Grave Situation (15 page)

“I called all the friends that I
know she had. No one saw or heard from her.”

“Do you know of anyone, past or
present, who might have a grudge against you or her?”

Silent, Cathy shook her
head.

“Does Trixy have a
boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk about having
problems with any of her johns?”

A moment’s reflection.
“No.”

“How about past
boyfriends?”

“No trouble that I can
remember.”

“Does she work under a pimp or
buddy-up like some other women in the city?”

“She works on her own.” Cathy
leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her fingers, still fiddling,
tore ends of the tissue. “Trixy’s a free spirit. She’s not easily
manipulated.”

“She’s never had a
pimp?”

“No. She would never allow herself
to become trapped in that lifestyle or become dependent on
one.”

“Has a pimp ever approached
her?”

Cathy’s thoughtful look became a
narrowing of the eyes, a pursing of the lips.

“There was one,” she said finally.
“But she never called him by name.”

“To work for him?”

A nod. “She turned him
down.”

“Was she threatened for
it?”

“Not threatened. He tried to
induce her with expensive looking jewelry and told her that he
could protect her.”

“No name at all? Not even a
nickname?”

“No. I don’t think Trixy knew who
he was. She never mentioned him again.”

“How long ago was
this?”

“Six months, maybe.”

“Before working on the corner of
Barrington and South was there another location your sister had
worked at?”

“Hollis Street.”

“Does she own a
vehicle?”

“No.”

“Does she come home by cab as
well?”

“Most times.”

“Does your sister
smoke?”

“Yes.”

“What brand and how
often?”

“Du
Maurier.
She smokes roughly half a pack a
day.”

“Does she drink?”

“Only socially.”

Allan paused. Once more, he glanced
at the track marks in Cathy’s arms. “Do drugs of any
kind?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Cathy lifted her chin.
“Yes.”

“On the missing persons report,
you state that Trixy has no medical or psychological
problems?”

“That’s right. She’s very
level-headed.”

“We have the financial information
on your sister that you gave us earlier. Vice will track any credit
card transactions or withdrawals from her account.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”
Cathy’s words took on a hopeless inflection. “I know something bad
happened to Trixy. I don’t think she’s coming home.”

All at once, she crumpled forward
in one convulsive sob, as if the levy containing her emotions had
suddenly collapsed.

Allan took a breath. Gently, he
pulled her close. In his arms, she felt light, fragile. Her body
shook. She clung to him in quiet despair.

“It’s going to be all right,” he
whispered in her ear. He pulled back, holding her arms. “I want you
to hang in there. Over ninety percent of missing people eventually
show up on their own just a little embarrassed by the alarm their
disappearance had caused.”

He watched Cathy attempt to
recapture her composure. Beneath that, he saw a woman who was
frightened and alone. He let go of her arms. Reaching inside his
jacket, he pulled out his card and gave it to her.

“You can call me anytime,” he
said.

He stood up to leave. Cathy looked
up into his face.

“Will you let me know when you
find out anything?” she asked.

“You’ll be the first to
know.”

Allan walked to the door and then
paused. He turned and looked at Cathy one last time. From across
the room she stared at him through puffy eyes.

“Hang in there,” he repeated
softly.

When he stepped into the hall and
closed the door, he could hear Cathy’s muffled keening.

Leaden, Allan walked
away.

19

Halifax, May
9

9:30 p.m.

Allan steeped a pot of tea and made
a tuna sandwich. As he sat at the kitchen table with his meal, he
wondered how many times he’d eaten alone since his transfer to
Homicide.

When he finished, he retired to the
living room. He turned on the television, flipped to CNN, and
lowered the volume before dropping heavily onto the chesterfield.
From the television screen, a dark-haired anchorman talked about
how the Gulf of Mexico oil spill was threatening a bird
sanctuary.

Allan shut his eyes, half listening
to the broadcast. He felt Buddy leap up, heard the deep rumble of
his purr. He reached out and petted the cat.

Ending his broadcast, the anchorman
wished all the mothers out there a Happy Mother’s Day.

Allan’s eyes snapped
open.

Mother’s Day?

He sat up, wincing.

I’m sorry, Mom. I completely
forgot.

Then it occurred to him with a deep
sadness what a special tragedy this day had been for the mother of
Brad Hawkins.

Allan got up and went to the
kitchen to retrieve his spiral and pen from his coat pocket. When
he returned to sit down again, Buddy had retreated to his favorite
chair by the fireplace.

In the spiral Allan wrote down a
to-do list for the next day—visit the addresses that had no answer
during the initial canvass, check out the waterfront bars in case
there were rumors going around about the murder, and interview the
friends and relatives of Brad Hawkins.

The telephone rang. Allan looked at
his watch. 9:45 p.m. He reached across the coffee table and picked
up the handset.

“Lieutenant Stanton.”

On the other end, a young boy’s
voice beamed. “Dad!”

“Brian.” Hearing his son again
seemed to ignite a spark of renewed energy inside Allan. For the
first time in weeks he managed a smile. He picked up the TV remote
and muted the volume. “How are you doing, son?”

“Great, Dad. I’m having fun.
Making lots of friends at my new school.”

“Hey, I’m happy to hear
that.”

“Mom told me you called. I was at
the hockey game with Tom.”

Allan swallowed, feeling the sting
of this. He wondered how far away Melissa was from the phone. And
somehow more importantly, where this other man was.

