Cut to the Quick (21 page)

“Ivan used the same system to hide things that I did as a kid. The police probably weren't expecting to find anything and didn't make a thorough search. Where are his keys?”

“Keys? I dumped all Ivan's things in the boxes.”

“I'll do a quick rummage through the cartons.”

But before she searched, she thought she'd run through a few more files and look for other surprises. In “cakes and pastries” she stopped at “Sweetheart Cake”. She thought the recipe bulged slightly more than it should, slid her hand underneath and extracted a photo.

The girl was beautiful, even squinting with the sun in her eyes. She could have been a model. She had long, dark hair, classically proportioned features and a radiant smile. She looked familiar—perhaps she was a model, perhaps she'd seen the face on a billboard or in an ad in
Fashion
magazine.

Hollis turned the photo over and read,
“for Ivan, all my
love, Penny”.

Penny—she remembered the conversation with Etienne. Ivan had said they couldn't name a dog Penny. Now she knew why. A girlfriend? And a beautiful one at that—this wasn't what she'd expected to find. How would Hollis locate her without a surname? She yanked the card with names and numbers from her notebook, but it revealed only one name beginning with “p”, the unpleasant Patsy. She made a snap decision. She'd tell Rhona about the locker, but not about the girl until she'd found and talked to her. If Penny hadn't contacted the family or the police, she hadn't wanted them to find her. Hollis wanted to know why.

Not a model—the girl at the funeral. The one who'd waited outside and tried to speak to Curt? Hollis examined the photo. It had been a quick glimpse on a rainy day, but it could have been.

She had to find Penny. Vincent might know. The phone rang until his answering service kicked in. She left a message.

Trotting through the park later with MacTee, she grabbed for her ringing cell phone. It was Vincent.

“I have something to ask. Have you met Ivan's friend Penny?”

“Penny Pappadopoulos. Sure. She and Ivan took Italian. I think they dated but kept it quiet.”

“Why?”

“I'm not positive, but in the fall Penny was pretty tight with a Greek guy in our course. A big tough guy. Apparently he took it hard when Penny broke up with him. I think he'd have been pretty pissed if he found out Penny had replaced him with Ivan, who was generally considered to be a nerd. I'm pretty sure he would have given Ivan a hard time if he'd known. Don't quote me, but that's what I figure.”

“I don't suppose you remember his name?” She was holding her breath.

“Mike, John—I'm sorry, I don't, but if you find Penny, she'll tell you.”

It must feel like this when the one-armed bandit bling, bling, blings. The jackpot—she'd hit the jackpot. Penny, the beautiful girl, Ivan's girlfriend. And a jilted boyfriend. At last she'd identified someone who had reason to sabotage the bike.

“How did you find out?”

“I saw them together at a restaurant in Mississauga— obviously way off the beaten path. I was there with my aunt.”

“You don't think anyone else knew?”

“No one ever said.”

“I don't suppose you can tell me where Penny lives?”

“Somewhere over on the Danforth—that's the cultural centre for Greek people in Toronto.”

She'd call every Pappadopoulos in the book. It was more important to make those calls than to make it for lunch. Two calls yielded nothing.

“Penny Pappadopoulos—who wants to know?”

Paydirt. The low, guttural and heavily accented voice could have belonged to a man or a woman.

“It concerns the college.” Hollis crossed her fingers. It was close to the truth.

“She don't go there no more, and she never should have. She's at work.”

“Could I reach her there?”

“No. The restaurant is busy—no time for talking,” the voice said and hung up.

A restaurant. Cooking. Hollis wrote Penny's address and telephone number down. She'd keep trying until she connected with her.

R
hona's
Thursday morning was busy. She'd agreed to meet Hollis again, although she doubted she'd hear anything new. It would have been more productive to eat with Zee Zee. They worked well together, bouncing ideas back and forth like tennis balls in a rally, but Hollis had invited her for an early lunch at the Art Gallery of Ontario and promised wonderful salads and delicious desserts. And no Frank looming up to spy on her.

