* * *
Hollis awoke to hear the sparrows in the cedar hedge at the side of the property greeting each other and celebrating dawn’s arrival. She lay in bed mulling over what she knew about Danson and his life. MacTee stood beside the bed, sighing and staring at her.
“I hear you. You know perfectly well you could wait another hour—it’s your breakfast you want.”
MacTee continued to fix her with an unblinking stare.
“Okay, I’m up,” she grumbled and slid out of bed.
Outside, the clear sky and gentle wind promised another glorious Indian summer day. It would be lovely on Centre Island. If she finished reading Danson’s files and found nothing that required more work, she’d return the computer, postpone her chicken work and take MacTee to the Island on the subway and the ferry. They’d spend the afternoon walking and enjoying the glory of Lake Ontario. Today, those sailboats not stashed in dry dock for the winter would be skimming across the lake. She envisioned the white sails interspersed with multi-striped or vividly coloured spinnakers crisscrossing the waves.
MacTee padded after her as she headed for the bathroom.
“There’s only one door. I’m coming out. I do not. I repeat, do not, need your help,” Hollis said and shut the door in his face.
Outside, moving along the sidewalk, she picked up her pace. MacTee and she both needed a fast walk to pump up their heart rates and keep them healthy. Almost an hour later, she let herself into the apartment and portioned out MacTee’s kibble, which he inhaled almost as soon as his dish touched the floor.
She should eat, but cereal and fruit had lost their appeal, and she lacked the energy to prepare anything else. Maybe a banana and a granola bar would do. The phone rang.
“I saw you come in. Checking out the computer will take up your morning, but Elizabeth and I want you to come down for an eleven thirty waffle lunch. Elizabeth loves waffles and insists she needs them this morning. I’m not up to waffle-making for breakfast and put her off until noon. It occurred to me you might enjoy them too. Since I’m making batter and hauling the waffle iron down from the cupboard, we should have a bang-up lunch—waffles, blueberries, raspberries—the works.”
“Sounds great.” What could she contribute from her nearly empty refrigerator? “I do have cottage cheese and vanilla yogurt. I’ll bring both?”
Cheered by the prospect of a tasty lunch, she plunked down in front of the computer.
Now to Danson’s files? She tapped his password and watched the screen as his e-mail messages downloaded. A deluge flooded in. Two hundred and forty-seven to be exact. Some from friends, mostly concerning lacrosse. She shuddered seeing the number of messages with attachments. A quick glance told her the majority involved the upcoming lacrosse season—practice and game schedules. She printed seven cryptic ones that might relate to criminal tracking.
Next she surveyed the sidebar of folders. Family, friends, criminals. Well, that was certainly straightforward.
She opened “criminals”. He’d begun his crusade three years earlier, shortly after Angie’s death. The first three cases involved Haitians. Not surprising, since immigrants to Montreal came from French-speaking parts of the world. She’d read that the largest Haitian population outside of Haiti lived in Quebec. Newspapers had published the information when the Queen had appointed a Canadian woman, born in Haiti, to be Governor-General.
The next correspondence involved two Jamaicans in Toronto. Then an Eastern European case and most recently an American. Interesting. Given the U.S. hysteria about border security, they’d allowed a deported criminal to return. She thought about airport security. Actually the U.S. agents’ gimlet eyes assessed incoming and had nothing to do with outgoing. Presumably these criminals had passed Canadian immigration without any trouble. A worrisome thought.
Time for a plan. She plucked a sheet of newsprint from the pile beside her worktable. At the top she printed “Danson” then drew downward radiating lines to Gregory, recent phone calls, lacrosse, criminals, Poppy, bouncer and e-mail contacts. She left room on the right for more entries.
Gregory. Who was he? Where would Danson have recorded correspondence with Gregory? She ran her eye down the sidebar files. Concordia might provide an answer. When opened it revealed a vast correspondence with friends, including Gregory.
Don’t know if you remember me? We took Soc 300 together. I was in George’s section, and he tells me you might have a room to rent. I’m going to be on the road in the Toronto area next week. Would you be interested in giving me a Toronto base? Let me know soon. Cheers, Gregory.
She recalled her own university days. The classes always held dozens of people you nodded to but didn’t know. Almost anyone could say they’d been a friend, and you wouldn’t have a clue. If you were a nice person, you wouldn’t want to write back and say that you didn’t have the vaguest idea who the person was. What a great ploy to infiltrate someone’s life. She double-clicked on Gregory’s message to see if his surname came up. It didn’t.
[email protected] was the e-mail address. She connected to e-mail and dispatched a message to Gregory asking where he was and if he knew where to locate Danson.
She opened the “sent” folder to read Danson’s corres-pondence with Gregory.
“Not sure I remember you but come and see me when you’re in Toronto. I’m interested in renting the room.” Then she searched for exchanges with George and found nothing. Maybe Danson had phoned to verify Gregory’s bona fides.
Back to the Gregory and Danson’s e-mails. They’d decided Gregory would drop in on September 10 to see the room and, if it suited him, arrange to move in. When had this been? Mid-September, almost a month ago. His most recent phone bill might have numbers.
When she’d returned from Danson’s, she’d bundled the photocopies of Danson’s documents and left the pile on her work table. Now she trundled over, sorted through the stack and extricated September’s phone records. Area codes—what was Montreal’s? Back to her desk, where she logged on to Canada 411. 514 was the code.
An examination of the phone records. Bingo. Four numbers in the 514 area. No time like the present—she’d call.
First one. “This number is no longer in service.” There had been two other calls from that number. Presumably this one had belonged to Gregory, who’d cancelled the service.
The fourth call rang and rang. Finally someone answered. “Âllo. C’est un téléphone publique. Personne est ici.”
French. How did she ask? High school French to the rescue. “Où est le téléphone situé?”
“Concordia University,” the respondent said, switching into English when she heard Hollis’s poor attempt at French.
The call from the university could have been anyone. No help from Montreal. Where did that leave her? For the moment she’d give up on Gregory. She moved to the next heading on her list—recent phone calls.
The land line wasn’t going to help—she only had September’s bill. Too far back. She needed October’s. The most recent calls made from his cell phone would tell her something.
At Danson’s apartment she’d copied the numbers along with his address book—it had taken forever, and she’d wondered if she was wasting her time. Now she’d get the answer.