“I tried to call you back last
night,” Brian continued, “but there was no answer.”

“I’m sorry I missed you, but I
didn’t get home until late,” Allan said. “So how was the
game?”

“Great. Lots of people there. It
was loud. Toronto won.”

“Hmm…the Habs would’ve beaten
them.”

Laughter. “Maybe, Dad.
Maybe.”

Allan wished he could see his son’s
face. “Thanks for your letter. So you want to come down for the
Victoria Day Weekend?”

“Yup. Can I?”

“You sure can.”

“Will you be working?”

“I’ll take the weekend off. I’d
really love to see you.”

“Me too. And Buddy. How is
he?”

“Buddy’s doing fine.” Allan looked
at the cat, lying down, licking its paw. “He’s washing himself
right now on his favorite chair.”

“That’s his bed.”

“He seems to think it is. Did you
wish mommy a Happy Mother’s Day?”

“Yup.” The boy’s words came
quickly. “I made her a card and gave her some flowers I picked
myself. And Tom took me and her out to supper at a fancy
restaurant. It had this great big fountain in the middle of
it.”

Allan smiled a little. “That’s
nice, son.”

“I wish you was up here with
us.”

Pausing a moment, Allan’s gaze
touched the silver framed picture on the mantle of the fireplace
and he felt a dull pang of sadness.

Children
, he thought,
in all their innocence, cannot fully understand
the sometimes-complicated world of adults.

“I wish that too, son,” he
answered softly. “When is your plane arriving?”

A pause. “My plane is coming in on
Saturday at…at eleven-thirty in the morning.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wait a minute, Dad.” Brian
sounded distracted.

Allan heard him put the phone down.
While waiting for him to return, he wondered if Melissa was going
to come on, hoped she wouldn’t. Moments later, Brian picked up
again.

“I have to go, Dad. My bath is
ready.”

“I won’t keep you then. Thanks for
calling. Hearing your voice has made my day.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, son.”

“Me too. Bye.”

Allan hung up and stared at the
phone for a moment. He rose from his seat and went to the kitchen
where he slipped on his jacket. After heading outside, he climbed
into his car and drove through the quiet streets to Pleasant Hill
Cemetery in Lower Sackville to visit his mother.

20

Acresville, May 10

3:15 p.m.

The vagrant appeared on the country
road like a mirage, his image warped by the shimmer of heat waves
rising off the asphalt. He looked drugged with fatigue. His
movements were slow and labored. Unlaced boots, gray with road
dust, scuffed the pavement.

The face of the man was gaunt,
sallow and scored with deep lines. His gray hair was disheveled,
hanging over his forehead in an unruly cascade. The rags he wore
were handpicked from different trash bins—a tattered trench coat,
unfastened in front; a grimy yellow T-shirt, half out of his
waistband; and plaid pants that were a throwback to the
sixties.

He looked old and feeble and
sad.

His crinkled gray eyes moved from
the tufts of grass by the roadside to the drainage
ditches.

Most of his daylight hours were
spent either panhandling at the Acresville Public Park or rummaging
through dumpsters behind restaurants and stores, underneath bridges
and overpasses, alongside roadways, searching for glass bottles or
soda and beer cans that he could cash in at the Enviro Depot. With
each item, he received a nickel.

If he were lucky he could walk away
a few dollars richer. That would afford him a small meal or, more
importantly, a cheap bottle of wine.

Some days were profitable; others
were not. Much like today. The garbage bag slung over his shoulder
was only half-f.

Open farmland surrounded him.
Meadows and rolling green hills. Grazing cattle. Soil tilled in
neat columns. Overhead came the buzzing of power lines.

Now and then the vagrant wandered
this far out of town. He knew these ditches could be treasure
troves of empty beer bottles and cans.

Stopping, the man mopped his
forehead with a sleeve and shoved wet hair out of his
eyes.

It was the humidity—oppressive,
enervating, a presence even after the day had yielded to the night.
The sun burned at his back like a fireball, wringing sweat from his
pores. He wanted to remove his coat, but he knew that would result
in a quick burn.

Rain, he prayed. Just let it rain.
It was too hot for early May.

With no cars in either direction,
he crossed the road and walked along the gravel shoulder, looking
into the ditch. A glimmer in a patch of weeds caught his eye. He
set the bag on the ground. Then he clambered down the side of the
ditch, sliding and grabbing at clumps of grass to keep from
falling. As he reached the bottom, he could see it clearly now—a
soda can. Beside it lay a crumpled bag from a fast-food restaurant.
He picked up the can. It was in good shape. If the sides were
crushed or dented, the Enviro Depot would disregard it.

Hands out for balance, the vagrant
climbed back to the roadside and dumped the can into the bag. A car
drove past with a quick press of its horn. He lifted an arm in a
wave without looking at it.

People were friendly here in
Acresville. For the most part anyhow. Only the adolescents seemed
to target him with jeers and scoffs. A new generation of ingrates
with their foolish apparel and rap music. Back in his day parents
taught their children a thing called respect.

The man wiped both palms on his
pants. He shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked down the road
and saw the fading outline of a rear window and trunk of the car
that had just passed by. Nothing came the other way.

From an inside pocket he brought
out a metal flask and shook it next to his ear. It sounded to be
about half full. After twisting off the cap, he took a quick drink.
The wine tasted bitter and warm. It was so much better
chilled.