“How are things at the Hartmans'?” Rhona asked, once the waiter had poured their water and supplied menus.

“Terrible and declining rapidly.” Hollis pushed both hands through her hair. The curls snapped back in place.

Rhona wished her hair behaved like that.

“Where to begin?” Hollis interlocked her fingers, leaned her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her hands and gave Rhona the details. “Manon is afraid for Etienne. He's eleven, you know. Kids are so damn vulnerable. She's frantic that Ivan's murder will push him over the edge and make him a depressive like her.”

“Is he depressed?”

“He's upset.” Hollis unfolded her napkin and laid it on her lap. “If he wasn't, there'd be something wrong with him. But, generally, he's pretty cheery. He hasn't withdrawn. He plays baseball and soccer and attends an astronomy day camp. If appetite measures your mental state, he's doing fine. Sometimes he seems terribly sad, but that's okay, considering he's lost his brother, his mother's upset and his father's waiting for heart surgery. You can bet Etienne's frightened his father will die. On top of everything else,
SOHD
's opponents harass the family with threatening calls.” She looked surprised. “Given what's happened, he's amazingly cheerful.”

“It's illegal to do that. They should have filed a complaint. They don't need to put up with it.” Perhaps they'd find the Hartmans' number when they went over Allie Jones's and Barney's phone records.

“The calls come sporadically. The family keeps hoping they'll stop.”

“Hard for an eleven-year-old to cope with everything. Doesn't he have grandparents he could stay with?”

The waitress took their order.

“Just one—Manon's mother. He's visiting her later in the summer. Meanwhile, Manon's terrified something else may happen and keeps him on a short leash.”

“I don't blame her. They should take the anti
SOHD
bunch seriously.” Rhona drummed her fingers on the table. “Hasn't Curt considered what his high-profile advocacy is doing to his family?”

“It's an obsession. I don't think he gives a damn. What effect do you think it will have?”

“Aside from the pain Etienne already feels, consider how his friends probably reacted to his brother's murder and Curt's
SOHD
endorsement.” Rhona raised her hand and pointed a finger at Hollis. “Murder would scare and fascinate Etienne's classmates. When you're eleven, you may lose your grandparents, maybe a parent, but seldom a sibling and not by murder. It's scary. Kids worry about bad things being contagious. Think about adults and how they avoid divorcing couples because they're afraid their unhappiness will spread.”

“I don't agree. In my experience, everyone doesn't desert you when something terrible happens. I do think the happilymarried avoid divorcing couples, but I don't think it's fear of contagion. Couples like that are tense, and they fight—no one wants to be with them.” Hollis's napkin slid from her knee, and she scrambled under the table to retrieve it.

Rhona leaned across the table. “You could be right. But
SOHD
—that's another story altogether. Many kids develop allergies, asthma, wear glasses or have more serious diseases by the time they're eleven.” She lowered her voice. “Etienne's friends
will
make the connection. They
will
wonder if they might not have been born if their parents had received genetic testing.”

“When I was a kid, I read articles about diseases in my mother's
Reader's Digest
and immediately interpreted any minor symptoms I felt as an indication I had the ‘disease of the month'.”

“Me too.”

They grinned at one another. The waitress brought their salads, offered pepper and left them to continue their conversation.

“Etienne knows his mother suffers from depression and anxiety and sees a psychiatrist regularly. He's probably aware his grandfather died in suspicious circumstances—he's buried in unconsecrated ground. I hope Etienne doesn't think
he
wouldn't have been born if
SOHD
had existed back then,” Hollis said.

“Why did Curt involve himself with them?”

“Who knows? I'm not a psychologist, but I'd guess it might be identified as anxiety or guilt transference.”

“Whatever. Curt seems oblivious to what he's doing to Etienne and his wife.” Rhona chopped the chicken in her Caesar salad into smaller pieces and popped one small morsel in her mouth. “I presume that's it—there can't be more.” Rhona's voice had risen a bit. The elderly couple at the next table, who appeared to have run out of conversation years before, stared at her with interest.

