Authors: Joan Boswell
Inside the Winchester Street house, she followed Nadine, the housekeeper, to the kitchen. The smell of a freshly baked pie filled the air. Silver lay on the counter along with polish and clothes.
Hollis expected Nadine to be alone. Instead she found Etienne and Tomas sitting at the kitchen table. Etienne clutched a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Tomas, tipped back on a chair, gripped a beer can. A calm, happy domestic scene.
“How come you're back? I thought you and Maman were having lunch and going to the art gallery,” Etienne said. “Where's Maman?”
“We did. I was...” How did she do this? Oh, God. There had to be a protocol. How did you tell two young men their brother was dead? But she had to do itâshe couldn't stand here pretending nothing was wrong.
“There's been an accident...”
Tomas rocked forward. His chair's front legs banged down on the tile floor, puncturing the silence that had followed her announcement. “What kind of accident?” Tomas said and lurched to his feet.
Etienne placed his sandwich down as if it were made of the thinnest crystal. His body stiffened, his eyes widened, and he appeared to hold his breath.
Nadine, her hand covering her mouth, looked from one to another.
Tomas stepped forward. “Who,
who
had an accident?”
“Ivan,” Hollis managed. Her tongue seemed far too large and felt glued to the roof of her mouth.
Tomas, Nadine and Etienne stared at her.
“What happened?” Tomas said.
“He crashed his motorcycle.”
Her announcement sucked life and air from the room. Her body language probably told them to expect the worst, but maybe not. Naturally they'd try to deny it when they first heard the terrible news.
“Where? How badly was he hurt? Where's Maman? Does Papa know?” Etienne leaned toward her. “Tell us.”
Hollis didn't want to tell them, didn't know how to do it.
“Your mother and father will be back soon. They're at the hospital.”
Tomas considered her words. “If Ivan's critically hurt, they won't leave,” he said in a measured tone. He narrowed his eyes. “It's worse, isn't it?”
Hollis nodded.
“Oh, no,” Nadine cried.
Etienne's face appeared to be made of soft putty that formed and reformed as his gaze flipped back and forth. “What do you meanâworse?”
She didn't want to pronounce the words that would bring their worlds crashing down.
Tomas's shoulders slumped. He dropped his head forward as if he were about to pray. Perhaps he was. “Ivan's dead.”
“Yes,” Hollis said.
They reacted as if the single word had turned them to stone. Finally, Nadine began to cry. “Such a nice young man. Never any trouble. Never.”
Etienne whispered, “Is it really true?” He pushed his chair back, rose then looked confused, as if he wondered what to do next.
“I'm afraid it is,” Hollis said and couldn't say any more. Tears ran down her cheeks. She stepped to Etienne, held out her arms, drew him close, patted his back and made meaningless, consoling sounds.
Tomas, still holding his beer can, took a long drink. “Ivan hated his bikeâmaybe he was psychic. Maybe Dad should have let him sell it.” Tears filled his blue eyes and glittered on his long black lashes. “Shit. I guess it's up to me to go and tell Mom.”
Clearly he wanted Hollis to say “no”, to tell him someone else would do it.
She felt helpless but wanted to do something. Her friend, Kas, had made her drink sugared coffee after Paul's murder. “A cup of tea or something hot and sweet will help,” Hollis said to Nadine.
Nadine collected the kettle, filled it and set it back on the stove.
“Nothing will help,” Etienne sobbed.
The back door opened.
Curt and Manon came in, looking like shell-shocked refugees staggering away from a bomb blast. Hollis hadn't seen Curt for several months. Always an ectomorph, he was now skeleton-thin. His skin was grey. There were dark circles under his eyes. His tall frame stooped. Every feature on his face sagged. His thick, silvery mane stuck up in wild disarray. He stared at them, but not as if he really saw them. Finally, heavy-footed and deliberate, he headed to the cupboard above the refrigerator, reached up with shaking hands and pulled out a bottle of rum. Without turning, he said, “Who wants what to drink?”
Etienne ran to Manon, who remained beside the door as if she didn't have the will or energy to move any further. She hugged and rocked him like a much younger child. Tears streaked her makeup. “Nothing for me,” she said.
“Dad, I don't want anything either. Are you going to tell Mom, or should I?” Tomas asked. He stood with his legs apart as if to steady himself on a rolling ship's deck.
