Cut to the Bone. Joan Boswell
Whether she liked it or not, Hollis had a job: finding Mary Montour.
TEN
Rhona and Ian finished the tenant interviews at seven thirty.
“What have we got?” Ian asked as he swept the relevant documents into a pile on Hollis’s desk.
“Not much. Those first interviews told us the most.”
“No one knew anything about Ms. Trepanier or her background. That has to be a priority. Her appointment book and her laptop may provide useful connections,” Ian said.
“First we need to eat. Let’s walk over to Yonge Street and pick up a burger,” Rhona said, thinking that junk food was the police officer’s secret enemy.
“Good idea. While we’re there I’ll tell you about the construction workers. One knew more about the fifth floor residents than he should have.”
Leaving officers to monitor, to take the names of any tenants to whom they hadn’t spoken, and to caution them not to leave the area, the two detectives walked to Yonge Street and crossed to a pub.
Inside the door a sound wave smacked them. The place was hopping and the decibel level approached the auditory danger mark.
“We can’t talk here. There’s a Tim Hortons down the block, but it isn’t conducive to quiet chatting. I wonder where else we can get a quick bite?” Rhona shouted.
“A friend of mine lives near here. We often eat at Terroni. Good Italian food. It’s a block south of St. Clair.”
A friend? Male or female? Rhona longed to ask, but Ian would sniff disdainfully and ask her why she wanted to know.
Pedestrians thronged Yonge Street. People exited from the St. Clair Centre coming from the subway stop in the basement or from a thriving Goodlife Fitness Studio. Terroni proved quieter than the pub and they followed the hostess to a table that promised privacy.
Rhona informed the server that they were in a hurry. After taking a minute to survey the large menus, they chose the day’s special, penne with a rose vodka sauce, and Verde salads. While they waited Rhona gave in to temptation and enjoyed the warm bread that she dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
Ian refused the bread. As Rhona worked her way through the contents of the bread basket he said nothing, but she took his silence and raised eyebrows to reveal his contempt for her obvious lack of willpower.
Munching happily, she chose to ignore his attitude. Instead she said, “What about the construction workers?”
Ian sipped his water. “Most had no idea who lived in the building and only cared about doing the job.” He folded his hands in his lap. “But one young guy with dark hair and dark skin, maybe East Asian or Aboriginal, said he always looked in the apartments when they worked on the balconies. Didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed either.”
“Did he admit that he knew any women on the fifth? According to Hollis, the owners replaced their balconies when they renovated the building a couple of years ago.”
“Said his boss worked on them but that was years before he was around.”
“Get any background on him?” Rhona asked as she reached in her bag to make sure she’d switched on her cell phone.
“He’d only been here a couple of weeks. When I asked him what he did before this job, he said he’d worked on high steel construction.”
The server delivered their meals. Both opted for freshly ground parmesan, and after the initial taste, agreed they’d chosen well and ate in silence for several minutes.
Rhona took the opportunity to study Ian. Although they’d now worked together on several cases, she wasn’t any closer to knowing more than a few facts about him. Reticent didn’t begin to describe her partner. To herself she acknowledged how appealing she found him, but he’d given no indication that he was attracted to her. Probably just as well. The department frowned on romances between detectives.
“Why are you staring at me?” Ian said.
“Sorry, I was thinking about what you said. Often Newfoundlanders and Iroquois work on high steel. They built half the skyscrapers in Manhattan and are famous for their ability and skill, and most of all for their lack of fear when cavorting around forty floors above the ground.” She popped the last morsel of bread in her mouth. “Was he an Aboriginal?”
“Could have been. Would that be important?”
“Might be. We don’t know for sure that Ms. Trepanier was the real target. After all, Ginny Wuttenee usually occupied that bed, and Ginny’s a Saskatchewan Cree. Could be a coincidence, but we’ll follow up on this guy. What’s his name?”
Ian pulled his notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Donald Hill,” he said.
While Ian and Rhona waited for the bill, Rhona said, “Have you settled into the department?”
Ian eyed her as if measuring the reason for the question. “Pretty much.”
“You found a good place to live?” Rhona said.
“Twenty questions?” Ian replied.
“When you have a partner, it’s good to know more about him than name and badge number. You certainly aren’t the most forthcoming partner I’ve ever had.”
“I’m forty-two, unmarried, don’t have any pets or plants, and like my job.”
Rhona sighed, “Okay, I get the picture. You want your life to be private. I accept but …”
Ian produced a grin, revealing very white teeth, lighting up his face and making him more attractive than ever. He pushed the shock of black hair off his forehead. “You feel that if one day a decision I make may determine whether you live or die, you’d be happier if you had background information.”
Rhona accepted the cheques from the server and nodded at Ian. “Something like that.”
“I love horses and horse racing but not enough to belong to Gamblers Anonymous. If I had time, I’d buy a horse but I don’t. I like Thai and Indian food, hate KFC, and give the Swiss Chalet chicken an A rating. I like clothes, especially shoes, expensive shoes. I’ve furnished my apartment with antiques and I have a home gym,”
“Antiques?” Rhona repeated. She would have pegged him for a minimalist who loved modern.
Ian continued to grin. “Surprise, surprise. Early Canadian. I own a pine sideboard from the Eastern Townships, probably made around 1830, two corner cupboards, a spool bed in my guest room, and a settle in my living room.”
“A settle. What’s that?”
“A day bed. Farmhouse kitchens had one so the farmer could have a lie down after the big noon meal, or anyone who was sick could recuperate in the warm kitchen.”
“I am surprised,” Rhona said as they stood and moved to the door. She wasn’t going to find out anything else. Time to move on. “To change the subject, whoever killed Ms. Trepanier must have realized it wasn’t Ms. Wuttenee, but maybe he was too out of control to stop or he was afraid if she woke and saw him he’d be caught. How much information about Ms. Wuttenee’s background did you get from your interview?”
They’d reached the door. Ian held it open for Rhona. “Sorry. I know all about equality, but opening doors for women is a hard habit to break. About Ms. Wuttenee, I agree she may have been the intended victim. It’s not too late to talk to her again. Why don’t we tell her to come down to Ms. Grant’s office and speak to us after we check out Ms. Trepanier’s apartment? If we have time after that, we could go through Ms. Trepanier’s appointment book.”
“Good plan. If the killer got the wrong girl, Ginny Wuttenee may be in danger, and the sooner we pin down her life story, the more likely we are to know whether or not