“You've heard about Lena's show.”

“I visited it before closing time last night.” Rhona leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Hollis. “Something affecting you happened there.”

“Shoot.”

“I hope shooting won't have anything to do with it,” Rhona said. “Lena Kalma and I overheard a conversation between a woman and a man who was a lawyer. The woman said Lena was totally crazy and would stop at nothing to ruin Curt. Lena barged in and said Curt, his wife and you would have to pay. ‘Out of control' and ‘oblivious to consequences', those are the terms I'd use to describe her.”

“Thanks for warning me. She's one scary woman, and I certainly will avoid antagonizing her, although I do want to question her about Ivan. Anyway I'll deal with that when I have to. Right now I have new information for you.”

Rhona chewed an extra large romaine lettuce leaf and wished she'd cut it in half. “What is it?”

“I'll trade the information for your promise to take me along when you check it out.”

“A ride-along.” Rhona considered Hollis. “It depends on whether I think it'll be dangerous. Even if I don't, you'll have to sign a release and wear a Kevlar vest.”

The waitress removed their plates and left dessert menus.

“Fine with me. Going through Ivan's things, I found a receipt for a storage locker in North York. I located the place in my gazeteer. It's in an industrial park off Highway 404. You exit on Steeles. I dug around in other boxes and found a key ring. One had a cardboard tag identifying it as the storage locker key.”

Rhona absorbed this news. Definitely worth following up on.

The team had broadened the investigation and now considered Curt the probable target. But maybe they'd been wrong. Right or wrong, she'd check out the storage locker. She calculated she had an hour to spare. But dessert first. Murder or no murder, she wasn't passing up raspberry tart with crème fraîche. “How did we miss it? We searched Ivan's belongings.”

The waitress hovered. Hollis chose a lemon concoction. Rhona opted for the tart.

“I was secretive as a child and hid papers I didn't want my mother to find inside or behind other things. It occurred to me Ivan might have done that too, and he did. I found the receipt behind a recipe and...”

“And what?” Hollis had appeared to have been about to say something else then reconsidered. “Did you find other documents?”

“No documents, but I found keys tucked in a carton of Ivan's clothes.”

Hollis was hiding something. Sooner or later it would come out. “It's twelve fifteen. We'll go after dessert.”

* * *

In the industrial park, they located the office. The young woman at the reception desk glanced over her shoulder but only half swung around when they entered.

Rhona identified herself and flashed her badge. “We're interested in locker 47,” she said.

“Help yourselves.” The woman didn't examine their identification. Her office chair squeaked as she wheeled back to her computer.

Rhona peaked over her shoulder. She was playing Free Cell. So much for the pressure of work. Being a fellow aficionado, Rhona was well aware how one game led to another and gobbled up endless hours.

They followed the path alongside the building until they reached #47. Rhona inserted the key, stepped inside and flicked on the lights. She probably should have arranged for tracking dogs. If anything struck her as odd, she'd close the door and send for them immediately. Inside, she sniffed— criminals used facilities like this to store drugs or weapons. The stale air revealed no telltale scents.

Piles of cardboard boxes lined two walls. Unboxed tables, one upended on another, filled the room's centre. Large oil paintings depicting Italian scenes leaned against the tables. A number retained auction house tags. They read the boxes' labels—industrial cooking equipment, dishes, Paderno pots.

“Everything he needed to start a restaurant,” Rhona said and saw Hollis's eyes fill with tears.

A file cabinet sat beside a desk with a straight chair pulled up to it. It was a mini-office. Rhona tried the drawers. “Locked,” she said, stating the obvious. She rattled the keys. “Let's see if any of these fit.”

One did. The first drawer held file folders. Rhona flipped through one labelled “invoices”.

“Poor Ivan.” Hollis sounded as if she might cry. “How secretive he was. It must have taken him ages to amass this stuff at bankruptcy and auction sales. He probably dreamed of surprising the family, his father particularly, by inviting them to his restaurant's grand opening—presenting them with a
fait
accompli.
It breaks my heart.”