Curt swung around, clutching the bottle. “My God, poor Lena.” His gaze moved from one to another. “You don't know the worst.”
“What could be worse than Ivan's death?” Hollis said almost to herself.
“Someone cut the brakes. Ivan was murdered.”
M
idmorning
âRhona Simpson sorted through her paperwork. She surreptitiously surveyed her environmentâ the Homicide Division of the Toronto Police Service headquarters on College Street. A year earlier, she'd left the Ottawa police. She wouldn't be sitting here now, the newest appointee to Homicide, had she not been a woman who knew the right people and had a Cree grandmother. Nevertheless it felt great. She'd work like hell to prove the appointment hadn't been a mistake.
“Join me for an early lunch? I have court this afternoon.”
She looked up and met the gaze of Zee Zee, a tall, elegant black woman who'd introduced herself several days earlier. She could have been a princess or modelled for a Modigliani painting. The combination of elongated head, cropped hair, fine features and almost breastless body created a regal image. Her voice rose at the end of each sentence, making each statement into a question.
Food's siren call, morning, noon or night, she could never resist. “Love to.”
Entering the cafeteria a little later, Zee Zee said, “I'm not sure who your Homicide partner will be.”
Again the rising voice implying a question. She made you want to provide an answer. This vocal characteristic must be useful in interrogations.
“Before he or she is assigned, I'll fill you in on a few things you need to know,” Zee Zee explained. She led them to a cafeteria table away from other officers. “No point in having to whisper,” she said.
Should she agree? No, it had been a statement. Rhona looked down at her tray. She'd chosen a salad, tomato juice and black coffee. When she'd moved to Toronto, she'd resolved to do something about the weight collecting around her middle. Because she was short and compact, every extra pound showed immediately. Body types resembled apples or pears when it came to excess weight distributionâshe was definitely an apple.
Zee Zee, who had selected cream of mushroom soup, an egg sandwich, apple pie and a soft drink, surveyed Rhona's tray. “Has the boss already given you his food lecture?”
“No, what is it?”
“He's a health food nut. Actually, Frank Braithwaite is one reason why we're having lunchâI'm sure you want the lowdown on his major and minor fixations? I expect because he was forced to take you, he's ready to give you a hard time. You'll need ammunition, won't you?”
Should she have come? Never a big fan of gossip, she wanted to tread carefully in her new workplace. No help for it; she was here.
“You're wondering why I'm doing this, and if you should find a reason to leave?”
“Either I'm transparent, or you're good at figuring people out.”
“You found out in Ottawa that the
old boys'
police network is a powerful force?”
Rhona nodded. She was getting used to the woman's questioning voice.
“Don't you think it makes women police officers' jobs harder than they should be? I'm talking to you as an
old girl.
You must agree that we need to hang together and help each other? That's why I'm filling you in. You'll need to recognize and avoid landmines.”
Rhona grinned. “Sounds goodâI'm all ears.”
“First, you'll want to know about the boss? Frank is forty-three, and divorced. He's a university science grad and gung ho about technologyâwants us to be Canada's most up-to-date police force. Don't tell him you have a hunch or a feeling about anything. It's all science and high tech with him.”
Zee Zee sipped her drink. “Now you'll want to hear the interesting stuff that isn't in the records? It explains his fixations. His wife, a high-powered financial analyst, left him four years ago. No kids, so it should have been okay, but it wasn't. Bet you can't guess why?”
Rhona, who had gobbled her salad and still felt hungry, shook her head.
Zee Zee spooned up several mouthfuls of soup and munched a bite of sandwich. “No guesses?”
“Noâtell me.”
“His wife left without warning, at least that's what Frank says. Didn't she prop a note on the kitchen counter informing him she'd moved to Calgary? That would have been shocking, but okay, except she crated his dog, Bailey, and took him with her. Frank loved that dog. Did his wife know that and figure he wouldn't risk looking silly going to court to get the dog back? Probably, and it broke his heart. Hadn't he taken him to classes for obedience, retrieving and who knows what else, and entered him in field trial competitions? The dog's a retriever, and they do that.” She smiled. “Believe me, being Ethiopian, I know zippo about dogs. But didn't Frank bore the hell out of us by giving every detail of his trials, tribulations and triumphs as he trained Bailey?”
