better, even explain why he hadn’t phoned? No way. It would give her even more reason to worry—few young men travelled far without a cell phone.
She plucked her notebook from her shoulder bag, copied his cell phone address book and wrote down the names of those whom he’d contacted and those who had called him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a photo phone. She knew how useful they could be. Recently she’d read that many companies had outlawed cell phones, since they provided such an easy way for staff or visitors to steal confidential information.
The second bedroom, impersonal as a motel room, epitomized austerity. If Gregory intended to establish a homey base in Toronto, he hadn’t accomplished his goal.
She’d deal with establishing Gregory’s identity later. Danson was her priority.
Back to the combination living room/dining room. A wall of Venetian blinds, no curtains, off-white walls. A collection of tall, healthy palms and ficus in large black self-watering pots clustered near the windows. The pristine leather furniture grouped around a small TV set on a worn chest of drawers flanked by three bookcases.
Books revealed facets of a reader’s character. Danson had kept his college texts, along with books on kinesiology, brain patterning, psychological treatises on abnormal behaviour, books on treason, on the organization of the courts, on criminal law and more prosaic volumes on lacrosse. An interesting collection.
A sound system, CDs, jazz and more jazz, along with black cardboard file boxes, and large photo albums filled the remaining shelves. A peek inside the boxes confirmed that Danson seldom threw anything away, as he’d saved memorabilia from his life along with outdated files and receipts. The photo albums, arranged chronologically, revealed his devotion to his family and to Angie, his murdered fiancée.
Opposite the recreational side of the room, yet another lacrosse poster presided over the mechanics of twenty-first century living. An unpainted door resting on two beige metal file cabinets served as a desk. A laptop, printer, phone and answering machine lined up like soldiers awaiting their marching orders. The answering machine’s message light flashed.
Hollis pressed play.
“Your mortgage has been approved blah blah blah...” Pointless to save, but to erase would be tampering with evidence in the event there had been a crime. She pressed save and moved to the second one. “This is Boris,” a heavy Eastern European accent, one she thought that she