“I sympathize. I have a cat, Opie. She's an overweight, neurotic pain in the butt, but I'd sure miss her. “
“He kept Bailey's photo on his desk for ages.”
“So I shouldn't talk about dogs?”
“Or about older guys who live with young girls.”
“How young?”
“Not jail baitâhe
is
a police officer. Twenty-somethings.
Blondes with start-up jobs and...”
“How do you know this?”
“Isn't my mother's best friend his cleaning lady? If you think cleaning women don't know what's going on, think again. Wouldn't we be smart to use them as undercover officers? Anyway, she says a young woman moves in and establishes herself as if she figures she's there for the long haul. She puts her health foods and vitamins in the kitchen, leaves her birth control pills in the bathroom and her yoga mat in the bedroom. Then, six months later, isn't she gone? Soon a new one, a clone of her predecessor, moves in.”
“Weird.”
“Isn't it? Who knows why he lives that way? Is he a misogynist? I suspect he is. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have any use for women police officers, although he's careful about what he says.”
“Terrific. How do you cope?”
“Mostly, ignore his innuendos. Early on, didn't I let it be known that I'm prepared to file a grievance if I have cause? Does he want a black woman grieving? I don't think so. But, to be fair, results count for Frank. He would never permit his personal feelings to jeopardize a case's outcome.” She shook her head. “Never.” She pointed at Rhona's tray then at her own pie. “He's nuts about keeping fit and eating right. Whatever he's doing agrees with him. Isn't he a handsome guy, with that mop of brown hair and those green eyes?”
“Almost a pretty boyâhe dresses like Mr. Preppy.”
“I think you've identified one of his problemsâhe still considers himself a young preppy swinger. As I started to say, he has a thing about Tim Hortons. He despises the doughnut-eating cop stereotype. Don't ever suggest picking up anything there.”
Rhona considered dumping sweetener in her coffee, but she'd read that every kind but Splenda pickled your brain. Hers needed all the help it could get. She was cultivating a love of black coffee but finding it difficult. “Thanks, I'll remember no dogs, no bimbos, no hunches and no doughnuts.”
Zee Zee impaled a chunk of pie. She considered it. “Later I'll fill you in on the others. A good bunch, but not as enlightened as they should be.”
“Since you're the source of all knowledge, what do you know about me?”
Zee Zee pushed her half-eaten pie to one side and leaned back. She tilted her head and contemplated Rhona. “Really want to know?”
After Rhona nodded, she held up her left hand, extended her left index finger and used her right index finger to tick off her points. “You left Ottawa because you didn't like the old boy network. Don't you have a First Nations grandmother who lives on a reserve somewhere in Ontario? You filed a complaint about references to squaws.”
“It didn't do any good.”
“You never knowâwon't whoever made the remark be more careful in the future? Anyway, to continue, you solved your last homicide case. You wear cowboy boots because you're short.” She cocked her head to one side. “I have a thought. Do you think it's because you watched too many cowboy and Indian movies where the good guys, the cowboys, got to wear the boots?”
Rhona laughed. “No doubt you have a psychology degree?” “To continueâyou followed your boyfriend, who's with the Ontario Provincial Police, to Toronto. You've broken up with him. And you had luck and connections to get moved to Homicide.”
Did she have no secrets? “Where did you find out all that information?”
“A constable's brother is with the Ottawa police.”
“My turn,” Rhona said.
“You want to hear why I'm a police officerâthat's always the question,” Zee Zee said. “I've told the story so often, I could recite it in my sleep. As a six-year-old Somalian refugee, didn't I come to Canada from one of the most lawless countries in the world? Although I was young, I've never forgotten what it was like to live without law and order.” Her dark eyes clouded, and she seemed to be picturing something horrible. “I studied business at York UniversityâI wanted to be a successful businesswoman. I opened a gallery to showcase African artists. The arts community and the buying public loved it, and I made money.” She shook her head. “It wasn't very fulfilling.” She clasped her hands together. “I thought that if I became a police officer, I could make a difference. In our community, women are not equal. I'm not ashamed to say I'm a role modelâour women need them.” She laughed. “Talk about touching speeches. Why aren't you mopping your eyes? Enough. Time to get back. Did I say that Frank's a stickler for promptness?”